“After Tom Mboya”

“About a fortnight before he was assassinated, Tom Mboya changed his mind about addressing a Sussex University conference on development. Had he kept his engagement, he’d probably be alive today. For the weekend he was due in London he was shot in Nairobi. But he had written to the conference organizers crying off because of pressure of business. now his business is with history.

The conference was to have opened with a day devoted to Kenya’s development problems. But the man responsible for the economic planning lay dead in Nairobi. Instead, delegates heard a moving tribute to Mr. Mboya, which he would particularly have appreciated. He was never more at home than at these gatherings of international experts. And it is one of those tragic ironies that he should meet his end because he could not find time to attend one …”

The above excerpt from the well-written article “After Tom Mboya” was first published in the Kenya Weekly News on July 18th 1969, just 13 days after Tom Mboya’s assassination. I bumped into it while at the Kenya National Archives, last year researching on the library article  Treasure Trove: The Kenya National Archives & Documentation Services I was then writing for Goethe-Institut Nairobi.

To read the full article that has among praises for what Tom Mboya had achieved for such a young Pan-Africanist, and the shocking reality that Kenya is still tackling most of the developmental issues she was faced with over 40 years ago; just walk into The National Archives.

BONUS: The above is his statue set up by the Kenyan government on Tom Mboya street, a few years ago. It is said to be just a stone throw away from where the man died.

 

Captain Corelli’s Mandolin- Louis de Berniéres (Book Review)

Captain Corelli’s Mandolin is an extremely comedic yet awfully emotional story about love, war and music. Set in the mid 20^th century during the World War, Berniéres first introduces the reader to the beautiful abyss of the Cephalonian Greek Island, where Dr. Iannis, also a budding literary resides with his lovely daughter Pelagia, an extraordinary cook whose secret wish is to one day, even if just a teensy bit, be a doctor like her father.

She gets engaged to a fisherman Mandras, the first man who makes her swing her hips unconsciously in foolish young love. Soon he joins the army as a non-partisan Greek in a war mainly between the Italians and Germans in the hope of returning to his fiancée as a hero, and not just a poor fisherman. Unfortunately, the man returns affected by the war—sick, enraged and psychopathic. It’s only the island’s cloud of aroma from preparations for Easter’s scrumptious feast that get Mandras out of bed and into lighting a candle and rejoining believers in a holy march, during which both his mother and Pelagia wonder inwardly, if indeed Mandras has also risen like the Christ. After the ceremony, the man goes back to his old crazy and helpless self. During Pelagia’s stay with her man, she finds out that illiteracy hindered him from reading any of the love letters she had sent him during his time in the war. Just as Mandras is coaxing Pelagia to read to him old letters, some of which their intent and heart had since changed, Italian soldiers invade the island—a relief for Pelagia who then thanks heavens and runs away in realization that she’s fallen out of love with Mandras, who then finally rises and heads back to war. Oh the satire.

The Italian invaders chose Dr. Iannis house for their Captain, also a mandolin player Antonio Corelli mainly because the doctor happens to be one of the best Italian-speaking Greeks in the island. The uninvited but noble guest is forever embarrassed by having led this invasion, and even further by displacing Pelagia from her own bed as directed by her father so as to get medicinal supplies in exchange. Corelli spends most of his free time alone with Antonia, his mandolin. He’s mostly dreaming of being a musician while playing and composing songs for Pelagia, who shyly notices. The captain even recruits his officers to sing in his La Scala band, whose memorable times would include singing out loud together with Corelli’s mandolin by the sea and outside the doctor’s house on silent nights.

When the war erupts, two lovers are caught between race, history and allegiances. It’s hard enough to keep alive during war, let alone being in love with an invader. When the Germans invade the invaders, the island becomes crippled as Corelli and his officers face a firing squad. Carlo, one of the captain’s men shields him from the firing bullets with his gigantic body and empowered by the memoir of his long-lost unrequited love, Francesco, a former fallen soldier and ally. The doctor and Pelagia then save Corelli’s life afresh in a night-long surgery with hardly any equipment and medicine apart from a pittance and the captain’s mandolin strings, which the doctor uses to sew up his broken ribs. And would forever be part of his ribs. The captain is forced to flee the island for safety after he and Pelagia promise each other life-long marriage after the war. The now accomplished world musician never returned for at least another 40 years when he coincidentally meets a boy, Pelagia’s grandson Iannis playing [his] old savior Antonia, also after which the boy’s mother was named.

This book is an inspiration that life doesn’t have to be inclined on either side. Whether or not in war, love or music, we are part of history and should make the best of it in the time we have. Long before the war, Corelli complements a woolen colored coat that Pelagia was making for Mandras as “a masterpiece”, even though the owner had just rejected it citing asymmetry. “The human heart likes a little disorder in its geometry,” says the captain who let his rifle rust, and even lost it once or twice, but still won battles armed with nothing but a mandolin. If there were no arms or machines in the world and we had to go to war, what would be your only cover? Maybe not a mandolin or anything as sophisticated, but Louis de Berniéres reminds us all that sometimes to fight the biggest of war, it’s the seemingly most irrelevant things and people around us that will mostly save us.

BONUS: Quote from Carlo, “If there was only some way of contriving that a state or an army should be made up of lovers and their loves, they would be the very best governors of their own city, abstaining from all dishonor, and emulating one another in honor; and when fighting at one another’s side, although a mere handful, they would overcome the world. For what lover would not choose rather to be seen by all mankind than his beloved, either when abandoning his post or throwing away his arms? He would be ready to die a thousand deaths rather than endure this.”

Born in war but liberated at heart: my new Somali friend

“We never had peace in my country, I was born in war,” says Ahmed Ali, one among multitudes of Somali refugees in Kenya turned businessmen living and working in Eastleigh, home to probably half (if not more) of Nairobi’s economy. He owns and manages a textiles shop located at the grandiose Bangkok business plaza that houses a majority of Somali retailers, who mean nothing but business, and will ruthlessly throw ‘Take or Leave’ at you as soon as you start bargaining.

While shopping, a rich jungle green colored silky fabric draws me to Ahmed’s store. I also notice that he is friendly and speaks fluent English/Swahili unlike most of his counterparts. He looks a little older than 23, probably a side effect of tough life. He smiles so gracefully and genuinely, definitely portraying a different man from the one in his past. After the purchase, he also sews the fabric into a curtain for me (at an extra fee). As I wait for completion, small talk leads into a conversation that would later become this story about his story.

The two-decade-old war has torn Somalia apart not withstanding Ahmed’s family. Born in a family of 13 siblings, the 23-year-old has since lost three siblings to the war. “My sister was killed after a grenade blew up our house in 2005. I had just left about five minutes before that. If I hadn’t, I would probably be dead now,” he says. Soon after, Ahmed’s parents coerced him (their youngest surviving child) to flee Somalia into Kenya for safety. “If you have money there are people who can get you through the boarder at a fee.”

Ahmed arrived in Kenya in 2006 with no baggage other than the load of having to start over his life. “I first went to Kenyan officials to get an alien ID card. Then came here (Bangkok plaza), started doing odd jobs and slowly learnt the trade that got me here,” says the self-taught tailor who runs the business alongside his father (based in Dubai) responsible for sending the textiles from Dubai and China via shipment.

According to Al Jazeera, Human Rights Watch and other agencies accuse Kenyan officials of ‘stigmatization’, and have documented 300 cases of police harassing Somali refugees in 2012 only, also adding that there is little evidence to connect the bombings and shootings in Kenya with Somali refugees. Ahmed says he is happy in Kenya because of the booming business in Eastleigh but doesn’t know how long that will last, citing police brutality, political unrest and insecurity. “We don’t know if a new government will allow us to stay here, we are already suffering the blame of being allied to Al-Shabab. And if you meet police or happen to be on the wrong side of the law, they ask for bribes of up to 80,000 Ksh. That’s crazy.”

Ahmed’s childhood dream was to become “educated and have a good job”. It still is. The war also cut short his education making the Eastleigh business his single accomplishment. On a good day he says he can collect anything between 30,000-45,000 Ksh. According to a 2011 study by the UK think tank Chatham House, Eastleigh’s shopping malls make about $7m a year. However, to Ahmed that’s just a tip of the iceberg. “I was never cut out to be a tailor. I want to become better and do business in bigger markets like China.”

For immigrants, every day is literally a chance to mend their past anew. Ahmed doesn’t take that for granted as everyday, he stitches his path towards reuniting with his family and country. “I have no time for dating or anything other than work. I work every day all week. I only get time off to the mosque [which is in the same building where he works].” He’s optimistic that his country will rise above the rubble. “Somalia is changing. People are now tired of the war. It’s been 21 years of fighting for nothing. Other countries including USA are starting to recognize that we are a country. People will stop saying that Somalia is not in Africa, that doesn’t make sense—it’s just like MRC saying Pwani si Kenya.”

The endless war in Somalia has left many families broken, lives lost and memories forgotten but Ahmed weathered the storm and still manages to stitch pretty well (the curtains came out lovely). His mother fled to Ethiopia and has since been trying to get herself to USA to reunite with some of Ahmed’s siblings living in Colorado. “In the mean time, we all communicate via the internet, but it’s never enough.” One of his brothers was killed in Somalia after stepping on a landmine while playing—an unfortunate event among a series that inexplicably and paradoxically continue to liberate Ahmed’s spirit. “I must one day return to my country to play where I used to when I was a kid and also see my friends and relatives who still live there. There’s no sea in Nairobi; I really miss Somalia,” sums up a nostalgic Ahmed.

BONUS: Thanks to the chance meet-up, I am now friends with Ahmed. When we first met in town (he was bringing me my notebook that I forgot in his shop), he said he didn’t know any places in the city apart from Posta, where Eastleigh mats stop. My mission is to one day show him around, not because it’s so amazing out here and not to absolutely discredit the awesomeness out here but so that Ahmed can have just one  day without working to chill and take a look at everything he’s solely achieved for himself at only 23 and in a foreign country. His life story inspires me loads to be better at what I do and to appreciate my country.

To Kill a Mockingbird- Harper Lee (Book Review)

Set in a fictional town, Maycomb County in the 1930s, To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee is an extraordinarily powerful book essentially about how one’s life is influenced by upbringing and society as a whole, and how [that] affects one’s view on bias, in this case—racism and societal segregation.

The book’s utter beauty lies in its narration by 9-year-old Scout Jean Louise, the assertive tomboy daughter of Atticus Finch, a white lawyer faced with the challenge of balancing single-parenthood and a demanding profession. Through Scout’s eyes, the reader walks inside her world revolving around her family [comprising her father, elder teenage brother Jem Finch and their nanny Calpurnia (a Negro)], school and how the conscious of a town affects [her own].

Atticus has developed a strong relationship with his kids; so much that they call him Atticus or Sir (in dire situations), hardly ever Dad. The lawyer, an avid reader and man of wisdom encourages his children to always remain impartial in a world full of people with different opinions, preferences and beliefs. “If you can learn a simple trick, you’ll get around better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view,” he advises his daughter after a rough first day at school, words that haunt Scout up until an incident that happens to her later in life, becomes an embodiment of her father’s counsel.

When Atticus takes on a case to defend a black man charged with the rape of a white girl, Scout and Jem are ostracized by neighbors, kids at school and even extended family, all calling their father a ‘nigger lover’. Scout confronts her father wanting to know what it means and if he [really is one]. He says, “Ignorant, trashy people use the term when they think somebody’s favoring Negroes over and above themselves. It’s slipped into usage with some people like ourselves, when they want a common, ugly term to label somebody. I certainly am a nigger lover. I do my best to love everybody … It’s never an insult to be called what somebody thinks is a bad name. It just shows you how poor that person is, it doesn’t hurt you.”

The case of a white man defending a black man is unheard of in Maycomb County. It’s an intriguing court battle that brings together a people in a battle of the better color instead of what should have been justice. In a case closely followed by citizens entangled in group think, it’s no surprise that Atticus’ children come out among few souls in the town neutral to the case.

To Atticus, it’s not a crime to be of whatever race, color, belief or association, and nobody should counter what you stand for. When he gets his children air rifles as gifts, it’s the first time Scout hears her father say that it’s a crime to do something—to kill a mockingbird. She asks Miss Maudie (a neighbor) about it. “Mocking birds make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corncribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird,”she says.

While Atticus Finch defends Maycomb’s real mockingbird, the county’s deep-rooted racial differences, hypocrisy and sycophancy is exposed. Atticus is criticized for defending a nigger and ironically still celebrated as Maycomb’s top attorney. Regardless, his initial worry is his integrity and what will be left of it for his children to emulate or despise after the case (which later takes an unexpected turn).

To Kill a Mockingbird’s key message is skillfully packaged in subtle humor. As the book celebrates its 50^th anniversary this decade, it still transcends generations and societies. Harper Lee gave the world a timeless and beguiling book that unchains Django and ultimately, inspires readers to reason beyond society’s group think mentality. We are reminded to respect songs of those who sing, even though we might not dance to their tunes. For in one way or the other, we are all mockingbirds flying and singing, sometimes dreaming that someone will listen, but mostly hoping that we’ll live to be heard.

BONUS: The character of Atticus in the book has been humanized by many over the decades, and when some felt like the lawyer has passed on, his legacy never did. The book, his epitaph and tribute always remain celebrated—whose words remain to be among the most shared in this generation. Read Atticus Obituary here.

Dear poetry,

I think about you. I write for you because you are the hues of my expression. You are the healer to my blues. You are the teether when it’s hard to bite at life’s hurdles. You are the teacher who taught me how to tie my shoes. You cool me off when shit hits the fan and you school me beyond the streets and sheets of love. That to have; I have to give. And that to forgive, I have to start with setting myself free from the pain of yesterday and get ready for what the future will pay. Who are you gift of conveyance? For you take me to a place where no one cares if I am the best but everyone dares to excel and be the best they can be. It’s a place of clairvoyance; where ears translate melodies into words and eyes anticipate colours that burn into unwritten vocabulary.

You are sanctified. For those who don’t write in you, find grace and light in your art. From the sincerity and gaiety of those who confide in you; we are inspired. For the power of your words encourage all, from the poor in belief to the rich in conviction. In you, we see visions of truth and truce. In you we find hope in desperation. For you allow us to talk to those who won’t open their doors for us but will read and feel us when we articulate in hope for reparation. You allow us to connect with the ones we have just as much as the ones we lost. You teach us to let go of regret and to smile at our dismal pasts. We are the pillar of tomorrow and you are the bolstering cement we write inside of waiting for it to dry so that one day the world may read the inerasable.

11 QUOTES from Living to Tell the Tale, Gabriel Garcia Marquez

I recently bumped into some quotes I compiled from Living to Tell the Tale, a book by Gabriel Garcia Marquez also posted a book review on the same last year and surprisingly forgot about the quotes, well till I found them. So, here are my best 11, enjoy

1. “What you need is a good woman.” For my brother Abelardo, there were no problems in life that could not be reserved in bed.

2. “If this bed were the academy and you were the student, I’d be number one not only in class but in the whole school,” An adolescence Gabriel to his cougar lover (who was a teacher by profession).

3. I do not know what in fact I learnt from my captivity in the Liceo Nacional (elementary school), but the four years of harmonious coexistence with everyone instilled a unitary vision of the nation in me. I discovered how diverse we were and what we were good for, and I learnt and never forgot that the entire country was in fact the sum total of each one of us.

4. Bored with studying, I left everything to the mercy of chance. The reality was that I did not understand why I had to sacrifice my talents and my time on courses that did not move me and therefore would be of no use to me in a life that was not mine.

5. “If poetry does not make my blood run faster, open sudden windows for me onto the mysterious, help me discover the world, accompany this desolate heart in solitude and in love, in joy and in enmity, what good is poetry to me?”—a poem by one of Gabriel’s acquaintances.

6. Stealing books is a crime but not a sin.

7. Today, trying to recount my past days, I do not find them in my recollection, and I have come to believe more in forgetting than in memory.

8. I discovered the miracle that all things that sound are music, including the dishes and the silverware in the dishwasher, as long as they fulfill the illusion of showing us where life is headed.

9. In 1953, March 6 I would be twenty-seven years old. In the midst of the good wishes of my friends, I felt ready to devour raw the seventy-three I still had left before I celebrated the first hundred.

10. We did not use a tape recorder. They had just been invented and the best ones were as large and heavy as a typewriter, and the magnetic tape would tangle like angel-hair candy. Transcription alone was a great feat. Even today we know that recorders are very useful for remembering, but the face of the person interviewed must never be neglected, for it can say much more than the voice, and at times just the opposite.

11. There are books that do not belong to the person who writes them but to the one who suffers them, and this is one of them,” of his book, Memoirs of a Shipwrecked Sailor.

Soul sister Erykah Badu rocks Nairobi

Erykah Badu loves her personal space. While at her exclusive press conference at Sankara hotel in Kenya, she first requests to move back the dozen microphones on the table staring closely at her. “Hi Nairobi, hello, how’s everyone doing?” The presence of the queen of neo soul in the room is overwhelming, so much that nobody greets her back, at first. It’s 3pm, about 14 hours since her arrival in the country and four hours since the cancellation of her first press conference. But despite jet lag and sleepiness that she confesses to fighting, Ms Badu looks pretty well rested. When the moderator opens the floor for questions, it’s not a fist-fight as you would expect, everyone seems to be intimidated—I am. But as soon as the soft-spoken singer starts to chat, the air around the room becomes more conducive.

She immediately states that music and performance is therapy to her. “Music is almost like the fifth element, it brings about emotion and change in many ways. Its frequency is specific; each note has its own vibration that can be measured. I write lyrics according to what the music makes me feel.”

Erykah is also a songwriter, actor, director, producer and activist—a personification of artistry. From her 90s turban, long dresses and Afros to now—long flowing and kinky hair easy-going with vintage hats; her image has evolved over the years. Erykah’s brass African-map-shaped ring stands out in her fashionable ensemble of cobalt pajama-esque pants, a navy blue top, and numerous humongous wooden bangles. “My taste in humor, fashion, music and film are all in the same category. I like to hear what I like to feel and see, I just gravitate towards things that I get attracted to aesthetically, it’s the art of creating an experience for people to share”, she says. Her music is however unmoved, she’s remained consistent, versatile and unparalleled— almost like she’s has always been in her own world.

The next day at exactly 9.15 pm at Carnivore gardens, Erykah gets on stage. From hard stepping hip hop to mellow sounds, Erykah is a fierce and fearless vocalist/performer. She’s also playing an electronic drum kit in a crazy dance-set with her band. Constantly sipping from her little thermos flask what could be water or vodka or whatever, that nevertheless fires her up at every sip. “At the back! What the fuck you looking at!?” She engages the audience who roar back at her. She sings out loud mixing cussing words with banter, unrelated. Here, she’s self-assured and at home.

I finally get the balls to shoot a question at Ms Badu on her connection to the motherland.

“My first connection to Africa is because about three generations back my family was brought to America from Africa. As Africans living in America, it’s hard to trace our roots so we have to sometimes create our own history, communities and tribes to identify with. Because our birth right is not in place we want to belong to Africa in some kind of way.” Erykah is also involved with the Kemetic community (the study of Egyptian writings) which influenced her stage name. Originally named Erica after a famous soap opera star of the 70s, soon after becoming a recording artist, she changed her name’s suffix to Kah (The inner self that cannot be contaminated). “I wanted to have a name that would have some kind of vibrational frequency that could connect me to my past and future. Badu means 10th born in Ghana, I don’t know why I am [one] but we’ll find out, I am still evolving and creating every day.”

Erykah is also a doula (an assistant to a birthing mother). And she equates birth of life to music. “As a doula I have to be like water, always out-of-the-way to help. But when am on stage am a different kind of servant, I am the mother and the audience is helping me give birth.” On stage, she feeds off the audience’s energy and seems taken a back at Nairobians serenading most of her songs word-for-word. This is where she gives her all. Her typical raspy voice suddenly sounds like three soul singers in one and still manages to outshine her two powerful vocalists paired with her tight six-man band—in a good way. When the ‘Badu, Badu, Badu!’ rhythmic chant overwhelms Erykah, she asks each member of the audience to yell out their own names instead. “What? Are you afraid to scream out your name?” She prods.

It’s a two-hour long concert (non-stop) that sees Erykah, after every couple of minutes shed something. From her shawl, socks to heels—period. When she performs Window Seat, nobody is certain she won’t drop more clothes. She doesn’t.

“Window seat video was performance art and nudity always played a big part in it because [it] demonstrates the bareness of the subject. My issue was group think, which affects all spheres of life from politics to media. I shot the video is Dallas as at the site where JFK was assassinated. As I took each step I eliminated a piece of clothing that represented a thought or something I had learnt forcefully or not here on the planet and as I was totally nude—I was assassinated. In America nudity is grossly misunderstood when it’s not packaged for the consumption of men, I hope a lot of people got the point but if they didn’t, they don’t have to, you cannot censor art.”

My best moment at the concert is her performance of Gone baby gone and Bag Lady. The drum and electric guitar provide a sultry bouncy beat—that deep neo soul. When performing Love of my life (An ode to Hip Hop), her  collaboration with former boyfriend Common, she glows like a woman in love. Should have asked her to pass over Common’s number or Andre’s. WTF.

The four-time Grammy award-winning singer has five albums. Her first album (Baduizim) came out in February 1997. Her second album Live came out the same year  in November. The same day her son was born. “I spent the whole of my first pregnancy working at the beginning of my career; I had to breast feed and create a home on the tour bus. I know no music business without my children,” says the mother of three.

Her last song Call Tyrone leaves an absolute sense of satisfaction. She’s incessantly chanting ‘peace’ and bids a gratified crowd goodbye displaying with her hands heliograph signs for love and peace. The undisputed queen of neo soul doubles up as queen of the night. She exits. It’s just a few minutes to midnight: 12.12.12, Kenya’s 49^th Independence Day.

For more info: www.erykah-badu.com

Living to Tell the Tale, Gabriel Garcia Marquez [Book Review]

From Sucre to Aracataca, I’ve been to Colombia (solely via reading Living to Tell the Tale). The temperatures were almost always high above measure and occasionally the insomniac rain, if not storm, hit hard just to boast of immensity. But even then, men and women in long rain coats and fancy hats walked down the streets, protected by divine intervention, even more than their perfectly round-shaped umbrellas.

More than anything, this book brings out the ingenious grit and wit with which Colombians treasure Spanish, great writers and utmost—the power of literature. “The greatest invention of all must surely be writing. Despite its complicated early systems, anyone learnt it. The reason revealed in the ancient Egyptian scribal-training texts which emphasize the superiority of being a scribe over all other career choices. The earliest scribes understood that literacy was power—a power that now extends to most humanity, and has done more for human progress than any other invention,” writes Tom Standage for Intelligent Life, in the debate—what’s the greatest invention of all time?

The magic in this book, Gabriel being the unparalleled fiction writer and literature’s father of magical realism, lies in the tales of his real life, that shaped the creative writer and journalist he became. A powerful lesson is that, we can spend years, and time traveling in search of ourselves while what we were searching for all along was right home inside of us only needing to be triggered. Gabriel unexpectedly, finally finds the inspiration he’d been searching for, to write and be his own man, in his childhood memories (which he recounts candidly, from breaking his virginity to a whore to being prescribed ‘less reading’ as medicine when his life-long suffering from insomnia began at the age of twelve) when the then budding journalist, in his twenties, accompanies his mother on a journey back to their native. “My mother asked me to go with her to sell the house,” the first sentence in the first chapter.

If you are familiar with Gabriel’s works, this book’s utter beauty is in the encounters that inspired and shaped his thought process while writing his books, some of which top among the world’s best books of all time including One Hundred Years of Solitude—which he makes a shocking revelation about here. Gabriel writes about his brother, “Yiyo in the most difficult years of poverty became a writer and journalist by sheer hard work. He died at the age of fifty-four, almost not enough time to publish a book of more than 600 pages of masterful research into the secret life of One Hundred Years of Solitude, which he had worked on for years without my knowing about it and even making a direct inquiry of me.” My copy of Gabriel’s One Hundred Years of Solitude has 422 pages. Did he get some excerpts from his brother’s? It’s not mentioned, so we’ll probably never know. But did his brother inspire him? I believe so.

Some mind-blowing discoveries include the revelation of the origin of Gabriel’s imaginations, so real, like Macondo (a famous fictional magical town often existing in his novels). Also as interesting is the fact that Gabriel’s parents’ previously forbidden love inspired the premise of his book Love in the Time of Cholera— the unconventional love story of an old couple Florentino Ariza and Fermina Daza, who were able to still fall in love in their olden days after their cat and mouse cataclysm that lasted half a century. When [his] grandparents finally permitted [his] parents to get married, Gabriel says [their] story was no longer captivating so to prolong and remodel his book’s characters he got inspired by the story of an old couple murdered on a deck (a case he encountered during his journalism days). To him, fascinating was the fact that the victims were at the time of death both married to different partners. FYI, Love in the Time of Cholera’s last scene is on a deck where Florentina and Fermina, old, are finally together, free from their former partners and falling in love. Anew.

It’s alleged that Gabriel locked himself in for over two years recalling and researching on [his] life whilst writing Living to Tell the Tale (his latest publication first out in 2002) in fear of looming death, right after his battle with lymphatic cancer. He writes, “While talking to papa about the difficulty many writers had in writing their memoirs when they could no longer remember anything, Cuqui, just six years old, drew the conclusion with masterful simplicity: he said, ‘The first thing a writer ought to write is his memoirs, when he can still remember everything’.”

At the point at which this memoir ends, Gabriel has risen from grass to grace and is now able to support his family. The bachelor sets on a trip to France for an international conference. The trip which was meant to take a few weeks eventually saw him stay there for a few years. At [it’s] onset he jokingly writes a letter to Mercedes, the woman he had been exchanging letters and pleasantries with, “This was not meant to be more than five lines to give her official notice of my trip. I signed it: ‘If I do not receive an answer to this letter within a month, I’ll stay and live in Europe forever.’ It was Friday. On Thursday of the following week, when I walked into the hotel in Geneva at the end of another useless day of international disagreements, I found her letter of reply.” That’s the last sentence in Living to Tell the Tale.

Mercedes waited years for Gabriel, who later married her. They have two sons.

By the time the book ends, none of Gabriel’s acclaimed books have been published, only his first novel ‘Leaf Storm’ which Gabriel (who BTW studied law under his father’s duress) highly recounts as his best expression and most honest to date. I have to find that book. Explains why Living to Tell the Tale was meant to be the first of a trilogy of Gabriel’s self-authored biographies but could sadly turn out to have been the last of his new works as Gabriel now suffers from dementia caused by the intensive cancer treatment. His brother J’aime whom in this book, he shared an affectionate relationship with says (via the Guardian UK), “Gabriel has problems with his memory. Sometimes I cry because I feel like I am losing him.”

At the finale, the man, who would years later, win the prestigious Nobel Peace prize of literature, has just discovered his calling for writing but still, is in search of himself. On the way to the airport now a well-respected writer in his country, Gabriel bumps into one of the porters from his former office who then asks, “What I don’t understand Gabriel is why you never told me who you are.” He answers, “I couldn’t tell because even I don’t know who I am yet.”

In essence, this book is about the struggle to find oneself, one’s art and path in a world filled with responsibilities and expectations.I pray that Gabriel writes again. If he doesn’t, I’ll still be happy he lived to tell tales and part of [his] tale. All that inspired me a whole load. The book is really deep and humanizes the legendary Gabriel Garcia Marquez making him that light-hearted vagabond and carousing yet insightful soul we all need to befriend. So much, sometimes I shed a few tears while reading it (Shhh … don’t tell anyone) that took me about five months—during which, my own life transformed a lot in many ways. It’s almost as if I was reading on his journey while I was on one myself. Heck, aren’t we all on one anyway?

BONUS: Living to Tell the Tale’s prologue, “Life is not what one lived, but what one remembers and how one remembers it in order to recount it.”

Ayub Ogada on music, writing & marrying Nyatiti.

Internationally renowned Kenyan folk music singer/songwriter Ayub Ogada’s music style is defined by the matrimony between his deep smooth voice and the soothing sounds of the nyatiti (a traditional lyre famed of the Luo people of Western Kenya). With just [one] solo album and award, an Academy Awards nomination, countless tours around the world and more than 80 compositions, Ayub is now set to release his sophomore album.

On a breezy warm August evening, I am at the Godown Art Centre sitting at its restaurant padio, minutes early for my interview with Ayub—who I wouldn’t have recognized had he not called on arrival (and on time). “I am at the parking lot, will be with you in a few.”

Ayub is known for his conspicuous stage regalia— African dresses and ornaments. Today, off duty, he’s bespectacled and dressed down in plain jeans, a stud, cap and a black leather jacket—unexpectedly coming off as an ordinary guy. “Traditional African adornment simply reinforces my music. I dress like normal people when I am not performing to avoid attracting unwanted attention. It’s the only way I can easily relate with people—an important part of being an artist,” he says.

Ayub speaks with a rare conviction exuding the kind of peace-of-mind many wish to attain. To achieve it however, the man had to embark on a bitter-sweet long journey, which forced him to detach himself from family and success. He relocated to the UK, where he spent years in search of “the right minds”. Being discovered by Real World Records changed his music career, but it was until returning home (Kenya), that Ayub finally found himself.

When music called, I responded

“My dad showed me how to play my first guitar chords. Ironically, after that, he never wanted me to even touch his guitar. I would only play it while he was away from home,” says the self-taught guitarist who wrote his first song at the age of 13.

Ayub’s father was a guitarist and mother—a singer. But despite the musical family background, his father wanted him to become either a doctor or a technocrat. However, the father unable to beat his son’s voracity for musical knowledge finally caved in and enrolled him into piano and trumpet lessons, a time during which the family was living in USA. To complete his final year of elementary school, he returned to Kenya to join Our Lady of Mercy School and later enrolled at Lenana High School. “Even while at school, [I knew] that I wanted nothing other than music”, asserts Ayub, who—after school, decided to do away with the idea of even starting university, to start building on a career in music.

Soon, he started working at the Alliance Française (then French Cultural Center) as a session instrumentalist. The budding musician was eager for any opportunity, and one unexpectedly came, in form of a man.

“I remember 19^th Nov 1979 vividly. It’s the day I met the man who changed my life.”

While en route to the Kenya National Theatre Ayub bumped into Allan Donovan (Director, African Heritage). Allan was looking to start a band that would play at his fashion shows around the world. Ayub found his right match. The duo teamed up to start one of Kenya’s pioneer bands, the six-man African Heritage Band.

After a few weeks of taxing rehearsals, the band was off to Belgium for their first international tour, effectively marking the beginning of a successful career.

Marrying Nyatiti

(In Luo, Nyar is daughter, and Titi—a clan).

Through Allan, Ayub got in contact with the African Heritage Art Gallery. It was while [there] admiring traditional African instruments that his eyes first caught the nyatiti. Soon after, he got [one] built for him as he enrolled for a six-week course on playing nyatiti at the Bomas of Kenya. He further amplified his quest for knowing the instrument inside-out by listening to nyatiti music recorded on tapes. Eventually falling in love with the daughter of the clan, Ayub’s grandmother saw the depth at which he was awestruck and warned, “She’s going to take over your life!”

“With all due respect, nyatiti looks like a woman. Its sound box resembles a breast and the two holes at its front look like eyes, making the area somewhat similar to a face,” he says. But like the frivolity of relationships, Ayub was soon discontent. “At first I found nyatiti limiting as I wanted more notes and harmonics. But with time I learnt and emulated its simplicity—distinct of minimal notes and vast rhythmic sequences.”

For years, Ayub has been appearing solo with his nyatiti at various international platforms considered for bands, and getting great reception all the same. At the 2012 London Olympics, he was among musicians from East Africa and Rwanda performing at the Pre-Olympics concert in front of an audience of over 20,000 people.

“I knew I chose the right partner, several years back, when after my performance at Canada’s Waterfront Music festival, I was met by Ry Cooder (famed American guitarist) backstage. He praised my performance and invited me to a hang out. We went on a cruise in his yatch full of girls in bikinis, and strawberries. Then I asked myself, ‘what more could nyatiti get me?’” Ayub poses.

“I pay tribute to older generations that made such classical instruments. I can play several instruments but my life revolves around nyatiti. So much that I refer to myself as ‘me, myself and my nyatiti’. We’ve been married for 24 years now.”

Leaving Kenya & getting discovered

By 1985, African Heritage band had released two albums, Niko Saikini and Handas. Adding to their triumphant belt were international tours to Germany, Switzerland, Estonia and Spain, among other countries.

However, fame and success didn’t satisfy Ayub— a hunter eyeing finesse.

“I wanted to be an excellent percussionist and hang out with musicians of like minds. That was a tough dream because at the time, there were no such musicians I could learn from in Kenya. The [greats] were still from West Africa and South America then, so I decided to move. There were however no direct flights to West Africa; passengers would have to fly there via the UK. And because many West African percussionists were already based in London, I settled there.”

That was 1986. The same year, The African Heritage Band split.

In London, he met the portrait in his mind—talented musicians from all over the world whom he got a chance to interact with and learn from. But painting his own-portrait was tasking. He struggled to make a living—juggling business studies and part-time jobs.

His big break finally came after 4 years of street performances. One day, while playing at Tottenham court road, he caught the attention of many, among them a lady who worked at Real World Records, partners of WOMAD (a 3-day festival featuring music, art and dance from around the world).

“She promised me a chance to curtain-raise at WOMAD and I thought, …’alright’.”

The Kafala Brothers from Angola were to headline at the fest but they missed their flight. Fortunate for Ayub, being at the right place and time granted him a grand welcoming into the world music stage. He played in place of the Angolans, and recounts his stint with WOMAD, “When I began playing the nyatiti, no one paid attention but by the time I finished, there were over 6,000 people applauding.”

He later met Peter Gabriel (founder, Real World Records) to sign [his] first record deal. En Mana Kuoyo (Luo for It’s Just Sand), Ayub’s debut album was released in 1993.

Coming Home

After 2 decades of living in the UK, Ayub was home sick and still the dissatisfied huntsman. His song writing skills suddenly reached a dead-end. “I missed Kenyan people, food, language and mostly inspiration. Writing African songs away from Africa in a place where all other Africans (me included) had been influenced by the western world was a challenge,” says a seemingly distressed Ayub at the memory.

In 2006, an invitation to perform in Kenya at a concert organized by Sarakasi Trust saw Ayub’s visit extend into an abrupt permanent residency, finally providing his resilient heart with serenity. “I [just] left my house and everything in London unexpectedly but I still have ties with my friends and label. Finding my happiness in Kenya made me stay.”

Music writing is my sole business

Among other avenues, Ayub’s music has enjoyed wide publishing. His poignant compositions have made soundtracks for a number of international films including War Dance, Blood Diamond and Out of Africa.

The original to Ayub’s celebrated song, Koth Biro was rumba and written by Black Savage (Ayub’s other former band) during their tenure. “I have fond memories of the day we wrote the song. We were rehearsing in a Westlands garage.” By 1993—when Ayub was compiling his debut album, some members of the band had since passed away.

“It was the ‘forgotten song’ so I decided to re-do it to honor my former band members. Though the new version was hugely influenced by Ghanaian, Malian, West and East African traditional folk, on it—I worked with musicians from Nigeria and London. Making the song was damn simple but what came out was a pleasant surprise and amazing reaction, to date.”

Koth Biro earned Ayub an Academy Awards nomination for Best Original Score for the film, The Constant Gardener.

With such an impressive repertoire, ironically, the singer had to wait till 2011 to receive his [first] award. At the inaugural African Heritage Awards held in Nairobi in 2011, he was honored for his outstanding contribution to African music. He says as-a-matter-of-fact-ly, “I get a certain amount of respect but I am not looking for it because when I got into this business, I never expected to be any kind of well-known musician. I only wanted to write songs.”

He credits the success of his music to his simple approach towards it, paired with the efficiency of his manager Rob Bozas. “If I have to play music along computer programs, then it’s not music.”

Nearly 2 decades since his debut album, 2012 will finally see the release of Ayub’s sophomore. He says, “I am a slow writer who goes by the saying ‘Haraka haraka haina baraka’ (a famous Swahili saying advocating for caution where speed is involved).”

Since returning, the singer has been enjoying writing new songs, most of which have been recorded under the sky in his portable studio at open environments around Kenya— providing a sense of freedom, which lacks in normal recording booths, that he refers to as, “…claustrophobic”.

The album features other musicians: Isaac Gem and Trevor Warren, from western Kenya and UK, respectively.

Political turmoil endangers music

Kenya’s music is vibrant. And contemporary musicians have great ideas, says Ayub who then expresses his disappointment with the education system, and ministries of communication, and culture/heritage, for failing to grant music the importance it deserves. “Music is a great income earner and the government of Kenya should tap into it holistically. The education system should impart basic music education to generations.”

To Ayub, politics and musicians make a no-no combo. “You can perform at rallies but you must not associate yourself with any party by endorsement. Corruption is now using the popularity of musicians to flourish.”

I am whole, thanks to my child and new album

At 56—the new album and first child certainly make 2012 Ayub’s annus mirabilis. The proud dad to nine-month old baby Tazlin Achien’g says, “The life of musicians is tough. There’s a lot of pressure, especially for those who travel often. Family requires stability but most importantly, a sense of things happening at the right time—it’s where am at.” It’s his turn to feed her tonight, he tells me excitedly.

While unwinding Ayub enjoys versatile music including sounds of Stevie Wonder and The O’Jays. He’s met and performed alongside renown African musicians including Selif Keta, Baaba Maal, Angelique Kidjo and Hugh Masekhela. “We are friends who talk about life when we get off stage. Music is for stage/rehearsals, yet the painstaking mirror image of life.”

It’s now dark. And the whispering warm breeze has turned cold. We’ve been lost in conversations for over 2 hours. Ayub finds his watch and says, “This has taken longer than I had anticipated but your questions are good. I’ve done so many interviews, it can get boring. I even thought of making a tape on myself to give it out to journalists.” We laugh about it. He starts to ask me questions about myself and seems particularly impressed by the fact that I juggle about 3 jobs. “So you’re a busy lady?” It’s awkward suddenly being an interviewee. “Well … If I wasn’t working, I’d just be home watching TV,” my reply. He poses, “Why watch TV while you can be on TV?”

Pundits reference Ayub as a ‘world music’ star. He’s fast to set the record straight. “I sing African music. Europeans created the world music genre while in the real sense, it’s Africans who invented world music. Violins are like Orutus and rock & roll/jazz is nothing without drums—which Africans invented. If human beings came from Africa, so did music.”[ That sentence makes me wanna wear a sisal skirt, go bare-chested and do some crazy African-yele-yele dance ]

“Anything else you want to say that I haven’t asked yet?” I prod him. “When can I buy you dinner?” he warmly jokes OR maybe not … I will hold him to that. I really enjoyed the walk through Ayub’s beautiful mind. I haven’t met many of such broad-minded, assertive and content people.

Testimonial for his recent sprouting musical inspiration, and growth, Ayub’s new album will either be titled Mbegu or Kothi (Swahili and Luo for seed, respectively), and will be released in the course of 2012.

For more www.realworldrecords.com

A chat with the young-spirited & gifted Mambo Mbotela.

For decades, Leonard Mambo Mbotela has been hosting, “Je huu ni ungwana?”, Kenya’s most famous and longest running radio program relayed on KBC’s Radio Taifa. Among Kenyan personalities, Mambo is in a class of his own. He’s also a TV host, writer, newsreader, sports commentator and musician but only one thing stands out. “Radio paired with my voice is my God-given talent,” he says as soon as I signal the start of what was intended to be a minor interview, but turned out to be bigger than I thought.

Despite his busy schedule, Mambo excitedly gave me an instant “Yes!” when I called for a chance to interview him. I asked him to provide me with some of his old photos, but he couldn’t get hold of any. That’s when I said to him, “Nitakupiga basi na camera yangu.” His reply,“Jameni ukinipiga si utaniumiza!” That warm sense humour isn’t the only thing natural about this man. “Broadcasting runs in my blood”, says the pied piper whose distinct husky voice, wit and eloquence in Swahili, has made fans across the country follow and adore him for years.

It’s a hot Friday, around midday, an hour to a recording of his TV show at the Norfolk hotel. We are right across the road seated at KBC’s restaurant having cold fruit cocktails. He literally shook hands with everyone as we walked down the corridors leading to the restaurant. Undoubtedly a man of the people, his viewpoint on age clashes with the ubiquitous mass celebration of it being “just a number!”

“When you’re young at heart, age is simply nothing. So I don’t talk about my age, “he says with a sneaky gleam. Smartly clad in a lesso-print shirt and perfectly ironed black trousers, he looks good too. As I ask questions, he seems very keen. Indeed, all his answers are straight forward.

Road to Radio

Born in Mombasa’s old Frere town, Mambo studied in Buxton Primary and Kitui High School. After which he immediately started working as a trainee at the East African Standard newspaper. However, his prowess in news reading is self-taught. “In high school, I would cut newspaper clippings, compile news and read them out to my classmates,” he recalls. Among his mentors were veteran broadcasters Steven Kikumu and Job Isaac Mwanto (I am probably too young to have heard of such people, he tells me–true and shameful).

Fuelled by a dream to be the voice behind the mic, Mambo approached the late Simeone Ndesanjo, who was head of radio at KBC (then Voice of Kenya, (VOK)), for a chance to be employed. As Simeone advised Mambo to start off as an announcer, he also made an observation that would later come into full circle, “I can see you have the potential of making a great broadcaster.” That was 1964. The same year Mambo started working at VOK as a freelance reporter.

In a short span of time he gained many fans, prompting VOK to offer him a permanent post as a program assistant. “I was so excited by the promotion. I couldn’t believe it. I even left my job without giving a resignation! Eventually, VOK had to compensate The East African Standard by means of payment for stealing me like that”, says Mambo with a reminiscent flash of that fateful day.

I hadn’t seen him this fired up since the start of the interview.

He then began hosting interactive radio programs, “Salamu za vijana”, “Uhalifu haulipi chochote” and “Nini maoni yako”. Through the shows he highlighted various societal issues while giving listeners a chance to air their grievances as well as share experiences. This would later turn out to be the foundation of a long-lasting “polygamous” marriage between three entities– Mambo, his fans and radio.

No etiquette & embarrassment creates ‘Je huu ni ungwana?’

In 1966, a casual visit to the Panafric hotel turned awful when Mambo and his friends stayed too long without being attended to. One of his friends lost it and started yelling for a waiter. As Mambo narrates the story, he re-lives the experience by also yelling and hitting the table. The man sitting across us at the restaurant flashes across a ‘STFU’ look. “Did you see that reaction?” probes Mambo. “Nobody likes such embarrassing behavior and especially at a prestigious hotel like Panafric. My friend could have just asked politely if not practice patience,” he asks?

That experience marked the inaugural year of “Je huu ni ungwana” and also served as the show’s debut topic. In 2009, 43 years down the line and the show’s ever growing popularity led to a TV show being conceptualized from it—of course with Mambo as the host.

With now close to celebrating fifty years on the airwaves, Black Roses sought the show’s top three recurring cases of etiquette deficiency:

1. Table manners

If you love multi tasking, don’t be caught talking and chewing food at once. Mambo also says that, ignoring side-plates by dumping the remains of food and bones all over the table is an insult to a waiter/host.

2. Disregard for personal space

Mambo shuns men who use queuing at banks/public places as pretence for touching or rubbing against ladies derrières.

3. DTP

“Move bitch get out the way!” Ludacris and many others have fallen prey to disturbing the peace. Shouting haphazardly in public places is crude. “There could be six Marys on the street at any one point, so when you are yelling for Mary, you confuse the other five you’re not calling. If and when you see a friend, just run across to them or call their phones”, he says.

Mambo adds, “I had to teach myself humility because I am a celebrity and a public figure. Everywhere I go people want to shake my hand. I let everyone, especially kids, run to me. Little do people know that God blesses the humble.”

Here Mambo’s thought process seems interrupted.

“Something very important, did you know that I was caught right in the middle of Kenya’s attempted coup?”

This is getting even more interesting.

While Tabuley played, my life nearly came to a stop.

After the coup, law and order was restored but Leonard still had to appear before court to outline his supposed involvement with the masterminds of the rebellion. He was acquitted. He still insists, “I had no prior knowledge of a plan to overthrow the government.”

The year was 1982, the day, August 1^st. On returning home from seeing off his sister at the airport, Mambo heard gunshots at around 4.45 a.m.

He narrates the ordeal to Black Roses …

“At the time, I was head of Swahili/vernacular services at VOK. So, when I heard someone knock my bedroom window I thought it was a colleague who needed the station opened earlier than usual. On stepping out of the house I was met by rebels who asked me if I was ‘Mambo’. I obliged to everything they wanted.”

“They took me with them to VOK and we got there at 5 a.m. The station had been invaded by other rebels and some unruly students from the University of Nairobi. Amidst the chaos, the morning presenter had fled and left the studio unmanned. One of the rebels jotted a message on a piece of paper and then put a gun to my head asking me to read it out to Kenyans on National radio. It said, ‘From today, the government of Kenya has been overthrown. All prisoners are now free and all police officers are civilians…’ and it went on.”

“After that, followed more disorder that saw the rebels leave me in the studio alone. I decided to run as I felt a sinking feeling in my gut. But not before putting Tabuley’s album on replay, ‘Baby love me’ was the track playing when I fled to a different studio, where I hid under a table.”

“After several hours of praying, I leapt out from underneath the table. Walking along the corridors I had to jump over corpses. The Kenya Armed Forces led by General Mahmoud Mohammed, then deputy commander, had come to the rescue. My first instinct was to get back to the studio and on my way there I encountered an army officer who had a gun pointed at me.”

“He was nearly pulling the trigger, so I immediately raised my hands and shouted, ‘Don’t shoot, I am Mambo Mbotela!’ In shock, the officer quickly put down the gun. ‘I have never seen you in person Mambo. I would have killed my beloved radio personality without knowing. Please forgive me,’ he said.”

“Scared stiff and conflicted, I went back to the mic to revert my previous statement that the government had been overthrown. For Kenyans to believe me, I first had to reassure them that I was the same old Mambo. I am glad they heard my message and more so, trusted me. I stayed at VOK for three days, running the radio station solo. The GSU guards at KBC today were deployed following that incident.”

“The man who had put a gun to my head (to read the coup statement) was rebel leader Hezekiah Ochuka. He was later hanged for treason. I didn’t think I would survive through that day, radio saved my life.”

Contemporary Radio & Longevity

With a fresh and clean luster blind to present-day radio, “Jee huu ni ungwana’s” prolonged existence is one to reckon with. Its driving forces have been Mambo’s research and the bulk of feedback from listeners and viewers. “Modern-day radio is dominated by selfish individuals who only care for fame and money. This has made up personalities disinterested in making the society better,” he says.

“However, Caroline Mutoko is tough, outspoken and cares for edutainment. I like her a lot,” says Mambo who then asks, “How can a DJ from the disco be a radio presenter?”

 His advice on the way forward for contemporary radio is simply, training. Something he says he’s willing to offer to interested persons. “Contentment and arrogance are the main ingredients to cooking immature careers,” he says. So, what’s the secret to longevity? “Be humble and prolific. If you have a show or job, don’t be satisfied there. Start another one.”

Freedom & Heroism

Mambo’s outstanding contribution to the Kenyan broadcasting industry has impacted many lives. “Among my most memorable moments was meeting a fan who changed from being a batterer after he heard me on radio shaming men who beat their wives,” he says.

1984-1990 saw Mambo join the Presidential Press Service under Former President Moi’s regime, a tenure he says gave him the chance to practice journalism extensively in Kenya and the world over.

Among countless accolades, he’s been granted the 1987 Head of State commendation (HSC) and in 1992, the Order of Grand Warrior of Kenya (OGW).

“During Kenyatta and Moi’s era, journalists had no freedom of expression. You must have heard of the torture chambers? You could never draw caricatures of the president like they do now. In terms of variety, for a long time Kenyans had no other choice apart from VOK. I am very happy with the new crop of media institutions and the current press freedom,” says Mambo.

In 2009, Mambo was among a handful of others named ‘Heroes’ by the Kenyan government. However, it is the same system that has left him feeling unappreciated because to him, just naming heroes is not enough.

“The government hasn’t honored me and many others like it should. We need land and jobs as most of us have the required expertise anyway. Joe Kadenge and James Siang’a are veteran footballers who made Kenyan football reach unimaginable heights yet they are now living in poverty. It must be greed on the government’s part. Otherwise, what’s the need of a Dedan Kimathi statue when his family is languishing in poverty?” he poses.

Road after Radio.

Mambo is married and blessed with three children, Jimmy, Aida and George Mbotela. “My kids are all grown up so I have more time and space to concentrate on my jobs,” he says. All work and no play makes Mambo a dull boy. Oh boy! I meant, man. Once every weekend, backed by a live band, he sings Kenyan oldies, better known as ‘Zilizopendwa’ at Vibro Club in Nairobi West area. “My lifestyle is not as tedious as it seems. I’ve been doing this a long time, so every part of it, is me,” he says.

Retirement is unlikely for such a young-spirited and gifted man. In fact, he’s currently planning to start a new show and authoring a new book, both on championing Kiswahili language. His inspiration for both ventures came from the modern disregard for grammatically correct Swahili. “Sheng’ is all over radio!” he exclaims.

It’s enthralling to hear him say that he’s been watching Grapevine (an entertainment show I host), without me asking. I am yet to coerce him into liking and reading my stuff. “You’re good. Soar higher but just don’t compromise yourself for anything, not even favors,” he advices me.

It was an honor to have a candid chat with the icon. I am thankful for that, and my long-finished-cocktail which he paid for. “I would want to start an institute of broadcast training and in my hometown Mombasa even a radio station, Inshallah. When I am gone, I want that to be my legacy,” says Mambo.

Mambo’s self authored book, “Je huu ni ungwana” is available in leading book stores. The radio/ TV show airs Saturdays at 12.45 pm and Wednesdays at 6.30pm respectively.