Lord Ouma!

Have you ever met a man so great that you cant describe him in words? I have not just met such a man, I have known him for quite a while now. Lord Ouma is one of those characters that can only be described as phenomenal.

Lord Ouma comes from Busia like I do but I knew him because of his son, my best buddy so far and a former schoolmate.

I was therefore enthralled to stumble upon a witty article by one Biko Zulu (who I find to be the best blogger in Kenya yet) on Lord himself. Biko was talking about what a car can tell you about its owner in his article Cars; their stories and thank God he spotted Lord Ouma's KPP. What followed was the most candid rendition I've ever seen or heard about Lord Ouma. I've annexed the section about Lord and shared it below with permission from Biko.

Have a good look at this man’s face. Look at his eyes. What do you see in them? The answer is nothing. Now forget about all that wind about telling a man’s character by looking into his eyes. You can’t, at least not entirely. But this man’s face is a storyboard and it has that lopsided character weighted from cynicism. This is how a cynic’s face looks like. This is the face of a man who questions things. A curious man. This look here says, “Oh, is that right, son?” This look here is a look of a man who has lived his life believing that not everything is what it seems.




Look at his hat. I like his hat, perched atop his head like an afterthought. But you can tell it was intentional, this hat. You can tell from his hat that he still seeks swag. This hat might not be trendy, but it’s his hat and he never leaves his house without it.


This man was a cop for 35 years, most of which he worked for the Interpol’s anti- narcotics wing. The Narcs, as they call themselves. Who could have guessed?


His name is Mzee Ouma. He is in his 70’s. He is retired, over ten years in retirement. He spends his day sitting in his bar, drinking what he calls “Coffee spirit.” I found his car before I found him and his car led me to him. His car is a 1970 Fiat. Old as the hills. I asked a couple of boys next to it who owed it and they told me to find him in the bar. And I did.


When I walk in, he is seated in his darkened bar. His socked feet are stretched on top of the table, next to his drink. He regards me coldly as I shuffle in and introduce myself. He offers me a rumbled handshake, a weathered handshake, the handshake of an old man. I tell him I love his car and I would like to ask him a few questions regarding it. He motions me to an empty chair.


He takes his time before he talks, as if he is stringing the sentences and editing it in his head before he utters them. It’s old age maybe. He asks me what I do. I tell him I’m a scribe.


“Can I see some ID?”


I hand him my press card. He gingerly removes his reading glasses from its case and pores over my Press card, then he does something odd. He asks the lady at the counter to bring the day’s newspaper. “Now show me which article you have written today.”


I tell him I don’t write on the Friday paper, that I write mostly on Saturdays and occasionally on the sister paper. He absorbs this for a while before asking if I’m writing about his car for the newspaper.


“No,” I say, “It’s for my blog.”


“What is that?”


“It’s like a diary.”


“Only women write diaries!”


Some moron seated two chairs away chuckles heartily at that. He finds that really funny, the funniest thing he has heard in a while. I want to ping a beer glass off his skull.


“It’s not like a diary, diary,” I stammer, “It’s like something you write on the internet.”


He grunts. I’m hoping that’s not a sign that he’s about to fall asleep; you know how old people are, if you bore them they will sleep.


“Who reads this, this, thing?”


“Blog.”


“Yes. Who reads it?”


You know that’s a question I have been asking myself lately. Who reads this blog? Truth is I don’t know. I know their pseudonyms, but that helps as much as broken clock.


“That’s a good question.” I say reflectively to which he stares, no scowls, down at me obviously expecting an answer.


“Well, the people who read blogs are faceless.”


One of his eyebrows arches up.


“I mean to say, it’s hard to say exactly who reads, but I want to think they are like me.”


“Like you?” he asks.


“Normal.”


He cracks the first reluctant smile.


“Do you make money of this, this…thing?”


“Blog.”


“Yes, blog.”


“No, at least not yet.”


“So why do you do it?” This question is punctuated by a look that implies that I’m sort of stupid.


“Probably the same reason why you sit in this bar daily drinking your coffee spirit.”


He stares at me, an intimidating look that says “Oh, we have a smartass in town gentlemen.”

Anyway, he talks about his car. He bought it for Ksh 17,000n at F. Boyare Kenya Ltd.




“Is it still there?” he asks.


“Yes, it’s outside.”


“I mean F. Boyare Ltd, not my car.”


He says F. Boyare is a motor store at the junction of Harambee Avenue and Parliament Road. Maybe it was, in 1975, not now I tell him. He says he has kept the car for this long because it’s “durable,”. He adds that its spares are authentic, not the knock offs that are sold now. He scorns at automatic cars, calls them “Lazy.” He loves the stick shift because it’s a good form of exercise. He takes me outside and he proudly pops open the bonnet and shows off the engine. He starts the car and revs it, and then while the engine idles he steps out and stares at his car with a pride that is fun to observe.


Back in his bar, he opens this old but cool leather case which contains certificates and land title deeds and all these important papers and there he shows me the receipt he bought the car with. He also shows me the receipt for the first car he ever bought, a Datsun in 1963. As expected with old people conversation drifts to his time at the police force, his long travels in America and Europe. He shows me a medal he earned at Interpol. He talks about the Russia’s KGB, the America’s FBI and the Scotland Yard. He tells me he can tell a druggie a mile away. He can tell the quality of cocaine by tasting it.


“Have you ever shot and killed anyone?” I ask.


He ignores that question like I never asked it. He talks about his son instead, the one who “just died.” I say I’m sorry to hear that and he waves it away dismissively. He talks about another son who went to Makerere University to study but came back without graduating. “Drunk too much in Wandegye, yes?” I say with a chuckle. He talks about his kids who “have disappeared in America.”


“How many children do you have?” I ask.


“Several.” Comes the curt answer. Several could be 50 kids you know, but I don’t want to pursue that.


“Do you fear dying?” I ask.


“Why?” he asks preposterously, a question that acts as my answer.

He has lived his life well, he says. He loves his twilight years. When he talks about his children he harbors little bitterness. He loves to sit in his bar and drink his coffee spirit or whatever. When I ask him what he regrets most about his life, he thinks for a moment and replies, rather dishonestly, “nothing.”



“Not one thing you wish you did differently?” I insist


“I’m happy with my life.”


So I ask him what quality one needs to live a successful life. The maxims of life that can help us navigate life successfully.


“Honest and integrity,” he says, “Be satisfied with what you have. Don’t aspire for riches; make enough to offer decent education for your children, to buy a decent house to live well. Wealth kills; it will bring disease and grief into your life. Greed for money will be what finally kills young people.”


I realized that throughout our talk he never did once mention God. Not to imply that he wasn’t spiritual, but I would imagine that a man in his twilight years would by default throw in God in his conversation. Or maybe he was being respectful not to call the good lord’s name in a bar.