It's about that time. Nairobi men are about to make the annual pilgrimage to the village.
They have been looking forward to it for some time now. This city has been shafting them relentlessly for months, but at least now they get to retire to the village for a three-week feeding program.
They have been ready for weeks. The shorts are washed and pressed. The pink polo shirts are crisp and perfumed. The sandals have been scrubbed and dried on the rooftop so they're taut enough to kanyaga brakes without too much effort. All that is left is a Maasai shuka, but that one can be bought somewhere along the scenic Rift, where he will pull the borrowed Vitz to the side of the road to also nibble on roasted maize.
Arriving in the village is still, remarkably, a cause for celebration. When the cucu compound is suddenly lit up by those Grogon road headlights. When the roar of an engine sends Simba the dog scurrying, a ripple of excitement passes through the kids. When shouts of "Anko! Anko!" float up in the air, a beaming 90-year-old shosh rises from her couch with a grin and a groan, and a clicking of her spinal cord to go greet her boy.
The trick is an old one; wageni wa Nairobi stops over at a supermarket on their way home and picks up a few things. Suga, ,milk and a big loaf of bread. A six pack of madiaba sodas. A few snacks for the small children. Kenya Cane for the old man. And then they roll into the compound, send the lastborn to fetch the shopping from the backseat, and stand there beaming proudly like missionaries who just brought religion to the primitives.
But that's the whole idea
No one will fete him back in Nairobi the way they do in Ikolomani. In his estate in Dagoretti, they know he is a proper hustler, a 'businessman' who is often late on rent and whose bins are usually filled with empty konyagi bottles. No one keeps track, but the scents wafting from his kitchen window tend to lean towards omena more than they do chicken. There are no slay queens ducking out of his house in the wee hours of the morning.
But in the sprawling kitongoji from whence he came, everyone knows him to be a success story. He is thriving in Nairobi, they say, pinching the little kids by the ear and telling them to be more like 'Uncle Peter'. His relatives are constantly pulling him aside to pitch business ideas or beseech him to host one of their offspring, just until they get a steady job. He is the one mothers point to when they say "Onyesha anko ile painting yako."
And so, when he does make that rare visit home, a poor rooster that was working on his New Year resolutions has to be slaughtered. The flour has to be kneaded. Milk has to be added to the tea, and the bread has to be lathered with BlueBand. Nothing but the best for mgeni wa Nairobi.
The tragedy is that village girls will fall for the performance. They will make strategic flyby maneuvers on the compound, timing the mgeni wa Nairobi when he goes to the shops to buy a cigarette. They will increase the buoyancy of their hips while walking on the side of the road, bat their eyelashes at him, and when he stops to chat, they will pat his emerging potbelly and jokingly comment that his woman must be taking very good care of him back in Nairobi.
The character development usually premieres in the last week of the year, or if the feeding schedule has been particularly inspired, the first week of January. When anko fills the backseat of his car with the kind of harvest Abel would have offered to God. After he squeezes a crumpled Sh1000 note into cucu's hands, hugs her, and promises to come back soon (he won't).
All that is left in his wake is a small crowd of thoroughly impressed children, an eerie silence that no longer feels normal, and in a hut somewhere, a weeping girl counting on her fingers how many days it's been since her period was supposed to show up.
Beware the mgeni wa Nairobi. He talks a good game, but that fella is struggling in Nairobi just like the rest of us.
