Fundi Not Frank

Sandra Cisneros writes in The House on Mango Street: “Not a flat. Not an apartment in back. Not a man’s house. Not a daddy’s. A house all my own. With my porch and my pillow, my pretty purple petunias. My books and my stories. My two shoes waiting beside the bed. Nobody to shake a stick at. Nobody’s garbage to pick up after. Only a house as quiet as snow, a space for myself to go, clean as paper before a poem.”

I don’t have a porch and pretty purple petunias just yet but I do have a little space of my own. One where that chapter opening cheers me on from my fridge door. This home is filled with many things that I love.

My books and my stories sit in wooden crates that hold magazines, family portraits and prop up my projector. There’s a creaky secondhand sofa, a fluffy carpet and rectangular blackboard patches on the kitchen and bedroom walls where my dodgy calligraphy and drawing skills are on display. Currently, what’s supposed to pass for eggs in a frying pan has the caption, “you are eggcellent”.

Last year I decided to add a dining table to the mix. It needed it to be flexible enough to sit two people and the hotpot riot of a larger gathering. It struck me that the ideal table would need to fold in half and have detachable legs. That way, one side could serve as the top as the other portion (with one set of legs unscrewed) would provide the balance required. It would fold out and stand on all four legs.

Granted, this was an ambitious project but I imagined that all I had to do was find a good fundi and walk him through the idea.

There was a workshop close to my bus stop and the items on display looked pretty good.

I approached the fundi one afternoon and discussed the table design. He seemed to get it, nodding along as I described how it needed to work two ways. I even showed him images I’d found online (thanks, pinterest!) of what some of the pieces were to look like. I was assured the table would be ready in a week’s time.

Week 1
I passed by the shop and work hadn’t yet began. Apparently he’d been called away on an emergency.

Week 2
The table top was ready but the two segments were of differing lengths. The fundi didn’t cut the piece exactly in half. We argued back and forth and it’s obvious this guy hadn’t jotted down any of the measurements and instructions we’d previously discussed. I asked him to do so and although he assured me that he understood my instructions, I got home and sketched out my dream table. I slipped this drawing under the shop door the next day.

Week 3
The fundi informed me that the table is ready. At this stage, I was hopeful but don’t know what to expect. It’s Friday mid-morning and since the guy would be away for the weekend he delivered the table to a kiosk close to my place. I arrived to find one side had been replaced but the resulting table top was misaligned and very heavy.

Once in my house I attempted to assemble the whole thing but it was a disaster. It didn’t stand up even once. The legs were uneven. In full distress mode, I loaded up data on my phone and turned to Twitter to express my woes.

Sharing our stories helps us gain new perspectives. For instance, I learnt that not only was this all faulty workmanship but the choice of wood was also questionable.

Table ting 2

I confronted the fundi and pointed out all the obvious faults but he didn’t care. He promised to atleast level out the legs but the table only gathered dust in his workshop for another week. He kept lying to me over and over again about when I could collect it and what progress he’d made. Frustrated, I went by when he was out and collected the pieces.

I pass by his workshop every day and he never meets my gaze. Would you if you’d made this nonsense?



Here’s to finding a frank fundi some day.

These languejs of ours

Wrote an essay for Jalada, a writers’ collective I’m part of, in the bonus edition of The Language Issue. This piece has been rolling around my head for a few years now.

How far?

That phrase made me fall in love with pidgin right there in the backseat of a taxi in sweltering Lagos as I listened to an exchange between the cabbie and a mallam, a security guard.

I’d heard it before but it wasn’t until then that I realized the power in reassigning meaning. It called to mind radical feminist and writer, Audre Lorde’s belief that the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. Here was a challenge. Here was, in fact, a clever subversion of the Queen’s English.

Nigeria, like many other West African nations, managed to mutate what would become a bitter and crucial component of colonial rule to create a veritable new language. Remoulding the language until it rolled off their tongues to their taste.

Keep reading here

More than Just A Book

Just A Book
Ever since Just A Band released Hey! 7 years ago, I’ve felt a strong kinship with these guys. I loved them (and Hey!) so much I once designed for Boflo (the puppet in Hey!) a cousin called Shokolokobangoshe, a foul-mouthed diva.

I’ve written about them a few times in my journalism career with the latest and most exciting being for Just A Book, their newly launched art book that focuses on the visual art the band does i.e. the graphic designs, artworks and videos. The book also includes a lot of behind-the-scenes material from video shoots and that 5,000-word profile on JAB that I was commissioned to write.


Ake 2015: Engaging the Fringe and Other Stories

I’ve always enjoyed solving problems and festivals flare up with so many little editorial and production fires that for some reason I really like putting out. I’ve been worked in and around literary festivals for the last eight years. With Storymoja alone I’ve happily bobbed around as a volunteer handing out programmes, worked as a media partner while at UP Magazine as well as taught a session at the festival.

Festival work is often maddening and exhilarating but quickly over in a few days. The memories though, those can last a lifetime.


A Case for Better Discourse Around Sex

I’ve admired the political blog, Brainstorm ever since it was launched in 2013 by Kenyan writers and feminists Brenda Wambui and Michael Onsando. With the tagline, “Intelligent. Kenyan.” the site was launched to address the need for critical thought on the Kenyan experience. The goal was to “look at Kenya from the inside” and they promised to do so through a new post every Tuesday.

Well, today they put up my essay on the history and nature of public discourse on sex.

I haven’t put up the essay’s title in full because some of this blog’s subscribers are my family members and many of them are sensitive about what they consider “coarse language”. I want to assure them—and any others who may feel the same—that this is something you want to read, or rather keep reading beyond the title and first paragraph…