WHEN I WAS A TEENAGER, A TEENAGER WAS I

 
Mjango! You remember those days when, hehe, wanaume I’m talking to you. Those days you constantly peeped at the mirror very closely to investigate whether there was a black strand on the way under your chiny chin chin? We are not interested in those other places it can grow. That’s yours to worry about. You really admired the pride that came with a beard or moustache. You know men and ego; they seem to get along don’t they?
How many times were you a laughing stock in senior primary school, especially among the girls, when you opened your mouth to talk? Definitely not because you had a killer breath. Mjango, people don’t laugh when you have a sewer kind of breath. They don’t? Yes they don’t. They RUN AWAY! Ooh! Aah! They laughed because of the uneven rhythm, the mixture of do re mi fa so la ti do notes in the same speech. In short, you had a breaking voice.
Those were some of the unavoidable physical changes we went through while manning up. Akina dada, hehe, I’m not allowed to talk about yours. No no mwanaume. Don’t protest. I know it’s unfair. Lakini ‘Mbona nishike nyoka mkia na nikose kuumwa?’
All the same, teenage-hood made everyone do and go through crazy things. Some crazy enough to leave you on your knees gasping for air because of too much humour. Some too crazy, they would leave our faces looking like we watching Walking Dead or Saw 3. You would even run to repent for hearing some people’s teenage testimonies.
Well I know of a mjango who dreamt (if not believed) of being Prince Charming. (Hey. No critics. Every young lad was always on the lookout for a Cinderella somewhere. He would go to whatever extent to prove he had all it takes, know?)  Talk of Cinderella. The mjango had in mind that she could be anywhere at any time. He ought to always be ready, carrying that which she always wanted. It’s not what you’re thinking mjango. It’s her missing shoe for the prom. (Akina dada reading this be floating on air right now.)
When our teenage mjango even got into a matatu, he would quickly scan for the pretty faces and long hairs before he found/chose somewhere to seat; okay not necessarily long hair. If you do natural hair, well and good. If you do weaves sijui horse hairs, ole wako. But mdada, just know your hair is the unspoken secret of a man. As many wanaumez who agree say Iiiii… The I’s have it. If she happened to be next to an empty seat, he would definitely pay thrice the fare to seat there. If he found the mathree rather empty, he would seat on the side facing away from the sun. Why?  His theory stated, “Femine species are more likely to seat on such a side. They are too pretty for sun damages.” So he took his chances.
Now we all know life has its way of giving us ‘lemon-ideas’ when we ask for ‘lemonade’ huh. Our mjango testified that all the narrated efforts have never really landed him a good seat next to… You know who. Not because the seats were always occupied. Naaah! But because he barely got into a mathree and even saw akamrembo in it. You’d hear him nag, “Kwani matatu za route flani hazinaga warembo? Manzeh!”
But once upon a time when he almost decided that he’d grow up, one of heaven’s kind must have slipped from above and fell right here on earth; right next to him, in a matatu. Halleluiah! Oooh yees baby… Yeess… Aaw yees… Hey! Get your mind back here. He wasn’t in his senses when she walked in and sat on him. Sorry. On the seat next to him. She was loaded with some shopping bags. He said he couldn’t tell where she had been shopping. Though he could mildly recall the label on the bags, something like ‘Woolworthy.’ “Where is that?” He asked. I didn’t want to embarrass him. I didn’t tell him it was Woolworths. Rolling eyes. Geek.
Having fallen from heaven, she wore one of Delilah’s colognes. You know. Those she applied to lure Samson. So strong and tempting. He even didn’t want to open the window. He’d rather suffocate in the heavenly aroma. Paralyzed on every, and I mean every part of his body. But at least his eyes managed to move about. He peeped on her face again and again and again. Oh the chocolate complexion, ngozi laini kama ya mtoto.  A bit of makeup. I repeat. A bit of make up! Long braids, milky eyes, brown iris. Cleav…. (The rest of the vivid description was ruled out by the editor for the sake of parental guidance. Too bad.) Lakini mjango, Inatosa Haitosi? Imeweza Haiwezi?
And wanaume, you can bear witness with our mjango that at such moments, words to jump start a conversation are looked for all over, lakini wapi. Kichwa iko empty. Connection failure. Check your internet connection and try again. Your confidence runs away and hides somewhere in your pants. Muhadhani! Our mjango gave up. All he could think about was guilt and failure. He was no longer a man. He had been crying for such an opportunity. His knees were now rough from frequently kneeling down to pray for such an opportunity. But when it came, he blew it. He could do NOTHING. Mjango kujichocha ni mbaya. Sickening huh. But before you think the fairy tale had a sad ending, up there I said he ALMOST blew it.
With an angelic voice, slightly accented, “Excuse, unaeza fungua window kidogo.”
The mjango is damn surprised. Now would be a good time for a happy dance, like bazokizo. He says to himself in disbelief, “Why lie, ameniongelesha ama naskia zangu?”
Another rebuking voice tells him, “Acha kusleki. Huoni io ni chance mjango?”
While opening the window, “Ooh pole kuna joto?” Trying to improvise an accent too.
“Yea you can’t feel it?”
“Haha. Some things cannot be focused on when seated next to someone like you.”
“Oh please…” She laughs.
Inner voice,”Mjango unaskia io kicheko tamu ya kizungu wewe.”
The conductor approaches.
The mjango blurts out, “It wouldn’t be a good show being a guy seated next to you yet you end up paying for yourself.”
“Ouw really? What makes you think being a chiq I can’t pay for you?”
She gives out a note and says, “Wawili” Conductor smiles. He looks like saying, “Eh kijana ulichagua kweli kweli, kamadam ni kazurriii.” The mjango? Speechless!
“Well what do I say…? Thank you.”
She smiles, “It’s no big deal”
“You know you are one of a kind. I’m Vick.”
“Nice to meet you Vick. And I’m….”
To not be continued….
Ps: Now we both know a mjango can’t pay three times the fare just to sit next to a kamrembo. Let’s get real mehn. But you can pay her fare. I know I’ll get in trouble for saying that.
Ooh the sweet teenage times. We all had them.