When you prowl Nairobi streets, you
do see crippled women curled up in the streets. Some have toddlers rolling
beside them. And you want to ask, “Who is the father?” But you don’t. You never
have. Whenever that malnourished woman stretches her sinewy, dirty and almost
disfigured arms towards you, you increase your pace. And say to your friends if
you’re in a clique. “Huyu ni conman.”
Then you walk on briskly, your eyes
firmly focused ahead, ignoring the grit in that beggar’s eyes. You want to get
home or that new restaurant and meet your date. Or get into the wifi zone and
see the latest meme on your friend's accounts. You need to post that new shoe on
Instagram or your phone might malfunction.
Think of this woman. She is a single
mother of two. Walked out of her third marriage in a decade. The man was
abusive. Instead of braving the beatings and saving face like most women, she
left. She wasn’t sure how her children would eat or where they would stay, but
she packed up anyway. For her, better live free with meagre resources than a
pained life in the high castes.
All her life, it has been a
continuous soundtrack of suffering. Her father was a celebrated drunk in a
village deep in the harsh Kamba frontier. Selling away family land to fund his
encounters with the bottle. After her first period, shit hit the fan. Her
father was deep in depth, her mom, a housewife without employment or formal
education. One afternoon, members of the Chama come and carry away everything.
Even tearing away iron sheets from their house. That same evening, her father doesn’t
return home. She’s never heard from him. He went with the wind. Disappearing in
the darkened embrace of the shadows.
She never experienced formal
education. As her teenage years cloaked, she started working as a nanny. Days
she spent alone in affluent neighborhoods nursing toddlers, she filled them
with music. Listening to gospel songs. They calmed her turbulent soul, warmed
her icy heart. Music was this companion that kept her going. Bringing comfort
even when her employers tried abusing her, some trying to take advantage of
her. She survived the darkness, keeping her honour against the odds.
What is good story a without a boy? In
her early twenties, working in a posh neighbourhood. She strikes friendship
with the driver who took kids of the boss to school. She’s young, naïve, never
felt the touch of a man. One of her previous employers had grabbed her plump
buttocks, she screamed and slapped his hands away. But now, with womanhood
panting on her, she craved the touch of a man. She had seen it on TV, how lips
of Mexican folks met. She wanted that, it turned her insides to jelly. The
driver, a young guy with raging blood, has his way with her. It pains her the
first time but she craves for it more and more.
One evening, her employer asks her.
“Are you by any chance pregnant?
You’ve grown plumpy of late?”
With that, the trajectory of her
life changes. Ten years later, here she is prowling Nairobi streets. Three marriages
down the drain.Two kids to make her wake up every morning.
The straw she is clinging on, a shaky
music career.
A week ago, I stepped into Nairobi’s
mini winter. I had been holed up in
Kisii for some time now. Avoiding anything to do with this concrete jungle. But
Nairobi is Kenya’s heartbeat, it all goes down here. And whether I like it or
not, this city is where I make it or fail. I don’t like Nairobi, never have,
never will. People bumping into you in streets, a stranger is always trying to
sell you something. Someone in a suit wants to sign you up an insurance plan or
sell you cups. Come on! If I needed cups, I’ll go buy them. And look at me, I
am a freaking university student, can I afford a damned insurance plan for
Christ’s sake?
But then, everybody wants to
survive. Everyone needs to make a living. He is a father with two kids, waiting
for him to buy supper. His wife usually washes clothes to supplement his
hawking income, but now, she’s due again. The little he makes in the
unforgiving streets holds the fate of his family.
Anyway, I needed to attend some
issues before I kissed the city goodbye. Because I am on holiday, and enjoying
every moment in the misty, rain-soaked Kisii highlands. After I had done my
thing, I loitered around Nairobi. Taking in the sights, seeing what was new.
This weather is good for walking. Thus, with no particular goal in mind, I took
in the city. With the hunger and spirit of a white explorer, I plunged into the
alleys of this metropolis.
I was approaching the Hilton hotel,
from Kimathi street, when this woman stopped me. I can’t forget the tired look
plastered in her face. She was light skinned, naturally, not a product of
mercury creams. Her hair was folded in braids, which stretched over her
shoulder and some tied in a knot at the back of her head. A black dress covered
the length of her body to her legs, where a pair of flats lay. She wore a dark
green sweater over the dress.
She looked like someone’s mother,
she resembled someone’s wife. She
stretched her right arm toward me, on it a CD. She had produced a collection of
gospel songs and she wanted folks to buy it. I did not look at it for more than
two seconds, I shook my head and sauntered away. A few metres, I turned and
looked at her. She rolled on with the routine, stopping folks and showing them
a CD of her music. And folks, just like me, would ignore her and walk on. Some
would shake their heads and skip away. Others did not even bother to see what
she was selling, they just waved her away before she approached.
I felt sorry for her.
I don’t listen to gospel, but should
I have bought her CD? Oh yes, I could have bought it. Because as an artist, I
understand what it takes to ground yourself and produce a work of art. It might
not be a masterpiece to be revered by generations but the selflessness to give
up everything. To believe in your own dream and produce art is something
worthy. And how many people are courageous enough to walk in streets selling
their art???
I could have bought her CD to
encourage her that she was on the right path. And even though nobody believed
in her dream, she did. And that alone, was enough to make her reach for the
stars. But I did not buy it, I was
terribly broke and going through a rough patch personally. So, I watched from a
distance as she did her thing and hoped that all goes well for her. Because in
the field of art, nothing is guaranteed. You will write yourself sick, or produce
music, but then you might die unknown, uncelebrated. Your art might never be discovered. I hope she makes it in her music odyssey.
That interaction did not change me
as a person, that would be so corny. It made me look at myself as an artist, inside
out. It made me realise that as a writer, readers don’t owe me shit. One
morning they can wake up and decide.
“You know what, that KINASISI guy,
his stories are full of shit, I am not reading them anymore.”
And that would be it.
P.S.
We are sharing woman stories on the
blog. Send in a word document, of between 1200-1700 words and we’ll publish
you. On your terms that is, anonymity and privacy all in play.
Its touching and true!Man nice piece!
ReplyDeleteMuch appreciated.
ReplyDelete