Is there anything wrong with greeting strangers on the street?

I keep wondering whether there is anything wrong with my face, my attitude or my general aura. Is it me or is it them? Or should we claim shared responsibility?

Here is the case at hand. You be the judge!

On my way to work, I spend more time walking than sitting in a vehicle which, for me, is an absolute delight (not to mention the reduced cost of transport as a result of my walking habits). My routine goes roughly along these lines: walk for 15 minutes to the bus stop, catch a minibus, drop off after about 5 minutes to reunite my feet with the street for another 10-minute walk down to the office.

It would appear that a number of people around my area have a similar routine to mine and they have become characters in my life. I see them day after day, walking along the same path going about their duties I know nothing of.

There is a Japanese-looking woman who was one of the first ‘morning walking people’ I noticed because of her funky African fusion fashion style. She invariably wears a serene look on her face. There are the various groups of two or three Americans who come and go every couple of months – volunteers I assume. Then there is the young woman who likes to plait her hair in tight cornrows and keeps her face flat like a weathered shell on the beach. Her legs take her to places far from where her mind actually is. I sometimes see her in the evening on the way home, still walking along the road in the opposite direction. I can only speculate about her life. Where does she spend her days? The way I see it, we trade places in day/night shifts in a well-rehearsed ballet where we are unwilling puppets.

There are many more protagonists to this story that I have incorporated into the flow of actions and emotions I call my routine. Whenever they fail to show up for several days at a time, I feel their absence. When they change hairstyles, I mentally comment. When I am amused by their mannerisms, I smile a whimsical smile at them. When I am falling apart, I hold on to them as a pearl to its oyster in a harmony inexplicable but existing all the same.

And when I am happy, I look into someone’s eyes and I greet them to share some of the energy I feel radiating all around me. I find it quite strange that most of the recipients of my hi/morning/sasa etc turn out to be impermeable to such energy. Many will just throw me a dull look and pass by without responding. Some will stare a puzzled stare. Much to my demise, even children have adopted this blank unfazed look that scrutinizes, unable to grab on to the human connection.

Is greeting a random somebody on the street considered an infringement on their personal space, I wonder? Why this coldness, this reluctance to share a second with a stranger, a second which costs nothing but a smile and whose existence is priceless?


Sunday scene

I have tied my hair in one long braid that rests on my right shoulder. It annoys me that some of the strands never quite fall in line, short curls framing my forehead, so I keep tugging at them. In my absent-mindedness, I only end up pulling out even more strands from the braid.

He is sleeping beside me with an air of abandon, his head weighing on my lap and his hand loosely holding my waist. I look down at his slightly parted lips resisting the urge to run my fingers from his eyebrows down his nose to his nascent beard and through his locks. It amuses me to imagine the contented groan and the half-smile he would probably throw at me before repositioning his head and tightening his grip on my waist.

As the story in my book and the texture of our love merge inside my head, the hours feel like a silk robe gently caressing my skin. Outside, the usual crying out over stalls and traffic remains precisely there, where it should be: outside.


Safari musings

It was more than just a safari, more than a plunge in pure wilderness: it was a fascinating odyssey of contemplation down to the heart of our humanness. Of course, there were moments of insane hilarity, of shared anecdotes and of simple joys but in the end, the four of us left southern Tanzania with a more profound kind of experience tied to our colourful luggage.

Ras Kutani, Selous, Ruaha. Bush planes, 4×4 vehicles, lanterns brightening up the night. Termite mounts, staring buffalos, turquoise waters tickling the horizon. I could spin a hundred tales and flick through thousands of mental pictures but nothing comes close to the magic of feeling the sun on your cheeks, the same sun that bathes the Amarula tree, the same sun the hyraxes are wallowing in.

During this trip, we also discovered what great story-tellers bush-dwellers make. Almost stripped of energy from the day’s activities, we would sit around a gorgeous dinner and be treated to fantastic tales of African adventures whose heroes were right beside us. No matter what they say, in my book a picture will never amount to a thousand words!

Now that we have returned to the big bustling city, we may not feel the pulse of the bush around us anymore but we can clothe our pictures in soulful words. And this is the stuff great trips are made of!


What does travelling mean to you?

When you think of travelling, what comes to your mind?

To me, travelling is all this and more:
- Taking a chance on the road
- Becoming a wandering soul
- Singing the symphony of nature in my heart
- Establishing connections with human beings
- Feeling free under the wide skies
- Entering an extraordinary dimension, where the laws of everyday routine are abolished

Salaam,
The Kancil about to take off!


Just another love story with a happy ending

I have been asked countless times to recount how it all started – I mean, M. and me, me and M., us. How did I – the sentimentally-challenged French girl – and him – the reserved Kenyan guy – meet and match? I would be tempted to reply: randomly, as all good real life stories begin. With hindsight, I had a feeling you wouldn’t quite be satisfied with a single word so here goes.

I was on the verge of tears when I hung up the phone on this conversation with a dear friend of mine. After about half an hour of random chit-chat interspersed by fits of laughter, the tone of his voice suddenly changed and this came around:

“Kancil, I have something to tell you. Big News.”
“Good or bad?” I ventured.
“Good and bad at the same time. I haven’t told anyone yet. I’m not sure how you are going to take it.”
“Please, spare me the suspense. It’s already become unbearable. What is it?”
“Alright. There: I am…leaving town. I got a job in Dubai.”
I clang on to my phone like a plane crash survivor to his useless oxygen mask.
“You are what? I mean, when?”
“Hum. Next Friday…” His voice was almost reduced to a whisper. I could hardly believe what was happening.
“Oh. Ow. I don’t know what to say, apart from: please tell me you don’t mean this Friday, as in, three days from now.”
“I’m afraid that’s what I mean. Look, I am having a farewell party of sorts with the usual crew on Thursday night so why don’t you join us for tea?”
The first thought that crossed my mind was that I was going to collapse on the very spot. Well, I didn’t. I merely replied in a hurry: “Ok, you can count me in. I am going to hang up now.”
“Are you ok? I know it’s a bit sudden but I am in no position to negotiate the terms and …”
“Please let me hang up. I’ll see you on Thursday.”
“Kancil…” That’s the moment I chose to press the red button on my phone so he wouldn’t have to hear the first sob.

That Thursday evening, I happened to be the first guest to show up … and out of breath on top of that. This obsession of mine with keeping time had played yet another trick on me. Because I thought I was late, I had run all the way down from campus and climbed the three flights of stairs under the bewildered eyes of a couple of security guards. Let me not wonder any longer how come people I have briefly come across usually remember me while I have not the faintest idea who they are.

The lively mood of the troops cheered me up a bit, although I was dreading the moment we would have to part ways. As it were, a latecomer I didn’t know decided to take the seat next to mine and strike a conversation. I was far from imagining he would be the one to save me from a night on the streets. This would not be the first nor the last of my misadventures with matatus but that is another story altogether. That night, we stayed out late chatting and the matatus to my neighbourhood were out of service. Quite to my demise, I had only spared enough money for my fare and none of the remaining pals were able to put me up for the night. That’s when M. stepped out in the most gentlemanly manner to offer to hire a taxi and accompany me up to my place. I insisted on paying him back and we exchanged numbers.

Money owed got transformed into my buying him coffee a couple of weeks later. I was wondering what this was all about –the car rally “date” (?) the week before, now an evening coffee meet-up – but I am always up for coffee anyway. So I am here waiting up on M. feeling jazzed for some reason or another. Probably the smell of coffee and that cafe atmosphere bringing back to mind so many other places long left behind. I’ve had time to pry into my neighbour’s newspaper, dislike the design of the wall paper and steal a glance at passers-by without a sign of him.

He’s here. His presence is all around, reaching over from the other side of the table. He tells me tales of his, I drown. My images are no longer of friends gathering in European cafes, they are of somebody’s leap into my half-table. This M. guy just made the invisible divide line blur. We chat the evening away. At times, eyes are locked and there’s a million things said and unsaid. They come in, they come out. The TV screen on the wall goes back to its natural black silence.

The dark has crept upon us in layers. An army of waiters buzz around the interface to finally pop the bubble. We are mopped out on the streets of Nairobi at nine something in the evening. It was good while it lasted!


The loose linen pants

The other day, I was hanging out with a friend of mine who might well be more talkative than I am. For those of you who have had the honour to meet me in person, it must sound odd and unlikely but I hold on to my version of the story. And that’s not the point anyway! Now, listen.

So this talkative friend of mine tells me about her recent shopping spree at Toy Market. The friend is wondering whether I would want a pair of pants she’s bought because she can’t fit in them and she apparently thinks that the next size down from hers in mine. Ahem, I did not want to put her down but, really? Really? So she keeps on talking and, as it were, the story suddenly catches my attention. We’re talking loose linen pants, the kind that travellers who have landed straight from their year-long spiritual journey in India wear, thinking Africa’s got to be hot. It’s been a secret dream of mine to own such a pair of pants but I have this deep inhibition that keeps me from anything that might make me remotely look like a tourist. This was my chance! I took it gladly, feeling like a little girl who’s been given a fluffy princess dress and is allowed to run down the hill and roll in the grass with it. That’s another dream of mine but never mind.

What I had not anticipated is the fact that the trousers are attached with a couple of strings and nothing else holds them fast onto the waist. First of all, it took me some time and a few contortions last night to figure out how to tie them up properly. Secondly, HOW ON EARTH AM I SUPPOSED TO FEEL RELAXED KNOWING THAT THE STRING MIGHT GET LOOSE AND MY PANTS MAY FALL OFF WHILE I’M OUT THERE?

I am absolutely not being paranoid. The first incident of the kind I’ve been given to witness is a Latin teacher in secondary school who had a misadventure with her wrap skirt during a lesson and could not contain the class for the rest of the term. The second incident is…a lot more personal. It is the now world-famous episode of my bottoms being exposed in the middle of the street on my second day in Malaysia. It could easily be one of the most embarrassing moments in my life. Heedless of my former Latin teacher’s experience, I was wearing a wrap skirt. During the bus ride I tried to readjust the skirt because it seemed like it was sliding. I stood up to get down at my bus stop, still holding my skirt, but at some point I had to choose between ending up on all fours or letting go of the skirt to hold the ramp. No sooner had I stepped on the street that a whiff of wind finished it off! Fortunately enough, it was already nightfall and there were not many people on the street so I could hide my mortification quite successfully. That’s what I like to tell myself at least. I was so fidgety it must have taken me a good couple of minutes to rearrange my attire. On that day, I discarded the incriminated skirt and swore never to wear a wrap again.

And here I am today, wearing the new hand-me-down linen pants! Yeah, I’m adventurous like that.


friend turned foe turned friend

This is to a friend with whom I have shared good and bad moments, cried a million tears over love and gone crazy imitating ducks in museums. She has seen me grow up and become the goofy girl bordering on zany I am today. She knows me so well that we can laugh out loud unannounced and use telepathy to communicate, no less.

Well, at least I thought so until a few months back. See, I have been away from ‘home’ – as they call this place where I was born and raised – for a few years now and occasions to meet up have been rare. We catch up now and then but it’s mostly just that: catching – up, reaching out for something elusive up there above our heads. I feel that I am constantly trying to keep up and it just doesn’t seem to be working out as well as I would want it to. So we’ve been drifting apart, slowly but surely.

Last year, when I told her I was going to get married, she took up arms against me, him and the whole institution at once. Admittedly, that’s a lot to achieve for a girl on her own thousands of miles away. I chose to not bear a grudge because it was not going to make anybody feel any better. I just spaced my updates, occulted news of the husband elect and we ended up gradually losing touch with each other.

I did not find the heart to tell her I had become a Muslim. Maybe I should have, maybe not. She found out by herself browsing through my pictures on Facebook. Needless to say she did not like it one bit. So the ice kept growing thicker between us. When she broke the heavy silence, she launched her rockets on me in such a hurtful way that I almost staggered while I was reading those lines.

It blew me to pieces to know that she had no intention of trying to understand the spiritual journey I had been going through. All of a sudden I had become estranged to her. She felt betrayed and hurt. She had no idea how much I had kept from her of course. Some things are hard enough to confess face to face, let alone on the phone. Some things are even hard to utter to oneself in the dark. I can’t blame her for not being a psychic, really.

I did not have the strength to argue my point any further. I just left it at that. That rejection, that hostility, that hurt. I prayed and prayed that God softens her heart so that we may be together like soul sisters again. Last Friday, she caught up with me online and we had one of our usual witty, off-the-hook conversations! It was like nothing ever happened.
Now I am left wondering…was it all just a bad dream?


Erasing the sleep

I like the feeling of erasing the sleep from my eyes. When I take leave of a couple of friends with whom I have shared a few words meaning stories, meaning advice, meaning love. We also spent a night that was too short in a penthouse where mosquitoes had decided to take lodging and suck blood. You can’t really blame the mosquitoes: that’s what they do. So we were all tossing and turning, some of us pulling the blanket over our sleepy heads, which wasn’t of much use to evade the buzz.
We woke up with our hair growing patterns on the pillow, still rubbed with sleep all over our faces. An aborted Scrabble game was left behind in the house, the unfinished business of a Sunday morning.


The Kancil is BACK

I haven’t posted here for over a year and it’s a pity. Or so thinks my good old friend Mo. Giving in to peer pressure really is not my style so I took my own sweet time! Well, it seems that I AM eventually giving in, heedless of good and bad New Year’s resolutions.

Today’s post is about how much my life has changed in 2010. I’ll keep it factual and to the point, so as to try and avoid losing half of my already scattered audience with my usual blablabla.

So here is what happened in 2010:
• I became a broke student again and being a post-graduate did not change much to the matter of being totally and utterly broke.
• I achieved one of my dreams, which is to work as a freelance translator! *crazy enthusiastic applause from the audience*
• I got married to a beautiful human being of the male kind who extends the realm of my dreams. As I was confessing during a ‘truth or dare’ game on Saturday, he’s my island of stability. Sigh, am I getting romantic?
• I recently landed a job which I absolutely love. It still causes funny looks: not the same type as the maths teacher job though. It’s more the ‘What on earth did she say she does?’ type!

More another day. Let’s hope I keep up the writing flame this time.

Salaam to you all!

The Kancil


bedtime poetry

It’s getting out of hand, there’s this that and the Other
The other’s always bigger a menace
That’s why its o is growing a face
Into a monstruous cave you can carve with your fingernails
Out of the Other
Out there it’s a lake of calm electrical cables
Laid out grinding the skies
Greek greek ropes in the slack
They slap your back
’til you turn ’round
And kiss off the track.


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