This morning I submitted something. It wasn’t anything new, just the first page of my memoir. It wasn’t for publishing, just for free critique from a publishing house. I can’t argue with that; it was a very low risk endeavor and the reward is free advice, at the very least. I like that. I like when the writing process feels easy and un-daunting. Were all things but that simple!
After I got to work today, which was after I dropped off my sisters and my lil cousin at school, my phone decided to go black. I mean, all the way black. I mean fist in the air on the podium of the olympic medal ceremony black. Time to dig into these pockets and fish out some crumbs; a new phone awaits. I have so many memories attached to this phone, I don’t quite know how I’ll get over it.
I bought it with money from a GoFundMe campaign back when I lived in Nairobi. It was right after I’d gotten there, in August of ’16, and my brother was still desperately ill after his emergency stomach surgery in Somalia. That’s a lot of S’s in one sentence. So I was on the matatu (bus) downtown one day and I was texting someone in America. I was in the back left corner, crammed in there all like some kind of a Said Sardine. I was told not to sit near a window seat, especially in traffic, and to never pull my phone out on a bus in Nairobi. I didn’t listen; I did, however, have the earbuds in, and I listened to Kodak Black; I hadn’t at the time noticed the error of my ways.
What I did notice was a hand creeping into the corner of my vision, reaching quickly into the window of the bus as we stood in downtown gridlock. A blur of motion, a black and white windbreaker and a green cap was all I saw. I was left sitting there holding just my headphones as my HTC One M9 flew to parts unknown on the feet of a well-versed mugger; a finely seasoned finesser. I tried to get out of the bus, tried to ask in vain of the conductor to unlock the door. It was a late 80’s model, the locks were manual and tricky as hell. That was a minor problem; the real problem was that I didn’t speak Swahili. I lived there for almost a year; I still don’t speak Swahili. They didn’t, or didn’t want to, understand what I was saying. At that point the conductor casually walked around to the sliding side door and opened it. I ducked out, pissed as hell, frantic as formaldehyde.
I turned in place, standing in the middle of rush hour traffic; the buses were lined up toe to tail and there was not a single daylight thief to be seen. I ran to the left, I ran to the right; still he escaped my sight. I must’ve resembled something out of a movie, yelling in American accented English in the middle of an African Metropolis, chasing phantoms. I was lucky in that I only knew how to get back to my Aunt’s house and nowhere else. I knew no phone numbers, I could think not of anyone to ask for help.
One random stranger offered to pretend to help me, in his own way. We walked around for a bit and he inquired in Swahili to random strangers about someone running by with the description I’d given him. Everyone said hapana, meaning, “no.” He was a street cat, I knew that after a short time. I know the game, I used to live neck deep in it. Looking back, he was probably a part of some similar set up himself. He was kind enough to tell me that it’s best I not keep walking around looking for the dude because sunset was fast approaching. He went on to tell me that these gangs often worked in groups and as soon as someone snatched a phone, they would hand it off to their cohort just down the street. That way, if you happened to catch whoever stole your phone, it would have already exchanged hands 3 times and you wouldn’t be able to prove that you were robbed by anyone, least of all the one who actually did the deed.
What a set-up. It’s a struggle to survive in Kenya, and Nairobi is a cut-throat place. The cost of living is high, the price of life is cheap and the ways of making money are abysmally minimal. I ended up taking his advice and just cut my losses. I got onto the bus heading back to South C, Bellevue; I alighted at the Mugoya Matatu Stage. All I had was some headphones and barely enough money to buy one button-up shirt and a bus ride back home. I had initially set out to buy that shirt because I had no clothes to speak of; I hadn’t fully recovered from my last robbery before falling victim to my next. Africa has a funny way of teaching you the meaning of life; it’s hard.
While my brother was recovering from his surgery in Somalia, and I slept by his bedside at the hospital, someone had burgled my room and absconded with most of my clothes. They even found a $100 bill hidden in my passport and were kind enough to return the passport to its rightful place. The takeaway lesson was that it can always be worse; I could’ve been near-naked and without a passport in the middle of Somalia. It’s not very easy to get into Kenya with a Somali passport; it’s damn near impossible, I should say. Geopolitics is a tricky business, and a “failed State” doesn’t have much chance of playing that game with more established regimes.
Another thing that leaps out at me in hindsight is what my Aunt said to me before I left the house that evening; “Said, it’s almost night time. Nairobi’s a dangerous place, don’t get robbed out there. You should probably just wait till tomorrow to go shopping for the shirt, it’s not worth the risk.” Wow. I should have listened!
Instead, I replied with something too-cocky to believe, “Eedo, Somalia si fiican baan ugu soo gubtay. Qofna kama baqaayo. Ha isoo raadsadaan haday wax igarabaan, nin rag baan ahay.” Translation: “Auntie, I was hardened by the fires of Somalia. I’m not afraid of anyone. Let them come seek me if they want something from me; I’m a full-blown man.”
My, how those words would come to bite me in the ass. As I sat in the matatu ride home, depressed as hell, there was a Future song I’d never heard blasting on the too-loud subwoofer system. There was also an impossibly big plasma screen TV in the middle of the too-small matatu; on it, the accompanying music video played and it was a captivating one. “Wicked” was the track, and it kinda took me away. The mood of the song fit the setting of my life perfectly. I just sat there, man, as I’ve done so many times before. Head in my hands, peering through my fingers at the wicked displays on the screen before me. That’s life, though, and we learn as we go!
Sometimes we slip, sometimes we fall.
Sometimes we just choke on our own arrogance.
Stay humble, my friends.
Postscript: This is a throwback piece I found in an old medium account I didn’t know I had. I wrote it in Nov. 2017, fresh from my time in Africa. I was such a different person then. So hopeful. So light. I’ve grown a lot, but, it’s interesting to see what my words looked like when I was still attached to my African experience. I was centered in my identity and it was beautiful. America has a way of making you lose yourself, forget your worth. But Alhamdulillah, we outchea!