My script to my daughters lest i forget

My script to my daughters lest I forget……Since when I was young I loved Nairobi because it was the epitome of good life. From Nairobi fellows brought big loaves of bread during Christmas. They visited their ancestral land once a year. From Nairobi came young girls whose face colour had changed after they got a small job in the capital. We were told Nairobi water makes ladies skin colour lighter (I am yet to disapprove this theory). It’s this Nairobi where village boys had gone to university for studies and everyone from the village including old men greeted them with supported hands when they came for long holidays. It’s in Nairobi where Leonard Mambo Mbotela, Jack Oyoo Sylvester and Omuga Kabisae sitting in a small office could transmit news across the country from the Voice of Kenya. Who would not have wished to belong to this “Nairobi”. Despite the successes of the enthroned capital, mothers whispered in low tone voices that the daughter or the son of so and so went to Nairobi and acquired “bad behavior”. To me stories of Nairobi remained just that “stories” like that of Kabaka Mutesa, Omukama Kabalega and Kijeketille Ngware. “How I wished to one day visit and have first-hand experience of the city under the sun” I would say.

When I made my debut visit to Nairobi the place I landed to was Kibera slums. I somewhat got confused on whether the ramshackle shelters were the definition of the city under the sun. This was before I got lost in the CBD and had to go round KICC 6 times to locate Railways roundabout to board No 8 Matatus plying the Kibera Ayani route. Nevertheless the street lights made nights glow. You know where I come from walking at night was a “taboo” before the “discovery” of the spotlight. And the spotlight shared the batteries with the radio – both of them could not be on at the same time. Now back to Kibera, I may not have seen or used the flying toilets or be hit by one during its transit but I remember I jumped over human excreta on my way to and from our small abode.

It is at Kibera Methodist Church we found solace after trips to town either to meet a friend or count skyscrapers. We used to move in a group of 3-5. Patrick Mutwiri a.k.a. Bob never missed in the team. He was the tallest and as you know tall men can be commanding and demeaning but Bob had a different demeanor and we all liked him a big chunk. Isaiah Mwirigi who had refused to answer the Macedonian call, tried everything else and failed (including working in a barber shop). Had he known all he needed to do is say “Yes Lord” am here send me he would not have wallowed in indecision….It is after saying “Yes Lord” that he has visited almost half of the states in America preaching the good news. Lewis Mutwiri was the meticulous intellectual in the team and he led us in reading newspaper cover pages displayed by vendors early in the morning near bus-stops. We feigned that we would buy the paper after sampling the most juicy cover page but I can’t remember a day that we bought a newspaper. One day Lewis took us to an automotive yard, we went round all the cars on display enquiring on cost, we bargained knowing very well that on our way home we will tell the matatu conductor “Sare mmoja” because we were four but could afford to pay bus fare for three. Pennies were a scarce as hen’s teeth.
Despite my expectations for Nairobi life hitting an abysmal dismal level the reality of the challenges in Kibera slums and later Eastleigh (Both times hosted by one Patrick Mutwiri Bob) turned around when I became a resident of the 10th most dynamic city in the world..... to be continued…...