LIGHTNING STRIKES...

"They have diagnosed me with cancer."

It started with that simple text. A text. Individual words on a screen that didn't draw much of a reaction from me. But as a sentence...as a statement...as a reality it got me quiet. Scared. Shaken. Then I saw the missed calls. Six or seven with the red font staring back at me with a whole lot of judgement. Why didn't you pick up the phone? Where were you? What could have been that important? I sank back to my bed. I had fallen asleep early. Phone on silent. I just wanted some time from the world. But the world was having none of it. And then I scrolled down. Dialing mum......

"Hello?" she answered rather hesitantly.

"I am coming home."The only words that made sense then.

"Ok." She said and the line went quiet.

My hands ran through my hair. Truth is my experiences with cancer were limited. It mostly consisted of movies and tv show where some woman fights the disease while her family rallies behind her. Those heart warming stories of courage and perseverance. Unfortunately for me my only hands-on experience had been just a few months before. My friend's brother had succumbed and I had been there for his funeral. Barely in his twenties...and I had watched her struggle with his condition and his ultimate demise. Read that here.And then a new, alien feeling. Panic.

It's a weird feeling when you get to the age where your parents are no longer superhuman. When you can see their faults and flaws and you begrudgingly accept that they are human. Then you start seeing the frailty. The delicateness. The humanity. And that scared me. Terrified me.

Two weeks later we were driving from the hospital and there had been a huge thunderstorm. We were stuck in traffic and lightning just lit up the inky darkness. Night became day. And I watched my mum flinch with fear. And then i thought back to my childhood. I thought back to when I had been running scared about the lightning and thunder, she was the one who had comforted and consoled me. Told me everything would be ok. Had she been scared as well? And it dawns on you. She is superhuman!

Crazy runs in the family!

Family meeting and for some weird reason there is nothing but laughter. Mum has turned breast cancer into a little joke. She will take anything that bugs her and make some odd reference to it. For example the food will take too long in the kitchen and her voice rings out: "You guys are starving me and I have cancer?" You can tell she thinks it's inappropriate but the jokes are funny. And the discussion runs lengthy as we talk about everything from my late dad's weird names for all of us (My sister's was 'Pajero' by the way) to  my brother's possible names for his first kid.

The day after her mastectomy, her family and friends stands around her bed. She has that smile on her face again. Showing off how many more visitors she has than the other people in the ward. She says she doesn't want pity. Those who came with pity might as well take it back home. You'd think nothing gets to her but I assume under all that is some level of fear.

Later we find out that insurance won't cover the cost of everything. There's the drugs, surgery and then months of chemotherapy. Mum chimes in that it won't even cover the cost of the wigs when she starts losing her hair.

If you feel emotionally blackmailed then my work here is complete. I want your money. All of it. For real. I am not kidding. There's a whole lot to raise and not much time. So if you feel sufficiently philanthropic (ewwww) then you can reach me through 0728831340 or bkoyoo@gmail.com. Take a moment and think about it.I am not trying to cure Cancer. This is as selfish as requests get. Thanks.

SAME QUESTIONS, CHANGING ANSWERS

Mental conversations for me run long and lengthy. Of course I have no idea how long the average person sits and talks to himself or even if they do but I assume my internal banter becomes a little long winded. They always seem to take a question and answer format as if in a great debate in front of some unseen audience. Each member straining to here every word. Each answer the deciding factor between life and death. The questions remain the same. The answers are ever changing.

This thing called life. Confusion becomes the order of the day. Every day becomes a different insight into just how little we know. I sat today and tried to look at life from the perspective of a complete stranger. Is my blue your blue or is it just a shade bluer? Are my tears more painful or do you cry harder? Does my heart and yours beat in tandem? Are we dancing to the same rhythm?

I saw people and imagined their stories. Simple things changed what I saw. Words and actions, even the minutest aspects of them, affected the image quite greatly. One moment I was seeing an old woman who was struggling to fend for her family, the next I was seeing an old trickster conning an individual. One moment I was looking at a pastor, the next I was looking at a man weighed down by his own beliefs. And so on. The examples were numerous. I wondered whether my seeing them had changed their path. Their destiny. Did it have any impact on them? Any on mine?

DEATH OF THE HAPPY ENDING?

Fresh from reading an excerpt of Ted Kennedy's letter to the Pope prior to his death, I was struck by the frailty of the human spirit. Here was a man powerful enough to have the leader of the free world hand-deliver a letter to the leader of one of the biggest religious institution in the world.The full text can be found here.

This isn't a eulogy to the life and times of Ted Kennedy but rather the humility which his letter shows. A man with power. A family that was seen to carry the hopes and imagination of a generation that believed in dreams. Here was a family that was linked to Camelot, the legendary kingdom led by Arthur. And with his death is the question posed; is the happy ending dying? Are we as a human race losing faith in the ability to be dreamers and be happy?

Pessimism is slowly creeping into our collective consciousness cleverly disguised as realism. If you expect the worst then there's no way you'll ever be disappointed, right? This culture has gone through every facet of our lives and is best illustrated in the popular media. Remember the days when the end of the movie invariably constituted a happy albeit metaphorical walk into the sunset? If Cinderella was adapted to a feature length movie then it would probably end with her being sent to work in a sweat shop somewhere in a East Asia.

THE FRUSTRATED SAMARITAN:A NAIROBI TALE

I wanted to write this while I was still seething with anger. While I was still hopped up on righteous indignation and the need to make someone feel accountable. But now all I feel is sadness. A deep, ridiculous sadness. But I am getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back to the beginning. 2.30 am and we are tearing down

Mbagathi Road after having had a long meeting. I’m sulking at having been kept up way past my bedtime and the only sound is the wind howling outside as I unleash my frustrations on the speedometer.

We turn the corner and he materializes out of the darkness. A ghoulish figure. Lonely. Staggering. Alarm bells sound as Nairobi instincts kick in. He raises his hand to stop the car ahead of us and the driver goes on. And then he comes into full view. Blood everywhere. His face bruised and battered. A single yelp of surprise comes up from us both. I take my foot off the accelerator for but a brief moment then the speedometer needle inches higher again. Mercy still has her hands clasped around her mouth. Horrified. Her mouth agape as if in a silent scream.

THE PLAYLIST: LIFE'S SYMPHONY

Every morning, I have a checklist that is meticulously gone over before the faulty padlock is slapped on my door and I jump down the ten flights of stairs on the way to the carpool. The list includes my fare (should get a wallet. Can’t keep going around with a wad  of crumpled up wad of notes), phone (damn you Safaricom. Why did I fall for that Ideos idiocy?), phone charger (yes Safaricom still on you) and my earphones. Stuff like dressing is pretty much a bonus.

Walk down the streets of Nairobi and you will find that we have plugged in to the earphone phenomenon. Mine go on for a simple reason; to keep the world away. As soon as they come on, everything drowns out. The drone of the engine becomes the violin solo in “Coming Home”, the woman complaining about her husband is melted into the guitar intro of “ Year 3000” and Maina Kageni’s incessant sex talk becomes “I write sins not tragedies.”



I find myself waiting for those moments alone with my music (my taste has been described as everything from feminine, to “awww Brian you are so sensitive right through to my favourite “Are you kidding?”) One Tulanana Bohela has had to deal with the pain of hearing a song replayed over and over when I’m going through that honeymoon phase. But here is where judgement is reserved. No one knows . It’s just me and my music.



I get cheap thrills from imagining what is on the play list of random people. The prim and proper woman listening to Soulja Boy, the important looking CEO rocking along to Lady Gaga or the tough kid with the mohawk listening to some Westlife. I can’t help but think they are relieved that here in their own little world, they can be who they want to be. Away from the expectations. Where their bespoke suits and below the hem skirts don’t have to point to the person within.


Yesterday though my checklist was forgotten due to my morning haste. The driver was hooting and on the phone at the same time. “Brian, injury time.” And so my ear phones were left on the table as I dashed down the stairs. And from there the torture started. Maina Kageni was on the radio, (I don’t hate the guy. Just can’t help think that we lose brain cells listening to him.), the topic of discussion in the car was also less than savoury (to protect the poolers I will keep that secret). Once in town the morning sounds are drowned out by the hooting and I start craving for the peacefulness of  Sauti Sol’s “I’m Coming Home.

DIARY OF A SOCIAL WORKER: CONTACT

Something about the way she leaned in towards her friend drew my attention towards her. They were to sign in at the tail end of the session and that tiny movement between the two women piqued my interest. As the paper was going around, the next one in the queue shook her head and whispered something to her friend. And then the realisation hit me. She couldn’t read or write.....and it broke my heart.

The week has been intriguing to say the very least. Kibera makes another entry into the pages of my life. The sights, sounds and smells come back in greater detail as the slum becomes a cog in the machinery that is my work place. I find myself seeing things in a new light. While my first visit had shocked me and left me feeling empty, this one opened my eyes to the things I was missing out on.

I find myself weaving through the narrow alleys with my eyes trained on the signs. Every corner seems to have a chemist, shop, ‘hotel’ and NGO to boot. The first foray was all about getting in and out but now I can take my time and take it all in. On the first day we are working near a school. Little children are scurrying everywhere and the uniform is anything but uniform. It’s a mix and match of colours and patterns as the kids run around during their break. Earlier I had listened to them answering questions in that sing song voice that only children have.

MY WORLD!!

I live;
In a world in which ones heart beats only for themselves. Where we look out only for number one and the best friends are always me, myself and I. Where the selfless are trampled underfoot and the selfish live to amass more another day.
In a world in which kindness and friendship are words in a dictionary. Where morals are replaced by the lure of materials and the lifetime of a human being is marked by how much they are worth in monetary terms.


In a society where love is a memory; a distant one at that. Where the glint in a loved ones eye is replaced by lust and the warmth in their hands by a clammy claw. Where the wallet is a prerequisite for the heart and flowery words are assigned a particular day in February.

LETTER TO MY THIRTEEN YEAR OLD SELF!

Dear Brian,

First, quit freaking out. Yes, this is a letter from the future but I can’t explain how. The details might come later. So yeah this is you from the future. Or rather me writing to myself. It’s ten years into the future and if I remember right, you are in class seven and freaking out about the whole puberty thing. Yeah, well the bad news is that ten years later, it’s still pretty much the same. The growth spurt is as good as it gets and then it will all be downhill from there. Point is you’d probably be able to beat me up if we bumped into each other.

No. We don’t have flying cars and mum still calls you ‘Baba’ when she wants to send you on errands. Don’t wince. It might stop in the next 30 years. Moi is no longer the president but no point in celebrating. The country is weirdly worse. Mats are a bit more comfortable and Americans voted in some jang’o dude to become president. No, I’m not kidding. You’ll see. In a lot of ways, the world is the same.

I know you have so many questions to ask but I can’t give you so many answers because you might ruin things. Ten years later, the one friend you are still close to is Ruth. But yeah she might be getting married soon to someone else. Don’t jump! You are happy for her and not in that passive aggressive way.