Quarry Chronicles: Dan

It is a mystery how one can be believable talented but irredeemably lazy. That was Dan. Dan the Don. A father’s only son. He was a paradox. Never liked to get tired though he was so good at whatever he did. Dan would never work beyond noon even though he woke up at eight. Way after the sunrise when the was out, shinning bright and scotching hot. You know the sun rises earlier in Voi than these other places.

Dan was tall, well built, with long hands- he could scratch his knees without bending. He walked fast while maintaining a numb upper body posture. Very stiff. It was like his legs were detached from the rest of the body. He loved smoking and had those smoker’s lips. Dark and full. He was always half drunk. But always respectful and helpful though it took forever.

When we first went to Voi, we met Dan. He was very pleasant. A wonderful host. He showed us around.  A place we would later learn was his father’s land. They have this huge track of land near Taita Taveta University. Prime land. So huge that it has a hill in the middle. You know that you are a rich kid when your father owns a farm with a hill. And when your father owns a hill, you can do anything. Anything including being high (hehe- sorry, I had to J ) at 9 am. When your father owns a hill, you refuse to scale the heights of education. When your father owns a hill, you lie to girls that you can climb any mountain for them.

He would work few times a week with no care in the world because many people owed him favors. Especially the students.  He ran a small hostel within the area. When the students delayed in paying rent, they would bribe him. Some would buy him drinks, others lunch; maybe some used to pay in kind. Who knows?

He always looked happy but always had this withdrawn look on his face. A face that has some regret written all over it but hidden by the ever present smile. Though very young, he had this if-I-could-turn-back-the-hand-of-time-look I could do it differently. He was an artist and talented weaver. Very good with his hands.

One day, I asked him, “Dan,ulisomea nini?” He smiled (he had dimples) then told me that he went to some arts school but he never took it seriously. He knew he was talented, even more talented than some of his teachers. He didn’t know it takes more than talent to be successful. He would miss classes. Fail to finish assignments or even follow instructions. He wanted to do things his own way. When he left school, he was disillusioned because he wasted time and left with a dented talent. Rougher than when he went in; because if a talent is not natured, it slowly starts fading away and ultimately dies. His might not be dead, but it is on its death bed. I asked him, “mbona siku hizi huchorangi?” He told me, “aaaah bosi wangu, sina brushes na paint na Nairobi ni mbali. Tena sina hela. Nikipata hela, nitarudi kuchora”

Sometime when broke, he would help us offload the stones. He would do it so intently and methodically. Like a brush in painter’s hand. I imagined that is how he saw the world. The world must be a big canvas for him. To him, every stone he put on position was like the stroke of the pen. Well thought out and carefully placed. Sometimes he would have cigarette dangling between his lips. Not puffing away, but having it there comfortably and burning away with the smoke carrying some of his dreams.  He looked lost in his own world. Probably imagining he could have been the next Picasso but he is now stacking stones under the scotching sun. Stacking his dreams while living his father’s dream.

His dad was putting up this big complex where we were supplying construction materials. When complete, he was going to be the manager. His father had other plans for him as well. Somehow life was going to be ok for him. Probably not as fulfilled and he would have been had he become an artist, but he would have a shielded life. Life under his father’s shadow. So in the end, life might work out for him.

I still have his number. I normally check his WhatsApp DP to see if he finally went back to his first love. Last time I checked, he had a photo of a beautiful lady. I hoped he found love. A love that would make him fall in love with his craft again. A love so strong that it could spark him to life again.

Some days, I am tempted to call him. But I am afraid that he might ask me for money or worse off break down. Because how do you comfort a man with broken dreams? It’s easier to comfort a man with a broken heart(Scar-hehe.) A man with a broken dream is a hollow man. A man with an unoccupied space in his heart. A space where nothing else can fill. Not even the genuine love of a woman. Probably Dan will never be what he wanted to be, or he will. But it would take him double or triple the effort it would have taken him to had he horned his skill earlier on.

Every time I go to Java and see the paintings of those mamas in market or hanging clothes, they remind me of Dan. I imagine his would be signed off as ‘Dan the artist’ or even have a funkier- do guys still use this name? - name like his hairstyle. I think of what he could have been. I think of what he can still be.  

Images source: www.coreybarksdale.com