Reasons Why That New Title Might Transform You.

Nothing transforms a man more than the news that, henceforth a title, preferably one that catapults them higher than their colleagues or Peers, has been bestowed upon them. If a then Constable, now a Corporal. If a devoted village headman, to Assistant Chief. If a normal football mid-fielder, to overall Club Captain. Or if normal petty thief, who kept being locked up at the local AP post, to certified thug and gang leader, complete with a tattoo of Aleister Crowley, founder of the church of satan, and arguably one of the wickedest men to ever walk the planet.

These titles seem to instill in a man an air of invincibility, a transformation of overall lifestyle , while also doing a total make-over of their goings-on of life, in and out of the work place. New titles seem to inject in a man, a fluid that sends you on a high, but which has the potential to later reduce you to pulp. How beneficial these titles are to overall performance of man, i don't know. But seeing as we all cant fit on same levels of life, its unavoidable. But i know sometimes, for some reason they may distract, curtail and even send a potentially top achiever on this downward spiral, if handled improperly. No two men will respond uniformly to a new title, but here's my brief take on what to expect from the new guy calling the shots, both at the quarry or even in school. (I chose school, because that's where the quarry worker made that fatal mistake, that sent him to a lifetime of mining for rocks in the scorching sun, with their bare hands).

The Quarry Supervisor..

A hands-on worker in this quarry, who would always wake up before the cock crows (He has no cock of his own, but the neighbor's does just fine), so he can produce more than his colleagues. But the quarry owner showd up one day, and elevated him to Supervisor, in recognition of his zeal for work. And our brother, all of a  sudden starts taking his breakfast from his creaky bed, while going through 'important mail from important people' on his phone that has ,as one of its accessories, a dirty rubber band wrung around it, to hold it together. He starys calling his juniors, to find out how work is progressing, rather than be physically present like he used to. He becomes sloppy, starts blaming the tea-girl for his unmet monthly targets, and is now finding the stones too heavy and dirty for his shoulder. All his hardwork virtues are watered down in a week. 

He starts considering his previous roles inferior. He's now disinfecting his hands after touching the chisel, and will only greet his former colleagues with a clenched fist, but not because of Corona. He'll be seen doing rounds at the site pocketing and barking out orders that no one ever barked to him. 

Like the colonial master, he'll reduce wages for his former colleagues and accuse them of being wayward spenders, conveniently forgetting that he too, owes a fortune in the local drinking den. He'll acquire new friends with equal titles. Forgetting that just because you've become a Supervisor in a Congolese Mining outfit, it doesn't mean that you start drinking with the one for NASA, Houston....that same title, may attract different perks, depending on where you are. And our brother instantly sinks into debt as he tries to fit in. 

And the title, rather than be a blessing like the employer probably intended, starts producing detrimental effects on the family and person. He'll hire a car he can't afford, so he can attend that function in style, not to be outdone by his 'peers', thereby shrinking his income even further. 

His walking style will change, for a rather tiring gait that the Hyena tried and failed. He'll ditch his overall, for that mtumba suit. But overalls are what he's good in. He'll change his earlier eatery, for the home made lunch cooked by his latest girlfriend. The same one that the previous supervisor ditched when she hit him on the forehead with a beer bottle, thereby sending him to bed for a month, and hence his earlier than usual sacking. His entire speech will change, and suddenly there is him and there is 'these people', who almost always 'don't understand'. He'll instruct the boda boda rider to carry only one soul, his, at all times or risk action from the OCPD, and will drive this point home by brandishing the burly cop's number.

He'll call in sick three days a week and give out instructions from his 'hospital bed', which will almost always be in Shiku's bedroom, in the neghboring town's filthiest slum.

Before you know it, his wife starts cursing the promotion , since the former polite husband will now not touch Sukuma Wiki with a ten-foot pole. Every time she's cooked Sukuma wiki since the promotion, he's instantly reminded her that he's not a rabbit and gone to sleep. Yet Sukuma wiki is all his pay seems to buy comfortably, new title not withstanding.

And for this brother, the new title has brought more chaos into his life, than Bluemoon would to a drunk already high on Keg. Tragic.

The Obedient Office Messanger.

This office messenger who thoroughly enjoyed his job and uniform, has now been elevated to office assistant. Don't ask me the difference between the two, but he's now quoting Stalin's verses as he threatens all and sundry with fire and brimstone from heaven, if they don't toe his line. He'll tell them that the same God who elevated him, after all the waiting, will be the one to demote them if they don't watch out.

Even though he's now changed his entire wardrobe, you'll be shocked to know that  the only increment in his payslip the promotion has brought, is two meagre 'sousands'. 

The only thing he's not 'delegated' is his wife, but even she, the Chief has noticed is becoming rather lonely, and in the spirit of serving the community, is willing to do something about in the dark nights when the newly promoted bloke is out 'strategizing with Central bank officials'. Trust the chief to know everything in every household....exactly as the President directed.

Our School Head.

While nothing much has changed except the title, the new Deputy Principal will start noticing that he's too senior to attend classes. He loved teaching, and watching his pupils blossom. But now he's delegated all his lessons to this lanky trainee from K.U, while all along threatening him with dire consequences, should the new arrangement reach the ears of the area Education boss. One the school watchman's major duties, will henceforth be to polish his boss's shoes after every trip he makes round the school compound inspecting nothing in particular, for there is obviously nothing going on worth inspecting, except the tree nursery. And even that, has already been inspected by the prefect.

You'll notice that he's dropped his glasses an inch down to the tip of his nose like Wole Soyinka, and is now peeping at the new parent from above them like Martin Wambora. He starts carrying files around and acquire this angry look that he painfully has to shed off after five, for that's when the borrowing starts. From the butchery to mama mboga, the day-time disciplinarian must now smile from one ear to the next, muttering "mwisho wa mwezi iko karibu,usijali".

His overall performance will wane as a result and will always be looking forward to the next political gathering of his peers to sing misplaced circumcision songs and gauge his overall popularity in the teaching fraternity. Students who previously benefited immensely from his effortless grasp of Physics now have to make do with the predictable answer,"see me tomorrow", for the fela no longer has time for his own career. Those who stood to benefit from his prowess, now have no choice but to go looking for new territories. In this case, he absconds his primary calling because someone somewhere made the mistake of promoting him. Hes even missed his grandma's burial, because he had to attend that Heads function in Hargeisa.

The Youth Leader.

In our church themes, this Keyboard player is as captivating as he is industrious, until the day he's made overall youth leader. Instantly he wakes up to the fact that Suzzy, the girl with that silky voice in the choir is not only a good singer, she is also beautiful. And when he decides to put a voice to his observation, his demise has started. First of all, Suzzy squels on him, and it gets personal since the Pastor, also being a man with two functional eyes, wastes no time in expelling the love smitten chap out of the church over 'gross misconduct'. Feelings he'd so successfully swept under the rug for Christ's sake, now suddenly rear their ugly head and his true character comes out. And Satan will not stop, until this otherwise committed christian has ditched the Bible for the Keg Mug, citing irreconcilable differences with the church.

With his emotions kicked to the kerb, the young chap embarks on this self-destructive spiritual revenge mission, that would have not happened if they hadn't taken him away from his beloved keyboard. 

In no time, he's grown dreadlocks and is playing for Matata Boys Band, an outfit that only plays at night while smoking weed on stage to increase creativity and keep mosquitoes at bay. He has no apologies for switching that Jesus Christ poster in his bedroom for Bob Marley, and is now thinking waylaying the Pastor at night, as the situation spirals out of control. 

I am all for promotions and recognizing every individual for their output and honesty. But in my view, the new title ought not to transform adversely, rather it should spur positivity, for that was the intention of the promoterb(Hopefully). But some will raise you, so your fall from grace can be most spectacular. Titles/posts mean nothing, except to those of us with esteem issues. If someone elevates you to a god status, kindly remind them, through deed, that you are only human.That you are simply serving to the best of your capabilities, and do not wish to be worshiped nor fed with falsehoods. Performance, output, servitude means everything. And its all that matters to man and to God.

So folks, at all times, wherever you are, in whatever position, just give it your best shot...!

THE WRETCHED WEAVE WATERLOO.

When Christina Jenkins, an African American woman from Cleveland, Ohio, invented the weave back in the fifties, she may have had no idea that she was putting into jeopardy the lives of all animals with the slightest fur (or hair) on them. Every inventor prays for their invention to become a viable business opportunity, a life changer..maybe even a blessing of sorts. Few, though, see a future where their invention will turn out to be a curse. Or they wouldn't pursue their ideas into fruition. Even Mikhail Kalashnikov, a Soviet General who invented the AK-47, once famously said his invention was a weapon of defense, not a weapon for offense. For diplomatic reasons, please say you believe the guy so we can move on. Pretend to know nothing about the arms race that came immediately after the 2nd world war, when the deadly rifle started its human population statistics correction. It was a weapon meant to pursue peace, not one to maim and kill.

Now Jenkins's invention has turned into something that most men dread, especially because in some instances, though still placed firmly on a lady's head, it is known to host all sorts of living organisms and wildlife. The last thing a man wants to see, especially during those intimate moments, is a live recording of The National Geographic Wild, live on his woman's head. You are cuddling her head, and out comes a mouse from under the weave. It's been there for that long. The weave has become such a good host of small animals because our ladies will put this thing on during the Easter season , and will only take it off a few days to Christmas for an even tighter one. So that for some ladies,  you can see the stained veins protruding from her skull, blood barely making it through. And they end up looking like that tired athlete who finished last on the marathon, meaning though equally tired, they may have toiled for nothing. Even the veins connecting the veins to the eyes are so strained that an otherwise healthy woman, now has to start donning sight correcting glasses .If young,this weave will add years to a woman's features and if old,it will slice off a few days.(If you look from behind).I have nothing personal against this thing and to prove it,let's just go over its pros and cons.

The Pros.

We may not spend much time here,for the pros are hard to come by.But we will try,because even the beauty magazines gave The Aborigines a chance on their cover picture.Only for them to beat a hasty retreat,to salvage the dwindling sales that resulted.Telling the difference between a weave and a wig is neither here nor there,but they are both placed,sown(read sowing crops,only this one is watered with sweat),or knit into place.How,i have no hope of knowing.But some guys apparently get paid for practicing tailoring on the heads of other humans.Kajairo wouldn't be where he is today,if it wasn't for the weave.But he is a comedian and most of our ladies aren't.Just because it catapulted him to fame doesn't mean its going to do the same for the local church choir leader.Plus he is gifted with brains and amazing oratory skills.I wish i could say the same about some of our other wearers.Its alright for all the woman's guild members to put on weaves(even uniform ones),but you know there is a problem when the youth leader takes it up too.

For any cheating woman,the weave is a necessary accessory.With all this technology around,you never know who could be following you.So always be sure to carry a spare one in your hand bag,if you are to succeed in the cheating field.Put the weave on and walk looking downwards,to avoid the cameras.This way,the only person who can tell that the Sunday school teacher has just walked into Dhambi Bar and lodgings(The local butcher will have checked in much earlier),will be yourself and God.For the weave does magic transformation on a woman and the hired private investigator will hand in their resignation letter first thing come Monday,citing double-vision and supernatural citings.

Shop lifters will not give it up any time soon for obvious reasons.Its the perfect place to hide lipstick and lip-gloss,assuming that's the stuff that glitters on our ladies lips,without raising the suspicions of the watchful supermarket attendant.Plus a lady can walk in,visit the washrooms,shop,then walk out totally a different person.And the attendant will not know who exactly the cameras picked up,hiding stuff in unmentionable places.

As i said,we may have to leave this section early,over lack of clear-cut advantages of the weave.But we can't leave without acknowledging the fact that it is not about to go away before the socialite takes a bow.If Vera is without fake hair,then the sun may have to set in the East,for the picture to be complete.And you can take it from me,that will not happen overnight.What is therefore required here mate, is patience.Lots of patience.

The Cons.

National holidays have been reduced into a weave contest.All the choirs in the stadium have the same head-gear,for they probably bought their weaves from the same source.And when the cameraman zooms their faces in,they all look like Mama Mboga,on her way to a church function.While there is nothing wrong with Mama Mboga's dressing,its how she exported her style to all her customers that's raising eyebrows.When normally it would have been the other way round.Some of these weaves are so shiny,the dignitaries have resorted to gracing these events spotting those large shades that hide the face,leaving journalists to only speculate on who is seated where.The most shiny ones,are rumored to be off horses.There is a time when a horse actually thought he could trust a man-a tragic mistake.For with the onset of the weave,the horse is now perennially on the run,from the racecourse and out.One false step,and the poor stallion is reduced into a heap of fur and hair.No prizes for guessing where the meat goes,because at this rate you are going to start asking about the donkey as well,and the whole of Naivasha will come looking for you.

Our ladies have found ways to emulate,not only the looks of their favorite soap stars,but also their movement.Now a lady from Nyandarua,will be perfect in the art of sweeping imaginary hair off her face,all because of the wig.She will then jerk her head backwards,to sweep her massive hair into place,as it pours down her shoulders,risking shoulder dislocation in the process,as she mutters,"Oishie!Hii nywele yaangu!".She is wearing at least two kilograms on her head,for these things are not as light as they look.Add to that the jewellery,the layers of make up and other additions and you will understand why our girls are always so tired and snappy.Beauty comes at a price.If only this was beauty,for the price is clearly heavy here.Its strange because tables have turned.Now the ladies with stunted,shrub-like hair,also have the 'longest hair',if we go by the entertainment writers assessment,on the snapshots gracing weekend newspaper pull-outs.

A guy will pick up company after a night out,totally mesmerized by their features,and will take them home for a one night stand.(Not that i encourage those,but Noah didn't encourage drowning too,yet people chose to drown). At exactly six in the morning,with the onset of natural light,this guy's neighbors will be awakened by his screams.For the woman sleeping next to him,is not the one he picked up and he can swear that on his grandma's grave.He picked up a Caucasian woman.Now snoring on his bed,sprawled like a wet painting, is this strange multi-colored Hottentot,who's face now looks like the military camouflage gear.The weave is resting neatly by the lamp stand beside the eyelashes.When she finally comes to,she screams too,and runs off to the bathroom carrying all her 'armory' of beauty products.She'll emerge half an hour later,looking like the Mona Lisa drawing,complete with the side bars.This transformation is puzzling and men don't know who to trust anymore.Or who to pick up.

The sight of drops of sweat slowly drooping from under the weave to the neck,is a complete turn-off,but men dare not say it out aloud.Especially if the lady is seated by the window of the matatu,and is ignoring all pleas to slide the window open.Woe onto you if you are a man in that situation,for any complaints will be met by accusations of improper sexual conduct.This is where a man will lose hands down,and alight two bus stops from his estate,and walk the rest of the distance,having ran out of cash and options.Keep your mouth shut and say nothing of the wig,if you are scared of hell fire and brimstone.Say nothing of the pieces of Raymond blanket that are hanging by this weave's threads.If you have to speak about it,please ensure you are speaking to yourself.If she turns to look at you,smile.Go a step further and pretend you can't tell the difference between a weave and natural hair,and complement her on the latter.She will still not open the window,but at least you will alight safe.If you own no 'stings' of your own,it makes sense to stay clear of the bee-hive.

The weave is a good addition.But at times,it makes sense to let your real self flourish and be celebrated.Kudos to the ladies who've resisted the notion that only skinny is beautiful.Because truth be told,they knew what they were talking about when they said,its to the beholder.Or something close to that.Now,before the fashion police come calling,its time i crawled back to my fashion less hole,hoping i won't trip over some wig/weave someone threw away,when it started melting black wax on their scalp.

"STREET URCHINS" vs THE GOVERNMENT.

The biting morning cold jolts him from this drug induced sleep.His eyes are heavy and unwilling,but the cold won't let him sleep some more.And the hunger.(Hunger is an irritant that just won't go away). Plus the gum's running out,and there's nothing as terrifying as that.That final thought puts him into a full flight mode.See,food a guy can always do without.Even water,as long as there's enough to wash away the city streets dirt to the already choking river,a guy can do without too.But gum,that's a no, no.No gum, no life.Though only ten,he's as hard as a rock.He's made not even one trip to the hospital since he was born in some allay,and left there to die.But he heroically defied death then,and is doing so now,as well.Even when some ailment strikes,he just 'gums' it away.He sees the world as his enemy,its inhabitants as the coldest,meanest things ever made.With their fancy clothes and cars,they have no time for another street urchin like himself.He knows he does not belong.Even the government,rather than help,hides him,whenever they have to receive some global dignitaries.Then,he's locked up in the police cells like a criminal,until all the guests are safely away.But he feels this is in futility,since his pictures long found their way to the West,and regularly,these pictures grace charity events,held in five star hotels,as a bait to the rich,so they can give more to the privately owned charity organizations.

Humble Abode

Under the bridge,that he's now turned into his home,he can see the city above him choking in traffic.An endless file of unmoving machines,that the enlightened have willingly enclosed themselves into,as they go through the same, daily rituals of life,that they are either too afraid to challenge or get out of.Though the air is not exactly fresh under the bridge,he wonders who between him and they,is inhaling more harmful gases.Sitting up,he neatly folds the cartons that pass for his mattress,and stacks them away,where no other street urchin like himself,in search of rest,can spot them.Then he picks his black sack,throws it on his back and begins the uphill climb to the world above,to receive more battering by its inhabitants,if that is what will keep him alive for one more day.

The first garbage dump that he visits,offers him disappointment.Others got there before him.Some guys never sleep,he mutters,and heads for the next one,a few hundred meters away,where he gets to have his breakfast.His menu,is roughly one and a half crumpled chapati and bread.The mold,gives it a taste that has no name,for the giver of names is yet to eat fresh mold.Then he has to get rid of the invading army of insects that,having got there first,are reluctant to leave,and he results to force.Picking one insect he tramples it under his feet,like he was trampling on to some huge tortoise,that has its back armor in place.In his small mind,he's trampling on to the unforgiving world.Or to whoever sentenced him to it,for to him,life is a sentence,that has to be served,not lived.How else would you describe life,for someone who has to fight for food with mongrels and insects with no known names.Someone who has to live on what the world has thrown away.

Then he proceeds to stock up as much as he could,knowing not how the rest of the day would turn out to be.He's heard that street kids are to be enlisted into some government programme,and intends to go and check it all out,in the city center, where he's most unwelcome.He wonders how he's ever going to get there with all the cops milling around him,and the middle-class frowning wherever he passes by.Office clerks and other white collared folks, with just a few hundred shillings on them,will frantically go through their pockets when he goes near them,fearing that he might just mysteriously pick out their entire pocket.And this being the the only financial barrier between them and starvation they take no chances,cheap ties and matching coats  not withstanding.
Having had his fill,this young boy, named Macha by his peers,is ready to take on the world,one more time.

The Venue

It would be around midday when he gets to the venue.There isn't much oxygen around since majority of the audience is made up of homeless kids,gum in hand,emitting strange odours.Some are so stoned,their eyes are bulging out of their sockets like red tennis balls.Speaking incoherently,they blab about this and that,but mostly its "msituletee". Clearly something is wrong here.And Macha doesn't know what.He edges closer,but his black sack is caught in between other equally black sacks,and the resultant friction produces an even blacker smoke.This is the one kind of smoke that bellows out of a source that has no fire.More like soot,but refined.The uniformed men in the dais cough and sneeze.The kids are having no such problems,and they conclude these polished uniformed men must all be sick.And they are partially right.When you ask a street kid to pay for anything else other than gum,you are sick.And that's what these men have just done.Though the recruitment to the government programme is supposed to be free of charge,the recruiting personnel has decided to charge some"processing fee",of a hundred shillings each.To this kid,a hundred shillings translates to a whole week's supply of gum.So someone wants a hundred shillings from them,they better have the equivalent quantity of gum.Or the transaction will be deemed null and void.And from the look of things,these pot-bellied officials do not seem to have that kind of entrepreneurial spirit.

May hem

So its true.Msituletee.Now Macha joins in the chants.Somebody,who looks like something someone dug up,throws something to the dais.The pot-bellied men jump to their feet,others cock their guns.But these kids have no idea what a gun is supposed to do,they being rather too stoned to care.They don't have the ability to develop that thing called fear.For some,death would be a welcome relief.They can even help you pull the darned trigger.An overweight man trips and lands onto some hapless woman,who lets out a scream that is swallowed up by the chants and the commotion.Their drivers,in an attempt to rescue their bosses,all make unsuccessful attempts to position their four by fours near the dais.One Landcruiser runs over a boy too stoned to participate in the protests,and who was unbelievably asleep on the tarmac.The lad jolts up to life and joins in the mayhem.The sound of approaching police car sirens,sound like reggae music to most kids,so they stay put.Black figures with blacker,old clothes pour onto the dais,screaming in Sheng,a language they made up.The microphone is yanked from its holder,and the culprit proceeds to clobber the master of ceremony with it,who in turn screams and jumps off the dais.Papers are torn and strewn all over the place.Somebody produces a matchbox and the rest clap,for the first time.And as the dais goes up in flames,the government officials scamper for safety,as cameras click away.Foreign journalists focus on the fire and the masses sprawled on the floor.Bottled water,meant for the officials,is in the urchins hands now,like prized weapons seized from a fleeing army after a fierce battle.Victory chants rent the air.

There is more celebration when the dais finally caves in,covering the government Coat Of Arms. But when the first shot rings out,that's the official announcement that the corruption culprits too, will have their defenders.Macha didn't even know that he was the one who stopped that bullet.When he too,like the dais before him,caved downwards,he thought it must have been from lack of a proper fix.He could see white,winged creatures beckoning,but thought it must have had something to do with gum,his faithful companion.But no.A minute later,life gently ebbed out of him,with a an ever so slight shudder and sigh.And with that,the whole city descended into chaos.

All because somebody somewhere,asked to be bribed,so he could do his job.Vehicles were set ablaze like refuse.Shops were vandalized,looted as robbers and pick pockets all joined in the mad scramble for the city.Briefly,hooligans came out of their holes,to take charge of the city,thereby exposing man kind as one huge volcano that has only managed to stay under because it hasn't found the right opening.A society of pretenders and actors who,if left free to be themselves,would instantly transform into destruction machines.

The Irony.

A week later,after another brief riot,Macha's body is collected from the city morgue by a government donated hearse.The corpse is inside a coffin worth half a million shillings,also donated by the government.How ironic,for it was a government bullet,that took Macha's life.After its officials demanded a bribe from street kids,so they could join some programme,sponsored by some Western nation.Nothing has been said of this programme since the riot.But there are reports in the media that even the overall secretary,had diverted half the funds to some off-shore Swiss account,thereby transforming it into personal wealth with a stroke of a pen.What a genius.Now women are naming their babies after her, in admiration.How the society glorifies that which it is supposed to shun.

Macha was laid to sleep eternally in a government cemetery,the same government that possessed no record of his existence,when he was alive.I guess,for some guys,only death will bring to life their existence.And that nothing short of a tragedy will make the system look their way.The rot,is so deep,now its taking away the lives of children,both wanted and unwanted,whatever that means.And as the officials present promise to "leave no stone unturned" (They said those same words about an assassinated, flamboyant minister,who's death is still a mystery,decades later)until they get the "perpetrators of this heinous act",one can almost smell the non-committal attitude,oozing out of this sick public relations debacle,that only succeeds in breeding more anger and resentment toward the system.

ELSA SALSA SUNSHINE, MERU.

It took a crazy mind to raise her. After she was orphaned, few were crazy enough to give her a chance of  survival. And in the wild, even for the best, survival is never guaranteed. Brute strength and muscle, always carry the day, though even that, is just a fraction of what's required for survival in the wild. You'll need to add some top-notch brains and an unparalleled scheming prowess. And maybe then, just maybe, survival can be possible . But never guaranteed. Especially if you belong to a species of outright winners; The Lion.

But Elsa was different. She joined the fray as an underdog, for no one really stood for her.
The lions, being too busy fending for their respective prides, would obviously have no time for some orphaned cubs. In fact, these other lions would normally be the greatest danger to the lone unguarded cubs. Adult males will always sniff the life of any cub they haven't fathered. It's their very nature to do that. Pity and sympathy will fetch you very little accolades in the Lion Kingdom. That's just the way it is. And in the extremely unlikely event that another pride would be willing to adopt the cubs, that would attract serious danger to the pride's own cubs. From marauding males and jealous females alike. It would be an extra burden, in an already unforgiving wild of the Meru National Park, where Elsa and her siblings were born. Any other animal species would maybe, have teamed up, to ensure the young's growth, what with the untimely death of their mother. But these were lions. Their world is different. Starkly different. In their world, death is the order of the day. Death has to occur, in order for them to eat. A life has to depart, for theirs to be sustained. There are no two ways about it. You either take, or you are taken. Period. Simple rule of the Lion wild world.

Now the trouble with Baby Elsa, she began her life on a losing note. As if she was born prey, though she belonged to a renowned family of hunters. If hunger doesn't get her, the hyenas will. Or the fox, on her way to the beauty pageant contest. She was that defenseless. Without Mama, her dice was cast. She was a goner. Like some scholar said, you do not respond to a mosquito bite with a hammer. Maybe that's why no one saw it fit to waste valuable energy killing some cubs that nature would kill anyway. Within days. I guess the males were too busy with the real, wild issues (A king will not sit on his throne to settle a domestic quarrel, when there is the issue of  that meteor, that is rumored to be on a collision course with his Kingdom), to take notice of this small distraction .

The Odds.

Elsa, was a baby whose odds were placed mightily against her. For her biggest foe, he who took her mother's life, when she was only a few days old, also turned out to be her biggest defender. A stroke of luck. I say this because when the gentle conservationist, George Adamson, shot her Mum, it was in self-defense. Or he would have made dinner for Elsa and her sisters. He'd realize later, that the reason this huge lioness left from the bushes going for his throat, was because, back in that grassland, lay her little cubs. And he'd made the mistake of going too close to them. So Mama was only doing what all Mothers do best; Defend her family. But that leap, was Mama's last. Because George, who years later, ironically also died by the bullet, missed nothing with his rifle from such a point-blank range .So when the shots rang out, and birds fled from the park's treetops in fright and flight, Elsa's Mum lay dead. And Adamson was to make the cubs discovery later with a sunken heart. In that instant, Elsa and her sister's, 'Big One' and 'Lustica' were instantly orphaned, for Mama was raising them on her own. I guess Daddy had much earlier fled to Timbuktu, when the pregnancy results returned a positive result.

So you see. The odds, like i said, were stacked against these three. And even though the imposing Rotterdam Zoo made room for 'Big one' and 'Lustica', Adamson made Elsa stay, so he could raise her on his own. Think of it as his way of correcting a wrong he'd perpetrated, albeit involuntarily. He made her stay, so she could fight for her place in The Meru wild. The Dutch could have Big One and Lustica. But they were not about to deny us the privilege of hosting arguably the most famous lioness, since the man eaters of Tsavo, who have since become permanent residents of some museum in Chicago, Illinois, as if The East African Railway, which gave them their notoriety and fame, was constructed in the United States. We were keeping our Elsa.

There was nothing about her that suggested fame or near celebrity status.  No one could have told that she would pack movie Theaters decades later, half-a world away, in Las Vegas and Hollywood, Los Angeles. Or prod the world to move millions of dollars, in conservation efforts, like it did, not so long afterwards, for the endangered majestic Tiger in Sri Lanka, also half a world away. Even George and his wife Joy, attributed huge chunks of their fame to this elegant Lioness.Their cause's destiny and effectiveness was effectively transformed single-handedly by the amazing feats accomplished by her.The Big Cat diary,The Marsh pride, all these owe their fame and success to Elsa, for she made it before them, thus swinging the world's spot-light to the big cat of Africa. 

The Adamsons were heard more, listened to more, respected more. Even studied more. The Leakey's almost pale in comparison, their selfless efforts not withstanding. Because, unlike The Adamsons, they had no Elsa, of their own. Tragic.

Now, when three years after her mum's death, and months after her own successful re-introduction into the wild, Elsa showed up with cubs of her own at the Adamsons enclosure, nothing could have been more gratifying to the conservationist. Not all that begins on the downward, spirals further downward. Unless you let it. You stop digging, if you wake up to the fact that you are already in a hole, as a sign that, for you, the only place you are headed is upwards. He beamed with pride, and felt he'd repaid his debt, though not in full. He'd killed Elsa's Mum, yes in self-defense. But he'd raised Elsa the best way he knew how, and here were her cubs to prove it.Wow!.

Hope In Adversity

It took a grotesque picture of a starving child, with a vulture lurking in the background in wait, to swing the world into action in unprecedented proportions, to save Ethiopia, Southern Sudan and the Sub Sahara region from starvation , way back in the eighties. In the absence of that picture, the world, as we know it, was a mere few weeks away from an irreparable imbalance on humanity and the Eco-system, albeit largely in one region. A hunger-caused imbalance. I do not know if this particular child lived to see another day, or if she made dinner for the vulture. But she saved millions of lives. Her suffering eased the suffering of others. Hard to understand, but true.

Sometimes dawn may take long in coming. But it always comes eventually. 

Maybe the Sudanese kid never made it. But the current crop of Southern Sudan leaders, Singers, Writers, Educationists etc, all probably owe their very existence to her. And the photographer who took heart-wrenching picture, like the pilot who dropped that load aboard the plane christened 'Enola Gay' on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, was forever transformed by what he saw. So much so, that years later, when he could handle the guilt no more, Kevin Carter, a South African photographer ,tragically chose to take his own life.Only a few, in a world of billions, even know of the existence of that kind of human suffering, leave alone being witnesses to it.And those who do witness it, are never the same again.

Back to Elsa. She's buried inside Meru National Park. Or rather, the park is buried inside her. Her genes roam the earth, refusing to fade away, even as mankind keeps encroaching on what's rightfully theirs. Every time a pride conquers a valley, a hill, a grassland, i like to think its because Elsa chose to live. And God knew the reason why he sent George in Elsa's way. And Joy. And other unsung heroes of the wild, who trained and cared for Elsa, forcing her to go out there and hunt even when all she wanted was her peace, and saw her blossom into the one Lioness that, even after her re-introduction to the wild, refused to completely sever ties to man.

She went on to conquer the wild too, and only a bout of Babesis, more like Malaria to humans, could put her to sleep. And even that, it had to be on Adamson's lap. She went out on her terms. 

A Hotel's Honor For The Hunter.

Now her name, emboldened in eternal gold, is etched firmly in the annals of history. And life itself.

And like her offspring, now roaming the grasslands of The Serengeti, where George eventually had her offspring moved to, so will we. Multiply. Grow. Spread, far and wide. She defied death, when she stood zero chance of survival. And even in death, she defies it some more,  refusing to fade away. She seems to live more in death. Rising from obscurity to celebrity status, and surgically healing an ailing tourism industry, then on its deathbed, swinging the world's attention to this East African nation, richly endowed.

In tribute to this great addition to life, and to every one else who beats the odds, overturns the patterns, the sequence and the normal, who challenges the 'order' while daring to dream, stands the elegant posture of Elsa Hotel, Meru.Kenya.

Long Live Elsa. 

LOVING EVERYTHING, BUT OUR OWN.

With the current obsession and craze over everything Nigerian,soon we might have to relocate entirely to the West African nation.But seeing as they have enough trouble on their plate already,what with Boko Haram kidnapping school girls and hiding them in mars,where no one can find them without first manufacturing a space-ship,i'm not certain we would be welcome.Harambee stars need not bother making the trip,should we decide to relocate.For they would be turned back at the airport,since this soccer-mad nation would obviously want nothing to do with men who can't kick a football to save their lives.That,i can authoritatively report.You can accuse me of being unpatriotic here,but that's precisely also the reason why most Kenyans will watch the Zambian football on Supersport,on the day Kenya is losing to Djibouti's second string side and drawing with Somalia,a country without a soccer stadium

Now, this aping culture or situation is making life hard for our brothers from Kiambu and Mukurweini,who speech wise, can only successfully imitate a two-year old of any nationality and race.No matter how hard they try,they will not be mistaken for the West African man any time soon.Their speech is always betraying them.The sisters are all over the 'oga brodas',who, knowing that there is a ladies wind-fall in this East African nation,are landing in droves,making more noise than the timid Kenyan man,who has been battered by hard economic times to silence.Never mind the means,when it comes to cash,these brothers are running the dating scene.The Congolese have now been relegated to opening car doors for the ones who,just a few months ago,were falling all over themselves for anything from Congo.The light skinned foreigners now have to settle for a wave,and may be a pat on the cheek as she waltzes by,with an 'oga broda' in tow.Now they look rather scary from all the skin-lightening they did, when competition for them was at the highest.Used,spent and now addicted to heroine and crack,the Congolese now have to give way to the Nigerian.And the situation is not helped by the sudden interest in women head gear and that long African dress(some of our curvy ladies actually look gorgeous in that),that our ladies have developed.

But its the Kenyan guys who,in an attempt to compete, end up looking rather ridiculous in the West African garb.I understood when we dropped our accents for the American one,and ended up sounding like the Kalahari bushmen.Even when we ditched our everything for China,i took that in my stride.But under no circumstances will i let a retired primary school teacher from Mogotio, walk past me,raising dust and debris behind him, as he tries the balancing act on this gown,that a half-blind tailor made from the backroom.If we are going to copy everything else, i suggest we leave this one out.Here is why.

West African Garb.

This gown,will almost always have this shiny look that blinds all and sundry.Its texture can make a woman's dress any day.A West African man and his wife,can go to the same dress maker and come out not only dressed, but also both looking alike,having used the same clothe material.That in Kenya is an unacceptable crime.And if you are going to show up in the local watering hole later on,you'll see the reason why.You will be accused of having been 'sat on',and therefore a bad influence to everything male.Men will laugh when you speak,not because they love your jokes,but because you look like a pencil top,in that cap that matches the garb.You will notice Njoki is not as enthusiastic  to serve you that cold beer as she was the day before. And you have no right to blame her-any respecter of decent men wear,would rather not be seen with you,in case someone decides to snap away,and before you know it,you are on the Magazine cover of a children comic book.
 You will be made to understand that in Kenya, there are two things; a man and a woman.And that despite vehement campaigns by the ladies to yank the trousers ownership away from men,these two avoid sharing clothe material.And because you most probably do have a beer belly,it will be brought to your attention that pieces of clothing are hanging on it, swaying from left to right,not unlike the traditional healer.
At the bus stage,the conductor will address you as "Pastor",before picking out the distinct smell of a stubbed out cigarette,probably stuck somewhere in one of the four or is it five arm outlets (Why is it that Pastors are always the ones being used as fashion Guinea pigs?) .Some guys,who also believe in fairy tales,will believe that you have actually been to Lagos and that, that's where you purchased your garb,to be safe from the country's fashion police.Never mind the fact that the furthest you have gone to, since your sister's wedding in Machakos,is that monthly visit to your Sacco offices.

Forgive my lack of understanding,but if you are going to pay for clothes to wear,i would expect all pieces to be properly sown into place,eliminating the distracting hand motion of sweeping the entire side mass to the top of the shoulders,only for it to slide right back down in defiance.I suggest that the 'brodas' make up their minds where they want this piece to be,because enough glasses have been broken already.Now Kenyan men are being worn by this garb,thereby rendering the council cleaners jobless,for it will sweep an entire street and store garbage somewhere in there.Its a ridiculous look,and once again,forgive my lack of exposure and understanding.Its true Africa needs to embrace its own,and in that spirit Kenyan men are risking fire and lightning, as they trot in this gown,tripping and falling all over town.In the same measure,let the West Africans start cladding in the Maasai attire and the exchange will be complete.Or strapping the Turkana stools in those garbs.

The Risks 

I don't even want to get into the risks that Kenyan men put themselves into,as they ape the Nigerian.You see the Nigerians have mastered the art of walking in these garbs,though they occupy huge spaces whenever they walk in twos or threes,because of that inflated,flowing look,giving you the feeling of a typical African,who's already late for all his appointments for the day.(You can't be looking forward to a busy day and still put this thing on). Two of them will walk into an airport terminal,and The White House will be notified of an infringement in one of their airports.But its hard for them to either spill or knock anything down with it,unless its deliberate.They are skilled.For our Kenyan brothers,the aftermath of a man who passed by minutes ago,will still be knocking down everything placed on nearby tables, long after they have taken to their seat.He'll spend the entire day muttering 'pole ndugu','pole dada',as he tries to make amends for his blunders.And if sunset comes before he's dragged on the streets by a matatu he thought he had alighted from safely,only for it to speed off with one half that remained on board,then glory be to God.Walking along Luthuli Avenue in this garb,means you'll be walking five steps forward,then you are pulled three backwards.You'll arrive home late,dirty and battered.Put these pieces of clothing on,only if you are driving your own car.Again,please forgive my little exposure.Am just a little worried about the well-being of a man who chooses to abandon the traditional,well-cut suit to embrace pieces of clothing that remind you of some African nation's flag,complete with the emblem,on a windy day.

Guys,i want to assure you,our ladies will troop back to us the same way they trooped out,without resulting to suicidal tendencies.By the time they do Botswana,they will have realized that there is nothing so tragically wrong with us,just a torn pocket here and another there that has been plucked out all together.If the Congolese man has been dumped,then trust me even the Nigerian will be knocked out too.We just have to learn to be patient,because Nigerians tend to take a little bit longer.But we must keep faith and not go overboard in search of our sisters,they will come back.Let's leave the garb to the Nigerian dude,and hope he trips and falls flat on his nose,as he goes to settle the bill.For now,that's all we can do because the law is clear about shooting people you don't like.We look ridiculously funny when we abandon what we know,in search of new territories that we know nothing about.Because one thing is for sure-you will never be better than the inventor of the game.


Kinyuagm@gmail.com

TRIBULATIONS OF THE BOY CHILD

He hesitates when his name is read out. Many times his name has been read out and all he has ever received is regrets. He fears this is probably going to be no different. But he is a courageous lad. In the fifteen years he's been alive, he's seen it all. He's been through the kind of stuff most people never get to go through their whole lives. That's why he's approaching this situation with caution. The world has bruised him, and made him wiser in the process. He doesn't even hurry things up any more, seeing no particular need to. 

So even this day when he woke up, he took all his time before embarking on the treacherous twenty kilometre walk to his county headquarters town hall, where he and other short-listed education bursary applicants were to know their fate. But having done this journey the previous year, and the one before, he was in no particular hurry to go and have his heart broken again. But he got off, after all the cows and goats were taken care of. Its the first thing he has to do, no matter the day, no matter the hurry.

Along the way, the county's fuel guzzlers had sped past him heading to the same venue. He suppressed an urge to flag one down, fearing the fate he would suffer in the hands of those burly, mean men that alight from the vehicles, whenever they make a stop at that road-side Mla Chake Nyama Choma Ranch, owned by the Governor's personal assistant. He has seen them before, these men.Because across the road, as his father's cows graze, he would lay under the shade to quench his thirst using water from an old, dirty bottle he always carried with him.

So when his name is read again, he mutters a short prayer, and heads for the dais to receive his verdict. His shorts, the same pair he's gone to school with this past year, now has holes at the back that expose his back-side.The two girls with pony-tail hair and shiny clothes seated at the front, momentarily abandon their phones to stare at this boy walking to the dais in torn shorts and obviously no under-wear. No one seems to wake up to the irony that they too, though far more endowed, are here for the same thing as this poor boy. They nudge each other, giggling under their breaths, as this walking bundle of poverty passes by.Their mother rebukes them halfheartedly as she too suppresses a laugh, heaving heavily in the process and the gold-chain around her neck is yanked out of her blouse. She clicks, then curses in Harlem English, and throws it back to its place carelessly like its of not much value. See, she's getting agitated with all this waiting. Its a children's bursary meeting for Pete's sake, not an I.M.F board meeting. And she and her girls have a long drive back to the capital, once they've received their letters. So the organizers had better hurry things up, or she will have to call the Education Secretary, he being the one that sent her here with a word that her girls must make the list. This way, she can avoid paying school fees altogether and spend the cash on that holiday in Mauritius.

Society Laughing At Itself

The Chief presiding officer doesn't shake the lad's hand, maybe because you can spot the cracks on them from a few meters away. In the ensuing confusion the lad drops his letter and, as he bends to pick it up, the entire dais erupts in hearty laughter. Even the outside catering boys from a nearby four star hotel, as they collect their cutlery and left-overs from the dais, follow suit. Its their left-over food that actually led to this costly slip.Who wouldn't have?. For the boy's buttocks are now officially out, having broken the last few remaining strands of thinning strings that kept total nakedness temporarily at bay. But you can only hold on to a cob web for so long.The end had to come.Though he's used to life's humiliations, rarely does it happen in front of such an affluent crowd of on-lookers .He has no desire to be a stand-up comedian so he refuses to to participate in this laughter, bows his head in shame and runs out. Stopping only to get his breath when he could no longer hear the laughter. Only to realize that he is leaning on the gate of a police post, the same one he spent two nights in, for grazing his father's cows on the well manicured lawns outside. So off he goes again, but because now darkness is setting in, he feels a familiar calm that comes with having to hide from humanity, because one is not properly clothed. Finally, the ordeal is over.

He does not know the contents of his letter yet, but he takes solace in the fact that he had scored more marks than most of the applicants that showed up, including the two rich girls with pony-tail hair. A man will always be a man and he can't stop thinking that the girls must really be beautiful. And clean. Clean is what caught his eye. They even carried handkerchiefs, in a world full of leaves and grass. What a waste, he wonders.Why such kids don't blow up the entire exam, he fails to understand, yet they will blow their noses at the slightest opportunity. If he doesn't go to high school this time, he might just give up. This is what he fears most, for he knows he has the ability to become a literature lecturer, in one of the colleges in the capital. But no one will take him and he is beginning to blame himself, thinking he is probably the problem.

If there is nothing tragically wrong with him,why won't anybody give him a chance?. Why is his own country so afraid of him?. Why is it that every time he tries to appeal to humanity for help, all they see is his torn pair of shorts?. Every time he joins a queue for some help or donation, the girls get picked and he is told to go fend for himself "like a man". Even through the radio, whenever he has come close to one , all he's heard is what they are doing to "rescue the girl-child". While he is not against girls being rescued from all that outdated cultural practices throws at them, he wonders why, unlike the girl, the society chooses to make sick jokes on him. Or why, in its quest to free the girl, it will imprison the boy. At this point, even hope would do. Or an assurance from someone somewhere that his existence is at least legal. Maybe that phrase "girl-child", sounds more attractive and catchy than "boy-child". He simply doesn't understand. He shakes his head but stops immediately, because having waited for this letter the whole day, he's had nothing to eat and is only now realizing that his head hurts as a result.

Valley of death

As he nears the valley notoriously called the valley of death, he is filled with apprehension. He doesn't know whether to proceed or retire for the night in the farm by the road. In this valley, many lives have been lost. Here, gangs were known to share their loot.Anybody walking on foot here had to be outright crazy.But he thinks about his father's cows and the whipping that would be sure to befall him,should he not take them to graze first thing at dawn. And with that, he shelves the idea of spending the night out in this farm and decides to soldier on. If anybody wants his life, then it must be worth something, he says to himself. And the system may not see it, but eventually somebody else will.

The fuel guzzlers speed past him again, as they head back from the bursary function, sweeping their powerful lights around him, only to leave him in more darkness. Momentarily blinded now, he misses the head of a deadly panther by a whisker. Or rather the panther misses him by a quarter of a millimetre. How God takes care of those who no one wants. His heels ache. His entire torso follows suit. But he is so far away from home, and the letter that may eventually transform his life cannot spend a night in the bushes. Its like leaving your first new car in a Jua-kali garage for a week, alongside the rusty Tuk-tuk. Something is wrong with that picture, he reckons and laughs, so that birds nesting in the nearby bushes frantically jostle for fleeing space.

So he troops on.Though he's walked to school all these years, this particular walk has been particularly brutal, because its being done on an empty stomach. At least in school, the feeding programme has given him a few grains of boiled maize and beans that pass for lunch, everyday for as long as he can remember. And for that , he is eternally grateful.Though the boys all have to wait for the girls to be served first, so they can scramble for whatever is left , they,and he in particular have never been bitter by this show of preference. He understands pretty well that this programme was meant for the girl-child. So the fact that he gets anything out of it at all, is to him a bonus and he is thankful, but doesn't know to whom. All he knows is someone has kept total starvation at bay for him, for fifteen good years. If there is a God out there, it must be Him, for no human has shown any particular interest in his welfare.

The Temptation.

He arrives home at mid-night. He has nothing else left in him. He's literally dragging his feet now. He can barely remember the political speeches that took all day. Not much was said about education, which even he could see is what this function was supposed to be all about. Political groups were formed before their own eyes .Loyalties were declared while others were severed. Careers were ended while others were began, this same day. The huge strides being made by women and the girl-child, was applauded by speaker after speaker. More was pledged towards the girl child. A certain non-governmental organization,in search of more funding, that pledged to throw in a few boys here and there, was threatened with immediate de-registration. 

And as Marufuku Shida now fans the fire, so he could read the final few sentences of his regret letter, he can feel his head spin and the whole world crash around him. For a whole day, he's entertained the thought that his day to leave all the poverty behind, may have finally arrived. How could he have known that it was the wrong kind of entertainment. He is staying, after all. His dreams have, once again, come to a grinding halt. He will live to fight another day. But his biggest worry now is if he even wants to live .He is a criminal that has never committed a single crime. He was born a poor boy. Nobody will have a poor boy.Tragic.

Though he's heard of a discreet recruitment of young boys to a rag-tag militia in a neighboring country, he looks at his letter of regret one more time, as if expecting to find a sentence he'd missed. Its the core business of this militia to maim, kill and generally wage a senseless war against his country. He has no desire to be a traitor to his country. But a young man can only stay discriminated against for so long. If his country rejects him, someone else will welcome him.Your trash is gold to someone else. So he gives a quick thought to the recruitment.Then he pushes the idea to the back of his mind, and hits the sack. A real sack that passes for his bed, to suffer endless hunger-induced nightmares.\

For now....

TWO BREEDS,ONE MAN

It is with so much sorrow and regret that i wish to observe the demise of the man.Or rather the unfair relegation of  yesterday's 'real' man to the backseat. I mean the kind that took pride in smelling of a little sweat and urinating on trees ten meters away, while placing one arm on his hip to increase urine spurt mileage. The kind that would single-handedly pluck out a pick-up truck's engine and set it back to its place in record time.
The kind that would kill and skin a he-goat with their bare hands and dissect the insides with their teeth. The kind that bulls were scared of. Burglars breaking into this kind's home, would be dealt with by the would-be victims themselves and there would be no need to call the fire-fighters and the anti-terror police like you do today. This breed is slowly but surely dying out. And in its place, are these special breed of men that apply make up and visit the washrooms for short-calls carrying tissue and napkins.

The new breed is financially endowed and polished all the way to the fingernails. They are always hugging everyone, including their teenage daughters and enjoy watching Soap operas with their mothers-in-law. Its therefore my pleasure to revisit this man, now facing extinction, in his hey-day, while also going over what to expect from this new guy that is now taking over.

The brute,Ancient man.

This man, now fading into oblivion, is sadly broke and therefore not an attraction. He walks around in the best clothes of 1993, when he ran the town. Dressed that way, cops always mistake him for that notorious jail-bird that may have just been released from jail, as they seek to explain how a man could be looking so 'yesterday'. What used to be his style of life, is now called 'old school' and is not in demand anymore . He is an unfortunate victim of the modern world. He has been rendered irrelevant by modernity and he, like a male lion that has outlived his usefulness as king of the pride, is now being kicked out, by the young lads.
The sisters have now known that it doesn't take physical strength to change that flat tire. Computers and robots have taken over car repair so the sight of a mechanic in a half-buttoned, oily overall is becoming rarer and rarer. What required brute strength and muscle, now only requires one click of a button and its done. The sisters now all know how to change that bulb in the bedroom, so what's this kind of a guy for. Modernity seems to have yanked the ladies off this man's arms and seeing as they flooded around him just a few years back, he's now dazed. Barely believing he's walked all morning and no one has even said hi. The cops and the estate security have since taken over the security of our sisters at night. And with majority of them driving their own cars, who needs to be escorted by this male anyway . Chances of him even being 'kept', have narrowed dramatically because he lacks plaited hair like his young competitors. And because the delivery boys will carry that new fridge into the house for free when she orders one , this man might as well head back to Kimilili, where he came from in the 90s or 80s.

Situations made him important. Now those same situations have turned against him. How tables can turn, in less than a decade in a changing world. Because of this, his ego is bruised. Badly. Even his frame has started wasting away, because good food is hard to come by these days. He can only entertain those who are willing to listen to his tales of yesteryear in dens and dark alleys where somebody might still recognize him. Because yesteryear is where he belongs. Automatic cars are all over the production lines so who needs this macho driver, when a sister can just step on the gas, take aim, voilaa!, we are home. Kids don't mill around him in admiration any more.They pity him, probably because they've heard their mother use him as an example of some terrible creation. Now he's taken to hard liquor in the backstreet because that's the only place that still has time for him. He's addicted to cheap stuff now, as he tries to drown the pain . A far cry from the champagne bottles he popped back then. And there's more sad news for him, I'm afraid. Because at this rate of modernization, nobody is interested in his skills anymore. And soon, he might just belong to the museum.

My friend, it's a sad state of affairs, if a certain breed of men has to face extinction before the rhino.

'New Kids On The Block'.

This new guy carries a mirror and visits the washrooms to 'freshen up', just like the girls. He is loaded with lots of cash, because this is his time. No prizes for guessing why his table is milling with all these women, all with huge bottoms . See, he is equipped with modern skills and there are jobs for his kind all over town. His job that attracts six figures. He speaks the latest 'English' coming off the slang production lines and throws in the 'i'm like' phrase, in the middle of every sentence or simply whenever his mind goes blank. He doesn't do brown bottles anymore, because they are not classy and the lowest he'll stoop on the liquor rack, is Jameson.

He's given the local estate barber a wide berth for hygienic reasons, preferring instead to acquire the services of a qualified beautician. He prefers the toothpick to pick his meat from the tray, because it cost him a fortune to get his nails looking that perfect. He holds the bone with his finger-tips, then frowns as he chews on his meat, like he's on Malariaquin, a drug he's only recently heard of courtesy of Donald Trump's big mouth. Otherwise, he'd have thought it's some kind of a queen from some country somewhere. 
He has his 'Me' time too, which he uses to treat his nails, toes and hair. 

He has no idea what bone marrow soup is and has never eaten a goat's boiled head since birth. He has no use for Kang'ethe, The butcher, who also doubles up as a goat 'mathagiro' specialist. I say 'mathagiro' because I find no other word appropriate to describe the goat's legs that Kang'ethe boils behind the local pub. In fact, this dude can't stand Kang'ethe's soiled white apron (Now approaching black, having surpassed brown, on new year's eve), and tilts sideways whenever Kang'ethe passes by, carrying his wooden tray heading to the next table. This new man just doesn't understand the need for a little dirt on a man's apron.  Nor does he has time for a sweaty man handling his meat with their bare hands, moments after handling change for the previous customer with the same sweaty hands.

He smells of roses and wears designer underwear bought in Dubai. He has that same tattoo on 50' cent's bicep on his fore-arm, in a bid to get that 'gangsta' look, but that's like trying to make a cat look scary to a Chimp.

But everything has it's bad side. Because if you are a lady who happens to  get married to one of these, place two seats in front of the make-up table. And buy him his own make-up kit to avoid early morning fights-he's still the man, and probably physically still stronger than you.

The Irony.

But given half-a chance, ladies will cheat on this new guy with the watchman. Because the carnal urge to bed the real primitive, hardened man will not go away. Nature seems to embarrass you when you least expect it to. That's why a committed Subaru-driving man, with plaited hair and an acquired accent, living in the plush ends of town, will not understand what their woman was thinking when she cheated on him with the rough gate watchman from Bukhungu. Because he has always provided for everything she has ever needed of him. He has even held the napkin-box for her, as they both watched their favorite soap, crying in turns over the unfolding events. He has engaged in all types of girl-talk and can sing all Celine Dion's songs backwards. He's waited patiently for hours on end, for her at the salon. So much so, that they've now placed a seat for him at the corner, complete with the Cosmopolitan magazine and make-up guide.He's even given up his football on Saturdays for her, and even when he visits the sports bar, she's always on tow, so she can ensure they leave before seven. He knows all the lingerie shops in town courtesy of her. And now he's at his wit's end.

Change is here and embrace it we must.But as we prepare to lay a wreath on the man of yesteryear,may we please recognize his input and importance.It was not wrong.It has just outlived its usefulness.It was good while it lasted.Let's now give it up to the new kids on the block,albeit grudgingly.

WEIGHTY MATTERS.

 I am not Silas Nyanchwani by all means. Though i have read countless works done by this maverick, charismatic writer and relationships 'expert', i cannot claim to be an expert on relationships myself. Nor do i aspire to be. But that doesn't mean that i am clueless either. I can recognize a suicidal man when i see one, especially when treading around the touchy issue of a woman's weight.

When your woman starts posing questions concerning her weight, that my friend, is your sign that, for you, hell may have just shown up to your doorstep. Because this question DOES NOT have a correct answer. No man has ever gotten it right and you are not about to be the first. You are doomed, whichever way you answer. And once you give a wrong answer, appeasing the woman will be an uphill task.That's why a color-blind guy will be seen hovering near the florist, with no idea what to buy. All he knows is he needs to appease some angry woman at home , and he's read somewhere that flowers does that pretty well. For for him to get home and watch her toss his very last card into the trash-can. He may have plucked the bunch off someone's fence, but that's beside the point. At least,  the man tried.
Or he might decide to go the designer lingerie way. Never mind the fact that he will probably get the size wrong anyway, and end up escalating the tension even further when she asks who else he had in mind when he bought the skimpy wear. Maybe we should examine why a 'no' answer will earn you a few nights inside the  shepherd-dog kennel, and why 'yes' will earn you the death sentence, preferably through starvation and slow strangulation.

'NO'

A guy who answers no to the overweight question, is at that particular moment wishing he wasn't born a man. He knows he is done for. Trying to withdraw the answer will lead to a small earth-tremor, so that's out of the question. He has always known his day in court would come, but no one told him it would come this early. And because a woman only asks this question while standing before you, arms akimbo, the guy's exit route is blocked. Crawling out through the woman's legs would be outright dumb for then, he would have his neck trapped between her ankles, a rather unmanly sight. Every move is being watched. And he can't say he is temporarily blind, for this chic knows her man well.

'No' means he is a liar, especially if she knows she's got inflated boda-boda tires around her waist. So she'll accuse the man of always telling lies about everything. He'll be accused now of having lied about the day he was born, his age and even his feelings for her. The only thing she is sure of at this point, is his sex. Or she wouldn't be there at all.

'No' means the guy is dishonest. And she will yap on and on about how much she's prayed to nail herself a honest man, only to get a lying orangutan in a suit, for her troubles. She will state categorically that domestic abuse starts from dishonesty and she is unwilling to take her chances with a man showing those signs. Quoting research findings from a source she can't immediately recall, she'll state that a man who lies about weight, will lie about anything, including his whereabouts. And because of that, a bell need to be clamped tight on his neck, so authorities can tell where the poor bloke has headed to this time. And who he is with, as well. And with that, an otherwise outgoing brother, who enjoyed throwing rounds for the boys, now suddenly starts watching the seven o'clock news from his couch.

He'll be accused of being too engrossed on other women's looks, to take an interest in his own. He'll take the blame for all the deep fried chicken this woman has been known to swallow in whole. I mean, what's a neglected girl supposed to do?. If he is out with the boys, the smart thing to do for a chic, would be to lie on the couch, hugging Fluffy the teddy-bear, with just two to three take-a ways of fries, to kill the boredom.

He is squarely to blame for the bludgeoning stomach and the non-existent waist-line. This lying bastard must also be the reason the woman keeps procrastinating gym sessions, choosing instead to watch people working out on The Fitness Channel, as she cuddles her cat, while drinking its milk. In her mind, she'll assume she's the instructor, take one more sip and saunter to sit in front of her mirror in tears. Because of this man, now she's turned into a slob that rolls, where she was supposed to walk. If the item she wants in the supermarket is at the first-floor, she stands at the bottom of the stairs, looks up, then cries. Because if she begins the upward climb now, she has no hope of making it to first floor before dusk and she knows it. Climbing the damn stairs is a man's job, she'll mutter as she frantically reaches for her phone to call this useless man so he can come and climb the stairs himself. The price you pay for saying no!

'YES'

A guy who goes for yes, is outright suicidal. Not much can be done to rescue this one. His demise was confirmed the moment that thought began forming in his half brain. He is a dimwit that has no clue. He deserves every moment of torture that will come his way, for embarrassing all living things.

If you answer to the affirmative, then be ready for total starvation in the bedroom. This is where i will ask such a man to carry their own cross, and leave us out of his twisted mind. Because if you are starved in this area, you loose weight from the loins, onward to the the brains, so please starve alone. Lunacy follows closely thereafter. All because you wouldn't call a  fat woman skinny. Call her Tyra, Beyonce or even Naomi Campbell.

No matter what you've read, leave Oprah out of this one. Call her Ann Kagame (The Rwandese President's daughter has effortlessly managed to make all professional models look old and wrinkled), even when the blind can see she is slightly fatter than the women in Afro-cinema. Either that, or you can start wearing your jeans to bed. Because there will be someone else in jeans, tighter than yours in that same bed.

Admitting that she's fat, means you are no longer attracted to her. And trust me, you don't want to go down this road, because you will loose. Admit it only if you have all along been looking for the exit door from the relationship, fling or whatever it is you reckon you have. Because she will hold and use this against you. You've hit her below the belt, and that's treason in her mind.
You will be branded a loser who doesn't know how to please a woman. You will be called man's greatest liability since Aleister Crawley. An experiment gone awry. A waste of skin that would have found better use making footballs, than covering your sorry mass. And you are lucky i added 'M' on the word 'Mass', or it would have described you better. You will be the topic of discussion in the next five Chama meetings. All women will click their tongues, then roll up their tinted car windows when they see you. Others will click, then walk away swinging their behinds, the moment you show up. Its war, buddy. Its war. And you started it, but now its others who'll end it you. Word about you will spread like wild fire in women circles. Even the local hookers will give your table a wide-berth. At the bar you will be served by Mwangi and Mugambi, bearded men with oil in between their finger nails and who spit green froth as they speak. Shiku will stare at you from the corner, wave half-heartedly , then go back to watching her soap. Yours is an unpardonable crime. And that you committed it in your own home makes it even worse. You deserve death by firing squad, if all women were to have it their way.

This, i guess leaves us men in a rather peculiar position. And as long as the questions concerning weight keep coming, we have no other choice but to keep on lying. Or running from it, though a guy can only run for so long. This we all know. So ladies, take this or leave it--we'll answer all questions you ask truthfully, and honestly.

But on this one, you have to settle for a lie.

TRIBUTE TO A FALLEN COMRADE AND SOLDIER.

That day, you sat across me, sipping your favorite fruit juice from that tall glass, i couldn't have guessed what was going through your mind. I remember how you hugged me when i honored our meeting. I found that odd. Because you've always known that i don't hug men. As a rule. But you did, then sat back to laugh sheepishly at my reaction. I was  both clearly taken aback and baffled.

You didn't like the fact that i was in no mood for a meal, only a glass of water. You know, had i known that you were subconsciously trying to say your good-byes to your best friend, i would have approached that last meeting differently. But you kept it to yourself, didn't you.

Not many things, you kept from me. I can't sit here now that you are gone and say that. I'd be lying if i do. To me, your life was like an open book. Even where it wasn't, you ensured that you made it so. And as a friend, i couldn't have asked for more. Looking back now, i can only begin to fathom what sacrifices you made, what pains it caused you. And that you pulled off that last meeting with a straight face, not even once betraying the turmoil that was inside you....that quite a feat. An astonishing one. And one that I will never forget.

Hill of Peace

Look, i don't know how things look like over there (Heaven i mean. For that's where you must be). For everyone who climbs up there, seems to instantly forget their promise to write back a report of what to expect when it's our turn at The Pearly Gates. But God says its cool.....like nothing our human minds can ever imagine. Beautiful, peaceful. Serene. He says that everything in our spirit being, once there, will know that we're home. And I believe him. Still, I keep wondering whether you, if given a chance, would relish a chance to come back. Or if you miss us. Or whether you'd take the chance to come fix the system, then head back. Hit and run back. To that place where their Special Hit Squads can't reach. 

But it's your description of Peace and serenity, that I remember with nostalgia. Because you derived it from that hill in the outskirts of town, that you always went to, whenever you wanted to write something. You said it gave you a feeling of being the only one in the universe, and that from there, you could let your mind wander and be truly free. That your imagination and creativity were at their very best, away from all else and every one else.

And to be honest, i didn't believe you. I thought that your mind, being a faculty under your direct control , your use of it would remain unhampered and unhindered by things outside yourself. Even by surroundings. Yet i couldn't have ignored the fact that every time you descended from that hill, lap-top bag slung behind your back, you always had a victor's smile on your face, writing being one of your most successful battle-grounds. Maybe that's why your thrillers did so well. Maybe that's why your commentaries on social ills were always so spot-on. Maybe that's why they felt so alive and real. Maybe that explains why any reader picking up any of your pieces or books for a quick perusal, found themselves stuck in it for the long-haul. Addicted to you, and unable to quit.

Unfounded fears.
 
Yet the days you tagged me along, so we could see if the air atop the hill would work for me too, my fear of snakes wouldn't let me settle down for any constructive writing. Every time a twig moved or a branch snapped (oh,and they do that a lot out there) or every time the wind blew on the tall grass, producing that 'swooshing' sound, you'd laugh your head off as i, like a born soldier, would snap up onto the rocks behind us, on which you placed your lap-top casing. And even though i laboriously wrote a sentence or two, i always had to do it all over again from the comfort of my room. And i laughed every time i went through my work later, for one would have been forgiven to think that whoever wrote the texts may have probably done it from a parachute, on its way down to the hard ground!. Shaky and hurried. But not you, my friend. Not you. As you later confided, everything you wrote from that hill was final and needed no editing. Amazing.

But i'm mad at you, because you never prioritized on how to help me get over this fear that i have of snakes. This phobia, that some snake could be lurking nearby somewhere. Lying in wait for me. Perfecting an ambush. I say that because, come to think of it; that hill, our hill, will never get to see us together again, going up its sides. So i would have been the one to go up there to tell the rocks, and the trees, and the insects, and even that howling dog that we never got to see, though it kept howling each time we ascended up there, that my friend, our friend, you, is no more. But i won't, because i keep thinking some cobra will spit on me. Or some two-headed Anaconda.
Now grass will tragically grow around the spot where you used to sit. The path you walked, uphill and downhill, will in due time be covered by vegetation again. Maybe even the mysterious dog, will this time descend and show himself up to the world, or give himself up to the dog authorities, if he is some kind of a criminal dog in hiding, or alienated by other dogs, having committed a serious crime in the dog world. Maybe when he can't smell your scent anymore up the hill , he'll reckon the world is gone, and so are his crimes, then opt to come down.

Blind Loyalties

Getting personal , you tapped your feet on the ground each time you wrote something. You may not have noticed, but up that hill,  the spot where you sat, you had turned into a tiny, little desert. Ironic because, you kept writing about how to care for our environment, yet the one spot you frequented, you turned it into a desert!. And the topics that made you tap your feet the most, i guess, must have been the ones that meant most to you. The closer a topic was to your heart, the more you tapped your feet. Like when you wrote about the spirited defense of  a corrupt regime, by a section of the population that considered the regime as 'its own'. And the suspects of corruption as 'their sons/ daughters '. 

You took off your sandals as you tapped , as if to inflict some gentle pain on your own sores. As if that would drive the point home better!.
And i tried to reason with you, saying that three quarters of the demonstrating crowd didn't even know why they were on the streets. And that the international community was slapping these 'sons/daughters ' with an international travel ban and assets freeze. I was informing you this, as a consolation of having had to look at a blind society committing wilful suicide.

But you typed on, clearly agitated by this blindness and loyalty to tribe, and 'our own' mentality, that so afflicts this young nation, that has seen its wings virtually crippled and almost severed. And even though i felt your frustrations, its the tapping of your feet that i couldn't wrap my mind around. I almost laughed, but decided against it after taking one look at your Stern face.
I guess i'll never get an answer to that, unless i make it to where you are and not to a different place.

Collective Condemnation

As i write this, i have a copy of The Late Ken Saro Wiwa's 'Silence Would Be Treason', beside me. Knowing it to be one of your favorite books, its mere presence near me is comforting. I may have my own issues with most West African novelists, and their portrayal of the continent as one huge, uncivilized, almost primitive area, but as you always argued, a man should be judged by their own individual deeds. Even God, you argued, has repeatedly said He's interested in a man's own heart, not a community's. Or a tribe's. I guess that means if you fix one man at a time, then soon you'll have the whole nation fixed. Maybe that's the secret Africa, and more so, Kenya misses. That even if we all collectively burn each of our neighbors houses, because of a wrong supposedly done to us by the neighbor's father, mother, leader or god, we each will stand before the final authority, God,  individually.

I hope when you stood before Him, He had only praise for you. For yours was a life that made a mark on this part of the planet, whether civilized or primitive-your articulate articles being an accurate pointer to that.

Active Participation Against Corruption and Injustice.

The activists, your fellow activists, though heart-broken, still have the desire to fight on. Your demise has left a gaping hole , yes. But the zeal to speak for the weak and the down-trodden has never been fiercer.

Yesterday, we gathered for a little demonstration in celebration of your life. We didn't make it past Freedom corner, the spot where our mother's faced the dreaded General Service Unit, those many years ago.

Teargas canisters literally fell from the sky in their hundreds, as overweight policemen, tired of all the running, chose to use the shortest fly-dispersion methods at their disposal to ensure we dispersed, so they could go back to their beer and Nyama Choma before dark . And the traffic cops could proceed with their fifty-bob taking ritual as usual, at the height of artificial traffic jams, specifically created by them, to maximize collection.

Yet, when paid hooligans and idlers close the streets for hours on end, as their corrupt leaders are paraded to court, in a carefully choreographed show of willingness to fight corruption, these same overweight cops, blinded by a monthly token of willful slavery called a salary, stand by and watch. But between these two gatherings, ours would easily be the peaceful one, by anyone's either quick or detailed assessment.

System Turning Against Its Citizenry.

Take for instance, the day we demonstrated against the fencing off of Mwanainchi Primary School playgrounds, a public school attended by slum-children, whoever those are, for 'development', by an unknown 'private developer'. (By the way, if we can tag little kids 'slum-children', because of where they come from, i wonder why we act surprised when they grow up and join the enemy, say a nearby terrorist cell). The clobbering and the arrests, we're totally unprovoked, because all we did was chant against wanton grabbing of public land. How could we have known that this 'unknown developer', would turn out to be the Deputy Head himself ? The look you gave me, as we both lay injured across each other in hospital, said it all. I knew that look; - You were willing to give your very life to the struggle. I saw a fire in your eyes, that has to date, been the source of my own fire.

And just in case you don't follow the news from there, just know that the project has since been abandoned and the kids do now have their play ground back. They may not have decent housing in the slums , but at least now they do have their play ground. And movie makers must shoot their clips of endless columns of  shanties to entertain their audience in the West, so slums must remain. That, i understand. But you must ask St.Peter to tap your back, for your efforts were not in vain. Even though i know it still must pain you to play back the memories of a cop, in a torn sweater, running after and clobbering with a stick, a ten year old kid, who's only wish was to have a place to play, to live a kid's life like this cop probably did himself. Yet i insist you must also look back and be proud of moments like when the American President, in recognition of your noble efforts, took note of you in that gathering of the civil society. Its moments like those that will not allow me to draw back to my cocoon and hide. Silence here, would indeed be treason.

Consequences of Abetting Corrupt Practices.

Well, there's nothing i can say about the drunk truck driver who rammed into your little car, that we fondly called 'Mr Bean', ending your life so unceremoniously. You see, the fela had gone past many police road blocks (Or, like you used to call them, "state-sanctioned toll stations, that have nothing to do with security"), each time bribing the officers, so he could continue his drinking spree inside the driver's cabin. He didn't even realize he was going off his lane, even as we sped to the airport so you could catch that first flight to Mombasa. When i saw the truck, though i instinctively swerved, it wasn't so i could save our lives. Those, i knew, were over even before the crash itself.

Waking up in hospital, therefore, with only some cuts and bruises, and with you gone, was a huge surprise. I took one look at the white gown of the doctor, and thought i was looking at God Himself, thinking i was dead.(Somebody get the good doctors off those white, long over coats, before a patient wakes up from the dead and, upon seeing them, dies again).
So my friend, corruption did cut your life here short. But it prolonged your legacy, in an ironic way-that your life's legacy, rather than start later, starts now.

Your books have never been read this far and wide, and at the U.N convention on crippling corruption in third-world countries, your article about the International Criminal Court was read in tribute to your deep insight. Your assertion that the reason most African governments felt targeted by this court, was because they fuel, rather than curb, that which this court was formed to fight against, was not lost on almost all the participants.
Your Mum, as she received a medal in your honor in front of a cheering crowd of world dignitaries, shed tears of anguish for loosing her son, mixed with pride for being the mother of a gallant soldier of equality and justice for all. Some quarters still insist that you were assassinated by people who felt that you were interfering with their normal schemes of looting. But as your friend, take this from me; that the only one who assassinated you, was this monster that has been welcomed, fronted and defended so vehemently by government after government; -Corruption.

Shalom

I hope that you will watch over me, as i dodge more teargas canisters and live bullets, meant for armed robbers, even though the last time i stole something was from my mother's bedroom, over two decades ago. And that was a crisp, new Sh.20 note with the sole intention of knocking myself out with a full loaf of bread, soda and Kaimati, a nondescript cluster of oily, ground wheat whose origin no one seemed to know. But Kibae, the shopkeeper not only declined to make this huge sale, he frog marched me back to my mother to explain this sudden acquisition of 'wealth'.

I am in no mood to talk about beatings of any kind, so i will skip what transpired thereafter. Let's just say, by the time my mother was through with me, we both knew one thing for sure; -That for as long as i was going to live, i was never going to steal anything from anyone again. Period. Stealing was aptly, authoritatively, summarily buried that day from my life. By a mother determined not to be overrun by her son and a shop-keeper who wasn't related to me.

Today,bar-owners will sell alcohol to twelve-year olds, wielding countless a thousand shilling notes. I will not get into that either.

I will keep you posted on what happens next, now that the general elections are around the corner and politicians, after their five year sabbatical leave in the capital,bare now back to their tribal cocoons, to whip up tribal emotions that will translate to votes. The few thousand deaths of peasants, that will most likely occur as a result, being a rather small price to pay.

May God give you a good spot, from which, even as you rest, you can watch life for us unfold, maybe even send an angel with your wise counsel, and pray that we don't mistake him to be from the 'other tribe' and set him on fire.

But for now, my dear friend, May you Rest in Eternal Peace, AMEN.

LET PASTORS BE, SERIKALI TAFADHALI.

Its yet another Sunday.That's like saying,its yet another payday for me.See,that day which people think is for resting,is actually my one major working day.I sell miracles to the blind,that's what i do.By saying the blind, i probably mean you.I'm wearing this long, multi-coloured coat that has become the Kenyan uniform of Pastors like me.My only problem is the shoes.Its been raining and i still don't own a car so they are muddy.But my flock will take care of that.Before they buy me an old jalopy through their nostrils and preferably at the expense of their children's food,they are going to have to wipe my shoes every Sunday,before i step into that church.They actually jostle and fall over themselves to be the first to do so.So am not really worried about that.Its the car am worried about.Because i've realized that though i want to drive like my peers,this art is next to rocket science.Sometimes art can also be science,especially if a Pastor of my repute says so.Manipulating cars in the street isn't exactly my everyday food.Manipulating the bible is.

I kiss my unwilling wife a half-hearted good-bye and step out of the house,heading for church.These women!. Why would a woman think that she's always going to be the only one in a celebrated Pastor's life?. What is one supposed to do with all the other women who not only want personal prayers but also want private sessions of preaching and casting out of demons that are known to reside in their bedrooms? Is a pastor supposed to neglect his divine calling,all because of his wife?One Wife?. I guess i will have to pray about that. Preferably in Sophie's house,for there i know i will find some real peace.Sophie,by the way,is a bar-maid.But i pray for those too,so worry not.Didn't Christ Himself speak to a prostitute?I go a step further,in pursuit of true deliverance for them..i hug them.Privately.In their rented,little backstreet rooms.A pastor who neglects the backrooms is not worth their calling.Rhoda, my public wife gets some information that i have been blessing lots of women in the neghborhood and now she's sulking like a jilted teenager.She won't even come to church with me today,would you believe that!.Now am going to have to lie to the flock about her wheareabouts.That she's sick or something.Or better still,she broke her leg and can't walk.If she's seen later walking around that's even better.A miracle will have occurred.In the Pastors own home.After laying on of hands by,who else,me the Chosen Pastor/apostle/disciple/prophet/God's own messenger.

Last Sunday,i had urged my flock to show up each with a seed of not less than a thousand shillings,in obedience to the instructions of the spirit. I warned them that they will only have themselves to blame for the consequences that will befall those who will chose to disobey.I spoke to them about some guy called Ananias and his flamboyant chic Sapphira,in the book of Exodus,(Either that or Genesis.Pastors are not memory cards)and how they dropped dead because they wouldn't pay seed to this maverick guy called Peter.So am doing my Math,before the sermon starts.From a flock of fifty,if forty show up,we are talking forty.Forty thousand just like that!. Simple arith..what do they call it.I know it ends with 'tics' and has to do with counting.Oh,arimetics(sic).That's going to be enough to buy Sophia that decoder she was sulkng about and have enough left to take Suzzy to this hotel everyone is talking about in Isiolo.This is going to be a great day.

As i approach the compound,am beginning to notice unusual movement by the church door.And noise.My flock only makes noise when i tell them to.They would even sing naked if ask them to.No one can see me though,for am standing behind a thicket that i had insisted not to be cut off.A prophet always sees things before they happen.
On a closer look,i see clearly the big bust of Sophie.And if that she is waving in the air is my missing red underwear,its time i crawled away.I can't believe Suzzy's here too,wearing one of my shirts!.And is that my wife?.Even if i wanted to strangle her,now,where would i do it from,seeing as this might as well be the last time my feet are both rooted in this town?.If i knew the book that spoke about Jonah and the big fish,i'd try to summon it now so i can willingly be swallowed.For this ground doesn't look like its going to open up and swallow me as fast as i would like it to.My days at the top,seem to be drawing to a close.Because even the media people are here.I hate cameras,except when they are recording something good about me.Everybody has their 'sell-by' date.And mine seems to have arrived,complete with the evidence.

ALL IN A DAY'S TRAVEL.

ALL IN A DAYS TRAVEL.

Am standing by the road.What i want to do,is to hop into one of those flashy matatus plying the Nairobi-Meru route. Meru is where am headed,from Chuka,having attended a class in one of the colleges in this little dusty town,whose main mode of communication is vulgarity.Language without vulgarity is frowned upon here.You want to belong,better learn the most obscene words and expressions as fast as you can.I chose not to belong,that's why after every lesson,i leave.That and many other reasons.

Anyway,in comes this beautiful Mat.Its doesn't ply this route,of course.This one is 'foreign'.I can see a number on its windscreen.Its 58,meaning it does its thing within Nairobi.But that is not what catches my eye.The speed.That's what catches my full attention.Especially because i have been attempting to flag it down,so can also get that Nairobi feel.It doesn't stop,but literally flies past.My heart sinks.You do not speed past me like that,without as much as an acknowledgement.Couldn't have seen me,i comfort myself,of the driver.But am worried about that speed.It has been raining all morning,and only a complete moron would have failed to notice that.So the speed just doesn't seem right.

Any way,i hop into the next thing on four wheels.It happens to be an old jalopy that seems to be literally walking.And with a limp.Inside,its raining mud,even though it stopped raining about half an hour ago.We are cramped up together like some lifeless things.I say lifeless because no one forced us into this situation.We all knew what we were getting ourselves into,yet we willingly obliged.Some are hugging unwillingly,others are breathing their neighbors foul breath.I spot a lady who's head seems to be stuck in a certain old man's coat pocket.I can't wait to alight,but as i said,this jalopy is walking.Uphill,downhill..its just walking,not even once attempting to sprint.We are all sweating so i can't tell who is this who's sweat smells of urine.

A hour later,after a grueling uphill struggle,this jalopy screeches to a halt in the middle of the road.Everybody is struggling to look outside.The lady who's head was lost in the old man's coat pocket,is moving her limps frailly in an attempt to break free.The old man is clearly agitated at this total invasion of his Sunday best clothes by a total stranger,the age of his grand daughter.I crane to look outside too.But my window won't open.And there's mist all over so the attempt to wipe it with my palms turns it muddy..The conductor,who has been struggling to open the door,finally succeeds.The door opens,producing that sound mostly heard in police cells,as they either open or close,either way spelling doom for you.People spill out,like beans from a torn sack.I spill out too.I take a moment to breath in my first breath of real oxygen in an hour.Then i look to the direction everyone is looking at.Then i let out a low sympathetic scream like everyone is doing.Because out there in someone's farm,lying on its side,wheels still rolling like an overturned cockroach,is the beautiful Mathree from Nairobi,christened Tamasha.