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VOLKWAGEN BEETLES AND IMPROMPTU WEDDING PROPOSALS

Coming from a school in some unpronounceable forsaken place in Mukono (the rumored home ground of witchcraft) and getting into Aga Khan Primary school was a welcome transition. Granted I felt like a fish out of water most of the time but I was just so glad to leave a life of compulsory Saturday gardening and boiled mukene (silver fish) & posho for food that I didn't mind being a bit of an odd ball.

Aga Khan is like a meal of katogo; full of all sorts of nationalities of countries ranging from Croatia to Lesotho to Iran to Korea et cetera, I could go on but you catch my drift. The cultural day alone was a spectacle with every country trying to outshine the other in traditional drab and cultural richness. But that is a story for another day.

During my primary days my Papa was the proud owner of a blue 1972 Volkswagen Beetle who we fondly christened Ojo (after a similar car in the movie Herbie goes Bananas) that he loved to show off. On the other hand my brother Ben and I did not share his sentiments. You see Ojo had never seen the gates that housed the Aga Khan Primary & High schools and it was not for lack of trying on my father’s part. Every time dad drew near school we asked him to make light of the task and leave us at the gate. His quizzical, puzzled looks as we alighted left me feeling guilty but Ben and I had made a sibling pact never to tell him, it would only hurt his feelings. Of course what Dad did not know was that on the one off days when mother took us to school, her white starlet got to have the privilege of going through the forbidden gates.

Admittedly we absolutely adored Ojo and didn't mind washing him every other weekend we preferred his existence was kept hush-hush. It was done out of the selfish fear of being ashamed. You see on every other day the school’s parking lot held Range Rovers, Mercedes Benzes, Audis and even the occasional starlet but never a Volkswagen. It took a special kind of person to appreciate old cars and unfortunately that character trait was deficient in the kids in my school. In school kids analyzed and judged everything right from what car your parents owned, your ability to have a driver at your beck and call, lunch box contents, holiday destinations (road trips to Sheema district did not count, it had to be somewhere fancy like Los Angeles) and of course what cool gadgets you smuggled in to Saturday coaching classes. Kids for all their innocence had the propensity to be cruel.

“Are your parents poor?” a Kenyan boy once asked me. Stuck between shock and laughter I spat out the juice I was in the process of swallowing, “Why would you think that “, I asked.

“Because you do not have a driver,” he replied.

There were exclamations of surprise at the lunch table for you see seated at the very same table was the daughter of an ambassador, niece to a tycoon on a Forbes’ list, son of a minister and son of the High School principal. High self esteem notwithstanding, I was embarrassed and mortified. If a no-driver comment could incite such a reaction, I could only imagine the look on their faces if they ever laid eyes on my father’s classical car. No….that car was going to remain a family secret.

But like all well laid plans, when a thread out of line finds an anchor all the seams unravel. On this auspicious day mother who usually took us back home was a no show. So there I was playing with my hair and smiling at this Afro haired boy I had a huge crush on when I had a familiar sound and there driving up in glory on Good Year tyres, all in slow motion was Ojo making his maiden voyage in the school’s driveway. Everyone saw the car and when I say everyone I mean even the high school gangs who unashamedly pointed it out and started laughing until it came to a stop at the waiting shed. I should probably tell you that at this point Ben and I were in panic mode and trying to pretend we had not seen the car until my Papa having spotted us shouted, ‘Ben, Tina lets go’. Without missing a beat I grabbed my bag pack and raced Ben to the car throwing myself in the back, head hidden hoping to lessen the uncomfortable status. My dad started the engine, revved it a little and then it died. ‘Oh no, not now,’ I groaned inwardly, eyes shut and praying against all odds it was a fluke death. Ojo was not going to have a temper tantrum on what was proving to be the worst day of my life, at least not my watch. Nevertheless no amount of coaxing, hot wiring and begging could get Ojo to start and with every method getting thrown out of the window I felt my heart sink into my butt knowing that the inevitable was coming.

Although it was a morning ritual, performed involving holding cups of porridge, buttered toast in mouth, over filled school bags, shouts of ‘push´ and running after the car before it got away from us, Ben and I had already started a silent battle of who was going to do it. My Papa noticing the tell-tale sign was having none of it, ‘Kids you know the drill, get out and push’. My heart fell even further down and sharing panicked despaired looks with my brother we got out and took the longest walk to the back of the car.

In the evening scorching sun, every eye on us and resigned to our fate Ben and I gave Ojo a mighty shove as Papa who was also out pushing from the driver’s seat tried to start him up. It seemed the Fates had connived with Ojo who needed more heaves than we normally dosed him with to start. By this time the entire school (some parents and teachers too) had witnessed the family morning shenanigans. Once Ojo had seemed to have gained some momentum, my dad gave the thumps up and we got in before the car could start to roll down the drive way. My Papa oblivious to all drama we had caused slid in a radio cassette and we made the journey homeward amidst the sounds of The 3 tenors’ 1994 concert.

Filled with dread the next day went about my morning preparations as slowly as I could possibly muster hoping to freeze time, school was the last place I wanted to go. Once again Papa took Ojo through the school gates with the difference of having no audience as it was a rush hour time. Thankfully my classroom was a bit of a distance which allowed me the time to gather sufficient courage to face the class. Everyone laughed, well at least nearly everyone when they spied my bespectacled face all except my best friend Aarohi who whispered, “You didn’t tell me your dad had such an awesome car”. I beamed a little happy that somebody didn’t think my family poor or strange for having such a classic car. Even the boy I was crushing on came over and shared anecdotes on a Cadillac his dad owned and as we laughed and compared notes on how fathers could be so obsessed with old things the dark clouds went away and day brightened.

This particular episode was the beginning of my journey to humility and acceptance of family. My Papa later bought a Mercedes Benz E Class which for all its comfort and luxury quite frankly never felt right. When he traded it in for a 1979 VW Kombi van (that green one in the picture), the world was right again. Now all grown up, the old man’s collection of classic cars is responsible for some of my impromptu marriage proposals, every man hoping that marriage to me will earn him one of the cars as a wedding gift. Maybe someone will get lucky but knowing my Papa, he is not parting with his ‘babies’. 

In Love with Another Man

Turning off the headlights at the entrance of raven black gate, Rita reached for Henry’s hand if only for an infusion of warmth. “Do you want me to come in with you” he asked face hidden in the shadows of the interior lights. She shook her head and paused for a moment before she alighted from the car and walked through the gate. Rita knocked on the door and she felt rather than heard it open. She looked up into Andy’s smiling face and half grinned back. Blindfolding her with his strong hands he led her into the foyer and to the accompanying sounds of Jazmine Sullivan he whispered “I have a surprise for you”. He let her go to the exquisite sight of tealights, giant lilac candles, multitudes of peach & red rose petals and already sensing what awaited her she turned to find  him wearing a nervous smile on bended knee holding a flawless white gold sapphire ring.

She gazed at him, drinking in very angle of his handsome face. She took in the deep dimples peeking out at his cheeks, the prematurely graying hair, his golden whisky eyes noticing all the little things that she liked to tease him about. This man was goodness, perfection, love and everything any woman would kill for. She was tempted, so very tempted but instead she sighed and cupping his face she said, “Andy we need to talk”.

His face fell and she felt her heart give a lurch at the devastation and sadness she saw in his eyes. Clasping his hand to hers she tilted his head up to meet her own gaze and steeling against all the emotion she could sense in his slightly trembling frame she said “ I can’t go on pretending, I am in love with another man”

She watched him close his eyes, heard the ring tinkle as it fell to the floor and heard him slowly mouth ‘Why?’ Spirit crumbling she begged, “Please at look me”, and when he opened his eyes she went off in a tirade scared  that he would run away before she had a chance to explain. “I can’t explain why it is him and not you. You treat me so much better than him and if I was sane there would be no competition but I find myself in love with him” she uttered. Andy angrily shoved Rita and stood up roughly dragging her along with him, ‘What have I not done right? What have I not given you?” he shouted. “You have given me everything. Henry doesn’t even treat me right but when am with him there isn’t anything like it. If I could I would forget him, please believe me” she pleaded.

“How can I believe anything you say?” he was now yelling upturning flowers and the bucket of champagne, “You made me believe you were in love with me. I wanted to make you my wife” gesturing to the room that was now in tatters. He turned his back to her; his shoulders slumped like a man weighed down with so much pain and in a cold voice said, “Get out. Get out and don’t you ever come back”.

Rita froze, she had hurt the man who had made her happy for so long and all instinct pushed her to run to him, get on her knees, ask for his forgiveness and beg him to take her back but it was for naught. For outside all this pandemonium was Henry; the man with a perfect body, who she always seemed to fight with but was just right for her. Walking towards Andy, his back still turned to her she gently touched his arm, “I am so sorry for what I have done to you. I will never forget us”.

As she turned to leave he held onto her arm and abruptly Rita was whirled into a hug. Andy held her like a vice and in a hoarse broken voice pleaded, “Don’t leave me. Whatever is wrong I can fix it even if it takes me a lifetime. We are soul mates, you know we are. Let’s get married and have those adventures & children we always talked about. Forget him”. Clutching to him, she wept for all our lost dreams and memories, the agonizing heartbreak and the pain that we would no longer be us. “You will find somebody else. There will be another woman who will treat you right and understand the man you are. Don’t let this dim all that fire inside you.” Then she kissed him for one final time, a slow savoring goodbye kiss mingled with salty tears and ache. Standing on tiptoes she kissed his forehead and whispered, “Goodbye Andy, another soul mate will find you. Perhaps we will find each other in another  lifetime”. They clung to each other for a few more seconds and without a backward glance Rita walked out the door guilty, hurting and a total entanglement of emotions.

That was her price for falling in love with another man.

Passion makes the world go round, love just makes it safer - Ice T 

SINGLE GIRL EQUATION

(Boss + First Day x Refusal = Fired)

Dear Diary,

Today was my first day as an IT Officer and after several failed employment searching attempts and taxi journeys in and out of town I totally deserve it. It was only fair therefore that when I walked into the administration office that I wore a coral lipstick smile and donned an outfit that would not look out of place at a Wall Street office. The sun was sunshine, the birds were singing etc (I forget how that song goes). I was Muhammad Ali ready to sting like a bee and fly like a butterfly. I was going to crash this job.

The snobbish secretary waved me towards a door and knocking meekly I entered the Executive Director’s Office. With his back slightly turned to me, staring through the venetian blinds was a bespectacled giant-of-a-man with a slight tummy pouch looking every inch the boss. I sat before I was invited to (the four inch heels were killing me) and we fell into a bit of tete-a-tete. So when my new boss got up, turned the blinds down, turned the key on his door, held out his hands to help me stand up I sensed no danger. That was until he grabbed my derrière, stealthy unzipped my skirt, fumbled around my décolletage all the while trying to stick his tongue through my clenched teeth (the man clearly didn’t know that kissing had been invented). At this point you are probably asking what I was doing.

On the precipice danger of falling over on my unstable heels I found myself unwillingly holding onto this very disgusting man. Using his arm as leverage I gained stability and shoved him away. He was smiling! The fool was smiling and I wanted to punch him just to wipe the smirk off his face. Pretending like nothing happened he handed me the appointment letter and dismissed me. Did I forget to mention he is an old friend of my father?  The man, you see, has no boundaries or limitations.

I strolled to the IT Office in a surreal bubble. I was furious and still fighting to comprehend what had ensued. The ICT Manager was friendly (thank goodness), the orientation a breeze and the day was on track of getting better when my phone started ringing incessantly. For the next 20 minutes I swiped call button left until the caller showed up. Surprised by the sudden presence of the ‘Big Boss’, my other boss hurried forward like an eager weasel, bowing (and scraping?) to receive him. The man was treated like an apparition worthy of adoration.

I was relieved when he made a sign to leave but as fate would have it it he beckoned me to walk out with him. Bile rising in my throat I forced my legs that felt like stones to budge. “I was hoping we rendezvous later and come up with an arrangement” he said and like a bimbo I smiled and nodded. This man was clearly delusional and out of his mind. My first lunch break found me hailing a taxi back home. Later that night over dinner I told the folks in-matter-of-fact way that I and that job were incompatible. The look of disappointment of my father’s face had me blurting out the entire anecdote. It was not worth it to look like the failed & ungrateful child.

While I narrated the incident, my parents’ faces were devoid of emotion. Let’s just say after there was my Papa foaming at the mouth, making a late night phone call and hurling English-Runyankole profanities. My mother just hugged me and took me to bed. Sexually assaulted on the first day was certainly not how I had seen my day going.