miseducation II: a series of miserable musings

THE HAPPIEST TEARS I’VE SHED.

I dared not look them in the eyes. The weight of the moment coiled me into a hunchback—a curved spine, bent neck, and slouched shoulders - a man with depleted confidence. I saw off a blue Honda Fit. The driver, whom I believe was in equal emotional deprivation, did not speed off, as she would have on any other day. Instead, she "rolled" away.

I turned around and started the walk back to the house, dragging my feet in the human equivalent of her take-off. I collapsed to the ground and looked up at what must have been the clearest sky of the year. But the weather dramatically changed and became foggy quite quickly. Soon after, a small shower fell solely on the corner of my eyes and nowhere else around me.

This was one of the best weekends of my life.

72 hours before, the country experienced a national blackout—an experience so 3rd world and ridiculous that you laugh while explaining it. As most of us scampered to complain about it on social media, I invited friends over to chase the boredom away. 

That we did. 

We played card games that spanned entire afternoons and bonded over our shared dreams at the golden sunsets. As the rays set the tone, both metaphorically and literally, there was warmth and light around me in a time when everyone was covered in state-sponsored darkness. 

It would be the last time this friend group ever sat in the same room together.

The fickleness of time, it gives and takes so quickly. You blink and your go-to-for-fun cousin is married with a litter of kids trailing them, your best friend has gone to build a life in another country, your mucus-dribbling nephew is now in high school, your once playful grandmother cannot stand without needing help, and your evergreen parents are complaining of age-related nerve problems. 

I might need to blink slower. 

RISE, FALLEN SOLDIER 

"What does it mean to fail?" the warrior, whose chest carried 6 arrows, asked the gods in his final breath.

"You have not failed us," the gods said, but the warrior had since fallen to his death - his death, part of the thousands, nay millions, that were concurrently happening. A rebellion against a far superior adversary whose only wish was genocide. An adversary who believed to be chosen by the Maker Himself and whose capacity to destroy was Biblical.

The “Chosen Ones” were backed by the most powerful nations on the planet and they were successful in their extermination. 

This would logically bring us to conclude that our arrow-bearing warrior died for no reason - or did he?

Then what does it mean to fail? If you have never played a game of chess and you sit across a grandmaster on your first-ever try where you inevitably lose, would you consider yourself having failed? Yes, in the objective sense, you have. But we are not talking about literal black-and-white pieces here, are we? 

If you were the grandmaster who’s beaten someone in a game of chess, yet this person cannot name a pawn from a rook and cannot separate a bishop from the king, have you truly won?

Yes, the rebels lost, but they were one million people fighting against the might of the entire world.

In war, how can the failure of an entire ideology be attributed to the death of a few men on the frontline?

We are at war with life itself. Everyone is wounded by arrows named VAT, Income, and Rent. Some of us cannot pick and choose between the luxury of a matatu and that of a motorbike. Others cannot separate Tuesday’s ugali mayai from Saturday’s. Yet in this war, and on the very battlefield we swing our swords in, are entire armies of people who invented the concept of the income tax and will add more to the rent you pay. You are a warrior whose torso has been slashed into two, but the slasher is the man who pays your monthly salary. 

So you should thank them as you fall. 

You are sat across grandmasters who do not need to know the difference between vehicles since they own both. You are the fallen soldier whose arrow has stuck out and the person who shot you has someone picking their arrows for them, sticking them in poison, firing them, and standing in front to protect them from your counterattacks.

How would you consider yourself having failed then?

Isn’t life a box of lessons? And if it is, this year has been a box as big as a Demio. Maybe the real reason for this incredibly complicated life is to learn…

To learn how to thrive in a world where everyone is failing. Or how to fail in a world where everyone else is thriving. Maybe the lessons we are sat in for are how to be experts in failure or consultants in addiction, guides in tragedy, or teachers of defeat.

I fear more the phrase that infers “each tragedy must carry along a sister,” than I admire the phrase “good things come in threes.” I have learned to fear the first traumatic failure you experience, is the harbinger of tragedy.

THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER

Imagine the story of the Prodigal Son for a moment, but told through the lens of new-age social media. 

Let's follow the journey of an Instagram influencer, whose reels have been all about "positivity." She’s extremely popular because she is genetically beautiful. That alone covers 96% of the talent needed. The remaining 4% is unevenly distributed across the makeup products she owns, the lighting and camera rig, the incredible wealth she was born into that allowed her the comfort of taking social media as a career choice, and her socially pampered charisma on display.

She posts something offensive about some trendy urban topic that was happening at the time. It comes after a manic episode that was drug-assisted—an intimately embarrassing moment captured by one of her fans and shared with the biggest gossip peddler you know. Now brands have put out PR statements of how “shocked” and “disgusted” they are with her actions. They add that “our team shall review the nature of this partnership”, or a “we have terminated our association with immediate effect.”

How do we get her back?

Easy: she waits for the next carbon copy of herself to make a mistake in the coming week. Then she sends out a half-hearted apology in a naturally lit room, without makeup and in her pajamas.

The brands need her endorsements as she is even more popular. The fans will be fine, they’re sheep anyway.

IT’S A HEARTACHE

Business in Nairobi is the most heartbreaking venture. Forget that situationship you got into after a night at Cavalli. Anyone who made it from scratch to the top in a time whose president is still living is a tough cracker. I have seen betrayal not even materialized in the Red Wedding episode of Game of Thrones happen in these Nairobi offices.

Yeah, people have a ceiling that has been shut above their heads. We have been exposed to so much madness, that sanity is laughed at. An honest civil servant who wishes to do their best is as strange as a Manchester United win. We drive among drivers who are as drunk as the last man at a bar. We go to hospitals with doctors as credible as Dr. Seuss in surgery. And if you want to sue them, well, don’t I have a story to tell you about a very famous lawyer from Kenya!

We swim with sharks. Everyone sees green in their eyes, both in money and envy. Men and women have become corrupted by the helplessness of consistent failure. Money is a devilishly tempting thing. They say it is the root of evil and the tree it births has poisoned fruits. But where else would we find some reprieve when this tree is the only shade in the desert we live in?

PLEASE HAVE A SEAT

Let’s reimagine history again; you are Caesar. The setup is not the glorious exuberance of Rome but the insufferable closed square spaces of your work desk. You are no king with armies spread across recorded history; you are the collared shirt-wearing, tie-squeezing, keyboard-punching, occasionally happy, often depressed, something analyst in that firm.

Maybe you had a sandwich for lunch and scrolled on Twitter (nobody is calling it “X” so why would I?). You brush up on your presentation - tongue out, murmuring to yourself, typing loudly - and then dash into the boardroom. Today is the day you present the master plan to influence the organization’s direction. A bottom-feeding, second-year-of-working-at-the-firm employee. As you stand to present to the team, you are cut short with:

“Please have a seat.”

Oh oh. 

Nothing good has ever come from those words. Whether it is your spouse, your doctor, your teacher, or, your boss.

Yeah, you have been cooked you silly goose. 

Who told you the company needed you to survive? Are you the founder? Are you the sponsor? Are you the foundation of the building where the office rests? 

Oh, come on. 

That presentation might have been used as a screensaver at the back of a KFC menu. Someone has already sold their soul at your expense. You will remain at the bottom of the feeding program for as long as you don’t become audacious enough to suggest improvement to the fragile ego of the business owner.

The only way to climb to the top is through the gracious glossing of your lips, which would be used on the asses of the people above you.

I think it is completely ridiculous just how many people are willing to chomp off your feet, reduce you to a stumpy man, climb your back, and then use your shoulders to gain some marginal advantage in their field of view. An advantage they could have gotten if they had used a chair or even just tip-toed. 

In this jungle, the predators kill for sport, for the sheer glory of having killed. The food on the table can feed everyone equally, yet you have men hold onto entire rotisserie chickens while they spit in your soup. The world of sharks doesn't need more sharks.

That’s madness, we live in a society!

For starters, you are a cute goldfish in a bowl. Eat a little and you’ll be a salmon in a shark tank. Fight your way and hopefully, in 20 years you will become the top shark. That is if you avoid having your tank destroyed, or being shark food, or evade being switched into another tank of even larger sharks. 

But once you do become a shark, you’ll find out that you’re prey for the killer corporate whales, and you will never have the “fins” to match. 

Instead of swimming in the murky waters for schools of sardines and salmon, become not a shark nor a whale, but a boat.

YOUR PATH IS YOURS TO CHART

Have you ever been lost?

Are you struggling with knowing what to do with your life?

Do you want reassurance on what path to take? 

Let’s take a walk, shall we? 

This is the only instruction I will give you: “Mark the trees with yellow flowers and green stems.”

We continue with the walk, spending time commenting on life—the chit-chats of who married who, and who missed whose wedding. The gossip of which celebrity did what, and which one of our acquaintances knows where. You see a tree with yellow stems and green leaves.

“Should I have marked that?” you think to yourself. “What was it that I was supposed to mark again?” you continue to think to yourself as I continue raging on about what made me laugh.

I notice your detachment.

“You have been marking the paths, haven’t you?”

“I think so.”

We turn right, then we go up, we turn left, then go down. Years have passed since the last marker, and you realize you must confess.

“Hey, I think we are lost.”

“That’s okay, we can track back to the last tree with yellow flowers.”

“Flowers?”

“Yes, flowers.”

“Not stems?”

“No, definitely flowers.”

You look at me with your “you are going to hate me” eyes.

“That’s okay; those markers were just my way of remembering things. If you decided to use yellow stems, then we can get back to that point and use your route.”

I start, walking back past your bewildered stance. “The truth is,” I continue, “This forest has no map. We have no way of truly getting lost. Because getting lost would mean there is a right way. We walk through it on pure instinct and on the paths people before us have walked on”

I leave you still stunned.

“What if at no point, it ever felt right?” you start, “What if the only reason I was looking out for yellow stems… uh… I mean… yellow flowers, was because you told me to?”

You approach and grab me. “What if I only wanted to trek on the path of blue flowers and white stems?”

“Oh, that’s a tough one. Nobody takes that route. Sure, there is no true route, but some are worse than others. That one you speak of has seen the most deaths.”

I continue to walk back. “Trust me, the yellow-stems route is not that bad, my cousin used that path, and he’s doing alright,” I stop, “heck, he is even right there!”

You look at the direction I am pointing and say, “I wish you well with your journey, friend. I will search for my blue flowers.”

ADULTHOOD: WHERE DREAMS GO TO DIE

In a cemetery not too far from where you sleep, the undertaker summons you. You need not wear your shoes. The bell has been rung, and you have nowhere to hide. He is not interested in your body but is only keen on slicing through your mind to collect your dreams - or what is left of them anyway.

“I sent you a letter,” he says, his voice as if digging through dirt.

“I read it, but I thought I had more time,” you say, your head bent low, eyes barely above the tip of your toes.

“If you gave me more time, I would go and make the most out of it, I promise,” you beg, but not desperately.

“If I gave you more time, you would only have buried it deeper,” he says as he snatches the dream you have and feeds it to the lineup destined for the next generation.

“Goodbye,” he begins, “continue with whatever is left of you.”

KARMA FOR LANE SWITCHERS

Murder.

A seemingly trivial subject in law school, often the crux of evil, is used to depict the apex of crime. I - for whoever tolerates my passionate philosophical rumblings - would argue it to be a means to an end for most cases. Because it’s a crime so vile, yet so commonly occurring.

The Joker, Batman’s love-to-hate antithesis, often says everyone is one bad day away from insanity.

Just how bad can an event be to push you to have the thought cross your mind?

It is always thought to be too distant, like an implausible thing that happens only in crime dramas. But it creeps around us like a spider in the darkened corners of a shed.

Some people continue to inflict incredible suffering on humanity and are blessed with life. When Henry Kissinger died at 100, I was tempted to laugh when I read, “the demons in hell shudder at the newest recruit.”

Karma, you sniveling bitch. 

You are so good at showing up for people who jump in line or for drivers who switch lanes without indicating. But when it comes to murderous, contemptuous, warmongers, where do you hide?

WHO MADE KANYE?

When I watched Kanye West’s documentary, and everyone was gushing about the genius behind his music, I was struck by something quite different: everyone around him knew he would make it. Donda, his mother, definitely believed in him. His friend who dropped everything to follow him also believed in him. The neighborhood trusted him. It's the outside world that did not. And that is magical in itself.

When I hit rock bottom and shared it with the closest people I hold in my life, I found myself the only one concerned. Everyone sees greatness in others more than in themselves.

And if that isn't love, then tell me what is.

I NEED A CUP OF COFFEE

In an extremely gentrified coffee shop, smack in the middle of Kilimani, I sat sipping… well… coffee. The seats were all repurposed bus chairs or something like that, with plates being some reworked chopping boards. I mean the coffee shops techies go to and click-clack their keyboards away, debugging code that should have been solved weeks ago but only being done last minute for urgency's sake. The kind where Somali men sit wide-legged facing away from the restaurant, with their loud conversations booming across the wooden-tapered walls.

Yes, those ones. The kind your girlfriend strongly recommended through a series of reels influenced by some foodie vlogger. The kind of reels with prices ranging from 1,500-2,500 and dubbed as “affordable dining” places.

It is in one of these quarters that I got filled with the most hope. I do not know if it was the ambiance of accessible, achievable wealth or if it was the general presence of beautiful people, but something about such places has a way of inspiring vanity in our souls. Where you look around and perhaps subconsciously conclude:

“Hey, if he is eating the same thing I am, then maybe we aren’t that far apart.”

Of course, he is going back to his Range Rover, and you are going to have a complicated conversation with your nduthi rider. But hope, even in the smallest pockets, is much appreciated.

DON’T BEG, IT’S DISGUSTING

In Top Boy, you get to obsess over the skullduggery of London gangsters. Their accents charm you into some sort of admiration. In one of these episodes, Sully, the “Top Boy,” is holding a conversation with an underling-gone-rogue. She begins to make a case for her family, in that classical gangster style of “please, leave my family alone, they’ve done nothing wrong, it’s me you want.”

Sully looks dead into her eyes and says, “Don't beg, it's disgusting.”

Maybe this is what most of us need to hear about the spaces and people we have around. 

“Please remember the good things we did.” 

“If you give me one more chance, I will make things work.” 

“I need this job, I will do anything you want me to.” 

“Why don’t you call me back anymore?” 

“Why did you cut me off so suddenly?” 

“I was there for you when you needed someone! I need you now!” 

“I would love you to treat me better. Please, this is everything I have known. Don’t do this.” 

“I helped get you this deal, what do you mean you have it to yourself?

“Please come back into my life… I love you.”

Don’t beg… it’s disgusting.