Funeral arrangements made the Kenyan way can be quite frustrating. It's not surprising for a committee meeting to end up disrupted when one its number leaves in a huff and another falls asleep in the middle of proceedings. I suppose this is because in some families, well in most families, a funeral becomes a platform for a power struggle, for power politics. I envy those families that have moved to higher platforms for such politics. Like the brother who has decided to run for parliament against his sister. 

For the younger committee members, and trust me there were many of us, the politics and the subsequent committee break-up meant that we could go out, sit by a fire and reminisce on years past. The weather was very good all week long and we would sit outside unhindered, talk about our growing years and about our current lives.  It ended up turning into an interesting study of modern Kenyan youth. 

First and foremost, such reminiscing starts from our primary school years. If you were the first child your parents were likely young, and unless your grandfather was well-off and got along with your dad, you lived somewhere like Mlango Kubwa. Your father and maybe your mother's work title was junior something. The pay was bad and they could hardly make ends meet. They lived in a two-room house where you could hear what the neighbours were doing. And you would always get home before your parents did, so in the meantime you would play with the neighbours children and eye their after-school snacks so hungrily that a sympathetic mama boi handed you a snack, too. 

Your mother would come home with sukuma wiki and once in a while a quarter kilo of meat to eat with ugali. She was tired from work and her second pregnancy was bothering her much. So she yelled at you when you did stupid things, like losing your new school sweater on the way home from school. Oh, and she definitely didn't like it at all when you lost one shoe while playing marbles outside. 

Your father came home and tried to be nice to you, but before he was met with success your mother would butt in asking for money to go to the clinic. Then he would get upset. They tried not to fight in front of you but that is an impossibility in such a small house, and they are only so young and the pressure unbearable. 

Finally, you all ate and you fell asleep. The world of your parents fell away you're your drowsiness and you did not hear anything of them after you fell asleep. In the morning, your mother woke you up early, cleaned you up, dressed you for school uniform and then fed you. Your father was not there, he left before you even woke up. He has to walk a long way before getting on a matatu because he only has 10 shillings. Walking to the college means he can catch a matatu to town for only 5 shillings, but getting on one at the stage right outside the house will cost him 20 shillings. 

Anyway, things get better with time. All those nights you had to sleep at your aunt's house because the landlord had thrown your family out, seem like a great adventure.  Your parents, their fortunes improved have now moved to a housing estate in Ayany. That's on the good side of Kibera. Not the slums. Your mother and father now have a bedroom to themselves and you share the other bedroom with your little sister and brother. Both your parents are still hard at work. Your father's prospects have improved and he is almost-someone at the firm. Your mother is an office assistant with a look-in on a job in administration. You children have an ayah to help with the chores and with your care. This changes a few things. No longer does mother wake you up in the morning. The ayah does. When you get home after school, she makes sure you have done your homework then she lets you play on the street outside until it's just a few minutes to your mother's arrival time. Then she rushes you in, yells at you while you shower, makes sure you are shiny and properly dressed and sits you down in front of the television five minutes before your mum arrives. 

Your mother comes home as soon as she can. But first she has to wait in line to get into a matatu. That takes about two hours or so. Then there is the traffic jam on the road. She leaves the office at five and gets home at eight thirty. She is tired and frustrated and she never wants you kids to go through what she has. Your father comes home as soon as he can, too. On the way he stops at a bar for a strong drink. It's his eleventh year as your mother's husband and he is a little tired, and that promotion is taking forever in coming. 

On Sundays, your mother takes you to church with her and afterwards your father to that nyama choma place. Both your parents adore you. But you have some doubts when your dad yells at you for being at number 33 out of 33 in your class at the end of term. Frustrated, your father sends you off to boarding school persuaded by parents with older children that as hard as it may be, it is for the best.

Boarding school is fun; you get to be away from home and with friends all the time, but it is quite horrible also. You cry and cry, then you beg never to go back, but your parents are resolute and the rigours do you some good finally. The days of being last in class are a distant memory and when you sit your KCPE you pass pretty well. Now it is preordained that you should be sent off to another school, a secondary education boarding school. Thank god for primary school. You are now too tough to be bullied. High school is a lot of fun and the cultural exchange is enlightening. School holidays are the perfect opportunity for you to try out these new things that old sheltered you knew nothing of.  

By now, your thrifty and hard-working parents have built their own home someplace like Ngong. It is a nice house, you don't have to share a room with you sister anymore. Your father recently heeded to your mum's pleas to start going to church and he has booked them a weekend's retreat. So, you have a very large house, no parents and quite a bit of pocket money. What happens next? A house party! 

Before your parents have driven out of the gate, you are calling all your friends and inviting them to a party. There's food, and there's alcohol flowing. Independence and it is your first time to get drunk. You never forget it and if you in the minority like me, you never want to taste it again. But if you are like Tim then this is just a start. He got better at the fun and booze. He shrugs of that little incident of him swimming in the kitchen. Now, he announces, he is fine-tuned! 

After, that you ventured out to the Carnivore, the University, to Klubhouse. The heady days of freeloading are in the past, you get your first job and finally you move out of home. All those dreams you used to have of going wild when you leave home, well they don't come true. You are too busy making ends meet to go partying. Then you meet the one and before you know it you are thinking of moving out of your bachelor pad into a flat that can fit you and your little family. Now you are living your parents' life. But you think it will be better this time, if you can keep it together. I want more than that, I am quite adamant about it. So do you.

Anyway, we did give my uncle our final respects, and it dawns on us just how short life is and how little time we have got to do what we need to do with our lives. It is a race we all find ourselves in, all of us. Before this weekend, I thought I was the only one running this race. Then I found out that there is not much different about me, or about my race. I'm just another Kenyan. Born and made in Kenya.