The relationship between the Kenyan people and most of their leaders has always struck me as strange. It’s reminiscent of village romance. I mean, there is…let’s call him Keco. Keco owns a bike, and loves to ride it towards the river everyday at around 4pm. Everyday at 4pm, Nashipae will go to the river to fetch water and Keco will always act so surprised that they seem to randomly, yes randomly, run into each other. He would then lean forward on his bike, one foot in the ground and tell poor Nash more lies. The worst part is that Keco has told these lies so much, even he believes some of them. Or worse, knows no different than the reality he’s created in his own mind, a consequence of an oddball existence.

The Kenyan people are like a naive village girl in love. At least they seem to fit in that category more than any other. It’s tiring to log onto Twitter for me these days. It’s full of Kenyans calling for change, crying foul, and everybody seems to be mad at the state of affairs in the country. What’s amazing is, people put that government there! It’s the classic tale of the child who cried for a razor blade. Well, we got handed one. No wonder the country is bleeding.

It is difficult to write when angry. Anger is not the easiest emotion to convey clearly or in an interesting manner. If anybody thinks that change will come from talking a big game, then I have some news for them. Until we learn to view positions of leadership as jobs, as offices with requirements, Kenya will not change. An MP job in Kenya is a luxury. It’s a title, a symbol of prestige. That goes for the whole chain, right up to the throne.

It’s funny how, you would not gamble with the quality you would want with a surgeon who would be picking your brain, but you would not care about half as much for the person who will be making economical decisions that will affect you. The person who decides what path society takes. The person who is in charge of so many people. Isn’t that person supposed to be smarter than the surgeon?

The thing is, we have to stop making politics a terrible satirical attempt at theatrics and begin treating these politicians as interviewees. The campaign period is a job interview. So less rallies, more Town Halls. A town hall meeting is where the aspiring leader meets the residents of specific towns, one at a time, and speaks without dramatic flair, his plan for the land, not what other coalition is doing, or the same empty rhetoric that’s grown too old. In principle, the politician should be answering more questions than telling stories. You have to question what his plan is. What is the MCA’s plan? Fun fact: Most of my friends do not know even one bill that their county assembly has passed ever. Yet, in a remarkable twist that reflects perhaps the level of ignorance that has taken root among this generation, these same individuals will post. ” Stay Woke.”.

A friend of mine observed the other day that university students are supposed to be the generation that leads us into the future. It would be expected then that university elections would be better executed, that the younger leaders would be more pragmatic than the leaders of yesterday. That the empty rhetoric would not be as heavy. Well, in as far as the relationship between the elder and the younger crop of leaders is concerned, the apple did not fall far from the tree. The younger leaders are worse. They have no spine of their own, and theirs is a terrible choir of badly matched voices all eager to please the choirmaster. We have to learn to examine what plans people have, we need to look at the credentials of the aspiring candidates! There has been a lot of chatter about how Hassan Joho is a good leader despite his academic performance. I agree. I’d also like to add that Joho did not come by the skillset he has by accident and that credentials do not mean academic excellence. We still wanna see your level of competence! Whether it’s a legitimate Harvard diploma or 25 years managing a poultry farm. Under no circumstances, though, is it ever going to be okay to let anybody be in charge of governmental power because of genetic politics. That accountability must be demanded of first, the area MCA. This lot is perhaps the embodiment of elections in Kenya being an event. The MPs have the excuse that they are making laws away in Nairobi. What excuse do the MCA’s have?

I don’t have any strength left to write about police brutality and the way corruption is the reason why so many kids have gone to school, and how that still does not make it okay to have the system be so crooked.

It all comes down to this in the end. The only real change that you can cause is with you. The only guaranteed way to help this situation is by making it cool to elect a smart leader. I come from a Christian home and one of my mother’s favorite things to say is something about the Lord giving her the ability to know what things are good for her, the strength to accept those things she can’t change and the wisdom to know the difference. Well, I pray the Lord gives you the strength to know that a good leader could shape society just as well as a bad leader could destroy it. Once you have that knowledge, I pray that you do not post in on Twitter, or repeat it in any political discussion anywhere, from salons to boardrooms. I pray that you spread it, and actually do something about it. That’s not an invitation to loot in the streets, rather, it is a challenge. Not a tik tok challenge. Not anything Drake sang either. Although it would be pretty cool if he did and if you made a tik tok challenge out of this.

This is a challenge to do something differently for once. Since independence, we have suffered from the ‘Big man’ syndrome. Somehow, we always know who’s gonna run way ahead of time and spend almost 2 years watching them place their pieces on the board. It becomes a foregone conclusion who’s gonna get the job. It’s always amazing to me how a voter walks up to you and says “Oh, man. Person X has won this one, and you’re nuts if you think he’s going to lose” Is that really how bad it is? That’s the new normal? I mean, I would start on how we spend more than most nations just to elect these leaders we have now, but I don’t wanna start a statistical analysis. Not that I need the numbers to show anyone anything. The writing is on the wall.

Anyway, this conversation will probably never end. So I might as well finish here. Young people will continue to believe in the wrong leaders. I will continue to believe in progress.  Maybe it’s a general young person thing to believe in the unseen.

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Mama Onae was beside herself with joy. She had waited since the time when he was born for the day when Onae would show his father that he was good for something. There were times when she, too, doubted the possibility of this happening. Nevertheless, today, Onae had stirred his mother’s heart and she could not wait for Baba Onae to return from his night shift to share in the good news. Onae had always been an introvert from the time of his birth. He kept to himself almost awkwardly, He had no friends at school, and he spent most of his time reading comics and watching cartoons. The latter especially sent his father into fits of fury. Baba Onae came from an ancestral lineage that boasted of famed village warriors and community leaders. It was a mystery to him why his own flesh and blood would be such a far cry from the values that his surname represented. Time and again, he made his thoughts on cartoon watching known. Yet each time, Onae’s mother would come to his son’s defense. Trust a woman to spoil a good thing! Over the years, Baba Onae learnt to accept that his only child was a wimp. Some disrespectful people might even call him a sissy.

While Onae was awkward socially, he was something to talk about academically. The boy had no peers in academic excellence. He was second to none in his schoolwork year after year, he continued to earn himself more accolades and amaze all and sundry with his power of mind. His teachers were a proud lot and during school meetings, no woman could compete for radiance against Mama Onae. Mama Onae always felt that she had to do her son justice with the way she looked. So she always dressed, perhaps overdressed. Perhaps she even managed to make people not notice that Baba Onae never attended those meetings. Not that Onae seemed to mind. The boy never asked for an explanation for his father’s absence. A wall had been erected between father and son, and no one seemed to be interested in tearing it down. Well, except Mama Onae but her efforts went unnoticed, and had not borne any fruit, at least not yet.

This particular day, Mama Onae had been in the kitchen, washing dishes. She heard the familiar whistle of the newspaper vendor riding down the estate. She counted to ten and just as she mouthed the word ‘ten’, she heard the thud of her newspaper as it hit her verandah, the last verandah. She heard the vendor ride away, without even saying hello as he customarily did. The morning rush must be crazy, she thought. She made no attempt to pick the newspaper, as she did not think anything really important was therein. The political season wasn’t due in another four years, and there wasn’t any big controversy in government. She got busy getting Baba Onae’s clothes ironed, he was almost home from his job as a night watchman in the estate’s fight club. By the time she was done, the newspaper on her front door had been dragged away by the neighbor’s dog. The thought of fetching her newspaper from her neighbor drained Mama Onae’s energy. Her neighbors were a mean, well-off family. I mean, they kept a German shepherd. Those little beasts put a decent hole in your wallet. Yet she knew she had to go get it.

Mama Kwisa was smiling broadly, to the molar, stammering over a vocabulary of pleasantries .

“Karibu sana, Mama Onae…. Eeeh, siku mingi sana….Majirani hawapoteleanagi hivyo….H-hata usitoe viatu….ingia tu…..Hata umefanya vizuri kukuja….Ndo tunakunywa ka-breakfast.”

Mama Onea wasn’t sure she was in the right household. She entered the house cautiously, like a fly flying in a heavily webbed area. The first noticeable difference between this house and hers was the availability of electricity. The telly was story telling when she entered. The surprise told on Mama Onae’s face. Her own son, Onae Junior, was on the screen. Well, at least it was his picture. And beneath his photograph, the words,” LITTLE KNOWN ESTATE SCHOOL PRODUCES TOP BOY”. Before she found her tongue, Mama Kwisa came from the kitchen with the newspaper, followed by the maid with a tray full of foodstuffs. She handed Mama Onae the newspaper and the headline screamed, “KCPE RESULTS TO BE ANNOUNCED TODAY” Mama Kwisa was saying something gleefully but Mama Onae wasn’t listening. Her head was a whirlwind and she was confused. She felt like screaming out loud, but her voice had gone deep into her stomach. Mixed emotions have a way of rendering you motionless. Mama Onae sat there transfixed on the chair. She thought of how happy Baba Onae would be with this piece of news. She found her voice and managed to excuse herself weakly, standing in slow motion and clutching the newspaper possessively. She managed to drag herself back to her sitting room, and then suddenly she felt fresh energy flowing in her system. She was distracted by the ringing of her phone, and she found sixteen missed calls. Her phone was constantly ringing and she still had to warm water for Baba Onae to bathe. She was alive, thriving in that field where women are sole masters: Multi-tasking. She was warming water, making a phone call, choosing clothes for herself, and writing a message to her son, Onae Junior.

Baba Onae had had a busy night at the club. The management was planning a money fight weekend and security needed to be tight. Baba Onae did not understand why human beings needed to fight for money. That notwithstanding, he worked tirelessly to make sure plans for security were tight. By morning, he was exhausted. He was parking his uniform into his bag when his workmate tapped him on the shoulder and said

,” Naskia Kijana amepita sana. Congratulations bana.”

Baba nodded his head absent-mindedly and went on with his parking. He was thinking just how people love to gossip. ” This one wants me to discuss my son and laugh in my face because my son did not join NYS.” The National Youth Service was a national youth program that recruited form four leavers each year, based on their raw body build. Onae had missed out. Since then, he had been holed up in his grandmother’s rural home. Baba Onae did not think much of his son, and he rarely discussed him with anyone. He threw his bag over his shoulder, and he started a descent down the stairs. To Home. To Mama Onae.

Mama Onae carefully carried a basin full of water into the bathroom. She hung a clean towel on the nails improvised to serve as hooks and placed a piece of soap on the dish below it. Baba Onae would be home soon. The thought had hardly matured in her mind when the familiar knock on the door reverberated across the room. She literally did a Usain Bolt to the door and opened it with her most seductive hello. Baba Onae looked at his wife and stared. What had gotten into this woman? Why was she looking at him like she wanted money for something?

” Niko Salama, Iko nini?”

” Ha-Hakuna, kwani inakaa kama iko?Oh My God, Don’t tell me you feel it in your veins?”

” Of Course I do”

Umeona kwa TV hata wewe?”

” Ati TV? Kwani nahitaji TV ndo niskie uchovu? Umeanza kuvuta matawi mbaya Mama Onae?”

Oh, thought Mama Onae, the old boy is feeling tired, not his son’s success. Damn. Baba Onae walked past his wife and walked into the bedroom to get ready for his shower. It was while there that he noticed the commotion in their neighbor’s home. There seemed to be a lot of Camera people and Mouthy, well-dressed young men and women with microphones. The Press. Ah, he thought, they must be here for the Fight Club event. Their neighbors fit the profile of an advertisement. He chuckled softly and got in his bathroom. At first he wasn’t sure if it was the soap in his ears or the noise was really in his modest compound. He threw three handfuls of water on his face and stuck his head outside the bathroom. And stuck his head right back. The well-dressed mouthy people were crawling all over his compound. Baba Onae was confused. What was the press doing in his modest home?

He was dressed in a pair of faded jeans, and a Shujaa t-shirt. He stood out in the crowd, despite his height. The press had arranged for his transport from his grandmother’s. Now every camera was clicking away, careful not to miss the emotion storm about to precipitate. The mother came out first. She went Nigerian, almost grabbed the earth along with her son. Onae was smiling shyly.” Mother, put me down, they’re going to think I’m weak.” He whispered. Mama Onae brought her son down but hugged him continually, almost choking him. Baba Onae walked into this scene, and was utterly disgusted. But the cameras were in his face, so he smiled. And smiled for the rest of the day. Interviews drained the family of energy.

That night, when the family was finally alone, Baba Onae dropped the bomb. He wasn’t going to pay school fees for Onae. He was sure Onae was bright, but where was the place for a weak man in society? Mama Onae could not believe her ears. She was silent for a second and then said, ” Baba Onae, sasa wewe umevuta matawi mbaya?” Onae was withdrawn already. He was tapping the side of his chair with his index finger. His tapping became more rapid as his parents’ voices grew louder.

” Kwani mtoto amefanya nini? Ulitaka nikuzalie Tyson?”

” Mwanamke umejisahau?”

It got more insulting. The tapping grew harder. The Fight Club was getting loud. Mama Onae slapped Baba Onae. A pause. More finger tapping. A slap back. All daggers were drawn now. It was like a mashemeji derby ensued. Furniture was thrown this way and that. A glass window was broken. The neighbors heard screams and rushed to the scene of sin where all of a sudden, Onae was nowhere to be seen. The neighbors came to solve a domestic violence, but were suddenly dealing with a missing persons case. Onae had run away. Baba Onae said something about women who couldn’t take care of their children. Mama Onae heard him vaguely, and the search party was delayed for a second as Mama Onae shared her manicure with Baba Onae.

It had all been quick, premature, anticlimactic even. One minute, we have the star in the building, the next minute, the star had staged a disappearing act. One minute, Mama Onae was a loving housewife, preparing bath water for her husband. The next minute, she was clawing at her husband’s face. Someone managed to separate the two lovebirds and another hushed the group, and brought the attention of all and sundry to the screaming of Onae’s name at the fight club.

” Onae!! Onae!!”

The group stampeded to the fight club. He was standing in the middle of the ring. He looked like a duracell advert. If you have read the David and Goliath story, then perhaps you know what I’m saying. He was teary, and kept mumbling to himself. Baba Onae took a seat, Mama Onae was at the VIP table, taking the fight outside the ring. She wanted to cancel the fight but it was too late, Onae had voluntarily agreed to fight. The prize money was 50,000, if he won. 50,000 because he had odds of 25.00. A boychild might translate that as an outsider’s shot at the trophy.

50,000 was 10,000 more than Onae’s required fees for first term. The bell rang. The question will remain; would nature prevail over nurture? At the end of 12 rounds, we would know. Onae’s future was in his hands, literally. Now, dear reader, tell me, do you believe in happy endings? Then I won’t ruin it for you. Might you also be a fan of twists and dark resolutions? I won’t spoil your party either. My only worry is, must a boy be a man at 13 years? Then if so, we might as well have a 25-year-old president.

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As I sit here , I notice how a flower has defied all odds and grown just next to the big tree. It was pricked by thorns, there was barbed wire that was in its way and a huge chunk of metal put the nail in it’s coffin. Yet somehow, it grew. Making what seemed impossible normal.

When you really think about it, that’s the mark of greatness. That’s the highlight of achievement. Overcoming. You need to defy odds in order to really realize your full potential. More often that not, that requires that you chart a new path, be a little ‘crazy’. It’s what I am now used to thinking of as Double M. Mad move. Let me explain.

In 2011, there was a secondary school here in Narok County that had an average score of 1.2 in the KCSE examinations. The school welcomed a new principal in 2012. He took the school by storm , dishing out several expulsions almost instantenously. He set about reversing the culture of the school and fast forward to 2015, the school led the entire county with an average score of 8.4. Double M.

You have to really normalize what would averagely be categorized as impossible or the reserve of a few. Now more than ever , in this inventive space that we are in, it pays to explore.
Have you ever imagined how crazy the idea of a computer might have sounded in 1920? The truth is this: All around us, we are living an idea. Everything the world cannot do without was once a figment of somebody’s imagination. So on top of normalizing doing impossible things, it would appear that thinking of ideas that would crazy even to you is very sane!

The last thing I remember thinking was that if at all you only think of these ideas but fail to do anything about it, then you’re wading into the waters of wishful thinking. I don’t know if you have heard the story of how people came to yell ‘ Eureka!’ when they had a brainy moment.
This is how the story was told to me by Mr. Mburu, who taught me science back in primary school and here’s an early disclaimer. Mr. Mburu was easily the most dedicated teacher but he had a flair for the dramatic and told such stories with much élan.

Apparently , in the period of enlightenment in Rome, you could not just say anything and not prove it. Yes, that actually happened. If you said you could do something, you had to prove it or you would be executed. Jesus, those guys took the crusade against small talk to another level. So this guy whose name I’ve forgotten gets drunk and brags about how he could find the volume of an irregular object. The formula for that as we know it had not yet been put together. I really don’t know what he was drinking, because the liquor that is available to us sons of the soil makes people sleep in awkward positions and it turns a lot of emotional switches on.

You don’t know what I’m talking about ? Oh, then you don’t have one of those friends who get drunk and all of a sudden they’re telling you how much they love you and respect you.
” Salaton.. Aki, (gulp)…eeh..(staggers) ..If aaaaaanyyybody touches you…(gulp)..they ..will..know.me”

Anyway, in his drunken state, he promises to show everybody how it is done. The next day, he woke up and realized his folly. He said goodbye to his relatives and decided to take a shower before going for his execution because , he clearly wasn’t anywhere near finding a formula. Perhaps this guy is the genesis of that saying ‘ Cleanliness is second to godliness ‘ . Haha.
So he takes off his clothes and throws the stone he used to scrub himself into the pail of water. It landed with a splash and water spilled outside the container. It hit him faster than a Cobra bite. That was the Volume of the object! It was equivalent to the water that it displaced! So if he collected that water and calculated it’s Volume, voíla! Thank God they knew how to do that!

It was a few minutes to execution, and as you might have guessed, these weren’t the sort of people who missed a minute. He ran naked all the way to the execution point and proved his point. He ran shouting ‘Eureka! Eureka!’ He was showering from a Eureka can.

So yeah, it pays to not only think about things , but to also try and do them. Build something. When we were young, we would build toys from wires. Some guys were really foreshadowing Robert Downey Jr. Somehow , when we grew up, that hunger for creation, for building, for challenging normalcy faded. We can blame the system, we can blame the elites, but we can’t run away from doing what we must in the end regardless of our disposition- We must explore. We must make the impossible normal. It’s the only way forward. I’ll leave you here with one of Zuckerberg’s famed slogans.
What would you do if you weren’t afraid?

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The shoulder tap , in case you are having trouble following, is the reflex movement by which one member of the Bedroom Alliance communicates to the other member that the collection jar is empty and could use a refill.

Things were not always that way. 4 years ago, the shoulder tap had not yet found its way to his bedroom. 4 years ago, they actually spoke.4 years ago, he left the house at 7 am. He chuckled as he recalled how wild those mornings were. He wouldn’t have thought that he would have to run away from it , ever. Yet, here he was. Standing in the morning cold. Alone.

He checked his watch. 5:02 am. It was going to be at least 28 minutes before the first bus came. His mind wandered off, into the past, as it often did when he was waiting on the bus. He remembered how he had met Mereba while in the university and how taken by her he had been. He was an usher during one of the many book review sessions the Faculty of Education held on campus grounds. She had arrived late and she had lost her badge. He saw her rummaging through her purse twice in quick succession before performing a full body search on herself. He smirked. She still did that to this day. She would pat herself down even when looking for something she obviously couldn’t carry such as a cooking stick. Or his phone. He remembered approaching her, smiling, determined to go out of his way to be a good usher.

” Hello, can I help you?”
“No..yes…I mean.. it’s…Yes, yes please”
” It’s alright. What seems to be the matter?”
“Oh My God. I feel so stupid… “
” Hey..hey..It’s okay. Just calm down. ” He took her hand and led her to a nearby bench. “Now, slowly explain to me what the problem is. She explained how she had lost her badge in the morning traffic and began crying as she explained how without a tag, she wouldn’t be in a position to attend the session yet the particular book meant so much to her. He had smiled that smile that would eventually prove too much for Mereba in the end.

” Here , you could use mine. It should get you past security”
” Excuse me?”
” Look, it’s fine. I am an usher. I don’t need the name tag.”
” You want me to use your name?”
” Yes. It will literally open doors for you “
They both laughed lightly. She reached into her purse and took out a piece of tissue paper and dabbed softly at the area around her eyes.
“Thank you, ” She said softly and her eyes spoke of gratitude and Mswati looked at her , somewhat confused. He no longer saw a damsel in distress. He saw a damsel who left him in distress. She stood up and moonwalked to the door. At least according to Mswati.

5: 10 am.
The cold was biting and Mswati buttoned up his trench coat. He clenched his teeth together and wished he had waited for Mereba’s breakfast. His stomach agreed heartily, especially when he remembered just how well she could cook. His mind went back to when they went out on their first date. He should have known as early as then that Mereba was no ordinary girl. Halfway into the meal, she had declared it unfit for human consumption and the price a form of robbery without violence. That’s how they ended up at his apartment, where she had to go shopping before they could eat. He smirked again. She was always so aggressive with everything she set her mind to. Which is why they sometimes argued.

Sometimes? Who was he kidding? They argued almost daily. Things had gotten bad especially since she lost her pregnancy after refusing to attend pre-natal clinic. He unbuttoned his trench coat. The memory still gave him episodes of rage and fury even he didn’t know he was capable of. He blamed her. In the months that followed, he developed this habit of leaving the house very early and returning very late. Every time he looked at her , he saw his dead child. All she had to do was go for the damn clinic. Her aggressiveness usually paid back in handsome dividends, such as when she convinced him to apply for the job of Librarian of the State house Library. She still had to convince him to wear a suit every morning, but he had actually grown to love the suits.

5:20 am
The bus would be here soon. He would be on his way to work in a few minutes and he wouldn’t have to think about it anymore, he told himself. Then something strange happened. He started to cry. He didn’t throw himself on the ground or yell or even make a sound. He stood transfixed on the ground and the tears rolled down his cheeks softly, slowly, until they disappeared into the corners of his mouth. He wiped them with one graceful movement of his left, unoccupied hand.
He realized, standing here in the morning cold, that he had never asked Mereba why she didn’t go for the pre-natal clinic. Mereba had seen how he had taken the news and she never brought it up. The miscarriage was a no go zone in as far as their conversations went. He suddenly felt uneasy. The truth had sank and he needed a minute to let it become clear. It was obvious to him what he needed to do.

5:30AM
The bus came to a stop at the Rongai pick up stage. It was still early and the passengers boarded the bus in orderly fashion. The bus continued it’s journey and was soon out of Rongai and approaching town. Mswati was supposed to alight. He was supposed to go and catch another bus to work.

There were many things he was supposed to do.
5:35
Mswati got off the vehicle and practically ran up the stairs. He didn’t knock on the door and he dropped his briefcase at the door. Standing with her back to the door, there she was, ironing his suits, fresh from the line. He stood there and looked at her, knowing he needed to let it go. He needed to hold her , to tell her he was angry. He was angry that they had lost a child. That he was sorry he had blamed her for it and as a result he had almost lost a wife as well. That he understood now that she had also lost a child and his behavior had rubbed it in. She turned around and for a minute, they stood there looking at each other. The clock above Mereba was all of a sudden too loud.

Tick tock, it went. It was almost as if time had been frozen and they stood there like two sculptured beings, afraid to even breathe loudly.
She was very confused. It was 5: 40 in the morning. What was Mswati doing back in the house?

Mswati made the first move. He moved slowly until he was less than 30 cm away from her. He tried to talk but no words came out. Just inaudible gasps which gave way to tears. His forehead was burrowed and his eyes lost their fire and turned grey. The grey of regret. She quickly took him in her arms and they sobbed on each other’s back. She grabbed his coat and held on tightly and he held her so strongly that he almost lifted her off the ground. They stayed that way for a couple of more minutes before Mswati whisked her off her feet and into the alliance territory. There was only one way to put the miscarriage behind them. Mswati didn’t know how he would ever forget but he knew where to start.

Fortunately for both Mswati and Mereba, it didn’t involve a shoulder tap or dark suits. It took standing in the morning cold to remind Mswati of the warmth of a happy home. He didn’t have to be a librarian to know that life hack that writers so often refer to.

He knew it because he lived it. He knew it because he was part of it. Happiness was more of people than places and it was 5 am in Rongai when Mswati remembered.

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However, how do you say no to your best friend if he asks you to be an accomplice right after he buys you Mutura and Mahindi Choma? You do not. It is against the Bro Code, The Mutura Code and all other Codes that stupidly bind us to a set of more stupid rules. So when Brosef put the idea forward, I knew before answering that the decision had already been made for me.

It only feels right that at this point I introduce you to the cause of Brosef’s problems, and mine too, by extension. She was a second year student at Utalii College and Brosef swore that she could bake a cake with maize flour. Well, it can’t be that bad, I thought. I mean, if we are going to have a Kenyan agrarian Revolution, we have to start somewhere, right? She was vertically average and had the kind of hair that made you question its authenticity. Nothing much could be said about her looks, she was good looking but not the type that you turned back to stare at down the street. Her main attraction lay in the fact that she rented a place of her own and just as luck would have it, just next to Brosef’s place. That and the fact that she knew how to cook almost everything in this world, as Brosef liked to say. Well, if we are excluding Mutura and Mahindi Choma, that is.

She and Brosef were hardly friends in reality but that is not the sort of thing you tell your best friend. Brosef would sit me down, buy me mutura and run his amazing ideas of a first date by me. In one classic example, he would pick her up from school, in her chef attire and flag down a Nduthi which would cruise them down to Dj Afro’s arcade, where they would enjoy a good Jackie Chan Vs Jet Li film. She would be horrified by the Kung Fu ruthlessness and cling to him tightly and he would hold her Tai- Chi style, keeping her safe. That will have set the mood right for a nice catching up together over chips mwitu and he would amaze her with his story telling abilities. Her eyes would speak of love and she would kiss him passionately and they would go to his house where they would finish the night eating her maize-flour chapatis.

It was a good plan, except it involved a lot of eating. There was also the little issue of an Utalii College student riding on a Nduthi. Like I said however, these are not the sort of things you tell a best friend. I had been living in fear since the day she came into our lives for the day when Brosef would ask me to be his wingman. I knew the day was coming and I couldn’t run. It was like waiting for your circumcision date. Terrifying and yet you could not wish it away. So when Brosef finally found enough courage to ask me to help him ask out Seema, I said yes and then said a prayer. That night, I watched a lot of Indian movies. The idea was to catch the vibe, I mean their setting fit Brosef’s little plan. Lots of bikes and lots of posh women riding on them with broke romeos.

Towards morning, I created time for two nigerian flicks. It’s not that I like them, no. I have heard a few women comment on the romance levels of these mouthy folks though, so why not give it a shot?

I was set. The following night we started out on the plan. First of all, I was supposed to meet Seema and her friends at a movie joint, where I was supposed to act like I knew all of their favorite movies. This I would know because a certain stalker by the name of Brosef would have fed me the information. I would then mention that I kept a collection of all romantic movies from the 21st century. This would be followed by a very warm invitation to check it out. On arrival at ‘my’ humble abode, Seema and her friend would find Brosef watching one of the said romantic movies and thus forced to stay and watch. I would cleverly invite Seema’s friend to help me prepare spanish omelets in the kitchen, giving room for Brosef to lay his foundation. Later, we would escort them back, Seema and Brosef hand in hand. The plan was a script straight out of a Hollywood film and I loved it.

Everything went according to plan. Seema and her friend came to the house and Brosef was watching a musical about Love made in Italy. They were smitten immediately and it took a lot of convincing an hour later to get Seema’s friend to cook with me. As I was leaving , Seema chirped, ” Oh my God, you can cook? Awwww”. I was sure the Italian movie was having rapid side effects on her. The cooking was uneventful, but as we were eating, Seema mentioned how men cooking was romantic. ” I’ve been telling Brosef all about my admiration for men who cook” Now, that is not the sort of thing you tell your crush, Seema.

We left the house, Seema and her friend hand in hand, and saw them off at a taxi cab stand. As we were walking back, Brosef was lost in thought. Finally he told me, ” I should have stuck with the Nduthi idea.” I kept quiet. I was thinking of how perfect things would have been if Brosef had been in the kitchen, or if he had been the one to pick up Seema and her friend. Damn. I was starting to think it was my fault that Seema had not declared love for Brosef. I had failed as a wingman.

My failure was stamped the next morning when I received a text from Seema saying, ” Hi. I loved your cooking. Could you come to my place tonight and cook for me? It’ll be just us two, I promise.” I avoided Brosef all day and I flashed my phone memory to cleanse it. The reality dawned on me and I needed a roll of mutura to sink it in.

At the Mutura stand, I saw Brosef eating his sorrow away, but luckily, he didn’t see me. I was lucky enough to get away before he could. Now I’m in my room writing this story down and hoping to get a solution to my problems before I lose my mutura buddy over an Utalii chef.

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Well, from the outset, I’d like to clarify that I am a big boy, and the two years I have been in school is a reference to my prisoner status at Law School, and not kindergarten. Now that the little issue of my age is out of the way, perhaps we can move along, swiftly.

The truth is, I am free spirited human being. I live day by day, I do not hold a grudge for longer than is necessary, I certainly do not keep a journal to remind me how I felt two years but if I am looking for a genesis to this story, I cannot do better than the Law School notice-board. You see, during my first days as a law student, I spent a good deal of time wandering around the school’s offices and the pictures of the students receiving various awards stood out to me. I would stand there and build castles, ceremonies, hell I even made speeches in the air. The mind is a good place to take a vacation, sometimes, especially when your imagination has been seduced. That was in September 2018.

I thought about how beautiful I would look plastered all over the notice-board, how eloquent my speeches would be, how revered I would be among my peers and how my Legal career would take off and make everyone take notice. Long story short, I got my wish. I won awards, I gave speeches, I got my photo on the Notice-board. I remember standing in front of the board in September 2019, and feeling like something was missing. I couldn’t place a finger on what it was exactly but the one plus one was totaling to eleven. I mean, wasn’t I supposed to be happy? I stood on that exact spot one year before, a rookie. Now the rookie had broken speed records on roads his mentors had cleared for him. The rookie had learnt to dribble and pass the ball, now he was making shots outside the perimeter and dunking the ball like it was a clutch play in a playoff series. So where was my coronation?

Then it hit me. There was no coronation. There was no donkey for me to ride into the City, and there was no one idle enough to spread out mats and flowers for me. Everyone keeps saying wake up and smell the coffee, but no one tells you how strong and repulsive the smell is. You think you’re gonna wake up and smell  the stuff they sell at Java?  We ngoja tu, hehe. In case it hasn’t hit you too, that’s the first hard truth I learnt over at Law School. That awards do not make you champion. That recognition doesn’t really mean that you are working harder, or smarter than anyone else. That having a bigger voice doesn’t mean that you have a better opinion. I began noticing this lesson in many small aspects of my life. Every time I noticed it, I would smile to myself and feel better. I would feel like I had made progress, just for noticing something. Maybe this is how all those lecturers start talking to themselves, who knows?

The first time I recall seeing this lesson elsewhere is when I was caught in the middle of a not so friendly conversation between the then Law School President, Mohammed Were and Simon Peter Wamuya Wairimu. Well, Simon Peter is one of my closest friends, but he can argue with you about your own name or why the sky is blue. Or why Akothee is easier on the eye compared to Beyonce. You get the point. The conversation centered around the grades we had scored for Constitutional Law. I don’t recall most of the conversation word for word or what law students who like to show off would call verbatim ( Phewks, I would not even think about showing off, btw) but I remember Were saying this, “ Just because you have an A does not mean you know all the Constitutional Law in the world”  And although they both said a lot of other things in that exchange , that one remained with me.

I understood Were in the context of my own lesson. That scoring an A did not validate you as being smart. That it was nothing more than a title. In order to find fulfillment and satisfaction, it was necessary to dig deeper, to find more meaning than just competing, racing because even if you win a rat race, you’ll still remain a rodent. 

That lesson has remained with me and still guides me through my pursuit of success and fulfillment, while trying to strike that elusive balance between celebration of victory and preparation for the next battle. It has become such a go-to solution for me. Recently, my girlfriend had the displeasure of being the recipient of my validation lecture.

You see, my girlfriend is an actress. Now, she’s no Halle Berry yet, but watch this space. In fact, here’s a conspiracy theory. All this writing I am doing is just practice for when I have to write a speech for E! when she wins an Oscar. Anyway, she won an award in 2019 for being Best Actress in the Nairobi Metropolitan Drama Festivals. Naturally, she expected some recognition in her 2020 venture. That’s how we are conditioned to think as competitive creatures. Now, she did not win any individual award, but her team won in every category of the competition!

When we were talking about it, she expressed how she felt like maybe she had not brought her A game, how she was afraid she was not growing as an actress. I looked over my validation notes, and I assumed my Monk stance. I was almost tempted to write verbatim( Wink!) what I told her but,I have a reputation to protect in these streets. Haha. I told her that awards do not mean much. That with or without the award, she was still part of an incredible group of gifted thespians and that together they had managed to tell a beautiful story on stage. The competition was there and they won it, that they were supposed to feel amazing about that believe it or not, that was not the best thing that happened to them that day. So many people’s confidence levels went up, so many people felt like they were part of something larger that day. So many dreams came true. That’s where the true victory lay.

In a nutshell, that’s exactly what I am saying in so many words.  That we live in a society that too often paints winners as more committed than losers. When you think about it, you’ll realize It’s for both parties. The winner gets overconfident and egotistical and the loser gets derailed and loses passion for the next battle or approaches victory to prove a point.  That’s how Nyash came to sing, Can I be free, Relax and Take it Eeeeeeeasy?

Disclaimer: This Article is not intended to make anyone complacent or less hungry for success and the inevitable, consequent victory lap. In case of such symptoms, watch a TED talk.     

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Most young men will fail a polygraph about the facts they throw around feigning too much intellect. But who’s to blame a young man? I once rolled out this theory for a group of friends, and they agreed with me unanimously. The sober ones at least.

You see, most relationship are born in high school. And the way it works, with constant circumstances and variables, is that a boy will approach a girl and declare his undying love for her, and the girl will stage a ‘hard -to-get’ act. She will eventually say yes, play along with the lad’s politics of romance and then boot him for a campus guy not too far afterward.
In  repeat itself. The guy will find love and a sponsor will sponsor his heartbreak. It is therefore understandable why guys go for the ‘Deep Guy’ formula. It is the only thing you can offer a girl. Your rich words , coming from a hungry mouth, will keep the girl up at night, after she puts her sponsor-bought iPhone to charge. The only bargaining power you have is depth. For every shopping spree, three poems, for every new heel, five poems. If Mr. Moneybags speaks of Prada, remind her of Plato. When he’s talking about Gucci, put your hand in your pocket, and in your Morgan Freeman voice, speak of the historical significance of Galileo.

Against this background of norms, would you believe me if I told you I found love? Yes, I am 21 years old, I am a student, and I found true love.
Well, to use the word found would be to insinuate we knew each other recently, which couldn’t be farther from the truth.
Here’s the Story, in the briefest way I could draft it.

When I was a boy growing in the village, my mother owned a retail shop. She dealt in all sorts of village survival starter packs. Rice, Sugar, Tea Leaves, Kerosene, etc. It was law that whenever I was not in a boarding school far away, it was my responsibility to man the shop. I had been doing it for a while and actually enjoyed it. The small talk was to die for especially.

          “Mambo…”
          “Poa Sana…Uko aje”
         “Eh, habari zangu utaziweza kweli, Hii serikali si itatupea Sukari sisi wote”
Well, the view from behind the counter was very interesting. To see kids play in the mud, a couple fighting, cows grazing, everything was interesting to my amateur eye.

Then one day I saw her. Dressed in a jeans skirt, and a denim blouse. She was carrying books under her arm and books have never looked as appealing to me. Her face was beautiful, and she smiled an innocent smile. I was smitten.
When I finally said hi, it was two weeks later and not a morning had passed by without me waiting outside the shop for her to pass. We began sneaking around to see each other, but that’s a  story I will tell later.

Our juvenile relationship was discovered , thanks to her younger cousins, and she was grounded. We still saw each other, and she wrote me letters. Beautiful words curved beautifully on a piece of Kasuku paper, and I blushed each time. In 2014, while I was 15, she moved to the city. I remained in the village.

In the six years I stayed behind before I came to the city, life shaped us both differently. I became more streetwise, went to three high schools, had a really bad adolescence.

I grew up, the flightiness left me and I summed up enough focus to secure a place in Law School. She grew up, became bold, got a job, and opened her own business.

Earlier this year, I bumped into an old friend, and he just happened to have her number. He gave it to me , and I texted her for the first time in six years. It was pretty long and insecure,
   ” Hi, its Dave. I’m from your village. We used to be Friends…. We actually were close…haha, can you believe it? Anyway, just saying hi, how’re you? If you remember me..”
It was bad. However, I still got a date.
We reconnected, and the chemistry was unbelievable.

In those six years, she had become a woman. She talked like Michelle Obama now, she had embraced her physical hot self, She was working. I was intimidated.

Here I was, two years her senior, and the only thing I had going for me was Law School.
In my mind, a woman like her was top of the food chain. My high school principal always said women don’t look down, they look up.

She must have way better choices. But the more we talked and hanged out, the more I was reminded of how comfortable it was to be yourself. I was too intimidated and she knew me so I couldn’t use any fake moves on her.

So I opened the doors to my world and showed her. My law school career, my ugly student finances, my campus lifestyle. (Broke, broke and broke)
She would invite me for lunch at Lapado and pay up.

She still said each time ‘I believe in you. All that brain cannot go to waste’
It took a while,  but we got into a relationship.
One where I do not struggle to impress, one where I share my dreams freely, but even more importantly, I am challenged each day to become a better version of me.

Do I miss the old lifestyle? I haven’t even forgotten it yet, but I feel like I’m making progress. I haven’t written about this and so tonight, I felt the need to sketch, albeit roughly, this incredible story of my girlfriend and I.
I can only hope we stand the test of time, but I’ll rest my case here with that famous J. Cole line.
Would you believe me if I told you I’m in love?

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