Who’s responsible for turning boys into men?

In my adulting life, I have learnt the importance of not letting life pass you by. I sat next to this pretty lass in horrendous traffic along Ngong Road, my fingers doing the thinking for me in my generation’s Hollywood—TikTok. She turned to me and said, “You know life is passing you by.”

That struck me. Seven words. When you come from an area where you don’t grow up with a silver spoon but a silver tooth, you could easily take things for granted. It was then that I noticed how privileged I am.  In that daunting African sun, men were running after cars trying to sell something and earn their keep, those who really put their trust in God as opposed to the “Ni God” ilk. At that moment, I felt intense gratitude for the men in my life, the men who held the door for me, who defined manhood in all its varying shades, and the ones who became my mentors. 

Most definitions of a mentee portray them as the naïve ingénue, but that’s missing the point. Mentors can provide us with a larger picture of life and can teach us from their own experiences, drawing from their fountain of youth, lessons to quench a young adult’s knowledge thirst. It’s the truth with a capital T; every pastor needs a pastor; every therapist needs a therapist. And I know every man needs a mentor.

Mentorship at its best begins in the same way that mentorship at its worst does: A person with power connects with a person who has less. I have had many mentors in my life. Some were satisfied with me being a fly on their wall. I learned to observe from a distance. Yet to some I was a bee buzzing in their bonnet, shamelessly throwing my problems at them, seeking their perspective: What do you think? What should I do? What would you do? 

Every step of my life, I check in the rear-view mirror and realise there has always been some man edging me on. Someone who has been down that Old Town road, someone I wanted to be, something to aspire to. My Sunday School teacher (15 years’ relationship now); my primary school principal, Tr Charles, Mr Gacheru who made me fall for drama (and also made me quite melodramatic); my high school principal, a gateman, a writer, a Creative Director, another writer and my barber.

Steadily, I discerned their habits, their discipline, their humanity—especially the mistakes they made. I learned to take notes. To emulate. The intensity of the teacher. The dependence of the gateman. The unforgiving hunger of the writer. The audacity of the Dramatist. The relentless curiosity of the Creative Director. The tireless consistency of the barber. I took something from each of them. And I remain forever thankful.

Someone who held the elevator door long enough for me, was Deepesh, a Creative Director who became a flea in my ear. He just didn’t want me to do it right, he wanted me to do it right, differently. He took me under his wings—occasionally making me very spicy koroga chicken—taught me how to fly and let me soar. He is intuitive, bumptious, and charismatic, straight out of the school of Sun Tzu, and able to channel all the best of his joie de vivre. From him, I learned the power of staying fit, of being cool, and how a big car in traffic never gets scratched by matatus. And then he let me go be my own man. Because when a student is ready the teacher appears. But when a student is truly ready, the teacher disappears. 

He passed me off to Biko, my gaffer, the bazu. I tell Biko that Lenana carpenters must be proud of him for the many doors he has opened for me. I can tell him anything, although I usually end up just telling him everything. He is poor with emotions, but let’s not stare a gift horse in the mouth. He taught me how to put myself first, how to be my own man and how to ask for serious money from clients. Ah, that guy charges money and then some. But he is also frugal, I know this because I currently have his carpet in my house. This reminds me, he also helped furnish my house. Imagine that. And he has an excitement about the future that’s contagious—plus his whiskey collection doesn’t hurt. 

My personal life mentor is my Sunday School teacher. The cohort of boys I grew up with attest to his zeal and determination. He has been with us since we were indolent adolescents, way before the devil made us bite the apple and tasted the ways of the world, but he never gave up on us. On me. He has been anything or everything to everyone: a psychologist or a politician, a monocrat or a mentor, oft at the same time. He is the kind of man who talks about life and not the lifestyle. “Life is not about finding the best. It is about making the best out of what you've got.” “And that, though we'd like to believe that it's never too late, ships do sail.” The weight of his delivery is like an elite golfer who instinctively knows the right club. We had lunch this week on Tuesday, and he is still the same old, still warning me against Nairobi girls. 

I reserve the freshest lilies for my father, my silent mentor. He provides a contrasting, more experienced look at some of the different things that are going on in my life. The 3D Billboard of “Do as I do.” I have watched him build his rental houses—all alone, with his own hands, and I mean that literally. I have seen him sleep at home every day; and more importantly, I have seen his discipline in life, and his ability to feed eight children, of which, five are male. And trust me, my younger brothers eat. Kwanza Johnnie. 

If I were to take a selfie in our “self-made” crazed world, this would be the picture of the men who made me. How much impact have they made in my life? That’s like Thomas Aquinas asking how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. They showed up. They listened. They stayed in my corner. Sometimes, they just called and asked how it was going. They never gave up, and they never asked for anything in return. Even when they were not there, I knew they were with me. 

In the fullness of time, you too must plant a tree in whose shade you will never sit under. It’s the only way to send the elevator back down, to build a community of men. Come to think of it, it’s always been there, right there in the name. Men-tor. 

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