Dear Molly, as I informed you last time, I
shifted. Partly, the floods, partly, change, partly, finances. This Creative
Writing journey is taking a bit of time to yield fruits, but I hang on,
consoled by the words of one Ernest Hemingway, whose ending was horrible:
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and
bleed.”
Where I shifted to, is a downgrade. ‘Mabati’
rooms – plenty of stories, though as living is communal and one’s business is
everyone’s business. Such as the recent theft – a woofer, charger, ‘meko’ gas,
a bar of soap, and a bucket of maize flower - that’s how ‘flour’ is pronounced,
FIY. Must have been pretty hungry, them thieves.
How it unfolded. A bit of commotion early
morning as the light drizzle simmered down. An echo into my dreams, gradually
lulling me into an uneasy state of wakefulness. A bitter exchange – innuendos
and insinuations. I am now older, so, I take time, straining to hear the going-ons
and get a fuller picture before I form an opinion or reaction.
Once, when I started life, I was rather
young – the landlord demanded I produce an ID card to confirm I wasn’t an
under-18. I also had an erratic career as an artiste – bits of community theatre,
sporadic poetry sessions, chasing after slim writing opportunities – the
quintessential romantic but starving artiste.
The bits of community theatre – afternoon
rehearsals, trekking to different places to perform that were the outreaches,
trekking back home in the eve… you can imagine I would be dead tired and would
have trouble waking up the next day. Then, I would wake up at the most
dishonourable time of 10am. Well, Covid-19 was yet to illuminate ghetto people
of the concept of online work/gig economy.
On some days, we wouldn’t have rehearsals or
outreaches planned out. Still, appearances had to be made. You see, for ladies,
no one questions if they spend the whole day inside the plot. For young men,
though, should a theft happen, they would be the automatic suspects. So, I
usually retired to the community library to convince my neighbours that I was
engaged in some productive work or other.
The present day. I am much older – bits of
grey have strayed on my beard and I look like someone’s husband – wife and
children could be upcountry, the unsaid verdict. Touts address me as ‘mzae’ –
old man. ‘Kweli ujana ni moshi’ – youth is but a smokescreen. The outside
conversation continues.
A lady neighbour is the one whose items
were thefted. She suspects a young man who happens to be someone’s husband. She
threatens to go visit a witchdoctor and have the thief or thieves soon eating
grass in the manner of Nebuchadnezzar. The next day, she will print out a
notice to this effect and glue it to the gate.
I am now outside, carefully weighing in.
“Last night, I came home at midnight and the gate wasn’t locked…” True, this,
and which had me worried about the safety of my belongings. I have lived long enough
in Nairobi and knows just how crucial locking the gate is as a deterrence to
housebreaking and theft. Good thing is, I am not a suspect. For now, at least.
Still, from now, I will have to keep up
appearances – pretend as though I do an 8-5 job as expected. Else, make money
speedily and shift. I hope it’s the latter. Please do help out by buying my
book here: https://nuriakenya.com/product/a-funeral-dress-for-nyasuguta-by-mark-mwangi/
Anyways, I have discovered that there are
free trainings at a nearby institution… beauty, catering, tailoring… I have put
down my name for a tailoring course. They will be calling us in due course for
the next intakes. ‘NMB’ – No More Boring – is a fashion label that will be
coming out soon.
In the meantime, I keep writing lyrics and
working on my stand-up comedy routine. Very Groucho Marx of me – writer,
comedian, actor, artiste… I hope I’ll be as successful as him. If not, I will
say, I tried my best. Write a song about it too. Bye for now, Molly, and keep
dry.
Yours heart-in-ache,
Sant Mark
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