I think...

I think… I’ve fallen in love. I’ve been grinning madly, smiling secretly as I walk about town, smiling even at those who brusquely push past me… feeling really good, really happy, with no apparent source of these feelings… it must be love. When did it happen? Can one ever know? I suspect though, that it started while I was away. Away chasing dreams and fantasies, rainbows…. Away thinking that others were more exciting and more promising, that several others were better than what I had here. Isn’t that, after all, the prevailing conventional wisdom? At that point, the relationship was about I love you, I’m just not ‘in love’ with you. With every peak scaled, every horizon/cloud touched, the realization slowly dawned… what I saw as oppression, rudeness, backwardness was actually a well-intentioned attempt at social protection, refreshing straightforwardness, and an honest attempt at self-determination. Of course there were/are the less tolerable aspects... (Aren’t there always?) But one accentuates the positive, learns to live with a situation that is wonderful, just 'not quite perfect'. This is where being in love proves invaluable, providing support as you traverse the rough and smooth patches.

I catch a KBS (oh those familiar angular seats) from Junction to Town, and poise myself above a seat near the front just as the shuttle lurches forward, causing me to partially sit on a …quite large man beside me. By way of apology (as I’m busy squirming into the seat) I tell him “wacha Christmas i ishe, ndio tutaangalia maneno ya ku-slim” (let Christmas end, then we'll look into slimming down), but he assures me that I need do nothing of the sort. (My jeans are fitting quite snugly, and I’m not quite sure what to do with the guilty pleasure I feel about my growing curves.) There is a pause. Then he says, quite unapologetically, “me I’m looking forward to one whole week of nothing but eating”. I laugh and ask what his ‘eating schedule’ will be. He humors me and outlines it:

Breakfast: uji ya wimbi, nice and thick, made from very nutritious unga that’s been mixed with groundnuts and fish.

Mid-morning snack: groundnuts

Lunch: nice vegetables with mrenda

Afternoon snack: “there is a lot of sugar cane to be chewed”. At which point we detour into a discussion on why, if there is so much sugar cane (to be chewed), there is a current shortage of sugar. It has to be hoarding… and a few days later, Minister Kirwa OKs the buying of sugar directly from factories. Too bad Nairobi is a long way away from the factories. Back to the ‘eating schedule’.

Dinner: some nice matumbos. But what will be his starch of choice, I ask. Why, ugali of course, he responds.

And dessert? There is a lot of fruit, he can’t wait to eat guavas, lots of them. And there is, of course, lots of tea to be drunk. And there will also be chapatis, chicken, rice, and everything nice that makes Christmas Christmas, including plenty of traditional songs being sung, visiting with relatives and friends… It sounds so good that I now want to go and ‘eat’ my Christmas at his home.

He laughs and says his kids have been asking him every morning, for the past one week, “Daddy, are we leaving today?” This is how much they’re anticipating the visit. They once did the ‘urban Christmas’ scene in a bid to save some money, but ended up spending far too much to ever justify a repeat. He and his wife had to keep the kids entertained, and that meant money for rides, and ice creams. At ‘home’, the kids entertain themselves, strengthen relationships with their kin, and learn their culture… more than worth the ticket price there and back.

But the absolute knee-melting combo my beloved has? Grey matter, sense of humor, the most original thinking I’ve observed in a while, ingenuity. Breath-taking. Wicked humor. Unwitting, self-deprecating sometimes, always extremely witty. Humorous quips, even in the thick of things, rolling off many tongues, countered with even smarter ones.

This is the one thing I have yet to find with others: quicksilver brains in such abundance. (please don’t start with the whole “if they’re so smart, why haven’t they sorted out …”). You try smart alec comments with anyone else and they get defensive, offended even. But you do it here and it’s all about rolling with the punches and besting you. With such grey matter honestly, looks play a paltry second fiddle. But they’re there nonetheless. Looking through crowds, I mostly notice smooth, beautiful skin, stunning teeth, and certain… ‘cuteness’. Also a resolve to push on, even at the expense of my personal space. It’s a heady combination this… brains, looks, sense of humor, industriousness... once you get caught up in its beauty, it’s impossible to remain untouched, to remain purely in dutiful love, vs. ‘in love’ mode.

And the stories, the eventful lives led! They span the scale, from tales of miracles and religious piety (or impiety), political opinions and strategies, cuckolded husbands, jilted wives and lovers, how to make deals and lots of money, how to keep/get/frustrate your man/woman, to tales of sexual activities that make hustler and playboy seem like enid blyton story books.

Christmas Mtaani

Mine ends up being an urban Christmas ‘eaten’ in the mtaa. Coast. Multi-ethnic is the name of this game… has me thinking that perhaps coast is the melting pot that Kenyans are seeking? The non-tribal zone? Let me explain: whoever comes here adopts the language and (not necessarily the religion, but definitely the) culture of the coast, making it difficult to determine the origins of a person's dna, unless one employs stereotypes about behavior and body features (and risks being wrong 90% of the time). We get there just as preparation of biriyani mchuzi begins. The rice has just been taken off the jiko, and hot makaa (charcoal) placed on top of the lid, to dry any excess water, ensure the grains remain intact without reducing it to a sludge. I go off and sit with the ladies, the guys are flipping through channels and chatting on the balcony… their turn to contribute to our stomachs’ satiety will come later, right now it’s up to the ladies to provide the first layer. A large jiko, and a huge sufuria that has just had onions added to the heated oil in it are on the landing. A smaller jiko and sufuria for the pilipili sitting beside it, soon to be given attention.

Shortly, those of us privileged enough to be old farts (relatively) have a drink in hand, and the younger among us are being directed on what to do as we watch, seated on the stairs above the landing where the jikos are, sippin' our poisons of choice. One youngun is asked to go get the tomato for pilipili, and the ‘dawa ya biriyani’. Once the onions are ready, the dawa ya biriyani is thrown in, followed by the blended garlic and ginger mixture. It cooks for about two minutes before pureed tomatoes are added, enough salt to taste, and the mixture allowed to mix for 5 minutes before fried potato halves are added, followed closely by large chunks of pre-cooked beef. Maziwa mala (sour milk) is then added, and it’s mentioned that sometimes pawpaw’s can be added, but usually only if the meat hasn’t been tenderized beforehand. The mixture is then left to slowly cook, with occasional stirring to ensure ingredients mix well. Stories galore!

Salesman extraordinaire

A day before this, a young man carrying a basket of fish, and large red snapper in his right hand stops beside the car which is parked on the south coast side of the ferry… we’re waiting for a ship to pass by so two ferries can cross the channel from the Mombasa side and take us home. Very busy time this… wonder when that bridge is landing… then south coast will really open up (despite all the gangsters along the lonely stretch to Diani).

He’s selling the snapper for KSh. 600 a kilo, it looks fresh, eyes still crystal clear, no terribly fishy smell… tempting, but it’s not in the budget. I tell him this, so he reaches into the basket for fish that might better fit my budget. I was obviously not clear in my communication. Budget is for alcohol, not fish. He insists on going through contents of his basket. Taking them out one by one and giving a blurb on the fish and cost as he goes. I interrupt and ask “do you know in all this time you’re standing here showing me the fish (which I’ve indicated I will not buy), you would have walked on down the line of cars and found a buyer?” His response: “riziki haivutwi na kamba” (you cannot force blessings). I am suitably chastised (this is coast, remember? not Misri, no need for all this aggression.), and have the grace to shut up, pay attention until he finishes his presentation, then to thank him for his time.

Had I mentioned multi-ethnicity earlier? Melting-pot? I learn that the intra-ethnic resentments run deep: see case of 1997 clashes, and by-elections after passing away of Minister Maitha. So many different interest groups trying to control the vote here: the racial/ethnic pecking order, the Indians and Arabs have the money and means, feeling, according to my informant, that the mijikendas should forever remain under their thumbs. All three united against upcountry people.

Ciao bello?

The knowledge that I shall soon leave the source of this radiance, leads me to finally be honest with myself: I am weak. No, no, that’s not entirely true. I am simply no longer willing to be strong, to put up with this deep, intense, burning longing for my beloved and to do nothing about it, nothing to quench it. I do not want to leave my beloved… something inside me will break if I leave again… but what to do? What to do?! A part of me says true love sacrifices, and that if you set it free and it doesn’t come back, then it was never yours to begin with… But I KNOW it’s mine, so such trite rationalization of misery will not ease my suffering. Another part says that you cannot love when you’re far away, real love requires proximity, familiarity… So don’t go, stay, get intimate, get under beloved’s skin, and beloved under yours… after all, it’s a live performance and there are no re-takes…

Then another voice asks: but can you eat love? Woman cannot live by love alone… definitely needs some multi-grain bread, lobster, olive oil… you catch my drift… So I stand before the Rubicon… to cross or not to cross? Either way, a sacrifice will be made, which is the right one?

Scribbled on the back of a seat in a mathree, ‘Tony, king of kings, 0727 123 456, born in Kenya by mistake’. Sad reminder that even love won’t prevent the hard knocks, should I decide to cross.