Popeye

I have a friend from high school known as Brian Otieno. He’s from Kasipul, specifically Koyugi (Oyugis). Not too far from Kendu Bay where I call home. Brian has been a staunch Adventist elder since our early years in Form One. From the very first time I saw him he already had that SDA aura about him. And true to the look, he quotes Scripture and the Spirit of Prophecy the way a lawyer rattles off case law; effortlessly, like it’s second nature. As any true Adventist would, he’d remind you “Adwen sura gi wes” (Adventism is chapter and verse). [That’s my best attempt at translation]. Brian is now at Moi University studying to become a wakili.

Honestly, I think law suits him. It lets him weaponize his encyclopedic knowledge without anyone accusing him of showing off. Sadly, he’s also a long-time Chelsea fan, which is tragic because my team, Madrid, has beaten his team so often that these days he can barely look me in the eye when football comes up.

We both took History in high school. For me, the choice was obvious: I love stories about dead people. Heck, my two favorite musicians of all time are both dead, and both called MJ. So History just made sense. But for Brian, I never quite figured it out. It always felt deeper for him, like the grades were just background noise. He used to quote dead people like he’d actually met them for tea.

One memory stands out however. On Saturday nights, after spending the whole day in church, we’d gather in our cubicles to gas (Starehe slang for telling endless stories). While other students huddled in the freezing entertainment hall, watching movies or dancing to Gengetone, we just made stories about anything and nothing. Sometimes we’d talk about what life after Starehe would be like: the expectations, the pressure, the paths waiting for us outside those gates.

One line Otieno particularly liked was saying how “while looking for jobs, we will tarmac till the soles of our shoes wear out”. We laughed then, convinced that could never be us. After all, we were men of Starehe—a Round Square school gaddamit! Tarmacking wasn’t even in the equation we carried in our heads.

I am not at all surprised that I’m among the first of our crew to actually wear out his soles. I don’t know about Brian or the others, maybe their soles are holding up better. But mine have surrendered. Not necessarily from tarmacking, but from endless commutes to my attachment.

When I closed my books last semester, I wasn’t remotely prepared for attachment. At all. I expected another restful holiday of sleeping in, strolling around in shorts, watching movies, and pretending to understand my evening CPA classes. Nobody warned me my holiday would involve actual work.

By the time I landed my attachment, my wardrobe was still a Gen-Z gallery of shorts and silk t-shirts with loud writings. Nothing close to office wear. Comfort is my default: I haven’t worn a suit since my mom slid me into an oversized one for those childhood Christmas shoots. I only put on trousers if I’m headed somewhere that involves boarding a motor vehicle such as a car or matatu. If it’s walking distance then I’m in shorts, airing my hairy legs like they’re God’s crowning creation. Starehe didn’t help much either—we wore shorts. Blue, well-ironed shorts, with stiff red shirts. A black sweater, and grey socks. Yes, picture those colors together and then add my chocolate skin underneath them.

When I realized I had to report to work a few Mondays back, panic set in. What would I even wear? I might be rebellious, but not enough to show up at an office in shorts, however sexy my legs are. A few family calls later, I scraped together cash for a mini wardrobe revamp.

The one thing I didn’t buy though is shoes. You might sigh at this statement but I’ll still say it: I’m not a shoe guy! I am not a sneakerhead like my girlfriend is. It’s not my fault though. Like suits, shoes decide who they look good on. I stick to shirts and shorts; you can’t go wrong there. If you saw me in Jordans, you’d probably lose all desire to wear them yourself. And it’s not just sneakers, I don’t own many official shoes too. The only black suede pair I own are now on their deathbed, just as Brian predicted. My other brown Chelsea boots don’t play well with most outfits. I also outgrew the SDA stage of wearing loafers every time.

Last Friday, staring at those tired shoes, I admitted Brian had been right all along. And I wondered: what else did we laugh about in high school that turned out painfully true?

So last Saturday evening, I carried my one black pair to a local cobbler. The first thing that struck me was how much the man looked like Popeye the Sailor. Some of you have probably never watched that cartoon, but Popeye was a one-eyed sailor who fixed nails on ships by hammering them with his mouth and forehead—no tools. This cobbler was his twin: same hat, same posture, even chewing grass like Popeye with his pipe. I almost greeted him: “Unajua unafanana na Popeye sana.” But he was an old man with grizzled hands—hands that looked capable of slapping the Gen Z out of me. And really, how could I expect him to know a cartoon when his youth was probably filled with fighting in the Mau Mau and listening to Les Wanyika?

He grabbed my shoes with his dry, dark hands. Despite the cold, they radiated heat, like they were weatherproof after decades of use. Like they were defiant to the cold and the leather he touched everyday. As he inspected the soles, I couldn’t help wondering where those hands had been. Thick, stiff, rough. No amount of soap or lotion could restore them. They had been through hell and back, back now to mend shoes. They looked painful to me. I almost asked if he was okay, but maybe that’s just what old age feels like. Honestly, I don’t want to get old; it looks exhausting.

Yet despite my pity, his hands worked with effortless grace. He reached for a sharp tool (don’t ask me its name), tapped my shoe sole like a doctor searching for a vein, and within seconds diagnosed the problem. Experience is elegance.

I’d come straight from buying fish for supper, so my entire existence smelled like fried fish. The cobbler did not seem amused by this. His workshop was a cramped mabati shed you couldn’t stand upright in, and now it was filled with the aroma of tilapia. I felt guilty, but what could I do? All I could do was pray for a quick and painless operation on my shoes.

To make matters worse, his apprentice showed up—probably his younger best friend from their hunting days. The guy bent down into the shed, caught a whiff of fish, and immediately spat outside. It disgusted even me. But I kept a brave face; this would be over soon. I put my trust in his experienced old hands to finish the job quickly but effectively.

I am not big on small talk. I believe in quiet co-existence, especially when you’ve already poisoned the air with fish. But Popeye was a kind old man. He asked about my shoes: where I’d bought them, if I liked suede, how I cleaned them. “Wash them?” I repeated. People wash shoes? I told him they were my first pair after joining Uni three years ago. He seemed impressed. His small eyes widened under his hat, before sinking back into their calm gloom. “You’ve protected them well,” he said. Getting that compliment from a cobbler felt as good as your dentist telling you your teeth are perfect.

He and his apprentice chatted in Kikuyu while I answered in Swahili. Their conversations, I suspect, were about me and my fish. The apprentice wasn’t a subtle man—he had the kind of face you’d never ask to look at a girl discreetly, because he’d turn his whole head. So when he wrinkled his nose, spat, and whispered in Kikuyu, I knew he was dragging me, my shoes, and probably all Luo people through the mud. He knew I didn’t understand Kikuyu, and he took the chance to mock my worn-out soles and the smelly insides of my shoes. He clearly wasn’t my biggest fan. But then again, cold weather and the smell of fried fish can make people act strangely. Still, his loose tongue reignited my resolve to learn Kikuyu, because if you go to Kikuyu, you’d better do as the Kikuyus do.

Soon Popeye was done with my shoes. They didn’t look brand new, but they were good enough to carry me through a few more weeks of internship, pounding the tarmac, just like Brian had predicted.

✍🏽Reagan.