BoywaCampo

Yesterday, i woke up kicking plastic bottles (Visa-Roy) and cans, as i found my way, puffy eyed, to the loo. The strained stream of urine, and the stench that followed, called back last nights memory, of small-time partying, in the middle of the week.

My face further brightened with the refreshing memory of the progress of some cheque i had been waiting for. Waitinathez, my next door neighbor - and doubles up as my landlord- shouted as usual, for a morning cig.  Shirtless, and full of mirth, i lit for the brother, this time, seated outside, soaking in the early Athi sun.

Now, my next door neighbor, knew i was up to something today as my rent bill stood out that friendship was screaming - for breathe. Today was the day, he had decided. And knowing me, he asked to tag along so he could ‘do some shopping in tao’ blah- i didn’t mind, so long as i was not made to do something i wasn’t willing too.

First, we missed the cheque and between the three of us (another pal had tagged along to share the loot,lol) we had kedo 3 Sok, which was not enough to take us back, plus hunger pangs were on the prowl. So, we decide to fika town,  hassle for something substantial to pull - you know how it goes.

Predictably, the first stop was a backstreet bar, where we picked a brawl, in between the jaba moments. This means that we lost some drinks, where our last coins had gone into.

Only for Waitanethez to get arrested by kanjo askaris.

After various ‘revisions’ on my part, I am feeling my stomach tighten.I  am also tempted to break down into a string of whines but i’ve grown to hold that back…pretty much because, i have realized, inasmuch as i tell people my issues, there are others who have worse situations than mine…yeah, you know that equation.

that was a while back. it was also the same time i decided grow some  pair of balls, two tough hairy nuts, that tow/swing/like pendulums) along with me, everywhere i go.

and yes, despite my soft countenance, manhood doth ooze out of this system, gushing….on the few that care to stare.

see, the less i heed my feelings, the more happy i am. the more happy i am, the more pre-disposed i am to sinking into mushy ends and sexting old crushes that stalled, like career accounts clerks.

all this was until last month, when i met a girl. it was about campus. life was pretty much the same to me and as the mid semester slowly gave way to project deadlines, ‘defunct’ groups began to come to life. apparently, a pal of my had actually ‘hooked’ me up with her.

and we met. first on phone, severally texting…and before actually meeting, on email.

on my part, nothing, nothing like in the NGO world, was really going on in my mind. even after we actually met hurriedly to assemble some group work, i recall a sex-y thought crossing my mind- like, how would it feel to do such a girl in? Yeah, she did have a heavy Brit. accent and walks about with some sophisticated swag…or stagger (as i later discovered she be a ganja breed). And i ever the little African Boy, humble unlike his dreams, just wondered…as i disappeared into the night.

I’ll never forget, the first time our greetings went past the elbow and a super invite rang out and wohooo…everything took place between 8:00pm and 6:00am.

Don’t ask, but…experience did fail me here. I was floating in a different cloud that massaged my naivety and soon, i was  a pothead! I knew i would do pot one day (like all my pals, call it beer/peer pressure) but not until this suave pothead swang my way did this urge to do it then became stronger. My life was changing…i was in another realm…still thinking i was still the same, still got served (dont ask) till weeks later when she stopped dead on her tracks and the‘we need to talk’ line came screeching inside our stoned room.

By then, i had a list of the guys (pre-decessors, x-files) she had before, and man, that wasn’t exactly an incentive, esp. knowing some of the preeeeeetty well.Funny thing, she din’t care to hide, or assume the good girl-met-bad-boy tag…and there i was, reeling, my camera recording, thinking about how the different timezones haver really messed her up…’stead of opening her world view.

I, on the other hand…yeah, i had lost focus…quite much, i know and she started sending subtle hints (without ‘meaning badly’) lol that she thought i was this focused guy who intimidated her, blah..only to realize that i actually did stuff like smoke, drink…and i said aye! That’s me.

And that, was the beginning of the end.

I was skimming through the leaflet distributed every Sunday, otherwise known as the Buzz and was a little distressed. First, you may note that Buzz is no longer ‘the sting’ every Sunday, but rather, the Stink you can’t avoid, but begrudglingly notice in your newspaper as you would, a chewing gum stuck on your shoe.

Anyway, men and women must try, whatever, to stay afloat, even though re-invention is conspicously missing. Maybe this is the stuff Icons are made off,  nowadays. Before i let you in on my observation, i came across this article in The Intelligent Life Magazine ( Spring 2009) edition that awakened a view point. The article shed light on the usage of the word ‘Iconic’ which the writer says ‘was once used sparingly’ is now ubiquitous (everywhere).

It rings true that when you tune in to various media outlets (including the interwebs) the word Icon, Legend, Genius and the like fly about to describe people in various fields.  The showbiz scene is  full of such. Hellon is a Saxophone Virtuoso, our gossip rags tells us. I have not been to the Finger of God or watch him perform to establish this - and even if i did, would the little understanding i have of that genre qualify me to brand him so? 

Buzz carried this personality profile of one Liz Ogumbe. This is the age of shameless self promotion, i understand, so i appreciated the fact that she has been things and seen places. However, only this question interested me:

Selective ignorance can be pardoned but i know not of Liz Ogumbe (or her works) for this matter. But i can ask: who, in the Kenyan context, is an Icon?IMHO, a freedom fighter, like Dedan Kimathi could very well fit the tag, but i doubt a person, probably not known by  more than ‘695 friends’ on his/her Facebook Fan Group should describe themselves so.

I have no beef with Liz, and her ilk, but rather, the disabuse…

To be Contimued.

 I could be pre-disposed to contempt, but reality is hard to a See, sometimes i do laud the

Sometimes, i wonder why students in University(in East Africa or anywhere) would result to violence to  settle differences. My dad tells me of the days in University of Nairobi when they would go on  rampage if a single meal missed meat balls -  a privilidge from the Govt. of Kenya. I’m not sure if it is ‘one of his stories’, but sitting back and remembering in bliss, he talks of how they were eventually scrapped off the menu- even as some of his friends were nursing injuries from the riots.

Then, they  passed through the National Youth Service (NYS) before joining Uni to be equiped with  for ’specialized training on life skills’. It turned out that instead, they became skilled stone throwers and thus the consequent banning of the NYS enrollments by the Moi government.  But recent student unrests, including Kenyatta University (K.U.) riots seems to confirm that the hooligan spirit has been passed on from generation-to-generation.

You would expect Universities to be the ideal example of conflict resolution as it  is the ‘knowledge reservour’ of the country. It gets more worrying when  stones are the ends and means to settling problems. Maybe this is the reason why our countries are filled with chaos and unruliness as the ‘cream of the land’ who should lead us into Canaan are busy squabbling (with petty politics that i believe can be settled amicably) which, they carry on, once they become leaders.

I’d be a damned Blogger if i never write this story!

But i am not, so here we go.

Every semester, there is a student Hostel that literally wikas. That, is, in simple-complex English- IT HAPPENS. Here, you’re either a ‘mamas’ boy (live in School) hostel, or are ‘daring’ enough to live in the jungle called ‘Off-Campus’. I, in all my wisdom, chose the latter- and everyday, i got a tale. Anyway, when i was a freshman, a hostel called Runda,did call the shots.One Friday,a guy hired a whole DeeJaying unit complete with the lights and set up the craziest bashment i had seen. Complete with free drinks and warembo ivi, t’waz the first time i got lucky- though details still remain scant in my memory

However, for most of my stay here, i avoid hot spots. I prefer to feel the heat from outside.

Along came Vegas

Now, as  last Semester drew to a class, word went round, on a new hostel that would have facilities ranging from a swimming pool to a student center- all in one location. It sent jitters, because, since the days of a certain Bright Night hostel (’90s- i was not there!!) , no one had ever built such. I must give props to the marketing skills of this guy, because, soon as Jan Sem came by, all party hoppers were rushing to fill in the rooms - and trust me, they’re all FULL.

Not even the fact that a swimming pool is not about to be built;  everything else compensates for that.

Like PIMP Houses

First, you can survive a whole week here w/out a coin in your pocket and you’ll drink, shag, change clothes, eat and sleep. It’s not as easy as that, but the currency is your people skills.

Vegans, as i’ve noted are whole lot of different students. Life Begins at 8pm EVERYDAY and ends at 8 a.m. the following day. A joke was going about that the owner knew about this that he switches off the generator at 8 a.m., switches it off at 8 p.m., Vegas style. Be it a Wednesday, or Friday, drinks flow and girls do what they do best.

Some other night, i was at this guys crib who has decorated his hall like a Pimp house. The lights are blue and read and a thao and one bulb circle about the room, bed, bathroom - i even wondered if he reads?

But this is Vegas, and classes are as Alien as abstinence on a Stag night.

I have several hundreds word to fill, but i have to rush and check somebody out now.

It’s Friday.

And his name is NewToad.

They say that a camel is a horse made by a committee.

Observing what group work produces, all the doubts disappear on the possibility of the above. Today, i was listening to a pal who was looking for some information from me. Well, this surprised me as Biggie (the guy), is ever at Pioneer(Campus Makuti Watering Hole). His talk mostly revolves around weed, booze and questions to reality. This day, as he explains, tables had turned, and he was a group leader. Well, i’m not doubting his intelligence but Henry Wanyoike (the blind marathoner) could as well win the Safari Rally. Thinking about the attitude of the rest is another story altogether.

Joy Riders

See, when it comes to group work, campus class experience would teach you to choose your members wisely - in case you are concerned about grades. And most students  are concerned enough to slip in their name and student number (with a biro) when the printed projected paper is to be handed over.

Focused Chaps and the no-nonsense kind

Severally i’ve sneaked in my name under a group i didn’t even belong. Even so, i still hold a certain disapproval for  group work. If you be a lazy bone,it’s easier to get along when you are with some focused chaps, chicks especially, marveling at your ‘carefree’ lifestyle enough to ‘understand’ why you never attend meetings or produce any work. Actually, some go ahead to call you up when the group is meeting - and mostly, the story doesn’t end there. On the other hand, there are no-non sense types that will NOT put up your name if you miss but one group meeting. But some how, guys still navigate through this.

Jokers

As for jokers, when the meeting time is set, all agree and even go ahead to ask about the venue. On the material day, no one turns up and things move on as usual, till the assignment is due. On the eve of that day, some group mates who are pals call each other up and compile something quickly (Via Google) and leave out the cover page (to bear names) for printing, minutes to class time. Incidentally, this is the morning the printer jams, the server is down, or your flash catches a deadly virus and all work is lost.

Lecturers have a list of these excuses, and few hearken to them - but students are students, new excuses prop up by the day.

Other Side of G Work

But there is the other side of group work (not when all are friends- still, nothing gets really done) when you meet new people (read chicks) and things happen. I’ve my best and worst from these and school work and pleasure never mixed better. I’ll tell one of the tales, when the coast is safer.

Oh, and last year, there was a wedding between two lovebirds who met at an Environment Class group. Talk about not changing ‘your environment’.

Group work has some benefits too - besides churning out mediocre stuff (when everyone thinks their idea is the geratest)- especially when small ideas die.

But nothing ever GREAT has ever been born there.

P.S.

Which reminds me, due, was an group assignment which yours truly was to compile and send via email…i’ve just begun thinking about out, procrastination will surely slot it for a good sunny day.

Before, i skidded a simple lane of achievable desires, seldom visited by two-horned-and-tailed brain cells that reside in my cranium.

Then, i was not a procrastinater.

Now, life whizzes by as i fill my room of mirrors with smoke, screen the plane of reality against my twisted thinking, view dimensions that drive me further into the boundless world of loneliness.

Perspective wavelengths pierce my mind and heart, causing a disarray to all personalities that answer to my name.

Trapped in a young dreamers cubical, I’m drowning is a sea full of masks - and each calls out: Wear me! Wear me!

The other day, i decided this face of my youth, should get a naked kiss from the sun,  and i crawled from beneath my rock.

My eyes, twin moons, formerly puffy as from deep sleep, saw that the train of time had passed various townships where i ought to have alighted.

I lit up another stick to darken my lungs, slip on my Aviators, and strode towards the day, when all tomorrows shall pile at my doorstep, and demand their dues.

Stories were re-told, from one crop of students to another, about the origin of Dere’s name. Dere, was actually the short form of Dereva - Driver, inthe Queen’s language. To the best of my knowledge, i had never seen Dere driving any vehicle. Or, to be cheeky, drive (kuendesha) in that Cholera-ic  style.

The most common story is this one: Dere was teaching an afternoon Commerce class on Market Demand when he asked  “Any of you been to a market?”. Naturally, all students said no and he dared that he would take them there using the school van (affectionately called Japan). The next thing we hear after this is Dere trying to start the vehicle, 45 students crammed in the back of the van…

However, also he took me through Commerce lessons, but not at once did he ask us to board Japan. He taught me that if i had cows, and specialized in the cow-ard business, i’d end up getting more cows- but if you deaRLt with CACH (cash)…He  heaved, heavily, placing one of his Safari Boots on the table’s bottom bar…then stroke his large belly, before driving his point home with a chuckle. At that, he had a smokers cough that rocked his pot in a hysterical style that  you would think he would convulse and collapes.

But he went on.

All were attentive, for anytime, he’d surprise someone out of  their daydreams. He is responsible for the name one guy wil carry for the rest of his life. One day, the guy, was caught dozzing off in his lesson and in one breathe, Dere blasted out:

Son of Koitalel, would you step forward, kneel down and think about your Fyusha!

Officially, he was identified as Mr. Ndichu. A happy jolly fella, though blithely out of touch with the ways of student. And even some teachers. While at this, he livened up the whole school, especially when he doubled up his role as the Dining Hall Master, and the Teacher on Duty.

On his usual walkabouts on the latter assignment, he entered Form 3 South and demanded:

Carcas Wanyama! Adm-chon Numba 6771- Go and wa-ch (Wachs) the Dining Hall!

Not even the laughter that rocked morning preps could deter him from his quest of getting this ‘rogue student’ who he had caught hiding in the dorm. In actual sense, the name and everything else was obviously false; what with Carcas being the name synomous with Teusday and Thurdays? The day they served MEAT- Carcas by all means?

Even with his purpoted out of touch aloofness, Dere was still loved. More so, for we all understood. He had a mental problems that struck at different times of the terms and even affected learning.

I was there when eventually, his mind knocked him out, completely, never to wake up.

Today, for some reason, i remembered the happy jolly fella who told me to ‘change my nutty choes- my New Hanson Label, that were all the Rage then.

R.I.P. Dere.

On joining Campo, I expected many things ranging from the lifestyle to the state of crucial places like eateries. Coming from a less leafy suburbs (also know as the hood), I have a rich experience with the famous eateries, affectionately called ‘Jenga mwilis’. They derive their name from the Kiswahili saying- Jenga mwili haribu jina- which loosely translates: build your body, don’t mind what they say.

And they do live up to that. Food is served in quantities that would make one shy off. ‘Servicemen’ of these chooms know the significance of a plateful of food - never mind it comes in all kind of mixtures (like chapo mix is a mixture of chapatti, ndengu, beans, cabbage and stew). Mostly, they are construction workers whose blood and sweat come into real time test of steel, bricks and heavy machinery. Therefore, they would need plenty of this energy. It follows that before joining this relatively ‘up town’ campus, I frequented such.

Strange coins

So, it was a pleasant surprise that after a few days of straining my pocket at the relatively expensive school cafeteria that I discovered ‘Mkombozi’. I have avoided the cafeteria, ka ngotha ya kitambo- for several years, and counting.

Well, there are many reasons as to why I did make my big switch and they range from price to…well, price! Cafeteria services are pretty professional, its ambience is inviting and the food is anything but salivating. They come served under ‘gisty’ sounding names –fillets and steamed rice- in clean plates and the crowd that frequents this joint tends to talk a language that is a bad marriage of English and Kiswahili. They call someone ‘you guy’ and talk of ‘fikaing’…a lingua that doesn’t auger well with my ears which in turn, I fink, affects my taste buds. But I have nothing against them, or the place.

A swan among ducks will one day fly to be where he belongs. So, when strange coins jingle in my pocket and I am not ‘sufficiently philanthropic’ I pay Maillu – sole proprietor of Mkombozi- a courtesy visit. More often than not, it ceases from being a ‘courtesy call’ to what one may call, er, ‘life membership’?

New Delicacy

The other day I tried out some ‘new’ delicacy on the menu (Muthokoi) and I liked it due to the friendly inverse proportion of its price and quantity. Well, it wasn’t practically new since I had always known about it, but this is how one operates in a Jenga Mwili joint. You step in, call the waiter dressed in a once-white apron creased and greased and declare: ‘Kawaida’.

Kawaida means your favorite meal which for me was ‘Chapo Dondo/Ndengu’. They know it by heart and they never ask another question – Another reason why I love these guys! For forty bob daily, I have bought both the goodwill, the service and in future when recession hits an all time low, credit facility.

This is hard to achieve at the cafeteria. The waiters are neither friendly nor unfriendly. They are robotic and smile at you only when they don’t have your balance at that time. All you get is what I like to refer as the ‘21st Century Breakdown’. Nice plates, well laid tables, silence beautifully interrupted by the buzzing of a news channel at the corner of the room - all of which that I consider devoid the raw humane nature I get at Maillu’s Jenga Mwili.

In other meals

Do I go back to the meals before I wrap up and dash for my ‘chapo slice na supu ya dondo’?

Yes, you’ll not find meals such as ‘supu ya kichwa’ (goat head soup) strange and stomach churning ‘combos’ such as githeri, rice, beans, green grams and two chapatis on top of it. Served in melamine plates that maybe a little chipped at the edges ‘cause of patronage (and consequent) usage and the fact that you can’t see your friend on the other side distills off anything that may be an eyesore. The rickety tables, rough benches unpainted walls and buzzing houseflies notwithstanding, the constant chit chat about anything with your fellow ‘body builders’ keeps you engaged and leaves you in light spirits.

I know I can hack any ‘intelligent talk’ on the cafeteria high table, but the constant restrain that comes with imported British mannerisms makes me feel caged. I like a good laugh from hearing the layman talk. It is devoid any pretensions and shoots straight from the heart.

So, till life serves me something else, Jenga mwili remains my joint.