Not With Flowers But Our Thoughts-Mother’s Day on the Street
Some of the most vicious fights on the Street have happened when mothers are invoked. Like when a girl swears by her mother to teach another a lesson. Or when one insinuates that a girl has learnt the ways of the Street from her mother. The latter always results in a heated exchange which ends up in a physical fight.
This is because mothers hold a special place in the hearts of the girls here. Though common knowledge has it that a child’s upbringing influences her adulthood decisions, the logic here is that being a sex worker is one’s own choice, which has nothing to do with the parents.
Girls tend to say, “My mother did her best, but I made the final decision to sell my body.” Although, if a girl is on the Street supposedly because her mum could not raise enough money to educate her and help her acquire a good job, then the blame is on the government and not the mother. And if not the government, then the father is to blame.
Interestingly, male clients also don’t want to have their mothers dragged into the filth of the Street. It’s always an ugly scene when a girl as much as suggests that a client’s mother has something to do with his uncultured manners, or his reluctance to pay, or his use of demeaning language.
On the other hand, as much as mothers are protected from the Street, the phrase “my mother” keeps popping up in our conversations. Not so much in praise but in fear and anxiety. The fear of what would happen if our mothers came to know what we do for a living. And the anxiety of waiting for her next call, thinking that during the last visit, one said and acted in a way that was contradictory enough to give her a clue of our true work—and not the “hotel job” one keeps telling her about.
The anxiety is not expressed directly, but more in an effort to bribe the mum into ignorance. In their heart of hearts, many girls suspect that their mothers know what they do and are only turning a blind eye to their daughter’s actions. So a girl will often say, “I need to
send my mother money,” or “Oh, I have missed my Mum. Let me call her.”
The esteemed way in which mothers are treated on the Street is also because many here are single mothers. Some joined the motherhood club in their teens or early twenties, as a result of love affairs gone sour, others because they ditched abusive marriages. Thus, they have first-hand experience of what it means to be a mother, in addition to living with the
ugly side of men. The fact that they are making the ultimate sacrifice to feed their
children makes them appreciate their own mothers more. And none of the mothers
here says she would like her kid to end up like her.
My mother was a free spirit, a liberal soul who taught me early on to take responsibility for my own life. While still in primary school, she repeated how the decisions I made would affect me then and in the future. How to a large extent, my life was in my hands. “It’s your life” was one of her more common phrases. In adulthood, Mum seemed more concerned about my life than when I was in her arms.
I guess she did not buy my ever changing stories of what I do in the city. At some point I wanted to tell her the truth. To lift the burden of lying to her. I imagined, like most girls, that if it came to saying the truth about my work on the Street, Mum would understand better than Dad.
She’d likely blame herself for not bringing me up in the right way and so forth, but she would not be as mad as Dad. She would still keep her doors open for me and probably give me some tips on handling men. Unfortunately, she passed away before I gathered enough guts to break her heart.
On the Street, any day marking a special event (or honoring a group of people) passes without notice if it does not translate to any monetary gain. Mother’s Day is no exception. But here we honor our mothers every day. Not with flowers but with our thoughts. It’s like we live for them.
By Susan Kahumbura
Memoirs of a Prostitute-Christmas woes and wows
Christmas comes early here on the Street. By mid-October, girls were already talking of the holidays. But the talk was not of anticipation. Of booking a trip and enjoying Christmas at the Mara. Of looking forward to being with friends and family, burning goat ribs while downing Tusker. At that point, the talk was about fear and anxiety.
By Susan Kahumbura
Troubles of a taxi driver
Everyone seems to be going on strike -- teachers, lecturers, doctors and nurses. Who will be next? If anyone has earned the right to go on strike, it is taxi drivers. I am actually planning to call for one. Rally taxi drivers together, barricade all parking spots in town, and stand side-by side holding hands while swinging them back and forth. We shall sing, “So-li-darity for-e-ver” in the kind of voices that require the disclaimer, “Please listen to the words and not the voice. Let the words minister to you.”
I will tell you why. We are harassed from all sides and angles. To begin with, we wage daily battles with the forces of the city council. At least now, given that they are required to wear a uniform, the enemy is identifiable. Previously, plain-clothed city council askaris were a terror, appearing out of nowhere and detaining you without cause. All manner of punitive by-laws are available to this erstwhile enemy. There are fines for driving over a pavement, having your car breakdown within the central business district, illegal parking, or even dropping off a passenger in an undesignated location.
The biggest mistake while dealing with them is to put up any form of resistance. These guys are well versed in subduing perpetrators with what has come to be known as “hand to- below-waist” tactics. Carjackers are another big issue. Woe unto you should you fall prey to them. Taxi drivers are a hot property because we are in the business of letting strangers into our cars in numbers ranging from one to four. Plus, we are in the (unfortunate) business of driving -- a skill particularly useful for robbers looking to make a quick getaway. Ten years ago, I was shocked to find out that one of the allegedly notorious carjackers gunned down in the city centre was my colleague Erastus.
The local daily had a picture of his bullet-ridden body, lying in a pool of blood with a pistol inches away from his lifeless hand. Next to the body was a carefully arranged line of bullets, meticulously sequenced in descending order of height. The story doing the rounds was that a group of carjackers commandeered his taxi, and he was the unfortunate victim of the then-trigger-happy flying squad. In other things “corpus”, have I mentioned how corporate clients can be a pain in the derriere? Much as they bring good business, they are too demanding. Although fully aware of the traffic situation in the city, they are incredibly unreasonable, expecting the taxi driver to be at their doorstep within minutes. They also expect you to wait at no extra charge! Corporate clients just seem to expect the world, demanding that you cut corners to avoid traffic so they get to their destination on time, but should you get in trouble for it, you are on your own.
To their credit, they are much better than the campus students we have to ferry every so often. Oh my. What should I say about this group? They only require taxi services at night. They usually travel in packs and believe that a four-passenger taxi can carry eight of them. They are rowdy, rude and generally intoxicated. Their favourite tactic is to get you to drop them off near their campus grounds where they proceed to jump out of the taxi and flee without paying. These students apply their knowledge of geography since each has his/her own chosen direction of flight.
One goes north, another south, the other east, while another scurries southwest. As a taxi driver, you either demand payment in advance, or refuse to offer them service. But by far the worst lot to I’ve ever ferried are the karaoke kings/queens. They want to sing along to the radio, loudly and off key. With all due respect, members of the fairer sex are the biggest perpetrators. It starts with, “Oh, I love that song, please increase the volume.” They then proceed to totally massacre the song with the wrong words, key and/or pace.
Nowadays, I use my Bluetooth hands-free device to deal with these people. I pretend I have gotten an urgent call from the next client and that I am confirming directions to their location. I usually say “Where? Where? Sorry, I cannot hear you properly so let me switch off my radio…” The biggest problem with this is that these customers will never give you any form of tip once you drop them off. Given all these hazards, we are well justified to go on strike. Question is, to whom do we address our woes? Naomba serikali…
By Milo
Memoirs of a Prostitute-THE TYPES OF TOURISTS AND HOW THEY RANK
Cities often acquire their identity from the physical, culture, economic activityor any other such strong attribute. Thus, Dubai could be defined by its architectural designs, while Rabat could be identified by the strong Islamic culture. What about Nairobi, could it be a city without character? What is the immediate feel one gets on arrival in the city, other than the hurly-burly of any urban center?
Nairobi is many things but seems to lack any dominant quality to label it. In the absence of a black and white clarity of what it is, city fathers, residents and notably the media have tried to come up with idioms to characterize Nairobi. These range from the feel good (but no longer in vogue) Green City In The Sun to the resigned Nairobbery. But then there is also the tourist view of Nairobi; Nairobi as packaged in travel websites, brochures and in-flight magazines. This is the Nairobi of The Hilton and Inter Continental Hotels. The Nairobi which is “the only city with a national park” and Nairobi which is home to, “one of the largest slums in Africa”. The tourist Nairobi is thus experienced in cozy vans, and five star hotels.
Yet, there will be the visitor who will want to experience the city beyond the marketed view; knowing very well the heart of any city is not visible in the colorful brochures or marketing slogans. The most prominent of these are the backpackers who stay in Ksh.1, 500 a night lodgings like Africana and Kenya Lodge. Here, on the Street we have passing respect for these, we call them the “black white men”.
They will come to the Street in an effort to get to the city’s core. But we don’t take the back packers seriously. Over time, girls on the Street have come to know they travel cheap, every coin counts to them and some are rough men in their own countries. You know, the kind that get involved in bar brawls or who is running from the police for a reason or another. We recognize the back packers from a mile away by their smell, dirty side-pockets and attempt at Swahili. The backpackers don’t pay well. Many of those who have stayed in the country in excess of a month are more broke than some of us; they only have a few shillings and their return ticket. A girl will go with a back packer because it was a bad night or she thinks he is the silly student kind, and can easily rip him off.
The real gem, though, are the middle aged, or elderly men, who sneak from their five star hotels to come to the Street to see another side of the city. The most daring of them wear shorts, sneakers and come walking to the Street. Sometimes they come upon the Street by chance as they take a walk around the city. Sometimes it’s by strategy after colluding with a taxi driver or a mischievous waiter. This kind of man will be loaded with cash, open minded and in search of adventure. There are two kinds of these men; those who want to have a session with a girl, and the others who want a girl to act as a tour guide to the other side of the city.
Sometime ago, one of these men came walking from a local hotel at around 9:00p.m. He had grey hair but walked with a bounce that made him look energetic. In such situations the girls will literally surround the man, talk all the English they know, hoping he will fall for them. And so we did. But it’s not always the case that the man will know English; some are French or German. Many of the girls here can utter a greeting German or French, but few can construct a whole sentence.
I said something like “ Joindre pour une marche,” which I knew was a poor French translation for “Can I join you for a walk?” He smiled and settled on me. Using a mixture of English and French, I learned he wanted to take a walk downtown and possibly to some brothel or strip club. He declined to take a taxi. I decided to walk him to Fameland along Duruma road. We were branching from Accra Road when three young men with knives appeared from nowhere and surrounded us. One held me as the others frisked the man. Within minutes they had disappeared with about $300. He was shocked but excited. “This is the Nairobi I was expecting,” he said as we walked back to his hotel where he gladly gave me a $50 bill.
By Susan Kahumbura
Where art thou, oh, Ruth?
As the story continues our taximan has fallen in love with his fare... My standing arrangement with Ruth worked wonders for me. I was assured of an income of up to Ksh.1, 200 a day for three days a week, just for driving her around the block and dropping her where I picked her from. I was excited about this arrangement but my feelings for Ruth were getting in the way. The more we interacted (well, we did not really interact, but rather met), the more I felt the bond between us grow, at least in my mind. I found myself looking forward to each encounter, curious to see who was dropping her off. At times I would drive a bit faster around the block, hoping to have one of her suitors catch her in her deception. I knew this would kill the goose that was laying the golden eggs, but I could not help myself. Ruth was however always very cautious.
At times, I would try strike up a conversation with her but she generally was quick to end it; changing the topics whenever they became too personal or cutting me short with a dismissive wave of her small, dainty hand. Life aside from Ruth was quite good. The extra income allowed me to visit my home town twice a month as opposed to the single visit I was used to. Back at home, I was a hero given that my unmarked cab meant the villagers believed I was the boy who had gone and made it big in the city. My ‘mobility’, together with the tales I used to regale them with about life in the city, made me the envy of most men in the village and a target for the village beauties and non-beauties alike. But my ageing
parents were pressing me to get married and start a family. The thought of grandchildren was paramount in their minds and somehow, there was always a neighbour’s daughter hanging around the house on occasion of each of my planned visits. I had no time for these girls as my heart and mind were preoccupied with my precious Ruth.
All until that fateful December, two years ago. I had just returned from my visit home. I would leave on Monday in the morning and return on Wednesday. My busiest nights were Wednesdays through to Sundays and therefore I scheduled my trips home when I knew there wouldn’t be much work. I got back sure that I would meet Ruth within the space of three days as was customary every month, save for that one week in the month when nature reminded her of her gender (Yes, over time I could guess when this happened).
Wednesday night she was a no-show. So was Thursday, Friday and Saturday. I remember getting worked up and tense on Sunday, not wanting to imagine that she would not show up on that day also. She could not have travelled because the majority of her trips were paid for by her suitors and I was the one she would call on to ferry her to and from the airport. At 10.00p.m, I called her. The voice prompt curtly told me that the number was out of service. This was the response I was to get over the next few weeks, each time I called. After two months I had given up and assumed something drastic had happened to Ruth. Needless to say, I was back to a single trip home per month.
It was not until 5 months later that I next spotted Ruth. I was dropping off a fare at Nakumatt in Karen when a flashy BMW X6 drove by and stopped right in front of where I was parked. Out of the back seat, Ruth majestically stepped out, a conspicuous bulge revealing that she was in the family way. The huge rock on her finger provided further evidence that some lucky guy had snatched my prized Ruth from the singles club and made an honest woman of her. I was enraged, bitter and jealous at the same time. The pain is still with me until today!
By Milo
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