Snub the TV and Reach for a More Realistic 2020
Like a donkey being forced into a Matatu, I must admit, Stephen King is right. Television kills imagination. I’m making this admission like I pull band-aids from a wound; in one clean sweep, invite the inevitable pain and relish the healing process that hopefully, should soon begin. Television and movies really do a number on imagination. I’ve found I have a warped sense of what to expect of reality and open myself up to heartbreak when confronted by non-cinematic ends to my lived experiences.
Among the guilty shows for me are the police procedural types (“Chicago PD”, “Criminal Minds” etc), legal dramas (“Suits”, “Boston Legal” and co) and bloody, gory, violent type horror epics (“The Witcher”, “Game of Thrones”, “Count Dracula” and such). Netflix and other streaming sites-the more illegal the better-have become to me what the needle is to the drug addict. Whenever I sit down on the couch and pick the remote, that’s me putting a strap on the arm, exposing the veins, and readying the needle with the clear intoxicating fluid.
These technologies ensure delivery of successive episodes right into the medulla oblongata with the repetition that could rival an AK47. My favorite feature on Netflix is the option that allows me to skip the intro and outro theme songs and plunge right into the next episode. However, I’m split between applauding the genius behind such minute tweaks that make a world of difference, while panicking about whether I shall ever be able to get cured of the addiction.
Stephen King tells aspiring writers to avoid television. For writers, imagination is key. You feed it with observation, picking up details no one else does. Tasking your words with the work of creating imagery and transmitting emotion. You need to listen to conversations, express emotion and so on. A good writer can’t do this while pre-programmed with images from television and movies.
Worse than inhibiting the creative health of a writer, I have discovered a worse impact of continuously consuming TV and other fruits of the screen. Without meaning to, I have ended up developing an unrealistic expectation of life in Nairobi. One of my most contrasting experiences is when I have to deal with police in real life.
Shows like ‘’Criminal Minds’’, portray police officers as professional, super-efficient, tech savvy, and with a sense of right that can rival the Pope’s. Oh, and they always catch their bad guy. I remember my experience some years back when I went to report that my phone had been stolen at a police station. First of all, this particular police station in Mlolongo was designed not to be found.
I trudged through shanties with phallic TV aerials set up in haphazard angles jutting into the sky. I could only imagine the occupants hunched over their TVs catching up on the latest “FBI” episode. Through winding turns, I skipped streams of sewerage and piles of trash. I remember thinking to myself, “what if I get mugged on my way to the station?” I spat to entreat the gods and ancestors for safe passage and trudged on.
I eventually arrived safely at the station and got into some sort of queue for the officer in charge of the “abstract desk” to serve me. In Kenya, the practice is that when you lose your phone, you report it to the police who then issue you with a police abstract which acts as a legal documentation of the loss and circumstances leading to the loss. This document is meant to be free.
The room I’m being served in would pass for a cabbage store on any other day. No offence to cabbage. It’s furnished with two wooden desks each with two seats; one for the serving officer and one for the person being served. It has the smell of dampness and is dimly lit. I’m being served on the desk placed furthest into the office and seated with my back to the door.
There’s movement behind me and I hazard a glance back to spy a lady officer followed by a middle-aged woman and a young girl entering and occupying the desk. The woman sits on the only available chair while the girl half leans and bends over her shoulder. I continue making my report but the close proximity to the other desk inadvertently makes it possible for the conversation to float over to our table. Isn’t that what teacher in high school said was diffusion? I failed biology, don’t take my word for it.
I would have paid a tidy sum not to overhear that conversation though. It left me depressed and completely distracted. The woman was reporting defilement of the little girl and given her physical state, it had happened in the preceding hour. The girl was leaning on the woman because she was still in pain. Whatever happened to privacy when reporting such cases at the police station? Whatever happened to getting medical attention for the girl first before other things?
Just the other day, a friend narrated how while taking her partner to Jomo Kenyatta International Airport (JKIA) to board his flight, they were stopped by police. The officer came and got into the seat next to the driver. My friend, who is an advocate, knew enough of the law to know that was not right and asked the officer with what authority he entered the car and was asking for her partner’s passport. She even asked for his badge number. The cop answered, “my badge number is your mother…”
Have you collected your jaw from the floor? Can we proceed? Thinking of her experience I’m left wondering which episode of “Vioja Mahakamani” leave alone “Suits” would prepare you for this harsh reality?
2020 ushers in a new decade, the final one towards realizing vision 2030 for us Kenyans. While I’m not one to give unsolicited advice, my observation is we may all be better off with less TV time. In its place maybe be present more in conversations, document our experiences, and develop our own survival tool kits rather than the downloaded imagined lifestyles.
Maybe, just maybe, we shall save ourselves heart-ache and better yet lead more practical lives this year.
