LIFE BY LOUIS: My tailor, mechanic and mama omena want to finish me

She fries fish by the roadside near one of Nairobi's the leafy suburbs and refers to me as the only 'Okuyo' that eats 'fiss'. ILLUSTRTION | IGAH

What you need to know:

  • Kamaa, my personal clothing designer, insists that his clothes are designer items.
  • Juma the tailor always laments how he has lost a close relative and has to travel upcountry for the funeral.
  • Abdi, my mechanic on Kirinyaga Road, inflates his labour costs using items that he claims to have used despite being there no evidence of the same.
  • Mama Oriti says her omena are fresh, straight from the lake but a quick glance shows that they have spent many days in the scorching sun.

I can hardly survive in Nairobi if all my erstwhile trusted friends also practice daylight robbery as part of their side hustle.

Apart from Man Kamaa my personal clothing designer, I have a retinue whose sole purpose in life is to milk me dry and hound me out of this city a poor man.

They will not stop until I am declared bankrupt like a recent candidate with a mouthful of a name and who wanted to be the main headmaster of this country but whose efforts came a cropper.

Kamaa is the defending champion of the award for most untrustworthy benefactor of my wallet. Although it is obvious that all his clothes for sale are from a tiny Far East country, he insists they are designer items. One peculiar thing about the garments is that the former owners apparently have are small in frame.

The biggest person there seems to fit in to what we locally call extra small size. I am hardly surprised when I buy a pair of boxers from Kamaa and upon reaching home they can not go beyond my knees despite them having an XXL tag.

TAILOR'S EXCUSES

Juma my tailor is another one. He is the director at Juma Trendy Fashions and Exclusive Male Suits Designers located along Luthuli Avenue. He walks around with an armed bodyguard because he allegedly owes a presidential guard some money paid as deposit for suits he never finished tailoring.

How he always manages to coerce me into parting with my hard-earned cash baffles me. I pay 90 per cent of the cost of the garment and as soon as he pockets the money, he becomes elusive. Every time you visit his shop, he laments about a close relative that has died and his travel to upcountry for the funeral.

You insist on hanging around until he has cut the cloth and started stitching, only to return the following day and get more excuses. The shortest time he has ever taken to deliver my suit is three months, and that is after I camped at his shop the whole day.

There are also sad tales of couples who were forced to wear hired clothes on their wedding day after he delayed stitching their suits and gowns.

MECHANIC'S FISHY LABOUR COSTS

Following closely on my 'Wanted' list is Abdi my mechanic. He is the innovator of a program that resurrects junk cars from the scrap yard and restores them back to the superhighway. He is also very loyal to his bottle. Every time we meet I fear for his life because he drinks like today is his last day on earth but come the next day, he is is his usual jolly self, a bit shaky but knows his way around the car.

Every two weeks, I take my dilapidated KVX to his vehicle intensive care unit in Abdis yard, Kirinyaga Road. I am almost sure Abdi will advise me to take it apart, sell the metal parts to the scrap dealers and the tyres to akala (rubber sandals) shops in Narok.

However, the minute he goes under the engine with a size twelve spanner (he fondly calls it ga-twero), he tells me to twist the steering wheel and my KVX comes out of the yard looking like a million bucks. I am concerned about water coming out of the exhaust pipe but he tells me not to worry, it is only burning ash.

We sit together for about an hour to negotiate his highly inflated labour costs. Among the contentious items are cost of duct tape, super glue, tie rods, nuts and screws that he claims to have used despite being there no evidence of the same. I end up giving in to his demands and as he escorts me to Globe Cinema roundabout, I swear never to return to his yard. But as fate would have it, I end up going back there again and again.

MAMA OMENA

Mama Oriti, a major transporter of sea food from Western Kenya and a skilled omena (sardines)chef, also ranks highly in my 'Wanted' list. She fries fish by the roadside near one of Nairobi's the leafy suburbs and refers to me as the only 'Okuyo' that eats 'fiss'.

Mama Oriti says her omena are fresh, straight from the lake but a quick glance shows that they have spent many days in the scorching sun. She proceeds to give me tips on how to cook fish; dry or wet fry, marinated or steamed. Despite her efforts, the fish that ends up on my dinner table is always floating in a litre of water. I blame Wa Hellen, my grandmother.

When I was growing up, Wa Hellen like so many women in our village, swore that no fish would ever be cooked in her kitchen. Indeed, no fish was seen within the vicinity of our home. Ironically, I went to a school where we were made to believe that eating fish made you intelligent. And suffice it to say, when national exam results were released, pupils from the land of fish would always rank top.

Because we missed out on the art and science of preparing fish when we were young, the only way we cook it now is how we cook most of our meals; with a minimum five litres of water sautéed with potatoes, peas and cabbages.