This week, I have been so busy at work and as a result, I have been unable to write new articles. In light of the above, this week’s post will not be an article entirely written by me. It has two authors, an ace writer I look up to and I.
Let me explain, while in uni (Moi University Main Campus), I co-hosted a campus radio show called ‘The Monday Breakout Show’ (dope name right?) alongside my three friends Richie (technical producer), Stella and Alice (co-hosts). This happened after months of nagging from my friend Kingsley who told me that I should try radio. So one day he asked me,
“You know Irvin Jalango?”
“Is he from our school?” (I have this bad habit of replying questions with questions)
“Is he from our friends’ circles?”
“Is he one of the friends of our friends’ friends?”
“Nope! Sema tu humjui!”
A weed baron?
“I know, he is a MUSO official!” (I don’t accept defeat easily)
“No! He is a radio presenter at MU FM and you should try that too.”
“So I should host a show because he’s a host?”
“No! You should because you can be a great content producer!”
“Aaawwww! I will think about it”
Months later, Stella, approached me to produce content for their show and because am such a narcissist, (insert evil laugh) I told her that I would only produce content if I can have my voice heard in the show and manage the playlist to which she agreed. OK, that’s a lie, am the one who approached them. We did this every Monday 10:00am – 11:00am for three semesters straight except for Mondays in which we had exams or CATs. Everyone played their part and apart from weird interviewees (like the one who despite living in Kesses at the heart of Uasin Gishu County for more than a year, still had an accent to say, “gara sing”), the productions were pretty dope.
Sometime after campus, I came across Irvin on Facebook and sent him a friend request. He accepted and that how I found out that, together with his fellow writer, Ian Duncan, they run a site called Mister Left where they post humor stories and they would die for chapatis. After reading and rereading some of their posts, I became addicted to this site. One day I reached out to Irvin via phone call (I got contacts from their site) which he picked and after introducing myself and my intentions, he gave me an email address to which I could send my article. I almost laughed when said the email as it contained a name I did not expect, (my other name is Gaudencia, so who am I to judge?) but when you want your piece published, you keep such thoughts to yourself hehehe! I sent the article and he responded saying that the piece was good but I should edit the first paragraph as it was a bit lackluster. He was also kind enough to give me a sample of how I could have done the paragraph. I promised to edit it but never got time.
Earlier this year, I wrote a different piece and reached out to him again. To my pleasant surprise, he published it. This was a highlight for my writing! Writers grapple with chronic self-doubt and the result is an ardent craving for validation. So when writers you look up to give positive feedback on your work or even publish it, you go crazy! You start to feel like you have made it! Hehehe! Yes, I even have a Facebook screen shot of Ian Duncan commenting that I should write more which I use to calm myself down on bad days. Irvin, that intro on the post STICKY NOTE was humbling. Checking this year’s BAKE nominees list, I was hoping to see Mister-Left but unfortunately they were not there.
Wololo! Now am talking too much si we just get to the article already. The first paragraph is by Irvin (Spoiler alert! Dude knows the price of mascara).
“You know nothing about sisal. Other than the little struggle you had with GHC or social studies for the newer generation, sisal is a myth to you (By the way if you are the Social Studies Generation, ninauza crayons na rings, those round things we used to eat). Let me school you. In this age where mascara costs more than 150 bob and lipstick costs 500 bob, sisal ropes cost 20 shillings for 3 meters. Now you understand why suicide is a cheaper alternative yes? Anyway, it takes a lot of time to get anything from Sisal. Now imagine being the child of a sisal farmer in Kilimambogo… The chances that you will come to this city and correctly find your way to Java are as mute as the chances we have of seeing the Pope rap Octopizzo’s songs in Swahili. Kilimambogo itself is a minus in your quest for fame. Which celebrity in modern-day skin lightening and mascara Kenya have you heard saying they come from Kilimambogo? That name is too long and takes away attention from whichever successes you may have… But here’s a fun fact, the first Kenyan to Grace the cover of Time Magazine was not born with a java coupon on his parents 340 Million 7 bedroom and five bathroom home. He was from Kilimambogo, and was the child of a poor sisal farmer. His style of speaking is called grandiloquence, which in lay man’s terms means nothing close to what your ‘As in I’m Like’ speaking friends will ever get to. He was a handsome dark man who even had a street named after him in Nairobi… And moreover, the guy has a statue standing in the city all for himself. Before you get a statue in this city… It won’t happen. Let me not even raise your hopes. His name is Tom Mboya…”
Ever since the promulgation of the statue in 2011, this monument has become a rendezvous for many Nairobians especially the youngsters. Occasionally street preachers go there to give spiritual nourishment to those who care (however since Kidero’s administration suggested the street preachers levy, they have significantly reduced.) Historians see it as a mnemonic of an iconic leader. To some clueless blonde, it’s just an aesthetic object.
For Gor Mahia fans, this is a sanctuary where they convene their victory meetings. A holy place to thank their gods for the team and its achievements. They say that Mboya was the brain child of the club. The statue faces Eastlands, which Mboya represented. However, hearsay has it that the Gor fans have been performing rituals in a bid to turn it so that it faces the leafy suburbs where most of them claim to reside, but do I say. I also hear that these Gor die hards believe that in heaven, everyone will have their own Mboya statue.
However for me, the statue does not only remind me of a great leader, it also reminds me of my first date with him. Not Mboya silly! A guy I met and fell in love with. I let him sweep me off my feet even though I could foresee the tragic ending. It was a whirl wind romance whose first date was near the monument. I can vividly remember the sky blue shirt and khaki pants he wore. Di broda was looking fine fine! and he received me with a bright infectious smile. I was so nervous and to ensure that everything was OK, I called my friend who is a make-up expert cum stylist to help and she came through, in a major way. Most first dates are charged with anxiety but this one was on another level, the butterflies in my tummy felt bigger I could almost throw up.
Despite the hormonal tornado in my body, I managed to keep calm and enjoy the date. It was one of the best I had experienced in a long time. I even lost track of time and my father, who, with his fatherly instincts could sense that another man was stealthily taking his attention, kept calling asking for my whereabouts. Deep down I knew if things go haywire, it would culminate into tear soaked pillows but life is all about risks, right? So I took my chance.
The first few months were great, super awesome. Being in the 20s means that every feeling you experience, whether negative or positive is fervent. So intense that sometimes you get scared. He changed the way my heart beat, in that period, the air was fresher and my skin was glowing than ever before. Crazy stupid love, I was drunk and lost in it, really didn’t care if I was wrong or right.
But like every other thing under the sun, this paradise did not last forever. It was time to see the other side of the coin. The ugly side to be precise. One day, he texted me saying he had ‘mixed feelings.’ According to him, this was due to the guilt he felt after having a one night stand the previous day. Really! He had to communicate this via text? For a moment I wished that he had not ‘empowered’ me with that information. I mean I did not ask, so why tell? The bliss of ignorance thing, you get? Don’t ask don’t tell policy?
In search of solidarity, I forwarded his text to my friend Weks. (Don’t look at me like that, we chics do this like all the time) She is a crazy one! The kind of crazy that texts me “I have a new crush!” The number of crushes she has in a week is just mind-boggling. I don’t know how she does it. Anyway, she tells me that all men cheat and I should get with the program. According to her even gorgeous celebrities like Halle Berry have been cheated on and no woman gets special treatment in the game of love. Why do I even listen to her? So I text my other friend, Rose. She is sensible and normally gives great advice. She tells me to calm down and make a decision when thinking straight. She is right, always right and too mature for her age (I want to be like her when I grow up).
The pain worsened. It felt like my heart broke literally. Like the stone tablets in the bible! I tried to act fine but the pain had its way of surfacing on my face Damn It! “The nerve he had to brag about his conquest!” I thought to myself. Another love story gone awfully sour. I am not the type to get over exes easily. At that point, I wished that medics would do more research on drugs that could cure heart breaks. For real it’s high freaking time! So I texted back, “Stay away!” Then archived that text……the stupid ‘mixed feelings,’ text and thought to myself “the day I will delete this text, then I will be over him.” His number was shoved into the blacklist and I fought every temptation to get in touch with him, but that has not reduced the pain. Moving on seems like such a daunting task.