A Fervid Defense of (Some) YouTube Ads

 

A Play button experiencing a violent deconstruction. A symbolism of YouTube, perhaps? Photo - Dall-e

It's Not What You Think

Ah, YouTube ads.

The bane of our existence; like finding a wet and soggy chip in your chip packet or biting into a stone while eating a tasty hotdog.

YouTube ads - that thing that makes us who refuse to subscribe to YouTube Premium shake our fists in frustration at our phones and computer screens when that ad interrupts our five-minute video for the sixth time – only this time, the whole 40-minute ad is playing.

Who wouldn’t want to skip that? I certainly would want to skip that.

This post is not about that type of ad.

Instead, I write about music ads.

The Rapid Rise of YouTube Music Ads

I can’t quite put a finger to it, but music ads, especially full music ads, have been on a rapid rise over the past few years (I don’t have the numbers though lol). YouTube ads in general, have increased significantly to be honest.

But I have never quite noticed so many music ads before as I have noticed over the past year. Perhaps they have been on the increase for much longer, but I only became aware of them shortly before.

I don’t remember when this came to be, but I became aware of just how many music ads I had been getting on YouTube when one of the song ads that I let play (sometimes I let ads play as additional support to my favorite content creators) made its way to my YouTube playlist a few months (or was it a year and some months?) ago.

I am not mentioning the artist’s name or song, not because I want to maintain some exclusivity for some deranged personal gratification, but because I don’t remember clearly what the song was or who even the artist was. Ironic much? I enjoyed the song then promptly forgot about it and the artist, what a way to make your point, you are probably thinking.

Indeed, this wasn't the strongest way to make my point. Still, what I know is that, for several months, I had this song, which I discovered as a YouTube ad, on my playlist, and that made me happy.

Since then, I have been letting music ads play more often than not to gauge whether I would vibe with the artist or, at the very least, with the song. This has led to me discovering some memorable songs. And, not to repeat the mistake of the first time, I have sought out the artists who leave an impact. My embrace of YouTube music ads is a far cry from the past, when I often thought that music that was advertised was somehow inferior to music that I discovered organically. Let it naturally make its way to my playlist, dear artist, old me said.

But in this age where more and more people are getting opportunities to pursue their dreams, it's no longer enough to make good music; you have to part with a few coins to be seen in this endless void of the ever-evolving technological zeitgeist in order to stand out in the saturated online space with ever diminishing attention spans. 

And I think artists buying ads for their music is a good thing actually. It helps them reach their target audience, or intended audience, without having to waste years rotting in the endless, yet still ever-expanding, YouTube space, waiting for the unforgiving and unpredictable algorithm to maybe, possibly, hopefully, pick it up and begin pushing it.

And from these paid music ads, I have listened to music that has gone on to be some of my favourites.

Some of My Faves from YouTube Ads

Ndikwenda, by Kenyan artist Lano Musician and Greek producer Stavros Zacharias, is one of the earlier songs that comes to mind as one of those that encouraged me not to skip music ads. Come to think of it, it might have been THAT song that made me think twice about skipping music ads.

Since Ndikwenda, I have encountered various artists. Some of them gave me a flash of joy with their music, which I soon forgot; others, though, have become some of my favorite artists.

Gloria Bash, a young, petite woman from Congo with glasses covering half her gorgeous face, sang her way with her soothing, angelic voice into my heart with Toza Bien.

Interestingly, it took several listens for Toza Bien to click, like the realization that you are in love when you see the object of your affection on the seventh date. Or like relishing the true mastery of the chef who made the food you are eating at the seventh bite. I don't know why I used seven to make my point, but I just did.

Anyway, since then, Gloria Bash has managed to cascade her way into my ear with her magnificent Mbele, an anthem with strong vocal performances from her and her collaborator, Yvon Yusuf. She then further wriggled her way into my psyche with the glorious Cascade, a song that sounds like it would make for a sick TikTok viral dance video. 

F Supreme Mabungu and his electric dancers also danced their way into my memory with 6_9, which reminded me a lot of the chants that we would make back in the village during Christmas festivities called malago.

Then, there was Teslah, another Kenyan artist whose two songs, Tujibambe, a Christmas/festive song sampled from Oliver Ng’oma’s Bane in collaboration with the sensational Iyanii, and Ndiguikare, a love song released this past Valentine's that wouldn’t be out of place in a sex playlist, also made their way to my consciousness through a YouTube ad.

J Kree’s reflective My Space, is another music I discovered on YouTube ads that's on heavy rotation now. "My energy sharp like a razor blade, cutting off ties just to concentrate". Whew! Hold it there as I give it another listen.

Then there is Tanzania’s Kenny Guitar, whose song, Mariana, heavily influenced by Spanish ballads, with the Spanish guitar playing prominently throughout, also caught my ears as an ad. This is a song that I see playing at my wedding as I serenade my lovely wife.

Then, there is also Martin’s Doudou (fun fact: his name is actually Martin’s with an apostrophe), to JZyNO’s uptempo Profeh, all the way to Sabrina (no, not Carpenter) from Cameroon, the list is long, and the songs *Chef’s Kiss*.

I think I wouldn’t have discovered these songs otherwise because I am as safe as I can be with the music I listen to. I am so safe that safety experts take Masterclasses from me on how to be safe.

And it hasn’t just been ‘small’ artists who are in on the action. Just as I write this, listening to my playlist, I’ve gotten an ad for The Weeknd’s Open Hearts. I had to skip it, sorry. No, not because it is not a good song, but because I had watched too many ads prior, and so I was suffering from ad fatigue. He is one of many established artists who are turning to YouTube ads to reach wider audiences.

Diamond in the Rough

Indeed, the rise of YouTube ads continues to be a frustrating update to the once beloved video platform, but, man, I cannot help but think of just how many opportunities it is currently providing for new artists who want to reach newer audiences. Or how many opportunities it gives those of us who are risk-averse musically to discover new artists and new sounds.

I certainly have listened to a lot more variety of songs since I began letting music YouTube ads play, and I think I would let that continue. I mean, I don’t feel at any point in my life would I have ever listened to Serbian artist, Electra Elite, whose powerful vocals grabbed me by my collars, sat me down, handed me my earphones, and made me listen to Nista Licno from an ad. Sounds violent, I know, but it was a good kind of forcefulness, the kind that seems to make you sit down and enjoy something almost in hypnosis.

Perhaps this is one more reason for me to hold back from subbing to YouTube Premium, and I think it is one of the most compelling reasons. Now of course, not all music ads are great, but I will take my chances to find the diamond in the rough.

Still, though, YouTube ads remain a pain in the ass! Ultimately, even this half-hearted defense of music ads is not a call for you to not skip ads or not to use adblockers. The emergence of ads has ruined the YouTube experience more than improved it. I am just trying to find the positive in an otherwise shitty experience.

 

The Shadow at My Door: Part 1

 

1: That Feeling of Being Watched

It all started one innocuous evening.

A long day of work had taken so much from me that I was barely holding on. After spending an obscene amount of time struggling with the creaky iron gate, I labored the car into my compound, unable to tell right from left, top from bottom, because the day completely drained me.

I parked the car, got out, and slumbered into the house, dragging my sullen body along like a sack.

As soon as I set foot into the house, I was immediately overcome with a sense of unease, as though I was in the presence of a threat that I was yet to lay my eyes on. A familiar scent hit my nose, and immediately all the fatigue that was weighing me down dissolved like salt in warm water, the brain fog in my brain clearing like actual fog in the face of the morning sun.

It was the scent of my wife’s perfume. My dead wife’s perfume!

That explosion of the rosebud and jasmine struck my nasal nerves with the ferocity of a wild animal, and with that scent flooded the memories: the good, the bad, the sorrowful memories.

The house was dead, the living room beckoning with the faint orange hue of the setting sun, while the stairway stayed solemn and dark as though it was bearing some more bad news.

I set my car keys down on the table that stood at the centre of the living room as the scent brought with it the last moments of my wife.

On our marital bed, her body frail, with nothing left on her except for her bones, sunken dead eyes, and hair thinning on her head, each wisp seemingly falling off each time you stroked her head, a sad scowl permanent on her face.

I closed my eyes as a lump filled my throat and felt the sorrow rush back into my eyes and fall as warm tears; a grief that was supposed to be seven months old still felt as fresh as freshly plucked fruit.

I turned my attention to the stairs, where the rising steps beckoned, the light fading gradually with each rising step until there was nothing but looming shadows at the top landing.

I gave a deep sigh as I walked to the bottom step and looked up. Someone, something was watching me. I could feel it; I just hadn’t yet seen it.

Tentatively, I put my right foot on the first step. I was trembling like a leaf in the wind.

I put my left foot on the second step. I could feel the piercing eyes of this as-of-yet-unseen enemy stare right into my wildly beating heart.

I was breathing hard, every cell of my body screaming in discomfort and fear.

I got to the top landing barely able to hear, because my heart was thumping so hard I felt in in my ears. I put my hand on my chest and gasped, trying to catch my breath and, at the same time, trying to keep the viciously beating heart from tearing through my sternum.

I waddled to my bedroom door and stopped just outside.

My dead wife’s scent was very strong right now, almost as though she was standing right in front of me. No, actually, the scent was as strong as though I was hugging her tightly. I thought I heard someone hum and shuffle about in the room.

I was trembling viciously, my breathing sounding as though I was gasping with each breath. My palms were sweaty, and I couldn’t even wrap my fingers properly around the door now as my finger were benumbed. All coordination was gone. It took all the might I could muster, along with both hands, to turn the knob and push open the door.

As soon as I opened the door, my wife’s favorite nightgown, a red, satin nightgown that she wore each time we would get dirty in the sheets and, sometimes even outside the sheets, dropped to the floor. A slight breeze blew my way from the half-open window and, with it, blew the rosebud and jasmine scent, strong enough as though I was intimately on my wife’s skin.

I had hung this nightgown on her closet door since her death, a constant reminder of the love I had lost, but I knew that it could not easily fall to the floor as I had just seen because I had hung it using a hanger with hooks that held the straps in place. No strong wind would blow it without also dropping the hanger. Someone surely must have moved it. Perhaps I was the one who had accidentally moved it and had forgotten?

I ambled into the room, tears welling in my eyes, picked up the gown and fell on the bed, hugging it as memories of my wife came flooding back. In that moment, I was crying, laughing, regretting, and thinking all at once until a wave of sleep washed over me –

2: The Phantom

I was startled awake and was instantly drawn to the blurry sight of a figure standing in the dark in my open bedroom doorway. I sat up, my wife's red nightgown still held firmly in my hands as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the figure, all at once, becoming clearer yet at the same time, blending seamlessly into the darkness. I rubbed my eyes and looked once again. The darkness seeping in through my bedroom door stared blankly at me, and almost imperceptibly, the shadowy figure seemed to dissolve into the darkness.

I put the nightgown back on the closet door and turned on the light. I looked down the corridor. Nobody was there. I was seeing things again.

The time was 11.53 PM. A short nap had turned into a whole six-hour sleep. My stomach grumbled in hunger. I needed something to eat.

As I sat down to eat the heated leftovers from the previous day, the wind slowly began to howl outside. Expected. This was January, so the dry and warm Kaskazi N/NE trade winds were in their full blow, aided by the humid weather and sweltering heat. But there was something eerie about the wind tonight. It felt as though it was whispering, as though it carried voices of unseen entities as it screamed across the Kajiado plains, howling right outside my house and rattling my rafters and windows.

I leaned back in the seat, turned on the TV and put on one of those terrible background movies as I focused on my phone.

The winds blew harder and at some point, it felt as though it would uproot the trees and even my house. It howled and bayed, like the cries of people in eternal damnation, and the more it blew, the higher it pitched, and soon, it sounded like a theremin in high pitch.

I put my plate down and sat up, the hairs on the back of my head standing up. I was trembling slightly, not from fear but from the sudden chilliness that had seeped into the room.

I walked over to the window overlooking my backyard. My security light was on, illuminating, in a lonely yellow glow, the trees that swayed, creaked, and groaned to the forceful wind. Amongst these trees, I caught sight of a rabbit standing perfectly still, seemingly looking at my window. It then scampered away as soon as I had laid my eyes on it.

Then, there was a gentle, almost imperceptible tap at my front door. Tap. Tap. Very soft, easy to miss. I turned and looked at the front door. Maybe it was just loose dust getting blown against the door?

I went back and sat down, now cozying myself in my wife’s favorite seat, where I continued to be haunted by the memories of our lives until her death.

A short while later, some noise came from my bedroom floor above my head. I paused and sat up, head askance, ears perked. Indeed, there were some faint, albeit quite perceptible sounds of footsteps upstairs.

I lived in a place where my closest neighbour was about a kilometer or so away from me. The lands that we lived in were recently developed suburbs, and thus, there were very few houses in close proximity. I loved this about Village Spring Estate because I had never been too keen on living with a neighbor right next to my walls.

I made my way into the kitchen, my dinner plate in hand, and pulled out a pipe wrench from under the sink. A knife would be too violent, and I hated the sight of blood. I put the cold food into the microwave, ready for re-heating once I had dealt with whatever was making noise upstairs.

I crept down the corridor and slowly made my way up the stairs.

Indeed, the sounds were not coming from my tired brain. Something was indeed ransacking through my bedroom. I could hear the noises of cabinet doors whirring open and the soft thud of things falling on the floor. The closer I got to the bedroom, the more I felt it once again – the unmistakable scent of my wife’s perfume.

I was shaking violently, the wrench rattling noisily down by my side. My heartbeat so forceful that it thudded against my head and gave me a slight headache. My skin tingled, and my mouth dried. I reached for the doorknob and sighed. I psyched myself up. It was my house! My home!

I opened the door with a sudden lunge and leaped into the room, swinging the wrench wildly, eyes closed, and screaming like a maniac. I kept swinging until my arms were sore and my throat was coarse. I opened my eyes to a room in disarray, all contents from my wife's closet, her clothes, shoes and jewelry, strewn down on the floor, spread all over the carpet like butter spread thin on bread, her closet doors wide open.

All except her red sleeping gown, which was laid neatly on the bed, her perfume right next to it, the Jasmine and Rosebud scent wafting gently throughout the room and giving me some major surge of old memories, memories that I was trying to push at the back of my mind.

I turned around and scanned the room, checked the bathroom, empty, in my closet, nothing. I rushed out of the room, down into the sitting room, and checked the room right under the staircase because that would be a good place for an intruder to hide. Nothing.

I scoured through the house, checking every nook and cranny, but came up short.

I then stepped outside, to the wind howling and baying across the flat plains and walked around the parking, looking into and under the two cars in the parking lot, my wife’s and mine. Nothing.

I move around to the backyard, once again, catching a glimpse of a rabbit, which, upon seeing me, scampered amongst the creaking trees and disappeared into the darkness.

But just as I was about to turn, I caught a glimpse of a human silhouette standing among the trees. It was a split-second sight, such that by the time I was shining my light on where I thought I had seen it, it was gone.

Was I losing my mind or what?

It Breaks at The Doorstep

The piercing bars of sunlight snuck into this tiny room through random gaps on the mud wall and the wooden window as the birds sang with exuberance outside.

On one side of the room was a bed that creaked each time a muscle was twitched. It was a small bed, yet two figures were squeezed on its narrow platform and seemed unbothered. A tiny drawer next to the bed held a pale blue ashtray filled with orange cigarette butts and grey ash. An empty bottle of liquor stood next to it and in the air, was the sharp stench of stale tobacco and cheap liquor, this terrible smell stealing every bit of freshness from the morning.

One of the two figures on the bed stirred and pulled away the blanket. She sat up, her face pallid. Her eyes were sickly and ponderous, tears glittering in them. Then she rose slowly, the bed squeaking with each of her movements. The man sleeping next to her grunted and snuggled himself a little tighter.

She jumped over him, crawled to the other side of the bed and pulled open the window, letting the glorious sparkle of the morning light up the room. She squinted as the sun streamed into the room like it owned the place. She adjusted the black faded petticoat that hang loosely on her thin body.

Their three children were squeezed on the floor, huddled on a lean, beaten mattress that had long surrendered, gobbled up by a thick duvet, which had a big hole close to the bottom.

The tall one, sleeping closer to the door kept curling himself further to accommodate his feet in the warmth of the cover. Next to him was his younger sister and then an infant, who started and coughed before breaking into a sharp shrill.

The mother, evoked by the unseating shriek of her precious but embattled bundle, sighed as if she had grown weary of hearing that cry. She reached over and picked it up. The other two sat up, rubbing their eyes languidly as each yawned to the bright sunlight. The eldest one was about fourteen or fifteen while the other was nine.

“Mum why is Janita crying?” The nine-year old girl asked, not really sure if she too should break down if it turned out that hunger was what disturbed the little one. The mother seemed not to have heard her.

The man was last to wake up. As if compelled by his nightmares than his own volition, he sat up with a start. He was wrinkled, but not due to old age. He had yet to clock forty but looked well past fifty.

He had been battered by life and thus, the skin folded on his face like a sack of balls on a hot day. He yawned noisily as he panned the room. All eyes were on him, red and dreadful, sick and mottled with anger, disgust, apathy. Even little Janita had paused her noisome shrieks and was desperately trying to reach for his nape.

“So what are your plans for today, Friday?” His wife asked, her eyes now full of anger. He half turned to her.

“What do you mean?” He asked ignorantly. He did not meet her eyes nor the children’s. He did not want to see the expectations, the desperation, the contempt in them. So instead, he looked down at his feet, almost in shame.

“Where are we headed?” His wife snapped, “What are we to do with things getting worse each day?”

There was anger and frustration in her voice. But more importantly, there was pain, a deep-seated agony from hopelessness.

He turned his eyes to the window, to the vast blueness of a vacant sky outside, to the empty chambers of heaven, up to the callous gods looking down at his misery and choking with laughter. Sweet heavens were now like the liquor bottle next to him, magnificently full of nothing.

“I will do something about it-”

“When? When, Friday?” His wife gave a teary interjection, “After we have all been kicked out of this shack? Do you think we even have it in us to stay in this sun without feeling sick?”

“I will take care of everything.” He repeated himself, for what else was there to say? He had run out of vocabulary just as he had run out of money and opportunities.

“You keep saying that!”

“Just give me time!” He snapped at her, his temple webbing with veins, throbbing rhythmically to the rampant throb of his solemn heart.

Then he immediately felt bad about it. He was the cause of this trouble they were going through. They were as faultless as he was guilty.

“I can’t promise anything,” He said in a contrite tone, “You of all people should know that. I’m doing my best.”

“We could have avoided all this if only you had let me go out and work too –”

“You sit here and take care of the children.” He said firmly. “If I leave then you leave, who will watch the children?”

“Jeremy here is old enough –”

“We cannot leave these children alone. You talk as if you don’t know these slums.”

“I always would have found someone to care for the children –”

“I said I want you to stay home and care for the children. Yaishe.” He muttered as he reached under the bed.

The wife shook her head and sniffled as tears began falling down her sad eyes. She rocked back and forth, trying to keep the young one from crying.

“I don’t know if I want to stay here any longer with you.” She said suddenly.

That startled him. He sat stoically as the seconds passed, each pounding home the meaning, the impact of that statement. He felt his heart combust into a flame, not of fury, but one of frustrations, a culmination of the trouble that had been brewing.

“You are not leaving me.” He said, his teeth clenched, his voice firm, his mind pleading for her to reason with him.

But the wife shook her head as her face wrinkled in pain and sorrow. Tear dribbled freely from her eyes. Down on the mattress, the nine-year-old too began silently sobbing, while Jeremi, the oldest one, sat up, staring pensively ahead.

“I am short of options, Friday.” His wife said, “If you will not let me find a job, then I’d rather leave you and find another way to fend for myself and my children.”

He looked away, still avoiding everybody’s eyes. He reached for his clothes, which he had folded up into a makeshift pillow and put them on as his children looked away. Then he moved along and sat on the edge of the bed and put on the yawning shoes he had pulled from under the bed.

Then he motioned for his son to fold the mattress to afford room for him to maneuver through. He stretched and pulled open the door open, letting in more of those pleasantly warm rays of sunshine. Perhaps these rays signified something good was in the offing. He skipped out without as much as a glance back. In the house, an awkward silence remained.

“I want the two of you to wash all your dirty clothes.” Mother said as Jeremy and his younger sister moved to action.

***

He skipped carelessly over the sewage flowing in between the shanties, passing women who were bent over washing clothes.

He then came upon a dirt road and turned to the left towards the market, restrained deeply in his thoughts. A few days had turned to months, which turned to years that eventually turned to a decade. Time moved fast. Or was he moving rather slow for time? He jerked as a fellow stepped on his toes, bringing back to the present.

How fair it would be if lady luck smiled, nay, laughed down at his balding head, hair thinning not from age but from stress and the many ailments that came with living in apathy and poverty. But lady luck was not smiling at his head. The sun was scorching his shining scapel, perhaps responsible for the delicious smell of something good cooking – his thoughts.

He didn’t look up, not at the groceries, not at the kiosks that yawned from the tire of their equally battered owners and not at the supermarkets that often lacked the courtesy to sell something fresh for once. His stomach made frequent complaints of hunger, drawing a groan, possibly a scowl of murderous intent, from him.

As he passed a two-storey building, something smashed against his head and began trickling down his temples and forehead. Someone had dumped dirty water on him. He didn’t bother to look up. For what? He didn’t want to see that middle finger aimed at him. He just wiped it away as diplomatically as he could with the back hem of his shirt and went on wading through his thoughts.

He touched the little hair that still clung onto his miserable cranium. Too bad he had not combed his hair. Maybe the thoughts would have been kinder if his hair was neater. Trouble, misery. And the sweet scent of something frying. Chapatis tossed into the air. He neared the den. The woman watched him approach.

“Ya ngapi mzee?” She asked, flipping the round flour dough she was rolling.

He gestured for two. She turned and began scrounging for a nylon bag. He responded swiftly, lifting several with blinding agility, dipping them into his back pocket as he melded into the crowd of the slum dwellers. Behind, the woman let out a cry. He ducked into an alley. In these parts, alleys always led somewhere and he knew he was unlikely to come undone by a dead end so he disappeared down that way.

***

But things wouldn’t always be like this. Previously the bad days had always been followed by the good and he hoped this would be same. But the bad days this time had overstayed their welcome. Never before had he been on the brink of eviction as it was this time. Never before had he been on the brink of starvation as he was this time.

God curse that useless President and his love for those suits that look like those worn by that North Korean leader.

Memories jumped back to the good old days. How infectious was a smile when there was plenty; plenty to eat, plenty to excrete, plenty to waste too?

Their shadows would dance on the walls as they hunched over the tiny candle light on the tiny table and brought the mountain of food to its knees. Actually they ate even its knees as the shadows danced, the candle being the shadow choreographer. And a joke was shared too, and if it wasn’t, even a belch was hilarious, a fart was a rib cracker.

Then came days like these, days that just stumbled in and plonked themselves in the room like they belonged there. Days of empty pockets, empty stomachs, empty promises. And good memories would wander away too, so also empty memories. Good times were forgotten, and he would quickly be reminded of them. He took out the bundle of chapatis he had taken unceremoniously. He counted them. Six.

He took two and shoved the rest back into the pockets of his black, ill-fitting trousers that sagged unceremoniously from his thinning waste. Grumpily, he stuffed the chapatis into his mouth as he came up to a narrow street that had a few shops but still plenty of people.

A tarmacked road passed through here. A few feet away, children had converted the road into a playfield, kicking about a football with abandoned bliss.

He spat as he walked up a stream. He was now nearing the highway, where a market thrived.

He slowly ambled up to the market. The traders called at him; Sukuma wiki mkubwa, nyanya freshi. He swallowed the last of his chapatis as he moved in between the throbbing bodies.

The smell of rotting vegetables filled the air as he maneuvered his way between the bodies of people stopping to buy the vegetables.

The then came up to the edge of the road where the vehicles sped past and looked on. Dead at the centre of the road, a black shadow appeared, almost human but not quite. It lifted a hand and beckoned.

Friday closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Perhaps this was the time that he needed to end it. The good times were never coming. His life was never going to change for the better. He would never get that good job he wanted. So, why bother continuing existing in this mortal coil of misery?

He opened his eyes again. The shadow still beckoned with slow, graceful motions. It danced daintily in the road. Maybe he could find the joy to dance like that in death. He smiled and nodded to the black shadow.

He walked much closer to the curb and waited. The road was less busy, but a bus was speeding towards him. A strike from the bus would be instant, he thought, inching closer to the road.

The bus roared closer. He could hear the sweet turbo spool of its engine as it neared. It wasn’t moving particularly fast, but the mass of its large body would do damage at that speed.

He inched closer. The bus got closer. He closed his eyes and imagined a better world. Then, he made a step forward.

A hand gripped him firmly from the back and pulled him back.

He opened his eyes just as the bus flew past him, leaving behind a very strong wake that almost threw him off-balance. It was moving fast and that speed would have put him out of his misery in an instant. So, who was this idiot that had stopped him?

“Oh my God, that bus almost crushed you! Are you okay?” A woman’s voice said.

He turned. A woman was staring at him with some concern. Then, her eyes widened, partly in shock, partly in recognition.

“Faraday?” She called.

He was stunned. Who was this woman that knew his name as it was supposed to be? Faraday and not the Friday bullshit his wife often spewed out.

She was gorgeous, he noticed, her brown eyes intense and piercing. Those eyes flickered as she broke into a smile. Faraday squinted and winced. He bit his tongue as he ransacked through his fusty, festering memories, trying to dig a familiar face to match the woman. And she didn’t spare his slaving with a failing memory.

“Remember me?” She asked, looking at Faraday up and down, seeming to ignore his trouble recollecting her. He hemmed and hawed. Then he scowled as if he had ingested aloe vera juice and looked at her suspiciously. Then he knit his brows and skewed his lips. Flashes of recall. Um...uhh...dammit...she is who she is. Maam are you here to give me a job or not? I don’t know you.

“I’m sorry, I will if you remind me.” He said, keenly studying her to mark out any familiarity. A former employer perhaps.

“It’s Lucy,” she snapped, giggling in excitement, “Lucy Ndeti. We were in the same class in Sky Rise Academy.”

The wind paused. The trees went awkwardly silent. He felt as if he had been rudely hit in the head by a rod. His jaws dropped as his heart took a deep breather. His eyes, blurring with tears and widened with paralyzing marvel, lingered on her as the familiarity finally struck home.

Of course it had to be Lucy. He could see it now.

“L...Lucy?” He stuttered, his lips still moving even after he had stammered out that name.

“Yes.” She smiled more broadly. “Unanikumbuka sasa?”

Suddenly, his memory flew into top gear, and the evocative frames came in a deluge. A blissful, nostalgic childhood reminisce.

The teary evenings in the staffroom for noise making. The awkward, gritty, grounding competition in English and Kiswahili lessons. The strange attraction and the mocking of the whole class when that dripping, uncomfortably wet kiss landed on her unsuspecting cheeks. Then the tears that came after and the embarrassment that followed. And then, the turn around a few years later to becoming closer friends.

And she still held onto that quiet comeliness of her formative years. The beauty still stood, only more mature now. The beatific, large eyes that captivated and never let go, that once made his pre-teen heart flutter and his lips stutter and his emotions gush and his blood rush, oh those comely eyes, they still were there, now more familiar to him than they had been previously.

“Wow, you look like you don’t belong here.” Faraday said with an embarrassed smile.

“I am here for fresh veggies,” she said, pointing to the bag she was carrying filled with fresh veggies. “You don’t look so good.”

Faraday felt a lump on his throat, which then brought tears into his eyes. He curled his toes, hunched his shoulders and cringed as his whole face sank in shame. He looked down.

“Why are you getting vegetables from here, though?” Faraday asked, “Shouldn’t you be getting them from a supermarket at the mall of something?”

“I live around here and this is where I get my fresh veggies from.” She said, “Want to come with me? For a cup of tea perhaps? You look like you could use a cuppa.”

Her voice was mellow and now that he had refreshed his memory, she was too familiar to forget. She had changed little still. Only more grown. And rich, or at least, not struggling for a meal like he was.

What a nasty sense of humor life had. A close friend, or former close friend, living just a few meters from where he lived, drowning in money as he sank deep in misery.

“Okay, Lucy,” he mumbled as he fidgeted and trembled violently, “But I have to admit I am embarrassed.”

“It’s okay.” She said sweetly as she led the way.

***

As she opened the gate to her apartment block, Faraday could feel the wealth in the air. It came from the calming trees which lined the streets, or was it from the large iron gate which creaked sweetly to let him in. Or did it come from the majestic cars parked outside, or the beautiful apartment with pink façade.

They took an elevator to the third floor, where she let him in on a beautiful, spacious room that looked something straight out of a real estate magazine.

“Please take a seat, Farah. I hope it’s okay to call you that.” Lucy said with a smile.

“It’s no problem,” Faraday said, sitting down on the couch adjacent to the door. “Wow, this is nice.”

The room looked beautiful with it’s white walls, maroon curtains which hang majestically on the large windows that let in much of the sunlight.

“So tea or juice?” She asked, smiling benevolently at him.

He asked for water, hoping she would read into his shyness and see that he was dying for something to eat. He actually was screaming ugali and beef stew. Speaking of food, he reached for his pockets. The three chapatis had gone cold now and he wondered what to do with them if he left here full.

“I will make you something small to eat too.” Lucy said as she walked into the kitchen.

His balls retreated further into his crotch. Sweet old Lucy. Still the same with that beautiful heart some fifteen or so years later. Oh, how some people never change. How beauty, sometimes, never fades.

“You look sick, Faraday.” Lucy opined as she emerged a few minutes later with a plate of steaming rice and meat stew.

At the sight of the food, his stomach groaned and the hunger coursed in jubilant palpitations. He cleared his throat as he prepared to speak. He received the plate, muttered thank you and dug in. She put a jug and a glass of juice on the tiny table next to him.

“What happened Farah? You had a great future.” She asked again.

Faraday shifted his eyes uneasily before finally deciding to look at her, though timidly, as of a dog looking at its master after a moment of mischief.

“Lucy,” Faraday gasped, fighting back the tears welling in his eyes as the torture of regret took over him. “Lucy, I... I... I don’t know.”

He paused and studied her. Was she really interested in knowing what he went through? Or was she just being polite? He looked down at the scaly, dry skin of the hand holding the spoon.

“I mean, after my father and mother died, I –”

“Oh my, you lost both parents?” Lucy exclaimed. Faraday nodded. Lucy’s face went glum, her eyes full of sorrow as she looked at him.

“Farah, I am so sorry.” She said. It was more of a whisper, as tears welled up in her eyes too.

Faraday choked on his tears, putting the food down.

“I couldn’t afford to get into university and so I decided to take up a job to see if I could save up enough for college…” his voice tapered off once again as those tragic memories flowed back, those memories he had been trying his best to shove to the back of his mind.

“It was supposed to be temporary, that job, but before I knew it, here I am, almost a decade later. I don’t know how it happened. It’s almost as though I slept one night and woke up today, older and still in the same place.”

Lucy’s eyes continued to water, in sorrow of what had become of her once great friend. She whispered I’m sorry once again, but her voice was chocking so it was barely audible.

“But enough of my troubles,” Faraday said, “I see you are doing quite well.”

“I am doing well,” she affirmed. “I guess for me things just went right at the right time. I went into engineering but soon after uni, I couldn’t land a job. So I leased land back home and tried out rabbit farming. Now, here I am.”

Faraday felt mocked. The pride in her voice plundered that much regret into him. She was bragging. But yet she wasn’t. She was just relishing how her life had panned out. she made it all seem so easy.

He looked around the walls. Photos of the family hang on almost all four of them. They featured prominently Lucy, a man and two teenage children, a boy and a girl.

“That’s your family?” He asked, pointing to one of the photos that had the four of them soaked in the white sands of the beach. Lucy looked up and a smile spread on her lips.

“Yes.” She said. Then she turned to him.

“You are not eating Faraday.” She observed. Faraday sighed. He took a spoonful of the food and stuffed it in his mouth. It was delicious, sumptuous but why could he barely enjoy it? He shook his head.

“I just can’t believe it.” He dribbled as tears finally trickled down his cheeks. “I’m a failure Lucy, a failure!”

“Faraday you are not –”

“Don’t try to make me feel better Lucy.” He cried as he looked at her, “I know what I am.”

Wrapped on her wonderful face was concern, her eyes were bleeding with sympathy, her lips trembling with emotion. But there was also a certain undercurrent of confusion in the way she looked at him. She still was in disbelief that this beaten, scrawny man barely holding it together was the same classmate who had been so bright it had been blinding.

“I’m at that point, Lucy,” He said as he wiped away tears from his swollen eyes, “At that point in life when you have lost the fear of certain things. If you have failed repeatedly, you just stop fearing failure and death. You stop hoping for something better. If anything, death becomes something you look forward to.” His voice broke off as he cried his heart out.

Lucy looked down at him. She took the plate from his agitating hands and took him in a hug.

“I’m sorry about all you have gone through, Farah,” she comforted, “But while misery takes you to some dark places, what you do from there is your choice.” She let him be and looked into his eyes.

“You are like a brother to me, Farah, and I hate seeing you in this situation. Say, do you want any help?”

Faraday nodded.

“What kind of help?”

“An opportunity.” Faraday said without thought. Yes. It was all he needed. “I just want an opportunity for my children to finish school and not end up like me. I don’t want my sins to be visited upon them. They deserve better.”

As he spoke, she sat next to him, paying keen attention to him such that even the dog’s incessant barking couldn’t call her away. The more he went on, the lighter he felt. It was almost as if shackles were being freed from him.

They went on and dug out their past, rekindling those sweet memories of childhood. He spoke endlessly and she gave him all her ears. She also gave him comfort. She was happy, he could tell and he found himself flustered when she assured him with a smile.

Her life had just turned out so incredible that he began to feel jealousy rankle at the basement of his emotional chambers. But it soon gave way to admiration and pride. Pride in her. He was proud that she had done so incredibly well despite being offered nothing but the raw deal during her formative years. He was proud of her. Her energy and effervescence wasn’t because she was bragging. Rather it was born of contentment, happiness in having accomplished what she set out to do. Self-actualization.

Their childhood, their cries, laughter and a little superficial reminisce of that love that never got to be. Divergent was what would best describe their life paths. Engrossed in the power of nostalgia, both were rudely interrupted by the sound of an imam calling the Muslim faithful for evening prayers at a nearby mosque. It was quarter to seven and the sun had already wrapped, darkness engulfing what remained of daylight. The day has flown by, just as Faraday’s life had.

Faraday sighed and got up.

“I have to go, Lucy,” He said, scratching his scalp, looking lost. He fought within himself for a time, but then figured that failing to ask for help would be falling into the same old behavior of letting opportunities pass him by.

“I’m afraid I have nothing to feed my family, Lucy.”

It was about time that he resigned to what he was now - a beggar.

“Do you have your C.V with you?” Lucy asked suddenly.

“Yes,” Faraday nodded, “but I’m afraid it can’t amount to much as I haven’t updated it in years.”

There was disappointment palpable in Lucy's face as she now looked at him rather disapprovingly.

“Faraday, you can’t keep doing this to yourself and your family.” She said, her voice lilting in discontentment. “You can’t just give up on life like that.”

Faraday shook his head somberly but did not offer a response. Lucy picked her phone from her the table next to where she was seated.

“Give me your number and I will see how to help you.”

“My phone has been acting up for a few days now. I left it at home.” Faraday said. “I can give you my wife’s number.”

“Okay then.” Lucy said, getting to her feet. “And your wife what does she do?”

“Oh she takes care of the children.” Faraday said. “Though she has also been doing some odd jobs here and there.”

“Okay,” Lucy nodded, “Does she want something to do? I could use some help in this house.”

“Uh, when you call her, maybe you can ask her,” he said, “but I think she will be okay with the arrangement.”

Lucy nodded. She asked him to sit for a while as she skipped away. She came back with a plastic bag containing maize flour and a packet of rice. She handed it to Faraday, who, overwhelmed with gratitude, stuttered and stammered endless thank yous. She smiled and walked him to the door, where she reached for his hand and squeezed a few notes into his rough palms. Once more, Faraday was elated this time to the point of breaking down.

“Take care, Farah,” she said sweetly, “And remember you don’t have to remain as you are. I’ll call your wife tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” Faraday said, “and thank you once more, Lucy.”

With that, he turned and rushed out into the cold embrace of the darkness. He walked on the dappled street under the yellow street lights. Same old Lucy. Same old Lucy. She had been a friend and she still was as she had always been - humble, tender, caring. Oh and that reminded him. He opened the palms of his hands and counted the money.

Four thousand shillings! He let that sink in for a moment. Four thousand! God bless you Lucy. From grass to grace. Perhaps there was reason to live after all. Lucy had given him reason to live.

***

Darkness had fully enveloped the land when he found himself trudging through the littered streets of his sorry neighbourhood. Many had closed shop, with a few wrapping it up. Silence was beginning to bear the night.

A lone streetlight, which had been installed four years back as a campaign tool for the area MP, dispersed the yellow floodlight far into the slum, but only stray lights streamed the street where Faraday walked. He came up to a group of women shaded in the darkness, their thighs glittering in the weak light. The night gals were out in their glory and they tried to call at Faraday. Tempting.

He branched from the main street down a dark alley, which was a short-cut to getting home. With no light to guide him, he squelched and splashed into the sewers but again, he didn't care. The iron sheets of the houses rattled from the woofers blasting as people welcomed the night. He walked with his eyes over the shoulder.

This alley was bad, with volent robberies a norm, but he felt safe because the night was still young. He dipped his hands into his pocket and thrust the four thousand shillings in them. then, he remembered those chapatis, now dried and breaking. He threw them away.

Then he reached for the four thousand shillings in his pockets and once again pulled them out, stull in disbelief.

He walked past three men who grunted greetings to him. In front of him, another man walked towards him. Then, the man slipped just in front of Faraday –

A heavy blow at the back of his head sent him face first into the black sewer waters. Before he could recover, his whole body exploded in pain as punches and kicks and the strike of a rod rained on his defenseless self.

He opened his mouth to scream but a vicious stamp on his face arrested it as his jaws broke, a few teeth falling off too. The knocks on his side broke his ribs and there was no reprieve as he was bludgeoned for almost forever.

When they were done, he was a mess, blood seeping through his cloths, making them cling to his body. He was violently ransacked. His pockets were turned inside out, where they found a few coins and a note which he had written a few days ago.

“Fala,” One of the thugs said as he kicked Faraday repeatedly on his head, “How are you walking around with nothing?”

“Check the socks,” Another said.

Faraday, unable to move much as his body drowned in a sea of pain, felt them take out his shoes and socks. Nothing.

“Check in his underwear. These days they hide their money there too.” One of the robber said again.

“Wewe, I am not putting my hands on another man’s crotch.” Another said.

There was some push and pull. Faraday tried to move, but the pain would not allow him to move. Then, he felt it. One of the men opened his zipper and began groping around his nether regions, up to this anus.

“Hakuna kitu.” He said as they all proceeded to violently stamp him again. Then all was still.

“Fala. You are full of nothing. Next time have something for us to steal.” He heard a distant voice say before the multiple feet faded.

An alarming silence hang over him now. He coughed as blood choked him, vomiting thick spats of it. In waste, he lay as blood pooled below him, seeping into the murk. His eyes, blurred with tears and blood, looked up to the clear sky. The stars sparkled with an allure he had yet to witness, scintillating in magnificence as if a beckon for him to join their adornment.

They seemed to be calling and he was eager to respond. They were full of endless promises, granting him endless possibilities but if only he could touch them. He stretched the terribly shaking hand with such dogged determination than he had lived by. Then he touched them as the sky blasted into a bright white light.

A dead smile broke on his dead face. In his right hand, clasped tightly and protectively in his closed palm, was the four thousand shillings. 

Young-ish and Hopeless

The Precarious State of being a young person in Kenya today

The embodiment of a hopeless generation

A few weeks ago, in my usual Twitter scrolling habits, I came across a video that had been shared by media personality Anita Nderu, on her Twitter handle. In it, was a female host, out on the streets, asking a young man who looked no older than twenty-five, on what his plans were for the future (My recall for the actual question is hazy, but it was in that line I believe). The man pursed his lips, then after a while, shook his head and in one poignant statement, summed up the state of being a young person in Kenya. Again, his exact words desert me, for reasons I will outline presently, but I remember feeling this lump form in my throat and bring tears to my eyes as he expressly stated that he had no plans for the future.

In him, I saw me, but at that point, I was comfortable. I had just started a new freelance writing job and was high on adrenaline, so while the man’s hopelessness struck a nerve in me, it didn’t stay with me for long.

Fast forward to a few weeks later, I sit for-lone in my shack, and suddenly, the video came back to me with a vengeance. I can’t still recall the words, but the bleak hopelessness of the man, his shaken voice, his stutters as the host tried to get him to 'see the brighter side’, the sombre shaking of his head, his lack of desire to commit to future long-term plans, all thundered into my head like a speeding truck ramming into a brick wall.

See, I have gone weeks without pay in the new job, against an agreement of weekly compensation and I am currently staring at an abyss. When the video replays in my mind as I tug and pull with the boss for my pay, I don’t see the young man. I see myself. Beaten, left for dead, not by physical violence, although that is always on stand-by, but from the mental anguish that comes with being young in a country that punishes you for being and for dreaming, and uses your demography as a real-life SEO word - to make money for the old aristocracy.

Where it all started

When I moved into Nairobi from Eldoret sometime in 2011 with my family, I was hopeful that life would finally get better after half a year in anguish in Eldoret. After all, Nairobi was the place I had grown up in, and life had been good during my sixteen years here.

I grew up in satellite, with my three sisters, later to be joined by our last born brother who came around 2007, when we were much older. We grew up privileged. My father often ensured that he and mum took great care of us. He was emotionally distant, but he more than tried to make it up in meeting our every financial need. During his time at work, not once did we ever have to be sent home for school fees. He often paid fees on time, so much so that in every school we went, he was well-loved by the school principals, and if by any chance we had a balance, we would not be sent home, and he would clear it as soon as possible. We never knew trouble. In fact, during the '90s, when the SAPs were in full effect and affecting homes countrywide, our house seemed to defy the prevalent structure. It was during the '90s and early '00s that my father’s life grew, from a carpenter along Ngong Road, which was in no way a bad job, to us moving thrice or four times during that period, each house getting bigger, better and more self-contained than the other.

2002 was the year we moved to our last house in Nairobi, a three-bedroom space that went for sh. 7500 per month. My fondest memories yet! It was here that I grew to love writing, taking characters from stories that I read and then making them my own but giving them different adventures. Life was good. This period was when my dad’s life peaked after a defiant ascendancy in the 90s.

Fast forward to 2008 when I was in form two — the economic recession. I wasn’t well aware of what it was and why it mattered, but I have read a little on it, and link it to my father losing his job later that year in a mass retrenchment that dumped out a huge part of the workforce, most of them low-calibre workers - drivers, clerks and messengers (my father worked as one of these three. We never got to know).

Because it was becoming rather expensive to live in Nairobi without a steady income, my father moved us to Eldoret in early 2009. I was then a student at Chavakali High. When we would break for the holidays, mum said, I would travel to Eldoret, not Nairobi. It felt odd, leaving the place I once knew as home, but I soon grew to love Eldoret with its simplicity, its delicate balance of urbane bustle with rural ambience, a small town with a big heart and space for everyone.

After my form four in 2010, I came home to further bad news. Dad’s pick-up business, which he had delved into sometime in 2009, was not doing well, and he had gone for months without paying house rent. He then moved to Nairobi, which he saw of as more strategic, but it only got worse from there. For the first time in our lives, sleeping hungry became a real possibility. The breakfast of tea and bread slathered with Blue band and some omelette started to dry up. It started with the eggs leaving the table. Then Blue band was bought sparingly and soon, and it went off the table completely. Then, the tea with milk gave way to strungi, and bread gave way to mandazi. Lunch wasn’t assured either.

A month or so after I completed secondary school, I hung out with a cousin of mine who had just opened an eatery and managed to secure a job at the small kibanda. I earned fifty shillings a day, just enough for vegetables, with the other expenses were upon dad’s sporadic, often insufficient income. Mum became depressed, having to take care of us, and this forced my elder sister, then enrolled at a college in the town, to find a hustle to supplement whatever we came up with.

Then, soon after results were out, in February 2011, my excellent performance caught the eyes of our neighbour, a good friend of mum. She hooked me up with a friend of hers, who was a teacher at a nearby school and soon after, I landed my first job - an untrained teacher, with a monthly salary of sh. 2500. Meanwhile, my father stayed in the city and often went for months without coming back home. It would also be during this time that the stories that he had a second family began to swirl, a story that is still silently spoken of today. He promised that I would enrol in the university in the September intake. It was never to happen.. the whole of 2011, we never paid rent, which then meant that we had to give away our possessions whenever the agents came. They were rather kind, the agents, taking only two items - a stereo system and an old desktop throughout the seven or eight months we went without paying. It got worse, so bad that mum could barely afford to crack a smile. She got in contact with her sister, herself a casual labourer here in Nairobi, who then sent us fare some time in September, asking us to join her and she would help us find dad, who hadn’t been home for pretty much the whole of 2011.

A cold reconnection

When we landed back into the city, I was a starry boy once more, looking up to joining the university. My sister began looking for jobs in the newspapers, attending interviews here and there. Then, a cousin of ours called her, and my sister went to live with her in City Cabanas. That was some time in November. Towards Christmas, I also got another invitation, from mum’s aunt, to go live with her.

Two months later, another cousin of ours, who lived with the aunt, found me a job at Diamond Plaza, and finally, I could earn better. The year was in 2012. It wasn’t much, but I had little responsibility, so it was sufficient. My sister, meanwhile, had also found something to do. My other younger sibling was away in boarding school at Lugulu while the younger one enrolled in a school around Kangemi, where my aunt and mum lived. The last born boy, then only four, stayed with mum too. A once closely-knit family was now scattered all over Kenya like confetti in the wind.

Later that year, after much prodding, dad took mum in and the two, along with my two younger siblings went on to live in Racecourse, then later satellite, then Racecourse again. Mid 2012, mum’s aunt died, which then meant that we could no longer keep living in the house she had lived in, so at the end of 2012, we moved, my cousin and I, to Thiong’ o.At that point, I had lost all hope of enrolling in college and had decided to put myself wholly into the kibarua and see what came of it. I kept writing, as I found everything else without meaning.

A degree of Hope

But dad had other ideas. He sold the pick-up he had and used part of the money to enrol me to Technical University of Kenya in September 2013 for a degree in Journalism. The rest, he used to move mum and my younger siblings to Soi, and then began the construction of a house in his land.

Being in university restored my hope a better life, and for the whole semester, I attended all classes without fail - all of them. I studied and tried to make the best use of the library, but that I had also to take care of the job was not a delicate act. With my wages sliced in half because I was working part-time, I could barely survive under the increasingly expensive life in Nairobi. But I remained hopeful, so hopeful in the fact that in my second semester, I went back to writing. The year was 2014, and it remains the most prolific year in my writing yet. I wrote three novel manuscripts back to back, along with a few stories and articles, which I sent to the school magazine and even the dailies (don’t judge. I was naive), hoping for a breakthrough.

I acquired my first smartphone that year and began typing my first novel manuscript in it. I was excited and hopeful. Also, I was losing contact with my family, and it would take months before I spoke to any of them.

 Due to that tightly-packed schedule- class to work then to class again than to work - I failed to create the essential contacts that university life offers. Even while in class, I was always worried and would rush straight for the job once class was over, just so that I could clock the hours. Sometimes, I would not attend classes and would instead, walk from Kangemi to Parklands and clock in earlier than usual, just for that extra fifty shillings for lunch. As such, I never stayed for the lectures and career symposia.

Around this time, dad started going broke again, and my tuition fees went unpaid. I couldn’t sit for the exams. Because I hadn’t applied for Helb, another costly error, I, along with other students in similar circumstances, would devise ingenious ways to go about it, which worked sometimes and failed at different times. I didn’t care. I wanted to do as many exams as I possibly could, to get away from the life I was living as soon as possible.

An internship - the beginning of a strange run

Then, sometime in 2016, during our internship programme, one of our lecturers hooked us up with a friend of his who ran an online newspaper. Let’s call this friend Joel. Finally, I saw a chance to make an impression. It would take precious hours off my work time, but I chose to see 'the bigger picture’, an attitude that, while useful, would haunt me in terrible ways.

Here, my writing skills stood out. As did my work ethic, something that I have learnt is essential. The hours of practice in the preceding years paid off, and I made an impression. Joel spoke highly of me, and in turn, I put in more effort. I would churn out close to three or four articles in a day, several pages in content. I saw a breakthrough. At the end of my internship, Joel asked me to stay for longer and write. I was elated. I would finally start earning from something I loved! Or would I?  

In the first month, he gave me three thousand shillings. Added to my wages from the other job, I got some good money. But that would be the only time Joel would pay me. He talked to me of my writing, and how it would open doors for me once the website grew. He asked me not to think of money, and instead look at the opportunities he offered me, at the bigger picture, at how he was helping me grow. I was a green shoot, so I took it all in like a holy sermon. I would gain experience, and exposure, I thought, and maybe from there, the more prominent media houses would pluck me. But I would also begin to see Joel’s penchant for using interns to build his work.

It wasn’t until early 2017 that I woke up to the ruse. It dawned on me with the rising of the new year that I was working two jobs and getting paid in only one. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go. So, I began skipping going to Joel’s website office and instead went to Parklands. The pay was guaranteed as long as I showed up, even if all I did was scroll absent-mindedly on Instagram. It wasn’t how I wanted to spend my days, but if that was what paid, and not my writing, then so be it. I wrote for myself late in the night and early mornings, hopeful that it would pay off sooner.

Botched elections; dashed hopes.

Then, in the run-up to the 2017 general elections, sometime towards the end of June, I got a message from Joel. He was working as part of a secretariat to one of the most prominent front runners in the elections, he and wanted writers for the party’s website. We would get paid 500 per article, he said, and payment would be weekly. I was thrilled, and without thought, I took the bait. I calculated that if I did three or four articles per day, I would make my entire months salary in some six to eight days or so. Who wouldn’t want that? So, I spoke to my Parklands bosses, pulling the wool over their eyes with a story on attachment. They allowed me to go in only on Sunday for the whole month of July.

That would be the beginning of my initiation to the frustrating world of freelance. Along with another young chap called David, we worked we assess off the entire first week. I did about twenty articles in the early six days, most of which were published. David did his fair share too. Except, when we met up to receive payments the coming Monday, David and I were handed three thousand shillings and told that the rest would be given to us before the week ended and that all we needed to do was to keep working, selling the agenda of the party. The senior writers, Joel and a few other journalists, one of whom is a frequent contributor at the Star, were called aside. I suspected they got paid their dues. Long story short, by the time July was drawing to a close, David had resorted to sleeping, while I made use of the Wi-Fi to read my favourite websites and write my stuff. I had, at this point, self-published my first novel at Amazon and was frequently checking it, just proud to see it lined up on the virtual Amazon bookshelf. It wasn’t selling, and though I remained hopeful, I was just happy to see it 'out there’.

Our pay day was then moved over to the 7^th of August, a day before the elections. But the usual came up - the accountant hadn’t consented to the checks, the communication adviser (who acted as our supervisor) was not in, money was stuck somewhere. We went to the offices in Westlands, where David and I received another four thousand shillings, and promised the rest after the elections. For a whole month, I had toiled for seven thousand shillings! Some three thousand shillings less than what I was earning in Parklands. Anyway, I won’t say how it went for the party, but in short, we never received the rest. I would also later learn that Joel and the other writers did not emerge unharmed either. Of course, the obvious lesson here is never to trust political parties, but I should also have seen this as a reflection of the freelance world.

Frustrated, I deleted J’s number and decided to stay at Parklands. With graduation slated for December that year, I knew I wouldn’t cut, due to outstanding fee arrears and missed exams, so working at Diamond Plaza was the only way I could keep myself afloat. And with hope fast running low, I couldn’t risk falling into that pit of uncertainty that follows resigning from your job with no better alternative.

Sanctuary

I would then begin working full-time in January 2018, with a much-improved arrangement but had started making more aggressive overtures to established writers, hoping to get them to read my work and offer their criticism, or an opportunity. One of them was Tony Mochama. Through mail, I got in touch with him, and he, in turn, much to my surprise and delight, invited me to the monthly literary discussions at Goethe. It was my dreams come true! But I was so Star struck at the event that I never managed to talk to him, but I made a point of attending them as consistently as possible, meeting many writers and engaging with a lot of other reading nerds. I had found sanctuary.

A flash in the pan of Hope

Fast forward to May 2019. With the Jubilee government waging a full-on war against the economy of Kenya in their second term, the business was low, and shops were closing. We were one of those going to be affected. As I was still coming to terms with the imminent closure of the shop I had toiled in for my early twenties, a text came in. It was from Joel, and he had another job for me. This one, he promised, would be nothing like the 2017 disasterlance, if I may call it that from my end. He made an offer and informed me that the job would be for some four months. The pay wasn’t as much as that from the 2017 gig, which I found more believable, and the fact that it was for a labour organisation made me feel more optimistic. Joel was working on a book for the union to celebrate 20 years. I figured that since I would be jobless in a few months anyway, why not take the better offer and save some and build from there. After all, which organisation would have a hard time paying sh.20,000 per month?

As usual, Joel was on me, trying to take my mind away from money. 'Don’t think much about the money; you’ll gain experience, contacts and confidence for the future’ quoted his text. A little wiser, I agreed with him, but with a 'but'. '…I will very much love to gain the contacts and experiences for future…but they won’t count for much if I starve today. I need money too. Hope I won’t have an experience like the (2017) one.’ was my reply. And throughout the past few months, I never failed to remind him of my need for money.

But this time, things were better, for the first month at least. Two days in, before I had even begun work (I was to help in research), I was given a down payment, first, some three thousand shillings on a Wednesday, then later, on Friday, Joel sent me some six thousand shillings more on my phone. The period was mid-May. Though I was a little bit more cautious, I was sold and began working with usual zeal. I saw a light at the end of the tunnel. I was back to being hopeful, and having just self-published my second book the year before, it seemed as though things were finally looking up for me. Towards the end of May, Joel sent me another nine thousand shillings, which I put aside towards the purchase of a laptop. But that would mark the last time I would receive payment on time.

A week into June, I had only received three thousand, which was then followed by another three in the second week. The third week, Joel informed me that the SG had travelled and that for two weeks, I wouldn’t receive my pay. He filled the remaining four thousand shillings a mid-third week. The remaining amount was to be paid on the 29^th of June or thereabout. I was running out of money by the time the 29^th of June came round. With my father still struggling with his finances and mum unable to do much in the village, I shouldered the financial burden with my earnings and with the better income from the new job, I had increased the money I sent back home, on top of meeting my needs as well as commuting, the worst part of living in Nairobi.

The office is along Mombasa road, so, I spent close to two hundred shillings for fare, calculating to a thousand shillings a week. I tried to cut this by walking to Westlands with the early morning footsubishi squad. It wasn’t sustainable, and so, when I left the office on Tuesday 30^th, I informed Joel of my decision not to report to work on Wednesday, and asked for him to at least, get me some three thousand of the money owed to me to offset my rent expenses. I was seeing the similarities with the 2017 incident and did not want a repeat of that. I wasn’t polite in my asking, I admit, but I had intended for it to be provocative to get them to pay me. I was anxious, with rent due and cashed fast running out.

All hell broke loose. Ala! It was rude to ask for my payment to pay rent apparently, and doing that amounted to demeaning Joel. That was not how I had envisioned it would go, but three days later, I was still pestering him for the pay, with each response from him a distraction. He expressed concern for my mental health, and I, in turn, admitted that I was depressed. Years of toiling in this city while being paid barely enough to live comfortably takes a toll on you. Paying me would go a long way in offsetting some of my mental burdens, I informed him, all like the video of the young man came to mind.

My Story; a microcosm

So now, I sit in my shack, with no job and I suddenly relate to the video. Living in Kenya has always felt like riding a bicycle without brakes. Sure, you will still move from point A to B, and when you want to come to a halt, you will use your foot, but it will only take one emergency; one wrong turn, one distracted pedestrian, one absent-minded driver, for disaster to happen. You can live in this city comfortably, but it only takes one terminal illness, one fatal accident, and suddenly, you aren’t comfortable any more. Living in previous administrations in Kenya had always felt like having a noose around your neck, but under the Jubilee government, the knot wasn’t enough, so they added spikes and chains.

In Kenya right now, I’ve quickly learnt, you can’t be too hopeful, you can’t plan too far ahead, at least not when you are young and just getting a new job, and especially not if you are a freelancer. You can’t dream too much, and you can’t be too happy. You can’t want to be paid your worth, and you can’t want to be paid on time, you certainly can’t want to be paid the agreed amount, and you can’t have a voice. You can’t contradict authority, or else it is equivalent to being rude, and you can’t be seen to be too independent.

It dawns on me that I now occupy the position of the young man in the video. I am now the one answering the question. I am now the one not too invested in the next five years, or five months or five weeks, because, hopefully, Anita Nderu found him and helped restore his hope. Now, I can only hope to see the next minute, perhaps worry about rent for the next few days, but not a few months to come, not a year from now, not for a better life, because even the people that hold the means to make your life just a little bearable, are crushing under their weights, too self-absorbed to see that the system that rewarded them hurt them also, and in turn, they destroy the younger ones too. I have learnt that our struggle is connected, in more ways than one, against an existence that makes you need to beg for your right to live and live well, a system that will only reward you if your fawn over its failings.

Where I stand, many young Kenyans stand, with our hopes taking a beating with each day, wondering where we will be in the next minute. Death appears the only safe recourse, but not all of us are there yet. Some of us have hope, not for ourselves, but those around us. Hopefully, we go out and do, and dream, not for ourselves, but our loved ones, because the current conditions strip our lives of hope. Now, I can’t see myself living life on my father, despite being more educated. I can’t seem myself raising a family as big as ours. I can’t even see myself marrying, a view shared by many other young Kenyans. Entrepreneurship won’t get us out of this mess, because it is not just about unemployment. It’s about a total loss of morale, a state of existential angst that depression is still not explicit enough to describe.