Sunday Salon – July 20

Sunday Salon, Nairobi
A Prose Reading Series
NEW YORK – NAIROBI – CHICAGO

http://www.sundaysalon.com

Makena Ringera
Al Kags
Peter Chepkonga
Gitura Kamau

Four readers, four unique voices, in a tranquil outdoor setting

An evening of entertainment for discerning lovers of the written word.
With live neo-soul music by
“ANTO”

7-9pm, Sunday 20th July
Kengeles, Lavington Green
Entry Only KSh300
Free entry before 6.30pm
Free entry for all Sunday Salon Alumni

ABOUT THE WRITERS

Gitura Kamau
Gitura Kamau is a young Nairobi theatre and film actor who has recently begun to direct his own movies. His first feature film, “Wangai’s Cross,” was shot in Nairobi and premiered June 18th, 2008. Kamau is currently involved in several film projects, including his second film, “Odohoz.”

Makena Ringera
Makena Ringera (formerly known to use ‘Jackline’ but discarded it after discovering herself to be African) took pen to paper at age 15. The result of that effort was ‘The Mystery of the Twin Webs’, a fantasy novel laced with thrilling adventures, a pinch of romance and some bad grammar. Good luck sent Makena across the Atlantic to Amherst College in 2006 where she is a devote Economics student. Having learned a thing or two in creative writing classes, she is working on a rewrite of ‘Twin Webs’.

Al Kags
Al Kags is the publisher of The Quarterly Colour Series of Poetry, a poetry ebook series that is now distributed virally to over 160,000 people all over the world. He has been writing since he was twelve and has been a regular columnist and feature writer in various publications both in Kenya and Internationally. www.alkags.com

Peter Chepkonga
Peter Chepkonga grew up in Eldoret and can run very fast. He writes for KASS magazine

Open Mic – Tuesday, July 1

Next month’s kwani? Poetry Open Mic will feature Khainga O’okwemba, whose poetry is “swift and agile”, delivered by a resoundingly rich, deep and clear baritone voice filled with calm confidence.

Hosted by Cindy Ogana, the event, held every first Tuesday of the month, will also feature regular musician Anto, whose funkalicious neo soul is guaranteed to jazzify all listeners. A sprinkling of regular kwani? Poets will also share their work amidst the brave “Open Micers” who are to register STRICTLY between 5&6pm on show day with a hard copy of their work.

The event starts promptly at 7pm on Tuesday 1st July, and entry is only KSh100.

Vain Jango – spoken and written

A spoken version of Vain Jango, the Kwani? 01 classic, is now available here, for free; we’ve also reproduced the print version below, in case you’re the kind of person who likes to read along.

Vain Jango Letter

The other Sato I was chilling in Cactus. My skinny butt was perched precariously on a bar stool as I sipped my Tusker baridi as per kawa while I watched a Premier League match between Man. U and Southampton disinterestedly. I hate Man. U bro. I mean, why would those clowns want to win every damn English title?

Anyway back to my storo – my Tusker had started to ingia my system and my mind embarked on those lager-induced intelligence flashes. I mean, but do I say!, ain’t we all kind of intellectually stunted (wacha, if you think you are intelligent why don’t you invent something moto, like a TV that has scents with the picture) and emotionally blackrupt.

Ngoja, this bay with some serious bootie ingiad the pub and proceeded to sit on a bar stool right next to me (shit I almost whoooooped out loud). The jamaas in the pub were all shamelessly gawking. Baby had bootie and she knew it.

Well, she panda’d the barstool as gracefully as a mbuta swimming and guess what gentlemen? She was wearing a thong – si ulevi, ni ukweli. Yanii you could see the whole damn sexy thing peeping proudly above her jeans waistline, I almost fell of my stool and sobered up in a rush.

I gave her a brief accelerated detailed examination, now, the works, yanii checked out her hooters, her tummy (flat) her hips, her toes (aha don’t you hate twisted toes that suggest that jiggers once ruled there?), her face and the works … aha… baby had an Alicia keys imitation hairstyle too (now, I have this Alicia keys pathological obsession/ fixation, that is another story)

Well, it was time for JFP (Jango Floss Power). I pulled my battered cell phone out of my pocket and made poseur calls to my brother explaining to him loudly for all and sundry to hear that I had decided to sell my battered Toyota Corolla and was finally gonna buy that BMW coupe we had seen at the Nyayo Stadium car bazaar last Sunday (My bro was absolutely flummoxed, yaani a guy didn’t know what the hell a jingo was talking about!).

Anyway, after hanging up and placing the cell conspicuously on the table, I ordered a Tusker JUG, a guy had defected from bottle to jug in a flash. Next stop bought a packet of Embassy and placed it on the table (don’t even smoke, just in case baby did, u dig? Hell!)

Relax na mambo badoo, JFP still on, I paid for the whole shit with a crisp 1000 bob note, you know that one that never leaves your wallet except for such situations? Even though I had enough small change and coins to feed 10 street kids, then proceeded to tip the barman too( how many times do you do that in NBI)

Alafu I chewed the pose, you know the one where you look like you aren’t the least bit interested and are looking at everything and anything BUT HER yet you are drooling at her through the corner of your eye? U gitch?

Hebu a Jango was on top. Time for the games to begin, I hauled my butt of my stool and asked her could she politely watch my stool and other shit for me? Going to the gents briefly, baby smiled and said sawa, no problem.

Rushed to the loo, checked out my face in the mirror, si mbaya. Next checked my teeth just in case some sukuma wiki was stuck between my molars, si mbaya.

Went to the urinal, pivoted my left buttock and unleashed a loud and satisfying mshuto (stop flossing, kwani u don’t do that?), took a leak and zipped up.

Took that ki-emergency ka-small sample bottle of Polo sport cologne I got from Dubai duty free and splashed it on then hoofed it hurriedly upstairs.

Maneno si mbaya so far, baby has turned her stool and is now facing my empty stool, okay, but do I say, progress!

So I panda my stool and proceed to complete fishing, the bait that has been swallowed, now to reel mbuta. So what is your name baby? Would you like a drink? Hold on, here comes the shit now! Kwanza the baby has a deep rural Okuyu accent you know the one where the Rs and Ls are kabisa interchanged. Oh no!

I can live with that, you are fine girl! Next, okay baby, what do you do day to day? Fake coy smile. Hakuna I am just there in the digs, AHA!.

Read: Idler, vagabond, lay about, loser, pigeon. I mean, please, can’t you at least go to college if you can’t get a jobo and do any course just for the sake of the CV, like I learn French for instance? (Now how would that change the number of sufurias of ugali that you eat? Except make your CV acceptable.)

Okay, I ask, what are your qualifications baby, yaani I sympathize coz there are no jobs in Kenya. I fika’d form two in Kiamirithi girls school (mimi sijui huko ni wapi, usiniulize!). What? For real, okay.

By the way all this time a jango’s interest is slowly diminishing. Usishau!

Okay, so baby what do you think about the Constitutional Review Commission of Prof. Yash Pal Ghai? She gave me a blank dumb stare, she probably thought that was one of the explorers who discovered Africa, AKA Livingstone

What about the elections, who do you fancy? Another brief hesitation, and then a quick smile like a bulb has just lit in her head – Moi of course, well, a subtle reminder from yours truly that constitutionally he cannot run again, baby is bewildered.

Okay I ask, what do you think about the September 11 events in the NYC? Baby is completely flummoxed, apparently she is the only person in the world who never watched the events unfold on CNN or at least listened to the radio – what about even reading the Nation? Hell no! Baby was probably in the salon fixing her hair or sitting in the loo.

The whole time I was getting disinterested. So what are your goals in life? Here comes the response, I could have sworn I could see it coming ….. I want to go to Stato- shit! To do what? It ain’t a public toilet for any Njoki, Njeri and Jennifer to slither to.

Okay, maintaining social etiquette and moral decorum, I ask instead, so how do you intend to achieve that, know the visa requirements? No, my homy will panga for me. I almost wept. Sheeesh. Are these the kind of clowns we export to be our cultural ambassadors?

Anyway, it was time for a hasty retreat, I hurriedly told her that I needed to pick some things from the car and would be back in 5 mins… I sacrificed the half jug of my beloved Tusker that had bakia’d and hightailed it out of there. I quickly jumped into my moti and drove off in a hail of dust headed towards Kengeles on Koinange street.

I sat on yet another bar stool in Kengeles, ordered yet another Tusker baridi as per kawa and continued with my musings, while looking around for any interesting babies.

What is a beautiful woman? Is it the one who looks good on the outside but is a total empty shell o the inside, a certified dunderhead who cannot tell the difference between shit and pudding? Would you rather have an Alicia Keys duplicate with ugali for brains or an Alek Wek (don’t be ignorant, she is one famous ugly model from Sudan) look alike who is studying for her Ph.D. while working part time with some HIV-related NGO as a volunteer?

Well me I postulate that when you are taking care of your business… But do I say, you are not just rarua-ring the bootie but you are also rarua-ring the mind. I mean, wouldn’t you feel like a true jogoo if you raruad Condoleeza Rice?

Peace. Majamaaa. Have a tusker and stay Kenyan!

Vain Jango Reply

I had to show them. That stupid old shit of a father – who used to say I was his good gero, ati how I would go to Oxford! Yaani, be a doctor. But after uprooting his coffee, didn’t he become an over-aged Mungiki? Said the girls had to leave school.

Did I sleep in his house again?

Instead, I waited. To get my first ten thao. And watched. So easy to go to Nairobi thinking you are mambo yote – ati-coz people in Kiambu were just dying to know me. The rebel. Fifteen. And so kabisa stacked, yaani my body made grown men grin like peeled cobs of roast maize.

Lakini, I learned.

I was ready to go. It cost me ten minutes of bad breath on my face as Mwangi huffed and puffed on the back seat of his matatu. Me, I was just thinking – is this it? Is this what makes men so stupid? For this, my father was so weak?

Mwangi gave me his boss’ chapa in an envelope and got me drunk at Blue Post. Breathed on me again – choo-choo! Haki, if it wasn’t for the smell I would have thought he was the night train. To Nairobi.

Nairobi, ehe, I bought shiny-shiny Dubai dresses and mitumba that looked like new. Sold them in Kiambu. Customers bought! I borrowed ten thao from Mwangi, more of his boss’ chapa

In a month, I made twenty thao.

Twendelee. I selected the best outfits, cleaned them, put them in a suitcase and carried them to offices, banks salons – for sale. What did I know? Nairobi chillies are tough! All the time talking through their noses of Cactus, Carni, Kengele’s but it’s your fault if the dress doesn’t make them look like Janet Jackson’s twin! Then they spy my body and decide to get revenge by finya-ring me on price. And when my natural aras and eroz strip and stride or ofer the prace, they giggled hee-hee just like those tao classmates of mine did in Kamirithu Tech.

Nilichomeka!

I kata’d my losses and bought men’s ties. I zeroed on those ma-pot bellied tycoons, the fathers of those same girls who looked me up and down, mpake I felt like a snake and had to shwee shwee away. Lakini, si I know men? Ati me – shy mwiritu – I wore tights, but no lipstick. You know, to seem like a virgin from shags ripe for plucking, yaani you’ve got a chance if you keep her happy by buying her little ties. They bought and bought and bought.

Yaani, I fika’d

My plano was to take myself to a top class place one day. Like that Cactus sijui Kengeles. Yaani where fika-d guys heng – buy my own voddy, feel good, you know. Feel on top. Kiambu mwiritu on top!

I was ready

Si I’d been studying my customers. The ones whose clothes are imported fresh-fresh from London sijui New York via me, myself, personally. I decided to kill. Spent two thao in Gitush. Even bought those ma MTV Shakira stylo bum creepers that make men finya breath.

Alafu!

Cactus. Wawa! My heart hammered just like in those long-ago nights I used to wake up to hear my father beating my mother. Cactus, me, myself and I – Will I pass? Will I pass?

Lakini, the way I walked in, you could have mistaken me for Kabaka’s wife!

Nobody laughed. They ate me with their eyes! Women stared with maximum mathaa! Me, I just smiled aka-secret inside-inside smile, yaani those women were giving me power. I swayed my madiabs, the tights rubbing swish, swish, swish all the way to the bar.

Didn’t I climb a stool knowing exactly what to show? Ehe….

Next to me sat this jingo sporting a Kenyatta market fade – you know how those barbers kata lines to look like those American stylo waves on MTV? Lakini this jango’s lines were kata-d too wide, looked like a tractor had ploughed across his head. He reminded me of my old Blue Post gari-ya-moshi.

Me, I remind myself I’m here for my beer.

How was I to know even maendeleo’d guys act stupid when they see ‘meat’? I saw him sneaking looks where, where? Jango’s eyes criss-crossed up, down, round until dripping saliva burned a hole in his blue shirt!

Now if he had just said , “Hello, is it me you are looking for?” I would have said, “Sindiyo!” then we would laugh and talk like real people. But – ai! Instead he plays this see-through jingo story. Ati talking on his mobile, about ati new Beemer, ati slipping me a line – ‘Mind my seat for me, baby!’ such a try. And jingo thinks ati with his game, his building a tarmac road leading to true love.

But, ukweli, he had one power:

When he opened his mouth I knew I was finished. Knew he would judge me from my eros and aras, just like those tao girls at school. Enyewe, these type of people scare me. When he talked, my mind became a piki piki togio-togiogioring. Thinking Ai! – how soon will he crack up and laugh at me? Ati me, clad to kill, sitting in front at a bar, those mathaa women watching, willing me to fail. They will see him laugh at me. Ai!

I try to concentrate on what he’s saying. Ati. Yo yo what do I do? “Nothing.” Now, does he think I am going to tell him I sell mitush? Me, who is still dreaming about wearing a doctor’s coat? If I tell him that he’ll laugh mpaka tomorrow – yaani, a doctor-to-be who hasn’t even fikad from three!

Yo. Ati what qualifications? My mind is on this one so the answer shoots out quick, quick. “Kamirithu Tech, form two.” I see the shock of horror pass across his face before he fixes it in a dismissive grin. Kwani lack of higher education is infectious.

Jingo is spoiling my plano. Why can’t he just bounce – bounce back to where he came from? Go and yo yo yo another women, run his finger across his nose at somebody else instead of poke-poking in my direction.

Ati, yo yo, Constitutional Review! Now, why would I want to come all the way to Cactus to talk about Constitutional Review? What does he want me to say? That me, a Kikuyu can believe anything that threatens those fools in government will survive? That we burnt a mountain of coffee beans when they came to Kiambu? Smoked them out kabisa?

Ai! Ati yo yo, September eleven? Now, he wants to justify himself that he is not leaving because of my accent! He wants me to be tongue-tied. Asking me about September eleventh. Me, I’m trying to stretch like a giraffe in mind to see how many words I can put together without an R or an L. By the time my mind is back, my mouth, my tongue is having cramps. September when? I say. No Rs.

Does he think I will talk free-free while he smirks at my accent, as if all those generations of his jingo ancestors, with their fishy ways and funny accents have suddenly become like animals because he watches Channel 9! YO YO? I wonder if this is the way he talks to his rural relas. Me, I wonder, is this the Kenya we want?

I see he is mis-leading my silent disgust for ignorance. I let him. Yaani, if it makes him feel on top, sawa – if only he’d let me do the same

Ati, Yo, future plan? My turn to have fun. I speak soft-soft like a virgin. I tell him my homy is organizing Stato papers for me. Jingo hops off the stool up like he’s been shot. I want to laugh, yaani, jingo thinks he’s a better representative of Africa than I?

Anyway, me I think I want to have more fun than a poke poke place like this can offer. As I head out, I hear, “Yo! Onyango is looking fat? Did you hear he is buying a Bee-Em?”

The girl who says this has one of those faces, you know, smooth skin, black shiny mpaka you want to touch. Ma-cheekbone like that Italian actress, lips like fifteen kisses on one mouth, plus space for parking. Yaani a Jango beauty – like that ka-model Alek Wek earning dollar money. Lakini, you thin ma-men will notice a chile showing her tribe with such uchungu? Apana! The thing that sumbuas people’s mind is that you can’t afford where she comes from. Now how did looking African become ati- ugly?

Fat? Jango looked skinny to me

I hear there is a one-man-guitar in west. Let me go there. But you boy, in your virtual BMW, let me tell you this. I am hungrier than you. I have more to prove. While you are doing your sniff sniff, everybody say hey, Onyango twende kengele; me I’ll be making cash money.

Come sniff sniff in my office when you’re looking for a job. In five years. And I’ll be twenty. Laughing at you, laughing at my father. I won’t be ‘fat’. I’ll be rough and lady. Here, there, in Stato, anywhere.

Another Fine Salon

Thanks to all who showed up for this month’s installment of Sunday Salon – the house was packed like never before, and the performers all rose to the occasion. Possibly our best night yet – but don’t take our word for it; check out what this Kenyan Poet had to say…

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