Switch on your radio today and no doubt your ears hearken to those danceable beats of that song, what is it called? Anyway, you cruise the broadband searching for a station to suit your mood and after a short time you hear a song you last heard as a small child in the village. No wait, *Snap!* your uncle comes in and switches to the BBC local frequency saying, “My child, that is noise, listen to this glorious music…” You hear the announcer tell the listeners it is Tchaikovsky. Uncle never fails to remind you to learn the name spelling of each composer. Bringing oneself to the realization that our culture has changed is like slowly getting accustomed to altitude change inflight. The only thing is that you never quite retrace your steps, and realize that the move is not just about music, but you also find that one day you cannot quite live where you used to live, and that things as you knew them, and loved them, will never be the same way again. So you cannot wait to leave for the day.
Looking around the neighborhood from the window, you see snatches of color as people dash to school and office, trying to beat the clock. 3 piece suits, designer ties and those pointed ladies heels pierce your still sleepy mind as you get ready to join the column headed to the city swiftly. None that you can see is dressed in traditional attire, or African print, although a local manufacturer and a smattering of designers have tried to popularize African attire as office wear. Like the first travelers to the great Rome, we have embraced the corporate world dress code wholly, identifying ourselves with others globally and wear the same uniform. It is with this heightened awareness that the morning chill is thawed by the strange glances as you sport a blood-red kitenge dress. The consensus of the glances that you must have missed the memo or seek a life in the creative economy.
Just another morning in Nairobi.