2013...

The Kenyan Guest House

When I first left my dad’s house to join nursery school; those days there was nothing like day care or preparatory school, or play school; you left your mother’s arms ready for the world. Well, one of the reasons I believe this was so, is that our mothers were much more dedicated to motherhood as compared to today’s busy mom; who has in most cases metamorphosis-ed from a clande.

Why would such a seasoned writer like me derail from the subject matter and start comparing the 1300AD mother and the twenty first century lady? We should be out here. I started coming out here as long as I can possibly remember. Mom let me out to go start education and said, “When you go out there, take care of your pencil and books, uweke vizuri usiibiwe”, she is such a lovely moma.

Then I finished taking care of pencils and finally landed out here! This is the world of volumes, strategic plans, annual budgets and millennium development goals!

So I’m out here today; out of the office, out of school, and well, out of my house! The only thing I believe I’m not out of, is my mind,that’s for sure. Out here, inside this Kenyan Guest house, I say Kenyan because like everything else in this lovely country, this guest house is uniquely Kenyan. Just before reading further, note that this is a sample of Kenyan guest houses out here, from Kisii to Kisauni; Malindi to Malaba. It is neither the best nor the worst, it is Kenyan.

Let’s start from the reception. This guest house is located behind a Bar, where the barmaid holds the keys and the watchman is the man in charge of accomodation. So arriving here, I ask for a room to rest for the night. Opening the new snapp for a client and oblivious of my presence and heavy luggage, she inattentively says, “Ngoja hapo kwa kiti, soldier hajafika bado”

The word soldier is a good indicator that I should prepare for a long night.  Two drinks down the night, the soldier appears and hastily picks the keys from madam barmaid,” Ngojea hapo, naenda kufungua huko nyuma, funguo ya mbele ilienda na fundi jana....”

I’m finally in this room with a blanket older than me; stripped black and red! Let’s face it, the fact that red matches with black is no mean fete for this guest house. That’s the best they can go in as far as decent hospitality is concerned. Opening this blanket to see the brown-once-white pillow, the only feeling that hits me can be described as fuuuuu!

I really need to take a shower, so I enter that room on the side which is presumably the bathroom. This kabafu is drier than Kismayo. Calling the Soldier for assistance, he insists that I have to pay him first because it is my money that should buy me soap and tissue paper. “Can I pay via M-pesa?” I ask as I realize I’m low on cash. “Hai, hao wanafungaga mapema...” Soldier says and faces his feet like the ten-year-old-me begging for Christmas clothing!

Somehow, after sending money to the barmaid and paying her four times more for withdrawal charges, I pay soldier and he walks out to shop for the one and only guest in this town tonight......

In school there was a chapter called standardization. I tell you all guest houses in Kenya are standardized in every detail. One and most importantly, they all presume that you will stay for only one night. For this reason you are to them many other things. Let’s not talk about the toilet paper; it is either blue or green. I said GREEN tissue paper!

I am expecting soap, but soldier brings a very small fluorspar chip that gets stuck between my hairs. This small chip can only last one shower and if you make your water warm, it only last you the whole shower, psychologically!

Well, I forgot to bring along my slippers, better said, my pieces of old Yana tyres cut and shaped like sandal. So I have to ask soldier for an alternative. Pointing under the creaky bed he asks me to get them. Remember the basic presumption here? You are a flitting thief staying for one night. This pair of slippers affirms that; One piece is blue, the other red. The blue piece has a tip that looks like the mouth of a toothless granny. It is slit such that you need to walk carefully, otherwise, you are better off bare-footed. Where your heel should rest is a star shaped hole, I presume this is to prevent you from walking out with the sandals. That’s the blue piece, the red slipper completes the couple this way; the name of the guest house is cut out from back to front of the slipper, giving you the feeling that you have put on a mosquito net as opposed to footwear.

I’m sleepy and full of this room, so I need to fall back and have a good night’s rest.

Trying the key on the old wooden door, it goes round and round, and comes around; I seriously can’t safely sleep here. So I creatively pull the bed to block the door, quietly say a prayer as the football fanatics make drunken noises from the next room; hoping that the next guest house I visit will be better than this one out here.

And when I’m awaken in the middle of the night by a Lionel Messi goal, I am happy to here that soldier is seated right outside my door, listening to the progress of the war in Kismayu on the BBC. “So you knew about the faulty lock?” I ask on my way out that morning. “Fundi atarudi kesho...’’

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