Rack the Deejay

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There’s more deejays right now in Nairobi per square meter than there are bedbugs in Kenyatta university hostels.
This got me thinking, what if the rackster was a DJ? You know: me and the wheels of steel (balls too) because let’s face it I’d be disowned faster than a socialite who thinks gold digging qualifies as mining or farming or whatever other term they’d use to refer to honest natural resource exploitation. Maybe it has something to do with them sharing names with farming tools I don’t know. Not that being a writer is any better, just like virtual DJ any Tom, Dick and Harriet  (for gender purposes) can open a wordpress account churn out a few sentences thanks to repetitive vowel recitation in pre – unit and label themselves a writer. I think it’s for the same reason the rackster remains unknown to his parents. You’d show my mother my blog and she’d laugh her pretty self back to a day when bread was a few cents and ask you to get checked in at the nearest mental institution. I have hinted that I do write but until this talent can write cheques I’m her son – the economist.

God knows my musical capabilities start where the bathroom doors begin. The only thing about BPM I understand is that it stands for beats per minute. I’m the guy that’d mix kwaito with LL Cool J RnB and scratch on the decks like a flea infested mongrel dropping some “Mothers keep your daughters away the rack is back” every two minutes amidst breaking glasses. But let’s for once imagine I was good. First things first a deejay needs an identity. I’m not talking about a name although it’s part of it, no, I’m talking about everything from hairstyle to fashion sense. Something tells me I’d be wearing red and white retro reeboks, blue ripped jeans and NBA jerseys coupled with a snap back. Did I mention the pierced ears and heavy chains and dyed hair and tattoos? He’ll yeah because deejaying and fashion mix – see what I did there? I’d be playing from Eastlando to westie, from a blacked out benz at BBQ Live with hot chiqs twerking to a mini van with a  forty year old guy driving his kids to school and questioning his marriage.

I’d show up to events an hour early – because let’s face it professionalism is admired any day over inflated egotistic bravado. I’d be the nice guy with his things all set out doing practise sets warming for the voices in my head till I hear them scream my name. I’d then put on my game face and set off on a monster mix dabbling with God knows what fader crossing into the next best song after Amarula and making people dance to 25 grandpa songs which they’d think is just one awkwardly long song. I’d see the ratchet ladies making their way to the deejay booth and I’d put on some booty shaking panty removing dancehall jam that the guys will thank me for later. I also hear they get free drinks at events? Hell, why do I write? So anyway I’d have my usual – which would change every week to accommodate the vast range of alcoholic drinks on offer. Some events I’d feel rum and red bull others gin and oj and sometimes the kiss of death.

I wouldn’t date. I’d have groupies. My women would change as fast as a Jaguar song on my mixes. As a writer I have to date because there’s nothing to write home about writing. We don’t do world tours or have our names screamed at clubs.  I hear girls in matatus go like “Aki Brenda si mix za huyu deejay unifanya na feel tu ghai oh my gosh wacha tu.” So for once I’d know what it feels like to make a girl feel ‘ghai oh my gosh wacha tu’. Did I say girl? Oops meant girls. Speaking of matatus, I’d be on the lips of people that have never even met me. A dangling makanga with taxin filling his right cheek will in an inebriated tone ask the driver to ‘weka ile mix wazimu ya rackster’. The tweaked up music systems would blare out my name and I’d have that girl that moans out names to moan mine out too – the more famous the better. I’d get to use funny news clips on my mixes.  Maybe even call myself Dj Mollis because when I play the party don’t stop. Utadance atakama umeshoka – utadance mpaka miguu itasalenda. Too far? Go hug a feminist. I’d be on a first name basis with the bouncers at clubs and have the managers on speed dial.

The best part about it all would have to be that I’d work with music. Everyone loves music. I’d also love all the ass kissing from artistes on social media just to get some airplay on my radio show. I’d make them jump through hoops – literally. I’d have hoops in my office hall way that you’d have to jump in order to get in – I’m not joking. Heck, I’d steal people’s girlfriends for the night get them so drunk and not even touch them – it’s the thought that counts right? Then dedicate my next mix on soundcloud to broke niggas with the first song being loyal. I’d be that ass hole that isn’t even an ass hole.  I’d listen to another deejays mix and tweet about it. I’d fly all the way to Bahrain and splurge photos all over instagram giving some socialite a run for their sponsors money. Then my time would be up, age would catch up, trends would change and my relevance would fade away like bleached out skin. I’d struggle to remain relevant and put up a brave fight. Shows would dwindle thanks to the next ‘youngest deejay in East africa’ and the shifting change from whatever genre I played to something more robotic like trance or EDM. Then I’d have to find me a girlfriend one who wears spectacles and looks like they’ve never stepped into a club. I don’t want my past to haunt me you know; and I’d live happily ever after until ten years down the line I get called for a TBT show and just like that *pause for dramatic effect* get back in the game *cues glass breaking and sirens*. Only this time I have kids and mortgages so I can’t be promiscuous. The doctors have given me stern warnings so I can’t even go past two beers so I just willingly retire and decide to hang my headphones. Then I’d probably take up writing and mentorship bringing up the next generation of deejays.

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