Post by Onyango Oloo on Jan 8, 2006 23:51:02 GMT 3
FIRST DRAFT-UNEDITED
A Photo-Essay from Nairobi
by Onyango Oloo
For over forty years, I have been passing through the town of
Naivasha on my way to Nakuru, Kisumu, Yala, you name it.
Not once have I had occasion to stop by, stop over or sleep over in what surely ranks as one of the leading candidates for the mantle of flower capital region of the world.
That is, not until this past Sunday, I mean not this one, as in today's soon to be yesterday's Sunday, but New Year's Jumapili which as you will recall- if you have sufficiently recovered from the keshas at the various makanisa or the alcohol induced hengs in your locality- was the first day of 2006.On this score of chasing away the Old Year, I was missing from both camps, having opted to do what I do every New Year’s eve- stay put at home.
So:
How did Onyango Oloo end up being entertained by a troupe of working class isikuti musicians on the south shore of Lake Naivasha on January 1, 2006?
I have to thank a certain political rafiki of mine for that.
Speaking on the phone towards the end of last week but one, he intimated that a group of workers in Naivasha had decided to have a cultural celebration on New Year’s day and he asked me if I wanted to come and join in the event.
Around seven o’clock of the morning in question I found myself outside Development House staring at the Bomb Blast Memorial directly across the street waiting for two other friends with whom we would be traveling.
As I waited for my traveling companions I occupied myself with exchanging glad tidings with perfect strangers and was struck by how Nairobians are NOT as close to Torontonians as I once imagined and how Mombasa residents are more akin to Montrealers …
Let me explain, having resided in all four metropolitan areas.
Torontonians are NOTORIOUS for the invisible two feet radius of fenced in “personal space” territory that "outsiders" cannot break to pass a greeting, comment on the weather etc to
fellow subway commuters, bus passengers ,mlolongo mates et cetera. When you deign to break this unspoken social rule, you can be confronted with a frosty, dirty look, often tinged with fear of the unknown. If you happen to be a person of African descent asking for the time of day from a person of Caucasian heritage you may or may not be mentally listed as a potential fugitive from justice who should be reported surreptitiously to the cops for an unspecified criminal offence.
Montrealers on the other hand, are FAMOUS for the warm spontaneous chit chats they strike up with actual axe murderers they bump into in any of the picturesque streets of that island city.
Having grown up largely in Mombasa I inherited some of the well-founded stereotypes of Nairobians as people who will direct you to Muguga if you ask them for directions to Githurai. Or the corresponding stereotype about Mombasa residents is that they will take you from Port Reitz to Lunga Lunga at their own expense if you wondered about the best way to get to the latter location.
Of course all these are sweeping statements that are contradicted every second with a behaviour directly diametrical to the stated stereotype.
Back to my reveries on Moi Avenue, a spitting distance from the Gill House Matatu terminal.
There was this thin, gangly youth of a man who was zig zagging in the middle of the avenue scratching his head every seventeen seconds as he meandered his way towards the Railway Station. Barefoot, in cut off denim shorts, obviously recently deprived of his jacket, he was a walking advertisement for the recently mugged. I admired his brave resolve, under the heavy blanket of alcohol still swirling around his system to deposit himself back to whichever place he started his New Year’s Eve journey to the party from hell.
Then there was this other pint sized male specimen of the Kenyan human species, equally sloshed, who saluted every stranger he said hi to- nearly causing a pedestrian traffic jam because of all those mystified and perplexed backward glances the recipients of his drunken salaams directed his way over bemused shoulders.
Most of the other people in the street were glad to exchange these greetings- many no doubt grateful that they had survived one of the bloodiest annual rituals the world over.
Anywayz.
When I noticed it was seven forty one and there was still no sign of the vehicle that had been described to me, I resorted to SMS to verify if a SOS situation was brewing.
Kumbe I was waiting in the wrong place!
I was supposed to be on the next street, the one separating Development House from the Green Building- savvy Nairobians may know which office block I am referring to.
Soon we were on our way, chatting away happily about the weather, the holiday itself, politics and a few other wide ranging topics under the sun.
I could tell you about the leisurely drive to Naivasha and all that, but then, not today, sorry.
CONTINUED....
A Photo-Essay from Nairobi
by Onyango Oloo
For over forty years, I have been passing through the town of
Naivasha on my way to Nakuru, Kisumu, Yala, you name it.
Not once have I had occasion to stop by, stop over or sleep over in what surely ranks as one of the leading candidates for the mantle of flower capital region of the world.
That is, not until this past Sunday, I mean not this one, as in today's soon to be yesterday's Sunday, but New Year's Jumapili which as you will recall- if you have sufficiently recovered from the keshas at the various makanisa or the alcohol induced hengs in your locality- was the first day of 2006.On this score of chasing away the Old Year, I was missing from both camps, having opted to do what I do every New Year’s eve- stay put at home.
So:
How did Onyango Oloo end up being entertained by a troupe of working class isikuti musicians on the south shore of Lake Naivasha on January 1, 2006?
I have to thank a certain political rafiki of mine for that.
Speaking on the phone towards the end of last week but one, he intimated that a group of workers in Naivasha had decided to have a cultural celebration on New Year’s day and he asked me if I wanted to come and join in the event.
Around seven o’clock of the morning in question I found myself outside Development House staring at the Bomb Blast Memorial directly across the street waiting for two other friends with whom we would be traveling.
As I waited for my traveling companions I occupied myself with exchanging glad tidings with perfect strangers and was struck by how Nairobians are NOT as close to Torontonians as I once imagined and how Mombasa residents are more akin to Montrealers …
Let me explain, having resided in all four metropolitan areas.
Torontonians are NOTORIOUS for the invisible two feet radius of fenced in “personal space” territory that "outsiders" cannot break to pass a greeting, comment on the weather etc to
fellow subway commuters, bus passengers ,mlolongo mates et cetera. When you deign to break this unspoken social rule, you can be confronted with a frosty, dirty look, often tinged with fear of the unknown. If you happen to be a person of African descent asking for the time of day from a person of Caucasian heritage you may or may not be mentally listed as a potential fugitive from justice who should be reported surreptitiously to the cops for an unspecified criminal offence.
Montrealers on the other hand, are FAMOUS for the warm spontaneous chit chats they strike up with actual axe murderers they bump into in any of the picturesque streets of that island city.
Having grown up largely in Mombasa I inherited some of the well-founded stereotypes of Nairobians as people who will direct you to Muguga if you ask them for directions to Githurai. Or the corresponding stereotype about Mombasa residents is that they will take you from Port Reitz to Lunga Lunga at their own expense if you wondered about the best way to get to the latter location.
Of course all these are sweeping statements that are contradicted every second with a behaviour directly diametrical to the stated stereotype.
Back to my reveries on Moi Avenue, a spitting distance from the Gill House Matatu terminal.
There was this thin, gangly youth of a man who was zig zagging in the middle of the avenue scratching his head every seventeen seconds as he meandered his way towards the Railway Station. Barefoot, in cut off denim shorts, obviously recently deprived of his jacket, he was a walking advertisement for the recently mugged. I admired his brave resolve, under the heavy blanket of alcohol still swirling around his system to deposit himself back to whichever place he started his New Year’s Eve journey to the party from hell.
Then there was this other pint sized male specimen of the Kenyan human species, equally sloshed, who saluted every stranger he said hi to- nearly causing a pedestrian traffic jam because of all those mystified and perplexed backward glances the recipients of his drunken salaams directed his way over bemused shoulders.
Most of the other people in the street were glad to exchange these greetings- many no doubt grateful that they had survived one of the bloodiest annual rituals the world over.
Anywayz.
When I noticed it was seven forty one and there was still no sign of the vehicle that had been described to me, I resorted to SMS to verify if a SOS situation was brewing.
Kumbe I was waiting in the wrong place!
I was supposed to be on the next street, the one separating Development House from the Green Building- savvy Nairobians may know which office block I am referring to.
Soon we were on our way, chatting away happily about the weather, the holiday itself, politics and a few other wide ranging topics under the sun.
I could tell you about the leisurely drive to Naivasha and all that, but then, not today, sorry.
CONTINUED....
