My forever Yesterdays
(First published in the Twilight
Of the Exiles)
By Cyprian Fernandes
Soft, sweet, gentle things,
kisses from a whispering Nairobi breeze on any evening. I remember one of the
other loves of my life: Nairobi. My friends, many colours, many thoughts, many
dreams, trust, loyalty, poverty and riches, you don't count as money or wealth.
Watching the world go by in Nairobi National Park or fishing somewhere,
anywhere! Having tea (or coffee) with a pretty girl at the Tea House of the
August Moon opposite the Kenya Cinema. What is it that psychologically tricks
our taste buds into thinking that fruit and veg grown anywhere else other than
Kenya lacks taste, aroma, that just plucked freshness, and just does not taste
of that Kenya sweetness? And why is this particularly true of those gorgeous
matundas (passion fruit) that I used to eat by the kikapuful (basketful) at one
sitting, topped off with a couple of slices of pineapple. And what about the
madafu (tender coconut)? What is it about the Kenyan coast that makes it so
different? And all those (Indian) sweets, why do the laddoos, barfi, gulab
jamun and jelebies (Indian sweets) seem and taste so different, the sweetness
just right in the syrup, and laddoos moist but firm. Was it the water? Was it
the air? Green mangoes with salt and chilli powder, red paw paws and yellow
papaya. Days when Coke was a drink and Fanta Orange was the prize. When girls
smashed ripened pomegranate seeds on their lips or drank Vimto to make their
lips red, centuries before they were encouraged to wear the "devil's
colours" lipstick. They looked great au naturel! Grams and jugus
(groundnuts) cooked in hot sand are delicious, also charcoal grilled corn (maize)
and yam chips (muhogo yams), the fruit pappetas and pocketsful of jamlums or
jamuns, seasonally abundant. guavas (more salt and chilli), thick K.K.C. milk
cream with a little bit of sugar or joggery (black jaggery), sweet potato
cooked in the hot charcoal ashes, avocado with a little sugar or smashed in
milk (or with ice cream, like faluda, Indian milkshake), thick masala tea,
banana fritters and pancakes to die for ... so soft you never felt you ate
them, sweetened balls of popcorn and white sugared grams, syrupy dried nut
crunches, sugar and butter on hot chappattis, diwali sweets, Idd sweets,
Christmas sweets, wedding sweets, Nirmala's halwa (who can ever forget that)
sweet mandaasi, irio, maharagwe, skinny muchusi (curry) and the king of foods:
ugali. Roasted bananas and delish banana fritters. Like kisses, soft, sweet
pancakes with honey or fillings of grated coconut and jaggery! The fruit and veggie
carts outside our homes each morning, followed by the lullaby of the “chupa na
debe” (bottles and cans) men! The happy-go-lucky wabenzi (wabenzi were Mercedes-Benz
owners) tiffin carriers who took warm, daily cooked food for the bwanas
(Mr/menfolk in Swahili) in town. Stern fathers who rarely spoke to their
children and mums who fussed worse than mother hens, and you only learnt to
miss all that when they were gone, but you loved them every minute of your
life. Music: Fadhili Williams and Malaika opened a new world of music to the
uninitiated. Bata Shoeshine Boys and Inspector Gideon and the Police Band, who
played us a new kind of music with Kenyan soul.
Henry Braganza and the
Supersonics, The Bandits, the Rhythm Kings, Cooty's bands, The Wheelers, Max
Alphonso's amazing harmonica playing, Steve Alvares and his band and the
talented Alvares family, classical, jazz, dance and pop. Escape to Indian
movies at the Shan, Liberty or Odeon or the wonderful family musical parties or
those boisterous but wonderful Sikh weddings. Basking in the midday sun, not
too far from the hustle and bustle of the city, in the beautiful gardens where
children ran wild like butterflies on Saturdays and Sundays, where the family
gathered for an Indian picnic made in heaven. My nostrils are still filled with
the rich aromas! Dinner at too many Sikh restaurants or Punjabi snacks at tiny
bars in the suburbs or roast chicken at the Sikh Union, accompanied by four
fingers of scotch paraded as two fingers, the forefinger and the little finger.
The gentle advice from my many Sikh uncles! Puberty and growing up at all the
social clubs, especially the Goan clubs, the music, the dances, the girls, the
friends, the sports, the laughter and the carefree, happiest times of my life.
Working at the Nation: the most significant moments of my life! Lunch and
drinks any Saturday at the Tropicana and their brilliant salad tray! Faluda
(and Indian smoothie) at Keby's, the world's best samosas and aloo bajjias
(potato marinated scallops) at the Ismalia Café opposite the Khoja Mosque.
Maru's Cafe in Reata Road. Kheema-mayaii (egg and mince) chappatis, delicious
kebabs cooked fresh everywhere, the likes of which I have never seen or tasted
again. Except maybe Hazel Nazareth’s are equally delish, and the first bite
with a little juice from dimu (lime) or lemon quickly reminds me of home. Quiet
contemplation in the grounds of the Jamia Islamia Mosque or the Holy Family
Cathedral. Coffee with lawyers at Nairobi Town Hall Coffee and snacks at Snow cream,
Midnight rendezvous at Embakasi Airport. The drives to anywhere outside of
Nairobi: Mombasa, Karen, Nairobi National Park, Thika, Kiambu, Limuru,
Naivasha, Gilgil, Nakuru, anywhere, a million dreams. World's most splendid
breakfasts at the Wagon Wheel Hotel, Eldoret, Kericho Tea Hotel, Nakuru Hotel.
The bathing of the mind at any game lodge: Watching that magical moment, the
last nanosecond when dusk morphs into night. The first chorus of the night
orchestra mixed with the grunting sighs of the animal kingdom going to lala
(sleep). Eastleigh, Pangani, Juja Road, River Road, Starehe, Kariokor,
Dagoretti, Killeshwa, Parklands, Nairobi South C&B, Nairobi West, River Road,
Park Road, Highridge, Forest Road, City Park, Nairobi Football Stadium, 4 CYPR
I AN F E RNANDE S Mincing Lane, Nairobi markets, the churches, the temples, a
million smiles. Kariokor Market: The world's greatest nyama choma (barbecued
meat) served with onions tomatoes, green coriander, pinch of salt, drop of
vinegar and on the rare occasion a slice of lemon. The bands, the music, the
dancing, Swiss Grill, Topaz Grill Room, Equator Club, Sombrero, Starlight,
Equator Inn, Jeans Bar, Caiado’s Bar, Indian Bazaar, Museum, Ngong Racecourse.
Waited with panting nostrils each Easter to cover the East African Safari. I
will treasure every single moment I spent in every game lodge, one of the best
experiences of my life. Everyone should do it at least once. Hey, hey, they
told us: don't fall in love. Weddings must be arranged; the matchmaker must be
allowed to earn her shilling or two. And for many, so it was. We brown people
had to stick to our respective communities, and assimilation was out of the
question. We were conditioned to accept that to the point it became part of our
DNA. A few broke the taboos and were instantly marooned in a world far from the
rest of us. We did not see anything wrong with that. It was the time, it was
the place, and it was the custom. We were many religions, many faiths, many
customs, many traditions, and we each kept firm with that which we honoured our
fathers and mothers for. We respected each other's boundaries and did our own
thing. Yet, we got along, played sports together, even socialised in small groups,
and we were no strangers to each other’s houses when we were children. We had
little or nothing to do with the whites socially. For one thing, they lived on
the other side of town, and we were familiar with their airs and graces or
thought mistakenly perhaps that we might not do the right thing. Anyway, they
were not a part of our world, and we did not even give it another thought. It
was the same with Africans. Although we did not know it at the time, this was
the British conspiracy of separate development at work. It did not bother us.
Some of us even enjoyed and revelled in the lie that we were better than our
fellow Indians who were a class below us, according to the white people we
served. The African was a savage, they told us. There were no suicide bombers
tearing people to shreds, no inter-communal riots, great marches of protests,
boycotts, blackmail, street brawls, and all that is ugly and all around us
today. We have known what it is to be alive and free, free enough to feel the
wind in our hair, hope in our hearts and love in our souls. were human, for the
most part, could be as calm, cool and gentle as the climate itself. good. Well,
not until the Mau Mau freedom army started fighting for the return of their
land and the colonials sent in the bomber aircraft, their soldiers, their police,
their home guards and a team or two of Indians who assisted.
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