The ‘happy new year’ that people have been blurting out all about is beginning to take shape.
First, quite some improvement on the weather’s mood swings. I notice it because I’m a sales guy. I spend most of my time roaming across wearisome roads, like headless chicken, screaming from corporate office to corporate office about how my employer’s product is the best bet in the market. As such, it’s easy to notice when the cool calm morning gives way to an afternoon filled with anti-riot teargas.
Teargas? Yeah. We were meant to be swearing in the “People’s President” today. Remember? Good.
And so my sales pitch today afternoon was filled with tears. Of course I described that to a client as my ‘tears of joy’ as I could not fathom out the sense of well-being she’d derive from using our product. We were literally crying out with her. Shoulder by shoulder. It nearly sounds cool but this thought ends there because as I sat to pen this, I’d been thinking bad things like ‘maybe most of us Kenyans are idiots’.
Anyway, such random musings like these happen to me because, I think, it’s always ONLY the weird segment of humanity that prefer to sit next to me on public transport. If it’s not the guy that smells like pee, it’s the lady who sees my phone and breaks into a fart after an effort to secretly control her laughter fails. It’s because the wallpaper on my phone is currently a hyena.
When we voted in the current regime, full of politicians apt at the sleight of the hand; we literally asked the hyena to hold the piece of meat for us. They’re looting and looting and looting. By the way, I’d always thought that the ban on plastic paper bags in Kenya would reduce the urge a politician in government has, to carry something home from the public coffers.
Question: We voted in these guys?
Answer: We are idiots. After all, being really smart is exhausting.
That monologue was my attempt to hide my political sentiments without disappearing in a white car of unmarked plates. I don’t want to get shot before I make baby twins.
Back to that crisp morning I earlier told you we had today. This found me seated at the waiting lounge of business partner (of my employer) Y’s office chatting away with the secretary about random things ranging from bitcoins to yesterday’s burnt supper. I forgot to say; my goal this year is to make friends with as many plants and animals as I can. Of course, an argument has to start when I insist that ‘bitcoins will make the world go upside down’, yet someone’s secretary in high heels insists love has already done that. But in hindsight, I note that sometimes it’s hard to see someone else’s point of view until you’re in a tree outside the window of their house. That’s how I ended up knowing where a random stranger – someone’s secretary and someone’s daughter too – lives. Just like that. We might be idiots. By the way, I normally have fun but I don’t tell anyone.
Incomplete thoughts. Huh?
No. I’ve remembered something. It’s the country music. I’m in Y’s office and I’m meant to cross-sell this product that I don’t use but will make Y’s company chained to top-ten list. Tunes were playing in the background. Country music is the place I sometimes scout for things to write. Yep. There. I just sold myself out like that? But I think when a song relates with your life, you sort of have your “ish” together, right?
30 minutes deep into arriving at Y’s office, Y is still holding me up with his secretary. I’d have broken into a rant the moment I’d eventually get to see him; had the secretary not surprised me by confessing that 2018 is actually not a leap year.
What? Who notices such things? Some people really have their “ish” together. Like…
“By the way 2018 is not a leap year.”
*more awkward silence because that’s country music behind, somewhere*
“Yeah. February. Comes in 28 flavors this year.”
Maybe this is the line she uses on first time visitors to keep them astounded so they don’t notice things but I’m the bad one. I even noticed the spiders on the wall, identified their gender, matched them up to their mating partners and on top of that, noticed the glass aquarium had no fish in it.
Obviously, by then, I’d uprooted Y’s secretary from her seat. She was then walking me leisurely to the calendar to confirm her discovery. So, dear reader, picture me poking random points on the calendar with my finger. Does that remind you of something? No? It does take me back to 20 years ago, when I’d poke dead animals in the African jungle with my finger – to confirm they’re dead. That’s why I’d never poke anyone on Facebook. By the way, instead of poking me, like my FACEBOOK PAGE here.
Don’t worry. Stay with me. Such incomplete thoughts are a metaphor of my real life.
***40 minutes later.
Y’s still holed up in there. Like a warthog. I’ve already given him two slaps (in my brain) – not slaps of pancake, foodious friends. The two slaps work. Y calls his secretary’s phone extension. I escort her back to her desk to pick that call. Of course we were nothing serious, just playing around to murder time. If you are playing with people, put them back in the right place after using. I’ve said it. I put her back to her desk. To pick that call.
*** *** *** *** *** ***
Settling in Y’s office reminds me what ‘pain in the (synonym for donkey)’ means. Fruit left overs on desk. Who does that? Like, who eats mango and forgets to eat peelings? By the way, Y is big. I mean, a human Kilimanjaro. And in between that left-overs’ let-down and the smell of coffee renting the air – to point out that it was already 10 a.m – I had to stomach a story of how Y and his company can’t take up my product’s offer because he’s already using our competitor’s product. I had obviously done my background homework but this caught me underwears – yeah, I said that; like the way city council askaris manhandle a hawker. See the life of people in sales. See?
Know what? A simple text can change things. An SMS. I was just about to ask Y to ditch said competitor and follow ‘me’ just the way his secretary would ditch Thursday’s overtime extra hours for a taste of my burnt supper. But I didn’t. T’was that SMS from Headboy that hit at the right time.
“Can we roho-panfry today between 1 and 2 p.m?”
Headboy (that’s his name) is that pal who I’d describe as a man after a “goat’s own heart”. We’d sit in those dingy restaurants of downtown that help kill the last days of the month and he’d order the fried heart of a goat. Not only that. He could distinguish cooked and chopped goat heart from an assembly of other cooked and chopped goat organs.
And so? We can only imagine how an SMS from such can change the moods of a fellow carnivore. I shot up, dusted one butt and gave Y that “t’was nice knowing you” sneer just in case my boss inquired. (But of course I slapped him in my head two times again). And left.
*do not try this at home, or anywhere else*
I left housing one incomplete thought in my head of a live goat butting me with his head’s horns; and another of me digging fork into it’s cooked heart. As karma says it should be.
***stupid brain*** | ***thanks brain***
1 p.m happened and teargas was all-over town. Dingy joints that normally would have been clouded in roast smoke; were then crowded with crying patriots who love their “president”. Furthermore, roho-panfry was cancelled due to insufficient goats. Story behind? Goats were stopped at a roadblock on their way to the city. The police did that to stop this swearing-in ceremony. They thought the goats would attend the ceremony, and create massive unrest, alongside swelling the attendance crowd. That’s what I heard.
No roho-panfry. That’s why this episode of wild ventures is a residual of incomplete thoughts that smell like njahi. I love my country.