Once again, this writer shares his musings on a recent journey to the Rift Valley.
0002hrs. Monday, May 19th
Mountain View Hotel Eldoret
As a writer, I cut my teeth
on the internet a space where as far as writing goes, the dabbler meets
the hobbyist and the MFA backed craftsmanship meets raw talent. The
internet: a veritable patch pourri of style and form; a babel of trained
and untrained voices; a cacophony of the phony know-it-alls outshouting
of the too-smart-for-TV pundits; the only place in the wide world where
genius shares both a podium and accolades with mediocrity.
The internet allowed those
of us who had read a painfully low number of books; who knew not enough
of anything to be branded experts, to earn plaudits, brag-rights and
grow global audiences just by spewing the odd platitude here and there
within a string of, mostly wrongly ordered, prepositions, conjunctions,
subjects, verbs and objects.
As the profile rose for most
of us, our inchoate rants begun to catch the hawk-eyed editorial eyes
of the mainstream media and publishing houses, and we were torn between
falling into and being consumed by their embrace or maintaining our
creative licences and forging our still shoddy version of online reportage
and narrative forms into a distinct genre.
Of course as with the best
things in life, it was not an all-or-nothing situation. There was a
place, of course, for the traditional forms of writing and that we were
being invited into that space meant that its gate-keepers knew we could
make it there too. We just had to make a few adjustments to the lazy
way we wrote: shift points of view, create a semblance of objectivity
when that was called upon and at times work within an editorial philosophy
not because we subscribed to it but because we had bills to pay. Some
of us took it, others refused to. They that refused insisted that they
had to pander to a higher art form, that they couldn't sell-out to big
media and its editorial shenanigans. I do not know if they know something
I do not know, but I knowing what side my bread was buttered and having
thrown my lot with the gods of capital can only wish that life treats
them well.
It was never all-or-nothing,
I said, right? We had an opportunity to write in a structured way and
get published while doing all our experimental work online and drawing
divergent audiences for both. Also the internet as a frontier in publishing
had been thrown open and therefore those of us who could be convinced
to author online columns, publish fiction and creative non-fiction written
in the traditional styles for online literary journals found ourselves
cast in the same pages, albeit digital, with our favourite authors of
all time. But when I went to my bar in the village, still no one listened
to me because they still didn't know who I wrote for, because all the
writers they knew were those who wrote for the dailies. Trouble with
the internet: no one will ever happen on your story while unwrapping
their nyama choma. It is no small wonder then that when I wear
my I AM FAMOUS ONLINE t-shirt, only those people who know me can read
the cockiness. And with all the vacuity of my online scribbles, I am
just a Paris Hilton without the sex video.
Earlier on... Sunday evening,
In a car, stuck on a muddy
dirt road in Burnt Forest.
Stuck 'behind enemy lines'
somewhere in the farmlands of Burnt Forest, I got online with my cellphone
and chatted with my writer friend, a college professor in the States.
It is interesting how much is filtered out between note taking and the
actual writing of the story. Also interesting is how to ease communication
we revert to stereotypes because they bring with them predefined meanings....
all these musings, if I choose to push the boundaries of post-modernism
(in actual fact, just be lazy and not write up the story but publish
a chat conversation) I can present raw to my readers and they can draw
their own conclusions....
18:58me: fuck
This message was sent for free from a
stuck
mud
Ivelisse: lol
oh, i've been there
me: middle of nowhere
Ivelisse: where are
you stuck
18:59ha!
oh, and it's dark out too
spooky
me: not funny
Ivelisse: lol.
me: kalenjins
Ivelisse: i know. but
we were stuck in the mud on the way to safari
2x!
me: drizzling
19:00Ivelisse: oh, actually that's
not true, it was a flat tire.
yikes!
not fun
me: did i say Kalenjin
Ivelisse: yes
but i know nothing about this
k place
19:01me: yes..puts me behind enemy
lines
Ivelisse: ohhhh
not funny indeed
me: Kalenjins kill Kyuks
Ivelisse: is arno there?
maybe the white man will keep the enemies away
19:02me: who knows. yes. 2 Canadians
Ivelisse: well I was
always like these whites are safe, so i am safe too
19:03hmm, anyway, is someone helping you
get out of the mud?
me: crazy mzungus! I
told them we would stall
Ivelisse: ha ha
they were like no no native
we know best
me: lol
19:04f*&^. fingers numbing
Ivelisse: do you have
a shovel? or do you need a brick?
oh my god
well there is help?
me: lol. if i die, you
were the last i talked to
19:05Ivelisse: :)
don't die. I finished (Chimamanda
Ngozi Adichie's) Half of a Yellow Sun. It reminded me of killings
in Kenya.
me: Arno and some Kalenjin
guy we had picked up on the road earlier to show us the way to this
burnt out school- Rurigi Primary School- off to look for a tractor.
19:06Ivelisse: oh my...
me: quite a savoury
topic (the Half of a Yeallow Sun
and Kenya parallels)
Ivelisse: I know. sorry.
hmm, let me think of something
light
19:07me: hehe
Ivelisse: well...is
the other white man with you?
me: yeah
Ivelisse: at least
19:08are you on the way to interview the
IDP's?
me: dont worry if i
am not talking. fingers numb
Ivelisse: ok
me: we are from there
19:09Ivelisse: ah
coming back?
me: I see some light
19:10 no... oops...nothing
Ivelisse: woo hoo
oh
are you outside of the car?
me: some vehicle
19:11he cant get by us
hope he has brakes
here
Ivelisse: oh my god
me: hope friendly
19:11Ivelisse: don't speak your kyuk
language!
just stay mum
19:13me: okay they are pushing us
back
Ivelisse: nice
me: our peeps here
hope we dont slip
19:14Ivelisse: good. ...you know
you type incredibly fast on the phone
me: oh...it is the f*^&%$£
cavalry
Ivelisse: we must help
the white man!
19:15me: yeah..thumbing it... :)
19:16seems they will pass us, turn around
and push ash
*us
Ivelisse: cool
19:17me: 1918hrs... we stalled at
1834hrs
Ivelisse: oh, that's
not too bad
19:18me: they are lifting the car
out of a ditch
Ivelisse: oh my god
how industrious
19:19me: sure but all I want is forward
movement
my laptop is at the back
Ivelisse: You better
go snatch it up
19:20well the rain might be worse
me: just hoping the
boot is not leaking
Ivelisse: aaaaa. doesn't
sound good. what is this boot thing? CNA (Chimamanda) had it in her
book too.
is it like a secret compartment?
19:21me: Hahahaha.... hood/ trunk...
bloody American...
I am inside the car. if i get
out..tables might turn
Ivelisse: oh, cause
you weigh so much...:)
19:22me: hahaaa... double entendre...
touché touché...
anyway, they are finally behind
us
19:23Ivelisse: R u on the way home?
how long will it take you to get to Nbo?
me: that was james kosgey,
arno says. just in from Boston where he finished 6th
19:24Ivelisse: in the marathon?
me: damn
Ivelisse: ha! how funny
and random...
me: okay.. where did
everyone go?
19:25but that wasn't the tractor
Ivelisse: ok, well maybe
that was what could be found
19:27me: why cant the tractor come
to us...maybe they need to see loot..ahh!
19:28I guess it was a four by four ride to
get them to the tractor
19:29Ivelisse: jesus where are you
is it like in the Maasai Mara?
me: i wonder what a
tractor and a village will cost us
Rift Valley.
19:30Ivelisse: oh. damn. good luck
with that.
me: there cannot be
clashes in the Mara
Ivelisse: no, i'm talking
about the land
like it was all muddy
19:31me: we are in Eldoret South
19:32Uasin Gishu district
Ivelisse: oh., so you
are "close" to home
19:33oh, no you are real far
19:34this Rift Valley is HUGE...
me: remember Eldoret?
Scrolled down your screen like baseball scores...only it was the body
count
Ivelisse: this is no
time to be so witty ;)
19:35me: just ashing in the car...cant
be bothered to roll down window
Ivelisse: not with that
rain
19:36is it just the 3 of you? who was driving?
me: it has stopped drizzling...well
just droplets now
19:39we had picked up some local. This sketchy
Kalenjin boy... clearly it is gonna pay off.
i hear a tractor purring
they was lights coming right
at us and now they are gone. Jesus, Jerry swears
grrrrr....
Ivelisse: this is quite
a night
19:40me: just keep typing keep sane
Ivelisse: you might
need a booze after this
19:41me: there is a record on the
other side...you will be remembered, I am thinking
...a booze, make that two.
but only god knows where
19:42Ivelisse: were u all planning
on driving through the night?
19:44me: the nearest trading centre
is Burnt Forest. How apt far a place where burnt houses still stand
in memory of a harsh moment in our history
Ivelisse: a lil too
apt
19:48me: a history that we cannot
erase. Burnt houses razed to the ground; scars is what they are...this
rain washes away the soot and ashes...like a good dermal cream it glosses
over the scar-tissue but beneath...okay there is some guy here...
19:49he speaks no English...nor Swahili
for all I can tell
he is saying stuff
19:50I cannot see Jerry (he is on the driver's
seat and I am at the back and it is dark everywhere)
19:51 I hear Jerry turning to look at me...
damn Jerry, if this was South Africa he would still bloody turn to the
only African he knew for a translation like we all speak Zulu
Ivelisse: do you understand
the dude?
me: damn it Jerry, I
whisper, I am trying to be inconspicuous here
19:52Ivelisse: lol
tell Jerry the deal
tell him his white skin will
save him
me: no I do not (understand
the dude)...they couldn't understand each other so he slunk into the
bushes
19:53lol
Ivelisse: oh good...I
guess
bushes are creepy
brb
have to wash my face and brush
my teeth...feeling greasy
19:55me: he is just a harmless villagers,
people are decent on the main, it is the mobs that you should fear here.
as individuals everyone would just rather we all kumbayad
19:56okay. will log out and step out of
the car. will be back
2300Hrs. Monday, May 19th
(Seedy Boarding and Lodging),
Nakuru
It is Saturday night and I
am in Nakuru where I have just signed myself into this backpacker type
hostelry whose name I have quickly forgotten. It is one of those drab
places where the toilet seat is so chipped and dirty you do not even
know what to worry most about: herpes, crabs or tetanus. The base of
the toilet seat has leaked for so long that a yellow stain is seen to
stagger out of the crack in the porcelain and into the bedroom. Somehow
you, finding yourself in these kinds of places and wanting to feel superior
to travellers long gone, always think that they should have known better
and flushed the toilet. You reach for the lever, as you always do at
home, and twist. A gurgling and spluttering later and the toilet bowl
sends odoriferous bits and droplets all over your clothes. You catch
a glimpse of your scowling face in the icicle shaped remains of a shattered
mirror dangling from a bent nail above the sink and your stomach churns
at the site of a bile coloured glob clinging to your moustache. The
inveterate traveller braces himself and wipes off the gooey filth with
his sleeve while the neophyte allows that churning in the pit of his
stomach to let rip adding his half digested dinner to the overflowing
toilet bowl. That puke, like one traveller's used condom and another's
diarrhoeic excrement is in this place an entry in a visitors book; the
scrawling of two lovers on a tree, saying: I too passed this way.
1700Hrs, Tuesday, May 20th
(Leafy Compound), Westlands,
Nairobi.
I am lying on a four-poster-bed
beneath an insecticide treated mosquito net. My laptop is open before
me and at the press of a button, using my cellphone as a modem, I am
back home: online. I balance a large vodka on one side unwrapping the
second cigarette pack of the day attempt to numb myself from all the
misery I have witnessed in the last few days. The world, I muse, is
so full of pain and suffering and we, writers, feed off it to earn our
fame and fortune. People love good stories, and the best stories are
those that are filled with conflict, angst and hopefully, courage and
triumph over adversity. Sometimes a love interest helps, but that is
a story for another day.
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