HOME, SWEET HOME

After five months in Nairobi, I finally travelled home. I went to see my mother. At times, I thought home had stopped existing. The truth however is that home is still there; alive and kicking. In fact, it is more dramatic than Nairobi.

Transport at Kikuyu town is still a problem . People still board matatus with goats. At times, when you are lucky that is, you get the joy of sharing a seat with some poultry. Have you ever shared a seat with a feathery passenger? They are very amusing. If they are not fluttering their wings, they are crowing noisily distracting everyone’s attention. And mind you, to them the toilet does not have to be an enclosed area with water bowls, tissue papers and all that stuff you keep in your toilet. No, it is just anywhere- even on your laps.

That is not all. These passengers (poultry, remember) are very tender-call them delicate. The impact of the vehicle hitting a small bump or pot-hole could see them foolishly die on your laps. When such sad tragedy happens, be sure to get a reprimand from the owner. They will not hear that it was an accident, nay, they will say that you strangled the fowl.

At times, you sit on a wet seat . Reason? The matatu has just come from a carwash and the driver would not risk wasting time letting it dry. Worse still, he will not apologise. In fact, he expects you to compliment him for his good driving and ensuring that the matatu is clean.

I love kikuyus. We are always business-minded. At kikuyu town, business is always rife. Everyone seems to be selling roasted maize and handkerchieves. If you are not selling any of the two, you are selling music vcds with a radio dangerously suspended from your neck. Other people will be selling very important things like safety pins and shoe laces.

At home, newspapers are rare. We still depend on those ten shillings worth of paper for news. I hear they are called 'gutter press'. You know them? Those faded papers where you find intriguing headlines like: 'Moi died yesternight', 'Why Kibaki looks like an American', 'Ten ways of getting taller at sixty years by drinking porridge in the washroom'. You may laugh at this and call these publications nonsensical but my village folks love them. They find them very informative.

I still believe one thing; Nairobi people are not as stylish or half as cool as people from my village. Back at home, young men never speak any other language apart from sheng. Not even when addressing their parents. They use it to scare them.

As a young man from home, you are not stylish enough if you fail to wear a multi-colored bandana and a pair of sagging jeans. You always complete this outfit by wearing a shiny chain (bling bling) with a padlock fastened at the end. Village ladies on the other hand are naturally beautiful. Their hairstyles are particularly spectacular. They do not have to wear those smelly weaves that Nairobi women wear. No, all that they need to do is 'burn' their hair after thoroughly applying 'Kimbo' or 'Tily' fat on it. Don't you admire that natural beauty?

On arriving home, everyone was awash with joy. I was welcomed with jubilation and lots of ululation.The village hero was home. Many thought I looked more light-skinned. And smart too! You see, I had donned my white tight-fitting shirt and a black pair of well-ironed trousers. To complete the outlook, I had borrowed suspenders and spectatcles from a friend. I looked gorgeous, they said.

They all wanted to know about Nairobi, KDF and the Westgate mall attack. Was I there during the attack? How was the situation brought to control? You see, most of my villagers think that Nairobi is a small city where everyone knows what is happening in one corner while they are in the other. I wished that I was Mohammed Ali of Jicho Pevu- how else could I answer the innumerable questions about the Westgate attack yet I have never been there.

Once news spread that I was home, so many neighbours sent me "please call mes". They all wanted me to visit them. They wanted a handshake from a Nairobian. It is long since they held tender and soft hands like mine. They wanted to remind themselves of that joy that they had so long missed.

Problems also came flowing. My villagers hold my name in awe. As a university student, they expect me to know everything. They believe that my Statistics course is the hardest that one could ever pursue. They think we are taught to solve all problems in ‘Kcatatics’-that is how they pronounce 'Statistics'. It was therefore no wonder seeing one neighbor bring his sick goat home. He believed that I could treat it. Another one was behind him with a faulty radio. This radio had been kept for months awaiting my repair. Two quarreling neighbours also came with a land dispute. Could I settle this with the knowledge I was getting from "kcatatics"-things were tough I tell you.

Despite all the honour I was getting from my villagers, my mother found fault in me. Is it not said that a child never grows in his mother's eyes? At first, she felt that the tight-fitting shirt I was wearing was too small- that I should get a baggier one. It took me so long trying to explain to her that the tight-fitting shirt was fashionable. She also felt that I was too thin. Was I thinking too much or is it that I was not eating well at the university?

She was curious about what I wanted to do after school.Writing, I told her. Writing? Was I going nuts , she asked. How could I take writing as a profession after four long years in the university doing ‘kcatatics’.

According to her, I should get a good job like -work as a bank teller,a government clerk or any other job where I will have an office. You know how village folks respect people with offices? She would not have her university son do a silly job like writing. If writing is what I wanted, I should not have stepped into the university, she argued. I should have started it off straight from secondary school.

One thing I love about village life is eating. If you are as voracious as I am, you get a chance to flex your gluttonious muscle in the village. Everywhere you go, people offer you free meals. They actually feel offended if you do not bite their food.

The irony comes at the end of the meal.They will complain that there is hunger. They will say that it has not rained for long yet to you, the grass outside looks photoshopped-it is evergreen.

Ps: Next time am going home, kindly give me all the paperbags you have. They are very scarce in the village. Maybe, I could start selling them after campus rather than write.