CHANGES: A STRANGER
At the dawn of 2020, I’d set out my resolutions for that crazy year. To focus more on my degree, sleep with a couple of girls, farther my writing career & craft stories worth reading.
By July, I’d achieved all of those targets and even more. I’d acquired a Harvard law school certificate and been on dates with intimidatingly hot & smart sisters. With all of this accumulation of wins, I should have been happy, fulfilled and complete.
The icing on the cake, I landed an internship at this ad agency. For a bit, I’ve harboured the dream of being an advertising copywriter. To be the go-to guy when creating good copy. I’ve thought of myself as that odd apple that carries a Macbook in a small leather bag and hangs out in cafes, burning through mugs of steaming coffee and cigarettes as I come up with the next great concept, copy or story.
And now, this burgeoning ad agency was giving me the chance to kick start my career. Through the interview process, I survived the brutal screening. We’d done aptitude tests; we did IQ tests. I sat through gruelling interrogations, the Indian bosses outlining their vision and agenda.
Copywriters are like gold in Kenya, hard to get. Out of over 200 candidates, I stood out. I don’t know why. I am a nondescript campus chap. You won’t notice me first if you walk into a room filled with people. I like to stay in the background. I think I’m smart, but I don’t make a big deal out of it. These Indians had ignored graduates and picked me of all people, this was a massive show of faith.
I got the gig.
Finally, I was happy. By August, all I was thinking is how despite the pandemic, 2020 had been a good year for me. My GPA was at an all-time high, I’d banged girls I wanted to bang. I had a Harvard certificate. A publishing house wanted to publish my stories in a book format. I’d sat through a zoom seminar with Jackson Biko and Doug Odhiambo, probably two of the most influential and celebrated copywriters in Kenya.
At one point in the seminar, Biko had addressed me as “Sir”. I felt important. I was climbing up the writing/literature ladder, whatever. Yours truly was having the time of his life. I felt invincible, I was riding the clouds. Nothing could go wrong. I was even starting to get into spirituality, doing yoga, reading the Gita, and mending my relationship with God. After all, he was catering to all my material needs. All I’d asked for; he’d laid it down on my feet.
When you think you have it all, that’s when you have nothing. And less is more.
I showed up at the Ad agency and burned days away, typing captions, coming up with taglines and phrases. The agency was housed in this ancient warehouse which had been converted into an office. They were still finding their feet. The washrooms were in one corner of the place, everybody watched you walk there. Not like it bothered the employees, we were all young souls, hip. All in our twenties, we had our absurd dreams, we woke up in the morning with the conviction that we were winning the rat race. Youth unemployment is strife in Kenya, so if you’re young and you have a job, you’re certainly doing well.
This is the time when the wheels came off. I felt like the rug had been yanked off beneath my feet, and I was headed for a tumble. And I did tumble.
One morning as I prepared for work, I stared at the mirror. I didn’t recognise whoever stared back. In the matatu, I rode shotgun and the driver kept glancing my way, he could sniff that something was off. That day, I struggled through work, I couldn’t wait to run home, slide under the duvet and sleep.
When I got to my studio apartment; I couldn’t sleep. That night, I tossed and turned like a fish trying to unhook itself from a fisherman’s hook. I am not a heavy sleeper; I survive effortlessly with less than four hours of sleep a night. But that night, I couldn’t close my eyes to save my life. I lay wide awake. I listened to night sounds and when the first cockerels announced a new day, my eyes were still open. The bulb was on, I stared blankly at the ceiling. I was still in the previous day’s clothes; I hadn’t even slipped off my shoes.
I tried to think about what was happening, nothing made sense. There was an engulfing feeling of stagnation. At the time, I wanted to do nothing. If I could, I would lie there forever, unmoving, till I found answers to questions not asked.
But the world doesn’t stop when your little life is falling apart. After all, I had a job, I needed to show up and earn my keep. I struggled out of bed and a hot mug of coffee gave me a dim spark. I jumped into the shower. I normally enjoy cold, morning baths, but that day, I couldn’t leave the bathroom faster. The bathroom’s walls seemed to be closing in on me.
Two days later, I had not slept yet. It started to show. I couldn’t concentrate at work. My eyes were swollen, my glances fretful and distant. There’s an Indian chick I consulted (work matters) with most of the time. She was a ball of fun, smiles & laughter. Before, her presence was calming, but now each time she smiled at me, I felt like disappearing from the room. Have you read “Notes from Underground?” You would understand what I am talking about.
Fatigue was catching up with me. The show couldn’t go on much longer, I needed to sleep. I called my dealer & asked him to roll me some good stuff. That night instead of a wonderful trip and good sleep, I was paranoid for a bit. My thoughts were jumbled up pieces which made no sense. It was then that it hit me.
I was the problem.
I’d based so much of myself on the material world; on my writing, on how well-shaped my abs were, on the number of certificates I had, on the women in my life. I was holding on to too much pointless baggage, trying to balance a falling, materialistic and consumerist apple cart.
My struggle was that I didn’t know who I was if everything I’d accumulated was suddenly taken away. I’d faced the reality of losing everything I’d created. I was scared of losing myself. Actually, I didn’t know who I was. That was not a way to live.
To find yourself, you need to lose yourself. Thus, I lost myself. I went incognito.
Who was I without all these titles attached to me, ati sijui ‘Writer, copywriter, content creator, social media strategist, brand strategist, Harvard graduate?’ Who was I really without all this naming propaganda? Could I sit with someone without having to mention my achievements?
I don’t want to live my life based on accomplishments. I want to live free, not attached to small wins here and there. And thus, I put my job on hold. I packed a small bag and jumped on a Kisii bound bus. I was headed home, where it all began, maybe answers lay in the vast ridges of the west.
Kisii was good to me. It allowed me to be everything Nairobi couldn’t let me be. For the past five months or so, I forgot everything about life, money, success, women. I went into meditative silence, talking to nobody except my bachelor father. God, I love that man. He saw the demons I was battling and he let me be.
He did not ask why I’d walked away from a good job; he didn’t care. In that period, I wasn’t writing much, he didn’t ask to read something I was working on. I wasn’t working on anything. I would wake up, turn on Aljazeera and watch the day flutter by. When boredom kicked in, the Joe Rogan experience kept me company. I’ve listened to hours of that bald-headed chap, followed the inane conversations with Eddie Bravo, Alex Jones, Tim Dillon, Young Jamie, Joey Diaz and many more.
The conspiracy theories of Eddie Bravo & Alex Jones are something else. Those American trash heads made me laugh a lot when nothing else did. This is the beauty of the internet and ultra-connectivity when your immediate world sucks, you can always go into another world. It doesn’t matter that the other world is virtual, our brains can’t distinguish that.
To keep me engaged, I got into a little poultry farming experiment. It was a monumental failure, keeping birds isn’t easy. When a certain conman said that he made his billions from farming chicken, I laugh. What the hell is that motherfucker talking about???
The past months have been a period of deep introspection. I’ve cut myself open, I’ve questioned my dreams, my motivations. I’ve questioned my agenda, what do I really want to do in this beautiful world? In all of this, I have found not a clear answer. The only clarity I have is that I’ll be writing a lot, telling stories, being honest. Because what else can we do with life if not tell our stories?
I used to think that we’re young and we’re going to live forever, but in this winter of hibernation, I faced man’s eternal companion, mortality. Two of my friends passed away. The news cut through my heart, the way Saltbae chops through a steak. What makes it sadder, I wasn’t able to attend their funerals.
One was my roommate in high school. He was a class behind me. I distinctly remember our first meeting. When he arrived as a form one, small, green-eyed, unimpressionable, I helped him carry his belongings from the field to the cubicle. He did not cry when he bade his mother goodbye. He just smiled at her, waved and followed me.
The three years we were cubemates, he was the most generous guy I’d ever known. By Form 2, he’d grown tall as a pole and was in the basketball team, where he was a superstar. The name of the blog “KINASISI”, he’s the one who came up with it. We spent our high school days laughing, exchanging novels & telling bullshit stories. He was a brother. When I saw the text that he was no more, that acute bronchitis had stolen his flame, tears came to my eyes. I am in tears writing this, but fuck it. Death really does rob us of amazing people.
Another chap I knew passed away to. This guy, we were in primary school with him, he was my classmate & even one time, I remember sharing desks with him. After KCPE, guess what, we joined the same high school. On-campus, he doing a premium course. A smart guy, calm but intense. Life had happened and we’d drifted apart, but when the report of his passing got to me, I was gutted major. Homeboy was stabbed to death.
I think about these two chaps a lot. Hitherto, I never paid much attention to death. But now, I realise that death is always there, waiting in the wings, ready to cast its net. These days I appreciate the moments I have with people. I try to enjoy every minute as much as possible. Because as Bikozulu writes “We are here now & life’s good, so let’s soak in these moments because you never know when we will see each other again.”
And Ricky Gervais, the comic says, “Let’s all laugh, because we are all gonna die, and there’s no sequel.”
A few days back, I was talking to my best friend. He said that I’d changed. That I looked different, that I sounded different, walked differently. That I seemed a stranger. He’s right, I am a stranger.
A girl told me that I was glowing. The jury is still out on that one, I haven’t looked myself in the mirror for a while. But then, it’s good to glow, it means that life has been good to me.
Weeks back I got into the city. The familiar sense of urgency tugged at me. Whenever I walk through the streets of Nairobi, there’s this feeling of want in the air. People want something… People are chasing something. There’s palpable tension, a razor-sharp desire of a people who won’t settle for less.
I watched the skyscrapers, bullish monuments of capitalism, rising like silver swords into the skyline. I walked the streets cast with thousands of flowing humanity, Nairobians. Along Ronald Ngala street, atop a rooftop, I took deep breaths. The smell of the city wafted in, welcomed me. This is Nairobbery.
Cheers to 2021.
