Two things happened over the weekend. The first: I finally had that haircut I had been postponing and girl, let me tell you I look like a public temptation. Ngai. I am what wakilis call reasonable grounds for divorce. The president should just grant me unconditional immunity because me I am stealing hearts (and looks). The second thing that happened is that I was grooving in nganyas because when you look like this, you have to show (it) off. Ama?
On the stereo, it was about 2pm, and the news had just aired, live from the ground and I imagined myself a veteran journalist, like Swaleh Mdoe akimeza mate , yelling into the microphone to every mpenzi msikilizaji , bewilderment in my eyes and a mawkish smile on my lips while I say, the rain here is causing public unrest, Lulu. A protestor has been shot dead, Lulu. They love to quarrel with the government, Lulu. Sorry, what’s that Lulu? I lost you there for a bit Lulu. Back to you in studio Lulu.
And then I will finish with a tafakari ya babu, ancient wisdom that disturbs the minds of men who do nothing but think: African presidents, I would say as I scratch my salt and pepper goatee, are like African boyfriends—the next one is worse than the current one.
The DJ would then take over, as I, Swaleh Mdoe proceed to go and meza mate and pay the bills so don’t touch that dial. As I sat in the back of the matatu it hit me why radio presenters are the true lovers, the real superstars.
For one, they are in your ear. Nairobi traffic, which methinks should be declared a national disaster, is the facilitator. There is the comical soul too—40, sometimes 60 of you in a nganya , huddled together in brotherhood, ears lapping up every word the presenter is spewing.
It’s illegal—the overloading, and the huddling, not least because some enterprising passenger can easily engage in wealth redistribution from your pockets into theirs. We are not afraid of getting caught by traffic police because serikali is broke.
The conductor will just hand them some notes. Serikali itarudisha mkono kwa kufunga macho . You know how Kenya is, things may be difficult but they are always possible with money. From haram to halal.
A man in a white suit stands up and requests…sorry, my mistake…orders the driver to switch to wimbo za Yesu, even though the Son of Man is yet to release an album. Immediately he says, “Bwana Yesu asifiwe! ” I resign to my fate. I know this one. A travelling evangelist. He starts with a word of prayer and ends with a “repent before it is too late,”—with a smile of course.
“Nimeona wengi na magari kubwa kubwa!” “Na waliyaacha hapa duniani.” “Pia mimi nimepanda ndege kubwa, nimeenda Marekani, nimesafiri Uhabeshi, nimekuwa Ulaya. Nimetembea hii dunia!”
This is a solo spectacle and this preacher man might be the greatest showman yet. I strain to see him. Can I touch the hem of his garment? He veers into a detailed explanation of his ancestry. His father is from Majengo. His mother is a rock. He was born in Kangemi. He went to school in Kangemi. He will die in Kangemi. I make a mental note to visit Kangemi.
We are almost in CBD, descending Valley Road and he senses he is losing the crowd, so to get out on a high. Today, he says, he has come with holy powder. It will break every curse in your family, village people, that auntie you don’t like—it can even cure singleness! I chuckle. There’s something about him you can’t help but love.
Were this a serious country, he’d be put in charge as the Chief Economics Officer in a Gava ministry or something. Still, I do understand the need for something to hold on to, an anchor of faith, a personal placebo.
I have always found it funny that people consider singlehood a “disease”. Yet the good book itself counsels that being single is a gift. My theory on life is that you get out of life what you really want, even if you think you don’t want it. So if you’re still single, maybe on a very deep level that’s exactly where you want to be.
And I am not talking about the men with unrealistic expectations, you know the ones who want a praying stripper, intelligent but not overbearing, fun but not too funny, and all these housed in the body of an Aphrodite. Is it not our people who say the death that will kill a man begins as an appetite?
It’s often said that a man who is single past a certain age is either a) still immature, playing the field, or b) a pain to live with. There are estates in Nairobi you cannot live if you are unmarried. And I understand, there is a certain naifness that marriage strips away from you.
There is something unsettling about being single—in the sense that it connotes a threat to the conventions around which most people arrange their lives. In the patches that I have been single, the more I have devoted myself to companionship in the form of close friendships that enrich my life, and the more I have anchored myself in my passions be it cycling, volunteering, and cobra-catching. Okay, maybe not cobra-catching but the point stands.
Let me be clear: I don’t mind sleeping with someone’s right boob in my hand (it’s bigger than the left but nobody needs to know that) but I am just as comfortable being alone and taking care of me. Contrary to what that “Five Steps to Win Him Back” YouTube video might suggest; companionship doesn’t always mitigate loneliness.
Loneliness dissipates when you find comfort and pleasure in your own company. I essentially believe most of us find meaning in relationships because we don’t want to do the work of finding out who we are. “Know thyself,” Socrates counselled. That was his mantra and I suggest it should be yours too.
The reality is that most of us wander into the emotional wasteland that is marriage only to find we’ve never been so alone. When we truly show up for ourselves can we then truly show up for others. Can you pour from an empty cup?
I have been told I’m too picky, not getting any younger, I should put myself out there more, just give someone, ANYONE, a chance, and should look for someone who’s ready, or at least breathing, someone with nyash, or no nyash, more assertive and less assertive. That I should lower my standards, should watch “When Harry Met Sally.” They offer to set you up on blind dates, invite you to “single networking events” (lol!), and tell you about Grace, that church girl who has also been eyeing you besides, si kabaya sana . My mother worried I wouldn’t have anyone to take care of me. What if I got sick? What if I needed help? This is modern love. “What is love? Baby, don’t hurt me,” Haddaway sang.
Everyone wants to know; why are you single? But it's just as valid to ask "Why do you choose to live with your partner?" But that's a question we aren't supposed to ask. It upsets the apple cart. Ni kuguza murima . Self-authoring is hard. If it isn’t uncomfortable, it isn’t independence.
And as the conductor collects fare, I think about how dating in Nairobi is like being in a matatu. There is always room for one more. Conductor ni mmoja but passengers ni wengi . And even when there is no space, you are told not to worry, “kuna watu wanashuka hapo mbele. ” I understand. Maybe I’ll have better luck in Kangemi.
