AFTER THE GAME
When I get to the office, I find a white girl seated
at my desk.
I have come in late today as a result of last
night’s binge.. In any case, it is Saturday I only have one game to cover. Western
Stima is hosting Top fry at the
Mumias complex Stadium for a Kenya Premier League match. The stadium is in
Mumias, a town thirty minutes away from Kakamega. Top fry, the newest entrants
into the league this season had unexpectedly beaten last season’s league
winners 3-0 in the match prior to this and everyone is out to see how they will
fair against the western team.
Kate, the white lady is in town to shoot clips for a
children show she is producing for a local TV station. Our photographer is her
contact person in the region. Surprisingly, she is half Kenyan half
Scandinavian with the white genes dominating.
As we leave, Mzee wa Kazi, our ageing cameraman as he is fondly called, offers her the
co-driver’s seat in the Dmax Isuzu double cab that we use. Four of us crammed
in the back seat having picked up two other guys, we head out. Up until now, we
haven’t spoken save for a grunt to acknowledge each other as I was rummaging in
my desk for my KPL accreditation pass.
“So where are you from?” I venture.
I come from all over, I was born in Holland but I
have lived in Hungary all my life. My parents are from Hungary, though my
father is Kenyan.” She replies confusing me in the process.
“Yes. My father is Kenyan; I was reunited with him
about four years ago. He lives in Nairobi but he is actually from western
Kenya. My mother gave me up for adoption and since my Parents are Hungarian,
they raised me there.” She tells me.
Mzee wa Kazi sees his shot as I have sparked
conversation and asks, “how do you find Kenya, or this part of western?”
At which she replies, “I love it! It’s such a nice
place, and it is home, I am thinking of relocating permanently to Kenya, My
father has already given me land to build my house.”
The conversation picks up with the other guys two
guys offering the occasional grunts that make them relevant to the
conversation. She tells us about Holland where she has been staying for most of
her adult life working as a TV and Radio producer. She has just seen an
opportunity in Kenya that is ripe for picking and is investing heavily on it. Journalism
for Kids. She is appalled at how kids in Kenya do not actually matter. All the
content on most programs is dominantly adult with maybe an hour set aside for a
children’s programme.
We get to Mumias some minutes into the game. As our
camera man sets up she pulls me aside, “where can I have a quiet smoke?” she
asks. We are sitting in the VIP area or what passes off for VIP in this place.
There are plastic chairs to sit on and none of the usual hooliganism that
passes for official fan behavior. Of course someone will occasionally have one
too many start shouting profanities here, but hey, its soccer!
We duck behind the changing rooms and she hands me a
Marlboro. We light up. As we smoke, I inquire about her past life and why she
chose to come to Kenya. She tells me she is divorced has two daughters and one
son and her reasons for coming to Kenya.
She first came to Kenya six years ago looking for
her father. The poor guy did not even know he had a white daughter. He had met
her mother abroad while studying. He left back for Kenya without ever knowing
that he had implanted his seed somewhere or without ever knowing for the past decades that he had a daughter. When Kate
first gave him a call, he was equally astounded and almost thought it a prank
before she mentioned her mother’s details. “He met me at the airport and he was
expecting a colored lady. It’s a funny thing I turned out entirely white.” She
laughs as she says this displaying a set of browning teeth.
Then she saw the need for journalism for kids. After
the usual groundwork, she dropped her jobs in Holland packed her bags and set
out to Kenya. That’s when she met the rest of her step family in Western. After
that, she got the land from her father, started producing content for one of
the TV stations and also working on starting her own studio.
She finishes her fag, and stubs it out with the heel
of a shoe. So unladylike I think to myself.
“I want to speak to the kids who come to these
matches. Those who are accompanied by parents, those who come on their own and
even those who do not manage to get into the stadium.” This last bit she adds
after espying a rat-rag army of kids watching the game from behind the stadium
boundary. “I may also want to speak to the parents and find out what they think
of their kids attending such the matches.” The game begins.
We are sitting by the media section on the Terrace
at kick off. The match commissar, a bulky brusque lady is kicking people who do
have their KPL passes of the Terrace. They include other journalists. By then,
Kate has gone off and is talking to the ball boys who have milled around her.
There is something about Kenyan children and white folks. They congregate
around them and start talking excitedly among themselves mostly in mother
tongue or Swahili with the occasional English speaking one acting as leader and
interpreter. They can follow a white person for miles on end without any
apparent reason.
The match comm wants to kick Kate off the pitch. All
the attention has turned from soccer to her as various people are asking what
she is doing talking to children and why she is taking pictures of them. She
also does not have a KPL accreditation pass. The rest of the crowd who are
sitting by in the common Benches are shouting, “toa huyo mzungu kwa uwanja! Kuja
twende kwangu leo! kuja unipige
picha! Unapeleka picha za watotot
wetu wapi?” Lately, there have been rampant reports of child trafficking
and the folks here are naturally cautious. The other day a woman was arrested
for trafficking and it was reported that she was working with a ring of white
people from Russia.
She lies that she has a badge, borrows mine as half
time approaches and continues doing her interviews. Quite a crowd has gathered
around her by the time the whistle goes for the break. Western Stima is leading
by one goal while Top fry are yet to score. Stima have been pushing the
debutants who seem all over the place. Fry, however look resilient, they are
fighting and attacking at every opportunity. Any lapse in the Stima defense
lorded by a one George Wesa will see them concede a goal, and they know it!
Stima and Fry shake hands during the break, Jerseys removed to expose torsos
that have been hardened by days of practice and hard work. Bottles of water are
thrown at them as they get off the pitch. They catch them midair, tear open the
seals, uncork them and proceed to pour the water on their heads and chests
before drinking the rest in quick large gulps.
Another fag marks how we spend halftime as she
regales me with tales of Holland. Well, Its Holland, I learn that they grow
their weed in green houses. I learn that it is a very small country, it only
takes about three hours to drive from the eastern boundary to the west. Only a
few people practice farming and they do it on large scale. I remember this
internet meme describing the Dutch as a bunch of high people riding bicycles through
the streets of Amsterdam and the picture of a one Louis Moreno Ocampo comes
into mind as he rides his bicycle to the ICC. I muse, maybe he does that!
The game ends with the solitary goal from Stima. On
the way back to Kakamega, Kate and I agree to hook up later for drinks. I also
forget to take her number as my editor is already on my neck asking for the
story.
Mzee wa Kazi calls me at around eight. “Come to Diamond there is free booze here,” he tells me.
When I get there, Kate is bored. She has also worked
her way through a bottle of Penasol. She wanted to party in Kakamega. The
photographer has taken her to the old guys joint. Here elderly people are
holding onto their Tuskers in a cloud of smoke as the guys in the Kitchen work
away at scorching the Nyamchom they
are or will be enjoying. A rugged looking local band comprised of elderly men
with instruments that look like they had seen John Rebman when he first stepped
into Africa are badly belting out a rendition of Madilu’s Zele in halts and
jerks that are not exactly rhythmical. Kate doesn’t get Rhumba. In fact she is
even bored with Mzee wa Kazi.
“He keeps holding my hand, it’s annoying!” she tells
me as we stand outside smoking. “And this place, it looks like it has no life.
Could we go somewhere they play party music and stuff? I want to dance.” She
does a little jig on her feet and continues.
“I had to ask him to call you, he did not want you to come by the way.”
I can’t help it when I laugh maliciously.
We end up at Club Hush as Mzee wa Kazi leaves for
home at around eleven asking me to take care of Kate. He also tells her to be
wary of these little boys. As we walk
in, the fat Bouncer recognizes me and clears a table for us at the balcony.
Hush is already full. It’s a Saturday after all, and it’s end month. The
college girls are here in groupies or hanging out with older guys or the monied
younger ones who can afford them drinks.
Then the action begins. A bottle of Bond 7 lands on
the table. Her Marlboros are out and we switch to my Dunhills. The usual
friends are here. The party people!
Davy comes over, “eh,
Mose, umetoa wapi mzungu leo, ebu utupatie huyu.” I play basketball with Davy. Fortunately, the
basket ballers are not here or else they could be crowding me. Halfway through
the bottle, the DJ plays Afro Jack’s Rock This House. Everyone gets up to
dance. Kate is the only white girl in the house amongst a bunch of voluptuous
girls on the dance floor gyrating and swaying to the rhythm. Their hands are
outstretched up wards as the DJ swings into LMFAO’s Champagne Showers prompting
the revelers to start shuffling. She is carefree, she is dancing, she is having
fun. A big smile plastered on her face not caring a thing about the men who are
trying in vain to get a white girl to dance with them.
I realize she is getting high when I get up to smoke
and she joins me leaning heavily and onto me as she does it. These two Indian
guys who have just come into the club are attempting to get her attention. As
she comes back after she speaking to them, she goes, “I don’t like Indian
guys.” She then tells me she worked in
India for a while in the late 90’s. I ask the question. “How old are you”
“I’m forty two!” she says and drags heavily on her
cigarette.
“What the fuck!” all the while I had been thinking
she was in her late twenties at the most, and she looks it.
The whisky is gone, we call for another. The fat
bouncer comes back to inquire if we are okay. I ask Davy to keep her busy as I
visit the Johns. The disco lights are casting a spiraling effect, I feel like
I’m spinning round and round with them. My friend Teach hands me a Guiness
which Kate grabs from my hand. “I have had enough of the Whisky.” She says
nuzzling next to me, a cigarette in her other hand. I light it for her. The
Indians are looking at me with what I perceive to be animosity. One of them
comes over to ask for a Fag. I’m tempted to refuse him but I give it to him
anyway.
I’m thinking, forty two? I really wanted to tap
that! Now she is almost as old as my mother.
@mossetti
