The One with Nairobi’s Seven Deadly Sins by Wairimu Kagichu

Published in Qwani 04

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Nairobi. A cacophony of matatu hoots and booming bongs from church bells. All in inexplicable harmony. Like a Beethoven piece. A muezzin’s melody moves the ummah from a minaret here, a bus conductor — shouting from the most pimped out mathree — moves umati there. The shout of a hawker. The siren of an ambulance. Leaving us asking whether they’re transporting patients or politicians. Even so, Nairobi has a silent underlying monotone. The sound of hopes dying and dreams deferred. Of godless people building state churches. Of the clock going tick-tock from your 9 to 5. There’s that saying; if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? But what if it’s in the middle of Waiyaki Way? Just because someone thinks giving us an expressway will absolve him of war crimes. While in essence, all it does is leave all the marabou storks homeless.

Nairobi. A labyrinth of lipstick-stained shot glasses and semi-filled ashtrays. Where a party starts regardless of where the limbs of the clock point. And only ends when everyone is browned out and on the brink of calling the one that got away. Nairobi is looking for coins during traffic because you want to help the beggar, who is patient enough to receive the donation before snatching your phone. It is being stagnant in that same sweltering traffic for long enough to get crisps made from transformer oil wrapped in those papers you find compact disks in. And like clockwork, you put the window back up because Nairobbery isn’t just a play on words. Ah, the city where even the conmen are as cunning as they are creative. But at least with them, you give them your money thinking you’ll get something in exchange for it - you can’t say the same for our taxes and the government.

Nairobi. Where gluttony is second nature. A kaleidoscope of too much silver tequila and too many smokie pasuas. Of good pasta and dry wine in overpriced restaurants. Of ramen noodles and pre-cooked meat. Where nothing is ever enough. We drink and eat to our fill because life sucks. Why wouldn’t it? Our last president’s advisor was the bottom of a Jameson bottle and our current one’s advisor is Jesus. The spirit guides the nation either way, I guess. Still, Nairobi tastes like chances and do-overs. It tastes like anxieties and aspirations. It tastes like change. Like revolution. Like “more money, more power, more freedom. Everything heaven allowed us”. And we’re here to devour it. Greedily. Ravenously.

Nairobi. Reeks of piss and thrifted clothes. Fresh bakeries and Sonford Fish and Chips. Old currency and that one cologne every man in their early 20s wears. Smells like fighting your titans and sending a million job applications. Nairobi. Where you can go weeks without a lover’s touch but only days without a cop grabbing you by the wedgie into a mariamu because you shouldn’t be idle as you wait for your Uber outside Alchemist. Because of course in that time you should take up a sport, learn to play an instrument, solve world peace et cetera.

Nairobi - where our pride lingers. Like when Kipchoge finishes a marathon in under two hours. When Lupita wins an Oscar. The hubris you feel when your copy makes it to the billboard on UN Avenue. Or when your corny pun gets five retweets. Or even that one time we were all watching Money Heist and so gassed that Nairobi was one of the characters.

Regrettably, Nairobi pride also comes with its individualism. Everyone is out here on their own trying to get some bread whether they’re in the upper class getting baguettes and rye bread or in the middle and lower class getting Supaloaf and Broadways. The city doesn’t let anyone rest from the grind and the hustling and the drudgery. And the wealth gap is bigger than the vast and empty expanse in Sudi’s mind. Still, the city is a paradox. An optical illusion. Sometimes the people are so ready to convene in community that it revives the fickle hope you have in humanity. From safe spaces to fundraisers to a simple hearty conversation with your Uber driver.

And then there’s that murky feeling of greed that comes from 99% of our politicians. When you’re at the bottom of the food chain it’s called hunger, but the higher you climb and the more you want - it becomes indulgence. Greed makes them say and do all kinds of things. Like teargassing children or “paying” ghost employees. Do y’all know any juakali guys we can commission for guillotines? – Cause, heads gotta roll.

I think wrath is the most Nairobi-esque of the cardinal sins. We’re angry. At the police. At the government, at global warming, at nduthis, at KPLC, at Zuku, at Safaricom, at KCB, at each other. I used to think that our anger sniffles out as fast as it blazes up. I didn’t think we were ever angry enough. Presently, I have bartered this opinion for another. Now, I know that even if the anger fizzles from time to time, it is the love that we have for each other and for this city and this country that sticks with us and it is this very love that pushes us to want better for ourselves and for each other.

And then there’s the envy. A part of you knows you’ll get there eventually but that sometimes gets lost in translation when you see someone with better because that sparks something in you - even though we are all on different paths with different paces. Whether it’s a BMW or an airfryer, the question stays: why not me? I’m personally jealous of the people who’ve managed to move out of Nairobi to Naivasha , Watamu or wherever. It feels like they figured it out their way out the maze while I’m still at a dead end wondering whether I can just hop out the sides. It doesn’t matter what it is we crave, our eyes are as green as the parks and spaces we so desperately need in this godforsaken city.

Nairobi. The city of miniskirts and cheers-baba jackets. Lust dripping through the sides of our mouths because we can’t seem to contain it under our tongues. I don’t even know why people bother to go to Vasha for WRC when they live in the city of sexual debauchery - where the only thing that’s on heat more than the sun is whatever’s between people’s legs. Where even Christian Grey would pause and do a double-take. Where ropes aren’t just for skipping and leashes aren’t just for dogs. If you find ordered love in the city, you must have saved refugees and orphans in your past life. Nairobi - the city where the flesh is truly willing.

You know that intense sloth-like feeling when you wanna wake up for Sunday brunch at Brew Bistro or K1 and then later watch Hamilton race at around 4 when all the mimosas have hit your head and you’re surprised that your wig is still intact? Or the next day when you’re trying to get out of your covers and you’re thinking about that beastly Nairobi traffic you’re about to face and all you can do is tweet “Nimewacha pombe mimi”. Truthfully though, other than that and a few other instances, the pace is too fast for me. I just wanna be in a dera next to the beach drinking a passion caipiroska and eating viazi karai cause why are we always running?

And y’all are also way too fast when coming up with new words too. There’s like a million words for currency, ass, sex, sherehe etc. Truly, there is a certain linguistic je ne sais quoi when it comes to the Nairobian’s language. It stops being a transaction of random syllables and begins to become an understanding of feelings, emotions and behaviour. I, especially, like how we knead it into our art. We sneak it into our music and get phenomena like arbantone. We compress it into our films and get Nairobi Half Life. We squeeze it into our visual pieces and get Michael Soi. One thing about Nairobians is we do not cower in silence, we have words to say and we shall say them. Even if that means running a president out of Twitter. That’s why our writers are as staggeringly sensational as they are. Ngartia. Sookie. Grey. Muthaka. Laria. Abu. And those are just my friends, man.

But it’s not just the writing. The fashion. Rosemary Wangari. Nicole Wendo. Samantha Nyakoe. The music. Mau from Nowhere, Vallerie Muthoni, Karun, Maya Amolo, XPRSO. Just a Band, Njoki Karu. The films. The painting. Muthoni Matu. Zolesa. The architecture. The cinema. The theatre. Too Early for Birds.Shorts From Africa. Man, I gotta tell ya, when God was cooking up the cauldron of this city, he went hard on the talent. Quote me on this: a lot of exceptional creatives from this city are gonna hit the world with a head-splitting bang in a couple of years.

Nairobi. Despite the restless crowds, drawn-out queues and poor drainage, it still has a charm you can’t deny. Mysterious. Confusing. Alluring. Despite the fact that you can only truly enjoy the Nairobi experience if you’re a bird or an expat, me I love it still.

Nairobians, keep sinning and keep winning!

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Photo by Ken Mwaura