May, Men and Men-tal Health (2018, 2019, 2020)

2018, 2019, 2020... that’s how we remember that period in our lives; 2018, 2019, 2020. It’s Jay, it’s Dusit and it’s Covid. Jay is my brother. DusitD2  is a hotel and Covid we all know.

Let’s start at the beginning, or perhaps with the after. It’s a working Tuesday. I uncover the blue duvet, I lift my head from the pillow. We are at 14 Riverside, at the parking lot, at the back of the car.

That though crosses my mind. In my head I ask, ‘Do I really have to do this?’ I do!  Mechanically, I put my shoes on. I go down to the washroom and I brush my teeth.

I pick up a  suit from the laundry and I dress up. Then I go to the grind. It’s calls, it’s emails it's meetings and it’s all smiles. If I remember, I might just grab some food. Soon, the day is gone. It’s 8.00 pm or 9.00 pm already!

Where did the day go? At least it was numbing, I think.  With the grind behind me, it’s a WhiteCap beer at the Secret Garden, thoughts in my head, hope in my heart and silence all round. The Expressways is under construction and I just don't have the energy.

At some point, I will find my way up and find comfort in that blue duvet and comforting pillow. I hit the sack and forget everything. I forget work, I forget Jay, I forget everything. Then repeat.

Now I know it was depression. At that time, I called it coping. If you may, allow me to take you back to the beginning and how it all started. We won’t go way back, It’s a story of loss. love and redemption.

Where were you? Everyone asks me that question whenever I tell them that I worked at DusitD2. I’ll come to that at some point. But first, allow me to tell you about my brother, Jay.

Mwita Maroa Sawi Maroa. That’s the name of the first born in the Sawi clan. Born in 1975 and died in 2018. I hate that word ‘died’ but I have come to accept it, somewhat. We called him Jay Jay. That was his nickname at the tail end of his life. At some point he called himself Ronny. He thought it was cool.

He also though it was cool to listen to UB40. He played this on repeat at our home in Malakisi, in Western Kenya. At that time, dad worked for B.A.T, the British American Tobacco company. I think this is a very corny name by the way but I will let it go.

So back to the name Jay. We all know about Michael Jackson, born Michael Joe Jackson. I am a big fan, will always be. So is my brother. At some point in his life Mwita and my cousin Mwasi lived for the music. The did the moonwalk., they breakdanced and did the whole shabang.

Jay had a comfortable upbringing.  Earlier in his life, living as an only child in the countryside, one would imagine that my brother was doted upon. He was! I still remember his haughty tales of boyish adventure; what with the swimming, jelly and custard and the mischief they would get into in the hallowed halls of Kitale Academy.

Later as a teenager, we would watch as our now older brother dabbled in teenage mischief; his first beer; a joint I think and later a smattering of girlfriends. A few years later, we would proceed to boarding school.  He would go on to college where he would have the time of his life and perhaps demonstrate his most rebellious streak, yet.

At the cusp of the new millennium, now a young man, Jay would move to the big city. He loved life in Nairobi, the energy and more so the allure and promise that it had on a young person setting off on the path of life.

Years later, he would somehow find a place in New Hope Church. Then after years of nudging by parents and perhaps at their wits end, he would surprise them by settling down and tying the knot at the local Catholic church.

Beyond the rather normal path to adulthood though, our brother was anything but normal. Jay was born with sickle cell anemia. It’s  a condition that he had lived with and coped with his whole life.

I remember him telling  me once that upon diagnosis as a child, doctors did not give him a chance of living beyond five, six or even seven years old.

I didn’t talk to him much about his condition. The fact that he lived a full life despite immense pain and incapacitation sometimes, was just improbable.  

Now more than ever, I’d imagine just how much darker the cloud of uncertainty must have been;  always hoovering over his head. Him not knowing if the current crises or the hospitalization would be his last.

Jay was a jolly good fellow you see, with a good heart. He could be serious sometimes but mostly, especially when he was younger, he would immerse in conversation and just let his mind wonder. 

Then, one day in March of 2018, after fighting for his life, Jay made his final curtain call. We all gathered by his bedside, said a prayer before the plug was pulled of the life support machine. That was the saddest day in our lives. It was surreal.

After 42 years, and against all odds, it had all come to a crumbling end. And just before Easter, in the quaint and dusty land of our people, and in the company of hist two beautiful little children, we laid Jay Jay to rest. Here is an ode to my brother. 

Let’s flip the page, and let’s fast forward to 2019. A new Year and a New Beginning. Out with the old and in with the new. Streaks of light were finally showing through the clouds. We weren’t okay but one thing that we knew for sure was that we would be fine.

For this part of the story, it is important for me to say from the onset that the views expressed here are purely my own. They do not represent any other entity or organization.

January 15^th, 2019. As far as I remember, other  than the sweltering heat, that Tuesday  was unremarkable. It had begun with the daily brief. I might have had a cup of coffee. Or maybe not. We had a scheduled meeting somewhere on Riverside Drive. In the past year, the client - a public service broadcaster - had opened the largest bureau office outside of the UK, in Nairobi.

With the opening of the bureau office, we had witnessed an upsurge in business. We were on charm offensive. Being able to keep this particular client happy was most certainly a top priority.

I remember leaving that particular meeting thinking that it had gone well. It  could have been better, though. But we had time. After all, it was still very early in the year.

We had a second meeting that day, still on Riverside Drive. This particular meeting was with one of our longstanding partners.  I went in, said my pleasantries had a little chit chat. I was in and out in less than 10 minutes.

The second week of January is typically a slow one in Nairobi. Perhaps experiencing holiday blues, it is at around this time that the corporate scene begins to stir. And on this day, I had time to grab a quick lunch at the cafeteria.

My vehicle insurance sticker was also due, that day. With a little time to spare, I dashed out of the 14 Riverside Complex where I worked. We drove down to Resolution Health Insurance, down the road on Waiyaki Way. I picked the sticker and was soon on my way back.

I must have driven past the 14 Riverside gate less than three minutes before that first blast. Driving through the gates, all I remember thinking was just how hot and how calm that day was. It was probably a solid 27 degrees.

Those pearly gates will be Oh so beautiful. We miss you!

When I first had that loud bang, I was at the parking area, just behind an office block at the far end of the business complex. I was preparing to get out the car, holding my suit jacket, my phone and my phone charger.

My first though was that a building had probably crumbled further down the road. Or maybe an accident. Or maybe not. Then there was pin drop silence. Then I heard it, praaatt, pra papa papa , rapapa. Pa, pa, pa!

I rarely revisit this post because of the memories it evokes. Then 2020 happened and with it the advent of Covid. The hotel I worked closed shop. For the first time in my adult life, I didn't have a job or a medical cover! During a routine check, my daughter was diagnosed with a heart condition. Any infection could be fatal.

Story for another day....

Witness 254; Dr. Geoffrey William Griffin

So, a story is told. Way before he got a state commendation from President Moi, there was Geoffrey William Griffin. He was at the helm of the National Youth Service, what you currently know as NYS. He did a good job, there. 

I don't remember the history really well but while he was of British origin, his father settled in Eldoret.

He had one brother. The brother died in a boating accident. He was electrocuted in the boat.

Dr. Griffin went to Nairobi School, I think. So, at the time, if you were a prefect, you had certain privileges. Privileges included smoking cigarettes. Not the other potent stuff that you partake. He struggled with smoking for a while but eventually, he quit.

Somehow though, the effects of smoking kinda cought up with him. In his sixties, he got cancer.

There was that moment when he had to undergo surgery. They hived off his nose and we figured that he was cancer-free.

He went on to live a full life, though. He would regal us with stories. Stories of hunting. Stories of Manyani Prison and Mombasa Camp. There was also a story about his encounter with Mzee Jomo Kenyatta whom he described as a stern man.

So, at some point, at the 40th Anniversary, I got to meet  another president - President Kibaki, thanks to Dr. Griffin. 

To another unrelated story, he didn't say it overtly but there was also a story about being betrothed to this lass. Then Njonjo, the 'Duke of Kabeteshire' 'sliced' him, they say. Dr. Griffin didn't marry, ever.

With that said, I have never seen a man as dedicated as Dr. Griffin. He gave his life to a cause. He transformed lives. He dedicated his life to helping poor boys. This is a man like no other. He was humble and dedicated.

Dr. Griffin is buried in the chapel, at a school, somewhere on General Waruinge Street. From two huts, this man has transformed a lot of lives. He could also give 'Naughty Boys' six of the best!

This is a story for another day. There will never be another Dr. Geoffrey William Griffin. We owe a debt of gratitude to this Kenyan son!

A good man! 

Sayonara!

E-Sir, K-rupt, Nyashinski and the Swahili Nation

Issah Mmari Wangui and Carlton Williams Juma Bongo, we miss you. You died young. We wonder what could have been. So E-Sir was on his way from Nakuru with David Mathenge when they had an accident. Nameless made it, but his friend didn't. K-Rupt was on his way for a show in Nyahururu. His mat was hijacked. He resisted and he was shot. Gone, just like that.

I love music because just like scents, it takes you to a certain place. So, I listen to Saree, Boomba Train and  Tukawake with nostalgia. It takes me to a certain place. Then fast-forward to the here and now. Nyamari Ongegu, the coolest Kisii on earth. There is none like him and there never will.

Nyashinski was big. My apologies, still is! I remember listening to Haree way back in high school when we had the Kleptomaniax. Then Nyash went to the US and became a truck driver. Collins Majale got saved and Robert Manyasa just dropped from the face of the earth.

So if there was ever a Mount Rushmore here, Issah Mmari would be on it. So would Juma Bongo and Nyashinski. Daudi Kabaka and maybe the Swahili Nation, too. Speaking of Swahili Nation, remember the song. For the prelude, cricket sounds and then the that beautiful hum that I know;

 Eeh, mpeeeenzi, we nakupenda sana. Then the beautiful, beautiful hum

Ahuum, ahuu,  mpenzi nakuenda. Mpenzi nakupenda. Mpenzi nakutaka

Eeee mpennzi wangu, nakupenda sana. Eeeeh mpenzi wangu, nakutaka

    ......

Natuka tuelewana, tuwache kugombana, tabia yangu na yako, yasikilizana

This is why we love music. This is why we love sports. It is a reflection of life. As imperfect as life is, it is just perfect enough.

 

Witness 254; Legends and Kenyan Greats

 Years ago when I was a little kid, my father huddled us up in his Peugeot 504 and drove us from Meru to Timau, a town close to Mt. Kenya.

We parked somewhere by the roadside. There were a number of vehicles parked there with a bunch of spectators. To get a better view, my dad perched us on top of the car.

Then, as this one car approached our position, we sang in unison, 'Let's Go, Let's Go, Patrick Njiru!' Patrick was a Kenyan great. He was, I think and for lack of a better word, the first 'indigenous' rally driver.

There had been other amazing Kenyan rally drivers before him lakini huyu alikuwa wetu. There was the legendary Sheker Mehta. There was also Joginder Singh, 'The Flying Sikh' who had his hair uncut with a long beard to match. 

Years later, my late brother had the opportunity to ride in Patrick Njiru's Subaru Legacy, branded with the legendary '555'. That was at the Bungoma showground during the annual show. 

Somewhere, there is a picture of Jay wearing a helmet and beaming widely. Next to him is Njiru, wearing a helmet and a wide smile.

Years later, for some reason, Kenya was excluded from the World Rally Championship circuit. For some of us, it felt like a part of our childhood had been stolen, even stilled. 

So, a few years ago when Kenya was once again included in the WRC series, there was a lot of reasons to celebrate. This time round, with a crop of new kids revving it up.

So just last week when I met Linet Ayuko and Pauline Shegu as they prepared to race in this year's Safari Rally, I was so happy and proud.

Meeting them, my sister put it into perspective when she said, 'there will be a lot of little girls who look at you and say, we can do it too!' You make us proud.

The legacy lives on!

Witness 254; Shujaas in Singapore

There are those events that take place and you will always remember exactly where you were when they took place. I remember where I was when I first watched the attack on the US Embassy in Nairobi.

I remember where I was when Mother Teresa died, when Diana died, when MJ died, when Kobe died and even when Obama first won the presidency. I remember where I was when Kipchoge ran under 2 hours. 

I remember where I was when the Shujaas wreaked havoc in Singapore! For anyone that follows Kenyan rugby, this was indeed a special moment. 

Since the onset, Kenya has always been one of the core teams in the Sevens circuit. However, I only got to know about it somewhere around 2013.

Before that though, I had had the opportunity to meet Lavin Asego, the legendary rugby player. We met at Alliance Francaise in Nairobi and every so often, he would be away from class because he was on tour with the boys.

So somehow, I got introduced to the game and then I fell in love with it because Kenya was playing. Then over time, as I got to understand the intricacies of it, I fell in love with the game.

With the Shujaaas, it was always hot and cold. We had had our moments but never quite. Then, depending on where the teams were playing, we also had to contend with the time difference.

There are days we would stay up late just to watch the boys lose. Then there are days where we would be up at 2.00 am to watch them winning by a whisker. You never knew how it would go.

The circuit is such that teams play in different cities. These were all iconic destinations;  LA, Dubai, Cape Town,  Hong Kong and Perth, I think. Then there was Singapore!

We had had our moments. We had seen Ambaka breaking defences. We had seen Amonde ploughing through men. We had even seen Injera becoming the highest try scorer of all time. But we had never won the cup, until Singapore.

When we finally did on that Sunday, the boys had not come to play. We had beaten Los Pumas in the semis. Then we pounded the flying Fijians in the finals. When we won, that moment felt really good. 

I remember cheering the boys that day, somewhere on Kiambu Road. With me was Jam, Angie and a couple of friends. I pounded the table so hard that the glass on my wristwatch broke. 

So in February 2026, when SVNS came to Nairobi, it felt good. Being able to host 'Kenya Corner' at home felt really good. We were there, cheering on at the stadium, when Shujaas did us proud again! 

Witness 254; Of Sports and Life - 'No Man is Limited'

If there was ever an analogy of life, that would be sports. Let me tell you a story. It's November 2016 and I am visiting with my best friend. I am at his house and we are seated in the lounge. Our eyes are glued to the screen.

On the screen is Eliud Kipchoge. We also have a couple of elite Ethiopian runners, including Zersenay Tadese. On this cold morning, in Italy, Eliud is attempting to do what no man has done before him; breaking the 2-hour barrier in a marathon.

Kipchoge is a Kenyan great. He is the defending Olympic champion. He just won the marathon at Rio.  Zersenay is the half marathon record holder. Between the two of them, they will test their limits and with it, human endurance.

Cometh the moment, cometh the men. Off the blocks they went. The conditions are perfect, but the pace is fast and gruelling. Our eyes are glued to the screen. We are rooting for our man. Just before the half mark, Tadese falls off the pace.

Kipchoge is on pace, through the 25-kilometre mark at 1:11:03. Will he make it? His stride is strong and he has resolve in his eyes. At the 30-kilometre mark, he is only a second off pace. Will he make it? We wonder.

Although he came so close, Eliud didn't make it that day. He fell 25 seconds short. We were proud of him. Looking at him though at the end, you got a sense of disappointment. Yet, one can argue, there shouldn't have been any at all. After all, he had attempted the impossible.

Three years later, he would take part in the Ineos 1:59 challenge, another attempt to break the two-hour mark. This second attempt was successful. Kipchoge finished in 1:59:40. He had done what no man had done before him, and since.  

This is why we love sports. This is why we love life. This is why we cheer on. It's as much about the near wins as it is about the wins and the losses. It's about cheering for those that attempt the impossible. We cheer on when we succeed and even when we fall short. 

C'est la vie! Such is life!

Witness 254, Moments in History; Shujaas in Singapore

 

​Moments in History; Shujaas in Singapore

Singapore, April 17th, 2016

It is Sunday, 17^th April. It is just past 5.00 pm in Singapore, 12.00 noon in Nairobi and 9.00 pm in Suva, Fiji. I'm in a restaurant with a number of friends, somewhere on Kiambu Road. We are glued to the screen. It is the second half of the IRB Sevens semi final. Kenya is playing Argentina. A minute in, Agustine Lugonzo makes a dash for the try line. He makes it across and Samuel Oliech converts it for the boys.

For us, this is a dream start. At the start of this half, Shujaa were trailing Los Pumas 0 – 7. With this try and with the conversion that followed, we just got even on the scoreboard. A minute later, a sturdy Alex Muller responds with a try of his own. Los Pumas miss the conversion. It’s now 12 – 7 and the tension is palpable.

We now have about a minute and four seconds to go. Frank ‘The Tank’ Wanyama makes a much needed try for Kenya. It is the ‘Webuye Express’ first try this weekend and we really needed this one. But we are not out of the woods yet. Collins Injera, the decorated speedster, goes for the conversion. He misses it and it’s tense.

With just under a minute to go, the score is now even between the East Africans and the South Americans. “They are missing Biko Adema, says the commentator. Adema is a renowned kicker. 

‘It is not the best of kicks from Injera,’ he adds. But just when all is but lost, we get a lifeline. With 28 seconds to go before the hooter, Andrew Amonde, the Captain, wins possession for Kenya.

It is crunch time and we know that the game can go either way. As opposed to going for the scrum, Injera instead opts for a kick, 40 meters out. This is so brave of him because just moments ago, taking the same kick from much closer to the post, we saw the ball drifting wide and off the mark. 

Without looking up, he takes the kick. The ball climbs and with it, the hope of a nation. There are moments when time almost comes to a standstill. This is certainly one of them. Up and up goes the ball. The stadium is quiet. So is our little corner at the restaurant. My heart beats fervently.

The ball climbs and soars and then some. It goes above the crossbar and right through the posts. It's 15 -12 and Kenya has it! ‘Collins Injeeeera,’ screams the commentator, ‘the Hero of the hour!’ The commentator then proceeds to say, ‘Collins Injera, take a bow!’ Then, as Benjamin Ayimba - the Kenyan coach - celebrates on the pitch, somewhat tongue in cheek, the commentator quips, ‘He, (Ayimba), is not as fleet footed as he used to be.’

The stadium comes alive. Kenya Corner goes nuts. This group, comprising Kenyans in the diaspora, have supported the players and carried the national flag across global Sevens circuits. They relish this moment, just as much as the players and what it took to get here. So do we all! It was raining and wet in Nairobi, in the morning. But man, it is beautiful afternoon. We are in the finals, baby!

(To be continued.)