There was a time in my life, before all of this, when I discovered money's true value, which you can only know when you have none. It was cheaper to grow my hair into locks, so I did. I slept around, and by that, I mean, shared rooms with hustling friends when I couldn’t afford my rent.
I ate what was put before me: chafua (chapati, chopped with a swish of soup), KDF, which, as the name suggests, are mandazis that could hold fort in your stomach all day. Talk about nominative determinism! What I especially loved was mushogi —chicken head stuffed with potatoes, tomatoes and onions. Eaten hot.
When money was tight, which was always, I’d be in Kawangware, where my clansmen lay claim to ancestral land, where kata kata is all the rage: chicken legs, chicken heads, chicken liver. For as little as Sh20, you can taste meat without blowing the entire state budget in one sitting.
If you are the monied type or want to impress a babe or keep her guessing, the other usual culprits dot the town: mayai pasua , chapo smokie (smocha ) and the ubiquitous mutura . If you grew up under an African mum’s philosophy of “Utakula chenye nimepika ,” then you needn’t bother with the contents of the mutura . Could be real meat, could be not, could be a dog, could be a cat. And who’s to say cat meat is not real meat? Some say it tastes just like chicken.
Life was simpler then. There were no Podcasts shouting at you how to be a man, often just another way of telling you how not to be a woman. Thieves were burned in the streets, and justice was delivered to the mob. No questions asked. Everyone knew their position on the food chain, who they were in relation to everybody else.
In school, we polished our dreams. Our professors taught us the appearance of the law must be upheld, especially while it’s being broken. They couldn’t explain it, but we knew what they meant. We were the axis, and the earth tilted around our smart heads and potential status. We could picture ourselves in lofty places.
The prime-time interview slots, the all-expenses-paid company trips, high-profile conversations on governance, unga , mwananchi wa kawaida , presidential race. We thought we were different. We thought the best still won.
It takes a while to discover that talent and opportunity are not the same thing. That doing the work doesn't guarantee that someone will notice. That the people who get ahead aren't necessarily the people who deserve to. It’s useless, however, to yell at the clouds. If we concede that life is not fair, we must also conclude that it has to be unfair to someone else’s benefit. Maybe they deserve it. Maybe they don’t.
I have since learned that much of life is an exercise in managing public perception. This is all based on the illusion of potential: what you have now could be worth more in the future. It’s how that Classic duo, Maina and King’ang’i, managed to sell our parents' land in Kamulu and Joska and Chokaa. Four hours to the beach, they said. Using SGR, they didn’t say. Don’t wait to buy, they said. Buy and wait.
When I was applying for higher education, I stumbled upon an essay: Excellent Sheep: The Miseducation of the American Elite and the Way to a Meaningful Life by William Deresiewicz, a former Yale professor. It is a scathing critique of elite universities and the polished, directionless students they churn out. I won’t bother you with the details, but something I read in it stuck with me, and I hope it will stick with you: the “Paradox of Potential.” Yale students, he said, are like stem cells. They can become anything, so they delay for as long as possible the moment they must become one thing in particular. Possibility becomes limitation. Which is a roundabout way of saying that this isn't a fresh insight, that everything has been said before, but since no one was listening, it has to be said again.
We think of advantages as opportunities. I’d argue they are not. Potential is a burden. Often, the more potential you have, the more you’ll struggle with motivation. But if you are a person who has nothing going for you, then you really don’t need motivation. The world will demand that you get up and do something.
Let’s consider the case of Manchester United, or locally, AFC Leopards. There were gifted players in those teams who never achieved what was expected of them. High expectations often led to mental impotence. Human beings are like that. They were expected to win, so they didn’t win.
In the ghetto, or the village, much isn’t expected of one. Maybe have a family, pay your taxes, follow the law. When one breaks from the mould, it is easy to get heralded, held up as a shining light, potential turning to prophecy. Because the worst thing anyone can tell you is that you are full of potential.
It’s why I take exception with people being called “upcoming.” Who determines when you are no longer upcoming? If you are doing the thing, aren’t you already here? Upcoming rapper. Upcoming writer. Yawn. Would you trust an upcoming pilot? Is that why, lately, there have been so many choppers plucked from the sky?
Which is worse: knowing how much you can achieve or other people knowing how much you can achieve? The future can become an excuse for postponing the present. Your real value lies somewhere ahead, in the person you are expected to become. Vijana ni viongozi wa kesho , right?
