Find out why 21 beauty queens dressed in skimpy skirts stripped off their pants in a fit of ecstasy, waved them in the air and tossed them at him. Kaka’s brother Mash was one of the most popular musicians in Africa. He was also an icon whose songs had climbed the top 100 international chart. However, following his tragic death at the peak of his career, it was not his music that hit ceiling of controversy, but the way his burial went haywire. I Kaka, just a young priest in the tranquil highlands suddenly found myself on the frontline of preparing the funeral of immerse proportions for my brother Mash. What happened during my brother’s burial, especially the very end scene; shocked everyone who attended and will be etched in memories forever. CLICK LINK TO WATCH https://youtu.be/36EHsM5PMUQ
The Kakas of 1970 and early 1980s did a lot of walkabout in Nairobi. Mostly past midnight and between estates where taxis were as rare as watchmen and the late-date sweeper “Kifagio” Kenya Bus Service did not deem worth direct routing. Or simply because the cold will finish a Kaka at the bus stop before the round Robin bus took its turn.
NAIROBI STREET GANGS OF THE 70S/80S
In those days, the moon did not shine in Nairobi because Street lights were so bright everywhere, it would have been insult to look up beyond to light your way. “Ngeta” gangs had not established full authorities in most city estates; still commonsense demanded you had to be streetwise by learning the mapping of each street in Nairobi: East, South, North and West.
In instances you had the uncontrollable habit of late night street geadermeandering (imagine I have stupidly confused my digital device into being unable to spell-check!); as a result of careless withdrawal of funds from your pockets until all pocktes declare you bankrupt in unison. ATMs and Safaricoms were still being cooked in financial pots below hats or rolling in some hanging balls of inventors.
As if jay-walking late at night was not cold enough, it was sinful to travel empty-pocketed. Police patrols and the then emerging estate night gangs thought themselves as the collectors of the last penny or night tithe, if you prefer to give it a soft name.
To survive the streets on the nights, you had to burn the circuits of all the streets into your brains; including the shortest route to/from City Centre to each estate. When you are travelling by Route Eleven, your two feet don’t require to pay homage visit to each bus stop along the route from Estate to CBD and vice versa. Your major interest was realising how to avoid the vice in the versa; that is which streets are patrolled and by who. Equally important was what to do when you see more than two people far ahead of you in the lights of the street lights.
The to-do emergency reaction activities included taking a diversion route or pretending that you live in the very estate. Other survival skills were getting buddies with police patrol to accompany them as you cross that bad sector to you. Cops on night patrol were user friendly… for 5 or 10 shilling note, depending on the calendar month, you could join them in patrolling the estate, until you reached a safe exit spot. Then you bid them bye and hope you don’t encounter another team patrolling the next estate.
NAIROBI SOCIAL HALLS OF THE 70S
Each estate had its own young men on prowl. They would be returnong from watching late night television. Television sets were then so rare; they were only available in Estate social halls run by the City Council. Other teenagers will be from attending the Open cinema in open spaces and football fields across estates. Most of those football fields and open spaces were thereafter grabbed by a successive gang of city godfathers; a.k.a consellors and converted into storeyed residential buildings.
Most youngesters returning from Open air cinemas were a combination of 5 to 17 years of age. Very harmless children returning home, discussing in loud voices the film they had just viewed. However, those guys returning from social halls were another tribe altogether. Social halls were also the homes of indoor games. In Eastlands, the most popular game was boxing. Those are the days when the likes of Wangila of Kenya were ruling the world gloves-thumbing.
If you were unlucky to be accosted in estates like Kaloleni, the owners were not interested in your bank accounts. They just wanted you to painstakingly give a blow-by-blow account of your interest in that estate in that wee hour of the night. If you were still in the company of your date(s), she would handle those boys and tongue-lash them like chicken piss. Ololo gals were as tough as they loved.
However, if you were roadblocked after “dropping” your date and things were melting to blow-by-blow; it was recommended as a wise decision to let your heels do the talking…
You could stroll miles and kilometres of night streets in Nairobi to your fill. Apart from being alone, you never felt bored, because it gave you time to rewind on the events of the late evening and early night. In those days, you could observe someone stopping suddenly and making an imprompto dance jig on an empty street. Or making motions with his hands and humming songs; not out drukerdness either.
They were four of them. They usually move in quadrat or threesome. Maybe there is safety in numbers or just safety in consumption. You can tell that to anyone.
Since it was Kaka, who was affected, let him tell his story first-hand; as from the horse’s own mouth.
Kaka: I will always remember that Saturday. They were four of them, although I had invited MyOne. I didn’t complain to her. It is not always you land four fishes all dressed to kill. My house had never had the privilege of hosting such a quadrate guest list. I wished all the guys who usually hover around my residence on weekends to show up, salivate and share. I was in a sharing mood. That is the first thought that lept into my mind.
The introductions were as swift as the whiff of their perfumes. It didn’t matter because in a whiff they allocated themselves tasks around my one-bedroomed flat. MyOne and PackedOne retired to the kitchen to make breakfast. That left the three of us. She, I renamed HowBoring, because she kept complaining “how boring” about whatever was said or happening around us. Initially, I was full of empathy thinking it was my fault she found life so boring. But as the day wore on, I realised her statement was the trigger that got us moving from place to place. Then I too got bored with her.
This happening of yonder years; when Stagecoach alias Kenya Bus was operating long chassis city service buses on the streets of Nairobi. Very comfortable during off-peak hours, extremely crowded during peak hours. Then conductors had to exercise six-pack muscle maneuvers through the crowded passengers when charging fare.
On this particular occasion, a large number of passengers boarded a Buruburu estate bound bus at Ambassaduer. As the bus departed the conductor started waving passengers to come to where he was in the front area: “Songa mbele, songeni mbele!”
Did you ever escort your woman (from the opposing team) to watch the Shemeji Derby at the Nairobi City Stadium? Here is about the Shemeji who was dared by his second wife.
There are two populous nations who live side by side in Western Kenya with a gerrymandering border of over 100km, where a cross-marriage happens every 4 hours; hence, the title: Mashemeji (Inlaws). They are Luos and Luhyias respectively.
However, when the sons and daughters of Luo and Luhyia congregate for 4 hours inside City or Nyayo stadiums in Nairobi, there is no iota of love expressed between them. Once inside the stadia, they sit on opposite sides, just like their teams.
