It was July 15 I989 in downtown Nairobi, on the top of a .building which hosted a sketchy bar joint off Munyu Road, where I first addressed a small crowd. It wasn’t anything long but it was a brief note of thanks and a catchy homily. Immediately after my remarks, one Nelson Myna 'daddikul', a long time friend and neighborhood hipster met me halfway from the mic stand and our seat and shook my hand thoroughly enough to suspect that had the event transpired today, he would have most likely given me warm hug. But that’s way back when hugs were only reserved to Muslims and women deeply immersed in Christianity.
Nelson’s first words were very clear and spoken with a particular emphasis. “You can be a good speaker” Nelson said. We sat down and tolerated the last few remarks from the elders before the space was soon turned into a dance floor and obviously out of bounds for anyone close birthday was within an earshot of 35 years.
We danced the night away under the stars. I had enough reason to celebrate as I had managed to convince my father into begrudgingly spend all his savings and also conduct a fundraiser amongst family and friends to fund my American dream.
The night was fun and the DJ was superb. But by morning the fun came to an end and Nelson and everyone else went their separate ways.
I really didn’t think about Nelson’s words until 6 moths later. But the kind of dance in my head was not the hip hop music we had danced to with Nelson in Nairobi. I now singing old African American Spirituals I barely knew at a rural church in Hernando, MS,. Mr. Hayes,a general contractor I had just recently met, shared Nelson sentiments. He had invited me to his church to give a talk. I accepted.
At the end the talk, Hayes passed a basket around and a collection was taken. I was surprised that it amounted to a whooping $22.67. I couldn’t believe it. That was the most money I had made. Halfway between the microphone stand and the exit door, Nelson’s words rang in my head as my hand pressed firmly on the outside of my right pocket. That it was a lot money was besides the issue, what was interesting was how I got the invite and where my American dream was fairing half a year on.
My Hayes had been in a discussion with an insurance agent about fixing a section of the church building damaged by a car that had slid off the road. The white insurance agent was noncommittal about accepting liability and was arguing that his boss in Nashville, almost 4 hours away, was best qualified to make the final decision. The disagreement went on for a while as I listened. I finally decided to politely weigh in. I asked the agent why he thought a man 4 hours away was more likely to asses the damage better than him. The agent stared at his shoes intensely for a moment and the he shook his head from side to side and then nodded. “You have a point there young man”.
The deal was over, the agent filled the paperwork, agreeing to cover the damage to the building. Speaking was my new American dream. It came during a time that the chances of finishing college was in doubt. Mr. William Hayes talked me up at every opportunity he could find. An ardent reader, Hayes also gave a copy of Mark Mathambane, Kaffir Boy. It was the first book I read in the U.S. Where I was read the at is a story for another day.
Yesterday I remembered Mr. William Hayes when I saw a jug with a collection for my talk at Grounded Ecovillage. Dough shared a lot of seeds and in addition raised a collection for our farming project in Kenya.
When I counted the over $130 dollars , I remembered Nelson and then said to my self “Yes Lord, Hayes Wily I am.”.
How much was an American dream worth to a daring young man from Gathǐngĩra 35 years ago that he was willing to face a White man in Mississippi and tell him exactly what was in his mind? Maybe Nelson would know. Perhaps it’s because I was born in the village of Gathǐngĩra, danced in Nairobi and cooked and seasoned in Mississippi.