Afternoons in Som
A story is about systemic failure, the consequences of it to young adult boys. Their struggles as they attempt to make it while avoiding being victims of the failing system — from Kenyan Marion Wayua Munywoki
Som has become a home for boys like me. In Som, our days are filled with various activities that keep us busy and occupied. In the morning, we have boxing training in preparation for the monthly tournaments held every first Saturday. With Manman as our teacher, we have maintained a winning streak in the tournaments. Those who are fortunate enough, secure employment as boda-boda¹ riders or cleaners in the neighbouring car wash next to Som. Many of us are on the waitlist. Before later in the afternoon where we sit around to chill and catch up.
Som is partitioned into two. Each section has a leader who controls and heads it. Each one of them commands a fleet of Boda workers that are always coming in and out of Som. JJ’s and Manman’s teams. When JJ and Manman were starting out the business they considered themselves as equals. They were inseparable brothers who did everything together with matching lion tattoos on their left upper arm to commemorate when they met. Each of them swears the other saved their life.
To cover more ground in making their business deliveries, each had specific orders to make to cater for different clientele. JJ usually rolled weed for us common folk while his fellow businessman Manman rolled weed that was destined for prisons. Prison weed was laced with a white foreign substance that I never tried. I was afraid that I would turn out like Dosky. Rumour has it that one day after smoking it he stripped, upped and left his life went ahead and started a new life on the other side of the railway. Being just boys, we stopped going to school and waited in line for the prestigious job as a Boda-boda rider to make deliveries. One thing that is for certain in Som is that music, especially reggae, is always being played.
🎶
Dreams of brighter days aha, aha, aha
Highest grades we blaze aha, aha, ah
Dreams of brighter days aha, aha, aha
(Giving thanks) giving thanks, giving thanks
Giving thanks
(As the days goes by)
Dreams of brighter days aha, aha, aha
Highest grades we blaze aha, aha, ah
Dreams of brighter days aha, aha, aha
(Giving thanks) giving thanks, giving thanks
Giving thanks
(As the days goes by)
Giving thanks and praise
🎶
In its glory days, Som was a high-end restaurant called The Makuti Haven some years back before the cartels took over the town. Despite her abandonment, Som’s beauty is not lost. The building ruins, caters and acts as our boxing hall. A boxing ring is fitted at what would have been the reception. The other rooms are changing rooms and are flexible and cater to whatever is needed at a time. Before the water was cut out, we would shower in the showers after our practice. Most of the thatched grasses that were on the roof, swept off by the wind, part of it rotten attracting an army of flies while children played with the rest.
We sit over what used to be an oval-shaped swimming pool that is now partly buried, with overgrown grass that stretches over to the fence. That is whenever we find our usual spot by the corner where an old greenish-blue hunk of junk Jeep sits. Until recently, during the day Som acted as a parking lot with cleaning services that charged fifty shillings a car. On the weekends and Thursdays, you could hardly find a spot to sit at let alone even park your car. Over time one by one, the residents around started complaining of missing car parts and belongings. Eventually, Som is now deserted and no one parks their cars anymore.
On the outside of the building facing the now erected mabati² houses, Princessa’s big hoop earrings, red lipped smile exposing her missing tooth welcomes all the incoming visitors. JJ, as a declaration of his love for Princessa, painted a large mural of her face. That stands tall more visible among the other small paintings and graffiti and “Mziza for MCA” that now covers all the walls in Som.
JJ would be carrying his firstborn son, Prince. Princessa now expecting her third child, hers and JJ’s second. Princessa always grumpy, frowning and always complaining about something. “Somebody open the window, stop smoking in here, give me that bottle of water, turn down the volume, rub my feet,” eventually she would chase us out of her way so that she could think. Now, all she does is think.
🎶
She loves me now, woooy she loves me now
She loves me now, woooy she loves me now
And I sing glory glory Hallelujah
Got to give thanks to the father
A long time I-man waan fi stick to daughter
She loves me now, woooy she loves me now
She loves me now, woooy she loves me now
She loves me now, woooy she loves me now
She loves me now, woooy she loves me now
🎶
JJ would follow us limping or nursing a wound with another blunt. He would look for a dry spot on the floor or on the walls to light up his last remaining matchstick. “Tuwashe ingine? -should we light another?” he would ask reassuring us no one had ever died of weed poisoning and it wasn’t real. Under no chance would it happen to us he would promise. I would oblige, half way nauseous halfway excited for this opportunity, my stomach would growl in hunger. Then I would pray not to be the first person to face the unlikely tragedy.
Wekesir would join us wearing his signature luminous green jacket and take his designated role of the sole storyteller. Weke- Si- R not We-Ke-Sa he insisted on his name’s spelling, with emphasis on the R. Never in my life had I ever heard that spelling. Zooted beyond myself I would gladly listen to his stories with honour and admiration, he had travelled more than any of us had or ever would. His worldview was different than anyone I had ever met. He had binoculars at his place that he brought to look at the passing aeroplanes on some afternoons.
Last Thursday, with half of his mouth filled with jaba³ he was testifying to us how he almost lost his life. He had been hanging on a mat⁴ to town when he discovered he couldn’t feel his hat on his head. He went back to the bus to see if he had misplaced it inside, only to discover he had it on his right-hand wrist. Amazed with the discovery he narrates how he witnessed how the other fellow who was hanging with him was hit by another moving car losing his life instantly. “True story you can even check on YouTube if you think I’m lying.” I choose to believe him.
Wekesi-r had lived many lives he would occasionally share with us glimpses of his past. He would gladly answer every question thrown at him. The only taboo with him was information about his prison life he never volunteered and we never asked. Only once had he worn a sleeveless shirt that you could see his poorly drawn prison tattoos. Noticing the curiosity and judgment on my face, he attempted to change the subject and warned me not to drink street coffee. He had it the day before and couldn’t sleep the whole night. Wekesir was among the lucky ones who were JJ’s boda guy to which in return he ensured nothing on the streets could happen without JJ’s knowledge and approval.
Manman barely smiled at or afforded anyone in chitchat. The farm he was assembling took up most of his time. Only growing vegetables. Manman preferred spending time with his rabbits and chickens that were always roaming all over Som. Manman strictly maintained his prison clientele making orders only on Fridays. Manman on rare occasions when he felt the need acknowledged and entertain his company, would animatedly talk about how he would like to be featured on the local TV program KTN’s Mkulima mtaani⁵. Disclosing to us his dreams of expanding his farm and plans to move his farm to a different and bigger place. Concerned that I personally didn’t have any aspirations myself. A cock would crow and Musa would inform us it was a bad omen for cocks to crow in the daytime.
Musa on some days would pass by and shout to no one in particular. “Allahu Akbar, Mungu ni Mwema, God is good? Na Kila Wakati, And all the time?” He would ask and walk off with a thumbs up without waiting for a reply. Sometimes he would pull up his white Kanzu to sit on his jeans underneath, turning down the volume of his radio to engage in whatever conversation we were having.
Musa always had some analogies and ideas, always preaching about humility and kindness. He would ask, “When you die will you be buried in the sky or at the ground just like the rest of us?” Not sure where the conversation had started or where it was headed. I would nod absent-mindedly and continue observing birds that were flying in pairs above Som.
In one instance just once, Musa came over wearing a light pink matching skirt suit with brown heels that matched his hand bag. His hair was straightened down to his shoulders, the first time I ever saw his hair. Every other day people ignored Som, never paying mind to whatever was happening and matters concerning Som until that day. Neighbours rushed to their balconies at the risk of falling off to look at him. Those he walked past turned their necks to witness what was happening in front of their eyes. The nearby car wash came to a standstill as the workers turned off their hoses to watch and see for themselves. Everybody that was at ‘Milly’s Hotel’ kiosk stopped eating to see with their mouths. “Zake zimeriet,’’ — he has gone mad, one of the boys we trained with whispered. I never got to know his name. Others suggested that maybe it was a dare, while many seemed to agree with the first boy. No conclusion was made and everyone has buried the memory of that day since then.
The second time when Som attracted attention from the neighbourhood. JJ accused Manman of sabotaging his business after one of his bodas was torched outside Som. Manman justified his actions by charging back at the violent activities his teammates were conducting with his knowledge and request. Robbery with violence. Robbing pedestrians’ phones, handbags, shopping bags or anything they were carrying then fleeing in their bodas.
Manman had insisted that the bodas were strictly for business not to facilitate theft. JJ’s crew activities had led police nosing around and were under investigation and it was only a matter of time before his activities came to light. JJ in turn asked him who made him the chief of Som to make and amend rules as he chose to. Musa would admit that word on the street was saying that indeed the police are on our radar and advised us all to be careful and avoid blaming and making accusations against one another. Brotherhood before anything else.
When all of a sudden, JJ threw the first punch aiming for Manman’s face which he unfortunately missed. Each team member rushed to their leader’s side. Acting as the signal needed to tear down the tension that was building up. A white Subaru stopped at the gate and honked to enter. Wekesir quickly rushes to the gate. Wekesir opening the gate as the others were trying to break the fight. “Safisheni masanse ndio hao,”- get lost, the police are here, he whispered at us while signalling the car to move backwards.
He directs the car to park at the furthest corner of Som. The fight breaks eventually, with people running to different sides. Some rush to the gate to escape. Others scramble to get to one of the houses that have a secret passage on the outside. Some of the loyal ones don’t budge, they stand in front of their leader to act as security. Others confused by what is happening are surprised with handcuffs on their hands chained to the next person before making out what has happened or what is happening. The rest of us jump over the fence to escape Som.
My right elbow is on fire, I notice bleeding on my left knee paired with so much pain. I end up losing my multi-coloured North Face jacket. I acknowledge that this is a small price to pay, my knee will heal. The jacket? I will get another jacket but sleeping in the Industrial area for an undefined time is not it.
I place both of my hands in my brown scout shorts to help hide my pain, I notice I still have my ten shillings heeding to Wekisir’s advice I get roast maize instead of the usual coffee on my way home.
1. Boda-boda: motorcycle taxis commonly found in East Africa
2. Mabati: Galvanized iron sheets.
3. Jaba: Miraa/ Khat a natural stimulant
4. Mat: Minibuses used as public transport in Kenya
5. Mkulima mtaani: Local farmer
Marion Wayua Munywoki, a Kenyan journalist, brings a unique perspective to her writing by reflecting on cultural nuances and confronting the complexities of the human condition. Recently, she discovered her love for cats through the adoption of her cat Snowy. You can connect with her on Twitter @wayu_marion and find more of her work on her blog: diariesofthabewildered.
