Open the windows and let the light in.

Hold my breath (but not too long)

As the bulldozer sweeps away

The dust mites’ kingdom.

Pray hard that the dudus ain’t litigious

‘Cause I just did away with their precious habitat.

The spiders are demonstratin’,

The house centipedes feastin’,

And the fruit flies hiding in the corner.

Apocalypse is bearing down on them:

“The end of the world! The end of the world!”

And you!

You just stand there watching,

Doing nothing to help them,

Doing nothing to give me a hand.

You compose silly sonnets in your mind

As the grease gives way to suds,

And I scrub the kitchen floor,

Mop it up and wipe it dry.

~Kahendi

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Set your sights on that hill yonder,
Unburden yourself at the next oasis.
Set your tents up,
Live your life.

Nobody knows what tomorrow brings.
Death perhaps, or more desolation.
But you can bring meaning to today
By embracing today’s fears today,
Not pushing them to tomorrow.

Walk away from the mirages,
Cease your desert wanderings,
Take comfort in what you have here now,
My child.
And if it’s not enough, till, sow and weed.
Nothing comes from yearning for the non-existent.

Look up at the sky, my daughter.
What do you see?
The stars laid out in perfect order
To show you your way.
But, my daughter, tell me truthfully,
Are they not the same heavens
That our sisters in the South see when they look up?
The perspective may vary,
The constellations too,
But it’s all one universe.

You believe you’re setting your hopes high,
Crossing the limits,
When you journey Southwards
Beyond the places we all know.

But, my child, it’s the same world.
In the South, the sun rises as surely as it does here.
In the South, people love, lose and mourn.
In the South, your heart will stir and your feet will grow restless;
You will yearn for us in the North.

~Kahendi

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That intangible sense that something’s about to happen,
That history’s being made,
That I’m a part of the scene,
That is Nairobi,
That’s what I kept of her.

The markets, salons,
Nyam choms and benga,
The Sunday crusades and family outings,
The singers, the saints,
The lovers, the hypocrites,
They make up Nairobi,
They define the city.

The bars round the corner-
I can’t say I missed those,
But what is Nairobi without her walevi?
What is a city without its drunks,
Its philosopher-poets, kings of the moment?

Like it or hate it,
That is Nairobi.
Blooming, decaying,
Nectar and maggots,
Today and tomorrow,
Now Jekyll, now Hyde,
That’s our Nairobi
A landscape of madness.

~Kahendi

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You wonder, is that the forked path I took before?
Did I branch off to the right or the left?
Then you realize it doesn’t matter.
You tried both paths before,
And both led you back to the same spot.

Are you destined to walk round and round in circles,
Viewing the same limited horizons,
Yoked to the same relentless destiny?
Is there a way out of the maze
Or is the perception that a maze exists
The biggest illusion yet?

Is that an ironic smile on your face?
Are you defeated?
Is that emptiness in your soul?
Is there really a point to any of this?
When will you finally know that your heart has toiled and labored so
For no reason at all?
Will they ring a bell to tell you that it is all in vain?
Or is this it?
Is this sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach the only notice you will get?

That man who said that all was vanity,
That all was meaningless
Was probably right,
But honesty is something you’re better off without right now.
Some things are better not articulated,
Better not acknowledged.
Ignorance is bliss.
Why can’t they let you bask in the joy of not knowing,
Not purposing?
Why can’t they just let you be?

~Kahendi

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All that is left now is the unspoken:
Everything that should have been said but wasn’t said,
Thick and pungent in the air.

I knew your heart, I could read your soul.
Not a word spoken, but I knew.
And now… nothing but memories.

I tried to push you away from the hole, but ended up plunging in myself.
And now I’m falling, falling…
When does this end?

Now I’m angry with you,
Angry that you left,
Angry because you didn’t have a choice.
The decision was made for you.
And for me.

I’m falling, falling…
All around me vast, empty blackness,
Inside me vast, black emptiness,
And the painful awareness that you are gone.

~Kahendi

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I sometimes find myself wondering whether the truth is an illusion. Sometimes we cling tightly to certain beliefs about what we are and what matters to us, only for the whole pack of cards to come crashing down after a single traumatic event. Take, for example, the person who starts out with a dream of attending medical school and becoming a doctor. If that dream is held close to his heart, then his heart may break when he is not able to gain admission into medical school. Most people are able to accept such disappointments with time. They find a new dream to replace the old one, develop new insights about themselves and become new people. The process is certainly not painless, but given that a transformation has occurred, is it justifiable to say that such people were living an illusion beforehand? If the truth can vary at different stages in one’s life, then can one really speak of the truth or should one talk about appearances and illusions instead? Why then, should I be judgmental about someone who makes a habit of mixing truth and falsehood?

I have in mind the story of a young man who was determined to become a physician, but wasn’t able to get into medical school. Rather than trying again, or accepting the disappointment, he acted as if he had actually got a place in a prestigious medical school and pretended for five years that he was a medical student. His parents were unaware of this lie, as were his wife and children. As can be expected, as time went by, the lie became more elaborate. Ultimately, he was unable to keep it up. When his secret was about to be discovered, he took his life. I still don’t understand why acknowledging the truth in public was unacceptable to him. Quite clearly, he knew the difference between his truths and his falsehoods- he was aware that he there were consequences tied to his falsehoods.

Another young man pursued a relationship with his girlfriend for years, and they eventually got engaged. One month before their wedding day, he vanished without an explanation. It eventually turned out that he had no intention of marrying the woman, and in fact, was engaged to three other women the whole time. Time would reveal that the woman had always felt shortchanged and sensed that he didn’t love her, but had remained in the relationship because she was scared of the alternative. It would also turn out that the man had played along because he enjoyed the sense of power that the game gave him. Both were obviously aware of the lie, but held on to it for whatever reason.

After pondering these different tales, I’m still at a loss. Why do people hold tightly onto the false comfort of illusions? How can you enjoy an experience that you know is not real? How can you bask in praise that you know is not deserved? Isn’t it actually easier, in the long run, to be true to oneself and to be ordinary than it is to rise to the heavens and then come crashing to the earth without ceremony?

~Kahendi

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When the island became visible in the distance, we were all excited. Everybody wanted to see Unguja. A family with a video camera was filming the approach to the island. I was standing next to them and could hear their little boy crying out for candy, “Awz helwa,” over and over again to his mother.

The deck was packed. Everybody was standing out there watching the island. I imagine many of them were coming back home to visit their families. Some were probably coming to visit for the first time, perhaps to work, or maybe to make a new home on the island. Others were tourists, come to see “Africa”. There was a mix of people on that ferry, rich and poor, but for the moment, we were all equals as we stood on the deck, caught up in awe at the island’s beauty. Some people were so enraptured that they forgot where they were, and left their bags unattended on the ground. Of course, one man, alert to the opportunity, took advantage of the fact that the deck was crowded and no-one was watching. He grabbed hold of another man’s bag and was trying to sneak away with it when somebody saw him and raised the alarm: “Mwizi!”

Suddenly, the magic spell was broken. Everyone turned away from the beautiful view in time to see the young man being pushed into a corner. The bag was grabbed from him and returned to its rightful owner. Only then did the angry crowd unleash its wrath on him. The crowd rained blows on him and kicked him mercilessly, only stopping when two men who had muscled their way through stood before him, shielding him. They took him to a little room and locked him up in there.

Whatever transpired after that, I do not know. I imagine that when the ferry docked, the man was turned in to the police. As for the rest of the passengers, most of them went back to what they were doing before the incident: watching the approach to the island. To them, it was just another ordinary day: a man had tried to steal and mob justice had been meted out to him. Now that he had been locked away somewhere, they could go back to admiring the features of the island- the trees were now visible, as were some beautiful white buildings.

I noticed that the tourists looked a bit anxious. They were probably shocked at the speed with which everything had happened and at the seeming brutality of the crowd. Where had the anger and violence come from? They were not used to being this close to public anger and violence.

Whatever their feelings were, there was no time to dwell on them, the ferry soon docked and everyone was in a rush to get off.

~Kahendi

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And today … well I never thought I’d say this, but those old folks we were always referring to in our essays sure were wise. My life today is a testament to the deep truth encoded in those proverbs, sayings, riddles and poetry that we so grudgingly memorized when we were kids. Mr Macharia would probably be disappointed to hear this, but we never really did think about those gems of knowledge and their implications at the time. As far as we were concerned, we were cramming for the exams. Nowadays I actually find myself thinking about them all the time, and it’s all thanks to my one-time friend, Marcia, who came to visit a couple of months ago.

Marcia knocked on my door one day, 3 months ago. She was just passing through town, she said, and was looking for a place to lay her head for two nights while she processed some documents in town. She’d intended to spend the night at her auntie’s place, but there was noone at home. The neighbors had said that the family’d gone upcountry for the weekend. Marcia was really apologetic about showing up at my doorstep with no advance warning, but she didn’t know where else to go. I was glad to host her for the two or so nights that she needed a place. After all, we’d sat through four miserable years of high school together. I smiled, and told her she was welcome to stay, her home was my home, and all the usual fanfare that a gracious host goes through: “Make yourself comfortable. You know where everything is.” And so, Marcia made herself comfortable.

Day one:

I wake up. Chaos in the kitchen. Marcia’s gone, presumably to the government building to get her paperwork done. The charcoal’s on the stove, soaking wet. The matchbox is split open, and the matches scattered on the wet ground. The tap is running and the sink overflowing. I close the tap, spread the charcoal out in the sun to dry, mop the floor, and then I realize that the food I’d left out on the table the previous night for the two of us to share at breakfast is all gone. Looks like I’m going to start the day on an empty stomach. I’m already cussing the guest out at this point. No time to waste, get ready for work.

When I come back home in the evening there’s a hole in the window. Marcia got home early and the door was locked, so she broke the window pane and opened the window so that she could climb in. She smiles at me and tells me that we’re out of milk, so could I run down to the store and get some?

Day two:

A better start to the day. It seems that I achieved something with yesterday’s talk. Marcia’s already gone, but this time the place doesn’t look like a hurricane ran through it. Maybe I was too hard on Marcia last night, she really isn’t a bad girl after all. Just a bit silly at times.

Day three:

Marcia’s still gone. Didn’t come back last night. I’m worried sick. What could have happened to her? I get dressed up, grab a bite to eat. On my way out to work, guess who I see curled up on the pavement, fast asleep outside the Mabatini street bar! I smell alcohol on her breath and her clothes. Now I know where she was last night. I drag Marcia back to my place, do my best to make sure she’s okay and take off. I have to. I’m already late for work.

In the evening Marcia is apologetic. She says she met an old friend, decided to buy some drinks to celebrate the end of her bureaucratic battles at the government office, had too much too drink and lost track of the time.

Day four:

I can’t help noticing that two days have turned into four. What on earth have I gotten myself into?

She was supposed to leave by noon today, but by the time she got to the bus station, the tickets for her bus were already sold out. So she’ll have to go back tomorrow. At this point, one more day won’t make a difference, right? She can have an early start tomorrow morning. I will gladly wake up bright and early to escort her to the bus station.

Day five:

Apparently, Marcie’s antics have taken a toll on her health. She now has a full-blown flu and has a high fever. She’s retching her guts out. I can’t believe this: I actually feel sorry for her. My neighbor is a medical student and drops in to check on Marcia at my request. She’s confident it’s just the flu and tells me the name of some over-the-counter drugs I can get to ease her symptoms.

It’s a Saturday. I’m supposed to be visting my folks in Nakuru this weekend, but how can I go when there’s a miserably ill young woman in my bed-sitter? Someone has to look after her. I grit my teeth. I’m going to get through this somehow. I only hope that I don’t catch her flu in the process.

Day six:

No water in the taps. It’s bad enough when I’m alone at home and this happens, but now I have a sick guest who frequently needs to go to the bathroom. It shouldn’t be too bad. I have a couple of jerrycans in which I store water. They should be able to get us through until the water supply is back on.

I thought I had a couple of jerrycans full of water. Not anymore. They’re empty. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who emptied them. I’m too frustrated to ask her why. She’s sick. I’m going to let her be, but the minute she recovers, I’m kicking her out.

Day seven:

It’s a miracle! She’s gone. She insisted on getting an early start today, and since I was going to work, I couldn’t escort her. She said it was okay, and thanked me for my hospitality, insisted that she’d let herself out when it was time to go and that I shouldn’t worry about her. It’s nice to come home to a clean, quiet and empty home. Hold on a second… my room’s looking too clean and empty. Some of my clothes are missing from my makeshift wardrobe and my modest music collection is gone. What’s left of my savings is gone. She must have seen the box where I kept my money when I was looking for change to buy her medicine.

There’s a note on the table. How “thoughtful” of her! She apologizes for taking my money. She realized she didn’t have enough for her bus fare because she’d stayed longer than she’d intended to and ended up using all the money than she had. There’s no mention of my other belongings or of anything else, for that matter. I’m exasperated. If I could, I would throttle her at this exact moment.

Wahenga hawakukosea waliponena, “Mgeni siku ya kwanza. Siku ya pili mpe jembe.”

Those old folks were right when they talked about welcoming a guest on the first day and giving him a jembe to go dig the shamba on the second day, but I think there’s still room for improvement in that methali. If I could, I’d rewrite it to say: Mgeni siku ya kwanza. Siku ya pili, arudi kwake!

~Kahendi

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I want to connect with the people around me and to talk to them about our shared reality. My present surroundings may not be the hibiscus lined streets of my hometown, but the white florets borne by the branch scraping across my window pane smell heavenly. The bees go about their busy way, moving from nectar sac to nectar sac. I wonder, do bees here speak a different language from the ones back at home? I want to laugh at this thought, but pause. Maybe it’s not ridiculous after all. No. It is ridiculous. What’s more, it’s indicative of that special brand of megalomania that has us humans constantly trying to recreate the world in our image: I speak Swahili, therefore the African bee buzzes in Swahili.

But I do wonder about this thing called language. Is it a normal state of “being”? Is it possible for humans to live and coexist without any form of language? When I open my mouth to speak over here, my accent betrays my foreign origins right away. Does something parallel happen to migrating birds during their winter sojourn in warm lands, when they encounter birds from other territories?

Here I am making a big deal of my foreignness when I have been drinking this water and eating of this soil for ages. Every single cell in my body must be “of this nation” by now. There is a kind of poetic justice in that. No matter how hard I try to dissect and to label, reality has a way of throwing all my neat classifications into disarray.

~Kahendi

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