John and I had a conversation ahead of my birthday, during which we reflected on our journey and the transformations we've experienced. We also discussed the state of the nation, noting the recent civil strife and unrest, and shared our thoughts on the future of the country. NOTE: the space below is limited for details, but I have tried to capture the essence of our conversation.

Dinner With John

Kwach Abonyo

The restaurant I had chosen was nothing short of chic, and I was certain John would love it. I was fortunate enough to have secured a spot on the balcony side, which is always in high demand on weekends like this. Many people even book these prime seats in advance to avoid the hassle of finding a place to sit. I simply got lucky by arriving early. John had texted that he was on his way, probably still stuck in traffic.

The balcony perch is a perfect vantage point for the streets below. Just a stone’s throw away runs the Expressway, with cars streaming past like shooting stars. Nairobi’s Westlands has always held a special place in my heart. As I sit here in my quiet solitude, I can’t help but appreciate the serene beauty of the streets below. This city has been my home for over a decade now, and if fate allows, it may continue to be so for many more years to come.

For a moment, I lost myself in the panoramic scene of Westlands, soaking in its beauty absentmindedly. Then, my thoughts drifted, and I found myself returning to my earlier musings. I had planned that week to travel home, and later on, extend my journey to Mbita to have a day or two with my grandmother, but circumstances forced me to cancel my journey. I would have very much loved to celebrate my birthday in Mbita, the land that destiny appointed to be my birthplace.

There is a little shopping centre called Kamsama, about six miles southeast of Mbita Town, along Mbita-Homa Bay road, small and hidden that it easily remains inconspicuous to hurried passersby. These days there is nothing much to see of it except a public primary school, some shops, and one or two churches. While the highway has lent a degree of ambiance to this centre, its essential features have remained largely unchanged over the years.  

It was in this sequestered spot, thirty years ago, that an extraordinary event occurred. A young woman, heavy with child and in the throes of labour, writhed in agony as she sat astride on a bicycle that her two companions were pushing. Beside her walked an elderly midwife, who kept offering solace through her soothing words. The midwife would have helped her, and indeed she tried, but the expectant woman developed some complications that exceeded her expertise. 

Thus, concerned for the well-being of the mother and her unborn child, they resolved to seek urgent medical assistance. This particular time they were headed to Homa Bay Town, which had the nearest hospital capable of addressing their urgent needs.

Upon reaching Kamsama, though, this young woman couldn’t go any further. The day was just beginning, and the early morning sun bathed the land in a golden glow. Men and women hurried past, some heading to their gardens with tools in hand, while others guided donkeys laden with water jerrycans to or from the lake. It was Saturday, and the air was filled with the sound of daily life.

In agony and ready to deliver, the young woman refused to take another step. The baby was coming, and it had to be here, right now. She slouched, refusing to move further. The midwife sensed the urgency and sprang into action. They chose a broad shade of 

tree under which they hastily constructed a makeshift shelter, using whatever they could find to provide some privacy and comfort. Some women from the locality had noticed the commotion, and they paused their morning task and hurried over to help. They brought water and clean cloths. The air was thick with anticipation and the soft murmur of encouragement.

After a tense few moments, the baby entered the world. A boy. Unusually large, weighing in at nine pounds. But his cries were strong and full of life. There and then they named him Onyango, the strong and mighty one who arrives with the morning sun. Later, his father, a devout Christian, would call him Felix. But in that moment, under the 

 tree, surrounded by the women of Kamsama, he was Onyango!

My thoughts drifted back to those humble beginnings as I waited for John. Not long ago, I was that baby, cradled tenderly in the midwife's hands, brought into a world where my existence began with nothing but love and care. Our days were filled with laughter and happiness, and our hearts overflowed with dreams that we believed would come true. How unpredictable life can be! I wonder if my parents ever imagined, even for the slightest moment, what the future would hold. I am certain they never envisioned that they would be gone by now. No parent, in their right mind, contemplates their own absence from their children's lives. Yet, here I am, facing this reality.

It is this touching birth story, which my beloved grandmother has narrated to me countless times, that inspired my desire to celebrate my birthday with her. It is something I have been planning for a while now, nearly for the last three years. But fate always has its plans. My motivation was not even the general pleasantness that is often smeared on birthdays, but a deep yearning to revisit the spot where my beloved mother gave birth to me. 

I first visited that place as a teenager, guided by the same midwife who assisted my mother during delivery. The midwife loved me fondly during my childhood. I was saddened to discover that the 

 tree, which had provided shade for my mother, was no longer there. I returned to that spot several times on my own, but those visits were all while I was still young. It is now something of thirteen years since I last visited it. With both the midwife and my mother long gone, and my grandmother aging rapidly, I felt an obligation to honour them. I plan to plant a new tree at that spot and care for it. This is why I wanted to travel home. It is why I wanted this birthday to be celebrated in Mbita.

As I sat there lost in thought, I saw John’s car glide into an expansive parking avenue below, searching for a space. Moments later, he emerged. I recognised him instantly in his Polo shirt and denim jeans, holding a big Ericsson phone in his left hand. When I once jokingly suggested he ditch this old-school gadget for a new smartphone, he responded with a humorous twist, asking me whether I would throw away my firstborn just because I had a newborn. John did have a smartphone, but he clung to his old gadgets with the kind of nostalgia only those with a bit more tradition seem to understand.

I may not love to call John old— at fifty-two, he is only a little over twenty years my senior—but his actions and mannerisms reflect someone who has grasped the lessons of many generations. He knows virtually everything, from technology to culture, and carries himself in a way that exudes respect and knowledge. He is naturally someone you would like on your first encounter.

You might of course ask yourself what a young man of my age would be doing with someone over twenty years older. But if you ever come across my first article here, to which this story is a sequel, you will know how my remarkable friendship with John began.

And while others might think that our friendship stems only from a shared interest, I say that it runs deeper. It's the history we share that has bonded us so tightly over the years. In this world, I have learned a lot about the value of friendship. Despite what others may think, I don’t welcome friendly gestures easily. It is very hard to see in me some qualities that meet the threshold of what people consider friends, or rather this is what others think of me. Once a friend called me an introvert, but I don’t agree. I love being around people and enjoying their company, but I am quite economical with my time. I tend to desist company that lacks the naturalness I possess. You will rarely find me in a social gathering just for the sake of it. I hate idle chatter and the pressure that comes with the group mentality. Maybe that sounds boastful, but it's simply who I am. I've always accepted the consequences of my unique nature. I can't pretend to be someone I am not, and I won't change just to fit in. 

Thus, when I say John is my friend, it's more than a casual tag—it's a bond tested and proven over time. It's a connection I feel deeply and trust wholeheartedly. Friendship isn't quantifiable; it's about personal conviction and the satisfaction we derive from those connections. I've carefully assessed those around me, and only a handful truly qualify as my friends. That, you know, is perfectly alright with me.

John called. I had seen him looking lost, unsure where to go. I answered teasingly, “Obie, I can see you. You look like someone who have been forced to stand.”

He arrived shortly, blaming me for making him sweat by taking the stairs. He apologised for being late, explaining he had to make a stop, and thanked me for the invitation, repeatedly complimenting the restaurant I had chosen.

“You didn't travel as you stated,” he remarked. “Muya could have given you a lift to Kisumu today.”

“Some issues came up,” I explained, laughing. “Good for Mr. Muya, though I think he would have demanded payment. I mentioned it to him, and he asked what I would give him in return.”

“Maybe he would have,” John inserted. “But if you had talked to him nicely, he might not have asked for anything.”

Soon, the waitress I had asked to wait returned with menus, greeting us warmly in English. John turned to her and said, “Let's not make you walk back and forth. I'll have 

 saucer. No, bring a good portion of ugali for a good man. Then the saucer can come later. And add pili. Oh, and put the soup on the side.” Turning to me, he added, “Obie, speak for yourself. As I told you last time, I can’t sit down for lunch in this nice restaurant and expect to eat—what did you call those things again?”

,” I replied. We laughed. I told the waitress to bring me the same, and she curtsied and left.

“Exactly, Obie,” John continued with a gleam in his eyes. “We are Africans, and it’s high time we recognised our roots. Too many Kenyans waste money on things they don’t even like. Like pizza—my daughter brought us some recently. What the hell is that?”

“I like pizza though,” I said with a twist of humour.

“Anything un-African rarely appeals to me.”

“So, should the West eat their food, and Kenyans stick to theirs? Where does that leave our market?”

“Stay the liberal you’ve always been, Obie,” John replied with a smirk. “As for me, I remain steadfast in my conservative stance.”

This argument went on for a while. As we chatted, I couldn’t help but notice how much John had changed. His stories sparkled with happiness, and he seemed healthier and more vibrant. Nothing pleased me more than seeing John in such high spirits.

A year ago, we wouldn’t have had this easy, light-hearted conversation.  Indeed, I can’t comprehend exactly the feeling that took over me at that time, but I know it was not a good time for both John and myself. We often reminisced about those dark times. John always insisted that I consider those moments as ‘ours,’ even though I felt the troubles were mainly mine, with him supporting me.

“Felix,” he would say, calling me by my name whenever things got serious, “It’s ridiculous to think I shouldn’t be part of your problems. Anything that affects you, affects me too—emotionally and psychologically. Come on, Felix. Aren’t you not like that too?”

We took our time, letting the moments stretch out as we reflected on our journey and the trials we had endured. At one point, John looked quite grave, his expression somber. He told me how happy he was to see the person I had become. It was as if he couldn't quite believe that his dedication and prayers had worked, that I had turned into exactly the person he had hoped I would be. We recalled, with a mix of sadness and relief, the adversities of the past year: the loss of my father and my brother-in-law. But, also, there was a lot to be proud of; like the transformation I had made and the youth initiative I had started back in Kawangware.

“I can’t believe it, Obie,” he said, shaking his head in amazement. “Just a year or so ago, no one would have imagined you like this. You were torn and scattered, a soul without form. Yet now, you are the solution for those young men and women who were just like you. How things change! I call this the work of God. He knows why he pulled you out of that abyss and gave you the wisdom to start such a magnificent course.”

“Indeed, I am honoured,” I replied, feeling the weight of his words. “I dream of extending this initiative beyond Kawangware slums. With prayers and dedication, we will bring these dreams to life.”

Our chats covered a variety of topics even after the meals, including, but not limited to, the current political climate. It was during those tense days when the country simmered with unrest over a controversial finance bill. I had asked John what it feels like seeing some folks in this country come out to enjoy a weekend like this, with no signs of discomfort or worry on their faces.

“Typical middle-class Kenyan,” remarked him. "They’re too obsessed with their holidays and weekend parties to care about the nation’s welfare. Their moral compass is defined by spending, not creating."

He then turned the question back to me, "What do you think of the situation, Obie? I have this unsettling feeling that everything we’re doing is just a passing wind. We forget too quickly as a nation and are easily swayed by political gimmicks. I wouldn’t be surprised if we soon reset back to our usual political foolhardiness, with leaders appealing to their tribal followers and insults flying across ethnic lines. What’s your take?”

“I took time to study the situation,” said I. "I've even been part of the protests, Obie, and I can attest that this time, there's something genuine about the voice of the masses. Something has been awakened in them, and it will take more than convincing words or blandishments to return these people to their former selves."

“I see, Obie, I see,” John said thoughtfully, taking for the first time a sip of the bottled water that had been standing there before him. “Something has always been aroused in Kenyan before, since independence to this date. Yet, we keep finding ourselves trapped in the same quagmires that have held us back for so long.”  

"But don't you think there's something uniquely moving this time?" I asked. "This time we have a group of young souls. Untethered by political allegiance. Free from tribal chains. And they are leaderless."

"Yet you hope it will lead somewhere, Obie?" John replied. "I'm not trying to be a pessimist. If anything, you know I've been fiercely opposed to this regime from the start. But we must recognise that Kenyan woes are primarily our doing—yes, they are ours to bear and to mend. But Obie, our pride and deafness brought us here. We tested the waters, only to find ourselves mired in the bog. Now we blame ourselves for our own actions. Unless we break free from the mindset of being swept by political waves and cloaking ourselves in tribal identities during elections, nothing will change."

I squirmed and took a breath. The outside atmosphere was now lively, and more cars came to fill the remaining part of the lot. Across the boulevard, at the foot of the Expressway, a group of touts were calling names of their destinations, urging for passengers to board. The air felt fresh, and the afternoon warmth was a stark contrast to the heaviness in my heart. I took a sip of my water, trying to steady myself.

The state of the country left me speechless, and I feared John’s premonition might be true. We had indeed made mistakes, but the gravity of our situation demanded deep reflection on our nation's future. I had spent time studying the country, and I sensed a stirring among my fellow citizens, a possibility that could reshape our nation's destiny either positively or negatively. As we talked, I wept inwardly for my country, and I could hear the sorrow in John’s voice too; we all mourned for the future of our homeland.

Something had to change about the entire structure of governance and our leadership. Something had to change.

"We still have much to discuss on this, Obie," I said, my voice tinged with hope. "Lately, I've been contemplating deeply on how to speak directly to my beloved country. And I believe I've discovered a path."

"And I know that path," John interjected with a playful grin, drawing laughter from us all. "You'll write about it. And write you will. But what we truly need is a profound shift in our national consciousness to forge a new direction. A two-day protest with lives lost and no lasting solution—sorry, that won't cut it. Perhaps it's a reminder for us, the ordinary citizens, to persist in pushing for change. But honestly, Obie, do you see any other way to turn the tide?"

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