I was one of those Kenyans who swore I was not going to get excited when US President Barack Obama flew into the country.
I mean, he isn’t my President. It isn't like I was going to meet him or shake his hand.
Getting excited over Obama coming was about as fruitful as having an opinion on Greece's debt when my own country is wallowing in so much of its own; interesting to be informed about, but useless in the long run.
On top of that, I was highly incensed that the Pope and the President of the Free World were getting preferential grass treatment in my country, yet I'm the one who has to live here!
The grass still isn't green, and I wonder how much of it Obama even saw.
I am pleased that the highways were cleaned, though as usual, Kenyans are quick to get into shape when it isn't just Kenyans looking at us.
Just like in high school, when a State official was visiting and all of a sudden the roads were being swept excessively and we, for once, didn't have to do the gardening.
Regardless, I spent Thursday night and Friday morning in a state of anticipation. I casually took a drive around Nairobi to see what was happening (all the roads were free and fair, like elections are supposed to be).
No one was on the roads. No one was working. In fact, I don't think the road closings would have made much of a difference, since no one was going anywhere on Friday.
I somehow found myself arbitrarily standing at the Nyayo Stadium roundabout, under the pretence of checking out the rates at the gym there.
There is something electrifying about a united Kenya. The Kenyans on the side of the road, holding American flags but still very much Kenyan, were pulsating with excitement.
The crowds started to form at around 2 pm and grew as time progressed. By nightfall, they were a singing, chanting, patient mass. It felt like a football game, one of those hyped el classico matches that drive men crazy.
It was very exciting to watch Kenyans join in something bigger than ourselves, than tribe or politics – you know, the way we get so impassioned during athletics competitions, or when Lupita wins an Oscar.
We wanted to see this Kenyan-American son of our land – and not even to see him! Just his car was enough, reminiscent of Jesus' cloak. Just to know that he was passing, that he was there.
Even more exciting was the fact that it felt like he was, indeed, home. He knew the words to say, like niaje . He knew what to talk about (women empowerment and entrepreneurship, because which Kenyan only has one job?) He even took the mickey out of Uhuru.
It felt like he knows us. Almost as if we're the disobedient child listening to the big brother who knows we can do better, but somehow frames it in such a way that at the end, we still have our dignity and he can tell the parents that he gave us a talking to.
And I will never forget watching my generation dance with the most powerful man on earth: Sauti Sol and Obama and Uhuru, dancing to ‘Sura Yako’. That was a climax for me.
To think that this is possible! That dreams are valid! That four boys who used to be struggling artists begging a local cafe to shoot their first video (oh, how they must regret it now) are global.
I stopped trying to keep the excitement down. It was a proud (and intensely jealousy-filled) moment.
I'm sure many Kenyans felt like I did – finding themselves tuned in to news that was covered with images of Obama, from the live feed of everything we could catch down to irritating details about the Beast that no one needed to really know.
Why are we so excited when someone the world recognises comes to us? Why did no one notice the other artists who performed for the presidents?
Sure, the show may have been stolen by Obama taking part in the Sauti Sol performance, but they were not the only artists on the list that night. What is this inexplicable awe we (still) have for all things foreign?
Obama may be a special case, but we demonstrate it daily. Kenyans prefer to foul where we eat instead of cleaning up, and never is this more evident than when Someone's Visiting. Much like in our childhood when Aunty So-and-So was coming and everyone had to be on their best behaviour.
It is unfortunate, but obvious. And we need to remember – Obama may be a son of Kenya, but he doesn't live here. In fact, by the time he landed it was nightfall. That grass wasn't going to be seen anyway.
The American flags will, one by one, be taken down, and traffic will resume. We're the ones who will go and watch (or not, to our detriment) the struggling artists at Alliance Française.
We'll watch the speeches over and over again, and maybe – or maybe not – do something about it.
