The phrase “neck of the woods” was made for how deep we were in Kitengela, if you could loosen the definition of woods to mean dust. Jostled from side to side, I maintained my ears erect and tried to hold my place against various swirling currents of humanity.
We are here to celebrate D—’s moving into a new home. That’s where we are now—wringing every tinge of happiness from life’s syringe because we all know life is a journey blah blah blah.
We are in E—'s car, a small Suzuki minivan that he calls “Prado Petite” to soften the blow of not actually owning a Prado. But you know how these things are; the car is what he says the car is.
We are six in total, E— and his brother in front, and four of us at the back, me the only man there, the one masculine bloom withering in a garden of sisters. D— was expecting us at 3 PM, but there is no hurry in Africa, so we will get there when we get there. We have drifted into the next station of life, moving from buying alcohol as gifts to now doing major house shopping as gifts.
It is for precisely the same logic as to why I have put off marriage: get married as late as you can, and your friends’ economic statuses will have increased significantly to buy you important gifts—fridges, king-size beds, land, an all-expense-paid honeymoon. Marry young, and you get nothing but congratulations, advice, and good wishes. Anyone can give advice. Not everyone can pay for your honeymoon to São Tomé and Príncipe.
Take, for instance, W—. She is 32; her husband is what? 38? She got married last year, and because her man is a feminist, he let her decide: he told her, you can work, but only if you want to. W— says she has never had to pay rent all her life. To be fair, her father’s money also runs long, and you could see this from her face, long-haired and prissy and easy on the eye.
For many Kenyans ripe for marriage, the search for a good man or a good woman has become increasingly hard.
W— is just plain beautiful, and she smells nice too, and has a full chest too, and a body that you just knew would look good in and out of clothes; sure she is smart and has a brain and a Masters in something-ology, and sure, I am no superficial brother but, brother, “hot personality” isn’t top of my list in the lady shopping market…
The Kitengela dust is threatening to show us, erm, dust; but luckily W— is a talker, and she is talking about my man this, and my man that, and I am here measuring myself against him, this man that I’ve never met (I didn’t go to the wedding for secret reasons), and I am constantly coming up short. First, the man pays all the bills.
Bro, I mean all. Rent, obviously, house shopping, clothes, down to the underwear. If they had children, “Which we will in three years,” says W—, he’d be paying their way to international schools too. She also has a girlfriend allowance for her girl stuff, and dinner with her girls, and chama, all that shebang.
I understand now what my mama used to say: A woman’s greatest perfume is the fragrance of her man’s success. But what did I care? She shows me his picture, and the bloke is not ugly either. But he must have a defect, so I conclude the worst, that he is short where it matters most.
There is truth, and there is rumour. The truth is, we are aghast in the car because I thought men like that were extinct; even in the Stone Age, men were hunters and women gatherers, jino kwa jino, ukimwaga mboga namwaga ugali, or so Professor Jay—who I later discovered is not actually a professor—sang. But W— was also a woman of the world, and from Murima too, and you know what they say: if a Kikuyu woman loves you, then you have money or have the potential to make money. They can smell where it is, E— says. “Or where it is going!” someone else shouts, and we all laugh.
A couple exchanges wedding rings.
There is no road to D—’s place; it is all rough murram and craters that threaten to swallow our Prado Petite, but E— is an expert driver, never even stops when traffic cops flag him down. But he’d miscalculated the size of one of those canyons on the road, and he accelerated when he should have decelerated, and I hit my head on the window so hard I’m sure some of my descendants will be born dumb because of it. But W— who was sitting next to me told me sorry and put my head on her chest.
My most Kenyan habit is asking people how much rent they pay in Nairobi, and so it is only natural that the question pops up. W— says she pays 55K a pop, but seeing the disgust on my face, adds that that includes electricity and water and “security”. “I told my husband you don’t have to upgrade me, but you must maintain the lifestyle I am used to,” and we all agree that W— found a man among men.
My people say when it’s your time even the basket will hold water for you—and I think that is really what I have been driving at, brethren. Don't introduce a woman raised in Kitisuru to a Kawangware lifestyle and expect romance to bridge the gap.
Not even Afro-Cinema is producing those scripts anymore. Huku nje ni mbaya! Her expectations have been set; either you maintain or exceed them. You cannot Prado Petite your way out of a Suzuki. It is written.
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