Writing about somebody else's home
The displacement of travel writing
I miss the safety of council houses and crisp packets rolling over nitrous oxide canisters in the gutter. I miss Stagecoach buses and vape shops and putting beautiful pint glasses in Ellie’s bag when the barmaid isn’t watching. I’ve been transported from my literary comfort zone into red dust and sideways glances.
How do you write as an outsider? Since writing poetry at 16-17, I’ve always found a warmth in describing my hometown and those that border it. I’m grateful for the way it helped me pay attention to things I’d previously taken for granted. I’ve written two novels now and both of them are grounded in the streets and offices where I’ve lived. There’s a reason why nobody could’ve written The Sopranos quite like David Chase. It’s his place.
So, then, I’ve found it difficult to write from the perspective of a traveler in a foreign land. This is not my home. These are not my people. Any observation I make is bound to be uninformed, ignorant or plain wrong. I cannot judge their lives or environment with any serious criticism. This had led me to question my ability as a writer. Am I a one-trick pony? Can I only write about working-class exhaustion and the forgotten North-West? If so, I might as well pack it all in now.
If I am to write about things I do not know, then I must write without judgement - or, the idea that you can gleam judgement from my description. I need to write like a camera. Let me give this a go.
I type these words from the 12th floor of Enkang Apartments in Nairobi. Our one-bedroom Airbnb is on the rooftop, which is a novelty for me. I’m stretched out on the L-shaped sofa like a cat in the sun. It’s bright yet breezy outside. I mean, of course it’s breezy, we’re on the 12th floor. The planes coming in from Masai Mara safaris are louder from up here and the birds seem surprised when they perch on our roof. A Black Kite (bird) flew overhead yesterday and I swear I could’ve touched him if I reached out.
The bangs of rudimentary tools clang around my brain as a tower next door slowly finds its feet. They’re working on it 7 days a week, and it’ll be taller than the building we currently occupy in 4 years time. There’s something about this that makes the view I have right now so much sweeter. It’s like there’s an expiry date on this beautiful, sweeping view of Nairobi. We’re on the 12th floor and the door opens right out onto the roof. From here we can see Ngong Hills rolling in the background. In fact…one sec.
I’m outside now, because how can I talk about a landscape I can’t see? It’s windy and if I fed the creaking parasol above my head through Google Translate, it’d be waning me to go back inside in inanimatese. I’ll ignore it for now so I can keep this authentic (because who doesn’t love authenticity?). There’s a dirt football pitch that is permanently occupied in the evenings and weekends but is currently empty. We’re so high that looking at it is like switching the camera angle on Fifa to ‘bird’s eye view’.
Shopfronts that share so much on the ground are just shadows from up here. Tiny portals into the mass of corrugated steel that you see from above. Each row of shops stretches back 10-20 metres where parents pray and children play. The clatter of tools comes to a temporary halt as half of the builders leave for lunch. I feel my own stomach rumble at the thought of their coconut beans or Ndengu with chapati or ugali. Lunch is cheap on the streets of Nairobi. You’re talking 100 KES (£0.60) for a plate that leaves you needing a nap afterwards.
So all of this: the impromptu football matches, the children’s parties in overlooked backyards, the goats scurrying through wild scrub or the workers sleeping, unseen, behind toolsheds - they all have a time limit. In 4 years time, I’d guess that around 75% of this view will disappear. Instead, you’ll be watching somebody else’s television while they scroll through their phone. It’s a poignant reminder that nothing truly lasts in a city that never sleeps. You get these magical moments that might even last a few years. The urban sprawl will always swallow it up, doling out your dopamine to the next highest bidder.
In all honesty, I didn’t have a clue what to write about when I sat at my laptop to put this together. All I knew was that I felt a sense of careful intimidation when it came to writing about the things I see on our travels. Maybe I’ve partially worked through it here, like C.B.T or something. But I feel better. It’s been cathartic.