When the KCSE results came out, I listened to the youngsters listing their choice careers on the telly. It was the usual litany of lofty aspirations—aeronautical engineers, neurosurgeons and other titles I normally see on LinkedIn. Not once did I see a fresh-faced kid in oversized hoodie and crocs boldly declare, “I want to be a writer!” after hammering straight A’s.
Let’s face it, writing isn’t exactly the ‘it’ career in the age of bootylicious TikTok queens and six-figure YouTubers. But that doesn’t mean it won’t take you places—places where only the elite dare to tread. Let me explain.
Once, I was scheduled to interview a regal, no-nonsense grand dame who wanted her story immortalized in print. She invited me to a members-only club, the kind of joint where you smell money even before you see it. What she didn’t mention was the dress code. I showed up in my signature look back then: ruffled khakis, an untucked Gikomba shirt, and a cap like the son of a peasant coffee farmer that I was. Needless to say, our meeting happened in her Range Rover. The story still turned out great—Mwenenyaga works in mysterious ways.
Another time, I had an interview with one of those reclusive tycoons from our hills. The meeting was at a place that practically oozed opulence. Gleaming vintage Mercs in the parking lot. Soft jazz humming in the background, and rich men chuckling over deals worth more than the annual budget of Rwanda. I, on the other hand, arrived sweaty, panting, and looking like an escaped goat, having trekked three kilometres because no matatu dared ply that posh route.
When ‘Chairman’ spotted me, he didn’t waste time. He sent a waiter my way, probably to save me from collapsing into the leather seats. I must have looked famished and the old man didn’t want me to die on him. After taking forever trying to read the menu, the kind waiter suggested ‘Shepherd’s pie’, which turned out to be simply mashed potatoes and minced meat.
I brushed the cutlery aside and dug into the oily dish with my bare hands like a true African warrior. The serving came with some leafy things on the side which I ignored kabisa. After I was done, I burped loudly to indicate that the food was good. When I looked up, everyone was staring at me, mouths agape.
Thankfully, ‘Chairman’ was the easygoing type. We got along like old drinking buddies, chatting about his empire and his youthful escapades with village belles back in the day. At some point, the waiter returned, and ‘Chairman’ casually whispered, “Boys your age should be inhaling some banned leaves.” It’s hard to be respected when you are poor I tell you.
But since I was his guest, he insisted I sample Burgundy wine. When I peeked at the price, my heart stopped. It cost more than two months’ rent in the roach-infested hovel I shared with Kamaley in Githurai 45. But hey, there I was, eating life with a big spoon and rubbing shoulders with Murang’a royalty. All this because I can string a few words together in a way that editors like.
So, kids, writing as a career can take you places. Ni mimi nakwambia.