This is how “nilikaribishwa Nairobi"(Part 1)
I was left with a useless ear pod and a type C charger waiting for me at home...
Raise your hand if you’ve ever boasted that you’d never fall victim to the infamous “Ku karibishwa Nairobi” experience. One... two...three... hey, is your hand up or down? Got it, hands down. Now, how many of you finally got initiated into the city? Most? Majority? I see. Well, count me among you. I was once so confident (or maybe arrogant) that I told my bro, “Mimi siwezi tokwa simu. Pengine nitokwe manzi but simu? Ngori.” And that’s when the universe decided to teach me a lesson. I believe it said, “Niachieni huyu ili iwe funzo kwake na wengine wenye tabia kama hizi”
It is tough to tell his story without either feeling embarrassed or getting extremely emotional. I have never healed. The pain of thinking about that phone is too much. 25,000 na kakitu juu all gone. (I could have saved space by writing 25k, but I just wanted you to see the weight and the magnitude of those three zeros) But this is such a pivotal and astonishing experience in my city life that I feel extremely compelled to share it with you. Maybe after today, I will get over it.
So, could you do me a favor? For this story’s sake, imagine you are the narrator: a young man with a killer fade that drives ladies wild. Ina wakunywa. Perched upon your nose are the iconic “macho nne” specks, giving you that aura of intellectual sophistication-Msomi- (or so you hope).
Adorning your left fingers are not one, but two rings. I repeat, rings, not those big cheap-ass petkos. To you, the rings add flair to your look, but to that ‘one’ uncle or aunt who is usually over-religious, the rings are demonic, masonic, or satanic. (In short, you are already a devo worshiper by rocking them) Oh, and don’t forget the pièce de resistance: a Kenyan Bracelet wrapped around your wrist with a name of your choice. Now this is the perfect embodiment of Beauty and the beads.
Got the image? Let’s roll.
Its evening, exactly 10 minutes after the cultural four-twenty, coming from a place that’s in the mouths of so many youths: KUJITUMA. You get to a bus stop or stage, as we all call it, but there is no matatu showing up. Time is of the essence, and instead of waiting for what is not coming, you decide to walk. But it’s a little far, so you need music to lubricate this long journey.
Now let’s be real here- you are not a gangster the way your friends think you are. Si you know when in the company of your friends you play those gangsters, thug life hip-hop and shit. Ati oh They see me rollin' they hatin' Patrollin' and tryna catch me ridin' dirty Tryna catch me ridin' dirty...
Your Spotify playlist tells the real story: deep down you are more Ariana Grande, Dua Lipa, Miley Cyrus, and Sia than Tupac and Notorious B.I.G. Actually, the only thing closest to a gangster in your playlist is Bruno Mars’: I'm a dangerous man with some money in my pocket (keep up). Oigara are we together? Ama nimechoma?
This is one of those days when you are in the spirit of listening to one song on repeat until the musician pops out of your phone and asks for a little drink to calm his/her throat. And which song is perfect to keep you pushing forward? Sia’s got your back with some little motivation. She knows very well sio rahisi, which is why her song: one foot in front of the other babe. One breath leads to another year, just keep moving. Look within for the strength today, listen out for the strength today, just keep moving Is on repeat.
Oh, you also care much about your safety on the road. You know nduthi guys with their uncouth behaviour of sometimes using pedestrians walk, that is why only your left ear pods are on as you footstubishi. And oh boy, you love it. You are completely in the zone as you wait for the chorus so that you can join Sia mdogo mdogo:
🎶Go, go, go figure it out, figure it out, but don't stop moving. Go, go, go figure it out, figure it out, you can do this...🎶
Suddenly a matatu zooms past you after almost a 5-minute walk from the stage. “GM mbao” the tout yells while inside the matatu. Should I listen to Sia and Keep going or should I listen to Makanga? Ah, there is no harm in listening to makanga.
Bad bad idea.
The matatu looks almost deserted, with only the driver, the makanga, and 2 passengers aboard. One is seated directly behind the driver and the other at the rear. Your instincts tell you this will go faster since it seems like it will pick up passengers on a nearby stage. “Brathe ingia mbele twende”. You open the front door and the vehicle sets in motion immediately.
You try to close the door but it’s not niniing’. With the matatu gaining speed, you panic and try to bang it harder. “Jaribu na mikono zote we kijana!”. The driver yells. Struggling even more, you finally manage to close it, breathing a sigh of relief as you gain a wider view through the windshield.
Suddenly, the makanga taps you on your shoulder, “Brathe umeangusha kitu kama simu. Tebu confirm”. You frantically massage your thighs, patting your pockets. Nothing. simu onge. The phone is nowhere to be seen. Panic sets in as your heart races.
“Nishukishe dere” you plead
“Ngoja, huoni hapa hakuna stage” the driver replies
“Shukisha. Simu yangu” you insist, scanning the side window desperately in hopes of spotting your 25k phone lying there waiting for you to come to its rescue.
Finally, after almost 1 minute which seemed like 5hrs, the driver pulls over to the roadside, and you run towards the spot where your phone fell.
🎶So... m... y love, keep on running you gotta get through today, yeah. There my l... ov...e, keep on r... unni...ng gottakeeptho...se tears at bay🎶 (that sound when Bluetooth has interference),
Disconnected!
The Bluetooth disconnects abruptly. But you don’t give a damn about the music. All you can focus on is running while keeping your eyes glued to the ground.
Wait, what just happened? You see when a Formula One race car comes to a pit stop to get its tires changed and get fuelled, that’s how things are happening from those few seconds you boarded onto the matatu, and now you are out. Very fast.
Now, every man will agree with me that fast is great in all aspects of their lives (I am talking of cars, phones, and laptops) except in one place: when in bed with a girl. When things happen fast, just like now, rest assured you’ve got some explanations to make-Aki sikuwangi hivyo. Walahi ni leo tu. Nivile nimechoka.
“unaweza kuwa umeona mtu amechukua simu, hapa chini?” You desperately ask random people coming from that direction.
“Zii” is the disheartening response that you get feeling like another blow to your already sinking spirits.
To say now that you are devasted would be an understatement. Your heart sinks further. You are in between a nervous breakdown, which is next to going crazy, which is next to being sad. Desperation claws at the edges of your mind, threatening to overwhelm you entirely but you refuse to succumb, clinging to the slimmest thread of hope that maybe, just maybe, the phone might have landed in the hands of a good Samaritan. You decide to borrow a phone.
Obviously, you can’t borrow from these pedestrians coming from their 9-5, who are weighed down by hasira za mhindi and probably the manager. You glance around, searching for someone with a soft spot, who can at least reason with you for a moment.
But then, you spot her- a woman with a roadside stand, selling sweets, Fresh, biscuits, and groundnuts. Maybe she’ll be your savior. Your only hope. Full of sympathy, you walk towards her in need of her help. Growing up, your mama taught you better. “What is the first thing that you do when you approach an elder person?” You great her mum. You approach her hesitantly, recalling your mother’s teachings: you first create a rapport.
“Sasa mum? Habari ya jioni?” You great her tentatively hoping to catch her attention. But She is now excited cause she perceives you as a customer.
” Poa sana, utakula fresh ama njugu karanga?”
“Asanti mum, sio, leo, nllikuwa naomba kama uwaweza nisaidia na simu yako nipige kwa sababu nimepoteza yangu kwa hii njia...” you explain, your voice trembling slightly as you recount your predicament.
“Umesema simu?” Argh! F*ck man. What’s this thing with Kenyans they have to ask you something again and they have heard you.
“Ndio...”
“Mmmhh, uweeh, juzi kuna kijana tu alikuja hapa hivi akadanganya ule mama ako paleee(pointing at her direction),vile tu umeniabia. Alafu aka enda na simu yake. Mimi simu yangu ni ya biashara...”
She is not even empathetic. Number two(and this is what made me angry) she doesn’t even notice you got specks. Imagine if she can say that to a person adorned in specks, people who are perceived by society to be elite, well educated with a stratospheric level of sophistication, what will she tell a person with dreadlocks? I can only imagine.
But a Kenyan won’t tell you a straight NO! They will have to take you through several corners and roundabouts before they tell you haiwezi. Si you know when you borrow money from a Kenyan, the excuse that they will give is what Mejja said in his song: buda I wish ungenipigia mapema...(followed by where they usued the money, oh,nimetumia matha, anga rent) You can’t blame her cause this Nairobi got a swarm of cone men and women masquerading as “wamepotea njia, sijui sina fare”
Still, undeterred, since you were very keen in those motivational classes back in high school, you recall a quote: EVERY NO BRINGS YOU CLOSER TO A YES. Determined to put your skills to the test, you approach a guy, with a white, 3-wheeled trolley branded “Farmers choice” on the front side while at the side is written Smokies 30, Mayai 20. Ule ni msee wa mayai muite umwambie agonge mbili... A random song hits you. Will it work, or it wouldn’t? Like Sakaja Johnson, lazima I Work (is it working Mr. Governor?)
Since he looks like a kijana barobaro just like you, formalities are thrown out of the window.
“Niaje brathe,naomba uniokole simu yako manze nipige yangu. Nimetokwa simu kwa hii njia manze...” you plead, hoping to appeal to his sympathy.
“Ahh iza man. Ningekujenga yangu but haina kredo...” he begins, hesitating.
“Haina noma, unaweza tu reverse call cause nilukuwa na credo” you interject seizing on his moment of uncertainty.
This was a line he couldn’t say no to. It was like a knockout punch that rendered him momentarily weightless before gravity pulled him down, crashing to the floor with a resounding thud. Will he come up with a fresh lame excuse oh “simu haina moto”?
To your relief, he says “Zero seven...” Still placing the phone on his ears to see if someone would pick (cause maybe he doesn’t fully trust you) you hold your breath, hoping for a positive outcome. He nods his head signaling that inainingia. As he hands the phone, the only beacon of hope, you grasp it eagerly, feeling the weight of anticipation in your palm.
With a sense of urgency, you lift it to your right ear and hear a not-so-smooth voice of a Kikuyu woman. I am not stereotyping here. The gospel of Matthew was clear when it said: For by your words you will be justified, and by your words, you will be condemned.
In our country, we know every tribe with their accents—for instance, huyu, for lack of the appropriate English vocabulary, alikuwa ana ng’oa. By the way the correct term in Swahili is tanakali za lafudhi. And I am not even kidding. Remember I am just a Luhya man(from Khwisero-we love Swahili) trapped in a Luo’s body—this lifestyle owada.
“Haro....” She began. “Naogea na mwenye simu?” Now here is that time that you would start simping. If she tells you to cough so that she can verify that you are a human and not a robot, my friend you will.
“Eee, ni mimi...” You reply quickly. Also, you don’t want to say anything that might jeopardize this ‘operation’ so you become a good negotiator and wait for her demand. The Golden Rule applies: whoever has the gold makes the rules, and right now, she holds the power. Because if she says niyako but sikupei utafanya? Sometimes you got to ass kiss.
“Sasa, nirikuwa na tebea, nikaokota hii simu shini. Irikuwa na vubi...kwani wewe uko wapi? She asks.
“Niko hapa Kartasi, industries karibu na Tetrapak mbele ya Shell,” you reply quickly giving her every landmark possible in your vicinity. A detailed concise location.
“Mimi niko hapa GM, unaweza harakisha kwa sababu naeda kwa nyuba”
“Eee,na weza. Asanti sana” You express gratitude profusely, hoping she’ll be the one to extricate you from this predicament.
Returning the borrowed phone to its owner, you breathe a sigh of relief, thanking him once more before heading off on your next mission. “Kimoja msee. All the best,” he tells you.
That phone call sparked a glimmer of hope in your heart. But is hope enough to retrieve your precious phone? What happened next will leave you on the edge of your seat. To uncover the next twist in this suspenseful saga, click the link for Part 2 below.
Continue reading Part 2 of “How nilikaribishwa Nairobi" here!
As always, Live and let live.
Adiós
In the meantime, keep calm with the song below:
Very captivating 😂... I don't want to brag but I've survived 2 theft attempts apo tu kanairo... anyways, can't wait to know what happened in part 2...
Not my own (and very similar) experience flashing in front of my eyes😂😂💀💀