She was a nightmare. I do not know why,
exactly, but she used to send shivers down my young spine. We were in class two.
And every morning we secretly prayed she never showed up to teach. And of course,
our relationship with god was at its infancy, therefore unanswered.
Every morning, whispers ‘she’s coming’
would rent the classroom and we’d all peep through the window to confirm. I
guess seeing is believing. Mrs. Chirchir would be ambling across the field in
pace that made us extra tense as we tried to welcome the impending doom.
The mere act of crossing the field taught
us two things: that whatever is abominable for us was perfectly acceptable for
adults. Taking a detour across the field was akin to insulting the king. I
guess it was an early lesson, which we did not get, that adults can do whatever
they want.
I didn’t like Mrs. Chirchir at all. She had
two children, a boy and a girl. They were two really annoying children. I think
they intentionally chokozad others and if you lay a finger on them or even act
like it, you’d encounter the rath of their mother. We kept our distance,
leaving the kids to annoy themselves. And they often fought, with the boy, being
younger, was more ferocious than an accosted lion.
Mrs. Chirchir did not do me anything to me
of note. Except I lived in mortal fear of her. One day, she came to class
surreptitiously and found me talking with my desk mate Edu. We were doing our
assignments and Edu was apparently copying from me and I was letting him know
about it.
“Ati unanionea hii!!” I said within Mrs.
Chhirchir’s earshot.
“Kumbe unaongeanga ivo?” She asked. At the
time, I knew hell had broken loose. I knew I would be turned into mince meat.
But she didn’t. she let it slide but that simple act did not make me like her
at all.
Fridays were hellish days for us. This was
the day we’d be asked to fetch fresh cow dung from a neighbor to improve the
aesthetics of our classroom floor. It wasn’t’ cemented. It was hellish for us
boys because it was an indignifying chore. It was emasculating and the woman in
Mrs. Chirchir used that opportunity to diminish our manhood – it wasn’t that
advanced but it was manhood nevertheless.
When you think really deeply, there is
nothing like future. Of course, if you discount Future Fambo, and Future the
rapper. But today, I am incapable of thinking really deeply. I’ll offer a
superficial analysis of my hypothesis on why there is nothing like future.
It dawned on me, and I am quite astounded,
that I am really old. Somewhere along the highway of sweet twenties, I got
waylaid by some aliens who convinced me that growing up stopped at 20+x years.
It could be a nice way to live if you had oil wells pumping under your armpits.
The stench would be bearable to the fairer gender.
20+x years imprints a fatalistic
here-and-now mentality. At this age, the future does not exist. There is
nothing like a month from now. A year from now? We’ll be probably dead after
consuming mercury-laced sugar if not OD.
After Y years have elapsed, the bubble
might burst suddenly or gradually. It can be sudden when you go back to the
village and that small boy who used to ask you stupid questions as young
children are wont, is married with two children. And the wife is probably hot,
too, if round off motherhood to the nearest 18 years.
And the little champ has built a house!! It
might not be that grand per say, but it is his house. He can wake up and
demolish it and no one would give him shit. We would think he is mad though
even if it is his own house, built with his own money. And he probably has an
old rickety motorbike that would give you tetanus or marasmus – whichever comes
first. But damn it! It’s his motorbike, bought with is own sweat and blood.
And then there is you, stuck at 20+x years
with a bunch of diplomas and degrees, and a whacky philosophy about life and
everything that makes it throb. Whacky here means contrary to popular belief,
that is, politics, social, and financial. And religion.
Back to future. It only exists because you
decide not to live now. For instance, you could make a little money and decide
to postpone spending it now. You willfully deny yourself pleasure to spend it
at a later now, which if think closely, will still be now. You will never be
alive in a future, you are only alive now, at this present, and one breath, one
heartbeat, and one second at a time.
But then if you think like this, you will
stagnate and turn murky and greenish like stagnant water.
It’s approaching seven in the evening. You
are taking a walk to clear your head. You could use some form of unfamiliarity.
You take an unfamiliar street. Amid the hustle and bustle, it is difficult to
mind your own business. Children shriek and hurl vulgar (adult-rated) insults
at one another. You mutter watoto wa siukuizi under your breath, because
you are now too old.
Then you spot an oddity, a peculiar sight.
You know what that sight means – it means the grim reaper visited a family. How
do you know it? The bereaved family takes out a speaker, plays some sombre
gospel songs, and places the picture of the deceased close by. The family wants
you to know that death has visited them, and that they may (or may not, that’s
the way things are done) need some financial assistance.
As you walk by, you look at the deceased’s
picture and the family that has gathered around. Your only concern is how the
deceased met his death. Was it a long illness bravely born? Was it an accident?
Was it thugs? Did he die suddenly? Then you begin thinking about your own
mortality.
But one of the deceased family members
confronts you. She forcefully wants you to be empathetic and respond in kind by
parting with your hard-earned cash. It is nauseating, that level of
entitlement. You ignore her and walk on. She is not done with you and shouts:
“Ata wewe utakufa!!!” where did that come
from? Really? Was it even necessary? She says it as though she is never used to
being rejected or ignored. Or she had signed a pact with God that whoever she
talks to parts with something. The nerve!! Benevolence is not compulsory.
In anger at her statement, you respond in
kind ‘pia wewe utakufa!’She adds more insults that put to question whether she
was actually bereaved or not. You walk on.
Some mornings carry with them
hapless cold
some mornings come earlier than
they are expected.
Unwelcome.
Some mornings needlessly arouse you
from your deep slumber
blissfully unaware that you would rather
dream than face the harsh
reality of having to live
Because chasing after dreams, while awake
is too much a hassle. Unwelcome
and it is much easier to lie in bed
and blame unforeseen circumstances
for why you are still broke, poor,
Unwanted
It has been a sacred ambition of mine to start a church. The thought that I wouldn't find irrevocably gullible and easy-to-convince followers has held me back.
You assumed we had similar dreams
you assumed they kept both of us awake
many a night
You assumed the cold embrace of the night
or the occasional cuddle from a hired lover
made me long for you
I once longed for you every night
but you pushed me away
Last night, I was a person of interest in a murder case. The whole incident scared the wits out of me because I kill small insects for fun – people who know me wouldn’t even have the privilege of saying “we know him, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.” And that, my good friends, would have thrown any lingering doubts of my innocence out of the window. It would further throw these lingering doubts down an abyss of oblivion if it were on a Monday or Thursday as they would meet manually propelled projectiles.
We (suspects) were filed into a room for
interrogation. It wasn’t really an interrogation but to take a lie detector test.
I knew it because I am a true crime enthusiast and I have watched numerous
documentaries where suspects are strapped with those strange-looking objects
that measure even the slightest change in your heartbeat, skin moisture and even
your thoughts.
I knew I would fail the test even though I
couldn’t identify the victim in a photo lineup. My heart would be beating like isukuti
drums when asked whether I killed the victim. I knew the machine would scream
‘liar’ upon which I might have been executed on the spot. You know how our
police work – kill suspects and find investigate later whether they were
criminals or not. It takes guts to be a criminal who does not even have an
ambition to vie for a political office. I don’t and the lie detector test would
definitely pronounce my guilt in a crime I did not even know the victim.
But strange things happen, as they tend to
happen in dreams. This was one of them. A mutura seller rescued me. He
entered the room and spilled his merchandise, angering a couple of cops idling
around the room. They clobbered him like nonsense, ignoring the fact that one
of his legs were shorter than the other. He ran away in a pitifully comical
way.
Instead of leaving him alone, the police
decided to have fun by giving a discernible head start, hopped into their
vehicle and gave chase. At this point, I stopped being a suspect and became an
observer in the ensuing slow police chase.
The limping mutura guy popped into a
chuom. One officer alighted and gave chase. Moments later, the officer
emerged from the chuom running for his dear life, followed closely by
the limping mutura guy had seemingly gained superhuman speed considering
his locomotive impediment.
I stood there wondering what was inside the
chuom. My curiosity was satisfied when I saw a monstrosity nibbling the
behind of a white guy emerge from the chuom, which had then turned into
a cave. Then I woke up from the nightmare.
As part of my mission to write something seemingly
intellectual (or lack thereof), I will teach you a very important life skill:
never ever deliberately forget your phone charger because you don’t want to
remove your shoes. Who would do that, you may ask rolling your eyes in a manner
that says ‘what is he saying?’
I’ll tell you who would do that. Me. I
belong to a long lineage of self-respecting men who do not subject themselves
to dull indignities of abiding by a sick and twisted tradition (by which I mean
invented by women) of removing shoes before entering a house. I’ll only do that
when entering a ‘shrine’ because the blessings from a ‘shrine’ are worth any
indignities.
Unlike you, a phone is not a valuable companion.
A simple click and your whereabouts are revealed. I am not a criminal, but as a
wannabe fugitive, that’s not something I would want. Being unreachable does not
bother me anymore. Your woman would still think you are busy shanking another
of her species even when you are in the ICU. While fighting for your life, you
will get a thousand messages insulting your very existence. Ptoh! Fear women.
I was told to remove my shoes. I squinted
at them closely because I almost bought them twice the price if the hawker
could hold them for me and I decidedly said, ‘ptoh! If I ‘remove’ them I am
dead.’ These shoes aren’t grand in any sense but they communicate to me a vital
lesson of survival: ‘good things might pass you by when you are not ready.’ And
then I again decidedly said, ‘a mere charger!!!” I wasn’t right in the head and
I was ready and off I left.
And now I have to use chargers that only
work at specific angles of elevation, 34.89 degrees Celsius, specific time of
day and probably its mood, which has veto power. It means if the charger is not
in the right mood, it won’t work even if you summon your ancestors in alphabetical
order. I hate this charger. It has a couple of sisters – I don’t know if
chargers identify as women but why not risk – who have also conspired with it.
One discharges and the other gives the following info ’66 hours till full.’ I
don’t desperately need a phone but waiting for a decade is a no.
In the meantime, I have to coax the working
charger, threaten to cheat with its other sisters, and chant libations at the
same time. But these chargers are goddamn resolute. It takes persistence,
patience and every other word ever conjured by motivational speakers such as
Atwoli.
My phone has to be on somehow, just in case
I receive those texts that say, ‘hey mom, nilipoteza calculator. Tuma pesa kwa
hii no. 008t3663545.’ These messages are close to those romantic messages you receive
when your purported woman has realized her ‘main’ is cheating on her with his ‘main’
and has officially promoted you to the ‘main.’ I dare not miss them because
there is nobody to miss these days. As such, there is no other viable option of
wasting Safaricom’s text messages I occasionally receive when I purchase data
bundles.
How I'd hate in telling you
the lover's comforting lie
that I'll love you just the way
you are
no words ever sounded so good
as if laced with a hypnotizing drug
I'd love you to be more than
what everyone sees
I'd love you to aspire to be a better
person
I'd love you to aspire to something
powerful
I'd love you to reinvent yourself every day
not succumb to an anodyne self
and force me to love you just the way you are
because I will not
and if I do, I'll only pretend
because I also know
without a shred of doubt
that somewhere along the road
love will stop being blind
and you may see why I was a mistake
I love ugali.
Admittedly, I was 'forced' to love it, more like an arranged marriage, except
the absence of options. An arranged marriage is worse when there are options.
When there aren't, you will grudgingly learn to love whoever was chosen for
you, because - get ready for the groundbreaking revelation - you have no
OPTION. In a nutshell, that's how I began a lifelong affair with ugali.
We ate ugali for
breakfast, ate it for lunch, and ate it for supper. It wasn't a big deal. We
did not know that something else existed apart from ugali or its related
variations such as porridge and mkarango. If it was possible, we'd eat ugali
accompanied by ugali.
I learnt the other day
why it was impossible. I haven't looked at it the same again. A few foreigners
were asked to rate ugali and they came with one unanimous conclusion - it is
very TASTELESS. I have interacted with ugali all my life and I had never
thought of it as tasteless.
It forced me to
reminisce my primary school days. For those who went to boarding school, I know
they understand the kind of torture we went through. Most of it revolved around
food. Our experience (or at the very least most of us) at the fabled KHA were
tough. I can legitimately blame it in all my addictions.
Nothing ever came
close to the trauma we experienced in boarding. We were fed with just enough
food to keep us alive and endure a few strokes of cane from time to time,
especially for people like me whose IQs then competed favourably with donkey hooves.
I remember how I'd
wait anxiously for the bell to ring for meals. Immediately after meals, I'd
begin the anxious wait for the next meal. If anything KHA's food did not fill
up your stomach. It made you hungrier.
It turns out that the
go-to meal was ugali. The sight of large ugali was probably arousing at the
time. We had developed a secret and strict code of eating it. We'd begin with
veges using the scorched earth policy. You'd never see a trace of anything
remotely related to the badly cooked cabbages or sukuma wiki.
I remember one female
teacher chanced upon this sinister ugali-eating protocol. She pitied one boy
who got a one-in-a-lifetime opportunity to have his plate replenished with the
badly cooked mbogas which was a delicacy by the way. It had to be - we had no
choice.
However, when the
female teacher looked around, she realised that all boys did not have
vegetables on their plate. She might have thought there was an anomaly
somewhere or the cooks deliberately denied boys veges. We must have laughed
because she did not know out secret code.
At the time, ugali was
not tasteless. We loved it the way it was. As far as we were concerned, ugali
was blameless and upright. We even began trading ugali for bread. It was
simple, you gave another person ugali and the other person would repay you with
bread.
I loved ugali so much
that I often traded it for my bread. The bread wasn't that big either. It was
an eighth. But both commodities had equal value. Half for half, full for full.
When I talk about equal value, I do not mean the entire loaf, but just the
eighth.
Since I wasn't big on
bread, my memories are slightly skewed towards ugali. There was something
controversial about those who loved bread during our time at KHA.
Now, it has been
revealed that ugali is tasteless. One person even likened to wet cement.
However, it won't break our tight relationship, which is strengthened more by
KHA memories.
Although I do not look
at ugali the same way, the love for it will forever remain
I am basking in the undistinguished
glory of splintered dreams
the derailed course of my life,
offers not the perfect photo opportunity
to project an image of success
I am, by a design, a man who
inadvertently got satisfied with very little
and every step, thereafter,
was all about accomplishing the
bare minimum
but trust me, I know how long a man
can last on bare minimum
and it's not that long
barring constitutional intervals
I'll be up tonight,
I have already figured out
the nature of the dream I'll have,
it will be the same old dream
that has bothered mankind
since the beginning of time
where will we go when this
breathe becomes air?
I have thought about it
not once, not twice,
it bothers me though
religion has been inadequate
why would I allow myself to suffer
so that I can live a good life
when I die?
I guess you are wondering
whether the thoughts,
that glide and dance in my head,
are the thoughts of a sane man.
I harbour the same thoughts too,
the kind of thoughts that graze
inside this head - a head that's cost
you a fortune -
because they are no thoughts of a
completely sane man
I must admit, staying sane
is a toll task on my part
I am constantly seeking tunes
bordering on dirges and love songs
because it is then that the dinghy
halls in my mind come alive
