Like I do on a number of Sundays, I decided to go to church by bus rather than drive down there. By car, it’s a journey of about one hour. By public transport, add another hour and a half.

For the most part, riding in a bus or matatu is a temporary form of relief. I don’t worry about traffic. I can read a book or just stare at life going by. I can dream about the things I’d love to do and may never get to. I can give conversation my undivided attention.

And I get to walk as I connect between bus stops. When I’m walking to CBD from work, I sometimes pass through Uhuru Park and just marvel at this pocket of silence away that shields us from the traffic that is just a few meters away. I see people walk by. I see unemployed or casual laborers sleeping in the grass to pass away the hour because they can’t afford lunch, and will have to trek two hours home when offices close. I get irritated by the preachers deciding to start their church in the open and disturbing the silence with their hoarse voices. I smile at a couple that is definitely not Lazizi being taken to Java by the crooner of that Sauti Sol song. If you ask me, I think this couple in the park is better off, sitting on the grass and drinking soda.

But this Sunday was just as nice. On my ride back from church, I sat with a friend and we talked about everything from our (un)important dilemmas, the great service (I attend a fabulous church), writing and literature, the stories of our lives and maybe how we can make a difference. When the matatu got to Nyayo stadium, we found there was a detour through Lusaka road because there was a marathon. So that lengthened the journey by another hour. I even remarked that if I’d known the day would end up like this, I might have considered not attending the service in person but on live stream. But it was Sunday, so I didn’t mind. Then we got to Kencom, and had to do the trek of through the streets to where we pick our mathrees. It was a very laid back day. When I got home, I remembered the tail end of Jill Scott’s song:

I feel so great to have listened to this TED talk by Susan Cain because - and this may surprise some - I don't and have never liked limelight. I hate administration. I don't like to turn to my neighbor during church service and whisper some thing the pastor wants us to repeat. 

I do play along, but only because I want to be part of a community. Or better, I want to get things out of the way so that what needs to be done gets done. For me, there are only two things that need to get done at work - facilitate students to learn, think and innovate, and protect my colleagues from the shenanigans of no pay and work overload so that they can maintain their dignity and can grow as academics. Because Africa needs ideas. And there can be no ideas if the people trained to think are hassling instead. Everything I do at work boils down to those two things, but my attempt to get things done is misinterpreted as my apparent "talent" for administration, my supposed promotion, and God calling me to "leadership," because Oprah and a whole host of other motivational speakers think that leadership, changing the world and other dramatic stuff is the only way to be human.

I actually like silence. I like quiet prayers. My favorite passage of the Bible is 1 Kings 19, where God did not appear in the earthquake, the wind or the fire, but in a small voice. I like to read and think. I love beauty, color and ordinary moments like a smile, a touch, a thoughtful text, or a good poem. I do express my opinion a lot, but it's not because I want to be clever. It's because much of the stuff I comment about is what I consider an obstacle to enjoying ordinary moments. We cant have a good life when politicians are wasting money that should go to public services like transport, healthcare and education. We cant have genuine relationships when love and intimacy have been distorted by commercialization and an omnipresent, hyper-sexualized media. We cant work in dignity and live harmoniously when people are obsessed with power instead of placing focus on people. Ideas can't flourish in Africa if the institutions that are supposed to encourage them are more focused on money, power and conformity. If these evils din't happen, I would be happy to spend quiet days, marveling at God's creation, writing poetry and mentoring the young people who pass through our corridors as they blossom. Yes. I'm an introvert.

My favorite quote from Susan Cain's talk:

Enjoy.

The reports in the local press about the recently concluded US-Africa business summit reminded me of some time back, between 2000 and the 2002 general elections, when I was a student in the US. Like every homesick Kenyan, I was checking the local newspapers online when I read about this great visit of President Moi to the United States, where he was warmly received at the White House for bilateral talks and hosted at a black-tie dinner by the Kenyan community abroad.  

The story shouldn’t have struck me as odd, given that I had grown up watching Yaliyotokea on Monday evenings when VoK (Voice of Kenya) would bring documentaries of the president’s local or international trips. But it did, because this time, I knew too well that President Moi's visit was not in the American papers or the news. In the US, you wouldn’t tell there was a foreign head of state or government in the country unless the person was from one of the G8 countries or from the hotspots like Israel or Afghanistan. 

And as it so happened, I had just read an article by an American journalist that marveled at how African presidents seem to jump at a chance for two seconds of the US president’s time. Unfortunately, I cannot remember who wrote it, but one thing I remember reading was that African presidents are treated badly when they visit the US. Apparently, one can find them sitting in the corridors of the White House, waiting for a seven or another odd minute window in the US president’s busy schedule when they could be allowed to talk to him briefly between meetings.

​And then it all came together.