W— is driving, and I am correcting her skills—or improving them, as I told her—because I’m a feminist. We are headed downtown. She has refused to let me play my Madilu System, calls me old, dated, antiquated. That’s fine. Her car, her rules. But can she move into the middle of the lane? Not without cruise control; she can’t.
We are on Thika Superhighway, doing 80 in a 110 km/h lane. I wouldn’t call myself impatient, but I kept urging the car forward by tensing and twisting and leaning forward, like a golfer who imagines his body language can influence the trajectory of the ball once he’s hit it. I believe I would struggle driving in a country that follows traffic laws. What do you mean red means stop? I thought red means continue unless there is another car incoming, in which case, just swerve right, honk, use a few choice words, and foot the accelerator. Common sense.
Anyway. It’s a great Saturday. The orange sun is rolling across the sky like a severed head, the breeze hitting your face at just the right speed, and with the best of friends, laughing and bickering and feeling as if life is opening out instead of boxing us in. It brings to mind those charmless Instagram captions: "Could get used to this."
The conversation meanders, as it does with all long-term friendships. J— and K— are in the back. We were all in school together, have known each other for 13 years, and know things about each other that even the NIS would struggle to obtain. Those who say "marry your friend" would be at pains to explain why none of us are married to each other. J— and K— would make a great couple, if you are asking me, but you are not, so they won’t. W— and I would be what is presumably called the power couple, Bonnie and Clyde, or if you prefer, Patelo na Dee, mostly because she makes more money than me, which in 2026, is fine? I am progressive like that.
They are exceptional women, J— and W—; and exceptional women tend to marry average men. That is my working theory, based on observation and AI, African Intelligence, that is. To be clear, this is not one of those high-value, low-value contretemps that are thrown around by gym bros.
It’s about the nature of conversation. It’s a pity, really.
In rich and established democracies, what people want from life goes up until no conceivable government can provide it. Friendships are no exception. The higher one person climbs, the more the other can see how far there is to go. The more you can get from life, the less you do.
I know, because it happened to me. B— was a very close friend in campus. We hustled together, trenches and whatnot. But she got a lucky break and has been in more airports than I know the capital cities for, and just like that, we fell off. Part of it was time. The other part was that her brain had developed further than mine; where we once converged, we now diverged. I felt a keen sense of low self-esteem, an unworthiness, despite our years of friendship.
Before Adam, or Eve, if we are being fair, ate the apple, Adam was a fairly simple-minded man. But he wanted to know, to be special. Low expectations, born of a low starting point, is the trick to happiness. That is why this world is not ruled by bright people. This world is ruled by very ordinary people.
I know this because I never expected much from Nigeria, based on my years of watching Afro Cinema. I was preconditioned to their failures, primed even, and when I got there, I was like, ah! It’s just like the movies. Low expectations = great happiness. I imagine the day I enter the belly of the big bird and land in the Great British Empire and have tea with Victoria with bacon and sausages and beans, the land where the wife talks and the husband listens, my faith in the exceptionalism that sets them apart from all the others, I imagine I would be disappointed because they stab each other on Oxford Street. But I don’t know this because I haven’t been to Britain yet, innit? Nevertheless, I have huge expectations. Long live the king or whatever they say.
It’s with a similar brush I paint whoever will be president by the end of next year. Desperation breeds a desire for messiahs, and it’s easy to count your blessings when they are so few...
As a defensive pessimist, I am in a persistent state of happiness because I am immune to disappointment. My glass will always be half empty. Some would say I am just afraid of being proven wrong. Fine by me. Perhaps you too could appreciate my work more if you had low expectations?
Look. We are almost here. J— wants us to pass by this place that she saw on TikTok. It’s a burger place. One of those “hidden gems.” I am wary of any meat served on Thika Rd, but I go anyway. I tell W— that her feet must be tired. She asks if it’s because she’s been driving? I say, No, it’s because she has been running through my mind the whole day. Not even a 13-year-old would have accepted that, but W— laughed anyway. She might have heard better in her day, but it’s the men you expect nothing from that really blow you away.
