GENERATION GAP

GENERATION GAP

My boss seems to think that he actually he has a better musical orientation than most of us do. So I pointed out that he has a knowledge of music that he listened to as a youth and music that he grew up with . I was tempted to point out rather drily that that may also be limited but chose to stay my tongue.
Why he chose to join our little argument as we discussed music, Kwaito to be precise is a mystery to me. So there we are discussing the highs and comparing Mafikizolo, Brenda Fasie, Uhuru and other various artists when he starts telling us about how we are young and that he has more knowledge on kwaito than we do. I steered the topic towards South African house and challenged him to argue it out. The first thing he said was,  "what is that?"

A conversation I overheard in a supermarket between a teller and a customer. the customer was a young lady looking about twenties decent with a body to match. probably the only thing that drew my attention as i watched the exchange.
"Email niweke yamine?" The lady asks
 "Weka ya yours."  The teller, an elderly guy with  gray thinning hair on his head replies in the same vein.
I laugh silently! To begin with, I do not think the word yayours exists in any language spoken in Kenya. sheng inclusive. considering that then two were conversing in sheng, I couldn't help but feel the old mans zeal to stay on the same level with the customer. 

We have all had to contend with forty something year olds taking to the dance floors in clubs and gyrating their bodies in time to the beat as if to point to us the younger generation, YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO PARTY. At such times we stare, judge and shake our heads as our rebellious get away places are invaded by people who are old enough to be our parents. We look on as they pretend to like our music, we look on as they go on to get helplessly drunk and make  fools of themselves. Yet should anything go wrong with our lives fingers are pointed our way as tongues wag in that phrase that will never grow old as the generations change, "watoto wa siku hizi."
There are no mechanisms in society to bridge the age gap. When a forty something year old person develops a rebellious streak and realizes that midlife is new 21 and instead of devising ways they can keep themselves entertained while leaving their younger counterparts to their wiles, they instead choose to mingle with the young ones themselves. Wolves let loose among the lambs. Ere long, they are exploiting the innocence of the young lings and fill their heads with blatant nonsense about what to expect in the world out there at the same time filling their bellies with liquor, brandishing their big cars and fat wallets. An attempt at escapism from their failed lives. Young ladies play fiddle and form delusions of grandeur on the type of men they want, who sadly' they cannot find among their peers. Young men before long get pulled into sugar mummies and form a dependency on them that kills their ambitions and deters them from chasing their dreams. "After all am being provided for, why bother?" 
There is a group of people who have been sidelined by society. That age bracket of 21-26. At this point in life, you are expected to be old enough to take care of yourself and not old enough to be engaging in unsavory behavior.Most of the people are away at college during this age or are just fresh out of college and carving their way at the bottom of the corporate totem mostly with big dreams in their eyes. Their guardians are probably busy concentrating on their younger siblings or managing midlife crisis. Its left up to this group to guide themselves through life in patches that are often very thorny and dogged with challenges and dangers.
 In a society that has become dysfunctional, fraught with age stereotypes, full of a young generation that is bubbling with energy at discovering themselves and a middle generation group that is realizing what they missed in their twenties or heck life has just become sweeter, a bridge is needed. A bridge to close the gaps that make us judge, wrinkle our noses in disgust or even try to ape what the other generation is doing. A bridge to give clarity where vision is dim as to why we cringe inwardly and hope we don't turn out as some frustrated people we know. A bridge to the generation gap in work places especially open offices where you find yourself seated across a workmate who is old enough to be your father, who cant understand what Riddim music is or why House music appeals to you when to his ears its just noise. Abridge before Memos come raining down from Human Resource with accusations of "hauniheshimu!"
Brian Adams must have been right though, 18 TILL I DIE!

GRADUATION DAY

3 am in the night smoking cigarettes on the balcony of club hush and stoned beyond care. Surrounded by a majority of strangers all of whom are lost in a realm of stupor and druggie heaven! How did I get here?

 I take a long look around clutching my beer tightly in my hands as my unsteady feet propel me to bump into Brent, one of the white boys Selah is hanging out with. He is a confirmed junkie and gambler, he has just won a 40k bet and he is blowing all the money on booze. On the other hand is Jess, Jess the, don’t judge a book by its cover for she is the most innocent looking person under different circumstances and is a good friend. Jess is doing sambuka shots with Selah. On the other end of the round table is this guy who just brought in some Indian substance, the one you stick between your teeth and gums and just let the shit drive you crazy. He has unkempt hair and talks a lot. Not a lot of sense though. The balcony is crowded, so crowded you have to push your way around. Spirals of smoke are billowing into the moonlight and electronic lights cocktail. All these I see in a dreamy haze, everything in clear toned colors. Frozen into a slow movie that I am living, only that I am the observer. damn!  I feel good.  Perhaps I shouldn’t have gotten stoned with Dan.

It was graduation day at the college today; Jack was graduating, him,  and a lot of my other friends. Jack welcomed me to college on my first day. Next year it will be me here. Usually during such functions, there is a lot of free booze flowing around, hot little missies in daintily colored dresses and youthful luscious college ass that is just crying to be plucked. The variety, the abundance of people who have come to pay their regards to the graduates, the gay mood just floating in the air, sweeping everyone along. Folk spanning all calibers are here. The whole village that has come to witness the first graduate from the village ever are a mixed lost but happy looking folk, the single mother who has come alone to witness her only daughter get her bachelors is all smiling and proud as if telling the world, “see, I stood alone by my child and see how far she has come.” The seemingly normal family is here, brothers and sisters and a loving father and mother, see the kids make fun of each other as they paint the little happy family picture. The rich snobs are here too.

Dan is eyeing this chick. Some very brown new looking thing he has just espied by the library grounds with a brood of siblings tagging along. So he thinks it a good idea to ask us along so we can babysit as he vibes the lass. Kevo and Kobi agree to come along. Unfortunately when we get there, the lass has gone someplace else and is not around. The siblings are however still here. Dan seems to have his antenna at full mast today as in no moment does he spy another chic and runs along asking us to wait for him. Ten minutes by the chic he initially wanted comes back, 15 minutes, no Dan. we decide to leave. He follows us after a while calling us traitors for not staying to back him up. He will speak to the chick later in my absence and the chick will embarrass him because he cannot hold a conversation in English. “Brayo we ndio ungeweza huyo dame,” he tells me as he narrates the whole event.

We decide to go drinking. The students center is the closest watering hole we can come up with. The crowd in the campus has congested cellphone traffic. The network is playing hide and seek and we cannot withdraw cash via Mpesa. None of us only kevo has cash but it isn’t enough for two bottles of blue moon vodka. We hit the nearest Mpesa outside campus to get the cash. The security guards at the gate we have used want us to produce our ID’s. None of us have any, we bully our way inside. The center benches are full of guys drinking their way into rowdiness, the signs are evident as they whistle and shout at the ladies who are using a route nearby. We find ourselves space and proceed to join the action.

Jere calls at around three. We are fairly high by then. At least I feel the beginnings of happy thoughts in my mind and the hot African such pressing down in a humid Kakamega weather is making me feel all warm and lightheaded in a sweet kind of way. He picks us up from town and drives to his home. His sister’s graduation party. At the party we choose a dark corner at the back of the tent. Kev and kobi immediately start discussing football and arguing like their lives depend on it. Dan chips in from time to time but the other two carry the day. Some of the guys at the party join in. I do not follow football so I turn to the girl next to me and start making small talk. I forget her name immediately she says it. She is nice but not really my type, I lose interest and instead start talking to Fai, the lady friend of the Kevo’s gang. She is much more fun.  Food is announced. I eat some vegetables I haven’t had awhile and miss home. Speeches are made. We leave after presents have been delivered. We are debating whether to go see the peddler at Bhagdad. It’s a nice evening to be strolling around.

Belinda is at salsa practice. I had promised to to get her and her friend yoghurt after they had been haranguing me earlier in the day to get them soda. The cellphone traffic having jammed and me having no cash then promised to get yoghurt. She wants Blackforest  cake to go with that too. Nakummatt are out of Blackforest and am too tired to walk back to Tusky’s. I call her and she settles for a Swiss roll. When I get to her, the usual salsa suspects are already gathered dancing to some Kizomba tunes. Belinda and her friend Diana bounce on the drinks as I take the floor with Elvia. A few more dances later and I hit town. Belinda doesn’t want to come.

The air at club Hush is ripe with the promise of a good night. Jess and Selah are sitting by the door. I join them as we wait for Selah’s baby brother. Dan and the rest of the gang have already worked their way through a bottle of Smirnoff vodka. My first beer later I join them for the vodka. Jere is still wearing the suit he wore during the day and so far he is the only guy in the club with a suit on. Dan has a joint. Outside the club there is an alley, we duck into that and light up. The rest of the guys remain inside. Between herculean inhalations and rings of smoke Dan tells me how much home sucks. A few tokes myself and am agreeing with him. So the night is still young.

Fourth beer is gone, drowned with a a glass of Dan’s Vodka. He has had enough and is busy tweeting. The resident Dj is not patronizing the decks and for a change the music feels different and nice. Kwaito blares its way in and I get up to dance. The music is good hands are up in the air people are having fun. The club has filled up. I see friends who have graduated, I get invited to a few tables. In this fashion I stumble into the balcony for a breath of fresh air only to find it as packed only spiced with cigarette smoke. Selah hands me a fag. A waiter disappears with my change, I cannot tale the faces, they all look alike, it wasn’t much anyway. The club colors are beginning to call to me. In hues of Technicolor. There is no more space to dance. Fai has joined the fun. She is looking gorgeous! A  Dark brown mini dress snuggly hugs her body. The new DJ clearly knows his stuff! I try to clear my head. Then the guy with the Indian stuff shows up. After that its I remember a story from a Stephen king novel and the words of a blogger,  F.U.B.A.R Fucked Up Beyond  Any Recognition. I check the time on my phone. 3.49 am.

CIRCUMCISION

CIRCUMCISION 

Cultural ceremonies demand that a man swallow his pride, loose his suit and tie, roll up his sleeves and get rowdy with his mates. Then the act of drinking with a reed straw from the communal pot of broth is considered ordinary.

As a kid, I never imagined this possible with my father. I always fancied him as a calm composed man who never got up to  antics. Such antics. Ever serious and brief.  My opinions were however shattered and I gazed in open mouthed fascination at my circumcision ceremony as my father who is an introvert by nature was carried shoulder high by females (his sisters and a bunch of their friends) for a considerable distance. At the same time singing profanities that to my 8 year old mind were akin to the shocker of my life.

I remember walking for long something I was not used to. Accompanied by a majority of people I had never met who were chanting the Kisii circumcision song which by far is full of profanities. I remember trying to sit down because I was tired and getting forced to stand up because I was a warrior of the tribe now and I was a man. (8 years old then). One of the guys I knew by virtue of the fact that he was among the neighbors you were always asked to go fetch to come help in restraining the cows when the vet came around told me that during their time, they could cross ridges and mountains just to inform the world that they had become men. During their time too, a man never got circumcised alone but the whole age group got circumcised and as such there were always a group of rowdy youths who had just been enclosed for close to a month terrorizing the village hens and raiding the village farms. This is despite the fact that they had an abundant supply of food.

I remember my grandmother spitting cuddled milk and cow’s blood on my face, I remember being asked to carry meat from one room of the house to the other, why? Culture, I could not enter into any house unless this was done. The spitting I was told was a blessing, so a grandmothers spittle is a blessing… I remember being passed around a group of old women my grandmothers age who told me that I was now a robust young man who was supposed to do the community proud as the first born.

Had I been a stranger I probably would have run for my life as a group of women adorned in leaves and twigs over their clothing wielding machetes and slashing plants in their way while chanting and ululating led by my mother came to receive us. I had never seen my mother dressed thus and looking so alien. I remember her jubilation. On that fateful day I learnt what the word ‘egetoro’ meant. To translate it roughly, it means a present given to the hosts lady by other ladies in debt. It is to be paid back to the giver if she ever has a ceremony. Failure to reiterate in the same vein is enough to make you the village gossip topic for a while.

 Then came the teasing of the ladies who were slightly older than me. Those who knew the purpose of the tool that lay between my legs. The slightly older guys were no mercy though as they called me nyokeu. If you ever were in a Kenyan high school, you know what the name njuka means. I have no idea why that name always makes you feel hot faced but that is what the name Nyokeu in Kisii did for me.

So beer (busaa) did flow and the drunks did make idiots of themselves.  The food that was served in trays was cleared away neatly by a multitude who are experts at turning up at events and making the best of it. People you never knew but people whom you bumped into at any village ceremony nonetheless.

At the end of it all, I did come out as an 8 year old man who could not even wash his own clothes. Blame it on the numerous households employed by my mom.