Kenyan Reggae Scene - Back In The Day!

"Poh! Poh! Poh! Poh! come again man selector!!" exclaims MC Sugar D requesting Papa Charlie to repeat the song. Promptly as if on cue, Papa Charlie instantly repeats the song and introducing it like: "YES!!! Introducing man like Peter Broggs; a musical team called Doggy In The Window". Elated revellers, yours truly included shout back: "Yeah man! Jah Rastafari" then we quickly proceeded to "ngota" (greet by gently knocking each others fists) each other and raise our fists in the air like they reportedly do in Zion. The year was 2002, the day as always was on a Saturday and club Monte Carlo was the venue. The resident Reggae entertainment sound was King Lions Sound led by Papa Charlie and his brother King Tubbs having taken over from their late brother: Papa Lefty - May he R.I.P. The MCs AKA noise makers are not worth mentioning because they weren't my favourites; they always found ways to unnecessarily interrupt good songs in their fake Jamaican Patois slang. For instance: rare songs like the aforementioned songs were a preserve of King Lion Sounds. It was rumoured that if Papa Charlie came across a rare reggae album, he'd promptly buy all the copies from the shelves so that all roots reggae fans knew if you want to listen to rare songs, club Monte Carlo was the place to be. This explains the numerous interruptions that were aimed at ensuring no "clean copy" record of the song existed in the market - Must have been their idea of patenting. So you know, phrases like "a musical team called" funnily meant "a song called".... "wheel an' come" meant "Pause and repeat". Later on some stoned MCs would go like: "Yes I!! Man selector!! When the music is nice, you place it twice and when the music is sweet, you go for an instant repeat" ....utter nonsense!!

Club Monte Carlo

By the then standards, Monte Carlo was a dingy club. That's notwithstanding, we religiously filled the joint to capacity to an extent that Noah and his arc must have been envious. Wooden chairs would be arranged along the walls to create enough dance floor space for all. Entry was a painful Ksh100 which meant that if you had Ksh500 your weekend promised to happen. The revellers were characterised as follows: 90% were clad in Safari boots and tight jeans trousers, 90% chewed khat you'd be forgiven to think it was Bob Marley's staple diet, Out of the 90% chewing khat, 5% washed it down with an occasional beer that often got flat thanks to hours of holding onto the bottle, 75% of them clutched onto soda bottles that had a hole on the bottle top to limit the consumption of the contents both by mouth and err-mm evaporation and the remaining 10% painfully swallowed saliva to relief the choking effect of Khat.. LOL!! 50% would be in shabby hair coiled out to pass as dreadlocks, 2% comprised of Kenyan rasta men who mostly hawked rasta paraphernalia painted in true colours - Red, Gold and Green. The list is endless; but the crowd was quite fascinating especially to a first time visitor. Notably, most of the dread-locked rasta men hardly danced, they just sat down and reasoned - at this point it's important to note that Rasta men don't discuss with each other, they "reason" with each other.

Massive an' Crew

Most revellers came as a group from different hoods. The most notorious of these hailed from City Council estates like Ziwani, Kaloleni, Jericho, Bahati, etc.. Why such groupings were and still are referred to as "massive and crew" on the Kenyan reggae scene still baffles me to this day. Massive and crew were famous for all the wrong reasons: from commuting for free to town, smoking joints openly, spoiling for fights on the dance floors, openly teasing ladies that accompanied "mababi" (uptown wimps) to the club, scaring well-muscled security men - yaani bouncers and causing terror and running battles in the streets of Accra road and Tom Mboya in the morning after the reggae sessions. As gloomy as it may sound, we loved reggae music. That explains why we thronged reggae clubs religiously despite all; it was a sacrifice man!! Back then, yours truly resided in Buru Buru estate which was conveniently tagged "mtaa ya mababi" meaning an estate for the affluent. To survive at club Monte Carlo, I had to make friends each Saturday with a few lads from the massive and crew that appeared formidable on that day. Believe it or not, such temporary friendships were purely for "protection" and just like in NatGeo Wild, they involved some "dating rituals" of sorts. For instance, I wasn't a smoker but I would buy one or two cigarettes, light one periodically; I'd take short unconvincing draws as I struggled to stifle my rookie coughs, then I'd gladly pass it on to the nearest tough-looking member of say the Umoja Renegades massive and crew. Such an act would be met by suspicious looks but would immediately be followed by Rasta salutations: "Irie!!!" or "ngotaaa!!" and then we'd bang the tightly clenched fists on our chests with thud as if we were trying to kill ourselves. On a bad day, I'd have to throw in a soda or a beer, albeit grudgingly to win their trust.

Pon The Dancefloor

Unlike my currently unfit self, back in the day I was young and agile. Urged by the punch of the beat that is characterized by reggae music, I used to dance myself silly; all night long. In the event of unfamiliar songs, yours truly was still unfazed. My strategy was fake as you shake it - I was known to mumble along to unfamiliar songs and occasionally throw in one or two Kiembu words pronounced in heavy Jamaican slang to the admiration of other revellers. Allow me to explain, for some reason, most ardent reggae fans in Kenya are of Luo and Luhya backgrounds and can barely distinguish Embu language from deep Jamaican Patois if you sing along confidently. I'm not flossing, but my knowledge of reggae music goes deeper than the "anthems" that average DJs played and continue to play in clubs and mixes. Anthems are overplayed songs in reggae albums by lazy DJs who overlook all the other songs in a certain album and decide to popularize specific songs. To my chagrin, 90% of the time Papa Charlie played anthems, but who cared, the crowd loved them. Most popular anthems had everyone rising from the seats and the revellers already on the dance-floor jumping higher with their fists and fingers pointed upwards towards "Zion" as they chanted: "Meeeesssssaaaaggggeeee!!!" referring to the "consciousness" of the lyrics. It's at this stage that pickpockets had a field day on the mostly empty pockets of the stoned dancing youths. I must mention that whether or not you had a joint rolled, you were equally high thanks to the secondary smoke; which in this case contained additives like bad breath, khat fumes, njugu karanga and cheap liquor. Most fights broke out at this stage; for reasons as flimsy as someone accidentally stamping at another's foot or spilling a drink - regardless of the fact that most drinks had holes on the bottle tops and minimal liquid leaked because broke reggae youths have a very high reflex for rescuing spilling drinks.

The paradox of a great deal of reggae fans world over is that they talk of reggae music having a societal message of peace, love and unity; yet they themselves are the most violent. This violence escalates during reggae concerts, at least going by the ones I have attended so far. Ahem! so we'd rock the night away as we trampled on the filthy floor thanks to khat twigs, chewing gums and peanuts remnants. It was trendy to carry small notebooks that we used to write song and big up requests and hand them over to the MC. Shortly after, the MC would interrupt the music flow and go like: "Big up to all Jericho youths, Kaloleni massive and the Umoja renegades" and all the stoned youths from the respective hoods would shout: "Yeeeeeesssssss!!! Rastafari", while looking at the ceiling as if His Imperial Majesty Haille Sellasie the First had just appeared in the clouds to redeem all rasta folk, LOL!! My highlight however, was when the DJ played a rare song that wasn't an anthem hence unknown to 90% of the revellers. It was my time to take over the dance floor; see, most people retreated to the vacant seats when unfamiliar songs played. That means I had half the dance floor to myself. Oh my!! Didn't I enjoy!! I jumped up and down rhythmically like the cock of the walk. The advantage of having arrived from the village a year earlier meant that I could blend some village dance moves and urban moves to achieve some real wicked moves. All this while, I bellowed like a bull, on top of my lungs letting everyone who cared know that I was the man of the moment... yule mziii!!! The fact that my antics won me lots of admiration from the damsels present is an understatement; notwithstanding whom they came with. One such damsel someday, caught by the rhythm arrest and finding the hunk that I was back then irresistible joined me on the dance floor, what happened next will probably make the contents of my next blog... Gotta mention though that her boyfriend belonged to one of the most intimidating massive and crews and he was present; shock on me!!!

In conclusion, the local reggae scene then was both vibrant and chaotic. Present day riddims were non-existent and we all pretended to be the most conscious people in the world. I went on to attend many reggae concerts featuring artists like: Culture, Burning spear, Luciano, Morgan Heritage, Black Uhuru, Richie Spice, Turbulence, etc... I had to quit though especially after attending the last of a free Don Carlos concert at Kasarani that had the most violent fans I have ever encountered.. wasee wa ngeta bana; Mchana tenaaa!! The most fascinating thing about clubs like Monte Carlo and Hollywood back in the day was that, the management had conveniently placed a nail on the counter for the "masufferer" youths to pierce a hole on soda and beer bottles to ensure the contents lasted the whole night if possible - Such a self-defeating move that made zero business sense. No wonder most such clubs got run down eventually. BOLLOCKS!!!

Wait... I forgot to add that after such nights of indulgence and dancing for 6 hours continuously, I always wondered why other passengers in Buru Buru bound route 23 matatus' always avoided seating next to me until some inebriated fellow sat next to me, promptly held onto his nose and exclaimed: "Na unanuka jasho joh!" meaning: "man! you reek of sweat!". Hehe!! I honestly miss those days :)

Rhyme On!!

"I originate so you must appreciate, while others got to imitate"... Brags the legendary Jamaican DJ, Daddy U-Roy in the introduction of one of his famous songs. Famous in this context is relative because I know 99% of folk just read of Daddy U-Roy for the first time in this blog post. I encourage you to take sometime off your "extremely busy schedule" and sample U-Roy's unique style; thank me later. In the meantime, as one petrol-head repeatedly mocks on some Facebook group: Endeleeni tu kuenda blankets and wine....

As I was trying to elucidate some ideas and digitize my thoughts to eventually monetize my blog and leave you guessing on how to commercialize and plagiarize... Cometh a candidate out to sensationalize and politicize my bid to prioritize semantics and dictate as I emphasize by way of a predicate.... Err-mm what am I saying guys?? I have no idea.. frankly!! Haidhuru, PLO's oratory skills were not honed in a day. Reason I felt compelled to throw a rhyme or two to exorcise the blogosphere off "demons" comprised of rumour peddling bloggers with their enticing click-to-earn-adsense ploys that are so yesterday but still worthy bait for gullible Kenyan onliners. I too must claim my portion of the windfall gains occassioned by the "forced digital migration". I am a blogger too... Arrange my wicked rhymes above and you gonna shame your county's top poet. Well, rhymes and sense are strange bedfellows. I am making little headway in either front but if you ask me tomorrow, I'll confidently tell you that my insomnia was spent blogging... Haya!! Wapi hii pesa ya digital migration???

ZZZZZZzzzzzzzz..........

Nairobi "Schooling" - Villager's Edition

It's been long since I blogged; not for lack of material, just been caught up in the paper chase to fuel my "metabolism" while helping pay my Landlord's mortgage that ensures I have a roof over my head. The Njoki Cheges' of this world will rank me middle class and swiftly bypass me in pursuit of the affluent. I have less time to spare for such warped thinkers; in the meantime, I'll stick to the comments' section of their pieces. I have been trying to ignore politics too.. It's the state of insecurity in the country that is worrying. We need to rethink our intelligence before we can chest thump boasting that we've gone digital. In this regard, my heart bleeds every time I think of the sickening Mandera massacre. May the victims rest in peace. Amen!

Lest you associate me with the brand of people who unnecessarily prolong a simple food prayer by first praying for travellers' journey mercies, the local chief, the sick etc... I swiftly digress. Ahem! Y'all have heard enough accounts of first timers in Nairobi. Back in primary school, we used to study a subject called GHC - Geography History and Civics. It's in the Civics section I believe that we used to study the effects and motivations of Rural to Urban migration. Bam!! Before you say "GHC", I found myself in the urban set up called Nairobi. Call me mshamba, but previously, I had brief encounters with the city, including when I took my first breath three decades ago in the then leafy suburb of Pumwani which I understand has since degraded into a "leaf-eating" suburb. My most memorable trip of all to the city was back in 1992 to attend my elder bro's graduation ceremony - I stood all the way in a face-me school van to ensure nothing passed my "rural eyes". Well, it's almost 15yrs since I've been a resident of Nairobi and my rural eyes are still not fully acquainted with urbanity.

Any villager who ventured into Nairobi before the advent of google maps and other navigation apps will tell you that KICC building was the reference point for directions; a true north of sorts. While growing up in the village, it took an approximate balance of 5ksh in the pocket to make my Sunday. We walked to the nearby Runyenjes town to do what my mum calls "gutira duka" (meaning to prop up the shops literally ...yaani idling). The 5 bob could buy mandazis to eat as we watched reckless miraa pickup drivers speed past speed bumps with impunity. While still very fresh in Nairobi, I decided to take a bus to town one Sunday afternoon. Just like any other newbie in town, Uhuru Park was my first stop. I then took a stroll in town applying the "look right, look left and look right again" rule while crossing the roads - even on one-way streets.. sigh!! I got too engrossed with the buildings, cars and fast-walking pedestrians that before long it was 5:30pm, time to go home. Could the villager remember what stage he alighted from? ...NOPE! Could the villager consult anyone where the Embakasi stage was? ...NOPE! everyone was a suspect :) Could the villager still remember the route number for the bus home? ...NOPE! Did the perplexed villager have a mobile phone? ...Nope! What to do?? ...guess my way around while occasionally stopping to refer to my "True North".

Wacha nizunguke tao kama wazimu!! I spent the next one and a half hours lost in the concrete jungle, alleys and downtown streets of Nairobi. KICC was disappearing and re-appearing as I crossed the streets. I can now vividly remember having gone as far as University way, Globe cinema roundabout, Race course road, Nyamakima and even at some point almost crossed the Nairobi river at Grogan.. All this time I was on the constant lookout for the magic word: "Embakasi" on matatus and buses that drove by. In such situations, time really flies. I was looking at everyone with increased suspicion; never mind that I barely had anything worth stealing. I must have been walking along banda street and on getting to the point it branches to Muindi Bingu street I saw a bus number 34 ..Embakasi!!! That was the closest I've encountered a real miracle; forget Kanyari and his now famed Potassium Permanganate. My village skills of sprinting after Pickup trucks and lorries and jumping aboard paid off that day. Thank heavens the stagecoaches' had two doors... out of breath I managed to hang on to the second door at the back of the bus, Phewks!!! Few months after, I could navigate my way in town with eyes closed. Little did I know that I had barely graduated from "Nairobi's pre-unit" class.

Ever been conned in Nairobi? I believe everyone has; few admit though. My first mobile phone was a Siemens A35. Back in the day, the gadget oozed class. Need I say I was within the first million subscribers to get a Safaricom line.. the real 0722. You know whaaarrrrrraammsayying?? When the cheapest airtime voucher was worth Ksh250 and mobile data network was non-existent locally. Siemens A35 preceded polyphonic tunes, it had ringtones akin to those produced by musical success cards. Other outrageous features included the SMS app which had messages scrolling from left to the right when the user is reading.. na pace yake tuuu!! The memory capacity could only handle 10 messages. The above notwithstanding, a phone call back in the day was a celebrated event, especially if it was in a public place. Let me make you understand: I am sitting at the University of Nairobi's JKML library sometime in 2001/2002 when my phone rings prompting the attention of fellow students in that section. Just like some present weird Kenyans with irritating personalized skiza tunes and ringtones do, I let my gadget ring for a couple of seconds as the students' gaze with admiration. Then I stand and walk off with an extra springy effect by letting my heels linger a few more milliseconds in the air. After the call, adjacent students suddenly acquire instant respect and looks that appear to say: "you are my role model". In that era, one could just exchange numbers with strangers just to make a few more phone book entries and shorten the time in between calls - One could last a full week without a phone call. I'm done bragging :-)

Within no time, polyphonic tunes' phones were the trendy gadgets in town and my Siemens was up for sale. One evening an acquaintance of mine by the name Erico claimed to have a ready buyer and in seconds we were walking towards the buyer's direction. In the meantime, Erico asked for the phone so he could familiarize himself with the features. On nearing some stage along Outering road, he directed that I wait as he fetched the buyer. Big mistake!! Ten minutes later I realized he had boarded a matatu for Umoja estate. Guy was a cheap thief and a con. You see, 99% of men have no idea where their friends reside; Sadly, I am no exception. After mourning for days I acquired a Nokia 3310 which was considered a smart phone then. You won't believe it, after a couple of months I was conned off the 3310 by smart cons with a believable Meru accent and dusty clothes to boot. Chaps had allegedly won Ksh250,000 in the Kenya Charity Sweepstake draw and decided that I was the most honest and smart guy along Tom Mboya street that morning to assist them redeem their ticket for money. My 3310 remained with them as I took to the stairs of Kenya Charity Sweepstake house two at a time in a rush to get the cash and subsequent commission. Few minutes later I went down the flight of stairs four at a time out to teach the Meru cons a lesson... wapi!! They had vanished in thin air. To date, given a chance I'd still nominate them for an Oscar. Err-mm come to think of it, were the cons so smart or was I too dumb and outright gullible? well, that's debatable.

I was too ashamed to admit my gullibility and lied that the phone was snatched from me along Parliament road which in my book is one of the safest streets in town. Ever told a lie so many times that you convinced yourself it was the gospel truth? Getting conned twice in a year was enough schooling for in the ways of the city. I am the few guys who sympathised with Pastor Kanyari's victims the other day when #JichoPevu exposed his con ways because I too have had my fair doses of Potassium Permanganate from people driven by personal and collective "targets" respectively. I am wiser now. My brief stint at Safaricom's customer service centre exposed me to a thousand and one ways that Kenyans get conned every day. Former schoolmates and college-mates, please take this as a disclaimer: next time you bump into me in the streets of Nairobi and happily go out of your way to high five or hug me... don't be surprised by either a fleeing brother or a stone-faced snob walking on unfazed. Especially those of you who have since reared Osama-like beards, accumulated weight in triple digits or developed humongous pot bellies to unrecognisable dimensions. Sorry guys, gotta cut me some slack :-)

Eid In a Police Cell

I always look forward to Ramadhan. Not because of my Islam affiliations and liasions - and they are few, but for the promise of Eid-ul-fitr holiday. Yes, I know no one loves holidays better than working Kenyans including yours truly. A week earlier, as I was "accidentally" perusing the Kenya gazette for "gossip and EPL transfer news", I stumbled on the gazettement of the 29th August 2014 as public holiday and I whispered fervently Al-hamdu lillahi rabbil 'alamin!! and conveniently scheduled a few pending tasks for the Eid holiday;  because I am not the average Joe who will bum all day and watch the "idiot box" - err-mm I mean TV. Chief in my to-do list was to service my lovely VW Bug.

THE ARREST

Eid-ul-Fitr is here!! I wake up at 9am despite having planned to be changing my bug's fly-wheel seal and wheel bearings by 8am somewhere in the foothills of the breath-taking Lukenya hills - blame it on the holiday. I abhor superstition and all his/her relatives, but looking back now, premonition (who in my book is superstition's closest relative) had me swallowing double my daily ration of breakfast. It turned out  that friend who's new to driving had recently acquired a pick-up and had chosen to make her maiden drive along Mombasa road that day taking advantage of the low-traffic highway thanks to illustrious Kenyans still hibernating beneath their duvets. Owing to a number of motivations; chief among them being that the pick-up was manual (I love manual cars), I decided to offer the otherwise expensive services of a VW Beetle chase-car for free.

Picture me whistling as I cruise down Mombasa road behind the pick-up without a care in the world; with my hazard lights on to keep off unruly truck drivers whose susceptibility of scaring off rookie drivers into a roadside ditches is always high. The pick-up in front is doing just fine with occasional sways while being overtaken by 18-wheelers. I easily get carried away and overtake the pick-up at GM (General Motors) in a bid to flaunt my superior skills to the kurutu pick-up driver and her co-driver while acting as a route sweeper. You must be thinking, a VW Beetle sweeper or wannabe?? Well my Betty  has two horns, a normal one and a Pararira (trumpet) that can easily match an 18-wheeler's and that has successfully bullied one or two unruly drivers on our roads * chest thumps!! *

I used my pararira thrice; twice successfully and the third time successfully but with grave consequences. Success 1: Imara Daima junction parariraaaaaa!! successfully tamed cars trying to join the highway thus ensuring an easy passage for Betty and the pick-up. Success 2: Parariraaaaaaa!! successfully prevented a Matatu from rejoining the highway matatu-style; we passed with ease. Success 3 AKA Failure 1: Parariraaaaaa!!! Just past Cabanas on our way to Embakasi. Successfully thwarts a matatu from rejoining the road carelessly. Beetle passes but matatu gets in the way of the pick-up. Riiinnngggggg!! I decide to answer a phone call while allowing the matatu to overtake so we can continue with the beetle-pick-up cruise. BAD MOVE!!! Matatu overtakes and cuts into my lane blocking me instantly: "Wewe kiyana weka hio gari kando mara moja!!" three traffic cops from inside the matatu shout in unison. I strongly condemn Israel's shelling of gaza, but if mainstream media's claims that Israel is making calls to target buildings or using roof-knockers to warn occupants' of imminent attack are true, me thinks it's a humane idea and I too expected some kind of arrest-warning from the cops. Shock on me!!!! A common misconception by cops and wananchi is that if you are driving a classic car you are poor and can barely afford insurance; the hungry cop pounced on my windscreen and clearly saw his face darken on realizing he couldn't nail me insurance-wise: stupid cop!! "Kiyana unapigia sisi horn kama ya train halafu unaanza kuongea na simu ukiendesha gari??" A cop asks as he jumps into Betty's passenger seat. "Endesha gari twende polisi, unaona nissan imejaa polisi na unaendelea kuongea kwa simu" he asks. I promptly answer "Afande mimi bado ona Nissan imebeba polisi, nilidhani ni abiria, si tuongee tu kama wanaume...". Cop explained that his boss was in the Nissan matatu and being a "traffic operation" I had no choice but drive to the police station.

THE CELLS

We get to the OB section and "my cop" points me to his boss and says "ongea nayeye". The hungry boss asks: "uko na pesa ngapi" ...I hate giving bribes, and if I have to, I stick to a few hundreds. I answered: "afisa niko na mia tano". The furious boss shouts "andikia yeye!!!". I am left at the mercy of what I consider the rudest cop in Kenya; a very ugly lady who I believe makes up for the lost beauty by insulting and being rude to newly-arrested Kenyans - especially if you seem to being doing better than her in life. She points me into to some cubicle full of foul-smelling shoes. Free advice: if you ever enter such a cubicle, don't stress your lungs by holding your breath because you will still breathe in that foul smell ultimately. Maybe you might want to stay further away from some multi-coloured-I-have-never-been-washed-since-I-was-bought old sneakers. By now you must know that it takes an criminal/traffic offence plus one shoe to get yourself into a cell. The other shoe is left in some cubicle. Inside I find people frantically making calls and visibly yet to come to terms with their newly acquired status as "guests of the states". I get flushed out of the stinky room in the middle of my third call.

The ugly cop snatches my phone off my ear while hurling obscenities. In turn, I engage the two cops in an argument explaining to them that I am just informing friends and relatives of my arrest. The impatient cops pin me to the wall and frisk me off my wallet and keys, book them against my name and toss me into the cell without explaining what I'm in for, reading me my rights or even bothering to give me options on what to expect next. Inside the cell I am met with all manner of stares from weary faces. Having heard enough stories of bullying in cells, I immediately change my facial expression from frightened to a mean I-visit-police-cells-more-regularly-than-you-visit-the-loo kind of face. Guess what, it works and the first guy to open his mouth in my direction says "you are lucky they let you in with both shoes". Which immediately jolts me alerts my nose of the new extra-foul smell from the feet deprived of one shoe by the aforementioned cubicle coupled with body odours which get worse by the minute. My self pity quickly wears out on learning that some people have already spent a night or two at the cell. Approximately thirty of us are standing in a corridor in between cells on either side. I peep into one cells and see some people already resigned to fate in deep sleep on the concrete floor.

We take turns to peep on a small opening on the metallic door separating the cell from the OB section. All this time, a tall cop opens the door in intervals of 10mins to admit more people. Every time he admits a woman into the women cell, he brandishes a belt and whips his way among any man standing in his way; a scene reminiscent of slavery days. I plead with the cop to fetch me my phone and ultimately he gives in saying "na ujue utalipa". I make a few frantic calls to people who know people and to small fish who know big fish. Just like the last time I got arrested for a traffic offence, I quickly realize that the so called big fish rarely get you out of trouble with cops because they are either "mteja" or don't answer their phones in the first place. My reliable VWA Club  friends promise they are on their way to rescue yours truly.... phewks!! On seeing my phone, the cell-mates quickly befriend me and queue up literally to use my phone. I'm dumbfounded that some have spent the night there and it's the first time they're informing relatives, wives and friends. We use my phone to make a minimum of thirty calls which forces me to "okoa jahazi" in the process making me an instant celebrity. An Indian man is thrown into the cell for a traffic offence and some cell mates are quick to vent out their frustrations by taunting him in broken Swahili heavy with Indian accent: "mhindi, wewe iko fanya nini??... Pita huku uoshe choo kwanza... Wewe nafinyilia sisi kwa kampuni yako na kulipa sisi pesa ndogo sasa ona tuko na wewe hapa, pita pande hii, sirry!!" I use my newly-acquired celebrity status to calm the situation. If only news of #MyBukusuDarling had reached us by then... All this time, cops get into the cell and call out two or three names and leave in a huff ignoring my plea for cash bail... Lunch is brought in a bucket and some hungry cell-mates queue up for the badly-cooked ugali and cabbages.

After three hours in the cell, my friends bail me out and as tired and famished as I am,  I'm elated to breathe the fresh air of freedom. I floor Betty's accelerator pedal on my way out as if daring the cops to re-arrest me. I swear never to use my phone again while driving and instead invest in a hands-free gadget. I am not sure either whether next time I'll stop so easily for cops in a jalopy to arrest me... God forbid any future arrests. That friends is how my Eid holiday was wasted. Wondering what happened to my friends in the pick-up? Sema kuachwa mataani :)

Social Media ..Mitambo ya Kijamii

Wikipedia defines social media as the means of interaction among people in which they create, share, and/or exchange information and ideas in virtual communities and networks. I got introduced to social media almost ten years back and it's been quite a journey. That was after ignoring the likes of tagged and Hi 5 networks largely owing to some comical blind dates that my then friends arranged in town - shock on them!! That's a story for another day. The social media bug didn't spare me though, shortly after, I opened a Facebook account and forgot about it altogether. If my memory serves me well, my current Facebook account is probably the third I opened. You guessed right, the other two had very fancy names informed by the "swag" of the day. I shudder at the thought of digging out some of my earlier posts that reek of first degree juvenility. I have been deleting them until the other day when I decided to let them be; who knows, probably one day my social media metamorphosis will cost millions - yes, when I will be rubbing shoulders and dining with the likes of Barack Obama... oh sweet Jesus, I pray that it's gonna be soon. Amen!!

As much as social media has since turned half it's users anti-social to some degree, myself included, I've got social media to thank for many things: I have traced virtually 99% of my former classmates whom we parted one cold morning of November 1996 immediately after clearing our KCPE exams. FYI, I did not attend a village primary school, but do i say... *waits for the point to sink in* Ahem, I attended Chogoria Boys Boarding Primary school which had pupils from virtually every district in Kenya. Now, assuming Facebook did not exist, half the class would probably have bumped into each other in heaven or hell. School reunions are most dreaded occasions because everyone wants to outdo each other to an extent of showing up with borrowed cars and I dare say borrowed suits. Well, Facebook is one big school reunion where as much as folk might pretend to be successful in life, one day you gonna forget and check-in in your true GPS location (in the ghetto) or get tagged in a photo at city market as you buy miguu na vichwa za kuku (chicken legs and heads)  that are discarded from the chicken that the rest of nairobians are served in fast food joints.. LOL!!

Usororaji (prying) and gossip is rife on social media platforms. Be warned though, as you continue to pry, others are making careers in social media marketing, minting money from entrepreneurial Facebook pages, getting paid to tweet, gaining invaluable knowledge from common interest groups, network marketing, people have got dream jobs courtesy of LinkedIn, some of us constantly have their ears on the ground thanks to twitter  etc.. err mm I don't exactly have tangible benefits of some social media platforms; and they are many. My intention is not to school anyone on social media usage though. A recent article in the eBizMBA listed the following as the top 15 most popular social networking sites according to eBizMBA rank of Novermber 2013. As biased as it may seem, it still might do you some good to join or know a couple of them. They say that ours is a digital government, don't they? In this regard, all enterprising digital citizens might want to read Jayson DeMers' post in the Forbes website that talks about The Top 7 Social Media Marketing Trends That Will Dominate 2014. Disclaimer: If I grow richer than you in 2014 please don't blame it on the village witch doctor or Mganga kutoka Sumba Wanga; It might just be good use of the Social Media.

Just like the two sides of a coin, social media has it's cons. Tuanze na Facebook: While people might feign the triviality of social media, I believe that to some extent, it's an expression of our personality. Careful use of social media is therefore advised. Some Facebook features like relationship status are better left unused, especially if you are the type who has literally updated 70% of all of them at one time or another in your life.. eeeisssh bana!! TMI!! Some people will post statuses like: "nkt", "sawa tu", "Mungu anakuona", "Go to hell" etc and sit back and wait for our reaction. Seriously?? even if you are my only friend on Facebook or twitter, I'll ignore such even if you update at a constant rate of thrice per second.. seek help, call a shrink, pray, or go jump off a cliff for chrissakes.. eeeiiisshh bana!! Some homosapiens will constantly keep us posted on their next move to the extent that all we see is their updates on our timelines. Get a life!! If I were a thief all I need is to invest or steal an ipad, load it with sufficient bundles and open Facebook or Twitter timelines of such folks and take my sweet time stealing their stuff and even fix myself a cup of tea in their house as they bombard me with updates like: "I have stepped out my house", "sasa niko stage", "kuingia tao, mvua nayo", "awww just met my long time buddy", "having coffee at java" ..eeeiiisshh bana!! Security hakuna hata!! The following category have a special place in my foot: Folk who go out and buy the most expensive drink (hata kama wame-save for months), or cover the entire table with booze, take photos and promptly post on social media. Yaani kusifu ulevi. why don't you go work in a brewery or jump into a distillery??... eeeiiissh bana!! Trolling is so rampant on social media with twitter leading the pack. Kenyans on Twitter #kot have perfected this art without discriminating on the physical (anatomical) attributes of their victims. A good friend of mine is ever quick to remind me whenever I utter an unkind remark about someone's physical appearance: "Sema tu hivo na haujazaa". I could rant the whole day of the disadvantages of social media, but in my honest opinion, the merits outweigh the demerits..

Of Kenyans and Their Peculiar English

"Can someone remove himself and wipe the black board?" ..long pause.. "if you don't want to rub the blackboard we are not continuing with our maths lesson; after all, mtu akianguka hataanguka kwa compound yangu". Said my no-nonsense mathematics teacher back in secondary school. His brand of English was crudely unique. Typical of people who think in Swahili or their mother tongue and express themselves in English. Some people call it direct translation. In this regard, PLO Lumumba is guilty; how else do you explain his complex but hilarious sayings ad metaphors? Speaking of PLO, I always thought his stuff was rehearsed until one Saturday morning he was caught at a traffic red light by The Standard newspapers' staffers at they launched their new-look Saturday newspaper - just by coincidence. He waxed lyrical about the design, headline, formatting etc of the publication that he'd have easily beat some astrophysicist's analogy of celestial realms at TED Talks.

What was I saying? Yes, or as one teacher Wanjiku would say: Ndioooo.. Kenyans have some peculiar English whose origin in my view, is clearly precolonial. It doesn't take a linguistic expert or one Philip Ochieng to conclude that ours is a mish mash of indigenous dialects and the queen's language. The end justifies the means, they say. The main objective is communication and as far as I know, communication happens; specially if the audience is Kenyan.. haidhuru! My English is no better; I have my teachers', interactions and fate to blame. I deliver my English with such accentual eloquence, not entirely devoid of direct translated Kiembu sayings; me thinks one Kiraitu Murungi would be jealous. True, I do it with impunity. It intrigues me.. Your (Kenyans) English fascinates me even more, so much that it's finally earned itself a post in my "serious" blog. Ahem!.. let's sample some interesting ones. Shall we?

We often conclude our emails, chats, texts and conversations with "be blessed" which is direct translation for "barikiwa". Note: unlike Philip Ochieng, I am not giving you alternatives. Suffice it to say that I have no better or seemingly more correct alternatives.. go figure. Some examples might be proper English, but I will still quote them because they just don't sound correct, at least not to my ears. Wacha nikuambie - Let me tell you. Sounds familiar? What of this one: Sasa ona - now see!! Unajua wakati mwingine - You know at times.... Si uninunulie ka soda hivi - buy me a soda like this. Wewe ni wetu - you are ours. Wewe ni mwingine - You are another one. My memory fails me. I get to hear countless of them in a day. I should probably carry along some diary and record them. These direct translations always brighten my day; over-use of some words and phrases vex me though. I loathe them.

Here are some cliche phrases and expressions that should be banned by the president and the commander in chief of the republic of Kenya: Waititu's favourite makes it top on my list: "First and foremost..". People with limited ideas will articulate them this way: "Firstly... secondly.. thirdly.. fourthly". Perhaps to emphasize the few points that must have taken a week to come up with. Are you doubting me? Ever heard such a person say "Tenthly" or "Fifteenthly"? Never, in fact they rarely reach "sixthly". This single phrase used in almost every sentence has successfully managed to trivialize most gravest and critical of situations: "By the way.." Example: "By the way Mr so and so is dead". Shebesh is very guilty of this phrase. Remember? "By the way we are not blondes". "Last but not the least.." is used by people whose sole intention is to piss me off; unfortunately, they succeed. Grrr!! I dare you to start your every other sentence with "Actually.." and we'll all be wondering whether you are related in any way to Jelimo the athlete. "Basically.." must be the most abused word in East and Central Africa. In fact, also south of the Sahara and north of the Limpompo. Did I just start my previous sentence with "Infact.."? See now.. ona sasa..

If you think you have seen it all, wait till you encounter folk who have recently learnt a new word or phrase and are more than eager to apply it in writing or speech. They are lethal human beings and try as you can, you wont make them drop it. Back in college, we had a very young lecturer taking us through a unit called Distributed Systems. Here's a sample lecture: "Today we are going to learn about the intricacies and heterogeneity of distributed systems. Examples of these are clustered server systems whose intricacies and heterogeneity is difficult to decipher. The intricacies and heterogeneity of these systems is characterized by more intricacies and heterogeneity of blah blah.... " *SIGH!!* Well, y'all can guess what I came out with in that unit...

Nuff Said!!

VW Betty Chronicles..

Having hit a quarter a century above the ground; a couple of years back, I decided in Matsanga's term to "prochure" a 1968 Volkswagen Beetle as a birthday present, later on christened Betty. The other day I saw a clip of Emmy Kosgei speechless at the surprise wedding gift of a brand new BMW X6 (*sigh!!* na hawa wachunganji wataonyesha sisi wanakondoo mambo). Well, come to think of it, I can identify with Emmy Kosgei in two ways:  I too was speechless plus my "new car", just like her's, was a German machine only that it was "above stones" ..err mm yaani juu ya mawe. Unlike Emmy though, mine was self-sponsored; I paid hard cash, sio cheque - Ksh50,000. The transaction happened at Nairobi West in the proximity of where currently one pastor Muriithi of House of Grace church plies is trade (got no beef with passies btw) and also where currently stands the new NHC blocks. Hitherto, it had old kanjo-like bungalows where the seller and immediately after my broker-of-a-mechanic-to-be resided.

After the transaction, tyres were fitted and quick first aid done. Elated, the seller offered to fuel the car himself (nikidhani aliweka soo mbili tu) and we waited for dark determined to evade hungry cops with a high affinity for insurance-free old cars. After dusk we hit the road. You should have seen my teary self; a mix of emotions: happy I have finally acquired my dream classic car and apprehensive that the posho mill sounding engine (it was too loud) powering the bug on "rickets wheels" would make it to my home. Well, we got home without incidences to the chagrin of my neighbours' who conspicuously peeped outside their windows perplexed at the rookie pilot who must have mistaken their parking space for Wilson airport and proceeded to land his chopper subsequently disturbing their peace. Betty was home!!

My bitter-sweet relationship with Betty started. Unlike chaps who buy new cars and value depreciation cum mechanical deterioration starts immediately, I gradually started my slow restoration. I must admit, Betty's restoration was informed more by mechanical functionality than aesthetics. For instance, the only reason that could lead me to replace a tyre was because the old one was so smooth that a mkamba would promptly bypass it in his akala production factory (pun intended). I did a complete engine overhaul of my 1200cc motor, worked on brakes, fitted a juakali glove compartment, fixed the roof and side panels, fitted a mediocre music system.. etc. All this time, I was driving the car, mostly on weekends. You'd be sure to see me on a Saturday afternoon whistling as I maneuvered through traffic thinking to myself, if the government ever demands all citizens who own cars to queue up for some Christmas goodies I as well would have made it, in fact I should have been the first on that queue.. I own a car. Damn!!

I've got some vivid hair-raising and humorous beetle memories some of which I'm gonna share right here and shelf the rest for another day. Ahem! It's end-month, on a fine Saturday evening as I watch soccer at some joint in Dagorreti corner. Earlier on I had fitted a new Chloride Exide battery hence solving all my ignition problems, or so I thought. I am on a balcony sipping my favourite lager, watching Arsenal whoop some team and throwing an occasional glance at my antique German automobile across the parking. It's 4am, enough lagers and dance moves later, we are ready to hit the road. Betty won't start despite having a new battery. We get pushed by some parking attendants and pay them generously by a thick cloud of dust and smoke. I drop my friend home and hit Ngong road whistling without a care in the world, thinking, hell yeah!! I'm a baller!! Just before the City Mortuary roundabout and suddenly the engine stops.. Holy Molly!! Sema sobering up at the thought of ghosts and imaginary lurking shadows. A company bus' driver and conductor try to assist by pushing me, Betty still wont start. To cut the story short, the hitherto inebriated "rich man" made the remaining trip home in a matatu after being towed 300m by an opportunist taxi driver  to a petrol station at an exorbitant charge of 800bob. Shoulda heard him say: "Wallahi brother, una bahati sana nimekuja, hii pahali ni mbaya sana. Imejaa ghosts na wezi wale wabaya, wale unasikiangaga". Next morning betty cranked up at the first attempt.. Gari zina madharau aki. wah!

In summary: I have sucked on the gas pipe at the Nyayo stadium roundabout in Sunday afternoon traffic very conscious of the vulture-like jalopy breakdowns parked there calculating another minute to pounce on me. I got home with lungs full of petrol fumes that I coulda lit a match stick to my mouth and spitted real fire; two packets of tuzo milk later and I could afford a smile and a sigh of relieve. I have driven two kilometers on Mombasa road with a maize cob (ya mahindi choma) pivoting my accelerator lever thanks to a snapped accelerator cable - zangu zilikua kubadilisha gear tu na breaks, lol. I have driven from Komarocks in a badly pot-holed Kangundo road at 3am on a sunday morning trusting my DIY skills to get me out of any impending mess. In a nutshell, my beloved Betty always got and continues to get me home. My only major regret is that back in the day I wasn't interested in how the car functions and how some simple things can be fixed. Hence, I have experienced my fair share of quacks posing as qualified mechanics ..kugongwa nayo!!

I have since joined the VW Anonymous Club of Kenya and am very privileged to interact with fellow Volkswagen enthusiasts who have greatly helped me improve my car and polished my DIY skills. Quacks are history too thanks to one George Lawrence Brown who is the most exceptional VW guru I have met so far. August this year saw us cruise to Mombasa and back for a long weekend, a convoy of seven beetles without a single incident. Betty made it too, purring like a cat, powered by a 1600cc motor, a high ratio gearbox and driven by yours truly. Well, has she attained self actualization? Time to move on to another challenge or probably get her a brother/sister? ..watch this space for updates. It's hard to sell it though - which reminds me. I once uploaded an advert on olx and thanks to her irresistible looks (ukweli.. enough people hoot at me on the road, especially jungus, just to give me a thumbs up) she attracted lotsa prospective buyers. One mzee from Nyeri stands out though: He travelled all the way from Nyeri and judging by the angle that his jacket was skewed to one side, he had hard cash and was ready to transact. Having driven Betty around all that week, I was shocked when at the sight of a "loaded" mzee, she refused to start completely. Tulisukuma tukachoka.. sigh!! So yes, she ain't for sale and if you insist on knowing her value, there you are: Her mechanical value is approx 200k and the sentimental value is well over 2m...

Below are some "evidence" photos thanks to one real VW addict and professional photographer: Stephen Warui. Enjoy!!

At Moi Avenue - Mombasa

Cruising down to coast.. kama unashuku, ushawahi ona Baobab nairobi?