KMRU: Lost in Teufelsberg

© Thukia

I invited KMRU (real name Joseph Kamaru) to come with me to Teufelsberg on the outskirts of Berlin.

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Thursday, February 2, 2023

The stones crunched as we came to a halt at a fork in the road in Grunewald Forest. “Hmmm, which way?” Kamaru asked.

“I don't know,” I replied.

Kamaru took out his phone to look at the map. “Yeah. We can go either way.”

I looked straight ahead. “Yeah, OK. We'll go this way.”

We were en route to the top of Teufelsberg on the outskirts of Berlin. It was a bright day. There were blue skies. The first of the year, Kamaru told me. But it was fucking freezing. His hands were firmly in his coat pockets.

I landed in the German capital the night before. Kamaru had recently returned from a brief stint back in his hometown of Nairobi. He had attended his brother’s wedding. He didn’t have to make a speech. He seemed glad.

We had taken a 30-minute train to get here. Kamaru looked out the window in silence for the most part. I liked that about him.

“Do you have this sense when you go back home that people think you've changed? I asked, as we trudged along the beige path. “You're so German now!”

Kamaru giggled softly. “I had this the first time when I went back. Did the city change? Did I change? Did other people change? Is it me?”

“Yeah.”

“But I think change is also good.”

“I do as well.”

“Everyone changes.”

“And do you think that comes from this projection that people might put on you?” I asked. “That they might be losing you or something?”

“I had this with my best friend,” said Kamaru. “I'm a bit scared that I'm going to lose her, because, maybe, we haven't talked. What's wrong? Did I change? Did they change? But I think when you lose someone or these changes happen, it's OK.” 

“Yeah.”

“It's OK to let go.”

“Fair.”

“I think people change together.”

“But can they change together even if they're not in the same space?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Kamaru. “You're still connected. Nairobi is changing. The scene is changing over there.”

We passed other couples out for an afternoon stroll. The tower poked its round, white head above a sea of green trees looking to drag it down. Or perhaps prop it up.

“What are you like as a friend?” I asked. “You're an avid listener. Do you think that translates to your friendships?”

”I know I speak very lowly,” Kamaru said. “Like, my voice is very soft.”

“Very soft, yes.”

“And people have to lean in to listen.” Kamaru mimicked this leaning in. “Which is a good thing. Like, leaning in to be able to listen. If people want to listen, it's nice, because you invite them because you're speaking so lowly.”

“Oh, so you're inviting them in?”

“Yeah.”

“I like that.”

“But, yeah, I think most of my friends, or the people that I'm very close to, appreciate my calmness.”

We reached a T-junction. “Are we turning right here?” I asked. “I suppose we have to keep going up, do we?” I looked up the hill where a trail had been carved out by others who had traversed before us.

Kamaru pointed directly ahead.

“Straight?” I tried to confirm.

“Yeah.”

“Ok.”

We began the incline towards the tower. We had to get into single file. Kamaru walked ahead. Leaves brushed by our knees. Twigs cracked underfoot. The ground was slightly softer. Slightly more precarious.

“If you could either dispose of the past or the present, which would it be?” I asked. “Which is less relevant or of less significant to you?”

As he began his answer, Kamaru slipped. His hands left his pockets just in time to break his fall. I asked if he was OK. He said he was fine. We stopped talking and focused on the incline. We reached a plateaued section, just outside the tower site. We began walking around the gates that circumvented the tower.

“So what would you rather sacrifice?” I asked again.

“I think being an artist, at the beginning, I was like, I'm doing this, but I don't know what will happen. Just create and see what happens. And not thinking so much about the future.” 

“Fair.”

“But, I think it's all linked or fluid. Maybe things that are happening now might have happened before, in a way. But in a different thought or perspective.”

“A different perception of it, yeah. How the fuck do we —” I looked around. I was getting frustrated. I couldn’t see an entrance into the tower site.

“Is there a main entrance?” Kamaru asked.

I clearly didn’t have a fucking clue. We kept circumventing the fence.

“It's funny because my Master's project is about time and space and this idea of cyclical and linear,” Kamaru said. “It's also connected with how I make music. At the beginning, I wasn't thinking so much about time. Rhythm and fixedness. Even when I perform there's always this one hour that I'm like, Where did that time go?”

“Isn't time just a feeling anyway?”

“Yeah. Now you can feel it.”

“That's all it ever is.”

“I think there's so much obsession around timezones and clocks. In Nairobi, there is this community of people that are nomads and they are so free and move in the opposite direction of things and people have to wait for them to move past.”

We reached the main entrance. It was closed.

“Is there an opening time?” asked Kamaru.

I checked my phone, groaned, and told Kamaru the bad news. “It is saying it is closed today.”

We kept walking on the thin, earthy path around the fencing. Aimlessly, at this point. I didn’t know how to justify dragging Kamaru out here. He gave an air of stoicism as he fought the cold and incompetence of the man he was with.

“Would you consider yourself very forgiving?” I asked.

Kamaru took a moment to think. “I think I allow myself to learn from the process.”

“Like, a self-forgiveness? As opposed to anything external or with other relationships?”

“Also with others.”

“Do you consider yourself a hopeful person?”

“There's always hope,” Kamaru said.

“Like hoping this place will open?” I suggested. “We can hope. I don’t know if it will work.”

Kamaru laughed. ”Yeah.”

We wandered through the forest. The dark brown turf we walked on was confused by the conditions. Too wet to be hard. Too cold to be soft. We hurdled fallen trees. We trampled on fallen leaves. Tall trees completely blocked the blue skies. It felt dark. Through the trunks, I saw the hill that I knew overlooked Berlin. I convinced Kamaru to climb it. We made it up. The wind walloped us. We sat.

”How does this make you feel about the city? From here,” I asked. “Almost intruding on it.”

“It just feels like Berlin,” said Kamaru. “You cannot see the skyscrapers. It's very brutal.”

“Yeah.”

“Berlin feels like it doesn't have a life, but it has so much emotion.” 

“What do you mean it doesn't have life?” I asked.

“It does have life,” Kamaru said, “but it's evoked through buildings and people. Because, some cities you go to and you cannot be there. It doesn't give that something. Berlin doesn't give a lot, certainly not too much.“

We could see a shaggy rug of tall trees making verdant waves as they swayed. Each one was ready to fill the space left by its neighbour as they moved in unison. I looked around and saw a child perched on the precipice of the hill, alone. It grew more overcast.

“This little child is having a hard time,” I said. “She doesn't want to be with anyone.”

“Yeah,” said Kamaru.

“Did you ever feel that way growing up? How would you react if you felt threatened?”

“Maybe just be on my own. But, I think at some point in my life, it was me and my big brother, but we were very small. In the family, I was the odd one. I think differently from everyone else. More creative, or open. We just changed. But, I think as a child, I was also closer to friends. I really had a playful childhood. I really experienced childhood. Just being out. School was fun. But, like, I went to a private school at some point. Oh, people here behave differently. There's a contrast. I was always in a public school and then I went to a private school. I don't like this, how people express themselves.”

“Was it strict and regimented?”

“Yeah. It also felt like everyone was good at something. There was different classes of children and you could see that they would dismiss you or something. And then I went back to a public high school. It was a completely different mindset.”

“Really?”

“It was like moving in between. I don't know if it was my parents' decision to do this intentionally. I think in Kenyan universities, that's when people become so free. They have so much freedom. My parents gave me and my brother this so long ago. Just going to the city to explore.”

I had nothing to add. We just sat there looking over Berlin. The wind continued to clatter us. The sky became increasingly dull and grey. Kamaru settled back in to a natural state of attentiveness. I settled back in to a natural state of asinine thought.

I broke the silence a few minutes later. “What were you thinking about just there?”

“It’s freezing,” said Joseph. 

I laughed.

We stood up and walked back down. The swirling path that wrapped the hill led us to a tributary of the main road that goes through Grunewald forest.

“Do you feel like you have to be proactive and constantly viewing and experiencing different things?” I asked Kamaru at one point.

“I also appreciate just nothingness,” said Kamaru, “just being in a hammock. In Nairobi, I bought a hammock because I have a tiny balcony and I just put it there and just —”

“Lay for hours.”

“Yeah.”

“Lovely.”

“This is active, but not very active.”

“Yeah,” I said. “somewhere in between.”

We arrived at the main road.

“I'm pretty sure we go right here,” I said. “Maybe it's left.”

“It's to the train station, no?” Kamaru said.

“Yeah,” I said. “It must be left.”

“Yeah,” Kamaru said. “This way. Right.”

“No,” I said. “That's going back in. We have to go left.”

Kamaru was unconvinced.

“Really?” I said.

We turned right. A long stretch of asphalt lay in front of us.

“I got to understand how my body works and feels,” Kamaru continued.

“When?”

“Last year. I was touring with Big Thief. It was nice being on the road but sometimes you realise how your body functions when you're not in control, but wanting to still be in control.”

“Yeah.”

“And I saw this with the band. They don't know where they are while they're touring. Kamaru, where are we? This looks like Sweden.” Kamaru laughed. 

“It could be anywhere in the world,” I said.

“Yeah. Because they play shows, then travel through the night on the bus.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I was trying to be so present but sometimes you're like, OK —” Kamaru suddenly stopped at pointed at a signpost. “You see this sticker?”

“Which one?”

“The bee.”

“Yeah.”

“It's my friend's. I see it everywhere.”

“Prominent figure.”

“Yeah,” Kamaru continued, “with the travelling, in the plane, I don't remember anything. So it's really so confusing. You remember shows, but in between, I can't remember.”

“Do you think as well with our weakened attention spans, do you think we aren't listening enough? I sometimes struggle. If I'm talking to someone, my mind wanders.”

“It happens,” Kamaru said. “It's true also for me sometimes. When I'm —” He stopped. “Are we going in the right direction?” He checked the maps on his phone.

“Did we miss the turn?” I asked. “Is it down there?”

“Yeah, it's this way. Do you remember this?” asked Kamaru. He pointed at something. It was the T-junction at the foot of the hill. The beige path was to our left. “Do you remember?”

It took me a moment. “Ah, yes, yes, yes.”

“Yeah, something like this. Are you aware?”

“Yeah.” I began to feel sporadic raindrops falling. “Hopefully we get to the train station before it really starts pouring down.”

“Yeah,” Kamaru said. “I think yesterday it was raining heavily and thunderstorms.”

“I was flying yesterday and I don't think I have a fear of flying, despite what my dreams might say, but as we were descending, obviously we were coming through a rain cloud and there was a bit of turbulence and it freaked me out.”

“There was turbulence?”

“Turbulence, yeah. It just got really rocky for a time, just as it was going through this storm cloud.”

“Yeah, those ones get freaky.”

“I honestly just wanted to text my parents, I love you.”

“Was it during the day?”

“It was at night,” I said. “Do you think you say I love you enough to the people that you love?”

“I think I try,” said Kamaru. “I should probably do it more often, maybe.”

“Maybe.”

The soft patter of rain on my rain jacket grew into a downpour. I could now hear the shuffling of my rain jacket as my arms rapidly rubbed off my sides. We paced in silence, eager to get to the train station and out of the rain.

“It was straight all the way down, wasn't it?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Kamaru.