The Uber driver is telling me a story of how some girls, after a night of drinking, peed and vomited in his car. He didn’t have to tell me this, but he insists he has to. Why? I do not know. It’s because we are leaving Ruaka, and he picked those girls from where I am coming from, or as he put it, “Hizo AirBnBs za mashetani” (Those devilish Airbnbs).
Hold on. First, the devil makes for a lousy landlord as he is not known to let you go without settling his accounts; hence the phrase, ‘Give the devil his due.’ And two, it was not an Airbnb where I was from, not that it was any of his business. Or yours. But the man insists on talking, and I let him because I am easygoing like that, and it is midnight heading onto 1am or so; and he speaks in a heavy voice from western Kenya, a shemeji voice — this voice that crackled and made you think of uncles or grandfathers.
He asks my age, and I tell him. He asks what I do, and I lie to him. I said I am a researcher. He wants to know if I am married, if I am seeing someone, if I have children... I want to tell him, “Afande please. Hatujuani hivyo (we don’t know each other like that),” but instead I take the easy way out and say, “Why?” He says if I am not married and must marry, let it not be from Ruaka.
He badmouths Ruaka, and I do not stop him. If you are not from Ruaka you probably have this titillation about it, a sort of haven, a somewhat depressed Kenyan town with its KFC, and malls, and two rivers, and wines and spirits, and 24-hour pharmacies. But after you live here for a while, you realise it’s just another town. Sure, it borders Runda on this side and Rosslyn on that other side, but let’s not kid ourselves; it’s just Ruaka. Maybe the only thing left to say about Ruaka is that it’s a good place to get used to most things.
Some say it’s forbearance. I think it’s probably close to indifference. Or maybe that’s the same thing, but not worth thinking further about.
Shemeji takes the turn onto Limuru Road, when I expect him to ply the Gachie route, which is shorter if you are heading to Lavington or Kawangware or “Lavingware”, which I am. Even at 1am, Limuru Road is busy, someone is staggering across the road, mama mbogas (who I don’t really think are mama mbogas) are selling (what else) mbogas, and there are prostitutes just ahead of Quickmart. Hustler Nation, New Singapore, ama namna gani my friend?
I am sat shotgun (front passenger seat), Shemeji is speeding through what is left of the tarmac— the joke here being, in Kenya, we don’t drive on the left, we drive on what is left. Shemeji is flouting the rules of the road, along with the Subaru drivers, the Mark X drivers, and the nduthi riders who are, of course, not wearing helmets. Everyone’s honking, everyone’s in a hurry, everything looks hard-scrabble. I am thinking about my power bank that I left in Ruaka, whether I should go back for it, but Shemeji looks like a man who doesn’t take well to being told what to do, probably why he left his last job—or was pushed out, who can tell?—to drive a taxi for a living, driving a taxi for a living being one reason he is out this late at night. His wife being the other reason.
He is trying to dam it, but the words pour out of him anyway, talking about the vagaries of marriage, about how ndoa ni ngumu, reading from the same script every man reads from, and I want to tell him I’ve been read in; nothing new, I’ve heard it all before. He says he is working till Sunday 4am while his wife and three children are sleeping Fo! Fo! Fo! And at 9am he will take them to church and continue with work.
He sounds like a man who’d never gotten a favour out of life and never given one out, seeing that he is treating me as his confessor, and I will deny him what he craves most; absolution. He says, “Ndugu, maisha ya mwanaume ni uchungu!” (The life of a man is pain and grief). “I see what you mean,” I say, not seeing anything in particular. It’s not my fault, I want to tell him, meaning the curse of possessing a phallus, and whatever else might be my fault.
He asks to run a social experiment. I remember I said I’m a researcher so I say, ‘Sawa’. “Count the number of men you’ll see on the streets at this time. And then count the women,” he says.
It’s an easy experiment. We count six men: some with kaimatis, others with mkokotenis, some in cars — eight by the time you get to the end of this sentence.
He says, “Ndugu, hata wezi wengi ni wanaume (Brother, even most gangsters are men).” I agree. Which is why they had to create the position of Women Rep, just to balance the numbers, but I don’t tell him that. “Wanaiba walishe bibi zao (They steal in order to provide for their wives),” he says, like a woman talking about a lover whose shortcomings she would just have to live with. He’s been waiting for this moment, and now the moment is here, and he’s going to make sure the moment is perfect.
In my mind, I am thinking about the praying mantis, specifically the female praying mantis, and how, during mating, the female mantis bites off the head of the male. Sexual cannibalism, they call it. Without the head, there is less hesitation, and the act is more vigorous and often lasts longer, which should say something about the male praying mantis, or males in general.
Scientists say this only happens to about 30 per cent of praying mantises. Which is like saying three out of 10 praying mantises die during sex, and if I were a praying mantis, and knowing my luck, I’d be dead with the first thrust. It’s like when doctors tell you 50 percent of people survive this condition, you smile. But if he says, 50 percent die… then, well, you know. Yet it’s the same information. This same scenario describes most marriages.
By the time Shemeji pulls up to “Lavingware”, we’ve counted about 13 men. We stop at the gate, and he continues to talk until the guard opens the gate. I send him Sh960, which is a fortune, especially in this economy, and with AI coming for your job. I want to say something meaningful, something about how he should never give up on the dream. I just thank God I am not a male praying mantis.
