Gachie
Guys, let’s talk about Gachie. Hii ni ile area hautawai skia kuna by-pass inapitia ama inajengwa huko. People from this hood have been left for the dogs (or is it to the dogs? Honestly, I don’t care) Don’t get me wrong, after God, my family, my friends and my phone, I love this hood with everything that is left. You see, I grew up there. I was there when bedsitters the size of a cowshed started costing 15K in that leafy suburb called Ruaka. You see, while there was a scramble for partition and distribution of Ruaka, Gachie was still in a slumber. Producing world class thieves and donning roads that were last repaired during the pre-colonial era. But we will talk about the roads in Gachie another day, hopefully.
Back to this god-forsaken place being my hood. Gachie itself is a victim of circumstances. Gachie is like this ghetto kid who somehow ends up in a very prestigious private school for the rich kids through bursary/sponsorship. Gachie is the less privileged kid while its neighbors, the likes of Nyari, Rosslyn, Rosslyn Heights, W & K estate, Kitusuru and Westlands are the rich kids. Which automatically makes it a scammer or a hustler (now that robbery is being whitewashed in this country). As a good Christian, what do you do if you are poor and everyone else around you is rich?
(A) You ask them for help.
(B) You work hard and pray to God for your own.
(C) You become mad at them and blame them for everything.
(D) You F***ng steal from em and make em pay!
Gachie chose (D). Gachie chose violence. Talking of Nyari and Kitusuru, we stole chihuahuas from this neighborhood, put them in a sack and dipped them in a dam down there for a few minutes, pulled them out and sold them in traffic pale Westlands (don’t dwell too much on this, it’s not helpful).
Moving into or living in this hood automatically qualifies you for orientation/initiation. By orientation I’m talking of either being mugged or just your house being swept clean, and not in a good way. Mine was the former. I was mugged by around six guys, each of my pockets had a hand in it at the same time, I had to pull my pants up because it was falling due to the pressure from all the hands. As a matter of fact, ten bob ilianguka ikaroll kwa nyasi and these guys spent like five minutes looking for it. I was still standing there being held hostage, and when they were done, they told me to run. They even chased me a way, ati ‘si ukimbie nanii ama tukupige’ Imagine running away from the people who’ve robbed you while they are just standing there dividing your money and things amongst themselves. But this wasn’t even the worst part yet.
Afte campus, I got me a single room at the back side of my hood. The rent was 2k, I loved this 4*3 space the same way most people would love their first born. These single rooms were the type that had a door on the inside. Like on the wall that separated one house from the next one, there was a door. The main purpose for this door was to grant access to let say, should someone desire to rent two houses at the same time, the door in the middle would be opened and this said person would have what we call a double room. The unofficial purpose for this door though was that, if you lived on one side and the guy next door was a married watchman who worked night shift, then there was a by-pass ya kupitishia bibi yake. Without the risk of the rest of the neighbors being suspicious (whatever you do with this piece of information is on you).
One certain month decided to just become impossible for me, no chihuahuas to steal, trips to town not being fruitful and the 4*3 needing rent nonetheless. One evening I come home and there’s a padlock on the door. I can’t ask anyone because I didn’t really ‘know’ my neighbors (up to date, I try not to know my neighbors, hivyo ndivyo mzoeano huanza unapata umepita na bibi au dame wa msee). Then my next-door neighbor shows up. I decide to talk to him, he lived on the other side of the door that separated both our houses. For some reason (don’t ask which ones) the door wasn’t closed from my side. He decides he’ll let me in through his door, open the door connecting his house to mine so I can sleep in my own bed. A simple but lifesaving arrangement. We did it for a couple of days.
Few days later I’m in town. it’s been a long fruitless day. As a matter of fact, I had spent the most part of it nikiwa nimelala pale Jivanjee gardens. I had been waiting for some deal to come through, it didn’t. So, its evening. I’m so broke that between me and nothingness is thirty shillings. I decide like you know, I’ll trek to mini-market and maybe board a matatu from there with thirty shillings. The Problem with a place like Gachie, a place that breathes the same air with Nyari is that hazinanaga shortcuts. You have to use and follow the main road whether you are on foot or on a camel. Mimi huyo,nimefuata barabara kama matatu za Ganaki sacco. I get to Mini-market and I’m told fare from there to Gachie stands at fifty shillings, not a coin less. I try begging the mofos to let me stand in the vehicle, ‘ni ume chuma’ and they say ku uma chuma ni forty bob. So, I decide ill just walk to UNEP stage, after all I had come this far.
It takes me another forty minutes. Funny you can walk for forty minutes to save ten shillings and ruin shoes worth 3500 bob in the process (I’m a timberland kind of a guy). I get to UNEP stage and the matatus coming are still asking for forty shillings, meaning the distance I had covered wasn’t worth a dime. I’m still standing there mulling my next move when this lorry comes trudging up the hill, there’s a little traffic so it slows down. It’s almost gone past me when I hear these guys from inside calling ‘Gachie, Gachie…dandieni twende hakuna magari leo…’ I didn’t need to hear this twice but neither did the guys who were standing next to me. We all break into a sprint in unison. Should this have been the Olympics, we would have brought the three medals for the 100 meters sprint home. Ok I’m lying, the other guys would have. Maybe I would have come in fourth, remember I had just walked all the way from town. Plus, I was still in my timberland boots.
This lorry almost gets away when I summon the whatever bits of strength left in me and run after it. I barely reach it when I see two guys from the inside stretching out their arms for me to hold on to. I reach the lorry and grab their arms of which they literally pull me inside. I’m about to breathe in a sigh of relief and thank them when I hear someone say ‘Kamaa, mnafaa kumskuma na huku ndio pia sisi tumperembe…’ What the F***!? I haven’t fully processed this statement when I get shoved towards the back of the lorry, into an abyss of darkness. Protests and insults of the people I step on (victims also, I presume) follow me like perfume scents after a Somali. I land on some waiting hands and I get pinned down. They take everything, the shoes and the thirty shillings included. They then start jumping off the lorry. The rest of us remain in silence until the lorry gets to Gachie and we get off, most of us barefoot with bruised egos.
I find my way home. Pissed, tired, feet aching and hungry. The lights at the neighbor’s house (the one who let me get to my house through his) are off. I assume that maybe he’s asleep. That’s when I knock on the door and the echo coming from within shocks me. It’s the kind of echo that can only be associated with a vacant house. I push the door and it opens all the way back. This guy had vacated his house, together with everything that was in my house.
Copied from a hekayarist called rolex lussi
Guys, let’s talk about Gachie. Hii ni ile area hautawai skia kuna by-pass inapitia ama inajengwa huko. People from this hood have been left for the dogs (or is it to the dogs? Honestly, I don’t care) Don’t get me wrong, after God, my family, my friends and my phone, I love this hood with everything that is left. You see, I grew up there. I was there when bedsitters the size of a cowshed started costing 15K in that leafy suburb called Ruaka. You see, while there was a scramble for partition and distribution of Ruaka, Gachie was still in a slumber. Producing world class thieves and donning roads that were last repaired during the pre-colonial era. But we will talk about the roads in Gachie another day, hopefully.
Back to this god-forsaken place being my hood. Gachie itself is a victim of circumstances. Gachie is like this ghetto kid who somehow ends up in a very prestigious private school for the rich kids through bursary/sponsorship. Gachie is the less privileged kid while its neighbors, the likes of Nyari, Rosslyn, Rosslyn Heights, W & K estate, Kitusuru and Westlands are the rich kids. Which automatically makes it a scammer or a hustler (now that robbery is being whitewashed in this country). As a good Christian, what do you do if you are poor and everyone else around you is rich?
(A) You ask them for help.
(B) You work hard and pray to God for your own.
(C) You become mad at them and blame them for everything.
(D) You F***ng steal from em and make em pay!
Gachie chose (D). Gachie chose violence. Talking of Nyari and Kitusuru, we stole chihuahuas from this neighborhood, put them in a sack and dipped them in a dam down there for a few minutes, pulled them out and sold them in traffic pale Westlands (don’t dwell too much on this, it’s not helpful).
Moving into or living in this hood automatically qualifies you for orientation/initiation. By orientation I’m talking of either being mugged or just your house being swept clean, and not in a good way. Mine was the former. I was mugged by around six guys, each of my pockets had a hand in it at the same time, I had to pull my pants up because it was falling due to the pressure from all the hands. As a matter of fact, ten bob ilianguka ikaroll kwa nyasi and these guys spent like five minutes looking for it. I was still standing there being held hostage, and when they were done, they told me to run. They even chased me a way, ati ‘si ukimbie nanii ama tukupige’ Imagine running away from the people who’ve robbed you while they are just standing there dividing your money and things amongst themselves. But this wasn’t even the worst part yet.
Afte campus, I got me a single room at the back side of my hood. The rent was 2k, I loved this 4*3 space the same way most people would love their first born. These single rooms were the type that had a door on the inside. Like on the wall that separated one house from the next one, there was a door. The main purpose for this door was to grant access to let say, should someone desire to rent two houses at the same time, the door in the middle would be opened and this said person would have what we call a double room. The unofficial purpose for this door though was that, if you lived on one side and the guy next door was a married watchman who worked night shift, then there was a by-pass ya kupitishia bibi yake. Without the risk of the rest of the neighbors being suspicious (whatever you do with this piece of information is on you).
One certain month decided to just become impossible for me, no chihuahuas to steal, trips to town not being fruitful and the 4*3 needing rent nonetheless. One evening I come home and there’s a padlock on the door. I can’t ask anyone because I didn’t really ‘know’ my neighbors (up to date, I try not to know my neighbors, hivyo ndivyo mzoeano huanza unapata umepita na bibi au dame wa msee). Then my next-door neighbor shows up. I decide to talk to him, he lived on the other side of the door that separated both our houses. For some reason (don’t ask which ones) the door wasn’t closed from my side. He decides he’ll let me in through his door, open the door connecting his house to mine so I can sleep in my own bed. A simple but lifesaving arrangement. We did it for a couple of days.
Few days later I’m in town. it’s been a long fruitless day. As a matter of fact, I had spent the most part of it nikiwa nimelala pale Jivanjee gardens. I had been waiting for some deal to come through, it didn’t. So, its evening. I’m so broke that between me and nothingness is thirty shillings. I decide like you know, I’ll trek to mini-market and maybe board a matatu from there with thirty shillings. The Problem with a place like Gachie, a place that breathes the same air with Nyari is that hazinanaga shortcuts. You have to use and follow the main road whether you are on foot or on a camel. Mimi huyo,nimefuata barabara kama matatu za Ganaki sacco. I get to Mini-market and I’m told fare from there to Gachie stands at fifty shillings, not a coin less. I try begging the mofos to let me stand in the vehicle, ‘ni ume chuma’ and they say ku uma chuma ni forty bob. So, I decide ill just walk to UNEP stage, after all I had come this far.
It takes me another forty minutes. Funny you can walk for forty minutes to save ten shillings and ruin shoes worth 3500 bob in the process (I’m a timberland kind of a guy). I get to UNEP stage and the matatus coming are still asking for forty shillings, meaning the distance I had covered wasn’t worth a dime. I’m still standing there mulling my next move when this lorry comes trudging up the hill, there’s a little traffic so it slows down. It’s almost gone past me when I hear these guys from inside calling ‘Gachie, Gachie…dandieni twende hakuna magari leo…’ I didn’t need to hear this twice but neither did the guys who were standing next to me. We all break into a sprint in unison. Should this have been the Olympics, we would have brought the three medals for the 100 meters sprint home. Ok I’m lying, the other guys would have. Maybe I would have come in fourth, remember I had just walked all the way from town. Plus, I was still in my timberland boots.
This lorry almost gets away when I summon the whatever bits of strength left in me and run after it. I barely reach it when I see two guys from the inside stretching out their arms for me to hold on to. I reach the lorry and grab their arms of which they literally pull me inside. I’m about to breathe in a sigh of relief and thank them when I hear someone say ‘Kamaa, mnafaa kumskuma na huku ndio pia sisi tumperembe…’ What the F***!? I haven’t fully processed this statement when I get shoved towards the back of the lorry, into an abyss of darkness. Protests and insults of the people I step on (victims also, I presume) follow me like perfume scents after a Somali. I land on some waiting hands and I get pinned down. They take everything, the shoes and the thirty shillings included. They then start jumping off the lorry. The rest of us remain in silence until the lorry gets to Gachie and we get off, most of us barefoot with bruised egos.
I find my way home. Pissed, tired, feet aching and hungry. The lights at the neighbor’s house (the one who let me get to my house through his) are off. I assume that maybe he’s asleep. That’s when I knock on the door and the echo coming from within shocks me. It’s the kind of echo that can only be associated with a vacant house. I push the door and it opens all the way back. This guy had vacated his house, together with everything that was in my house.
Copied from a hekayarist called rolex lussi
