The mall is empty and the storefronts are still shuttered this early in the morning. I’m trying to find the clinic, which the security guard has advised me is on…
Category: <span>Essays</span>
Essays from Patrick Cumby
Here’s where I ramble on about stuff I care about.
The receptionist at the Nairobi health clinic sits behind a commanding desk that confronts me as soon as I walk inside. It would be intimidating except for her friendly smile.…
With the sole exception of Italy, I’ve never been to a country as fashion-conscious as Kenya. Kenyans (or at least Nairobians) are for the most part uncommonly sharp in their…
“Is there a problem?” I ask. The Uber driver, a soft-spoken man in a ramshackle Toyota, is smiling, but his expression is strained. He’s leaning through the driver’s door, searching…
Our Nairobi apartment community is lovely. It is also a fortress. It is not only gated, it is completely surrounded by high walls and guarded by a dozen colorfully-uniformed security…
Nairobi is both what I expected and not at all what I expected. The climate reminds me of California, as do the eucalyptus trees. The tropical flowers and ornamental trees are amazing. There’s the obvious poverty but also obvious wealth, and a palpable feeling of optimism among the citizens we’ve met. Kenya is poised for greatness, if the attitude of its people is any indication.
The man offers me a date. “Very good dates. My wife buys them at our local market.”
I take the date and eat it. The skin is dried and tough, not at all like the store-bought dates from the States. He watches me carefully, waiting for my reaction. I nod appreciatively and swallow. We’ve been waiting together at the departure gate for about ten minutes. The Cairo airport is shabby by western standards, and there are very few amenities in the terminal. I am grateful for the tough date.
The man yawns, and I remark that perhaps we’ll get some sleep on the five-hour flight to Nairobi. He chuckles and shakes his head. “I can never sleep on a plane. I was kidnapped once while flying. Since then, I am always nervous when I fly.”
It’s three in the morning as the plane from Cairo lands in Nairobi. My fellow passengers are bleary-eyed and grouchy, mostly Kenyans and stone-faced Egyptian businessmen with a few excited tourists sprinkled like salt on a plate of tired beans. It’s pouring rain, so it’s hard to explain why the ground crew parks the passenger bus a hundred feet from the base of the aircraft’s exit stairs. Everybody gets soaked running through the downpour to the bus. Nobody’s mood improves as we crowd into the transport, drenched and sticky, clutching our soggy carry-on bags. It’s standing room only, and we lurch into each other as the bus starts off toward the terminal.
We’re not even officially started on our 10-degrees around-the-world trip and we’ve run into our first significant roadblock. If our first destination country is any indication, we’re in for a LOT of frustrating bureaucratic obstacles. Case in point: getting a visa for Kenya.
Fellow creative writers, join me in a mind-meld with Beethoven, and together we will steal some of his magic juju.
Good creative writing comes from a bucket of words in the subconscious. When the bucket is full and the tap is open, the words pour out in a manic rush, creativity burning up the page. As the bucket empties, the flow slackens, and is eventually interrupted when the last dreg from the bottom finds its way onto the page. Then you’re done. Finished. Empty.