As the senile century turned nineties, a host
of Chinese citizens pounced upon Nairobi with tenacious teeth that clenched tight
to concrete dreams. The toothless city received this invasion much easier than
the wallahs of India who had laid her
foundation a century earlier. Their wills laboured in her underbelly until she birthed
colossal skyscrapers and superhighways, cultural centres and tiny pagodas nourished
by three-star restaurants, simmering Chinese dishes and exclusive cuisines, Buddhist
temples and monkish clubs and Confucius schools. The metropolitan seeds stirred;
nurturing, bearing fruits in her concrete jungles, extending a ripened reward
to everyone according to their work.
With tyranny of numbers, they settled down to
their ‘tiny empires’ in strongly built uptowns—surrounded by Walls of China,
fortified by baked brick, reinforced by electric fence—and leafy
suburbs watched by CCTV cameras. Big Brother Securicor patrolled their terrazzo-paved
boulevards, escorted by dogs, and with clockwork precision, the county council
collected their trash bins, greedily sucking up all sewage and excessive wastes,
in dead of night, anonymous and in oblivious obscurity. For the Far Eastern Asian denizens, a yearning had been
awakened and conquered. Theirs was a satiated city, a sleepy suburb; theirs
were bellies bursting with pleasant belches. Theirs was peopled with yellow
envoys, peeping with diplomatic eyeballs.
Inviting themselves too, to relish in the
‘green city under the sun’ were swarms of slum hustlers who subsisted hassling
in unlisted estates bearing such Sheng-coded names of Isiich Base, Dandoch
Massive, Bangla Kona Biad, and all other odds and ends of trashopolistan of Eastlands.
Survived strapping, these restless but unwelcome cockroaches, were accorded
cold reception by the impassive city under the vigilant makarau wa gava, and as
if sprayed, they scurried backwards downtown, preferring riverbanks residence,
and along under-construction Chinese bypasses in dilapidated polythene tents. There, they lived in village hovels drying out their
dreams as raisins under the sun, as a people battered, in a shanty town, in the
ghetto Golgotha, the unsightly town for sacrificial scapegoats, a universal
visual evil, an abysmal symbol for the city.
There, the riffraff gawked into the city’s
skyline, rising and rising with smog into the ozone-layered sphere as their
thousand chimneys blackened their azure sky with smoke. There, they subsisted
in a ‘dark city under green-house gases’ and added odds, by multiplying as a mice populace with litters of hustlers; for those who
could afford, packed their tired limbs in bed-sitter apartments, high-rise
buildings, single rooms, living on top of each other, in plots grabbed by
rook or crook, stealing and staring at one another with contaminated
collected countenances; a crooked look, of men living and loving their
crooked neighbours with crooked hearts—for a friend you could choose; not a
neighbour!
Those who wouldn’t afford honest homes, collected
rags and tarpaper to build their nests under unfinished concrete jungles and
gathered firewood to keep warm their indecent
decadence. Though they followed faithfully the
scriptures that said, ‘thou shalt eat thy bread in the sweat of thy brow,’ the sad
reality was to peasants, a bloated bread that tasted their own sweat, yet totally
tasteless, sickened them until the pangs of hunger blurred their prayer into a twisted
swearing ‘thou shalt starve ere I starve!’ But since man couldn’t live on bread
alone, they toasted too to air burgers polished with leftover oil, hovering in shapes of dreams, airs
of dreams floating into their city, realism dreams. The rising dream to escape
the reality of peeping poverty staring. The dream to be landlords, demanding a
lease of life until they fulfilled their will, become free and great; and moved
on to the greener pastures of the city as millionaires.
Life proposing no
such promise, instead these squatters of shanty town, crouched
eking on their knees, in the sea of mud and scum of earth; that when they walk
to work, their second-hand shoes exposed filthy feet and tired toes wallowing
in the dirty potholes of Eastlands. Trading their
brute force and sinewy hands for food, cleaning Chinese roads, washing Chinese
houses, scouring, picking up garbage cans, keeping expired food, unseen, selling
useless things hardly thought about, polishing their
opportunities and in menacing silence and offended pride, they desired, longing
for their own dream; hoping they could live in liberty, finally, and rise to
welcome life with vigour and valour or such like values, their ghetto could
accord.
Like
the Chinese, they too tasted triumphs in the bitter battles to stir up Kenya’s
industrial muscle. Open opportunities were grabbed before they exited through
the back window with new energies that nurtured on determined wills as its
force. Life again became promising, bursting, and blooming, blowing as a soft
gale the Y2K bug further into the unfamiliar millennium of unchartered century,
for the industries would not only revolutionise Kenya’s economy, but also
pollute the environment; and the smooth superhighways speed up global warming!
As expected, a Sino-bourgeoisie class sprang—swelling
as if competing to replace the Made in China wares—in uptown; pseudo-technocrats,
and former foremen who filled every spare space, supervising with an iron hand African
hands, building this or fixing that. China became a
poem with a rhyme scheme so enticing as a social statement, and so contemporary
as a betrayal even worse as the suffering children of communism who as
successful adults, journeyed West and, ironically, kept alive similar capitalism
against which they had protested in the first place.
A Chinese scheme, it seem, had been conspired
to scatter Maoist seeds into African soils. It seem, of their exploding
population, that photocopied pieces of China had been copied and pasted, and
forwarded with attachments into the city, and the city ‘owners started noticing’
how many Made in China wares decorated their households; as if they had brought
all their China overseas and left none back there. And being all day building
bridges, streets, roads, and at night mingling with and singling out the oldest
profession, it can be imagined, the results after nine months: Wanjiru wa Wu
and Ngugi wa Nging Ngong –the mottled conjugation of Afro-Sino cultures.
One such conjugated union was Murder Shiro,
the socialite of Urusi; a juicy story that buzzed across both social and
unsocial media. The fecund fruit, Wangui wa Wangdu, was sold away for many
pieces of Chinese silver, and went on to live in the custody of his father in
Guangdong and with such a drama that’d inspire a Chinese Chalk Circle. Yet,
such was the amicable but distant pact that contented the socialite Shiro; for
it established her ‘Merde She-Wrote’ notoriety and ensured her daughter’s
success.
The Shiro stain had rusted in peace; well, as
the Y2K wore on, until we got a call from the most unlikely quarters. Through a
referral, a Mr. Wangdu who sent his PA to our Westlands Tuition Centre and required
me to personally attend to his child’s private studies after a place had
already been secured at the prestigious ISK for an AS Level. The student wanted
help taking an IB before proceeding to the States to study architecture like the
father.
‘Mr. Busy Wangdu want sree monss for perfect American
English.’ He said.
‘Mr. Busy?’
‘Yeah, Busy.’ And he spelled B-i X-i when he
saw my confusion, pronouncing it in his Mandarin monosyllables, asking for only
three months, for me to tutor her daughter, polish her accent until she spoke
like an American.
‘She finish English grammar school in
Guangdong only teacher teach English in Chinese.’ The PA struggled in his sluggish
Chinglish, giving me the only Learner
Info ‘record’ that she had already had her grammar polished by a local English
teacher back in her rural China. ‘You come Brook Highs Leakey Crescent Sunday sewen
sharp?’ He directed, handing me his master’s card, and after putting down a
generous down payment, hastily left.