Fall in Love with the Process

But Also, Kindly Arrive

I have been thinking, which is a dangerous hobby in this economy, and I have reached a conclusion that must be shared for the good of the republic. Nairobi is not divided by class, or by which side of Tom Mboya Street you do your shopping. It is divided into two tribes. There are those who have fallen so deeply in love with the process that they refuse to arrive, and those who want the destination delivered to them like fries, no process, extra salt. Neither tribe, beloved, shall inherit the kingdom. Allow me to present my evidence.

Exhibit A, the national verb: nakam. When a Nairobian tells you nakam, understand that you have entered a spiritual covenant with no timelines. Nakam is not movement. Nakam is a state of being. The person saying it is at home in a towel, halfway through a documentary about ancient Egypt. Later they will upgrade to niko njiani, which is also not information, it is poetry. We are a nation permanently en route. If arrival was ever the actual plan, we would have arrived around 2013.

Exhibit B, our national philosophy, quoted with the seriousness of scripture: sherehe ni process. Notice the scholars never completed the verse, because nobody knows what sherehe is a process towards. There is the pregame at the baze, the main event, the after party, the 4am recovery meal, the Monday meeting to review the sherehe, and then planning for the next one. Sherehe is not a road, it is a roundabout. Some of our brothers entered it in 2016 and are still inside, indicating, never exiting.

Exhibit C, weddings. A Nairobi wedding committee meets more often than the county assembly, and honestly achieves more. The WhatsApp group, Brian Weds Cynthia Official, has 47 members, a chairperson, a treasurer feared across three counties, and a sub-committee for tents. The meetings have their own budget. By the time the wedding finally lands, members are visibly grieving, because the process is ending and they had bonded, and someone proposes converting the committee into a chama, and thus the circle of life continues. I have not even mentioned ruracio, where uncles negotiate dowry like a trade union, adjourn talks in order to consult and revert, then reconvene the following year over more goats. There are couples in this country whose own children now attend the negotiations for their parents’ hand in marriage.

Exhibit D, and I say this with love and mild fear: we are governed by process enthusiasts. Groundbreaking is our true national sport. Dignitaries arrive, shovels shine, soil flies, cameras flash, everybody claps and leaves, and then the ground quietly heals itself. Somewhere in this republic, a stadium has been ninety percent complete since two regimes ago. That last ten percent is not construction, it is a pilgrimage. We have launched the same road twice, and the second launch was a launch of the first launch. Kwa ground vitu ni different, mostly because kwa ground there is nothing.

Now consider the second tribe, the destination extremists. Their high priest is the boda rider. That gentleman has never respected a process in his life. Traffic lights, to him, are mood lighting. He will ride on the pavement, against traffic, through a funeral procession, through your sitting room if the door is open, because his only religion is arrival. He will get you there in eight minutes. Whether you arrive whole is a private matter between you and your Maker. Behind him in the congregation are the wash wash boys, who want a Range Rover through a process that KRA must never be able to trace, the graduates of two week candlestick academies waiting for financial freedom by Thursday, and the hiking crews of Ngong Hills whose real summit is the caption, not the peak. To them the mountain is just an inconvenient staircase leading to a photo.

So who has cracked the balance? I submit to you: nyama choma. Go to Kamaki’s. Order one kilo. You will wait a full hour, watching a man turn your meat with the patience of a monk, and nobody riots. Kachumbari is brought early as a down payment, a promissory note of good things to come. The process is honored, the destination is delivered, everyone eats, and there is peace in the land. And observe the mama mboga, the republic’s last true philosopher. She loves her stall, her chopping of sukuma is basically meditation, her peas are peeled with tenderness, yet her eyes never leave the destination, which is school fees in January. Process in the hands, destination in the heart. That woman should be lecturing at Harvard.

I therefore propose the following national reforms. One, every nakam must henceforth be accompanied by a live location. Two, wedding committees shall be limited to three sittings, after which they must produce an actual wedding or register formally as a sacco. Three, no ground shall be broken unless a building follows within twenty four months, failing which the dignitaries must return with the same shovels and un-break it. Four, every sherehe shall be issued with a destination, and it must eventually lead somewhere, even if that somewhere is simply home, and sleep. Five, all talking stages shall carry an expiry date, printed clearly, like milk.

In conclusion, love the journey. Walahi, love it. Sing in it, dance in it, take your mirror selfies in it. But the day the journey asks you to move in permanently, meet its parents, and start holding planning meetings about planning meetings, pack your bags and arrive.
We shall arrive, beloved. God willing. Eventually.
Usishinde ukisema one day.

Can’t wait to see you guys at Arboretum