My first attempts at writing
happened when I was in class three. I remember scribbling letters to my Mum,
Dad and brothers. I don’t recall if it was a class project or toddler
experimentation. But that image of a class three me, conjuring words on an
exercise book, sticks, vivid, like it was yesterday.
After that, I went into a literary
coma. I don’t remember writing anything. Other than compositions about weddings
going sour and kidnappings or bank robbers. I enjoyed writing those
compositions. In class seven, I made an attempt at writing a novel. Fourteen
chapters it was, captured in a 200-page exercise book. The book got lost, with
my first draft. I rarely think of it. I wonder how the class seven me wrote?
High school came along. And here is
where the seed of writing was truly sown. If I had attended a different high
school, chances are I couldn’t be a writer. Kapsabet high school made. I found
myself in this class with loads of wannabe writers and poets. Dreamers. Young
boys, all of us talking about Chinua Achebe, Ngugi wa Thiongo, John Grisham,
Jackie Collins, and William Butler Yeats and John Milton. This were the guys we
were reading. Other folks would be alienated in our bullshit, teenage
intellectual discourse. Quoting Shakespeare and feeling like some spectacled professors
in Oxford.
The real reason I gravitated towards
writing in high school, my grades were awful. I managed to get into law school
but I think I could have done better. As a way of running away from mole
concepts, I wrote poetry and commentary on high school life. I was on a fly,
each time I would hold the pen. I felt home, I belonged. When we were doing
KCSE, in the afternoons, I would sit in class and write some short story
collection, which I later misplaced. While other muggers were furiously
revising, I was banging copy.
Before campus, I spent almost six
months in Kisii. This were blank moments, lost time. A lot happened. I got a
certificate as a certified website designer, but I can’t build a website to
save my life. Those classes were in the afternoon. Whenever I went, I would be
mildly drunk or high. And when the peer pressure was right, I would be on the
other side of town, shooting pool or PlayStation. Yet my parents forked out 5k
so that I can earn to build websites. Looking back, it was grossly unfair to my
parents.
Around this time, I was reading a
lot and posting short writings on my blog. A friend sent me a link to Magunga’s
blog. I read the first story and had that feeling of discovering home. I
thought to myself, this are the kind of stories I want to be writing. I
would spend the rest of my time on Magunga’s blog, feeding the storytelling
monster. While I had been writing for a long time, I was yet to find a part of
the craft where I belonged. Reading Magunga gave my writing form.
I joined law school.
Now, I wasn’t interested in law
school. Only that after looking at my grades, it seemed like the only course I
could take. After two law classes, I checked out. That wasn’t for me. I was
extremely active in those two law classes. And whenever I run into guys, they
ask me why I left, yet I seemed to understand the law so well. First, I was
only active because I did not want to sleep. Second, I am a noisy guy, and if
people are talking, I will join the conversation. I’m not used to watching from the sidelines.
I walked out of law school.
My dad was calm about it. He’d told
me before to do a media thing, but I had ignored him. My mum went nuclear.
She’d told everyone about her son becoming a lawyer, and here I was running out
of law school. She ignored me for some time. My uncles convened a kangaroo
court to help salvage the situation. A member of the bloodline had to be a
lawyer.
Thus, I went back to law school
again. Then left again. This were months filled with confusion. But what made
me leave law school completely was this email from a brand. They were
requesting I endorse them on my young blog (remember I am still using blogspot).
That email opened up a world of possibilities, I thought to myself, there’s
something here. We never got to work though, what they were offering was
plainly disrespectful. And even though I was hanging on to life, I wasn’t going
to pick up crumbs. Where I come from, you either eat good food or you die. I
wasn’t going to beg. But that email lit a fire in me. If I kept at this, then
something might just pop up. So, I quit law school, for good.
I talked to other writers about it
and Magunga’s response has stayed with me. A guiding light in this testing
waters of choosing between a mainstream career and making noise on the
internet. He replied to me on facebook.
With newfound vigour, I wrote more. Words of encouragement are
underrated. Trust me, when someone you look up to fires you up, you can go on
and on.
A year down the line, I have been
lucky. I have made a few coins from writing. I have been to a few places around
Nairobi, where I couldn’t have been there doing anything else. I’ve met CEOs
and shared a little, made friends, lost friends, this couldn’t have happened
without writing. Months ago, my article appeared in The Daily Nation (My
Network). I remember going to the Nation-building to meet the editors, it all
felt so surreal. I couldn’t believe it that the boy from a forgotten village in
Kisii was seated across from The Daily Nation editors. I was blown away. A
photographer stood on the far reaches of the room, taking photos.
Thus, when I saw the poster on
Magunga’s twitter that he would be speaking to a group of Rotarians, I knew I
had to attend. Maybe this was my only opportunity to meet this giant who
influenced my writing.
I arrived at Bihi towers at around
seven. And there he was, flesh and blood, talking to this crowd of almost
forty. He had a kitenge shirt, a black khaki, and black shoes. A Shambala
dangled lazily on his left arm, I have no idea how it read. Three wisps of hair
marked his chin, like dotted acacia trees in a desert. He had a small pauch.
The white cap he so praises was doing its job.
I guy offered me his seat, it was
right beside Magunga’s, his voice roaring through the room. I pinched myself,
Yaani this was Magunga. I felt like jumping and hugging him, luckily, I
controlled myself. I wonder what those Muthaiga Rotarians could have thought of
me. They were a self-assured crowd, in their early twenties to early thirties.
Their faces screamed of youth and vitality. Beautiful chicks, handsome young
men. They would ask questions. I sat there, reeking of Rongai dust. It was fun
though, the whole interaction, regards to the Muthaiga Rotary club for organising
such a function, to more of such, blessings.
I took a photo with Magunga, sent it
to my mum, who asked if he was a college mate. Hell no, this was one of the
fellas defining the modern-day writing space in Kenya. That photo is a relic. A
watermark, that at one point in my life, I stood beside greatness.
I left Bihi towers around eight-thirty
in the night. Elated and tired in the same measure. Moi avenue was bustling
with life. Two hot chicks hugged in front of me, partying ways and promising to
call each other. I thought to myself, how I hate goodbyes.
Sabina Joy was open for business. Of
course, she is the true face of Nairobi.
Street families were curling up for
the night. I saw this woman and two toddlers. One corralled in her lap while
the other played beside her. The sight of them, under the lights, the rest of
us humanity walking on, broke my heart. I wonder, who fathered those kids? What
could he be doing at this moment?
I jumped to a Rongai bound Nganya.
Deafening music rocking it’s interior. If you board silent buses while riding
to Rongai, you’re missing out on a whole experience. Trust me, there’s something healing about the
rowdy Ongataline. The music, the glittering interior, how they navigate traffic,
cutting through air like timeless beasts.
The silence of my bedsitter greeted
me.
I'm happy writing is doing you good but it's important you finish your law degree or enroll and do something you like.Education is important. Ask Magunga,he will tell you so
ReplyDeletefantastic read, i loved the word choice, theme and tone in your writing. Magunga is a real gem. He's witty and inspires
ReplyDeleteYour writing is growing by the day.kinasisi is going to be the next bikozulu.And more of that.You have inspired me.
ReplyDelete👏👏👏
ReplyDeleteGreat stuff my friend Osoro
ReplyDeleteNice piece,seems I have been left behind in terms of reading,guess law school is the cause😂
ReplyDelete