Morning Blues

The sweat has severely drenched my shirt and shone on my oily skin yet it is only 9:15 am. The throbbing of my own eyes reminds me that I might arrive to work later still. The hammering in my head still hasn't stopped and I can literally hear the thumping of my heart against my chest.

8:02 am.

It was helter skelter as I rushed to leave home so that I could be at work by 8:30 am. Quite an optimist I was, although I knew boss lady would pardon me for being (at most) half an hour late. She either had a soft spot for people who could not afford private means of transport or young lads straight from campus who had mastered the true use of incognito mode on their computers. My female colleagues of course think it is the latter....but I digress.
Anyway, I left the house in quite the rush, fumbling with keys as my coat hang over my head like someone being rained on and ran down the flight of stairs. I may not be the most punctual guy in the world, all things considered.

8:06 am.

I often find queuing for matatus a tedium I would rather die than indulge in. My high school days have probably shaped that sense of self-entitlement hence I felt I had to wait for the next one. At last, I got into the next one, preferring to be sandwiched between the driver and the lady who'd beat me to the coveted shotgun seat by the window. She swiftly alighted and let me get in to the left-over seat. I smiled meekly but she gave me the stern look that said a thousand unpleasant words. I said hi to the driver. He nodded...something was off. My breathe maybe...In my morning rush, I had forgotten to brush my teeth. Natures way of limiting my bickering, I presumed.

8:15 am.

The traffic at Pangani junction was immense. I quipped to the lady beside me that the traffic officers ought to do better on regulating the flow of traffic. I also mentioned the inconvenience of making people who had important morning meetings wait. She gradually looked away, subtly sticking her head outside the window. I took the hint. I did not bother her again.

8:32 am.

We were finally past the diabolical junction and into the free flowing traffic. I listened pensively as Maina and King'angi debated on whether or not wives' dress codes ought to be determined by their spouses. I, for one, had my opinion on the matter but thought better than humiliating myself on the third time of asking. Once bitten, twice shy.
The matatu came to a disappointing stop at Ng'ara where vehicles had decided to camp on the highway so that yours truly would arrive late to work. I together with the lady to my left were tapped by the front sitting pedestrian; presumably for fare. That is when the trouble started...

8:37 am.

We were still stuck in traffic and the same hand relentlessly tagged at my trapezius muscle. That bloody moron seemed too zealous to do a job that did not put food on his table. My lady friend had dutifully passed 1000/= and unnecessarily bellowed "mtu mmoja." I had left my phone and wallet at home. Yet there I sat, in a cheap two piece suit - waiting for the axe to fall.

8:56 am.

"Pesa yako wewe hapo mbele!" The conductor shrieked as I begrudgingly acquiesced, pretending to reach into my pockets. My hands involuntarily shook in my pockets. My fingers are curled into a fist, nails digging into my palm. Fear churned my stomach and gave me this massive urge to urinate. I had no idea what conductors do to people who do not pay, but I'd heard stories. I'd heard stories of grown men who'd been locked in the matatu and a gang of manambas invited in to work on the truant fellow. I had heard stories of men who'd been brought to the emergency ward at KNH after being hit on the head with golf balls wrapped in a sock - the reason was almost always unpaid fare. I had heard cases of torture, stripping and sexual assault.....God forbid! Ngai. In that moment I made an impromptu prayer. I assured God that if he got me out of this I not only attend church without fail but also would pay my tithe to the last cent. I would quit sportpesa and give my surplus to the poor. I also promised not to covet the female caretaker. Nyasaye!

9:02 am.

The matatu finally arrived at the stage. The fear that had engulfed me had turned into a calmness I was suspicious of. I checked my pants to ensure they were still dry. They were. The lady alighted and stood by the door. I had then decided to let the chips fall where they may. I would take the beating like a man. I would even take the golf ball to the head with some minute dignity. It was the sexual assault that made me cringe and think about wailing in my mother tongue or fake insanity. I was a drowning man, with no straws to clutch on. Then it hit me, there were still about four people standing outside (including the friendly woman with 1000/=) for the conductor who seemed to be prostituting himself (he made begging gestures) to shopkeepers for change. My eyes lit up.

It is 9:15 am. I am still running. I alighted at Odeon bus station. I am now approaching Muthurwa. I work in Koinange Street. I feel like a fugitive, an outlaw and a criminal. The feeling is thrilling. I cannot remember the last time I felt so alive. Yet I have no money on me, no phone, bloodhounds who would kill for 40/= probably in pursuit and at least an hour late to work. All in an hour's work.

A Feast for a Peasant

As I type this, it has been approximately 15 hours and 56 minutes since I walked in and out of Michigan Restaurant on Dubois Street in Nairobi's CBD.
It was a restaurant I had caught with the corner of my eye at around midday. It was not its pink decor that dazzled me and neither did the female waitresses standing at the door tickle my fancy. It was not even the fact that it had a convenient location and a short walk to the matatu stage. No, it was the bright red poster that had the grandiose offer for Chips, Chicken, Soda and tomato sauce for KSh. 180!

My friends, Pavlov's dogs had nothing on me. For the rest of the day, I thought about the meal. I fantasized about having such large chunks of hot chicken in my mouth that I couldn't speak if I tried. I knew I would have to pay for a second plate because such an opportunity needed to be properly utilized. The opportunity needed to be milked for everything it's worth. Those bloody restaurant fools I was about to take advantage of. In that moment, I thought I felt like a death row inmate having his last meal or Jesus preparing for his last supper.

8:45 pm.

I sauntered magnificently into the said restaurant. Walking up the flight of stairs, I praised the Lord for providing such a cheap way to fill my girlfriend's stomach in future. I took my seat at the very top and in the very kingly manner beckoned on a waitress. I explained to the waitress that I needed to place two orders; one would be devoured in the very spot I sat whereas the second serving would wrapped so that I could carry it home. She could keep one soda, I magnanimously offered.

8:51 pm.

Hence, I sat there, pensively staring at the roof as I thought about the difficulties of moving around the city on a full stomach. Why I sat alone in that restaurant baffled me. Couldn't people know a good deal if it hit them in the face with a heavenly fried smell? No matter, bloody fools......fortune favors the wise.

8:56 pm.

I watched as my meal was brought in a tray up the flight of stairs like a bride on an aisle. I felt like adjusting my shirt collar like an anxious groom, but I opted instead for the less subtle pulling up of my sleeves. My plate was placed before me and she stood there, in all her graces ready to be devoured by a famished lover. Fries on a saucer which looked like the end product of stale cooking oil. I winced. Immediately, I saw what was beside it, I called for the waiter as she attempted to flee in part embarrassment and part victory. You see, this was not my order, I tried to explain - disgusted at their incompetence. I did not and have never paid for what looked like an overcooked piece of fish fillet or a genetically modified dead cockroach... It was a chicken nugget fam, the size of a marble.

8:58 pm.

The pretty face confirmed that the nugget was the said chicken on offer! The ones confidently displayed at the entrance cost a lot more, and my meal could not be exchanged as I had already paid for it. A short argument ensued. She sneered at my confusion and sorrow and reminded me that I could as well fish out more coppers from my pocket and get the "real" chicken. I could immediately tell that she was used to disgruntled hustlers who seemed to know a lot about catering and hospitality. I waved her off.
I cursed. I writhed. I wished I were dead. Never had I spent money on such a small piece of chicken. My first bite almost made me cry as I could now see all the bones of what now appeared to be left-overs. It also happened to be my last bite, and not for a loss of appetite.

9:16pm.

As I hurriedly left that abyss, the good waitress reminded me to pick my "take-away" meal on my way out. God bless her heart.

12:41 pm

It has been approximately 15 hours and 56 minutes since I walked in and out of Michigan restaurant along Dubois Road. Nothing has changed since then. I still feel a bile-like, painful sensation rising up my throat every now and then. I can taste nothing but bitterness. My frens, I was conned. I was mocked. I was starved. All in half an hour's work.

As I type this, it has been approximately 15 hours and 56 minutes since I walked in and out of Michigan Restaurant on Dubois Street in Nairobi's CBD.
It was a restaurant I had caught with the corner of my eye at around midday. It was not its pink decor that dazzled me and neither did the female waitresses standing at the door tickle my fancy. It was not even the fact that it had a convenient location and a short walk to the matatu stage. No, it was the bright red poster that had the grandiose offer for Chips, Chicken, Soda and tomato sauce for KSh. 180!

My friends, Pavlov's dogs had nothing on me. For the rest of the day, I thought about the meal. I fantasized about having such large chunks of hot chicken in my mouth that I couldn't speak if I tried. I knew I would have to pay for a second plate because such an opportunity needed to be properly utilized. The opportunity needed to be milked for everything it's worth. Those bloody restaurant fools I was about to take advantage of. In that moment, I thought I felt like a death row inmate having his last meal or Jesus preparing for his last supper.

8:45 pm.

I sauntered magnificently into the said restaurant. Walking up the flight of stairs, I praised the Lord for providing such a cheap way to fill my girlfriend's stomach in future. I took my seat at the very top and in the very kingly manner beckoned on a waitress. I explained to the waitress that I needed to place two orders; one would be devoured in the very spot I sat whereas the second serving would wrapped so that I could carry it home. She could keep one soda, I magnanimously offered.

8:51 pm.

Hence, I sat there, pensively staring at the roof as I thought about the difficulties of moving around the city on a full stomach. Why I sat alone in that restaurant baffled me. Couldn't people know a good deal if it hit them in the face with a heavenly fried smell? No matter, bloody fools......fortune favors the wise.

8:56 pm.

I watched as my meal was brought in a tray up the flight of stairs like a bride on an aisle. I felt like adjusting my shirt collar like an anxious groom, but I opted instead for the less subtle pulling up of my sleeves. My plate was placed before me and she stood there, in all her graces ready to be devoured by a famished lover. Fries on a saucer which looked like the end product of stale cooking oil. I winced. Immediately, I saw what was beside it, I called for the waiter as she attempted to flee in part embarrassment and part victory. You see, this was not my order, I tried to explain - disgusted at their incompetence. I did not and have never paid for what looked like an overcooked piece of fish fillet or a genetically modified dead cockroach... It was a chicken nugget fam, the size of a marble.

8:58 pm.

The pretty face confirmed that the nugget was the said chicken on offer! The ones confidently displayed at the entrance cost a lot more, and my meal could not be exchanged as I had already paid for it. A short argument ensued. She sneered at my confusion and sorrow and reminded me that I could as well fish out more coppers from my pocket and get the "real" chicken. I could immediately tell that she was used to disgruntled hustlers who seemed to know a lot about catering and hospitality. I waved her off.
I cursed. I writhed. I wished I were dead. Never had I spent money on such a small piece of chicken. My first bite almost made me cry as I could now see all the bones of what now appeared to be left-overs. It also happened to be my last bite, and not for a loss of appetite.

9:16pm.

As I hurriedly left that abyss, the good waitress reminded me to pick my "take-away" meal on my way out. God bless her heart.

12:41 pm

It has been approximately 15 hours and 56 minutes since I walked in and out of Michigan restaurant along Dubois Road. Nothing has changed since then. I still feel a bile-like, painful sensation rising up my throat every now and then. I can taste nothing but bitterness. My frens, I was conned. I was mocked. I was starved. All in half an hour's work.

As I type this, it has been approximately 15 hours and 56 minutes since I walked in and out of Michigan Restaurant on Dubois Street in Nairobi's CBD.
It was a restaurant I had caught with the corner of my eye at around midday. It was not its pink decor that dazzled me and neither did the female waitresses standing at the door tickle my fancy. It was not even the fact that it had a convenient location and a short walk to the matatu stage. No, it was the bright red poster that had the grandiose offer for Chips, Chicken, Soda and tomato sauce for KSh. 180!

My friends, Pavlov's dogs had nothing on me. For the rest of the day, I thought about the meal. I fantasized about having such large chunks of hot chicken in my mouth that I couldn't speak if I tried. I knew I would have to pay for a second plate because such an opportunity needed to be properly utilized. The opportunity needed to be milked for everything it's worth. Those bloody restaurant fools I was about to take advantage of. In that moment, I thought I felt like a death row inmate having his last meal or Jesus preparing for his last supper.

8:45 pm.

I sauntered magnificently into the said restaurant. Walking up the flight of stairs, I praised the Lord for providing such a cheap way to fill my girlfriend's stomach in future. I took my seat at the very top and in the very kingly manner beckoned on a waitress. I explained to the waitress that I needed to place two orders; one would be devoured in the very spot I sat whereas the second serving would wrapped so that I could carry it home. She could keep one soda, I magnanimously offered.

8:51 pm.

Hence, I sat there, pensively staring at the roof as I thought about the difficulties of moving around the city on a full stomach. Why I sat alone in that restaurant baffled me. Couldn't people know a good deal if it hit them in the face with a heavenly fried smell? No matter, bloody fools......fortune favors the wise.

8:56 pm.

I watched as my meal was brought in a tray up the flight of stairs like a bride on an aisle. I felt like adjusting my shirt collar like an anxious groom, but I opted instead for the less subtle pulling up of my sleeves. My plate was placed before me and she stood there, in all her graces ready to be devoured by a famished lover. Fries on a saucer which looked like the end product of stale cooking oil. I winced. Immediately, I saw what was beside it, I called for the waiter as she attempted to flee in part embarrassment and part victory. You see, this was not my order, I tried to explain - disgusted at their incompetence. I did not and have never paid for what looked like an overcooked piece of fish fillet or a genetically modified dead cockroach... It was a chicken nugget fam, the size of a marble.

8:58 pm.

The pretty face confirmed that the nugget was the said chicken on offer! The ones confidently displayed at the entrance cost a lot more, and my meal could not be exchanged as I had already paid for it. A short argument ensued. She sneered at my confusion and sorrow and reminded me that I could as well fish out more coppers from my pocket and get the "real" chicken. I could immediately tell that she was used to disgruntled hustlers who seemed to know a lot about catering and hospitality. I waved her off.
I cursed. I writhed. I wished I were dead. Never had I spent money on such a small piece of chicken. My first bite almost made me cry as I could now see all the bones of what now appeared to be left-overs. It also happened to be my last bite, and not for a loss of appetite.

9:16pm.

As I hurriedly left that abyss, the good waitress reminded me to pick my "take-away" meal on my way out. God bless her heart.

12:41 pm

It has been approximately 15 hours and 56 minutes since I walked in and out of Michigan restaurant along Dubois Road. Nothing has changed since then. I still feel a bile-like, painful sensation rising up my throat every now and then. I can taste nothing but bitterness. My frens, I was conned. I was mocked. I was starved. All in half an hour's work.