Personally, Me I’m

How to identify a Kenyan

Photo by Favour Anyula on Unsplash

It starts when you’re in primary school.

My math teacher, Mr. Munga, highlighted what we took too casually. The casual often gets overlooked. Even the casual look gets overlooked. Except when it's done by billionaires.

We weren’t billionaires.

We were Bibo-juice-loving, mint-choc-hogging and quencher-sipping mid-primary kids. All this happened in a classroom somewhere in Komarock Estate. Sector 1. Mwalika Court. Opposite house number 576.

Tender Care Academy.

When our math teacher highlighted the error in our ways, I couldn’t help but notice it everywhere. It was so obvious like the difference between Komarock and Kayole separated by that spine road. Like that underground diversion along Thika Road. One leads to Parklands and the other to Pangani.

Before going home, we would start our homework. Better start it in class and have more time to play or watch cartoons when you get home. Killing every math problem after understanding the concept earlier during the math lesson, you’d knit a sly smile on your face and ask your deskmate:

You’re in number what?

Very friendly. Very innocent. Very wrong.

We understood what the question asked of us. If your deskmate were several problems behind you, you’d continue at your pace. Pleased that if you don’t get all the marks, you, at the very least, finish your work faster than your deskmate.

Next would be the three or so exercises from English Aid. It was supposed to aid our English, but we cared more about completing the work than working on our grammar. Among everyone doing the work, one would tease a friend:

You’re in number what?

One would respond:

I’m in number 5.

But after our math teacher highlighted our error, I noticed it every single time. He did this by correcting us:

It’s not ‘you’re in number what?’. It’s ‘what number are you in?’

It made sense. For the moment. But by the time we restructured our neurons to this unfamiliar agreement of words, one would remark:

Me I’m going home.

That’s where it began.

In school.

No accent

A Nairobi-born and English-speaking fella can speak the Queen's Language.

Distinct from all known nations, Kenyans are touted to be without an accent.

I’ve interacted with Ugandans enough to notice their accent anywhere. Nigerians are a given. They speak by enacting their words. Sure, you wouldn’t understand if they didn’t use gestures or facial expressions. They are a force of nature. South Africans, on the other hand, have clicks.

Kenyans have no accent.

Except the ones who were born in the bundus — upcountry.

When I joined the St. Joseph’s School Rapogi, I noticed how my classmates introduced themselves. The accent betrayed the proud tribe. More peculiar was the ordering of names. It was always:

Ngeta Brian, not Brian Ngeta. Kopany’ Rodricks, not Rodricks Kopany’. Otieno Khana, not Khana Otieno. Jagero Maxwell, not Maxwell Jagero. I introduced myself as Innocent Ouko. Not Ouko Innocent.

Want to know a real Luo, born and bred where the meat is always fresh, take note of how they introduce themselves — how they order their names.

But a Nairobi-born and Nairobi-bred are distinct. Even residents of Kisumu City have an accent, as well as those from the Coast.

I wonder why.

Rather than an accent, the perfect combination of words that will sell them out is:

Me I’m.

And when life gets hard, it will change to either:

Personally, me I’m

Or

Me personally I’m.

Spoken or read out loud, one knows I’ve made a mistake. It shouldn’t be I’m. Instead, it should be ‘am’.

Rehashed, it becomes ‘Personally, me am’ or ‘Me personally am’.

Now you’ve identified all Kenyans who can speak the Queen’s language.

Kenya, the land of the brave

Kenyans feel they should be given a pass on the day of judgment.

We go through a lot. First, you will be forced to wake up at crazy hours to go to school when you are still teeming with milk teeth. Parents will be convinced to pay for that swimming pool which will never be constructed up until their kids have completed primary school.

Others will be coerced to pay for remedial classes. It’s not tuition. Remedial. Tuition was banned. So the teachers changed the name to remedial. And they charge for it. If your kid doesn’t pay, the teacher singles them out. They won’t get the same treatment as the one who pays dutifully.

Outside school, the matatu conductor will convince you the ride is fifty shillings. When you get in, you find it's somebody else collecting the fare. It’s now seventy shillings. Only when the sun is out. When it starts raining, they have a license to raise the price. They know you’ll have to get home.

You had budgeted for fifty shillings but now you can’t buy that roasted maize at the junction where you like to frequent. Plus, it’s raining. You flash out a five hundred shilling note. That weariness is now gone — your current job is now to make sure the conductor returns four hundred and fifty shillings.

Early. In good time. Before you alight.

You spot them jumping out and you wonder where the son of someone’s mother is taking your four hundred and fifty shillings. The space in between your neck vertebra increases as you crane your head to see if he’s aware that you’re aware. You tap the person in front of you to tap him, so he can give you your change.

Madam, change utapata.

Don’t madam me!

You respond. Silently. Only your brain cells know how loud it was. You’re winning, but not quite.

It's worse for the guy who doesn’t know where he has to alight. He keeps on tugging at the conductor:

Shukisha Kona Mbaya.

After the third tug, he gets a:

Buda, tukifika nitakushow. Sawa?

He sits back. Confident he has disturbed him enough to remember when he actually gets to the place. For consolation, he also tells the guy seated next to him. Plan B, check.

Somehow, the journey feels longer. He asks the conductor. He breaks into a litany of apologies:

Pole budaa. Tulisha pita! Lakini si mbali. Shika hii mbaula urudi stage tulipita.

He then slaps the matatu and it jets forward, forgetting the transgressions of its employee.

Once you get home, you remember the troubles that guy or that girl took you through. She washed his clothes over the weekend. He bought her a phone last month. Today, they walk past each other by the supermarket.

Now the government is sending qualified people to build an already developed nation. The developing nation of Kenya needs to keep up with its standards — it needs to always be developing. The president made sure of it. Meanwhile, it keeps taking its bold citizens into custody. Abductions. Killings. And now the impeachment of the vice president.

The campus student needs to rescue the semester. The CAT marks are not enough to sail them through. A lecturer has not been paid. The AI revolution has changed the landscape of academic writing. Ladies need to keep up with the trend of IG socialites. Aviator is no longer taking off. Guys are being played in Sport Pesa. Parents are signing up for Ponzi schemes. Interns are not being paid. Sea creatures are eating up service provider cables. Title deeds are being written off. Or maybe they aren’t. Who knows?

At such times, a Kenyan slaps their hands in shock and starts:

Personally, me I’m done with this country.

Then you’ve found a true Kenyan.

Karibu Kenya!

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This song inspired some of the lines used in this article. Source — YouTube