BoywaCampo

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.

Playing: There’s no secret this year- SilverSunPickUps

This was the word of the day in Dictionary.com.

It reminded me of something that has been going on, or has happened, today, or another day, i am not sure. I’m living in days i am not sure are mine, hours that look like borrowed time and my every other attempt to come into terms with it it is resisting gravity.

This is the age where one looks at life through an easy glass,  fueled by the hot heart of youth - i do that. Currently, my breathe, hot and intoxicated is caressing the keyboard like a Harmattan wind, and my sight aint making it better.

I can never be specific about things that trouble this heart, just state generally.

But all this while, i will still reach out, hope, move life with a maddened resolve- break through what seems like barriers -make it.

Nothing is forever.

In more ways than one, i am tempted to utter a word that rhymes and chymes with sheet (and not half as clean) when i think about my rural roots.
Yaani ile place nilikomaa ka ma-roots za nduma …and more so, why i have left it to burn with the ashes of my past.
The last time i heeded my grand-shoshos call to drop by was actually after post-valentine violence (red terror) when everything around the big city (shitty now) reminded me of everything i never was…
Forgetting, that i, and my love, were once amoebas in the sea, joined in every other part…soon separated by Darwin’s be-witching theory of (un)natural selection- long story.

Anyway, a while back, i made an impromptu visit only to find my guks has lost his viewership pleasure and his cognitive ability is hitting the lowest points of the graph. Even as i took to great pained strengths to explain WHO i really was, i couldn’t fail to tap in some energy i once felt while penning an article on one Fidel Castro (back in the day, never mind)…that old soldiers never die; they fade away.

And beneath that face that has many days, i saw dad…and in dad, i saw a reflection of the son, each, a hell of a man in their trade.or tirades…
….

And i think in my own way, struggling under ‘Master’ name that stems from his exploits in better days has probably seeped through to me (what with the milk that Grandpa fed me with-from his farm- as dad chased my absent mum down college corridors?)

LoL

Whatever the case, the Lordship must go on.

Or Rodship.
Tsk.

I am having an immeasurable build up of shit that it baffles me. Not shit that you eat, or excrete. Shit in the head. Like abnormal sperm build up that spawns forth tadpole look-alikes, of the one-tailed life givers.

It has prevented me from connecting to this portal, and sharing something of sense…or my usual non-common sense.

But I am off on a tangent. I’m appreciating, hating in equal measure.

Let me start showing, ‘stead of telling.

Now, here, the office down under, I hear them whisper I am boss. I have the faintest inclination of being one and enough times, guys are surprised when such a term is associated with me.

I wonder, not really caring…much- rather, focusing on the demons battling it out on the highway between my one head and the other – involuntarily engaging the heart.

This is where I squirt little bitter tears, concentrated like the urine of some desert animal and bow down to beer pressure.

Meanwhile, I almost like every minute of this late-night adventures. Last night, I settled on my bed at exactly 02 34h, happy that my neighbors are asleep. They have been giving me horny nightmares, thanks to their ‘moan-star’ approaches to horizontal chakacha.

All the while, I am busy chopping stories, adding this or the other, rephrasing this and that…and being stubborn with deadlines as I can…re-sending the haughty reporters to the field…adept, some are, majority hopelessly inept-

But promising, altogether.

They either adopt, or hit the highway.

I prefer the high way myself, after such sessions.

Bottle romancing, my hand, gentling moving over the brim of the plastic tumbler, observing the dark brown liquid suck up to my lips as VisaRoy dwink sends me further a field to dig up holes, to fill other holes.

Oh, the self impotence of once shining stars-

They’ll soon shit in black holes!

Now, I grind, through innate battles, scream over cream and bitches – and fire volleys of stored up hate, like a billion dollar hater.

I hope to push my head up in the air as they holla:

For he’s a happy shifty, but sharp fella/ snappy too, with a knack for details (and

De Tails /hidden shyness and little self-assurance/

Yes, that chorus I can’t edit.

I overheard this in a local vernacular radio station, Inooro FM.

If you’re a real Kenyan worrier, you must have come across a guy hawking sweets,   biscuits and repeats a rhetoric that is anything but funny.

Tropical, biskits, swits, lorripop…dawa ya mende!

Angamiza mende nyumbani…

And they repeat it in such a terrific speed its becomes good or bad music to your ears - not acappella thanks to the 1000 coins (instrumentals) jingling on his hands- and you may end up  buying a hankie or the dawa ya mende which they say is more powerful than nuclear warheads (what with cockroaches surviving nuclear warfare?).

Ok, it’s not that complicated, but rather, the sing song voice and recognizability of  this Gikomba guy caught the attention of the media (Inooro FM). Apparently, he lives off his salesmanship voice. That is, a trader in need of advertising services calls him to ‘bring customers’ to his stand.

fefte, twedi..beba yote, bei ni ya jioni….

And on and on, he repeats this for various traders, earning on the way

I fink he is a good man, living off his mouth…big mouth, rather and the award could possibly better his chances of upgrading the trade, right?It was not stated whether he has an operating license for this business keeping in mind that making noise above certain decibels is illegal.

But this is still Kenya, where we manufacture noise (take a leak, er, look at our leaders).

I loosely read in American novels or have managed to overhear in those imported trashy/classy shows of things like caffeinated, decaffeinated coffee…or something close to that.

See, i grew up in a coffee plantation and not until i got to the big city did i take my first cup of coffee. Until then, i always thought that mama’s tea was the best thing that happened to my life. For this, i really wondered what really happens to the bags and bags of coffee berries that we transported to a local factory.  For starters, the coffee farm was owned by grandpa, those days when he was still supple and…quite energetic…now he can’t tell the difference between my and my American cousin.

During the harvest season, after we transported the heavy bags (using a rickety wheelbarrow) he would drop a few coins onto my hand and i was to distribute them to my 0ther cousins. With all their wisdom, they bought balloons, biscuits and goody goody.

I preferred Kimuhu’s  hot soup served in a chirped mabati , half-boflo broad…in some shack with houseflies buzzing about and several tough talking old geezers that i found quite interesting. Once their balloons had blown up and they were left with sugary mouths and sticky lips (and a future dentist appointment )…i was ‘full’ (kushiba), and armed with few sage phrases that would send my peers laughing.

Days before this, was the coffee-picking experience, which was the most grueling of this process. Your hands had to mechanically pick out the ripe berries leaving out the green ones, and put them in a tin..for further sorting out. I think i was about 9 when i decide to climb the coffee tree. Grandpa and dad were around too when i came down with a whole branch…never will forget the look on their eyes… as they probably thought: Does this kid have something wrong with his head?

I also once ate the enticing red ripe berries and the end result was not much to talk about either…

Oh. This was also the place where many a village girls had their panties knicked- if they wore any, that is

De-caffeinated thoughts

In myself, i have two kinds of school of thoughts: Weeded and Non-weeded. And there, the sorting them out begin. Thoughts come with them the birth mark that betrays their breeding ground. An apple never falls far from the tree-but Sir New Toad- what does ‘far’ mean to you? Would you still say the same if an apple fell from the tree and rolled down a cliff?

I’m going this stages in my days when i think about thinking…and i’m arriving at strange conclusions. Once i have something definite, like knowing exactly which coffee is which…i shall come out here, clearly.