Street boys also called chokoras are good people, but, after sniffing glue they are insane. Infact, I think that chokora’s can be classified into two; Glue sniffing chokoras and legit homeless chokoras.

Legit homeless chokoras carry big sacks and walk around collecting plastic cans to sell for a few shillings, they also run petty errands like taking out trash for some rich folks. Every once in a while, life confuses them and they do something stupid like steal some shoes from some door step and they get lynched for that.

Glue sniffing chokoras are the bad breed! We should be ashamed of ourselves for lynching the hardworking kind. Because of our actions, the number of the glue sniffing chokoras has increased and the decent ones has gone down. Glue must also be the worst drug out there! I say, glue is more dangerous than cocaine, more dangerous than heroine and marijuana and all the others. Infact, the only drug at par with glue or maybe close to glue is a cigarette. But that’s discussion for another day… Back to the glue sniffing chokoras…

Glue sniffing chokoras are the kind that would sneak up on you from behind with a pile of shit on one hand and a bottle of glue on the other. They then try extorting money from you threatening to throw the pile of poop on you should you attempt anything stupid. A typical chokora hold up would go down like this..

Chokora: Niajeeeeee budaaaaaaa  retaaaa doh yooooote ama ukureeeeee ii maviiiii reoooo  HAIYAEEEEEEE! (No commas or fullstop)

the Buda: What is this madness?

Chokora: HAIYAEEEEEE….. weeee unacheza na mimiiiiiiiii? hujui mi ukura mavi arafu nacelebrate!

At this point the buda pays up or else he ends up walking home since no matatu would allow him in smelling like shit! Chokora’s shit at that! But, not all chokoras are bad, not at all. While growing up, most of my friends were chokoras. They taught me things I couldn’t learn from ordinary raia. e.g kudandia lorry za mchanga. But, that’s not hard, it’s not even a cool thing. Nowadays, even rich folks kids can alight from a matatu without breaking a sweat. But, only chokoras can do a “tap-tap” hanging behind a lorry on Thika rd. And me of course . Anyone else try that. You’re dead!

Disclaimer: I won’t translate any of this words, if you didn’t understand some or most of them, it would take ages for you to get the fun out of them.

My Mum (mathe) is an exceptional person. Born during hard times, her age is undefined with the digits on her national ID representing numbers guessed up to fill blank spaces on an application form. She should be at least 50years though. I guess.. Her education is …. I won’t talk about that. It’s not important. What’s notable is her courage to apply for a job as a treasurer at NHIF with only a “I am a born again christian” certificate as her killer qualification.

My mum has always been a dreamer. Despite having very few things to inspire her, she has always dreamt of a great life both for her and her children. On this occasion, she kind of went a bit overboard! But, being her son, I had no alternative but to support her.

She invited me for breakfast on a Saturday morning on phone and requested me to bring my laptop with me. I was curious of her intentions since she had repeatedly lectured me on carrying “that thing” around without the receipt to show that it’s legally mine. She was also paranoid of thieves storming into her house because of my laptop bag. I had continuously laughed it off and joked that crooks couldn’t possibly know what hp meant whether on a bag or staring them in the eye. She didn’t understand what hp meant either so it was least amusing.

I went over as requested and after breakfast I asked her why she had asked for the laptop. She explained that there was a rumour around her “chama” that there was a vacant seat for a treasurer at the NHIF. She also explained to me that she felt deep inside that this job was meant for her. “NHIF, like the government thing?” I asked. “The God I serve doesn’t respect building sizes, nothing is impossible to him.” She said. I was silent for a moment. I remembered how she had tried getting a visa to the US a few years back, and how destroyed she was when it was denied. I didn’t want to discourage her, but, at the same time I understood how hard it was to walk into a government job, especially through the front door. I smiled and said “Amen.” “But mum, why the laptop?” I asked. She explained to me that the basic requirements were: age above 30 yrs, speaks English and basic computer skills. She needed me to give her a crash course on “THE COMPUTER.”

“This is the power button, when you press that once, the machine is activated.” She nodded in seriousness. My machine was low on RAM so it dragged before connecting to the hard disk. I thought I should explain (or at least try to) this to her. So I said “My machine is a bit slow but it will load in a few minutes” She responded by saying “It’s ok It’s ok. Am also new to this so the slower the better” I looked at her and lost all my hope. I was just about to correct her on that theory when she stood up and walked out of the room. She returned minutes later with a notebook and a pen. She didn’t even look me in the eye, she focused on the screen. She really wanted that job I guess..

After about an hour. I decided to call it a day. I shut down my laptop and looked at her reading her notes. I asked her for the book, I was just curious to see what she had written down. She handed it to me. What I saw almost made me stagger. All her notes were in Kikuyu language. Our native language… I asked her to repeat the basic requirements again. I made her stop at the “speaks English” part and asked her if she could speak any English. She laughed and in English responded by saying. “but of course, I am speak English” That did not hit me as funny! I asked her to be a bit serious and powered my laptop again, downloaded byki express English tutorials online and made her study that for another 2hrs.

The following day was the big interview day. I went over to wish her luck. She met me at the door and handed me her CV to proof read. You know, in case I doubted her English skills… The CV was pretty ok, no fabrications and the photocopy of a recommendation letter from the Pastor was pinned behind it. While reading the CV however, I noted that the 3 referees listed were Me, my dad and my brother-in-law. I looked at her and decided to let that one slide. See, I knew that only a miracle would get her this job. Unless her competition was papa shirandula and jalas of course . I walked out with her and we boarded a matatu to town. On the matatu, I asked her to pretend that I was the interviewer. I greeted her “Good morning madam, how are you?” She looked at me and laughed serious. I laughed too but then stressed how important this exercise was. I asked her again, “Good morning madam, how are you today?” “Fine am thank you” she said. I could only wish her luck from there. All else was beyond me.

photo by: Debashis Mukherjee

Growing up, we didn’t have swimming pools. But, we were swimmers nevertheless. Seasonal ones. We only went swimming during the rainy seasons when heavy downfalls filled various holes with water.

Problem is, the holes weren’t big enough to accommodate all the Jason Dunford’s in the making. A hole with a radius of 5 meters served around thirty 10 year old swimmers. Meaning the thirty buttocks rubbed against each other the whole time. Something very very uncomfortable even at that age. The holes were pretty shallow so drowning wasn’t a concern. In fact, the activity wasn’t precarious in any way. The only fuss we had was dealing with big “chokoras” [street children]who would steal our clothes while we were busy at our butterfly’s and back strokes . Speaking of this reminds me of a particular incident…

One bright and sunny day, after days of scouting and following leads, my friends and I descended on a precious hole at Mile Saba just a few kilometers off Dandora estate. “The hole was fully filled with water, a complete paradise”. This were the stories we’d heard from other swimmers who had recently returned from Mile Saba. After “Kudandia Lorry za Mchanga” [hanging on sand trucks]and few kilometers of walk, we finally arrived at the hole. And Alas! For once, rumors were indeed true. The hole stretched far and was fully filled with dirty brown water. A complete beauty. This was the most beautiful hole we had seen in our lives. In fact, the hole was so graceful that it would compete with any of those pools fenced in private schools. We stripped naked and dived into the “pool” in hearty screams. But, even before we could settle in the water. Our worst nightmare emerged. OCHIENG KAKONO.

Ochieng Kakono was the biggest and ugliest chokora in Dandora. We called him “kakono” since his right “mkono” or hand in English, was feeble, thin and paralyzed, but he could still swing the “kakono” and throw a stone with pin-point accuracy a few meters out, thus hitting his target. He was BAD NEWS! His face looked like he had just smelt shit for 2 hours non-stop. He never smiled. He was the street Makmende.

Ochieng walked over to where we had left our pile of clothes, picked them up like he was on a shopping spree! Put them in his sack. And left! Just like that! None of us threatened to even mumble a word. We knew that if we did, he would toss broken bottles into the water thus ruining our new found pool. Something he had done time and again! Only thing he left behind our Vaseline petroleum jelly. So, we slowly exited the pool. Made sure he was completely gone, and then had an emergency meeting where we discussed on how to head home naked. We agreed to swim for the rest of the afternoon and then dash back home after the sun had gone down. And we did exactly that! For some hours, we forgot our problems, enjoyed the water, and then at around 6:30p.m, 30 naked boys, shinny of excess Vaseline jelly, cut across Mile Saba, Dunia Market and back to Dandora phase 1, much to the surprise of curious on lookers.

We went ahead to conquer many other pools in the future.

Disclaimer: There is no English translation for Dufo Mpararo. Sorry.