SOMBRERO
Olive Mugenda should be a writer. Anapenda storeys. There are so many buildings under construction in our school I've lost track. Not that I'm complaining, infrastructure is a very important part of any learning institution. Hopefully when we're done with the real estate phase we'll concentrate more on research. Some students here are really passionate about what they do and it challenges me a lot.
Joining KU came with the added advantage of leaving home and having my own place next to school. This meant one thing, freedom. You know how freedom just gives you the ability to choose your own slavery. I left our lovely home in Kajiado County with its serene environment and not very interesting traffic throughout to stay in a sombrero in Kahawa. Thus I have become a slave of bhajias from my favorite restaurant here and of three little birds who peck at my window every morning.
Not that we live in a Mexican hat, we're just used to saying sombrero to refer to anything and everything. That's our culture and no one lacks culture, only a dead people. The first time Jewel, my roommate, said sombrero to mean eggs I was like "Oh great wind thou hath blown and left thy servant with a maiden that knoweth not the difference between sombrero and omelet. Whence shalt I run? What hath thy done to deserve this?" Now I'm cool.
So welcome to our sombrero. We have a neighbour who sings do re mi fa so la ti do when he has had one two many and another one with a very lovely sombrero (read househelp). I try to have little conversations with her every now and then. I figured if I invest in a friendship with her she'll remember me the next time she's cooking chapatis.
The sombreros who live in this house are not morning people. We struggle each day to wake up early enough to attend morning lectures. Alarms are snoozed like crazy here because no one wants to wake up. However when we do, and we always do, our days kickstart with energy. In the evening, when we are tired of hanging out in the kitchen because that's the only place with a semblance of phone coverage, we'll sit on couches and discuss the events of the week or weekend. How Sarabi should do a live album because the studio did them zero justice or how the Chinese kid from Trophy Wife is the real sombrero. Or we could talk about the recent strike which was exciting to watch from afar.
She's writing a book. She has draft files which she will compile one day into a novel. I write blogs, these ones, a collection of my stories and other people's. We talk about how some Kenyan writers are meh! And African writers are meher! I'll express my disappointment when I read Half Of A Yellow Sun because it reminded me of Shreds of Tenderness a setbook we did in high school. But what do we know? Every writer has their own style and their own story.
Peer pressure skyrockets on Thursday evenings and Friday mornings. This time should be used on the balcony writing while sipping some wine but our balcony is too dusty to enjoy since our place is next to the road and HELB has not given us money so being the economist I am, wine is an unnecessary luxury. What is a creative juice anyway? One of us will decide to have a chilled out weekend, go home and just relax with family. That is until one of us suggests a gig and because we are suckers for art, we'll find ourselves at Sondeka fest or a small exhibition somewhere.
When I take a matatu from our stage to KU it takes five minutes or less that's enough time to hear a mama complain about her husband's mischief on Maina Kageni's show. Then I have to listen to lecturers and it's not like they are the most interesting people in the world. I'll meet random people like two Tanzanian guys talking about how Nairobi ladies wear vijikaptura (booty shorts) and dudes listen to Kendriki Ramari. By the end of the day I just want to crawl back to my little sombrero.
