The Man in the Dust

I’m dressed in orange baggy shorts.

A black T-shirt with Mickey Mouse animation on it.

Blue socks.

Purple Crocs.

A navy blue hat I got from some expo at KICC.

I’m not exactly giving runway with that combination.

Or am I? Have you seen what they’re calling high fashion lately?

Point is, I am comfortable and unbothered.

It’s a beautiful October day.

Clear skies with light clouds scattered like suggestions against the expanse of blue.

The kind of day that demands humanity exit the cages of our homes and offices and step into the great outdoors. Find a nice tree with grass beneath it and lie there. Face up. Take in the scenery. Catch your breath. Think about the essence of life.

While home is an oasis, outside the gated walls is madness. Busy, bustling, noisy and dusty.

The road outside has been under construction for about a year now. Which, in Kenya, is apparently how long it takes to achieve little to nothing while bleeding us all dry.

The dust is a National Geographic documentary of its own.

Some days, it is feather-light, floating onto your face and changing your complexion as soon you leave the house. Other days, it is coarse, aggressive and full of rocks, forcing pedestrians to hike all the way to the matatu stage and drivers to abandon their cars or call in sick.

I’m headed to get my nails done.

They’re at that awkward stage where the false extensions are falling off, leaving me with three long painted nails and two short plain ones. The discrepancy is unsettling. Feels like missing teeth. Mapengo on my fingers.

It’s walking distance, so I decide to brave the dust. My face is all scrunched up in an attempt to shield myself from the dust.

I don’t know how scrunching your nose is supposed to help with dust, but we do it anyway.

It’s also bright, so the scrunching is doing double duty protecting my eyes.

I hear him before I see him:

“Ah! There you are!”

A man walks towards me with his hand stretched out for a handshake. His face is lit up with recognition.

I look around certain he has me confused for someone else.

He is tall, slightly light-skinned, wearing a black shirt, grey worn-out trousers – Levi’s, he later shows me – gray sneakers and a cap turned backwards, which is funny considering the weather and the waste of a cap in this sun and heat. There is an unnecessary amount of silver jewellery on his arms. And, a cigarette wrapped in his fingers. He has a full beard, generously sprinkled with grey. Clearly, he’s been around the earth for a while.

He takes a puff and blows the smoke out with the arrogance of a man who remembers when smoking cigarettes was cool.

I think about when I last saw someone smoke a cigarette. It feels strangely novel. In my head, people stopped smoking years ago. Now they smoke marijuana – or whatever cooler name we’re calling it these days – shisha, vape, the works. And they still think it’s cool.

I’m slightly amused as I watch him enjoy his cigarette, wondering if his lungs are as impressed with him as he is with himself.

I hesitate again before clenching my fist, deciding a fist bump is safer.

My mind is working overtime trying to place his face.

“Oh my God, let me just say, you are so hot!”

What?!

I burst out laughing.

Ah.

The oldest ruse in the book. And I fell for it.

I start walking away, laughing at both his audacity and my own gullibility.

“No, wait, wait! I need to tell you something!”

He must be a salesman.

He sounds extremely convincing.

I keep walking.

He walks with me “No really. You are the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a long time.”

Nothing particularly shocking there.

But I look down at myself and my runway outfit and chuckle.

“I know beauty when I see it, no matter the packaging,” he says, taking another leisurely look at me.

(Did you smile? Ha! You weak)

We’ve spoken for approximately 37 seconds, but that’s enough time for him to come up with a full spiritual assessment and prophesy. He’s already discerned my background, my upbringing and my suitability as a romantic partner for him – and he delivers his findings with certainty.

I think he should consider a job in the church. They could use this kind of gift.

“Where you headed to?” he asks ignorning my expressions of disinterest.

“ I have things to do.”

“Can I accompany you?”

“No. I’m fine.”

He keeps walking with me. We’re approaching a corner I’d rather not take with a strange smoking companion.

I stop and turn to face him mustering my most intimidating face, “I’ve heard you. I’m not interested.”

He looks at me and says:

“I understand it’s strange. To just stop someone and start talking to them. But in my days, it was not like this. You would meet a stranger on the road, you would start talking, you would walk together, and by the time you reached your destination, you knew everything about each other. That was not strange. That was just how things were.”

I fumble for a response, and before I find one, he proceeds to take me back to what I can only imagine is the ’60s. Telling me all about how life was then and the long, winding road that somehow brought him here.

His parents left him land, which he is now developing into a residential estate. He’s also thinking of putting up a restaurant. No alcohol. No noise. Respectable residents. Some of the houses may even be made into a bed and breakfast.

“Not an Airbnb. A bed and breakfast.”

I’m not entirely sure what distinction he’s making, but apparently it matters.

His accent suggests he grew up somewhere in Central Kenya, but he has lived abroad for most of his adult life.

Every so often, he throws in a little flirtation, presumably to remind me that this is still a courtship and not a history lesson.

The Nairobi in me wants me to buzz off.

But then I think of you. Yes, you, dear reader.

I think of how I could come here and tell you this ridiculous story, adding a little absurdity to your day the way it did to mine and we can laugh about it together.

So I stay. If this isn’t staying for the plot, I don’t know what is.

I start wondering if this is what Bible times were like. When you had to talk to strangers lest you accidentally turn away an angel who would bless you and all the generations after you.

The man only pauses occasionally to take a puff of his cigarette. It slowly disappears between his fingers until there is nothing left but the butt, which he casually flicks away. Another small contribution to global warming.

I’ll give him this though: remarkable storyteller.

Put us around a crackling fire, with some good rhumba playing somewhere in the background and the smell of roast mbuzi floating through the air, and the scene would be complete.

Suddenly, there is silence.

He looks at me, as though waiting for something.

“So will you come?” he asks.

“No. I don’t think I can make it,” I say, unsure what exactly I’m turning down but quite certain I should turn it down.

“It’s an open day for everyone when we launch, it’ll be a whole thing. Just come.”

He proceeds to give me directions to said launch.

“Give me your number.” he almost commands, already pulling out his phone.

“Oh no. But thank you for the invitation.” I start gesturing to leave.

“Okay, here is my card. My name is Paul, by the way. Call me.”

I don’t intend to. Maybe he sees it in my eyes.

So he pulls out the big guns. His final trump card.

“…and remember, a man is his money. A girl like you deserves to be taken care of well. And I can take care of you.”

Ha! Ofcourse. “I’m just fine.”

I say goodbye and walk away. I can’t help but laugh all the way to the nail parlour.

The nerve, the insanity and the audacity of it all. One minute I’m walking down a dusty road fighting for my life, and the next I’ve been spiritually assessed, courted and offered financial security.

Paul is likely in his early to mid-sixties. He has survived twelve political upheavals, one coup, one dictatorship and several economic collapses. At least.

And yet here he is, standing in the dust, reminding me that though we can send people into space, put computers in our pockets and teach robots to play soccer, a man with more than twice your mileage will still stop you on the road and inform you that what you really need is him.

Some things survive everything.

P.S. If you’re looking for a man who can offer you a residential estate, a bed and breakfast and a lifetime supply of confidence, leave “cupid” in the comments and I’ll share Paul’s number.

This story also lives on Substack. Read it there ↗

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