“Someday I am going to write about this town"

"we will survive because we must "

Before I showed up in Nanyuki, I had read and heard a lot about this two and a half street town with more Land-cruisers than faithful concubines. When people write about it, they talk about the nightlife, the British army, the tourist culture and even our own KDF training base. They talk about the airbase and the sweetest nyama choma in the country. I will not write about those things. They are obvious and stick out like an amputated hand in a surprise attempt at a handshake. I will take you to the side of town too many of us have become immune to seeing.  I will tell you about a Nanyuki you chose to ignore.

The town where abandoned children are born. 

In many towns and cities, you walk up to a taxi driver and ask him to take you to the children’s home. You say “the”, because why should there be more than one? Well, here you have to be very specific, the fist time I tried to have a boda boda rider take me to a children’s home, it took me 2 minutes to describe which one and he still took me to the wrong one. One I did not know existed.  

When I visited Nanyuki children home, I was in the company of mostly white friends. As I have found in most cases from travelling with foreigners, I tend to get ignored as the locals; mostly school kids mill around my lighter coloured companions. I am used to it, it doesn't bother me coz as a kid, I probably idolised white people face (thanks hollywood). 

Therefore,I was a bit taken aback  at the attention I  got at the home. Some of the kids singled me out and clung to my arms and whispered “uncle”, “uncle”, “uncle”. They did not want or expect anything from me, they just wanted to hang around and play with me.
Then out of the blacks, a little boy claws his way through my admirers and declares I am his dad. With his stubborn chin and little pudgy hands, he found (rather pushed)his way to my chest and clung to my neck in a tight and perhaps a little snotty hug. To my relief, a girl told him I was not his dad. I could not be because I was hers. It was said with so much conviction I half believed it.  It should have been funny. I smiled. I wept on the inside. 

make no mistake about that

 Later on, I was informed by the staff that these kids hardly ever see black male faces save for the staff. It is often women (both races) and white women were probably more common visitors than my black brothers.  Before someone goes pointing fingers at the British army, none of the kids I have seen so far looks like they were sired by anyone other than myself or my brothers and cousins. However I am not a genetic scientists so I will shut up about that. A social worker told me that the culture of prostitution that is so common in the town has resulted to so many unwanted children. (I don’t know what the last two words mean together).  I will stop writing now. 

PS.

The title was inspired by Binyavanga Wainaina's book.