I am at home listening to Nairobi’s Capital FM on my WorldSpace receiver. These sets really come in handy, especially if you are stuck in a place where not much happens on a Friday.

I’ve just heard an advertisement of a special Valentines night hosted by Kameme FM at Safari Park hotel in Nairobi. In my mind’s eye I can see many Mount Kenya boys rubbing their hands together in anticipation for this one. They must be emptying the kid’s crayons from their abandoned godpapas (cowboy style hats) and dusting their ‘retha’ (leather) jackets in readiness!

Today, I got a road license sticker for my car for the year 1996. You have no idea what I’m talking about? Check out these facts: The Ethiopian calendar is 7 AD years behind. There are 13 months in a year. We celebrated new years day on September 11. Christmas was on January 7, and my Easter will come a few weeks after you guys have had yours. That’s Ethiopia for you.

Needless to say, this guy called Valentine does not have a day here. If he ever does, I can assure you that the date will not be on February 14.

I have not seen a Valentines Day in Nairobi in a while now. But I remember chicks in red gracing many streets of Nairobi. Back then; we needed to learn a few tricks to apply on this particular day. Just by putting your hands in your trousers pockets as you walked with your girl, you were able to:

1. Count all your money and adjust the evening itinerary accordingly; to counter the damage assessed.

2. Separate a 100 shillings note from a 1,000 note. Pulling out a 1,000 shillings note accidentally would end up contradicting the martyred look on your face that said, ‘please, let’s take the last bus home now, I can’t afford to pay for a taxi’.

If any of this tricks backfired, as they often did when you got drunk too early, it was a difficult February for you.

I’m sure things have changed for the better now. Keep me informed.

Enjoy your Valentines Day!

There is some flu going round in Addis. Don’t worry though; it’s not of the bird type.

You know, it’s really painful when you watch CNN and see them destroy all those chicken in Asia. Serious waste of drumsticks!

When growing up, a chicken meal was rare to come by. There were some rules that applied if a chicken was to be slaughtered. If it was a cock, there had to be at least one more left in the compound (for the purpose of procreation). If it was a hen, it had to have reached menopause.

The meat was boiled separately from the rest of the food. The soup that resulted was served in some army type tin cups. A cup was referred to by it’s size. Say, size 15, 20, 25, and so on. Size 100 would be about the size of a huge pail.

The soup was always extremely hot. Now, there used to be a top layer of fat that would trick you into thinking that the soup was lukewarm. If you took a huge gulp, 2 things always happened:

1. You would shed some tears (Old men often created some cock and bull stories to explain the tears -like the pain he feels when he remembers the suffering in the 2nd world war)

2. The roof of your mouth would cave in – leaving some tatters of ’skin’ hanging in there.

Needless to say, the soup would burn your alimentary canal all the way to the duodenum!

These 2 phenomena would occur each time a chicken was slaughtered. You might wonder, why we never learnt? Actually, we did. It’s just that the chicken feasting periods were so far apart that we forgot all the lessons we should have remembered when needed to! Of course, there had to have been a very important visitor in the house, or a significant occasion like the Birthday of Jesus Christ.

Apart from those rare occasions, chicken meat windfalls occurred when least unexpected. Like when there was an unknown chicken epidemic. I especially remember one. The affected chicken look like it had been rained on and usually died a day or two after those symptoms appeared. You had to make haste to slaughter it before it died. It would feature prominently in the next meal. If it died before you slaughtered it, you had to give it to the dogs. It was considered a serious waste. It was common knowledge that a dog should not be spoilt by being given anything protein.

As young boys, our self-assigned task was to act as scouts around the neighborhood, looking for any signs of an affected chicken. Of course we got paid for the trouble of spotting the chicken, catching it, slaughtering and de-feathering it. You could get one leg of the hen – usually the part below its knee. And of course a size 15 cup of soup.

I guess we would be in a lot of trouble if chicken flu found it’s way into my village.

If you already have your pen out, ready to write a proposal for an NGO to create awareness on the dangers of eating chicken that has not been inspected by a veterinary health officer, remember where you got the idea. Put me down as a co-founder.

I am just back from my first real overseas trip – To the UK. I can now comfortably join in any conversation about London; from the weather to real estate – though I was only there for 2 days.

The trip is quite long. 8 hours in the air, from Heathrow airport to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. It is pretty tiring being in the plane for all that time. Your options are to watch movies, listen to music, read or sleep. You end up doing all that at one time or another. At one point, I felt pity for the pilots – then I stopped. I remembered what an informed brother told me once. That, flying these modern Jumbos is quite easy. Do not be fooled by all those monitors, switches and blinking lights. The Jumbos practically fly themselves. If you suddenly burst through the door, you’d be surprised to find everyone watching a match on the screens or playing poker. Including the autopilot! The real reason why the cockpit door is kept lock is to keep off prying eyes.

London is quite big. I got lost once. I was supposed to go to a particular office along North Road, one of the many roads in Central London. To get to that office, I had to find my bearings from Essex Street. However I took a wrong turn and ended up hopelessly lost. I began asking for directions from strangers. No one seemed to know where Essex Street was. I later came to discover that it might have been because of the way I pronounced the name. A Kenyan friend was later to correct me on the pronunciation. My friend told me that I must have left people thinking that I am an Internet pervert. Especially, since I was carrying my laptop computer! If I had not met a Ugandan who finally directed me to the office, I would be a homeless man in London asking for directions to Essex Street. God bless that Ugandan.

Watch your pronunciations!