FEBRUARY MEMORIES

Last Valentine's day will indelibly be printed in my mind till I join my spiritual realm. Not because of the wonderful date I had (of course it was breath-taking as you would expect my dates to be).You too, I kno, had a fantastic one. Therefore, I won't bore you with tales of how she blushed when I fished out the wilting red rose and knelt at Kencom, in-front of her, despite the public attention we attracted.

 Memories of that Friday refuse to get erased because the day marked a new dawn in my writing.

Let me hit the nail on the head. I won a prize writing. Never have I ever thought that my writing could fetch me a monetary prize. I knew I could get as many facebook likes, friends and comments but money...Aah Aah.

 Here we go-- I won the third prize in an essay writing contest at the university. The essay was about Korean studies that are being introduced in May. I wrote the essay last year, sent and forgot it. You know how one momentarily forgets poverty when their hands land on the first salary? That's similar to what I did with the essay. I wrote it, edited it, hated it (yes, sometimes I hate what I write) and sent it; never to remember it.

On a Monday, I got a call from the department of literature inviting me for a prize giving to award essayists who participated in the contest.  I do not want to express how I felt when I received the call. Neither do I want to tell you how my heart leapt for joy when they called my name for scooping position three. I cannot put it in words. Maybe, one needs to see me so that I can show by facial expressions how.

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Four years ago, I joined campus. Dressed to kill in a yellow kaunda suit, orange socks, a white suspender and a black tie. ( I looked really swaggarific but Nairobi folks are very jealous. They thought that I had color-crashed in my rainbow swag.) I came here for a sole purpose, to do Statistics and amass as much wealth after the study.

In second year, my dream started dwindling. Chiromo lecturers got wild and showed me the animals in them. In first year, they had been nicely foolish and gave me clean 'A's. They enticed me, kumbe they were wolves in sheep's skin! I was in a fix.

Dr. Wale Akinyemi, a Sunday Nation columnist, feels that people become creative when stubborn-hard situations face them. Tough times model people to be tougher. I was no exception. When my statistical dreams were thwarted, I started trying my luck in other avenues like photography. I 'beat' people pictures with a borrowed camera. The venture failed. My pictures, they complained, were very painful.  I delved into the printing business. Oops, I was not cut out for such exercises. I disappoint my community by having poor entrepreneurial skills. All in all, I lost my capital and my investing esteem.

There is this one place that I have never felt any iota of frustration; St Paul's. I do not know what is there that makes me keep going back. Maybe it  is the conspicuously tall, expertly designed building that beckons you from afar. Or is it the melodious choir that sings its voice out? Could it be the beautiful ladies that make most of us (men) confused? Or is it the awe-inspiring priests who conduct the homily as though their lives hang on the very words they speak?

 Let's just say that St Paul's is enigmatic. Spell-binding. Any day I cross its gate, say 'hi' to the soldiers, and walk in, everything seems to change. There is an aura of hope. An atmosphere of rejuvenation. Even the soldiers look like angels; the way they smile and wave at you, gracefully, as though they are waving at saint Peter. The way they courteously address you anytime you ask them a question. The way they gently frisk you with those  metallic detectors.The way they... yawa, those guys are angels!

Now that I mentioned metallic detectors, I am heavily inclined that those things are not for detecting metals. One day I walked with a penknife in my pocket. The angel (sorry, I mean soldier) frisked me but his detector didn't make any sound.

The next day, I was feeling dejected after a roommate ate my lunch. Do you know the feeling you get when someone eats food you left over to eat as lunch after a grumpy day in Chiromo? You feel as though you could sue them for the emotional torture they meted on you. I didn't sue him. Instead, I lazily hobbled to St Paul's.

The soldier frisked me. The detector screamt. I was dazed. I had nothing in my pocket. No coins, no penknife...not even a phone or my car keys...uhm...I mean room keys.

Why would the silly detector make so much noise? Could it be because I am a man of steel?

 It is then that the soldier looked at my confused, haggard-looking face, smiled and said,

“ You are having some psychological turmoil, brother?”

I nodded.

“ You are in the right place”, he said as he patted me on the back.

I immediately concluded that those things are not for detecting weapons. (Who cares whether you carry a gun to St. Paul's, anyway? Even if you were to shoot, the bullet would defy Newton's laws of motion and instead of moving forward, move backwards shooting you. I know that sounds crazy but, why the hell would anyone carry a gun to St. Paul's? To shoot me? I am unshootable.)

All I am saying is that those detectors detect hope-deficiency. If you are deficient  in matumaini as I was, the detector makes two beeps necessitating the soldier to direct  you to the confessional.

Truth be told, St Paul's has built me. There, I found God. God in people. People who are brilliant. Brilliant in everything they say and do. What's more? These people  are like generous lit candles that are always willing to light other candles.

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I started seriously thinking about writing last year in my long holidays. I failed to clinch an internship  and all I did was go to the computer rooms and surf the whole day. At times, when lucky, I would fetch a few dollars in freelance writing. I also wrote poems for St. Paul's theatre group performance.

There is this noble gentleman whom I am greatly indebted to; Bernard Kimemia. The chap saw a poetic potential in me. I remember with nostalgia this one day he telephoned me for forty five minutes and encouraged me to write more for theatre. I was flattered, the guy was a mere first year but the vehemence he spoke with, bullied me into writing oftenly.

Samuel Kanja is another guy whom I can never forget. I used to post inspirational messages on facebook. Kanja saw my posts and felt that there was literal motion in my writing. He called and asked to see me. You remember the feeling you used to get in primary school when the composition teacher wrote an intimidating “See me” on your composition book? In fear, you would draggingly glide to the staffroom expecting the worst. This was the feeling I had as I prepared to see Kanja.

 I saw him on a Wednesday at St. Paul's. He was in a brown suit, striped tie and... no cane, thanks God!  I made the sign of the cross as my tension level went down. I approached him.

He greeted me and a conversation began. I was mostly passive in the talk. All I did was say eee's and iii's. You know how we Kikuyus like saying those eees even when we are not in agreement or paying attention to what we are being told?

On the other hand, Kanja littered his speech with a lot of 'by the ways'. I have failed to understand the connection between Kanja and the phrase 'by the way'. He likes and overuses it. So, our talk was 90% populated with Kanja saying by the ways while I made a litany of eees and iiis. However, we communicated. Kanja wanted me to write inspirational articles.

I wrote inspirational articles which Kanja reviewed. There is a good thing about writing inspirational articles. They change your way of thinking making you more spiritual. I still blame myself for quitting that line of writing. Am surely going back to it.

As I wrote motivational articles on face-book, people like Carol Kemboi, Nathan Mali, Esta Munyau and Irene Aki patted me on the back. They liked the long articles and commented on how sweet they were. I soldiered on.

Towards the end of the year, I met Biko Zulu. He is a creative writer whose writings are rather risqué but artistic. I was introduced to him by Serengeti, a close friend, who was his avid reader. After I read Biko, I decided to delve into creative writing. However, the problem was what I was going to write about. Again, the good old Serengeti came to my rescue. In our regular man-talks, he narrated a tale of how he had wanted to woo a St Paul's choir lady to the point that he joined the choir.  I never told him that I would write about it but the next day, he saw himself painted in words. He liked it. That marked the birth of this blog.

I have been touched by great people and their humility. The likes of Munywoki, who has been working day and night on his laptop ensuring that communication in St. Paul's is swift and efficient. Antony Kenani, whose mastery of the keyboard is amazing. Edith Mwirigi, who despite having a commendable political fame still finds time to sing her alto voice hoarse. Chinyere Amaka, whose shaking the kayamba is indescribable. To you ladies and gentlemen, words have no way of expressing the respect I harbour for you.

I have made friends in blogging. Joe Mugendi and Tom Kimai. These two gentlemen encourage me to continue penning my thoughts and never close shop.

Joe Mugendi's stories are so tasty that you cannot help lick your fingers after gobbling them. I am yet to know what kachumbari he seasons them with. Joe, do you use juju to make us glued to your blog? Or is it that you daily feast on trays of quail eggs to become a better story teller? Whisper the secret to me man ...I will not tell anyone. Read his blog here.

Tom Kimai, has been a friend from last year when we were roommates. We lived in a quiet room occupied by six men. Tom was such an influential character that we made him the Room Principal. His duties were to check the cleanliness and suitability of the room for hosting lady guests. Among his many talents, Tom had good taste buds. Every-time one of us cooked, Tom would dole out numerous spoonfuls of the dish, taste and comment on the cook's expertise. Read his blog here.

Today, Tom is no longer a Room Principal. He is writing on a blog where he posts campus breaking news. He has a good sense of humor that makes his journalistic articles a must read.

Other key characters in my artistic journey include Dominic Oyori and Abednego Osindi.

 The moment you mention Dominic's name in St. Paul's, people remember with nostalgia a guy who would really 'bring it on' stage. I wonder why he is in the construction industry. Dominic, your place is on the altar of art. I eagerly wait for the day the temptress of art will seduce you back to stage.

 Abednego Osindi is a great writer and actor. I used to religiously read his blogs but for sometimes, he has gone quiet. I do not know why. Abedie, did the outside world drain the ink on your pen? Come on man, we hunger for your lovely writings. Visit Abedie's blog here.

Dear readers, I sometimes fear that you will find my art unpalatable. Cooking articles in a kitchen for most faceless readers  is shrouded in uncertainties. You wonder whether people will appreciate your recipe. You serve the dish in fear, garnish it in tension and season it in dread. However, when characters like Chinyere Amaka, Cate Mbinya and Adalysia Maina walk into the kitchen, taste the food and say that it is savoury, you feel elated. You feel like making them poetic desserts to conclude the meal. Thank you diners.

By James Njenga