My city.

It is because I love my city, and it is my city, that I get very, very hot under the collar by what the County Government has done to fuck it all up to hell and beyond. 

I love its matatu culture; not the fuck-you! driving style of the Forward Travellers or the Umoinners, but the unapologetic hip-hop/dancehall/ragga/reggae vibe that the moving works of urban art that are matatus bring to an otherwise dreary city grind. When you board a Ma-3, a jav, whatever, it is not just that you want to get from point A to point B. It is not just that you have no choice. It is a choice. And when you're in that 14-to-25 demographic, stodgy buses do not float your boat. You want the colourful ones with graphics that remind you of the hip-hop scene in New York and Miami and evoke a graffiti-like sense of adventure but most of all a big FU to the wankers who have no sense of style.

I love its sheng' culture, though I am so far removed from it from my eighth floor perch these days that additions to the patois pass me by like flashes of lightning. Sheng' is the language of this melting pot; it unites us more than the "official" languages mandated by the Constitution. We'll know from which part of this city you hail from by the sheng' dialect you adopt. We'll know from which decade you were raised by the connotation you apply to an evolved word. And we'll definitely know whether you are fresh off the bus or not by whether you have a facility with sheng' or you are still trying to figure out whether a cop's wagido (thank you Rei, for that one) is a good thing or not.

I love its markets, and I don't mean the back-from-the-ashes Westgate, the Sarit Centre, or TRM and it's me-too cousin, Garden City. I mean those markets that don't have KAPS manning the pay-as-you-go gates, that don't have the hebu-fungua-boot uniformed private security. I mean the ones where at the stroke of six, vendors shut shop and the market gate is padlocked and chained. Markets where Mama Otis still prepares fresh-from-the-lake mbuta in massive woks and where Mama Njoki still makes the best chapo-madondo in Nairobi. I mean those ones that have a love/hate relationship with the City Fathers because of their informal, floating nature, where almost-new Levis can be had for a grand and orange, ankle-high Converses can be had for two. These are the markets that define Nairobi fashion, never mind what Fundi Frank and Kiko Romeo  have achieved on the regional and global scene.

I love this city because when you want your windows fitted without hassle, Lawi Metal Works will rival the prices at Steelworks. When you want your E320 serviced, Ochieng on Jogoo Road will beat DT Dobie for price, speed and quality of work. When you've missed Age of Ultron at the Imax and She wants to watch it even though it is no longer screening, Mustafa Adams will hook you up with HD-quality DVDs for a finje.

But I love it most when the weather takes a turn and the roads are undriveable, when the javs are stuck somewhere on Landhies Road, when the inclement weather threatens to ruin your cut-rate Perry Ellis suit and your Bally Oxfords. I love it because on those days, you can throw a stone and hit thirteen joints where you will be welcomed like family, the spirits will not be adulterated, the conversations will be agreeable and the wallet will thank you four hours later when you look for Edu and his gypsy cab for that fifteen minute ride home when the streets have mysteriously cleared.

I love this city. It's a pity the City Fathers don't.