“Looking over the skyline of the city…”
R.Kelly crooning. A long time ago. Smooth RnB.
Love that was a bit uncomplicated and less money minded. Then, with a
few words – a poem, lyrics to a love song – penned , sealed, lettered and
delivered, you could afford to find love.
Looking over the skyline of the city,
skyscrapers – occupied and under construction – jut about, bits of greenery
completing the façade. On the canopy astride the sixth floor, shaded, a nice
breeze caresses his skin against the December heat that brings a haze of lazy
to Nairobi. In earlier times, he would be down at the coast – Mtwapa, Diani –
flirting with Fatuma and Halima. In much earlier times, he would be in the
village – a bit of farming and local politics at the village centre.
Looking over the skyline of the city, he
reminisces… dreams of what could be when he first landed in Nairobi. Then, his
belly was closely acquainted with hunger; a monthly irritant to the landlord
that had let him a single ‘mabati’ shack as he was always behind on rent
payments. Then, he had really got good at the game of hide-and-seek.
His reminiscing takes him places.
Kileleshwa – Kikuyu for the Kirichwa River – the river that meanders – now more
of a sewage line, across the Kilimani neighbourhood. Once, this neighbourhood
could afford to compete with Lavington, but now, the maisonettes are gone. In
their place, glass and concrete skyscrapers planted. Change, ever a constant in
Nairobi.
His reminiscing takes him places… long ago
when the ‘askari’ – the security men or gatekeepers to opportunities in the
posh estates – were stern at his shabby self. Not today, though. The ‘askari’
saluted him, then engaged him in small talk – cue for him to part with
something small – the economy is not kind at all to the people at the bottom of
the pyramid. First-hand experience, he has.
A thought – brief, misplaced – occupies his
mind. His is a symbol of prestige – the Mercedes Benz, DT Dobie. Luxury no
longer fazes him. He has been to cities around the world… Beijing, Dubai,
Morocco, London, New York… chasing the mighty dollar or just seeing the world.
He can afford that. Travel – once a passion – now wearies him.
Mr. Steven Akumu, old school, the man. He
listens a lot – to music and people. He likes stories, so, he likes having
storytellers around him. Old school music, he thinks, is storytelling at its
purest… hip-hop, roots reggae, rhumba, benga, ‘zilizopendwa’… ‘Malebo’. Faustin
Munishi. ‘Nakuita Malebo uje kwa Yesu utubu…” The clarion call for Malebo to
get saved. Quite a charcter, this Malebo fella. He identifies with him –
Malebo; what happened to him – Mr. Steven Akumu – yesterday.
He had just withdrawn X amount, Koinange
Street branch… sky blue suit, rimless glasses, loafers, Rolex – every inch the
successful executive. As he made his way to the Benz, six guys – big, brawny, a
bit dandy – Nigerian shysters, cornered him. They caused a pretty ruckus,
wailing that he had swindled them – ‘wash wash’ – of quite a substantive amount
of dollars. Should they beat him up? Take him to the police? They reasoned with
the gathered crowd. Nobody moved to rescue him. That’s Kanairo for you.
Everyone minds their business. More so, as a Beretta protruded from the back
hip of one of the fellows.
Mr. Steven Akumu, he places a call. X
Agency – VIP protection services. Two bodyguards, defensive driving. Already,
his German machine is bullet-proof. He is a proper businessman now –
import-export, real estate, a bit of manufacturing – and business rivalry can
get quite ugly. He is in the middle of an acquisition and one of the partners
in that firm is being coerced to sell by his partners.
Mr. Steven Akumu, he is not new to cleaning
out the trash. On occasion, starting this other life, he did rather get his
hands dirty. Now, he prefers someone else to do this; far-away and with minimal
details furnished to him upon successful completion of the work. Quite early
on, he learnt to delegate – the micro-manager that he was… the business
expertise people told him that this was not good for the scale he wanted to
grow his business too.
Mr. Steven Akumu, he reminisces of his
first job. Of his recruitment into the hit squad. Years back, he had finagled a
position as an untrained teacher at a local, low-cost academy. English subject
– a lettered man, he fancied himself. There by the gate to the academy was
parked a Toyota Corolla – three young men inside. Ever a man of opportunity, he
engaged them in chit-chat – the afternoon was slow.
Half an hour later, there were a couple of
bangs – loud, urgent – and everyone rushed out… pupils, teachers, staff,
residents of the neighbourhood… A Pajero half inside the trench. On the
driver’s side, half-dangling out, a young man oozing blood. The police were now
called, sealing off the scene of crime. Then, their eyes met. One of the young
men come back to establish that the job was successfully executed.
The young man, his eyes cold and mean. Mr.
Steven Akumu, he gave the young man a subtle thumbs up, thawing the icy stare
into a beautiful, child-like smile. That very day, Mr. Steven Akumu was
recruited into the underworld. Soon enough, he would be handed his first
assignment. Soon enough, he would have to prove his mettle. Mr. Steven Akumu
was come of age.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6G6AByau4xg
******
NB: Meanwhile, I have a small ask:- I am
running a campaign that will enable me launch my two books in February, end,
2024. I humbly ask of your donations of 20KES/20Kshs/20bob, towards this. The
campaign is dubbed #20BobSanaa. Thanks in advance. You can also support by
liking and sharing this content, or by buying these books using the following
links:
‘A Funeral Dress for
Nyasuguta’ available at: https://nuriakenya.com/product/a-funeral-dress-for-nyasuguta-by-mark-mwangi/
‘Love Told, Poetry
Souled, Family Bold’ – available on Amazon Kindle at http://shorturl.at/hzALY
Buy Good Till Number: 9080911, Gatere
Mwangi
Send Money: 0708 276 622, Mark Gatere
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