In the fall of every day, as the sun descends over to the west, I always wonder for the world is full of weird stuff. Let’s begin. The Trump phenomenon and his theatrics; trade wars. The growing legacy of Vladimir Putin, the Korean peninsula problem; Kim Jong Un. Recent Manchester United woes. I’m a Chelsea fanatic, Sarri ball has been rolling on my lips every now and then. Nonetheless, winning against a Man-United team at their worst is not necessarily fun, I hope they learn our system and trading act before our first meeting. To wrap up my list of mystery, for the time being, ever thought of Bermuda triangle puzzle, what goes down there? But hey, my life is weird and I’m weirder.
I have been living in Kenya for a while now. If you ask me if I’m a Kenyan, my answer would probably be a yes, but I tell you what, there is more to that. I’m a Kenyan descent, I’m a Ugandan descent, a country whose president probably knows everyone by their name and nickname, I’m a South African descent, I possibly belong to a country in Europe, one I wouldn’t mention. Especially living in a place where you can find yourself in a plane somehow barefooted and if you insist, you are likely to find yourself on another direct five-hour or so flight to Dubai, after engaging in a tug of war, your set of outer clothes perhaps made of the same fabric forming the equipment of the game; the rope.
Your back pocket probably sitting comfortably in the waiting room you exited in a rush after the game. Your one side of the coat still learning how to fly on the runway as boeing 777 makes an international turn, and the threads connecting your suit being flushed down the toilet, in total disregard of the consequences to the drainage system for want of a better word. The aim, destruction of any evidence you were in the country and was treated otherwise. So please I’m a Kenyan.
There’s this word that has been floating in the social circles, “Bora Uhai.” Perhaps a definition will do: life is the only consequential thing. So let’s discuss shall we, I knew Kiswahili a long time ago. Its just wasn’t as serious as the period between 2014 and 2015. The very first time I sat on a chair, and in front of me was a book. Kiswahili Sanifu.
I knew something existed called “Ngeli” and specifically KI-VI was my favourite. To say my piece I had read so much about the former chair, Electoral Commission of Kenya, the late Mr Kivuitu. The one who somehow admitted in a later interview that he had no idea, who won the 2007 election that plunged the country into total chaos. When asked to construct two words, I knew then, what mama taught me was useful. Everything is simple, nothing is ever difficult. Make good use of the known knowns. And so my answer was simple, Kivuitu-Vivuitu. And so I thought using such a big name would drive the point home. I was so wrong. And somehow I learnt, mama lied to me. The silent whispers, the gestures and the loud murmurs. It seemed so simple what I said, not a sweat, but it was not a minor matter. And for the first time I learnt without knowing; Bora Uhai: the only thing that matters is life. And this is my life.
The real drama is in the next post