Prose October - November 2017 issue

PROSE A PUBLICATION OF EPSILON PUBLISHERS

OCTOBER - NOVEMBER 2017

MAGAZINE

DISRUPTION ISSUE

The face of leadership Peter Mugendi

Reading culture

A tribe called Sheng: When languages intermarry

Photography

Falk Kagelmacher

Travel

Road to Karen

Will the lion eat James?

Will the lion eat, James?

We know that a comma can save a life.

Editorial | Translation | Publishing | Printing

CO N T E N T S

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CO N T E N T S

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Peer Review

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Leadership

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Driving change through persona disruption

Book review

What the dog saw and other stories

The diary of a budding writer Listen to the message

PROSE M A G A Z I N E

MANAGING DIRECTOR R. Mumbi Gichuhi OPERATIONS MANAGER Mary Wagura EDITOR Mark Muthiora LEAD CREATIVE Patrick Waswani ACCOUNTANT Joyce Mbugu

EPSILON PUBLISHERS Gemina Court George Padmore Road Kilimani, Nairobi P.O. Box 1175-00606 Nairobi Kenya Tel +254 (0) 733 333 600 publish@epsilon.co.ke www.epsilon.co.ke

@publisherkenya facebook.com/epsilonpublishers Epsilon Publishers

Prose is published six times a year by Epsilon Publishers. The opinions expressed therein are those of the contributors and do not necessarily represent the views of Epsilon Publishers.

44 Paradise lost

Š 2017 Epsilon Publishers. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the publisher.

Epsilon Publishers is proud of its commitment in embodying the spirit of the United Nations Global Compact whose fundamental pillars are to their strategies and operations with universal principles on human rights, labour, environment and anti-corruption. To this end, Epsilon Publishers has signed the letter of commitment to the United Nations Global Compact, pledging to align our efforts to operate responsibly and to advance societal goals in line with the UN Sustainable Development Goals.

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PROSE MAGAZINE | OCTOBER - NOVEMBER 2017

W E LCO M E

N OT E

Of first anniversaries, disruptions and resplendent photography.

T

he word disruption is one that makes one run for the hills. It is a word that conjures imaginings of suffering, changing the status quo and rocking the boat. Yet, it is one of the most misunderstood terms. In and of itself, disruption is actually growth. To disrupt yourself is to stretch your capabilities so as to launch you to a new growth plateau.

Our leader this month, Peter Mugendi has been doing just that.

He has constantly disrupted and re-invented himself in the course of his professional and personal

growth. I had the privilege of sitting down with him and I was completely floored by the courage of his journey.

On disruption still our featured photographer this month is Falk Kagelmacher whose career has seamlessly flowed from architect to photographer. He regales our editor with tales of his love for cities and for capturing humanity in a moment in time.

As far as I am concerned, both Peter and Falk's stories are testimony to the fact that no experience, even the seemingly challenging or innocuous ones are

never in vain. Every step of our journey's can herald new frontiers, if we allow them to.

Our budding writer takes a walk down memory lane, in the hope of gathering the pluck to write one paragraph at the very least, for his novel that between you and me seems like it will never take off.

Finally, this issue marks our 1st anniversary of Prose. We thank you for walking this journey with us, your texts, your email, your feedback has given us impetus to go on writing. Here’s to another year!

Mumbi Gichuhi

PROSE MAGAZINE | OCTOBER - NOVEMBER 2017

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Salubrious (noun)

Favourable to promoting health and well-being.

A little bit of trivia Mind your language Article

Journalese A style of writing adopted in some newspapers and which is characterised by clichés and hyperbole. To quote Joe Grimm on why reporters and journalists use journalese, “We write journalese out of habit, sometimes from misguided training, and to sound urgent, authoritative and, well, journalistic.

But it doesn’t do any of that.”

A part of speech that indicates, specifies and limits a noun. In English, the articles are ‘a’, ‘an’ and ‘the’. ‘A’ and ‘an’ are indefinite articles and are used to denote a singular item of a group while ‘the’ is a definite article that implies an entity it articulates is presupposed, has already been mentioned or will be specified later.

JOHN F. KENNEDY

Famous quotes 6

Elision

The greater our knowledge increases the more our ignorance unfolds - American President, (1917-1963)

PROSE MAGAZINE | OCTOBER - NOVEMBER 2017

FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE

The doer alone learneth.”

- German philosopher, poet and cultural critic, (1844-1900)

Dropping a sound or a syllable in a word

Embrocation Rubbing on a lotion

Lissome Slender and graceful

Demesne Dominion or territory

JAY SAMIT

Disruption isn’t about what happens to you, it’s about how you respond to what happens to you.”

- American digital media innovator

Idioms

C-Sectioned

Chart (v) To plan

An idiom is defined as a group of words in a fixed order that have a particular meaning that is different from the meanings of each word on its own. When overused, idioms pass into the realm of clichés; phrases or opinions that are overused and betray a lack of original thought.

Devil’s advocate: a person who expresses a contentious opinion in order to provoke debate or test the strength of the opposing arguments.

The idiom traces its origins to the Roman Catholic Church in which it was used to denote a person appointed by the to challenge a proposed beatification or canonisation, or the verification of a miracle (Advocatus Diaboli).

Don't look a gift horse in the mouth: the idiom is used to exhort someone not to question the value of a gift but to be grateful. Its origin is from the practice of estimating the age of a horse by looking at its teeth, with the teeth being longer as the horse advances in age. The practice also gave rise to the expression ‘long in the tooth’ to mean old.

Elvis has left the building: the show has come to an end. The phrase was used by public address announcers at the conclusion of Elvis Presley concerts in order to disperse audiences who hang around in the hope of getting an encore, that is, an additional performance.

The full monty: the phrase is generally used to mean “everything which is necessary, appropriate or possible”, and is the equivalent of the ‘the whole nine yards’. A possible origin for the phrase is Field Marshal Montgomery’s – a senior British officer- preference for a large breakfast, even while on campaign.

Individuals and organisations have a mission, vision and goals through which they derive purpose for their existence. Namely, the mission depicts a way to get to where the individual or the organisation wants to go while the vision centres on the ideal, that is, envisaging how the world would be after on fully actualising the mission. Goals are the markers that signifies movement from the mission to the vision.

Hence the imperative to chart this movement. Basically,

this means to plan on how the individual or the organisation conducts specific activities and which translates into short, medium and long-term goals. As such, charting, in the sense of a physical manifestation of the organisation’s activities (like a year planner, for instance) helps the individual or the personnel to visual the mission and the vision, thus moving them from the realm of the abstract to the concrete and derive meaning from the two.

Kibra

A constituency in Nairobi County, the name Kibra is Nubian for ‘forest’. It is said that the area acquired its name from the many trees that grew in and around the area and which extended to the neighbouring Ngong forest.

Tenwek

This is a shopping centre located in Bomet County, Kenya. Tenwek is a corruption of “ten weeks” as it was said that it would take ten weeks to travel from Mombasa to the area on foot.

PROSE MAGAZINE | OCTOBER - NOVEMBER 2017

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P O E T RY

Who dem fairer Camera camera on da phone Who dem fairer dan em all Who be badda dan mos’ Who run dem worl’?

Is it Sister Jacky, she a legit Massacre of mascara Dem rub mud all over her face It rains, her face a rainbow.

Is it Sister Lorna, she a loner Talking in tongues, her twist She shifts bills in men’s pockets And dem haffi borrow bus fare.

Or is it Don Pacho, him a tief Flaunting his rod on FB and IG Da phone’s camera sees all And retribution is swift.

The colour of the mind Wind and water, dewy eves The mind colours Hues and tints and shades The mind has a colour.

Justice, peace, love, equity Their colours – black, white, grey Yet the mind fathoms much more Red and gold and a still green.

Language and all its intricacies The mind creates them ever And when it spins a duality Freedom mounts oppression.

Translucent and transient Thoughts glow, then flow Then it takes another mind To colour the mind.

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PROSE MAGAZINE | OCTOBER - NOVEMBER 2017

R E A D I N G

The diamond reader “We shouldn't teach great books; we should teach a love of reading.” -B. F. Skinner

B

efore there was the diamond, there was the coal. The coal that underwent severe pressure and heat to turn into a diamond. And to get to the diamond, there was much labour – a labour of love and of necessity. Once mined, the rough diamond had to be cut and abraded into the crown jewel that adorns that engagement ring. As it is true with diamonds, so are books.

Before they come into being, they mined and refined a thousand times into what they are worth.

As such, the diamond reader fully appreciates what it takes to produce a book. Conversely, in this appreciation does he fully immerse and enjoy the book in its entirety.

From the title to the content to the back cover blurb does he revel in the book. Reading a book not once, not twice but seven or eleven times. (And no, he does not loan out his books to others as doing so has made him think less of others to the extent of losing a friend or two for losing his first, the first, edition of Shakespeare’s complete works. He even imagines the fiend auctioned the edition on eBay and checks online now and then to see if it has surfaced for sale; at which he mortgages his house to get back the book).

And the diamond reader does the full nine yards in his appreciation of a book, making copious amounts of notes as he flows along. He can

recite the whole book word for word.

He thoroughly understands the plot and the characters. He delves into the characters’ motivations and quirks. He is quick to note inconsistencies and plot holes and is brave enough to write to the author to address this in the next revised edition. He is to be found in book signings and perhaps has an affinity for a particular edition of a particular book.

Granted, the diamond reader may at times tend to excesses in his appreciation of the written words, moving a level higher to that of adoration. But it is my contention that everyone who loves the written word has a diamond reader in him.

PROSE MAGAZINE | OCTOBER - NOVEMBER 2017

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R E A D I N G

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C U LT U R E

PROSE MAGAZINE | OCTOBER - NOVEMBER 2017

Photo credit: Quasarphoto

A tribe called Sheng PROSE MAGAZINE | OCTOBER - NOVEMBER 2017

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R E A D I N G

C U LT U R E

When languages intermarry

“What then is Sheng? Loosely, it is a smattering of Swahili, English, and vernacular and which is moulded to fit one’s local context. The word is derived from SwaHili and ENGlish according to Prof.

Ali Mazrui as quoted by one Mokaya Bosire, as these are the base languages in which Sheng is found; plus, a smattering of vernacular languages including Kikuyu, Dholuo, Kamba and Luhya.

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PROSE MAGAZINE | OCTOBER - NOVEMBER 2017

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ant, creole, patois, pidgin, a bit of vernacular, English and Swahili teachers’ worst nightmare? Sheng is many things to many people. For the urban youth in Nairobi’s Eastlands, it is an identifier. For the more conservative, it bastardises English and Swahili and contributes to students’ low performance in these languages. For the linguist, it is an interesting phenomenon that indicates the push and the pull across the socio-economic stratum. For the politician and the newly hired ad marketer, it offers a pliable connection to tap into the youth votes or purchasing power respectively.

What then is Sheng? Loosely, it is a smattering of Swahili, English, and vernacular and which is moulded to fit one’s local context. The word is derived from SwaHili and ENGlish according to Prof. Ali Mazrui as quoted by one Mokaya Bosire, as these are the base languages in which Sheng is found; plus, a smattering of vernacular languages including Kikuyu, Dholuo, Kamba and Luhya. It is instructive to note that these major vernacular languages that have lent Sheng a broad vocabulary did not come about by accident. On the contrary, they are a reflection of the cosmopolitan nature of Nairobi as it morphed into a city – or a collection of villages as some proffer – during the colonial times.

As the push and pull gathered momentum and intensified towards independence, the colonialists’ policies mutated in reaction to this.

And even before that, the colonialists’ policies had disrupted the way of life of indigenous communities;

for instance, the colonialists’ appropriation of agricultural lands meant that a number of Africans migrated to the cities as they did not have sustainable livelihoods back in the village or they could not afford the taxes imposed by the colonialists such as the hut tax. And once in the cities, these communities found themselves segregated into African quarters that is Eastlands – Kariakor (a corruption of ‘Carrier Corps’), Kaloleni, Maringo and so on.

Thus, was Sheng founded: English from the colonialists; Swahili from the coast as the defacto national language; Kikuyu, Dholuo, Kamba, Luhya languages as members of these communities, now lodged in the African quarters of Nairobi, found it necessary to interact with one another.

Further to this is that not all Africans in the city could be absorbed into European and Asian employment in what could pass as formal employment or the jua kali sector run by fellow Africans and what is still referred up to today as the informal sector (though this dichotomy is being challenged.

Man must eat and thus was born Nairobi’s underworld and who furthered Sheng in their criminal enterprise as a code to pass secret messages and evade law enforcement.

With time, their coded language would be known to those they wished not to be privy to their communications and which necessitated them to come up with new vocabulary every so often, hence the fluidity of Sheng.

Presently, this is the case and thus, the Sheng employed in Nairobi (indeed, in different estates in Nairobi) may be different from, say, the one that is employed in Mombasa or Kisumu or Eldoret.

This phenomenon that is the

fluidity of Sheng has also given rise to Engsh. Derived from English and Sheng, it sneaks among members of Nairobi’s uptown – affluent Nairobians who have settled in what was once the European quarters and which residents of Eastlands refer to as ‘Westy’, from Westlands, a rough guide being Uhuru highway as the boundary. In both instances, though, Sheng and Engsh is mainly anchored by the youth as the older populace tends to either Nairobi Swahili or English as the case may be; with room for code-switching as the need arises.

Essentially, code-switching is the practise of switching from one language to another and reflects group and class dynamics. For instance, Kenyans primarily identify by their ethnicity. Hence, the debate that ethnicity has positive connotations – positive ethnicity – as a celebration and pride in one’s identity as belonging to a certain community and related heritage and culture as a result. This in contrast to tribalism which is negative in that one gives one’s community members, say in employment, an undue advantage through an act or acts of commission and omission.

It can be argued that codeswitching happens almost on reflex.

Taking an example of two young men from Eastlands and who have secured employment on a company owned by an Englishman, it is only natural that they will switch from this to that language depending on the situation. When the Englishman is around, English will be the medium of communication between the three.

On their lunch break Sheng then takes over (or if they are older workers or workers who spent most of their lives back in the village and are from the same village, then it is mother tongue

for the duration of the lunch break).

In our above example, the two young men may identify with Sheng as a kind of mother tongue. This in the reality that they have been born and bred in the city; perhaps visiting their (their parents’?) ancestral land once or twice in the course of their lives; if they have one to begin with. How can one not know one’s mother tongue?

Someone might ask in shock. Our lives unfolded in the way it unfolded and we are better off for it, they might answer. Sheng blurs our tribes and the associated political and social venom based on tribe.

The person castigating them for not knowing to speak their tongue might then quote Ngugi wa Thion’go and his push for vernacular in literature, extrapolating this to their daily lives. That mighty nations - the US, the UK, Germany, Spain, China, France, Russia, Japan - are mighty as they have fully owned their languages in their communication and their technology. To which they may reply that English is not indigenous to the US, rather, native languages abounded such as Navajo. That and the fact that it is more or less a bilingual language with Spanish giving English a run for its money and that the US is a melting point of diverse languages and cultures. That the UK has English and Irish and Welsh and cockney in London and so on and so forth.

It is my contention that Sheng is here to stay and we are much better for it, its fluidity notwithstanding. As someone pointed out, Kenyans think in their mother tongue then translates their thoughts into English via Swahili.

I would say that Nairobians are a step ahead as they straightway move from the realm of Sheng into English at full speed.

PROSE MAGAZINE | AUGUST - SEPTEMBER 2017

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L E A D E R S H I P

Driving change through personal

disruption

T

he word disruption is oft associated with ominous signs of impending interference, disorder or even doom! It conjures imaginings of a dark tunnel with the boogie man on the other end, waiting to pounce any minute.

It is human to resist change. In an organisational context for example, there is almost always fear, and by extension, resistance to any changes that the management intends to institute. First there are jitters about job security, and justifiably so. Then there are jitters about what the new normal will be à la “but we’ve always done things like this”. This fear is heightened particularly when there is new management.

Personal disruption is an even scarier monster. This relates to self. It could be anything from quitting a habit or an addiction, it could be starting a new regime, switching career, moving to a new town, city or country. It doesn’t help that apart from the voices of self-doubt playing broken records in our minds, there are also those close to us who (while trying to be “helpful”)

pour cold water on our ideas or our efforts.

Cognitively we know that all growth happens out of the comfort zone. And that the only way to get out of this comfort zone is to disrupt oneself. Emotionally, however, the mere thought of stepping out is sufficient for us to take to the bed for a week because of fear. Yet that is the stuff that growth is made of. There can be no growth without change.

Emotionally, it’s a different story all together. It also doesn’t help that most self-help books that we read tell us to imagine the life that we want to live then go after it, hammer and tongs. However, it’s not as straight forward as this. The first step to stepping out of your comfort zone is to question deeply held beliefs that you have hitherto regarded as gospel truth.

It becomes difficult to see life through any other lens.

If change scares you a lot, start with small goals, like waking up 15 minutes earlier or exercising for 5 minutes a day. It will gradually build your confidence. To paraphrase Francis

of Assisi, start with what is necessary, then do what it possible, soon you shall be doing the impossible.

The second step to disrupting yourself is to be committed change.

That’s why starting small is so important. Commit to one small change at a time. Trying to do change in many areas of your life will simply overwhelm you and set you up for self-sabotage.

Self-sabotage happens when we subconsciously create problems and crisis that keep us in our familiar zones.

That is why is it not usual for people who win the lottery to find themselves worse off than they were after they squander the money. Self-sabotage is an avoidance technique aimed at keeping you stuck.

Finally, be patient with yourself. Change takes time, patience and effort. Moving too fast towards what you want to achieve is a recipe for a breakdown, so is wanting instant results or seeking instant gratification.

Approach change as you would a marathon; pace yourself and preserve your energy for the long haul.

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T H E

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FAC E

O F

L E A D E R S H I P

PROSE MAGAZINE | OCTOBER - NOVEMBER 2017

PETER

MUGENDI

P

eter Mugendi is a director at Transformational Business Network (TBN). A very passionate gentleman, he is a father to two children, Ngatha and Lawi. This, he says, is what he considers as his first calling; fatherhood, being a husband and a father. Away from family, he is very passionate about his continent, Africa.

This in view of the fact that though Africa has vast resources, it is beset by numerous challenges. Peter believes that Africa can be very great, and so, from very early on, he states that he looked forward to contributing towards Africa economic empowerment. It is his conviction that the moment Africa is able to use her resources prudently, then it will become great.

Specifically, Peter’s contribution is in the area of business and entrepreneurship? Why? He believes that it is in entrepreneurship

that most of the pressing challenges the continent faces will be solved.

In moving from dependency to selfsufficiency, Peter opines that the African mindset that our problems are caused by somebody else, hence not owning them, is where the challenge begins. This leads us in expecting somebody else to solve our problems as well as deriving a false sense of comfort in not bearing the responsibility for them. Which said thing is replicated in business, in education and in families. Hence the transformative agenda.

With a background in economics and finance and a banking career spanning 15 years, in retrospect, Peter believes that this lead him to embark on the transformative agenda for entrepreneurs. This saw him pursue an MBA in Spain, and which, in turn, was informed by his experience working in microfinance institutions.

Working with microfinance institutions convinced him of the need for better interventions in meeting the needs of the small business person as opposed to those proffered by the big banks.

For instance, the realisation that not everyone is an entrepreneur.

At Transformational Business Network, Peter states that their focus is on the entrepreneurs to scale and grow their businesses. It is their belief that they need to identify the real entrepreneurs. And that when they identify the real entrepreneurs, they need to spot and build their capacity.

Further, when their capacity is built and where there is clear incentive from within them that pushes them to succeed. Peter admits that, sometimes, this is not enough for the entrepreneur to succeed, hence the need for this entrepreneurship drive to be channelled. Once that is done, Peter states that one’s business is scalable.

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However, he says that it important to live for cause and which sees him mentor the youth.

He traces the journey of self-disruption to his younger self where they were encouraged to excel in school thus get good jobs; namely, as lawyers, doctors or engineers. Peter says that his entry into banking was accidental as he had wanted to be a doctor. That said, with a background in economics, his first job opening was in banking. In his time, he states that one’s first job often dictated the trajectory of one’s career.

As to why scale is very important for them at Transformational Business Network, he states that this is informed by the fact that not everybody is an entrepreneur. In which case, Peter proffers, the others have something to give and which is labour. Thus, by creating employment driven by real entrepreneurs, they are able to expand these businesses to beyond the borders of Kenya, and in the process, creating employment for, say, 3000 people; in which case, the entrepreneur solves more specific business than the average business.

Peter says that they then focus on how to structure the business; from the definition of one’s business model, to laying down strategy, to setting up systems and structures to enable

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the business to scale. This, he adds, is to prepare the business to receive investments. In totality, helping to tackle unemployment by providing employment for the youth who may not have the entrepreneurship zeal but are equipped with other skills. Hence, he adds, the need to focus on the few entrepreneurs whose businesses are scalable and can grow big.

Concerning the need to continuously disrupt oneself, Peter admits that he has not figured it out completely. However, he says that it important to live for cause and which sees him mentor the youth. He traces the journey of self-disruption to his younger self where they were encouraged to excel in school thus get good jobs; namely, as lawyers, doctors or engineers. Peter says that his entry into banking was accidental as he had wanted to be a doctor. That said, with a background in economics, his first job opening was in banking. In his time, he states that one’s first job often dictated the trajectory of one’s career.

Once in banking, though, via the graduate programmes at the time, Peter got a bit disappointed. Which said frustration turned very quickly into a process of self-searching. As he puts it, questioning what it was that he did not like in his job. In the end, he says that it was like God was asking him why he deserved something better. Peter states that this particular point was a turning point in his life.

This saw him do things differently the next day at his place of unemployment.

In short, solve a confounding challenge that was the reconciliation of a particular account and which saw him zigzag across three different branches of his bank. The result? Peter earned a fortnight worth of leave and promotion as well as having his immediate boss and the centre manager being promoted as well. Soon after, he was moved to the regional bank.

Peter says that it is as though the seed for his move into microfinancing was sown at the time.

PROSE MAGAZINE | OCTOBER - NOVEMBER 2017

Then, he was based at the bank industrial area branch and he would walk to walk from his residence at South B. On his way to work, he would encounter a group of children going to our school and who were from the nearby slum. He would often help them to cross the cross the road, yet constantly questioning why the lives of these children could not be better.

Later on, at a different branch of his bank outside the country, he started questioning why the bank was closing down the small accounts of teachers, with the inference that they were not important to the bank. This informed his shift from the big bank to a smaller microfinance institution back in Kenya, though he proudly states that his time there was a great learning experience and gave him certain disciplines that he still practices up to today.

Still on the shift from the big bank to a smaller microfinance institution, he admits that it was not easy. In essence, he equates this to golden handcuffs – that one can become so attached to the comforts and perks afforded by one’s job that one is unable to answer to one’s true call. Peter says that his shift was affirmed by his boss at the big bank who extended him a grace period of two months to return to the big bank should things at the microfinance institution not work out for him; said boss being a lifelong friend from then onwards.

At the microfinance, he faced different challenges in that the institution barely had structures and systems in place. For instance, Peter recounts an anecdote where he was required to look for a building to house a branch of the institution in Nakuru despite being a branch manager in Nairobi, during which he was recalled to Nairobi to interview prospective employees. This experience saw him being approached by an international non-governmental organisation to help set up their microfinance institution.

Peter admits that his decision to move

to World Vision Kenya was informed by a visit to their website. Namely, their mission statement that affirmed their desire to enable children live with dignity and which moved Peter back to the time he used to help the children cross the road on their way to school.

With time, though, Peter realised that though microfinancing improved the lives of some small business people, for others, it did not; even drowning some in debts and leading to the attachment of their personal items. This called for a radical disruption in how he conducted his affairs. Through this, he was able to attend an executive leadership course in Barcelona, with modules conducted in different countries from around the globe to expose them to the dynamics of global business. Which said experience made him feel that Africa was not doing enough and that there was a crucial need to talk to the entrepreneurs.

In his perspective, Peter states that entrepreneurship is about solving problems by looking at one’s environment and figuring out the inconveniences. Then monetising this.

He wondered what would happen if one was to give African entrepreneurs an environment where they could really thrive. This would enable them to shift from the mindset of waiting for external help in arriving at solutions to their problems to providing their own solutions. He says that this the core of Transformational Business Network in that, first and foremost, they need to transform the mindset of the entrepreneur. Thus, moving the entrepreneur from doing business to just earn money to a point of deriving meaning in their business. This, coupled with non-negotiable values and convictions and which lays a solid foundation for the business.

Peter says that they then move from the entrepreneur to the business model. This includes defining the business model, to laying down the strategy, to setting up systems

and structures that can help one to scale. Then, the entrepreneur is ready to receive investments into the business. He says that this is informed by the knowledge that there are a lot of investors out there with lots of business, but they are unable to find investor-ready businesses. By preparing businesses to be investorready, then the entrepreneurs are able to scale as this requires a lot of investments. Peter states that the business is now ready to move to the next stage, that of expanding into new markets.

Their aim at Transformational Business Network is to see an increasing number of scalable businesses that are run by credible people and who have good capacities to scale up. This way, there will be an increasing number of multinationals coming out of Africa and Kenya and thus see employment being created.

Peter admits that, presently, the number of multinationals in Kenya are very few and that, in all probability, their reach extends only to Rwanda, Uganda, Tanzania and South Sudan.

To illustrate this, Peter recounts a successful case study in which they helped a business lady dealing in diapers, sanitary towels and associated merchandise derive purpose from her business, thus being able to scale up her business considerably.

Peter states that what they are doing at Transformational Business Network is generating specific interventions in dealing with real entrepreneurs; thus, businesses having a multiplier effect in the community.

That the greater the challenges, the more the opportunities and the greater the businesses that will emerge in Africa. In summary, that Transformational Business Network has one specific contribution to make in this market; transformed businesses and an entrepreneurial ecosystem that is helping businesses to thrive.

heir aim at Transformational Business Network is to see an increasing number of scalable businesses that are run by credible people and who have good capacities to scale up. This way, there will be an increasing number of multinationals coming out of Africa and Kenya and thus see employment being created.

CURRENTLY READING

PROSE MAGAZINE | OCTOBER - NOVEMBER 2017

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P H OTO G R A P H Y

Self-portrait by Falk Kagelmacher

FALK

Kagelmacher

A

s he puts it succinctly, Falk Kagelmacher is a man focused on his visual senses. He adds that as some people have an affinity for music while others like to talk and that as some learn stuff better by reading and others by hearing, he needs to see. He adds that he is a visual guy, constantly seeing things and relating things to others. Falk believes that he was always like that and which saw him study architecture and urbanism and information visualisation in Switzerland. He says that it comes down to computer-art; how to visual digital information.

About his photography journey, Falk says that he started as an architect where he worked in an office designing for clients. However, he wanted to be creative in a different way and which say him try video-art.

He was constantly unhappy though as this meant that people needed to stare into a computer-screen to see his work. Then, he tried to do realtime video art, with live projections.

This, he says, was great, though also limited to technical media such as

projectors and screens. Then, he was using a Midi-keyboard to compose visuals to music and which he likens to a VJ (video deejay) who creates visuals for dance-parties.

With time, Falk started exploring photography because it is simple to watch images on a screen, phone, paper, on a print and which he says made our world become very visual. This made him perceive photography as a real, simple, omnipresent, ubiquitous media. In addition, he adds that his training as an architect always helped him to ‘see’ things.

On his art as documentary and street photography, he explains that his work as an urban designer influenced him. This as he loves to explore cities and the urban living environment of people. Falk adds that he loves to stroll through cities, eat strange food and talk to strangers.

He says that he does not take photos to be published as a documentary, on the contrary, he loves to see how humans arrange themselves in different settings. He terms street life as a beautiful and exciting thing. As

Falk says that he started as an architect where he worked in an office designing for clients.

However, he wanted to be creative in a different way and which say him try video-art. He was constantly unhappy though as this meant that people needed to stare into a computer-screen to see his work. such, whenever he comes to a city, he chooses a centre, perhaps, a coffeeshop. He then sits for hours, enjoys the local food and drink; then, walks around this hub, creating expanding circles on his way to explore the area.

He says that, usually, if he takes some time, it is inevitable that he has to come into contact with the people.

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On his views regarding photography as a career, Falk says that these are interesting times.

This as technology has become very professional and affordable in that, basically, everyone has a brilliant camera in his or her pocket.

He points out that, for instance, his current smartphone has much more capabilities compared to his early digital cameras. He adds that this means that, basically, everybody can shoot great images and it is his belief that technology is completely irrelevant as, though it helps, it does not make your pictures better. He thinks that the images are being created in the mind of the photographer as well as in the viewer’s mind. Falk says that a good photo makes him think and that he starts to imagine. He believes that it is possible to pursue a career in photography as he reiterates that a good picture does not rely on technology; rather, on the capability of the photographer to create a story in this one picture. He states that this is the challenge and that his on his way to understanding that as he tries to do that.

As to the relation between architecture, urbanism and computer art and the practice of photography, Falk states that as an architect and urban designer, you are trained to actively see, perceive, notice and recognise things. On the other hand, photography also became a way for him to express his thinking, his experiences and an opportunity to express his feelings.

Having lived in China for 14 years, how does the Chinese culture – in terms of its people, art, food, philosophy, weather, socioeconomic and political conduct and so on – compare to German culture? In answer to this, Falk says that on the first view, you might say that we are completely different. In contrast, he says that he felt more

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of a foreigner in Switzerland than in China. He states that when he moved to Switzerland, he thought that it could not be that different from Germany as they share a similar language and look the same. However, every day, he would stumble on these small differences. On the other hand, when he moved to China, he knew he looked different and talked different. This found him looking for similarities; which he emphasises way a completely different approach. As such, he started to relate with the people. This made him realise that we all share some similarities; we love good food, we love company, we have similar problems. He adds that China also helped him to see Germany from a different angle and as a results, he contends that he is more relaxed now.

Concerning learning a new English that is Mandarin, Falk states that for some reason, it was not so difficult to learn Mandarin. He says that he can converse fairly well though he is not good when it comes to writing in Mandarin. He always thinks that, perhaps, this may have something to do with his approach; that he looks for similarities or common ground with people and which he contends makes communication a bit easier. He adds that he was very bad in learning other languages at school but that it seems that as soon as he did it himself, it was actually quite easy.

And how do the various Chinese cities such as Beijing and Chongqing compare to each other or to German cities such as Munich?

Falk says that he loved to live in these big Chinese cities. For instance, Chongqing, with 33 million people, is a big city, as big as Austria and he is amazed at how these huge cities work and how people live in them. In contrast, their biggest city in Germany has less than 4 million people. He opines that though life in Germany is very easy, it is also very regulated

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and they may have lost the art of improvisation.

Comparing Munich to other cities such as Kigali, Istanbul or Mallorca, Falk states that Munich is a great place to live a comfortable life.

This as it is clean, safe, beautiful and busy though it does not challenge one. On the other hand, Istanbul was a bit challenging as it is old and full of history. He states that he loves to explore this: History and future.

People and food. That the image of Munich is dominated by the Bavarian Art of Live. In addition, it is quite an interesting place to live; though, he came here as it offers a great airport.

As such, he can go everywhere from there, say to Mallorca, for example, and the flight is short and inexpensive.

In Mallorca, he states that life is comfortable though he enjoys being there for a week or two before he needs to move on. He adds that what he really liked there was the light and the atmosphere and that life there is quite slow.

When tasked to elaborate on the Ferropolis as one of his photography theme, Falk states that the Ferropolis is a historic monument of a former industrial part of Germany.

Having worked there for several months, the industrial remains caught his eye. He says that the remains are wonderful in their way; how they get old and blend into the surrounding.

He adds that although they are manmade, there are no people at all and that this is a strange, nearly deserted part of Germany. He says that perhaps he wanted to show the living area of people but without people in it.

Regarding some of his most memorable events within and without his photography, Falk states that still, life in huge cities such as such as Shanghai, Beijing or Chongqing, where 10, 20 or 30 million people live in small areas is what interests him. He recounts an anecdote where he had

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George Ogutu Photography Falk Kagelmacher Photography Photo: George Ogutu Photography

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George Ogutu Photography Falk Kagelmacher Photography Photo: George Ogutu Photography

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George Ogutu Photography Falk Kagelmacher Photography

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no change in his pockets and the taxi driver said that he would wait for him to come back after lunch and pay him as Falk had told him so. He says that he loves how people keep a personal relationship even in these large cities.

On his photography workshops around the world, Falk says that such workshops are wonderful. Usually, he does not teach, he adds, but they explore photography together. He states that it is great to work together with other people and that it is a good feeling if other photographers want to learn from you. Plus, very often, they get very positive feedback from the participants. At the same time, he says that he also gets to learn and which helps him to go on with his work. This in the form of exploring new ways and new viewpoints. He also stays in contact with the participants whereby they share and discuss their work and ways to improve it.

On the subject of photography equipment, Falk says that he is using quite special equipment for his work. He adds that he had the opportunity to earn some money when he was in China and which he invested in a Leica. Currently, he is using a digital Leica M (Type 240).

He also has several lenses including a Leica 16-18-21 mm f:4 Wide-AngleTri-Elmar, a Leica 35 mm Summilux and a Leica 50 mm Noctilux. He adds that he does not buy equipment very often and that his camera is a bit oldfashioned and has no Auto-Focus. He also uses Prime-Lenses and though they do not have a zoom, they can do one thing just perfect; they make nice images. His feelings is that though he did spend quite some money in the beginning, he has used the equipment for many years and that it is just a pleasure to use a Leica.

When queried on capturing images of the same place in different periods such as Istanbul, he says that he wanted to show the development of the city. Falk says that when he went there for the first time, he was focusing on a different feeling in that he wanted to explore the city.

However, on his second visit, he realised that the city was changing fast. As a result, he tried to focus on some old part of the city which he reckoned would be destroyed very soon. He states that he likes the colours there and that he also wanted to explore the environment of the people who still live there.

On exhibitions and awards, Falk says that he received a documentary award in China and has had exhibitions in China, Germany and, recently, in Kigali. He states that currently, he does a lot of work for their museum there in Munich, the “Pinakothek der Moderne” He adds that it took him several years to understand that perfection is not important. Rather, what is most important is the story behind a picture. This, he contends, is so difficult to achieve. He says that although he tries hard, he constantly feels unsatisfied.

As to who he looks up to concerning photography and any photographers he is mentoring, he says that they have a nice interesting WhatsApp group from their last workshop in Kigali. Falk states that they become friends and now share and discuss their work as they also want to improve; hence the essence of sharing pictures and talking. He recaps that he loves it if a picture makes him think. He adds that, usually, he gets caught with colours and that he gets stimulated by a composition of interesting shapes and colours.

Falk says that there are several artists whom he follows and he thinks that he spends at least an hour every day during his mid-morning coffee to check on new photos. Sites he has visited recently to get inspired include http://thisisnthappiness. com and https://2.cargocollective. com . He also likes the work of other photographers such as: Fan Ho from Hong Kong, which he makes in black and white; Sergio Larrain (also in black and white); and Saul Leiter. He also likes the abstract work of Philip Keel in his project ‘Splash’ and ‘Colour’ and opines that he can also learn a lot from William Eggleston.

On travel advice pertaining to photography, Falk states that when he was in Kigali, he was amazed by the different light. This as all the colours were strong and different and which he would love to explore further. He states that he loves Hong Kong for urban photography as it has great settings, great light and great settings. That aside, he states that he believes that there are always enough opportunities at home. Why? He contends that we may think that we have seen it all in our city; but he thinks that you could spend a lifetime just to make pictures of an apple and which distils to the adage that ‘The grass is always greener on the other side.

On his last word on photography, Falk says that he learnt that a story behind the images is the most important thing. He extends that he also learnt that you have to know the craft. That you need to understand the rules and the theory – then you need to break the rules.

Falk’s work can be accessed at http:// www.falkk.tv/ .

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T R AV E L

ROAD TO

KAREN Photo credit: CezaryWojtkowski

Karen Blixen Museum Photo credit: Bradatata

K

aren. Roysambu. Dagoretti Corner. Zimmerman.

Isak Dinesen. Karen-Blixen. Out of Africa. Happy Valley. Ngong Racecourse. Nairobi agricultural and breeders’ shows. Polo and horseracing. And now, the hunger for real estate. These are the words that comes to mind when I think of Karen.

Karen – lush, opulent, royalty, gentry and now, brokers. An estate that borrowed its name from its most famous resident, Karen- Blixen, full names: Baroness Karen Christenze von Blixen-Finecke (née Dinesen; 17 April 1885 – 7 September 1962, who wrote under the pseudonym Isak Dinesen). Roysambu, The Royal Surbubs; Dagoretti Corner, The Great Corner or ‘ndagurite’ – meaning the Englishman appropriated the land for himself without paying for it; and Zimmerman, a foreigner that lent the estate his name. Perhaps, it is only Karen, out of all the areas that borrowed their names from foreigners around Nairobi, that is hungover from its colonial past.

Karen can be accessed from Wilson Airport or the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, with the Wilson Airport being much closer as it is pretty much its neighbour in that the airport and the estate straddle Langata constituency. From the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, a myriad of major arteries and feeder roads lead into the estate. If connecting from the Langata side via Mombasa Road into Langata Road, the journey is pretty straightforward.

In short, a relatively wide road that is Langata Road and the sighting of a middle-class estate that unfolds from South C to Madaraka to Nairobi West to Langata.

A mall here and a mall there. Stalls selling clothes and footwear and consumables and groceries, though of better construction than those found in poorer neighbourhoods.

A man hawking groundnuts (elsewhere, they call them peanuts) and a woman roasting ‘mahindi choma’ – maize roasted on the cob; which is a must try delicacy. And while at it, feel free to spice the cob with grounded pepper applied via a lemon cut in half for a slice of heaven…

If travelling to Karen via Ngong Road, the journey is much more colourful. Which colour it picks right from Dagoretti Corner as Ngong Road separates into Naivasha Road and Ngong Road. There at Dagoretti Corner is headquartered the meteorological department for all things weather and where students attending Nairobi public secondary schools have their first outing on joining Form One. Adjacent to it is the famous showgrounds at Jamhuri Park – the Nairobi ASK (Agricultural Society of Kenya) Show, recently, the Nairobi (ASK) International Trade Fair, still ‘Show’ as per local parlance.

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pleasant memories for many of Nairobi’s denizens. For those who attended public primary schools, there was always that third time composition (essay) titled ‘My visit to the Agricultural Show’. As Friday was an off-day to attend the fair, it was expected that pupils would be taken there by their parents. That is, assuming the school had not made internal arrangements for its pupils to be ferried there at parents’ cost (a side hustle for the enterprising deputy headteacher). Else, an enterprising sibling would hustle one’s employed sister to give him money to take the nephew and the niece to the show and such and such. And should he want to trade in his own branded tea, he will be referred across the road to the precincts of the Tea Board of Kenya.

Now, you might think that the Show is a platform for farmers and dealers in farm equipment, machinery, stock, markets and inputs to connect.

It is. To an extent though. For the pupil and the student from Nairobi and from without, it is an occasion for pure fun and wonderment. From face painting, paper caps held in place around the head by a ribbon (sadly, a practise borrowed by the stingy politician – or his broker - saving money on brand materials), to merrygo-rounds, ice-cream floss-candy and happenings at the arena, the fun never runs out. For the young man coming of age, there is the disco or ‘DS’ – 10,000 watts of loudness that lends meaning to the phrase ‘Saturday Night’. Meanwhile, the serious student is chided by his fellow students as he makes copious notes on potatoes varieties and the different breeds of milk [producing] cows.

The agricultural showgrounds too host breeders’ shows, polo games and the Sunday car bazaar on other days away from the show. Moving on, there is Ngong Forest and the

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Nairobi War Cemetery for soldiers killed in the Second World War. An aside; there is the likelihood of getting stuck in traffic along the stretch from Dagoretti Corner to Lenana School and even beyond. Worry not though.

You can buy crisps and bananas to munch away the time as you explore an African carved mask or China-made sunglasses from the hawkers who dot the road. Else, you can chew on some pieces from a roadside vendor. These are sold in two varies – those with joints for those who want to exercise their jaws, or joint-less for those with softer mandibles.

And should you not be in a hurry, you can turn back to Adams Arcade and to Toi Market for some denim or khaki pants and cowboy hat for your safari to other beautiful and majestic areas in Kenya. That, or you might stop at one of Dagoretti Corner’s restaurant for a drink, some nyama choma or Mama Oliech’s sumptuous fish. And should your car break down or need a clean, there are handy mechanics and carwash around.

If you are of an inquisitive nature, you will learn that the mechanics are Luo and the car washing is done by the Kikuyus. A proud people (in the positive sense of the word), they can’t stoop low to washing cars. On the other hand, there is money to be made in washing cars, hence the Kikuyus. In the course of the business day, they will banter and trade insults as they are on the opposing sides politically, then move together at lunchtime for some nyama choma or fish. On weekends, they will alternate between Tony Nyadundo’s or Jalamo’s ohangla and Kigia’s or Murimi’s mugithii; and go to each other’s funerals and weddings and harambees. Perhaps, illustrative of the common Kenyan politician phraseology that ‘political competition is not political enmity’ in action and at a lower level from the politician’s own

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class. These politicians living further down the road in Karen proper.

As you move down the road a bit further on your way to Karen, you will come across the Ngong Racecourse. But before that, on either side of the road, will be furniture makers and flower and grass (not that kind of grass) dealers. Of exotic designs with an African flavour, the furniture is priced lower than that to be found stocked in an upmarket mall, with the clientele being the same – affluent Nairobians. For instance, a bed made of slender wood trunks and which is basically a tree trunk cut into appropriate lengths, stripped of its bark and joined into a bed. While an Englishman from Karen might interpret this as communion with nature, my friend Dickson is of a contrary opinion. Were he stock his house with furniture of such a manner, his relatives from Bungoma might infer that he practices witchcraft. The furniture makers deal in wood and metal. Among them too are to be found metal sculptors (who weld metal into gates and wildlife), dealers in canvas (brolly shades and as tarpaulins for cargo-ferrying vehicles) and decorative stone dealers (terrazzo and marble headstones). The flowers and grass dealers trade in various flowers, grasses and seedlings.

On to the Ngong Racecourse.

The racecourse is famous for the fortnightly horse racing (and by extension, betting), its golf course and the annual Concours d’Elegance.

Now, unlike its relative polo that is held at the neighbouring showgrounds and dominated by the country’s elite, the racecourse is much more accessible. Accessible in terms of the venue, sponsorship and horse ownership. In terms of access to the venue, the audience stand is basically divided into two; a free stand in which no entry payment is required and a premium stand (this term being

very loosely used in that entrance is pegged at only two hundred shillings per head. The difference between the two basically being that it contains the winners stand where jockeys who win in their races (and the corresponding horse-owner) are paraded for a photo-op.

At a relative cost, a corporate or an individual can also sponsor a race or the whole’s day event – a subtle marketing tool for companies.

In terms of horse-ownership, there is opportunity to co-own a horse as a group and share in its winnings should it win. On betting, one can bet (with bets starting at forty shillings) on the races of the day as well as on races from around the world as broadcast from the different TV screens in the venue.

Just after Ngong Racecourse is Lenana School, a national boys’ boarding high school. Formerly known as Duke of York School.

Part of its façade borrows from its colonial past in terms of architecture, with later additions restricted by budgetary constraints.

Famous alumni from the school include Richard Leakey, a Kenyan paleoanthropologist, conservationist and politician; Philip Murgor, a prominent lawyer, chief prosecutor and presidential candidate; and John Sibi-Okumu, a Kenyan actor and journalist.

On to Karen proper and where you will encounter a secondhand Land Rover dealership (never progressing to third-hand as these cars are forever); a brand that is the very epitome of English aristocracy.

Of course, Karen is moving with the times and you will see other brands like the Mercedes and the Volvos and the BMWs and the Audis (big cars – big in the sense of prestige – once referred to as ‘Beamers’, with the BMW model as the base) along the road (and the whole extended

family that is the Toyota brand). You may even come across a Ferrari or a Porsche and old models of cars that grace the Concours d’Elegance.

Quiet boulevards and even quieter homes in gated communities and restricted access, Karen is a majestic place at its core. Once royalty, it is slowly losing its lustre as developers subdivide and build apartments on its periphery, slowly eating into its core. This hunger to be a part of Karen, of its glory, is fed by a growing middle-class intent on achieving the prestige that comes with associating with Karen.

That, and land pressure as Nairobi’s burgeoning population cries out for accommodation; with developers taking advantage of expiring land leases or ageing owners in their acquisition of the prime estate here. That said, Karen as royalty is bound to be around for some years to come considering that it hosts a litany of who-is-who in Kenya: Kenya’s deputy president, a former prime minister and vicepresident, a host of members of parliament and other prominent Kenyans, numerous Catholic orders or spiritual retreats, and so on.

The climax. Karen Museum.

The heart of what was once KarenBlixen’s domain. And to fully immerse yourself in the experience, a read (as Isak Dinesen) or a watch (almost a faithful rendition of the book by Meryl Streep and which became a template for movies - by European set in Africa) of her Out of Africa is a must.

In short, the memories contained in the museum are of the 4500-acre farm where KarenBlixen lived for a time and associated memorabilia and artefacts; whose essence behoves one to actually pay a visit and where a guided tour will partially reveal the richness of KarenBlixen’s life.

Karen Blixen Photo credit: Wikimedia Commons

Out of Africa Karen née Dinesen, a wealthy Danish woman moves to Kenya, then, the British East Africa.

This is after she is spurned by her lover, Baron Hans Gustaf von Blixen-Finecke, a Swede of nobility. In Kenya, she is married to the lover’s twin brother, Baron Bror von Blixen-Finecke, thus acquiring the title Baroness Karen Christenze von Blixen-Finecke.

Her husband though squanders his wealth and cheats on her, which ultimately leads to their divorce.

In the meantime, though, they establish a coffee farm and she gets acquainted with Denys Finch Hatton, a local big-game hunter.

Soon, they become lovers but when Denys dies in a place crash, she relocates to Denmark where she becomes an author of renown, writing her experiences in Africa.

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B O O K

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R E V I E W

his is an excerpt from Blowing Up, one of the stories in Malcolm Gladwell’s What the Dog Saw. In the story, Gladwell narrates the story of Nassim Taleb, a Wall Street trader, and whom he juxtaposes against a money manager by the name of Victor Niederhoffer.

The narration begins with Taleb paying Niederhoffer a visit at Niederhoffer’s invitation. Then Taleb’s reputation in options trading is growing, hence the invitation.

Taleb states that he spends seven hours watching Niederhoffer trade.

His take-home message? That

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though Wall Street believed that when it came to trading in the stock market, it all boiled down to skill, expertise and insight, making huge amounts of money in the stock market could simply be the result of sheer dumb luck.

Which phenomenon Taleb refers to as a ‘Black Swan’ – in the sense that, once, it was believed that all swans were white, but the sighting of a black swan disapproved the notion. Consequently, a trader in the stock market might be having a good run; investing in shares deemed worthy by conventional wisdom and enjoying good returns.

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Then, out of the blue, an event such as 9/11 may happen and wipe out all his investments in the stock market. In summary, and which informs Taleb’s investment strategy when it comes to playing the stock market, the inevitability of disaster is a viable investment strategy in the long run.

In The Ketchup Conundrum (that is tomato sauce ye Kenyans), Gladwell narrates how Heinz came to be the standard for ketchup in the US. In the story, though other products such as mustard comes in multiple varieties, Heinz has consistently been the default

There is more courage and heroism in defying the human impulse, in taking the purposeful and painful steps to prepare for the unimaginable.” ketchup brand, managing to stave off competition from other brands, in part, because it just tastes right (here in Kenya, it is my contention that this is true of Coke from the Coca-Cola company as opposed to other cola sodas from other soft drinks brands).

The story illustrates, in essence, that what may be true in terms of marketing and consumption patterns for one product may not necessarily be true of other products.

‘Who can be blamed for a disaster like the Challenger explosion?

No one, and we’d better get used to it.’ This statement is at the core of Blowup. In the narration, Gladwell states that there is a ritual to disaster in the technological era. This said ritual and which he terms as ‘a ritual of reassurance’ is meant to help us prevent a similar accident from happening courtesy of the findings from investigations into the accident; the equivalent of our local commission of enquiries. That being the case, Gladwell contends that this may be a case in futility in view of how human beings handle risk. A concept referred

to as risk homeostasis: that ‘human beings have a seemingly fundamental tendency to compensate for lower risks in one area by taking greater risks in another.’

What about the [birth control] pill? Liberation for hundreds of millions of women or unnecessary meddling in nature? Though certainly a controversial subjecting, this is not what Gladwell tackles in John Rock’s Error – though it has a tinge of this. In the narration, Gladwell dives into the female physiology; namely, matters menstruation, childbearing, hormonal therapy to regulate menstruation and conception, the link between the pill and cancer and striking a balance between the church and family planning. The gist of the story being how John Rock, the face of the pill, sought to normalise the pill, yet conform to the tenets of his religion.

And which, in the end, translated to the pill being taken daily for 21 days and a placebo for the other 7 days to complete the menstrual cycle; and which was not backed up by science.

And what is to be found in a typical American kitchen? In all probability, there is bound to be a Veg-O-Matic, a kitchen appliance with multiple uses (it slices, it dices – it’s slogan). And how did it get there? American have to thank one Ron Popeil – which really is what is captured in The Pitchman. With a backstory into how a family enterprise came to conquer the American kitchen market, Gladwell’s takes us right to the heart and the stomach of how it happened; show and tell, then harness new technologies for even greater reach of the market. That, after all has been sliced and decided, the way to a customer’s pocket via the stomach is to make a great sales pitch.

In Ron Popeil’s tale, readers may perhaps draw parallels with one of the repeated story on the net.

That a young man from a small town in Texas or Idaho got employed in

California or New York as a salesman on a Friday is some all-under-oneroof mall. Well, come Monday and the owner of the business summoned him to his office, enquiring as to the sales he had managed. “Only one.” He said, earning a rebuke from the owner.

“Well, you will have to do better if you want to stay employed here.

We average 20-30 sales in a day.” At which the poor young man looked at his feet, downcast.

Now, the owner was about to dismiss when, asking him (as an afterthought, I must add) the cost of the sale. “120, 789 dollars.” The young man replied nonchalantly, catching the owner in surprise. “And how did you manage to do that?” He asked.

“See this man came looking for fish hooks. In the process, I managed to sell him a new fishing rod. Then I suggested to him some marvellous fishing spot outta town deep in the woods. Well, to get there, he’d need a sturdy four-wheel drive Chevrolet and a twin outboard. And how did the pitch start? The man had come to get some paint brushes for his wife’s weekend classes. ‘Gonna be a long weekend mate…’ I said.”

Other stories in the book include True Colours – a tale on hair dye and the liberation of the American woman; Connecting the Dots; Late Bloomers; Most Likely to Succeed, on talent scouting and why it gets it right on occasion; and Dangerous Minds, on why there is no such thing as the archetypal mass murderer, rapist or indeed, any of the various deviants that is the criminal. The book is divided into three parts: Part One - Obsessives, Pioneers, and Other Varieties of Minor Genius; Part Two – Theories, Predictions, and Diagnoses; and Part Three – Personality, Character, and Intelligence. In all, it is a worthy and interesting read, more so, in the anecdotal nature of the various stories that add up to the volume.

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Photo credit: SergeyNivens

Listen to the message

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H

ave you ever done karaoke?

You should. Preferably, when in the company of family and friends and get to thoroughly embarrass them by your bad singing – singing being relative in this case. Well, recently, I gave it a go for the third time in my life.

See, I did my first karaoke when I was in class three. A family friend had invited us to their church for some occasion or other and since this meant my mother could skip making us lunch as there would be food at this church, she readily accepted the invitation and dragged us along. Now, where we attended church, ministration is left to the father and the singing to the choir while the rest of us hapless souls mumble along to the chorus.

In this church, though, things were being conducted differently.

There was a session for preaching and a session for singing besides the usual interludes in which other church business (a collection for the roof’s repairs, tithing and so on) is transacted.

And when it came to matters singing, one jotted down a request note indicating one’s name and the song to be sung. The note would be passed to an usher and who would pass it in front to one of the elders seated at the front just behind the pastor and facing the rest of the congregants. In the spirit of communion, I precisely did that.

Well, you can imagine the shock on my mother’s face when I was summoned in front to tarnish the family’s reputation.

And in true fashion, I owned the pulpit. “God is good, all the time, and all the time, God is good. I am James Magololi and I am going to sing a song entitled ‘Every day is a new day’. Please, I urge you to listen to the message in the song and not the voice.” Laughter.

That my mother did not afterwards enrol me for private music lessons says a lot about my singing potential.

Karaoke part two. High school.

Weekend challenge. We had joined other schools from our province in a neighbouring school for a Christian Union event. Then, the bragging rights were just how fresh one’s school bus

was; which said fact earned one cred (or not) from members of the opposite sex. That, and the small matter of having your name read out during Thursday’s lunch as the proud recipient of a ‘missive’ from a girls’ school. Else, you would be tagged as a ‘breezer’- someone who rated lowly on the totem pole in the matter of ‘tuning’ girls.

Now, considering that our school bus slanted more towards being a lorry than a bus; actually, a Bedford lorry whose engine and front cabin was a third of the bus, I had to be creative. To fully appreciate my predicament, know that ours was more of a multi-purpose vehicle and nothing was beneath it. Hence, this bus ferried firewood, cabbages, sacks of potatoes and water drums on those days when water when drinking and cooking water was not forthcoming from the city’s water pipes.

And its form reflected this.

Still, this is not to say that we were not a proud lot. On the contrary, we made it a point to park our means of transport next to the school with the most beautiful bus. Then, we would have the school driver switch off the engine ten yards from the intended parking spot. Alighting from the bus, we would make a spectacle as we huffed and pushed the bus to the parking spot – our grand entry. On some days, this strategy worked. On others, it did not. This challenge weekend was one and which saw boys from our school struggle to ‘tune’ unwilling girls.

Now, the event was scheduled in much the same way as a protestant church service being interdenominational in nature. There was singing and offerings and preaching and ushering and limited requests for those inspired to awe the crowd. The ushering being done by the teachers to shoo in students back to the massive school hall being used as the church. A fortnight prior to the event, I had recruited David for a duet. This David, leader of the school band and a seasoned guitar player. And rehearse madly we did.

It’s happening, with two performances to go before we are

called on stage for our turn. David is nervous and excuses himself to empty his bladder – his ritual for staving off stage fright – leaving the guitar with me. One performance to go and David is yet to return. It’s our turn now and we have five more seconds to come to the stage or the next performer is called on stage. Fact is, our chance to perform was pegged on us doing a duet with live guitar as there were enough accapelas, playbacks and choruses. Fact number two being that David was my prop to fight stage fright.

So now, there is me and the guitar on the front as my schoolmates cheer me. I might just be their redeemer today. The hall stills, then a murmur of disquiet begins to stir. I am fumbling with the guitar as the emcee for the day adjusts the microphones accordingly.

Mind you, this was my first time to hold a guitar. I strum, off-key, then do a few lines, which are key. Meanwhile, despite my nervousness, I am doing calculations.

One. I am not good at the guitar. Two, a fortnight of rehearsals has done me some good in that, were this a singing competition, I might just scrape into the next selection as one of the participants.

Three, I minimise the guitar playing and maximise on the vocals.

And boy! What a performance!

Bad guitar, wonderful lyrics and tonnes of confidence as my schoolmates cheered wildly! For my efforts, I got a standing ovation despite the laughter that occasionally engulfed the hall; with my ending line, after the curtsies, being the clincher: “Thank you for listening to the message and not to the words.”

And I got the girl, Imani (in the process, spending half of my pocket money on her; but she was the reigning Miss High School in our province and was worth every dime), and was put on special diet for a month for salvaging the fortunes of my school mates.

“If you can talk, you can sing.”

Proclaims the banner in front of me.

Yes, I am back in the city. I probably should do karaoke for a third time to get my creative juices flowing back as my greatest novel ever is suffering from writer’s block.

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F I C T I O N

Paradise

lost

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S

lip slidin’ away. The song. The Simon & Garfunkel live show; The concert in Central Park.

The one about Delores and a love so overpowering the man was afraid he would disappear. The one that smites fathers right at the heart: And I know a father Who had a son He longed to tell him all the reasons For the things he’d done He came a long way Just to explain He kissed his boy as he lay sleeping Then he turned around and headed home again…

This verse, so true, so brutal, so honest. It is a beautiful verse and it describes me. Only that I am the son.

The son headed home. You know how they say, that West is best, East is a beast and home is where a warm meal awaits you; there could be truth in it.

Allow me to explain myself.

I like to tell people that in the house where I grew up in, people could have finished supper without me.

That they could have finished supper without realising that there was a member of the house who happened to be absence during the eating, thus the need to save a bit of it for him. I like to exaggerate that I could have been gone for a week before someone in that house realised that I was missing. Then, in due course, they would have extended me a week to make my return before they took botheration with the police about my disappearance.

In my mind, I was like that Red Indian papoose. You know the one in the story who was kidnapped by two gringo villains. Nowadays, with all the political correctness flying left, right and centre, it would be a Native American kid and two villains of European extraction. Going by the book, these two gringos kidnapped the papoose, in their mind, a hefty ransom as they correctly stipulated that the

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papoose was the heir to a Red Indian chief.

Well, now, this kid is all wild as wild can be. First, on receiving the ransom letter, the chief says that they can keep the kid for all he knows.

He says that they could have asked for more gold and stuff considering that this was his one and only heir.

The chief was a stubborn fellow, they agreed. Give him time to cool down and the ransom would be forthcoming.

And they did take up his offer for a larger ransom.

Meanwhile, the papoose was all trouble. He burnt down their tent, punctured their waterskins, destroyed their food rations – which put the trio in a precarious situation considering that they had hidden in barren, rocky terrain in a cave. At risk of starvation, the gringos had sent the chief another ransom note, this time round, greatly lowering the ransom. Still, the chief was not to be swayed. Said that they could keep the kid; after all, kid or not, he had Injun blood in him. In fact, if they wanted to return him, they should do so while bearing 30 gold coins.

The happy ending to the story?

On the ninth day, the kid set one of the gringos’ clothes on fire while he was asleep – which clothes he was sleeping in. Totally exasperated, they bound the kid with rope, only to have him untie himself and cause yet more mischief.

At which point they tried to chase him away to no avail. Taunted and haunted, they gladly took up the chief’s offer, much the poorer for it.

So, with three parents – a father and two mothers – I grew up in a big house. I had breakfasts and suppers and the occasional lunch when I had not wandered off.

To me, this house was rather like a government ministry – a place where the government worker trades labour in exchange for the necessities of life.

In the case of the government worker, a salary; in my case food, shelter and school fees. Plus, the small matter of carrying forward the family name.

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This house, nothing outstanding about it. In fact, the only thing I can recall about it was the big cupboard. This cupboard, it housed all the china – utensils strictly reserved for visitors like the local pastor or for showing off to other women when my two mothers had women's guild meeting. This cupboard too contained all the foodstuff in the house, so it had cockroaches aplenty. So now that both our mothers were business ladies – and father a government man – us children had the whole house to ourselves.

The children. Three from my mother, four from the elder mother and liberty for all the mothers to whip us at will. Now that me and my other brother from the other mother were in the same grade, we remained at home in the morning. Thing is, where we attended our primary schooling, classrooms were limited. As such, class one used the classrooms in the morning while class two used them in the afternoon. We were in class two.

And being the only class two kids around, we had to play all by ourselves.

These idle mornings, we cooked mututu. Now, mututu proper was the powdery crumbling of Chebet’s cakes, the woman who spoilt our teeth by hawking cake around. In our conjecture, we knew that it was made from mixing maize and wheat flours and sugar and heating and stirring the mixture on a chapati pin.

Still sweet though not anything like Chebet’s and two sets of whipping in the evening from our mothers.

So, on those days when we did not feel like a whipping in the evening, we retreated into the big cupboard full of cockroaches. We would then hunt them down with our bows and arrows.

For the bows, we would pluck out a twig from the broomstick, bend it and string it at both ends. For arrows, we would whittle down one end of the sticks for a sharp point and groove the other end. At times, we would adorn the arrows with feathers and imagine we were tribal warriors. We would then

So, with three parents – a father and two mothers – I grew up in a big house. I had breakfasts and suppers and the occasional lunch when I had not wandered off. To me, this house was rather like a government ministry – a place where the government worker trades labour in exchange for the necessities of life. stick the arrows on what we imagined to be poison – a concoction of mashed roaches, dishwater and hydrogen peroxide – to make them lethal. Once we got tired of cockroaches, we would hunt other small rodents and insects outside the house.

Kanene. Kanene was the teenage kid next door. A ladies man, but more importantly, he could juggle to the count of a thousand; six hundred left foot – he was a leftie – and 400 hundred on his right foot. There were even songs we identified with him, ‘mukurara thiini kanini na kanene, tondu ni mwarega kuga mwana ni wao’ and ‘nasema kaenda nasema karudi, tusonge kusonga, kusonga kusonga. Ni mteremko… etc., etc.’ That small and big (or Kanini – a girl, and Kanene – a boy) would be spending the night locked up for refusing to admit whose baby it was; and some silly jingle about going up and down respectively.

The Concubine. A child hunting a lizard, arrow set along the wall for guidance. A death. That was Kanene and us, minus the death. So now we were outdoors hunting vermin and small rodents. So now we were hunting a gecko, my brother’s arrow set against the wall and who should happen along just as he released the arrow? Kanene. Now he is cursing and hopping like mad as the arrow got him on the arm and we have run away. For the rest of the day, we hid in a thicket some distance away; apportioning blame to one another should we

return him and find Kanene dead. Plus, discussing the potency of our poison and whether it could cause a big person such as Kanene to die.

Ruguru. Kajose’s niece. This Kajose, another neighbour. Kajose wore dreadlocks and we called him Ras Kajose. Now Kajose was slightly bonkers, with rumours having it that the cause was a family feud centred on their rental units. Ras Kajose lived right at the intersection of the road that lead to the adjacent upmarket Nella Estate.

He had built himself a shack using discarded pieces of wood, polythene bags and carton boxes as his beddings.

For company, he had a big, battery operated radio. And for a living, he did not beg. Rather, the rich people who were residents of Nella Estate gave him money and a nearby grocery shop and hotel gave him food. You would pass him there during the day and find him in deep discourse with one of Nella’s Estate; all in heavy and proper English.

So, another theory went that he had eaten a lot of books and gone mad as a result.

Now, Ras Kajose was a peaceful man by and large. Still, when he came home, meaning where his folks lived, his madness would manifest. Like the time he set fire on a tractor tyre and rolled it behind his father’s house, meaning to set it on fire. Were it not for the timely intervention of Tonny, his nephew and Rurugu’s sister, the house would have gone up in flames.

Ruguru. ‘Wakaguku, ruguru ni naku? Wakaguku, itherero ni nako’ – that was how we got Ruguru mad. Better yet when you had dug this worm that when you held it between your forefinger and thumb and enquired directions from it, it would point this was and that way (Wakaguku – the name of the worm – Where is west, ruguru? Where is east, itherero?). Ever the proper tomboy, she could hold her own in a fight with any of us. It was Ruguru who showed us how to sweat blood from the back of our palms. Then, we would smear saliva on the back of our hands, pour sand – procured from various constructions around us – on them, then pound them with the other hand on the cemented veranda. Then, blood would come out in tiny rivulets, and it would seem like we were sweating blood.

It was Ruguru too who taught us how to trap houseflies. This required that we roll up the legs of our trousers to expose our thighs. Then, we would apply generous amounts of saliva on our thighs to attract the houseflies. Sitting still, we would be holding a string of thread on either side of the thigh. Once a fly descended on the saliva, we would roll the thread along slowly on the thigh to where the fly was. The thread would then roll over on the front legs of the fly, thus trapping it. Afterwards, we would perform elaborate internments for the poor houseflies; complete with clay coffins and proper funeral rites

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including mass.

So now, we started playing pirates. Buried treasure. Ruguru had us bring her our pocket money every day for a whole month. Then, on one Saturday, we dug a catacomb of holes and buried the pocket money in one of the yards. Ever carefully, we levelled the ground afterwards and planted grass. We would converge the next week, at which time Ruguru lead us to believe that our treasure would have doubled or tripled. Converge we did. The grass was there and nothing seemed out of place. Still, when we finally located our catacomb of buried treasure. A week later, we were riding Ruguru’s new bike – which she told her mother she had won in a spelling bee competition in her school. Ever enterprising, she was charging us a shilling for every round (meaning a ride back and forth along an alley that extended for a hundred metres).

This was home to me. Then, we moved.

Lately, my parents had been fighting a lot. Meaning that my father was beating my two mothers a lot. He would come home drunk, then pick a quarrel with one of my others and start beating her. The other mother would then try to protect the other and us children would start shouting and crying. Then grandfather and neighbours would come in and try to calm father down. Perhaps, he should marry a third wife for balance, I once heard my grandfather mutter. Then, at least one wife would be on his side once the other two ganged up on him.

The beatings continued, which meant my other grandfather and grandmother and uncles from one of my mothers who did not have parents came. A goat was eaten, much talking was done and they departed. Which meant a lull in the beatings. Once they resumed, it was when we moved.

See, as business ladies, both my mothers had managed to buy their own houses. So now, my mother came to pick me up at a school which

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was a rarity. I could have asked her if something bad had happened back at home but she wore this stern look that suggested I'd get a whopping for asking nosey questions. Then again, lately, I had gotten used to things unfolding in their own pace. When we arrived home, there were two big lorries and furniture and stuff were being loaded into them. My other mother was there too and she was arguing with my grandfather who was imploring that she should let common sense prevail.

All my brothers and sisters were also present, huddled in a sorry batch as a few neighbours looked on in sympathy.

At the time, my father was abroad on some government mission or other.

As we boarded our cars which were trailing the two lorries, Ruguru came and gave me a quick peck plus some marbles. Mother let this slide.

Our two mothers moved into two houses in the same neighbourhood, which meant that boundaries starting creeping in between the two sets of children.

My mother now always wore a stern look whenever she was around and got upset quickly, which meant a whipping at the drop of a hat. She started sleeping out on occasion or coming home reeking of alcohol.

However, what I missed most was my other brother. We had gotten used to being together such that we could be confused for twin by strangers. Which is not to say that I never got along with my two siblings. Rather, ours was a cordial relationship borne of politeness and cooperation not to upset our mother.

Ruguru. I missed her a lot. I missed her playfulness. So, one day, my brother and I, boarded a bus and went to see her. And boy, was she glad at seeing us, especially at seeing me?

She updated us on what had transpired in our absence while we updated her on our new lives. Naturally, we went to greet grandfather where I had the first happy meal in months. At his prompting, we went to see father. How

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we were? Fine. Our mothers? Fine.

He offered to take the three of us out skating and considering how sad and small he looked, we just could not refuse his offer. Later, grandfather told us that he had lost his big government job – something about missing money or so, though grandfather was evasive in his telling. That night, we spent the night in our old house.

So now, we wake up to lots of shouting and police. In front of the house was my mother, drunk and hurling obscenities at my father.

Beside her and calm was my other mother with two policemen. My father looked crestfallen and just stood there as my mother rained blows on him.

Meanwhile, my other mother had gone into her car and departed with my brother. Afterwards, years later, my other brother told me that he had been warned to avoid my company as well as being shipped out to a primary boarding school in a different region faraway. I too started a life of wandering as I was shipped off to another boarding primary school in the neighbouring country. During the holidays, there being the option of residing at school for students who lived fairway, I would remain there.

Otherwise, spend the holiday in the home of this or that friend.

Years passed and life went on.

Then in college, I received a call that father was gone. That night, I broke down in tears. Still, I did not go home right away – for I had longed ceased to have a home. Rather, I travelled overnight and reached my father’s place on the day of his burial. We had a photo taken encompassing all the children and the two mothers among many other photos in the gallery. In the photo, no one is smiling. After the burial, I did not stay behind for lunch but excused myself right away. And Ruguru did attend the burial; in tow, a husband and a kid, properly a lady this time.

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