I haven’t done anything yet. Well, nothing I consider significant. I have nothing to my name. I haven’t loved yet. No one has loved me yet – though a few people, in moments of weakness have been misguided to think they loved me. Let's just say that they soon saw the error of their ways. I have barely lived. I haven’t…
If my ancestors should call me up to the realm beyond the hills today, that would be it. I would leave nothing behind but old sneakers and huge debts at the chapo-madondo joint. I would be remembered, but only for a short while. The memory of my existence would disappear like smoke upon clear skies. I have neither created nor procreated. There are no mini-mes somewhere who the world could point at one day and say, “Look, he has a fist of a nose, just like his father.”
I have been on a plane before. But it was a rickety, winged jalopy that flew like words off Moses Kuria’s mouth; turbulently and without any sense of direction. In any case, a plane where you can see the driver is not a real plane, is it? A bunch of headshots I took when applying for the green card are the only form of passport I’ve got.
I have never been out of the country except for the one time we went to Kampala on a school trip. But that was many years ago, and I slept through most of the trip because the school nurse mistakenly gave me a sleeping pill instead of an antimalarial Coartem. It was later discovered that she had become a nurse only by association. When her husband, the former school nurse, eloped with a female teacher, she just took over his nursing responsibilities because the good book says “In his place, let another take”.
And I am not special either.
I’ve got no special talents. I have never begun singing in a shower and then sang even better when I left the shower. I may have tried acting at some point in high school, but the drama teacher said he felt like I could beat him to death with my heavy wooden acting. Honestly, if it was not metaphorical, I would have done it. I would have indeed beaten that thick-necked meat bag to death with my heavy wooden acting.
Sometimes, I dream that I have become a big-shot actor. In my dream, Meagan Good graces my cheek with the soft touch of her tender kiss. She hands me my Oscar Award for Best Actor, and says, “I’m proud of you darling.” And I take the mic and say, “I just wanna ask my high school drama teacher a simple question: HAPA NI WAPI?” (where is this?) But then I wake up, and I’m no big shot at anything and Meagan Good is yet to respond to any of my proclamations of love on her IG inbox.
Dreaming. It’s really the only thing I’ve ever been decent at. I spend too much time in my head and way less in the real world. Which is why I believe I would have been exemplary in Ruto’s government. All they have to do is be out of touch with the lived reality and make up stuff, facts be damned. Damn, I would have been a star. Taxing people for future houses when they would probably starve to death before the five years elapse? Naah, I would have dreamt up something way cooler. Y’all mouth breathers would be paying taxes for the houses Jesus went to prepare for you in heaven.
“Who are you?”
I have been asked this question countless times before, mostly in job interviews where all I do is press play on some pre-rehearsed response like, “I am a computer scientist and a storyteller. I tell stories about people and I tell stories about brands…” And then I go blabbing about generics that I think would compel those pompous pricks to hire me. Mostly they say, “We’ll get back to you soon.” I never hear from them again.
This time, however, I was being asked this question under completely different circumstances. My boy, Brian Khavalaji, had organised a hangout for young people in digital and creative spaces. He called it A SMILE A DAY and said it would be “a great opportunity for like-minded people to interact, network, and share ideas”. Now, interacting, networking and sharing ideas sounds great but doesn’t exactly translate to a fun weekend for me.
But then he mentioned, in passing, that the Lion’s tears my ancestors fought fervently for will be available in plenty (he lied by the way. Such a punk!). Well, that’s how I found myself in the company of beautiful, brilliant people who wanted to know who I am beyond my name.
“Who are you?”
One after another, this great company professed who they are. “I’m a data analyst.” “I’m a journalist.” “I’m a videographer.” “I’m a musician.” “I’m a painter.”
But who am I, really? I’m Min Jii’s last born. The one she calls chogo, her bone. Even though I’ve never killed anything bigger than a mosquito, I descend from a long line of Luo warriors so by blood, I’m a warrior. I was on campus for four years and left with a degree in computer science so I’m a computer scientist. I have ‘dated’ six girls in the past two months so I’m… not a man-whore!
I have authored stories, written news articles, and newspaper columns. I have written screenplays and advertising copies. Tried my hand at photography and successfully hacked my caretaker’s WiFi. But who am I? Who is Ogwa?
Looking at their eager, shiny faces, listening to some lumber on about the brilliance of an article I wrote two years ago, I knew what they were expecting me to say. Either I’m a writer, a journalist, a content creator, or a copywriter.
But what I really am is a dreamer. That is why I haven’t done anything remarkable yet. I’ve barely lived because I’m not really here. I haven’t loved because dreams are so lonely, they cannot be shared.
They don’t write books about dreamers. If that bullet hadn’t stopped Martin Luther King’s heart, the world would have never remembered him or his dream. No one will ever sit around a table telling stories about a man who dreamed. But it’s all I can be: here and now.
What about you? Who are you?
