Confessions of Time Spent with Humans
2014
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Table of Contents.
In the beginning
In the end
About the Author
People never think much about ‘us’ chairs. I mean, you buy us, sit on us, move us when you change houses-share us, step on us and all the while it has never crossed your mind to be good to us. I guess that is just our life. It is fate. Fate is cruel for she gives you what you deserve. But for once, listen to what I am about to tell you. Forget that I am a red leather chair. I have lived for thirty years thanks to Michael. He came home one night, sat on me and talked about her. He called her name seven times-and before I could respond he was gone. They took him away from me at dawn. His wife-Nancy couldn’t breathe immediately after. His sons came home that evening and talked about him. The name he called-that’s what I want to tell you about. I want to tell you why she left home. I will have to tell you about Michael and his family too. So please take a seat, or pull a chair and listen.
June 4, 1962.
I always knew I would be a chair.
I did not know which kind-but I had the feeling people would sit on me for the rest of my life. I was seated basking in the sun when he walked in. He had a huge afro, brown patched trousers that barely scraped his ankles and an old silver Seiko watch. I was taking in the view of the town and hoping someone would take me home. His eyes, like everybody else, settled on Matiwa. Yes, even chairs have names. If you look up any directory you will learn that there are over one hundred and twenty four types of chairs. There are those made of either hard wood or soft wood. Now, the most common hardwood in Africa is Mahogany. It is the best and most expensive. Very few Carpenters get the privilege of working with this kind of wood. When they do, the finished product is always most expensive. Allow me to tell you about our names. Every Creator gives his product a name. It doesn’t have to be fancy, but just a right name for the product. Writers name books, painters name their paintings, musicians their songs and hence Carpenters their products. Matiwa is named after the owner. First rule of naming a product; give it some connection to its source. All chairs made by Otiwa get a name. Otiwa is the man who created me. So, since he made Matiwa using Mahogany-he gave him the first two letters to symbolize that affection. At this point you are probably wondering what my name is. Truth is, I don’t know and I never want to. It wouldn’t change the fact that I have been sat on all my life. When Michael walked in his eyes landed on Matiwa-just like all the other customers. He changed his mind when he heard the price. He walked around the shed for a while before settling on me. When I saw him, his thin dull face had this promising look. I knew he would be kind to me. See, the thing about humans is that they are visual. I have heard the women who come here complain that men go with what they see. But, with chairs-it’s not what you see but the skill that matters. See, a well crafted chair will be bought. But Matiwa was not just crafted-he was designed. He had a purpose that spoke of comfort, style and elegance. You would look at him and think that he could earn you prestige amongst your peers. A crafted chair has raw talent and blessings from his master. Every joint is in place and it fits just fine. It is one of those items you see at a show and immediately picture yourself seated on it- alone, reading a book or listening to music. If you stare at a chair and picture yourself with your friends having fun-then it isn’t well crafted. I say so because you had to picture yourself enjoying it with others. A designed chair on the other hand serves a purpose. I hear that humans call it ergonomics. It’s where a chair is made to fulfill a purpose. Out of those one hundred and twenty four types I have told you about, most of them are products of ergonomics. They sprang about because humans forgot what it was like to care for things. People just figured they needed things they could use. They never did the Math-and now you end up having a battle of the chairs in your house every time you go to bed. Yes, chairs do argue! We argue so loud that even the silent night cannot hear us. What do you expect when you have a couch, dining chair, lounge chair, patio chair, high chair, desk-chair in the house? It’s a battle that never ends. Take it from me. Michael took me home with him that afternoon. He emptied his pockets to have me. He then had me placed on a cart and was carried all the way to a pigeon-hole house. I heard him say “welcome home, this is just the beginning.” I never believed him. It was 1962; Kenya was not what it is now. He had dark skin, impeccable English and a picture of Queen Elizabeth hanging on his wall. I didn’t know what to tell him-but when I looked around that room, I only saw one small window to my left. It was high up on the wall. If you haven’t added things up, let me tell you-I was the only piece of furniture in Michael’s room.
June 1963
I stayed in that room for one year. There were days when Michael came home and slept on me. He would cry in his sleep. I never understood why, but with time he started talking in his sleep. He would wake up shouting “yessir!” At times, he would look at the picture on the wall and say “as you wish, your Majesty!”
There were nights he would walk around the room reading. I never did know a man could read the Bible with such emotion. It felt like he was putting on a show just for me. Michael had this frown-that never escaped his face. I would look at him and laugh, at times seeing him made me understand the complexities of human nature. He only had three pairs of trousers. I will admit that he never cleaned them too. Shame on him! He never did his dishes too, let alone sweep the floor. He kept on saying “I will get a good job” and walking around the house. But this year was different. He went for an interview and came back happy. He would be working at the Immigration Office. He was accepted as a Registry Clerk. He would be paid well enough to move into a better house and maybe get a loan for a car. I thought a bicycle would work just fine, but he kept talking about a car. I learned to listen by watching Michael. He was only twenty years old then. He was young and vibrant and lucky to have been a Chief’s son. I think he got a good education because of his Father’s role in the Colonial Government. He never talked about his parents much. He would only talk about his dream of being a better Father. He also talked of having to walk without being questioned because he was black. I never saw it as that, back then. I never thought he struggled that much-but from the radio, I learned that Kenya would be free. I knew that there were countries like Ghana that had earned their freedom and were rebuilding. I had seen Otiwa being kind to the White men that came by the shed. He would run to them and say “welcome Sir!” and show them around the shed. He often gave them a history of a piece of furniture before selling it to them. There were days he would see them and produce coins and thank them for taking care of him. On such days, he would pull out his bottle of busaa and drink himself to a stupor. He would then wake up from his sleep and start talking to us about “uhuru.” We witnessed all these, but no one stopped to ask what we thought. Like every human, they assumed we would never talk. It is that assumption that has got me here.
June 1964
Michael came home singing along to a song. I had seen him do that before-but this time I didn’t know why. He came and looked around then smiled and sat on me. He was holding a money order sheet. He had just made a deposit on his new apartment. I was thrilled because I hated the small space we lived in. We moved to Kasarani estate. It was a two bedroom house with sixteen windows. I could see his neighbor, a plump woman wh
o loved listening to Miriam Makeba. She would dance around the room every evening. If I tilted slightly towards my left I would see her twist and shake her behind with such ease that left me smiling. I also loved the new kitchen because Michael started cooking. He would make tea and have it with bread. I will admit that he was lazy and reckless-but he did try. He bought three pairs of suits when he earned his pay. They were all grey suits. He would have looked good in black, but he said, his skin was black enough. He would stare at himself for hours before leaving the house. Then he started using some cologne. He bought a bottle of YU and some Pressol for his hair. The greatest achievement that year was when he called home. He hadn’t been home in six years and he called his uncles. I remember that night because there wasn’t much to do but just sit and then the lights went out. He poured himself some tea in a small brown china mug and sat on me. His Father would have been proud of his education and achievement. He talked of how the old man praised the Missionaries. “They bring good news, what is wrong with that?”
“Kenya needs Faith and understanding- and it needs to embrace change, or else we will be colonized forever. So, go and study Michael-learn their language, their way of life and use that to change your country. Change it for the better. Make people learn. Make your country a better place, my Son.” Michael was a man who was slow to anger. You could feel his hate or disgust for his Father in his voice. He hissed every time he recalled the man’s words. He never talked about him to anyone but me. You see, what happens in one’s own time happens every second of their life. Whatever demons haunt a man in solitude, he sees them every moment of his life. Michael had ghosts. His Father’s words haunted him-not because he believed them, but because his Father did. The old man died before Uhuru. He never visited the city to see Kenyans in chains. He never saw his son clean the washrooms and cook for the White man yet he had studied. He never heard them call him “you there!” He never knew that Michael’s first boss- never knew his first name. The man, Mr. Greene, called him “staff!” He showed up every time and never complained. It was his friend’s words that saw him through. His friend, Boko was shot on his way back home one night. The reports said that he was shot by armed robbers. No one ever questioned why an armed robber would send one bullet straight through a journalist’s heart. The story he was working on never made it to the papers. Boko, his comrade, told him “live with your eyes and not your tongue, Kenya is not ours, it never was.” June 12th 1964, Michael wept for his friend, Boko. I was the only one who stayed with him that night. It was around 2:00am when it suddenly hit me that life was not as rosy as I always thought it was for humans. Michael’s pain that night confirmed one thing-memories are all humans ever have.
August 1968.
I hate August. It is the only month that has two “u’s”. I have never been a fan of that vowel. I know humans get to discriminate, but chairs take the crown. You sit on us all your life, but have never asked why at times we let you fall? Let me introduce you to our ally- Gravity. She can make life a laugh for us by shifting us ever so slightly and letting you fall. We are one with the Universe too. Back to the story I was telling you; I hate August because of one person-enter Nancy! Yes, Nancy was the girl who kept Michael too busy to even sit on me. He became keen on her that he never thought of talking in his sleep or sitting on me at midnight. To make matters worse-she proposed he sell me when she first saw me. Allow me to explain in detail. Nancy walked into the room and her eyes landed on me. “What is that?” She asked of Michael. Michael smiled and said “that’s the first seat I ever bought and we’ve been through a lot with it.”
“It doesn’t go with your décor but if you love it why not?”
“I just don’t love it. I am attached to it in a way.”
“So-I guess there’s no way you are selling it right?”
“Nancy, I love that chair and there are some things to a man like understanding that I bet you know of, please let me keep it. It reminds me of how far I have come.”
“Sure sweetheart, can I sit on it?”
At this point-every splinter in me was screaming “NO!” and to my relief, he never let her. Michael told her I was his seat and she could have any other in the room. She hated me that girl. I hated her right from her frumpy dress to her fake British accent. Her skin was darker but smoother than Michael’s and her voice could summon you from death. It felt like sirens every time she opened her mouth. Michael thought she was musical. And to my horror- Nancy became, his wife! Yes, the two got married on August 25th. We all moved into a bigger house in the Kasarani estate due to Michael’s promotion. A woman changes everything and I was in for some changes!
Nancy was an early bird. She chirped at 5:00am. Yes, she would wake up and draw the curtains with such force you’d think I never wanted to let the light in. She would then go to the bathroom and fetch a pail of water. She would scrub the floors clean and make breakfast. Michael, my lazy master, would wake up at half past six and prepare for work. He would pretend to eat her food then leave. She would get angry at times that he didn’t eat all of the eggs, but that was just him. Michael barely listened to any talk about food. I had lived with the man for four years and all he ever did was drink tea and eat three slices of bread. He made porridge once a month and took that with three slices of bread. He also did love eating Ugali and matumbo at the local restaurant. Nancy forced her way into that house and I prayed every day that they would divorce. Michael deserved better. He needed someone who could understand that his shadows led and he followed. Nancy was the modern woman. She loved listening to the BBC and reading Africa Journals. She also typed faster than she talked and could argue on the importance of capitalism over socialism. She could have been the perfect colleague, but not life partner. I also didn’t accept the fact that she handled alcohol way better than most men. August was a bad month for me, because I had come to live with the fact that Michael’s world was growing. He had just secured a better position at work. He had finally married the woman of his dreams (nightmares if you ask me). He had visited his home in an attempt to make peace with his past. He was advancing and the next thing was children. I had been with him for four years and Nancy’s presence hit me like a plague. I will however giver her credit for making him improve his style. He bought some black suits and white shirts. He even bought a small television that updated him on the news. The greatest thing that Nancy did that month was to clean me and let me bask in the sun. I found myself dreaming of life back at Otiwa’s shed. I thought about my friends and maker. I wondered if he ever thought about us. I bet I would, or maybe I would not. I was learning new things with Nancy around. I was seeing love and attachment in humans and for once, I wondered if Chairs have that. I wondered what I would do with that. Nancy brightened up the new house. She would dust me up and even set aside some of Michael’s magazine on my arms. I could tell she wanted to sit on me. I could see it in the way she touched my sleeves and back. She had this look of awe and envy and something evil in between. She never sat on me. She could never bring herself to do it, because she loved him. She respected him in a way that I could never understand- not at that time, but in years to come. Nancy loved Michael. She loved him for who he was. Her love for him was evident in the way she took care of me. It was never for me, but for him. I still hate August because it was the month that I realized that Chairs live to please humans and we die alone.
March 1970
Make that four! Yes, Leon-Michael’s first born son was born in March. It was the most difficult time for me. The first night they brought him home, Leon cried till dawn. Michael went to work late and Nancy couldn’t stop staring at the clock. I wondered if she felt as though time could go backwards and not forward. If she did, I am glad that she understood how I felt. Leon was a little brat. He cried when she put him down or attempted to. Michael however was good with him. He would come home from work and take him and tell him stories. He told him about the boy who rode the clouds. He also told him about the man who lived in the forest an
d ate leaves. My favorite was “The Girl without a Voice.” It is told that long ago, long before people could ride bicycles or pave ways, that there lived a woman. She was old and blind. Those who saw her said she would walk to the shores of the Indian Ocean and sing. There were times when the wind carried her voice to the depths of the sea and the tides would soar. There were also times when she would scold the storm and the merchant ships would hit the shore safe. This woman was known as Malaika. Her hair was long and neatly braided into four sets. Each set represented the four Queens that lived. They were the Queens of Life, Spirit, Talent and Death. It was said that anyone who followed her to the water never came back. One evening a woman walked to her and whispered something in her ear. Malaika stopped and wept as she kissed the woman’s feet. She wept so loud that the waves came for her and took her away. This woman never left that spot. Every evening she would call out to Malaika. She would ask her to save her daughter. She begged and begged but the waves never brought Malaika back. The merchant ships were caught in storms and most people started blaming her for Malaika’s disappearance. The woman tried to explain to the people, that she needed help from Malaika. She told them about her daughter who was mute. She told them that she came to Malaika for help, but they demanded “show us your daughter, you Witch!” She went back home and brought her daughter. The girl had her hair braided- four neat seats. She stood at the shore and stared into the sunset then stretched her arms and never had they heard such a beautiful melody. The girl calmed the ocean and she went on to do that every evening. Legend still has it that if you go to the shores of the Indian Ocean and stand near the Vasco Da Gama pillar-just right there and look at the sun as it sets, you will hear her voice. But of Malaika, no one knows where she went, except the woman who talked to her that day. Rumor has it that if you stare into the eyes of the little girl-you see an old woman smiling at the sun. Rumor also has it that if you stare at the girl, you will never live to utter a word. Michael was a good story teller. His voice changed with every word and his son took that in. He