To Be Nairobian Poem by Job Ombati

It is a skill
to be Nairobian.
It; a skill so rare.
Expensively acquired;
and dearly treasured.
A skill learned in the class of subtlety;
and school of friends, TikTok and hard knocks.

It's a skill learnt though verifiable experiences, fantasy and near pure misses;
of automotive-
big and small;
on four-wheel, and two;
friendly and mean a like.
And the ever waiting,
ever patient,
ever watchful City Mortuary!

It means to dress in killer Calvin Klein,
to but take a dingy number 19/60 to town;
It is to dress in an impeccable white shirt,
but end up with a bug on the collar.
To squeeze a barrel body into a size 14;
and in it be impelled to jump over a bubbly open sewer,
and land on dog poo.

It is to know how to hold roasted maize;
coated in a generous layer of lemony screamy red pepper;
served in preferable hot and soft;
hygiene of the roaster,
and a nearby mountain of stink notwithstanding.

It is the resignation to fate;
to sharing of city streets with laden donkeys,
and their masterful drivers.
to learn to cohabit on the road with irritable matatus and fat but wise city rats,
as the pedestrian lane is adorned in hawker's wares.

It's mastery of perfect balance on a fleeing motorcycle;
with one finger on the receiver button,
and other hand brushing back a stray horse hair,
and the other holding tight to dear rider.

It is getting the perfect mastery,
of applying layer and layer of mascara on her face,
to cover networks of determined pimples;
to produce a mzungu effect!

It is forcing chapati shaped feet,
into stilettos,
and command the legs to walk down a potholed street;
and to skip buddles of stinky water in the street of the sun!

And that, is to be Nairobian!

Poems for Humanity