Tuesday July 1, 2025
Fear and Sadness in New York and Nairobi
You’re STILL Wrong:
Mykel's
July 2025 Blog/Column
Fear
and Sadness in New York and Nairobi
[Much of this post has previously been uploaded to facebook…. though in a different form.]
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
– William Shakespeare
Oh the piercing sadness of life in the midst of its ordinariness!
– Iris Murdoch
When you're happy you enjoy the music, but when you're sad you understand the lyrics.
– Frank Ocean
I sit now in the library … my facebook notes downloaded to my travel computer. At first I can’t connect to the internet… I bring it to a very librarian-looking librarian.
“Sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong,” she tells me. “Maybe you should try shutting it off and turning it on again.” Ah, the universal answer to every problem in 2025… except this one.
“It doesn’t work,” I tell her.
“Maybe if you try a different floor.” she says.
I go downstairs to the more library-looking library. The librarian there is a younger, more tech-looking guy... sexier than the prissy woman upstairs.
“I can’t connect to the Internet,” I tell him.
“Let me take a look,” he offers, touching a few keys, watching the screen change. Those concentric curved lines that signal you’re connected appear in the taskbar.
“Thanks,” I say to him. “Wanna go out for a drink?”
That last quote is a lie.
But that’s what writers do. We lie. In fiction, it’s all a lie… or at least 90% with some real-life events, twisted to fit-in. For fiction writers, writing is show biz.
For me, unless I say otherwise, what I tell you is “true” although I might touch it up as needed. You know, zip up an open fly, make the weather rainy when it was only foggy, crowd an empty room with strangers. But the important stuff is true.
Up until June 16, my saddest (non-death) NY experience was in talking with a Korean-American friend. This was about 10 years ago. He was in his late 20s... early 30s maybe. We’re sitting in a secret bar, upstairs over The Every Day Gourmet, a Korean deli on Lexington Ave.
"So, how you doin', Kim." I ask him.
He looks at me and squints slightly, "You know Mykel," he says, "whenever I look into a mirror, I hate what I see. I want to just kill myself."
"Huh?" I say, "You're a good-lookin' guy. You got a great smile. I think you just found a bad mirror."
"You don't get it," he says. "It doesn't matter that I'm a native speaker... that I'm a native New Yorker. I’ve been here my whole life. Still, people.... speak..... to.... me.... like....this. Like .... I .... can't ,.. understand… what… they’re… saying. My English is better than theirs."
He points to his face... his chin actually. "It's this face! This face makes me an outsider. Someone they have to adjust to. This face says ASIAN... not American. I hate this face"
I feel my eyes tear. And I buy him another HITE, the Korean beer most gringos don’t know about.
I don't sleep at all well that night.
And now tonight. At about 8, there is the loud whir of a helicopter outside. It sounds like a dozen of 'em, but there’s only one. I go out to see what's happening. I walk until I'm standing directly beneath the noisy beast. I see nothing unusual on the street or any street.
"It's been there for an hour," says a woman passing me. "I don't know what it is. There’s nothing going on here.”
I take a picture of the helicopter. It flies away... like it’s afraid of my camera.
I head for home. On the way back, I pass Matthew, one of my many homeless friends. It looks like he's in a new wheelchair. We talk a bit. I can see he is sliding down in the chair and doesn't have the leg-strength to push himself up.
“Still getting used to the new chair?” I ask him.
“Yeah, Mykel,” he answers, “It doesn’t have the give of the last one, and the tilt of the seat is all wrong. Could you help me sit up?”
I reach under one of his arms in an effort to pull him up. But all 5'3" of my 75 year old self aren't strong enough to move him. I try to stop a very macho looking 20-something who is walking past us on the sidewalk.
"Excuse me," I say. "Could you help me pull my friend up in his wheelchair?"
He walks right past, as if I'm not there, not even looking at us. I wait for another tough-looking guy. In a couple minutes there is one, with a small gang of maybe NYU students. "Could you help us?" I ask. "We don't want money. Just help straightening..." He and his friends walk past just like the last one... as if we're not there.
The third time, I'm on the edge. How can people be so cruel? How can they just pass by a call for help? It would take less than a minute. Not cost a cent. One guy in a wheelchair and one little old man... what danger could there be?
This guy is with another tough-looking friend. They could easily pull Matthew up to a sitting position. "Excuse me, could you help me pull....." The pair walks right past. Not even a glance. Matthew shrugs. I shout after them when they pass.
"I hope you die!" I shout.
One of the guys turns to look at me and then quickly turns back. Their pace quickens.
"Don't Mykel," says Matthew, "that's how people are these days. Especially young people."
"But... but... this is New York!" I tell him. "That doesn't happen."
Matthew shrugs.
FLASH FROM SADNESS TO FEAR IN KENYA: It’s a story that needs context. My month in Kenya was exciting. Wonderful. Smiling. Making friends. Sometimes I was surprised. Sometimes just annoyed. But only once was I afraid. That’s what I’ll talk about now… as this blog isn’t a bundle of cheer.
I’ve just returned from a trip to the Kenyan countryside. I was in Nakuru with my Kenyan pal, Albert. We spent 3 nights there, including a great trip to the local national park. Albert had to go home to tend to his animals and his blogging. I had to go back to Nairobi.
Albert got me on the bus. There was one spare seat among the students from a girl’s school returning from a class trip. Except for the bus driver, I was the only guy on the bus.
It’s a 4 hour trip. We all get out in a bus parking lot in Nairobi. I walk to a shady place just outside the parking lot. I need the shade to see my phone screen and a location where the Uber driver can pick me up.
I'm followed by this annoying half-drunk wearing a bus conductor's hat. I'll refer to him from now on as "Capman."
I turn toward a small copse of trees to focus maximum shade on my phone, Capman taps me on the shoulder.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
"Trying to call an uber," I tell him.
He tugs my sleeve. I follow him to a car with a t-shirted driver standing outside of it.
"Here is an uber," says Capman. "Just tell him where you want to go."
"No thanks," I answer. "If I order in the app, I don't have to pay until i get back to New York."
This, of course, is a lie. The fees are deducted right away from my Paypal account, but that's too much to explain.
"Just let me use the app," I continue. "The uber will come."
I turn my back on him and find that the shade is now gone. The sun has risen and destroyed it. I move to another shady spot. Capman follows me.
"Leave me alone!" I say in a probably too loud and aggressive voice.
He moves slightly forward and I turn my back on him and order the uber through the app. The app responds that the driver will appear "in 3 minutes,” at the agreed on pick-up location."
"I have a car coming," I tell Capman. "License KDD5074, white Toyota."
I show him my phone.
"Oh," says Capman, "it looks like he'll come across the street (a crowded highway). We should go to meet him."
"I'll find him." I say. "Please leave me alone."
He doesn't.
About 10 minutes later, I get an uber message. "I'm here. Where are you?"
"I'm right outside the EasyCoach parking lot," I text back. "White guy in a black t-shirt."
"I'm right behind you," comes the return message.
Capman is looking over my shoulder. He disappears and comes back, again, pulling on my sleeve.
I follow him because I have no other choice. He takes me a few cars back on the street to a driver, tall wearing a pink shirt.
"You looking for Mykel?" I ask.
He nods. I get in the car and the driver gets in the car. Capman leans in the open window.
"I helped you so much," he says. "You should pay me."
"No!" I shout back, and roll up the window.
"Leave now," I tell the driver. "The guy's an asshole. I'll give you 200ksh (Kenyan Shillings) extra in cash if you leave."
Capman shouts something to me... in Swahili.
"He said he will kill you," the driver tells me.
And we're off.
At least we'll be going to the other side of town. I figure the odds are 1 in 5,000,000 that Capman will find me in this city. I'm not very worried. Fat chance he'll get ahold of me.
When we arrive at my Couchsurfing home, I pull out my wallet to pay the promised 200. I'm shocked to find there are only 2 1000ksh bills in the wallet. Earlier there were 9. Was I robbed? Unlikely, since the wallet is chained to my belt. Somehow, I spent the money without realizing it... yet it seems wrong.
"All I have is this thousand," I tell the driver, handing him one of the two bills. "I hope you have change."
"I have no change," he says. "Give me the thousand and I will get change from the fruit-seller on the corner."
He closes the door and walks to the fruit-seller... showing him the 1000ksh bill. I can see the seller shake his head. The driver returns to the car, obviously pissed off. He hands the bill back to me.
"The man has no change," he tells me.
"I'll add the money to your tip," I tell him, pointing to the app.
I can tell he's not pleased. I shrug, and get out of the uber. The driver drives off. Then it occurs to me the driver and Capman probably know each other. He will return to Capman and the latter will learn where I'm living in Nairobi.
"Living" may be a too-soon used phrase. Now, both the driver and Capman have a reason for revenge. And they know exactly where to find me.
Late Note: With my Uber experience… my fear was undeserved. But, speaking of fear, my Kenyan friends still ask me about coming to the US. They all want to work here. I try to dissuade them, warning them that they could be grabbed off the street and shipped to El Salvador. It makes me even sadder.
See you in hell,
Mykel Board
ENDNOTES:
[You can contact me on facebook or by email at mykelboard@gmail.com.
Through the post office: send those... er... private DVDs..or music
or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to: Mykel Board, POB 137,
New York, NY 10012-0003. If you like my writing, you can be notified
when anything new is available. Send me an email with SUBSCRIBE in
the subject line. Back blogs and columns are at
https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com]
→This
one is double BALLS dept:
Hats
(pants?) off to Nezza for singing the US
National
Anthem IN SPANISH
at a ballgame during the LA ICE
war.
Even after she was warned to ‘sing in English,” she defied the
warning. She certainly gets
20 punk points for that. But wait, there’s more. Team management
could have banned her from the stadium, issued a statement saying
they “reject the rudeness,” apologized to their fans… but they
didn’t do any of that. They just shrugged and went on tacitly
supporting free speech… and free song. They get ten points for
that.
→ Speaking of sadness dept: At the start of this post I relayed some sad events in my recent life. People who know me, know that I call myself a Trump agnostic. While most of his actions are awful, I have to give him credit with talking to the enemy. He was the first president to cross the DMZ and speak to “the other side” in Korea. He had phone conversations with Putin. Those are things to be admired. But one of his saddest, most pride-defeating actions was the installment of English as the official language of the US. Only 4 countries now have no official language. Mexico, Australia, Eritrea, and surprisingly, The United Kingdom. The tyranny of English here makes me as sad as a Korean who hates his face. The Eritrean constitution specifically declares that all languages are equal—thus, Eritrea has no official language. I think I’m moving to Eritrea wherever the hell that is.
→ More incentive to move dept: My first trip to Europe was in 1970… when I did my Beloit College foreign service job in London. I got an (unpaid) job there writing for FREEDOM, an anarchist newspaper. This was during the Vietnam war, where the US government was burning people alive in Saigon. I saw several American visitors to the UK with Canadian flags sewn to their denim jackets. I had mixed feelings about that. Anti-Canadian-flag was that they’re not showing people that Americans can still be American and oppose the war. Pro-Canadian flag was people rejecting the US and showing that those stars and stripes do not represent all of us. After just supplying the bombs, we’ve “progressed” to actually dropping them on people who attacked no one! I wonder if those flag patches will be making a comeback in 2025.
See you in hell (redux),
LINKS
I read that the search engines like lots of links... and it's also nice to support my friends and enemies in their blogs. So facebook me or email me if you have a blog, webpage or something else to connect to. I add you. You add me.
AFRICAN LINKS:
My friend who told me about samosa meat, and who may be the smartest guy in Nairobi, is Patrick Wafula Wanyama, an English teacher who writes haiku in Swahili. He’s also an advocate for his school in “the slums of Nairobi” and has a GoFundMe to help buy computers for classroom use. Here’s a link to his GoFundMe page. Give him some money.
Albert aka Alberto Melody is the reason I went to Kenya. We met on facebook a couple years ago. He has a blog you should take a look at: Albertomelody.blogspot.com. Tell him Mykel sent ya.
Here's some non-African stuff:
Sid Yiddish sent me this link to all his videos. It’s a great place to start, especially if you don’t know him.
I did a nice interview with The Aither zine. Interesting questions, complete, and questions I’ve never been asked before. You can read it here. It’s a good one.
Here’s Ricardo Wang with a “micro-label” in Seattle “specializing in 8-track tapes and CDs. WOW! Check out one of their label staples: The Dead Air Fresheners, best band name of the year.
Also
on bandcamp: My very long time faves in NYC, the BLACKOUT
SHOPPERS.
Featuring pals Seth and possibly the next vice-president of the
US
Sid Yiddish has posted a video of a show done for WZRD
in Chicago. Great live performances, and if you catch the video
around the 20+ minute point you might see a familiar face doing the
lyrics to his songs (some unrecorded) as poetry. You’ll find it
here.
And this sounds right up Sid’s alley. The Bilderberg Jazz Arkestra on Bandcamp!
Eric Grayson has an online music review zine, Sobriquet. Full pictures of the sleeves too! Something missing from too many zines. Sometimes you CAN judge a… er… book… by its cover.
Steen Thomsen is a Dane I’ve known ever since Lincoln was shot. I put his band THE ZERO POINT on the great WORLD CLASS PUNK Cassette for ROIR. It must be worth a mint now. I don’t have any left, I’m afraid. You can (and should) connect to the Zero Point on facebook. Tell ‘em Mykel’s blog sent you.
Sorry Dorothy, we are STILL in Kansas. And it’s as weird as OZ. Check out Bob Cutler’s DISTOPEKA.
You
already know Murder & Mayhem zine… those guys who did the Mykel
Board centerfold. (No genitals shown… and probably for the better.)
Their online version is here.
The Clean Boys from Denmark are also longtime friends of mine. In Denmark we recorded as The Bend-over Boys. Only one 10-inch available… but at least now I can say I have a 10-incher!
Finally, for this month, Margaret O’Brien asked me to include the site: anti-war.com They seem to be folks after my own heart.
Oh yeah, then there’s me. I have a blog of stuff I’ve written mostly from last century. You might enjoy it. Then again, you might not. It’s here.
Let me know if you have a blog… or a print zine… or a YouTube and want to be added to the list. You show me yours… you’ve already seen mine. god@mykelboard.com
