Every man has a hidden shame that kills him

Maybe it was the video of the 20-something year old “flamboyant businessman” and foreign exchange trader who had just bought a brand new Mustang for his baby's mom as a birthday present that threw me, but I think it was more the kick from behind.

My anger could have boiled yams. The man, in his forties, was reserved, if not, er, reserved. In fact, he seemed extraordinarily reasonable, painfully regular, as normal as soup. And yet here was a man with dreadlocks, foam at the mouth and smoke coming out of his ears – the suppressed violence threatening to erupt in a lava of hot rage. See what this government has done to law-abiding Anglican Rastafarians like me who only eat plants and sometimes smoke? OK, most of the time. Sawa, all the time.

Anyway, the man was remorseful and pointed out that he had barely touched me. Pole, boss, he said. He was right, but also wrong. He had touched me. To be honest, there was not a scratch on the car, his bumper barely touched mine, but the police don't (won't) know that. Besides, what about my ego? He scratched it. Who will be responsible for this emotional turmoil?

I ended up pulling the famous Nairobi line, “Do you know who I am?” while calling a bouncer I met in a Nairobi bar under false pretenses and getting him (our victim, not the bouncer) to give himself a few thousand to “buy” my silence and a threatening “Mzee usirudie tena. Drive carefully. Kwani hujui town?” When I told this story to someone’s daughter, she scolded me and asked if we (she) wanted to raise our children like this and bend the law. We (they) are better than that and I must apologize. She told me it was important to know the law. I told her it was much more important to know the judge. I also decided not to tell her any more about my “experiences” with the law.

But here's the thing: Every time I pass this place, I am overcome with guilt. I am ashamed of the way we (okay, I) blackmailed someone, and I have realized that I am no better than the leaders we seem to be taking it out on. A guilty conscience, say those who say things, needs no accuser. I was reminded of this recently when a family secret that had burrowed deep into my consciousness, like maggots burrowing into a dead body not just to finish it off but to enjoy it, found its way to the forefront.

I've spent quite a bit of time inland, Uschago. A relative of mine, whose name I cannot mention because he/she reads this newspaper, asked me for money to fly. Well, that can be interpreted in many ways, so let me get it straight. They wanted to fly a plane. In Aviator. Aviator is a game of chance where you fly a virtual plane before it crashes. The catch is that the longer the plane stays in the air, the more you earn.

In case you haven't noticed, my relative is not a very good pilot as he/she hasn't won the jackpot yet. That being said, I was shocked because this is a person I admire, the only one I could tell things to as a child. I had a lump in my throat and even now I find it hard to say more. I felt ashamed a) of how low they have fallen (problematic metaphor aside) and b) of having to stand up to them and say: no, I cannot support your gambling addiction. It felt like a landscape poem, an elegant melancholy at times, a lump in the throat, a knot in the stomach, a burning sensation in the eyes. The Kikuyu have a saying: Michie ni ndogo. Yaani, a lot happens in a house and those who are not part of the family think it is smoke from a meal that is being prepared, but sometimes it is smoke from the small fires in the family.

To put out that fire, I refused to give money, and I could see the face falling, like when Judas kissed Jesus in a deliberate act of betrayal, when Brutus stabbed Julius Caesar, when Robin Van Persie joined Manchester United. It is betrayal, yes, but it is also honest, ruthless ambition. Where I come from, let's say, whoever beats the drum for the madman to dance is no better than the madman himself. It is not my secret to reveal, but I bear the shame to bear it. And unlike guilt, the evil sister of shame which says, “I have done a bad thing,” shame says, “I am bad.” Not Michie.

I believe that shame has a big impact on men, as it irritates their tendons and immobilizes them. Shame can be as small as the inability to provide for the family or the addiction to thinking oneself worthless. Almost everyone, except perhaps sociopaths and business owners and government officials who sell “by the dollar,” goes through the world with some self-loathing. Most of us think that the only person we are hurting when we indulge in it is ourselves.

But this kind of shame is insidious. It seeps into our relationships and hurts everyone around us, sometimes fatally. This kind of toxic shame is in direct contradiction to the healthy shame we all need to feel in order to admit mistakes and take responsibility.

I have found that for many men, beneath the layer of fear, there are layers of shame. Shame for having feelings at all, shame for believing there is something fundamentally wrong with them, shame for failing as men too. The Bible says what is in the hearts of men but evil thoughts, murder, adultery, sexual immorality, theft, false testimony, slander? That was only partially true. Shame is the soil under which these emotions sprout.

I too carry my secret shame, some of it personal, some of it political. It is a collection of scars, a temporary heaven that so often takes on the appearance of hell. Michie ni ndogo. I never spoke to that man on Ngong Road again, but if you are reading this, I am sorry. The shame is killing me. I am just a man from Nairobi.