Why Nairobians hate carpets and toilets

In days gone by, I used to duck into an establishment called ‘The Legends Club’ in Ongata Rongai for, uh, cold beverages on the rare occasion when funds were available.

One fine evening, I joined a senior gentleman at the counter. You know those old men with a distinguished air who always have a minimum of Sh10,000 tucked away in case of an emergency and whose kids are prayerful, well-educated and properly married? That one.

So while we were whiling away the evening, each person lost in his own thoughts, a brash young man strode over and pulled up a vacant stool. Without paying due respect to elders by saying hello, he plonked his butt, which was covered in a wildly coloured boxer (I know because his pair of jeans was tethered around the region of his knees), on the stool, his jaws working rhythmically on a thick word of miraa.

Mr distinguished gentleman regarded him from the corner of his eye in the manner bank tellers used to sneer at me when I was a humbled school teacher checking my bank balance with an empty kerosene jerrican in my hand. But the worst was to come.

The young man twisted the cap on his head, examined us like we were something the cat had dragged home, and then lifted his feet, which were clad in boots definitely more costly than his house rent, and planted them on the counter.

The old man went bananas. “How dare you place your filthy feet upon the very counter on which my drink rests? Who is your mother?” he thundered.

But the young fool, instead of getting chastised, stood, biceps bulging menacingly, swore filthily and practically challenged the old man to a fist fight. The old warrior, to my utter shock, did not back down.

He stood up too, eyes blazing with fire, like a headmaster who has been challenged by a bed-wetting Form Two student. My evening appeared ruined. It was obvious I would be compelled to intervene, something I deeply loath, seeing as male fists fly way faster than the speed of my one good eye.

Fortunately for all parties concerned, a barmaid of Meru origin walked up to the counter, apologised profusely and assured the old man that she would personally deal with the matter. I assumed she would call the bouncer.

Shock on me! The barmaid, in a remarkable display of how far women have progressed, grabbed the young idiot by the scruff of the neck and gave him a vicious head-butt that sent him reeling to the ground. Then reaching for his belt, she jerked him to his feet with practiced ease, resolutely frog marched him to the door and flung him off the premises. Amandla!

Nuisance

I recalled this saga while stuck in a traffic jam last week. Some drivers, their faces hooded in a thick mask of idiocy, were doing that shenzi thing called overlapping, sending bowls of dust all over the place and making an utter nuisance of themselves.

They didn’t annoy me though. I have come to understand Nairobi’s crazy drivers. When we were growing up in the village, the only way to ‘overtake’ two old men chatting on a footpath while cycling to the market was to ‘overlap’ by stepping onto the grass. It is, therefore, ridiculous to expect us to observe traffic rules.

Nairobi remains a mystical jungle for us. From crapping in bushes, with leaves for toilet ‘tissue’, now we are compelled to lock ourselves in rooms and take straight aim. From peeing on hedges and kitchen walls, Nairobi demands that we use urinals.

That is why every washroom in town has signs like “use the toilet properly.” “Wash your hands after using the toilet.” “Do not use toilet tissue to wipe your shoes.” Just like we can’t drive straight in this urban jungle, we do our ablutions the way our forefathers squatted in the bushes.

Speaking of forefathers, you might not be aware that in the days of the ‘airlifts’, when the likes of Obama Senior were flying overseas for further studies, there was an officer who was detailed to train them on how to adapt to a foreign culture.

One key message he kept repeating, I am told, was “Don’t wear the same pair of socks for more than week” or something to that effect. By the time that topic was introduced in the syllabus, those chaps must have teargassed wazungu seriously with their smelly feet, probably as a contribution to the Mau Mau effort!

Oops...this story was about carpets and Africans. Look, this continent is too dusty and muddy, our feet too sweaty, our socks torn and not perfumed. You get the drift?