Living A God’s Reality. Elevated Thoughts.
I walk further up Mama Ngina Street to get to the zebra crossing. As I step onto the fading white lines I look through the windshield of a gleaming black Range Rover Sport into the eyes of a young man, probably in his mid-twenties, who looks like he just stepped out of a Wall Street investment firm.
His fingers are tapping impatiently on the wheel and I see no wedding band on his ring finger. The only accessory he dons is a Swiss Breitling Navitimer wrapped around his wrist, peeping out of the crispy white silk shirt with no cufflinks. He doesn’t need any; he has already made his point.
Our eyes meet and he stares but he’s not looking at me he’s looking right through me. He eyes gaze at something beyond me as if to say I don’t qualify to be a shadow of a ghost of a spec of dust in his world. For a minute there I think I see him mouth the words “you ain’t shit!”
I almost trip over the edge of the sidewalk. I hastily compose myself as I walk and I awkwardly look around to see if anyone noticed my faux pass then slip into 20th Century Plaza and out the other side into Kaunda Street. A few minutes later I’m jostling into a number 6 Mat headed home — Pangoh. The driver is waiting for the last few passengers to board as I wait for Opera Mini to load my twitter home page.
The picture of the Suit in the Range comes into focus in my mind. The difference between his world and mine so disturbs me I cannot concentrate on reading whatever appears on the screen. What the hell did I do wrong? I’m I missing something? Is there a secret I should know that would close in the chasm between what is real for him with the sleek ride and that which I can only dream of?
There has to be a secret passage leading out of my decrepit reality into his heaven on Chrome rims.
He in the tight whips must be working as some senior investment banker for some private bank domiciled in one of the artsy buildings in Upper Hill. I can see him park his Luxury SUV in the basement parking then take the elevator to his corner office on the eleventh floor.
After a day’s works managing the portfolios of high Net-worth clients he heads home to his Town-House in The City’s suburbs — Karen, Kileleshwa perhaps. In the apartment, his suede Moccasins make no sound on the Persian carpet. He tosses his keys on the granite counter and tosses himself on the Leather Sofa…
My musing is suddenly interrupted by jingling coins. The Kaange (tout) wants his dues. I hand him two twenty bob coins and attempt to resume my reverie but the goddamned Kaange has already killed the buzz. I look out through the window as the Mat pulls out into Tom Mboya Street. There are tens of hundreds of people bustling around disappearing into alleys and worn out buildings. Maybe I don’t have it too bad after all.
I don’t kid myself though. However content I try to be with my life I am constantly aware there are guys out there living like Kings. And until I arrive at their plateau I will be eternally pissed at the dust that gathers on my shoes as I traverse the epic stretch from our gate to the stage in the morning as I go to work.
Meanwhile, somewhere across town The Guy in The Range is living out this young Nairobian’s dream. That’s Ok. It’s only a matter of time before I catch up with Mr. Hotshot in the designer suit. I have elevated my thoughts and dreams into specific plans to stack millions. And they have a deadline — August 23rd, 2013.
I will have by then departed from among the company of mediocre souls into a higher state of consciousness. I don’t mind the fact that Mr. Man in the ride will have risen to a higher order of magnitude. That’s okay too. Because by then I’ll be looking through MY windshield right into the eyes of some young chap crossing the street, wearing a smirk on my face that says “you ain’t shit!”
Originally published at http://edwinabuga.wordpress.com on April 12, 2011.