The Fall of Arsenal

I conjured up this idea a long time ago. The prevailing circumstances would make me appear like a bitter and grumpy human being with a grudge against the world. To be honest, I am bitter and grumpy that this idea might not be relevant today. And I blame it squarely on Arsenal because the idea is about Arsenal – the old Arsenal that served heartbreaks to Arsenal fans every weekend. Arsenal still serves heartbreaks, but it serves the wrong people. 

I must admit that a significant portion of my short-lived happiness comes from the misery of Arsenal fans. I have no doubt that the feeling is mutual among Arsenal fans. Although happiness was always short-lived, it was always worth it because it served one single purpose – Man Utd is the greatest team on earth and all planets that might support life. I speak for many a football fan when I say that the greatest and the happiest moment is seeing your rivals suffering defeat after defeat. It had been like that until a man from Spain decided to upset the natural order of things. 

The banter no longer sends Arsenal fans whimpering with tails between their legs like stray dogs. They are at the top of the table for God’s sake. And we are seeing their true colors. They are printing the EPL table and posting them side by side with posters of those waganga kutoka Kitui. Because some of us still have a few brain cells that have not been tampered with by substances, we patiently wait for the day they will be humbled.

It hurt my ego, a long time ago, when I chanced upon a kid clad in full Arsenal regalia. The kid was not even old enough to use the toilet without the help of an adult. According to my estimation, the kid’s parents were committing a punishable crime. I would have called the Kenyan equivalent of Child Protection Services. But I didn’t solely because I did not feed that kid, and neither did I help it use the toilet. 

In hindsight, I should have called the authorities. We do not need another Arsenal fan. The ones we have are already too much for us, especially this season. In fact, I wonder why scientists are yet to discover a device that predicts with 99.9% accuracy which club newborn babies will end up supporting. Those whose results will show that there is a negligible percentage that they will be Arsenal fans will straight away be condemned to be laborers. 

If you have gotten this far, I would like to let you know that I have nothing against Arsenal fans. However, I am pretty sure Arsenal fans have similar thoughts, perhaps even worse. Well, once we are done with petty distractions called football, we all become human again as we try not to starve, have a place to put our heads, and have a few coins left to finance our worldly obsessions. I am no better, except I believe I support a far superior team. Which is true as far as this article is concerned. 

I firmly believe that nobody should be coerced to support any team whatsoever. I can’t explain how I became a Man Utd fan. I can’t pinpoint the exact time or place where I made a pact with the gods of football to become overly excited by Man Utd’s wins and become really depressed when it loses. By God, it’s a team thousand of miles away, and how it exerts such unexplainable influence over people. It’s beyond me. It probably has something to do with drugs. 

As a young man who still thought the world catered to everyone’s whims, I had nothing better to do with my life except wait for the weekend to troop to watch Man Utd. I would make a solitary trip to Flax, the nearest shopping center, and feast my eyes on the magic Fergie had cooked that weekend. But when the old Scott called it quits, we realized how painful losing consistently is. We’ve barely won anything notable recently. And the fact that Arsenal might just win the league is unfathomable. 

But tonight, the elephant will tumble down the tree. I am looking forward to it more than anything else because peace, world hunger, and climate change depend on it. 

May the Pep win. 

Here's To True Friends

Here's to that friend 
who's watched all your follies, 
rescued from the little graves 
you've knowingly dug 
here's to that friend who will 
never abandon you 

Here's to that true friend 
who will share even 
when it is evident they need 
it more than you 
even when they have barely enough 

Here's to true friends 
may your wells never run dry 
may your prayers make us 
better friends 
may we be the friends you are to us 

Here's to true friends 
may your paths be paved 
with unimaginable blessings 
may your secret dreams 
and your sacred desires come true 
today and forever 

Here's a toast to true friends 
who see the shred of good left in us 
yet our worth never wane 
here's to friends who will not 
abandon us 
Here's to family - the only true friends 

Benevolence Is Not Obligatory

Its 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, and probably about to be inducted into the hall of wahengas (wisemen). 

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!!! (You will die also!!)” 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! (You will die too)’She adds more insults that put to question whether she was actually bereaved or not. You walk on, wondering where the confidence came from. You rarely respond to such kind of comments from strangers, not especially those who are bereaved. 

You must have been slightly tipsy because when you are in that state, you fire back salvos regardless of who is spitting them. 

Listen

 Listen, it was all my fault 

Nowadays I do a good job at 

making mistakes 

Nobody makes mistake, repeatedly, 

like I do 

Listen, there is no joy in making mistakes

There is no joy in being insane 

Listen, making mistakes is sometimes fun 

You just subtract common sense 

And have yourself uninterrupted moments of bliss 

Even when it involves serpents 

Ever waiting to sink its fangs on you 

It's still fun 

Because it does not involve your brain 

Listen, 

I do not promise you I'll change 

Change is for people hoping to make 

this miserable earth a wonderland 

Change is for people unattached to hope 

For I have learnt, in my wanders, 

That hope is a dangerous thing - 

it can kill a man 

 

Listen, 

There is nothing to live for 

Listen, 

Beauty has lost all its gleam 

Washed away by flowing pains 

Some real, some I imagine them 

Some have coursed through my veins for eons 

Reluctant, to devour me in one swift bite 

 

Listen, 

I cared - there are moments I still think I do 

I care because I am still alive 

I care because I still effortlessly breath 

I wasn't born doing this but I am so good at it 

Not Knowing About Tomorrow

It saddens a bit,

But then a little is all enough

To make the world seem daunting

To make the next day distant and aloof

Because the next day just is not worthy of hope

At least at the present

 

The threats are there, hanging like a noose

Ready to snap a neck upon the slightest nudging

And with that thought,

The world sucks a little more

 

Except one person, everyone else was born ready

The heaps of worries are mere mole hills

Yet his seems mountains

To scale empties his soul of the single shred of hope

But then tomorrow shall come

And if alive, he shall still be have last year’s worries

 

It saddens a little more,

The thought that he may not be alive tomorrow

It saddens,

Because he won’t cry for his own self

 

But then, even when everything is coated

With a thick layer of hopelessness

Life’s still beautiful

It is. For everything goes on

With or without him. Is he willing to miss out?

A Cow’s Leg Breaks

As darkness impalpably encroached the land, so did the cold. Scared of my transgression, which I was sure there was no way out except death, I hid behind a bush quite determinedly. It had been a fine afternoon until a cow sneaked into our farm, and began nibbling at the maize shoots that had just sprouted. I broke its leg. 

After the errant cow had been spotted, my sister and I went to drive it away. Just like all animals, cows are incredibly stupid and forget where or how they gained entry into a location. As a young boy with slightly above average intelligence, there was simply no way I could go an extra mile and drive an animal through gates, back to where it was. That would take a significant chunk off my idling time. As a result, my mantra was ‘you will go through where you came through!’

With characteristic vengeance, I uttered to the animal as we drove it off the farm:

“I will break your leg today!”

And break I did. I picked a rather large stone and hurled at the cow. We heard a cracking sound and the cow lay crumbled like a pack cards, and then lay still. We prodded it with sticks and it would not budge. It did try to rise but could not. It was such a grave sin that would not be bought with silence, and my sister quickly went to report me. I was at my wits end, not that I had any wits, but the little I had. There was no defense. You couldn’t just say ‘I didn’t know it could break its leg. 

When the evening came, children came to drive the animals back home to be milked. To their dismay, I imagine now, one of their cows was down. I was not there to witness whatever transpired. I wished there was a way I would melt and sip into the ground. Science had not invented such a thing back then. I had to contend various scenarios in my head, chief among them the fact that I had left mother cooking chapatis that day. I’ll miss chapatis, I remember thinking. 

Being a grave issue, it required the intervention of adults. That was scarier. Two adults talking in a conspiratorial manner? Well, that was doom, an Armageddon of sorts. Mother talked with them for an inordinately long time. By the time they were done, darkness had already settled, but I could see figures of animals being driven away. I thought I caught a glimpse of the injured animal, alive and well, having magically regained the use of its legs. It turned out to be a mere illusion, a mind playing tricks trying to make up an ideal scenario of a dire situation. 

I heard mother call me, assuring me that everything was okay. She lied of course. I emerged from my hiding, armed with all the guilt I could master. My sisters’ looks of pity could be translated to mean ‘at least it is not me.’ It is at this point that one of your siblings who had a grudge with you give you a thumbs up, one that ‘see how you like it! You thought it wouldn’t get to you huh?’

By a sheer stroke of luck, nothing happened. When I say nothing happened I mean I was not disciplined. The next day, I was ordered to stay home. My sisters went to school. Chebaon Primary School. Unable to move, the cow had to be fed. Talk of forced zero-grazing. I remember seeing water delivered to it. people came to witness the magic or the tragedy that had befallen me. I was still as a guilty as a sinner on judgment day. I had not been berated or admonished, a thing that increased my misery. I missed school.

The headmistress, a family friend came by later that day. A couple of adults, just as conspiratorial as they were, came by saw the still animal and left. A pick truck came by in the afternoon, and the poor animal was loaded into it. it drove away, and a part of the deepening misery had been solved. Father would solve the remaining part. It involved giving away one of our animals in compensation. The family had mourned, how the cow produced a lot of milk. At the time I downed it, it was being milked.

When I was finally cleared to go to school, I found out that a rumour had been spread, alleging that I broke the cow’s leg with a hoe’s handle. I hadn’t, I said. It was just a stone. A mere stone. People couldn’t believe that a ten-year-old boy would hurl a stone at such a high velocity that it would permanently immobilize an adult cow. It simply was impossible. ‘May be there was a hole somewhere,’ I heard one adult confiding to mother. The fete was simply beyond the powers of a ten-year-old, and my classmates and schoolmates a like could not wrap their heads around it.

And when father finally came home, he casually asked me what had transpired that day. There was no point in lying.

“I threw a stone at it,” I replied, knowing too well that he could spring at me and strangle me any minute. I took my chances.

“And are you proud of it?” he reduced his anger that simple question, a question that I couldn’t master an answer, even if I made an attempt at it.

Decades later, I discovered the same stone. How it felt round in my palm, carrying with it the same potency of a grenade. I should have put it among one of my sentimental collections, a vanity of sorts brought about the allure of civilizations. It could act like piece of art, reminding me of the time my childish might brought down a mighty cow. The best milk producing cow. Every time I see that family, the memory of the dear beloved cow give rise to temporary guilt.