Confessions of a Homo Technolopithecus

Picture the earth before creation – dark, desolate, and scary. Time stretches endlessly, without the grasp of the ever swooshing deadlines. Now picture yourself in that world, in this present world with numerous technological distractions which have embedded themselves into your everyday life.

You will be lonely in a crowd, wandering in the streets as though you are a lost soul seeking redemption. I guess that’s how it feels without a phone, for that’s the experience I went through back in the village when power went off, and KPLC, ever reliable in disappointing, took its sweet time.

I am homo technolopithecus, a reverse from the sapien sapien thing. I can’t live without my phone. I love to feel it in my pocket, the right pocket of my trouser, and whenever I feel its absence my whole body is sent into unspeakable panic. It has to be there, even when I don’t need it, such as when I am dead and need to check whether I have received a text.

You may have heard of people making jokes that the wifi was down once and they were forced to talk to their families. They confessed that they seem like nice people. I am one of them, though I do not overly peg my existence on the internet. I just need to feel my phone, on for I derive immense pleasure in drawing the security pattern and gawking at it endlessly, for hours. When I get bored with it, I set it aside for ninety seconds and resume fiddling with it.

I can’t, for the fluids in me, imagine how someone can survive without a phone. Of course there are people who can live without it – dead people and hopeless drunkards. Even though no one actively looks for me, I feel I am obliged to be reachable. It is true with relationships.

When you are in love, there’s that constant need to validate your affection. The only thing available, what with the distance is a phone. Texting and calling brings forth two dimensions in a relationship – strengthen it or break it. if you are dating a lady with the intelligence quotient of boiled maize, it can be disastrous because every time your phone is off, she conjures up a thousand scenarios of where you could be – which often is on top of a naked woman. To her, there are never any other viable reasons as to why you could be unreachable. That’s why I am a homo technolopithecus. 

 

The other day, while with a friend, he turned and asked me what postpartum meant. I looked at him with an ‘are you stupid glare’ and answered him. Because I know things, and the way I know things is through googling. That answers you why I thought he was stupid – he was holding his phone, and I wondered why he couldn’t make use of it. Some people! They think we have time to answer questions google can answer within a second, and not just answer – have detailed illustrations that may even include pictures of naked women.

As an avid social media user, I often rise in the morning to see the posts and go like – what a complete moron.  I love this routine so much that I log into social media even before my eyes have fully deciphered the brain stimuli instructing to open the eyelids. Even though social media has a certain dumbing-down effect, I love it. I love gawking at pictures of people living really good lives, read news and check out memes. Mostly I check out memes. And imagine my complete uselessness. 

 

Do not say ati I am addicted to my phone. Everything is in my palms. What more can I ask for? Money in my palm, entertainment, news, and naked pictures of women. I am a homo technopithecus, and one day when my bones will be discovered in the year 4000, they will discover my phone beside me. Archeologists at the time may wonder how primitive I was (or I am right now), but I’ll answer them now – I don’t give a damn.

The Nightmare

She convulsed violently as if being tagged by powerful forces, each trying to make her cross into regions of their dominion. She looked as though she had just been exposed to a botched religious ritual, where the forces of evil and good matched each other in strength. People had gathered in the field, watching pensively and probably thankful that it was not a contagious disease. You watch the whole debacle through your bedroom window, a little bit intoxicated. No. You are so inebriated that you feel the world begin to spin dangerously.

Then, as if on cue, people begin to scamper to safety, scaling walls, and running while looking back as though the eyes aided in propelling them as far away from the scene as possible. Because of the substances you had consumed earlier, you fall asleep on your bed, with all your clothes on.

It does not take long before you hear footsteps inside your house. At first it is one, then two then many. You feel an ice cold hand touching your neck, and props you up as a mother would do to a baby. You slowly open your eyes, and come face to face with the convulsing woman. She has come with a crowd you earlier saw watch her convulse life threateningly. She touches your face and begs you to make love with her. She had been pretty earlier, but now she was an old woman, with a skin so wrinkled that one can hide a packet of unga when shoplifting. She is as repulsive as a blown up image of groin eating virus.

You sit on your bed and try to say a prayer, folding your fists tightly. Nothing happens despite you shouting Jesus forcefully. The woman’s entourage begins begging you to do as she asks as though the simple act possessed healing capability. You have never thought of your tool of intimacy as possessing any healing properties, and you don’t want to find out just then. May be she would turn into a maiden, and without any devilish tendencies you saw earlier. That’s none of your concern. What concerns you then is getting out of the place with your phone intact. Instinctively, you feel your phone in your pocket. It is still there.

It surprises you that none of the people restrain you as you make for the door. You should have asked them to leave, but it does not bother you. They can make away with anything they want in the house – you don’t care. All you care is putting enough distance between you and the devilish-looking group of humans. And with your phone. According to the National Bureau of Agony, nothing matches the agony of losing a smart phone, and even more agonizing is the wait until you can purchase another one.

When you get out, you are welcomed by darkness. And silence. All the houses have their lights off, except yours. There is no soul in sight. The world looks desolate, rid of any human soul. It felt as though the world was in readiness for the voice of God commanding with the voice ‘let there be…’ You think; let there be humans with actual human hearts and intentions. It dawns on you that the light in your house may have attracted them, for it is the only one in the entire neighborhood that’s on.

As you try to process the sudden change of environment, a young man dashes out of one the houses screaming hysterically. The scene provides a new dimension to the already fucked up situation you just found yourself in. What has happened to all the people? What am I going to do? A billion questions dart at lightning speed through your mind, yet do not give you a chance to contemplate the possible answers.

A slimy hand, or tentacles, cold as witch’s nipple at mid night wraps itself around your neck. As you feel life slowly slipping away, you wake up, drenched in sweat. It was a dream. Or nature was playing a cruel prank on you since its one in the night, and you damn know very well that it is time to think about all your problems, jumbled up as they are.

In the darkness, you stretch your hands to the table where you usually place your phone. It is still there. You press the power button and the screen lights up, blinding you momentarily. It’s not even three o’clock in the morning. You know what that time means – stay awake until six thinking the same thoughts over and over again. You know very well that you aren’t even imaginative enough to find better angles of thinking. Like getting your ass off and actually trying to live. But before that, you analyze the nightmare. It looked so real. Last time it looked this real, it became a reality – story for another day.

The Lost Story

The only way to trigger your imagination, and actually write, you figured, is writing your pieces as though they were a rough copy. And so you’ve created a word document titled ‘morgue’ where you type down random thoughts that trickle down your mind from time to time, although at not so laudable intervals.

The good thing about the articles written in ‘morgue’ is that you often manage to string enough words to make a complete article – where complete is anything more than 800 words. Looking at the word count, you are close to eight thousand words – a feat you wouldn’t manage if you wrote the stories in individual word documents.

But then the trick comes with a disadvantage. Sometimes as you scroll down, one story arrests your attention, even when you insist to it that you are rushing down the hospital to deliver another story. It demands a bribe – but then how do you bribe a story you wrote yourself. It’s like reading the chats of your girlfriend who is soon bound to be your ex. It is simply irresistible.

Even though you should have rushed to the end and began typing the little story that bobbed up and down your stormy mind, you read it all through. You add and remove words that you think were not well thought and then nod at your creative genius, because, you face it squarely, no one has ever found it fit to tell you how impressed they were by your imaginations. When you are done patting your own back, the story you wanted to deliver to the morgue has limped off into the bush. Knowing how dangerous he was, you decide to let him roam for a while, may be the threat of his own powerless against powerful adversaries in the jungle will bring him back to his senses and come back to you.

‘He was a good story damn it.’ the silent scream in your mind goes off. ‘You better find him. Now.’ It yells even further, sounding like your neighbour’s alarm which he either ignores or he is too asleep to hear it. If the night is still, it feels as though bombs are being detonated right inside your eardrum. And that’s how your mind screams, telling you to find the story.

The story developed self-healing properties, and disappeared in the jungle of the stories that shall never see the darkness and the coldness of the morgue. It is out there, living its life. Perhaps partying, and probably will wake up with a stranger beside him tomorrow morning. Or with a legendary hangover the following day.

Then You Came To An End

Source/Unsplash

The scene is still vivid in your mind, like a giant screen covering the entire sky. There are only two of you in the world, and every single feature blooms as you eyes fall on them. You are talking and you are concentrating on the words rolling out of her mouth as though it is a mill of sweetness. Her voice cancels out every other noise within a radius of a kilometer.

There you are, the two of you, crossing the railway to you spot under the eucalyptus tree. It is the place where time moves so fast, even though you desire it frozen. Her breathe beside you seem to beckon a thousand forevers, and you think, ‘some people search the world for moments like this…’

She buys roasted maize by the roadside and brings it wrapped in green. It is peppered. You’d never tasted peppered roasted maize before but you do not acknowledge lest she laughs at you…not that you don’t like her laughing…you are already trying to figure out how to wrap her laughter, like the roasted maize, and put it in your pocket so that you can secretly fondle in matatus that callously take you away from her.

Memories piled. Songs you loved to listen to piled up. Every single thought of her love, her touch, her kiss filled up your world. Did you ever think of endings. No. you were already wrapped up in warm blanket called ‘happy ending.’ And even if we break up, your mind bragged, it will mean little to me. Life will go on.

Then you came to an end. One fine morning she texts. She texts that unwanted message akin to a doctor announcing the number of days you have to live. ‘You will be lucky to live beyond six months.’

She says she was leaving. No. she says she’s getting married. The world crumbles underneath your feet. The air you breathe becomes polluted, and it feels like its choking you rather than nourishing you. You are hurt by the words. You are hurt by your utter powerlessness to stop her.

The dreaded moment was finally there, staring at you in the face like a bully. She’s gone, it said. Gone to light another world the way she did to yours. She’s leaving yours as dark as a cave. And desolate, waiting for God's voice to speak features into it. For God to speak that let her be there, even if it would take a deep sleep. 

And then you came to an end, you wondering what you did wrong. You never cheated, you were there when it was convenient for both of you, you gave her everything you had, and a little more… then you got stuck in your own darkness, for there was no better of way of loving except that which she chose to walk away from. 

The Drunk Lady

She hadn’t realized how drunk she was until she stepped out of the door. For a woman of her class, she appeared, jutting out distinctively in a dull masculine den, dressed in relatively expensive boots – or they weren’t, who cares about the price of women’s boots – a tight fitting blue trouser and a cheap sliver-colored jacket. She also had a baseball cap, perhaps signaling her lack of patience in a salon, listening to women drone on and on about their marriage woes. She is too free and free spirited at that for idle talk spun by women under the cage of a masculine authority disguised as love.

You watch her walk out and stop by the door, her weak legs slowly giving in like faulty springs unable to sustain the weight above it. You watch her summon the last of her energy towards the wall and leans against it with all her might. With soaring empathy, you want to help her get home safely. She is mumbling under her breath and your vain attempts at lip reading – that’s why footballers cover their mouths when talking to one another – tells you that she saying; ‘shit. I am too drunk. Shit. Shit. I didn’t think I’d get to this level.’

Before you make your mind to help her, her guardian angel appears by the door and walks her out of the dinghy bar.  You can tell how much relieved she is for bringing a long a companion who’d become her feet when the toll of inebriation would disable her locomotive ability.

It is as if you know her. But your knowledge of her does not extend beyond hearsay. But then again, just like a church, nobody really knows anybody. He or she goes attends to church regularly, but you don’t know the demons they hide in their closets. You probably know who they are married to, and their children, and nothing beyond that. And for her, they said she is a soldier’s wife. And that she’s a Cleopatra in that den condemned by Christians for eternal condemnation. They said the soldier is in Somalia, probably a service man deep inside the heart of the devil.

You remember thinking that if it was true, that indeed her husband was indeed a soldier posted in Somalia, the he got a raw bargain. He’s dodging bullets to earn a living and support a wife who checks into a bar as early as eight in the morning. Every damn day, you will find her, ‘removing’ lock. On the rare days you checked in during such earl hours, you found her. As a man unable to project the same kind of moral standards on yourself, such a woman does not the definition of a true woman.

The Sacred Toad

I had – I still do – certain reverence for toads that bordered on superstition or plain fear for certain actions that appeared like rituals. You see, every time a toad wandered into the kitchen, mother would sprinkle a little flour on it and leave it where it was, not even trying as much as ‘chase’ it away. It had a name – Tala Kogo. This act that appeared quite random scared the shit out of me, so much that as a kid who loved killing small animals for fun, Tala Kogo was completely left to live.

It wasn’t until a few days ago that I accidentally killed one of these ‘sacred’ amphibians. It was not my fault for I was out and about cutting napier grass for the cows when I slashed the creature with a razor sharp panga. All its intestines spilled out which led me, from years of experience, that it was beyond being rescued. I left it there, wondering whether it had relatives that loved it who would then say nice words such as ‘she was hardworking and loving…it is a pity that we lost her to the cruelty of humans…’ and then inter her.

As I continued cutting the grass, which I think is an equivalent of chapatti to cows, I encountered small accidents. A bruise here and there, which bled as though I had ruptured a vein. I thought the creature must have actually been a little sacred, what with the sprinkling of flour.

Speaking of sacred, I nearly chopped off my left hand’s middle finger. Not the entire finger but the nail itself. It was a Sunday. We were cutting boma rods – I with a borrowed sickle. A cousin of mine was playing gospel music on his techno phone to make up for the fact that he was supposed to be in church being concerned with his spiritual needs and not cutting grass. A while back – it’s decades actually – we decided that it was totally uncool for us to go to church. 

Although we do not go to church, Sundays are exclusively set aside for relaxation. It is a day where each one of retreats to their sanctuaries, ask this or that from their personal gods. As we cut the grass, the music emanating from the cousin’s phone kind of became a detractor to the stream of thoughts my mind churned. As I wondered why the guy played the music, I lost concentration and the sickle cleanly chopped off my entire nail, leaving a tiny bit near the base. There’s nothing as painful as chopping off your nail with anything serrated. Of course it is second to knock on the testicles, but I reserve pain rating to another time. I rushed home holding my finger to prevent leaving a trail of blood on the way.

I washed it with salt solution but it still bled. I tried everything, including brake fluid to no avail. I tore a piece of cloth from a worn out t-shirt and wrapped it. It stopped bleeding, leading me to think that I had at last arrested the bleeding. That night, a slept while flipping a middle finger at mosquitoes and other nocturnal creatures that bayed for my blood.

The following day, I woke up as usual, except with the knowledge that I was excluded from any activity that involved the use of both hands. If eating was such an activity, I definitely would have starved for I can’t fathom being fed like a baby. As I took tea, accompanied by a distinct whistling sound, my body grew warmer and the bloody finger began bleeding again. I had lost a lot of blood the previous day to a point that I actually got scared. I remember feeling a little dizzy following the loss.

It was then that I was forced to make a drastic decision – go to the hospital. I couldn’t stand losing any more blood. And I left immediately after breakfast, glad that the finger absolved me the strenuous exercise of deciding whether to take a shower or not. In less than an hour, I was the Flax Dispensary, waiting for my turn to be treated. There were many sick people, including children who were being taken for immunization against the various diseases I care not remember. Some wailed ceaselessly, while mothers wore worried looks on their faces. Some adults were sprawled on the grass, as though their only available option was death.

I neglected the part where I bought a card. It costs twenty shillings and I wonder if that is legal. I have been to one dispensary in Nairobi where the card is given to you free of charge. Patients buy it unquestioningly. It is part of the treatment process, and they have accepted it that way.

When my name was called, a nurse attended to me. She asked me what caused the wound and I told her it was a ‘ringa.’ I don’t know if she understood it or she just felt that it was wise to ignore it. She took out the container containing iodine whereupon she realized that it was empty. She then shouted to another doctor, talking about whether the supplies have been ordered. The doctor – I don’t know why a male attendant is referred to as a doctor – assured her that they were on their way. She leaves the room in search for a medicine which would enable her to administer a tetanus jab on my person. I use her absence to scan the room for any evidence of serial killers. Haha. Actually, I just looked around the room to see the medical marvels that either occur in the room or information that might be of particular interest to me. What captures my attention is a hand drawn bar graph showing the number of people under anti-retroviral drugs. Finally glad to put into good use the numerous bar graphs I drew back in school, I read the number of people under the drug. The highest bar read thirty on a certain month. I remember thinking that the number was too high then the nurse came in.

She asked me to remove my shirt for her to administer the jab. She was cute, alright, but in a motherly way. I obliged. You see, I work out from time to time, and so my biceps are little hard. She asks me to relax my muscles but I couldn’t. I do not fear injections. I only fear certain species of reptiles such as snakes and slayqueens. Otherwise, injections do not faze me.

I forget. She had already dressed the wound. After the tetanus jab, I left for home. I did not even want to linger around the shopping centre for while – or until darkness set in. The throbbing pain would not allow me.

The Lawyerist

As a teenager, it was quite fashionable to perform activities that made an immense contribution to our psyche, if not our gross domestic product, namely: loaf time in the shopping centre. Not seeking to deviate from this behavior, I often left home in the afternoons to idle in the shopping until such a time when I determined that supper was ready at home, and then I’d slip out surreptitiously. Sometimes, when in a good mood, I’d leave early in time to ensure all the domestic animals had made it to their respective enclosures.  Over time, this activity wore me out, save one incident that’s indelibly etched in my mind.

The sun had deemed it fit to go and shine in another world, paving way for people to take stock of their day and make the following deductions: had breakfast, lunch and supper, yet I don’t know where the food came from – so far so good, let’s do it again tomorrow. I was walking gingerly home, trying to get there before darkness had a dictatorial grip on the events that would follow. I took a short cut through an idle farm. On reaching the road, I found an old man, seemingly confused. He asked for a homestead of a retired teacher. I knew one barely three hundred metres from where we were standing. He instructed me to take him there.

With complete disregard to my personal conscience, we did set off to the homestead. The old man had had one too many, and blubbered all the way to the designated destination. I personally don’t have a problem listening a drunkard’s musing. But this one did faze me. Perhaps it was due to my relative inexperience with such people. I was still in high school at the time.

“I am lawyerist,” the old man said boisterously.

He then went on to talk of having been to Dar es Salaam University, upon which he benefitted from the teaching of Mwalimu Julius Kambarage Nyerere. Or that he was a classmate of his. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he had a close encounter with Tanzania’s founding father. The old man did not give me a chance to say anything, not that I had anything. Maybe he was pleased to have such an attentive audience. I do not know.

Before we reached our destination, the old man saw it fit to scare the living daylights out of me. I personally believe that no one can utter words they are not able to do. The old man took his walking stick and balanced it horizontally on his open palm. He then glanced at a fear-stricken teenager in me and dared me:

“AWALAGE? AWALEGE? (Can I transform myself?)”

The words escaped his mouth, sounding as though my consent was all it depended to come true or not. My mind raced at the numerous things or creatures that this old man was capable of changing himself into. It could only settle on one thing: snake. I cowed with fright, and told him:

“NO!!” I repeated this response each time he made the threat. I wasn’t about to be the first person to witness a human being change himself into a snake. Lord knows what the snake could do. Perhaps it could swallow me alive. Or bite me and inject venom that would pre-digest my person, turning me into soup upon which it would just sip me. At the time, I hadn’t discovered alcohol, so you can imagine how my body would have been JUICY.

It turns out that the old man’s threats were emptier than Uhunye’s promise of eradicating corruption as part of his legacy. We reached the homestead and the old man shouted so loudly as though he was calling out someone located in Pluto. A bulky man showed up. The old man explained his problem. The bulky man said that were in the wrong homestead, and gave us directions to another. He was generous enough to allow us to take a short through ‘his’ farm. This form of generosity is quite rare, and even rarer, when the homestead has a girl coming of age. Girls here are permanently grounded. However, even under this stringent parental upbringing, plenty of them still, quite mysteriously, manage to get pregnant. You could easily hunt down and slay the Holy Spirit, if you are a father.

I walked the old man, darkness slowly setting in. I hadn’t planned on being that late. I was still a novice on this coveted teenage indulgence. Besides, my pool skills are comparable to a diseased cockroach – or even worse, only that no one can coax a diseased cockroach for a pool game with me.

We walked on the railway track, then turned right after a few metres to join a road that led to the new homestead. Apparently, the old man had been looking for a retired teacher with one ‘bad leg.’ I knew him well, for he taught me to hate school, for two terms, while in class three.

When we reached the gate, I exhorted the old man to enter but he went straight, silent as the wind, ignoring me as though I was absent. I looked on, bewildered, as his form got swallowed by the darkness. I washed my hands, in a bid to absolve myself of any blame should the man attempt his witchcraft on me, and walked home.

Although with a disturbed soul.

Review: Black Hawk Down - Mark Bowden

It is a book written by Mark Bowden –he also wrote another about the American-sponsored hunt for Medellin drug boss Pablo Escobar – and it details the events leading to a botched capture of some Somali clan elders in Mogadishu.

The capture of the elders did not go as planned, perhaps signaling a blood bath that would fill every crevice, nook and cranny in Mogadishu. A teenage ranger (who, by God, would be holed up in room exercising his free will to think of sexual fantasies and escapades) missed the rope while they were descending down a helicopter – which was way off-target – injuring himself. The Somalis seemed to have had prior intel about the impending American assault and were quite ready. Every single one of them was ready – men, women, lactating mothers, and children. All of them were ready to die. And die they did.

The unexpected ambush on the American soldiers precipitated a long fight in which they fought through a barrage of rocket propelled grenades, and bullets from the preferred Kalashnikov. Two American helicopters were downed. Efforts to reach the crash site were derailed by strict military protocol which effectively ensured that communication from surveillance helicopter reached the ground troops a little too late. The ground troops ended up getting lost, leading to the second down copter being overran by Somalis. They captured a pilot and killed the soldiers.  

In the end, a lot of Somalis were killed and eighteen American soldiers killed. More than seventy soldiers were wounded while thousand Somalis faced the same fate.

The capture of the pilot and the dragging of dead American soldiers across the streets were aired CNN. It sparked outrage, leading to questions from both the congress and the president himself; the main one being: what were American soldiers doing in Somalia? Somalia has no valuable natural resource if you don’t count piracy, and charcoal.

The president’s intervention led to the unconditional release of the captured piloted – of course accelerated by a threat to obliterate Mogadishu – and he withdrawal of US soldiers from Somalia.

Other than the fact that the targeted clan leaders having issued a threat to the US, there’s no other valid reason given in the book as to why the US soldiers were in Mogadishu. The only verdict was that the solders weren’t ever going to set foot in Somalia, at least without the approval of the president. That was 1993

Review: A Clergy Man's Daughter - George Orwell

In a bid to fill the void that sometimes creeps out of thin air, I chanced upon George Orwell’s A Clergy Man’s Daughter. I had previously read Animal Farm, but it did not register in my mind as a novel worth investing my time on. Just like sci-fi movies I do not find talking animals particularly attractive. Perhaps, I’d find it more alluring to watch a lamppost withstanding the pouring rain, likening its loneliness to my own. Sometimes.

For that matter, I left Animal Farm halfway, just like a million other novels I have, both hard copy and soft copy. As fate would have it, a ninja of mine passed me an assignment, a story to review. Shooting The Elephant, it was. I read the story twice and produced the a thousand words within a record time. many nights later, when sleep evaded, I absently began reading other stories that were part of George Orwell’s collection Shooting the Elephant, which was the title, included.

First I started with the review of the stories. The fantastic turn of phrase was near orgasmic, that is, if you have never had the taste of another’ nakedness – the opposite gender preferably. The review was effusive of Orwell’s stories, saying that he actually wrote what he experienced. He was a police officer, so to say, in India during the days of the British Empire. He actually was born in India.

After five years of service, he visited England and decided that the perils of India were not worth it. he decided to stay and became a tramp. He wrote about his street days, where they picked cigar butts with other tramps on the street. It was actually the first story I read and I was overwhelmed by the way Orwell pieced his words. None felt out of place, all neatly sitting by each other, as the story bowed pleasantly to you, as though you were a powerful king.

I quickly devoured the story, and then another and another. For the after taste of a good story lasts ages after you have eaten, I pored over my usual poring places to see if I can find more of Orwell’s brilliance. You see, the way Orwell writes, does not arouse a sense of pity, even if he were to write about the pain (mostly his pain) of a cancer affliction. He is more like ‘laugh at my pain’ kind of writer.

Luckily I found A Clergyman’s Daughter, which is the story I am currently reading and it is the basis of this piece. (Sorry for the long intro if you are still here). The story features a character named Dorothy, the daughter of a Reverend Charles Hare, Rector of St. Athelstan’s church. Dorothy is a dutiful girl, who prepares everything for her father every morning before going to church for prayers. The morning prayers only attract three people; an old woman, Dorothy and her father. That makes two people in the congregation. Sundays seem have a better attendance by the locals of Knype Hill.

Dorothy takes care of the family’s meals. They are only two of them since her mother died, but they have a housemaid whose brains begin working only after seven in the morning. That leaves Dorothy to take care of chores earlier than that. Now, I don’t really think so highly of girls named Ellen. I will be bound to be prejudicial towards them as has been my norm since I met a girl name Lucy. My recollections of her are actually hazy, but I remember the dread she filled me as a kid. (story for another day).

The family does not make enugh money to make ends meet. The characters in this story do not live in age where there’s Tala and branch, so Dorothy takes everything on credit, including meat. Who does that, you may ask. Apparently that’s the way of white people – to buy meat on credit. Her father, even though he is a man of god, does not allow himself to be bothered by trivial things as providing for meals. He even sarcastically asks Dorothy if has started a poultry farm if they partake eggs twice in a row.

Every morning Dorothy prays that the butcher man does not demand she pays the bill. However, sometimes god does not work that way. The butcher sends the bill anyway. She tells her father about it and he drifts away in the golden days, telling her that there are debts that lasted thirty years back in his heydays. And creditors or shop owners never bothered people. He tells her she can shop elsewhere, and proceeds engaging in fervent reverie of his days, when things were good and creditors did not bother people, at least for thirty years.

As Dorothy goes shopping, vowing to avoid the bothersome butcher, he meets a man known as Mr. Warburton, whom can be described in our local parlance, as a sponsor. He is as unsightly, physically, as many that grace this concrete jungle of Nairobi. Mr. Warburton is widower, and relentless womanizer. He is also rich, certainly, Dorothy tries to evade him, but he is not the kind of man to be let go off easily. He is forty eight for god’s sake. So the daughter of a clergyman and a old man walk around the town giving gossip mongers juicy stories to tell. They have what Orwell calls a connexion, having liased romantically in the past. The town knew about it.

He propositions Dorothy to come to his house that evening for he had a special visitor. The visitor is an author a book Dorothy denies having read. The book itself is sort of pornographic in nature, just lie the way a forty eight year old would like. She agrees after his relentless budging. And she goes out to shop. Just like that, without asking Mr. Warburton for money. And she is in deep debt.

That’s where I am now. I’ll let you know about what happened, at this time next year.

The Soulless Journey

PHOTO/COURTESY 

For purposes of not offending my host, I’ll say that I visited Cheploch Gorge. Other than the scenic features formed mainly by gully erosion, the area is exquisitely Phot. Forget about making love during the day, unless you are deranged. The tool won’t even rise to occasion. And if you manage to do so, climax will sound the same as a hot iron being cooled with water. I can authoritatively say that the entire population was conceived at night.

The escarpment is quite scenic especially if you harbor no thoughts of scaling it but to just to marvel at the wonders of nature. There are all manner of snakes here, my host assures me of that. In fact he pointed a location where a python was once killed. Even a rattle snake is present in this landscape. However, I was assured that years of human interaction have made these extremely poisonous snakes human friendly. When you encounter one, it will greet you like a long lost friend by sinking its fangs on your feet and injecting enough venom to kill you, as is the biblically accepted human-snake greeting.

After days of toiling in the sun and sweating approximately all my bodily fluids, including seminal, it was time to head back home. A two-hour trek, which was our choice rather than is the norm, we stopped by the tarmac a few metres from Cheploch Gorge. I would have loved to go there and witness the daredevil divers perform their tricks but I was too tired. Besides, my feet were already threatening  me through the standard feet language which is blisters. A matatu stopped and we boarded earnestly, relieved of the heat (I am speaking for myself here) and the fatigue.  There was only one passenger inside, which made three of us excluding the crew.

And there began a grueling and extremely soulless journey to Iten. The matatu flouted every single traffic rule, including the ones that are yet to be formulated. First it stopped at Emsea junction, a man with an indestructibly sheepish grin loaded a milk container, which may or may not have contained milk, but judging from the energy the handlers expended when hauling the container, it may have. He stood there, scanning the environment and returned greetings with such vigour that would have outshone a politician. We stopped there approximately seventeen and half minutes.

A few people boarded including a man who found it prudent to purchase meat which he would transfer more than ten kilometers away. Man, I pitied that meat. The driver kept enquiring who was ahead from his fellow drivers as well as making phone calls. We set off and he pressed the gas, triggered one of the many phone calls he made.

Along the way, we picked women who looked like traders or sort. One kept making phone calls with her mulika mwizi phone, then instructing the driver, who I learned was called Kibe, to stop at certain places upon which people would mysteriously appear and hand her money. She made close to five such phone calls. One woman was unsuccessful in using this technique and was forced to alight and board another matatu to head back. Kibe missed her stop point. Some passengers tried to urge her to use m-pesa but she could hear none of it. It was like convincing her to phone sex a few metres from her man. You would be convinced only if you had two brain cells that worked. And she had plenty of them in tip top condition.

At another stop, a swarm of women accosted us in quite a threatening manner, with an assortment of goods – tomatoes, onions, oranges, and mangoes. They surrounded us with eyes that suggested that somebody’s health exclusively depended on our benevolence, and that we’d be condemned to an eternity of damnation, or worse still, not reach our destinations. Realizing the gravity of the situation, some passengers actually bought.

The matatu continued picking up passengers even when I thought there was no space even for air. In fact the concentration of carbon dioxide exceeded oxygen because there was no space for oxygen to circulate. But people still boarded as if there’d contract a fatal disease if they didn’t board exactly that matatu. I was particularly irked when a man, elephant in size, sigh at the sheer number of passengers, and still squeezed himself in. I heard someone call him ‘mwalimu’ and I pray that he isn’t a real one. We don’t need such teachers, unless they are in parliament.

At some point, there were more than twice the recommended seat size, people crammed in all sorts of formations and positions. I wondered how someone would sit in such an inconveniencing position, and still reach their wallets and retrieve the new currency notes to pay their fares.

As the journey progressed, people alighted until we were nearly the only people inside. The driver meandered the road expertly although he seemed to use his head to guide the matatu through the bends rather than the steering wheel. We passed by Tambach and a feeling of nostalgia gripped me. Four tortuous years. Four year’s worth of tortuous memories that molded us into the fine men we’ve become, contributing wholesomely, despite complete disregard to our livers, to the alcohol industry.

The rest of the journey was uneventful until we reached Iten Town where we boarded another matatu to town. The touts dared us to board if we had souls. And we did, because we had had a completely soulless journey. Also, it offered us a chance to see how Kenyans do not care for the traffic rules, least of all their lives.

The Lost Ball

“Who lost a ball?” Mr. Wambongo asked after greetings which often followed an unimpeachable protocol involving us shooting up and saying ‘welcome to our class.’ Mr. Wambongo had a queer way about himself. He strolled around the school compound with his hands behind his back. He would crack a joke or two with you, a joke you never forgot. One such joke was the reason soldiers are required to to be physically fit. He demonstrated it using the one metre ruler, where he mimicked a limping soldier walking in combat with the ruler as a gun. The other joke was how he used to refer Maji Maji rebellion leader, Kinjeketile Ngwale. He pronounced Kinjeketile by ‘Englishizing‘ ‘tile’ which sounded as Kinjeketyle. One day he dressed down Mike for pronouncing it as he often joked about. I remember the stern look on his face as he said ‘kijana una mzaha.’

What struck me about Mr. Wambongo was that he was never pretentious. He punished you and you didn’t keep it in your heart or mind. Almost certainly, you deserved the punishment. But not that Sunday afternoon, after we had just had a helping of rice and beans in its usual minute ration. Kapserere food couldn’t even sustain a rat for a week. It’s a miracle we survived there.

Food aside, Mr. Wambongo strolled to class that day with one intention – to make me in particular never forget him. I admit he was a good teacher. I was a little gutted when he left unceremoniously. He had asked about anyone who had lost a ball in an unusual drawl. It still rings in my head as I write this. Dickson, discounting the fact that his name has a dick in it, shot his hand up. It’s like he had missed raising his hand up, considering the fact that, academically, Dickson and I never missed a flogging.  

We did not know where the conversation was leading to as Mr. Wambongo expertly guided it as though it were boat on a treacherous part of the river. I do not know how it led to who was playing in class, but it suddenly turned to a football team being named. Dickson by the way didn’t even know how to kick a ball, at least in the proper way. The captain was named, who in turned named the next person, and it went like that until I was named. Victor Kiptum named me. That’s what I remember very clearly. In fact I can even see him turning, as if seeking my approval and then spitting out my name. Because I had never learnt how to snitch, I calmly told Mr. Wambongo that the team was complete. It had Radovan Kimutai, Victor Kiptum, Kelvin Kipkoech and I, Brian Rop. We may have been more than four, details escape me now. It not being an exam, I can confidently say that we were four.

It turns out we were wanted in connection with broken spectacles. We were then taken to Mr. Wambongo’s office upon which our names were entered in the infamous black book. Infidels. Degenerates. Contemptible junkies. An afternoon that had promised to glide past like it has done for ages was suddenly covered with an ominous gloom. A novel that one had promised himself to tackle suddenly had to wait there, naked as we attended urgent disciplinary matter which we completely had no clue about.

I do not remember whether Mr. Wambongo gave us a beating but I damn well remember that we were given a punishment to wash the classroom. We were in class seven at the time, and forming the bulk of the team during our usual match between class seven and eight, it might not surprise me, had opta started taking stats, that it was the day we got walloped. You know, like the 8 – 2 drabbing Man U gave the ever lowly, under talented Arsenal.

We took our punishment without complains. We scrubbed the class clean within twenty minutes and with very little amount of water. Then we casually walked out and crossed the road by ourselves –which was a mistake punishable by death. No pupil was required to cross the Eldoret-Ravine road alone, you had to be supervised. Again, quite casually, we changed and hit the field like the players we were.

It turns out, as we mused, that we had been used to sanitise someone’s negligence. Her name was Sandra. She had broken her glasses or even lost them, and there was no way she could break the news to her parents without risking third degree burns from her parent’s ire. There had been talks that we’d even buy the goddamn spectacles. To the extent of my knowledge I do not know whether our parents were informed.

As we mused, quite bitter at the injustice, there was absolutely no way a ball, kicked as it was supposed to, suddenly developed a brain that told to go, open Sandra’s desk, break her spectacles and calmly fall down like nothing has happened. Our bitterness would have frozen a loaf bread. We completely had no clue about those spectacles.  We were victimized, period. Because we were children of lesser god’s, at the time.

Right now I am not bitter. Given Sandra’s position, I do not know how I would have broken the news to my parents. Man, my eyesight would have fixed itself. As they say, sometimes, the end justifies the means. I hope it did, Sandra.

Sorry Mama

A sad man [source/nvf.org]

Mama, I am sorry for not being a good son

You see, I suck at being an adult

Because there’s no manual for it

And there are no maps to refer to when I am lost

Mama, I am sorry for taking you love for granted

You see, it’s the purest there is in the entire world

Whereas the world’s just receives

Yours gives without intention – so unconditional

Mama, I am sorry for disrespecting you

You see, I thought I was too grown up

To ever receive instruction from you

Yet it was just the teenage hormones doing the thinking

Mama, I am sorry there have been plenty of days

You see, days that offered a chance at redemption

To be a better son, to see the bright side of things

I am afraid those days are no more

Mama, I am sorry to have to let you down,

You see, I know you did not bear a failure

But every single day I have little energy

To live up to the expectation you have of me

Mama, I am sorry I’ve heard of a better place

You see, I do not believe in paradise or heaven

But paradise to me mean not paying any bills

Because capitalism is the yoke on the neck of men

Mama, I am sorry we may never meet

You see, you soul is bound for heaven

For that’s what I pray for unconsciously

Because there can never be anyone like you

Seasons

The cold wind harshly caressed your feet

Its two am in the morning

You are there by the verandah

Glad you’ve seen the new day,

As fresh as it is, 

You buy some more time before going to bed

So you don’t think of her once asleep

When you finally lock the door

You lock her memory with the night hounds

To listen to their mournful howls

As you drift to a dreamless world

A world that will stop existing

When you open your eyes

Some nights you’ll dream of her

A nightmare of course

Because you’ll dream of her making love

To another man

And you reach for your sword

And slash his manhood

And pierce his heart

And then the heinous crime wakes you up

Its four am, and you begin thinking of her

I Am Gone With The Wind

I am gone with the wind

to the other side of love

a side devoid of longings

of sacred yearnings and embraces

for life ceased having meaning

I am gone, like the wind

Across vast oceans

Across barren deserts

Across beautiful vistas, as well as the ugly

Salvaging broken hearts

To keep me warm in hibernation

I am gone, and all I ask of you

Do not grieve of lost love

Grief will cloud your heart

And you won’t see a better lover

Walk by your side

I am gone forever

But I’ll be somewhere under the sky

Enjoying vast moments of solitude

Recreating loneliness

All I ask of you is not to mess it up

Gone on, breathe for someone else

For I couldn’t love any better than who I am

Aloof, and seemingly distant

A Little god Within Us

If anything, I pride myself in having a brilliant memory. I can remember pretty mundane things, that may have happened years ago. Plenty of them are embarrassing, which gives them the street cred to run riot in my head every once in a while. Even with a brilliant memory, I still manage to forget really important facts such as how to make money by simply not doing anything.

Today however, I do not choose to recall embarrassing things that have happened in my short career of not doing anything meaningful. It was a Sunday. I remember lying on the bed waiting for the clock to hit one so that I could join the queue filled with rich kids clamouring for that one meal they clamoured for- French fries or chips to the common man. The details have escaped by brain, although I could have been counting the number of the squares on the mesh that was part of the upper deck bed. My leg could have been suspended on a red shoe string that acted as a sling. I don’t remember any of those, except I was lying down on the bed when she texted me.

After we exchanged pleasantries, she asked me what I was doing. Previously, I never thought of anything other than blurt what I was doing. It was somehow special when a girl asked one what they were doing. It was as if they were weighing if they could interrupt you without deviating you from saving the world from its evilness. Also it was as if she wanted to show up naked on your door. Now it is not special at all. You could respond with a bland message, texting you.

And so she asked me what I was doing.

‘Fantazing.’ I had replied.

‘About what?’

‘About (insert the name of that person you hate) naked and lifeless body.’

She laughed-in text-and replied that I had just made her day.

I thought myself as a little god who had made someone’s day. Just with a fantasy of someone’s dead and naked body. I wanted to let her know that I was a god, something I had once told people. Just to emphasise the point, I had put it my whatsapp bio: I am a God, it read. We then were in a makeshift relationship, one that never quite took off. And she reminded me, when she got the chance to tell me, that I was blaspheming. To me, it was far from blasphemy because I didn’t use the article the. Better yet, the words were a title to a Kanye West song that I sort of loved. The lyrics to the chorus were:

I am a God

Hurry up with my damn massage

Hurry up with my damn ménage

Get the Porsche out the damn garage

I am a God

Even though I'm a man of God

My whole life in the hands of God

So y'all better quit playing with God

Soon as they like you make 'em unlike you

'Cause kissing people ass is so unlike you

The only rapper who compared to Michael

So here's a few hating-ass niggas who'll fight you

And here's a few snake-ass niggas to bite you

I don't…

Speaking of being a god, I have countless thought that there is a god in each one of us. Just devoting our lives to not, consciously and unconsciously, hurting others, and perhaps helping that person in need may be a godly act. You could be walking on the street and you stumble upon a street kid begging. Something may stir within you, and you hand that child a few coins you had although you had vowed not to sometimes back. You have however acted as an agent of god.

In the course of our lives, we’ve encountered people with seemingly incurable ailments. Pictures of their bodies devoured by invisible creatures are splashed in social media, ruining your browsing experience because all you ever wanted was to see pictures of girls in tight clothes, escorted by captions about an earth quake that devastated a remote village in Indonesia. You are forced to abandon your mission and concentrate on this human being, whom, with all due respect, God has decided he suffers from an ailment that leaves his external body parts either excessively swollen or simply nauseatingly unsightly. Below the description will be an m-pesa till number, urging you to contribute money for treatment in India.

Then the fear that it would you next triggers a hormone that is responsible for philanthropy. You reach for you m-pesa account and send something small. It’s not only you, millions others will contribute. Millions will be raised and the sick person will fly to India for treatment. Most often this person will thank God for having heard his prayers.

A simple act of kindness shows people that there’s God above, watching the downtrodden, and the helpless.

A Little Girl's Silent Tear

On normal days, I would scan a manyanga first before boarding. It had to meet a tight criterion such as color and design, how loud the engine is when revved, and lastly if I can recognize a tout that once ripped me off. But not that day. I boarded the first and walked straight to the rear, something I wouldn’t do when all by brain cells are in tip top condition.

It was a Saturday. We had unnecessarily binged with a friend the previous day. The things alcohol can make you do are quite terrible. It can make you think you are immune to HIV. But not me. When it comes to women, I draw a line that I do not cross. I had a class that began at 8 am that day. The lecturer was one hell of a woman who considered you late if you check in after she had. And she was always in class ten minutes early.

Having been paid, and having settled all my bills, the next logical course of action would be to grab a drink and then sleep early so that I would wake up refreshed. As I have earlier mentioned, the alcohol in us told us that one was not enough, and we left for the club at one am. We grabbed a mzinga, poured a few shots and left. Dizzily, we maneuvered around the neighbourhood to our keja. And I slept fitfully.

At six am, the alarm began ringing. It felt I had slept for only ten seconds. At first I thought it was not meant for me, but for the ninja we stayed together. I remember cursing him for not rising up to shut the alarm, and head for his day job. But then it occurred to me that the alarm was mine. Guided by alcohol residue, I rose up, washed my face, picked my bag and left for school. I was sure as hell I smelled alcohol. You know how cheap vodkas last for an entire day.

On my way I bought PK to at least mute the smell of alcohol. I made my way to the sixth floor, guided by a heavy head. As usual, I sat at the back and waited for the lecturer to begin the lesson with devotion. It lasted close to ten minutes. It was unfortunate that we were to do a presentation. Luck was not on my side as the people who were to do it decided to abscond the class. It left only me, drunk and unprepared. I tried to plead with the lecturer but she could hear none of it. In fact she turned the class into a motivation one, talking about being prepared a million light years before the actual day.

I think I flouted every single rule she had put in place at the beginning of the semester. When I ended my presentation, the rest of the class was invited to judge it. One dude said I was chewing gum, which was not good. I interpreted this to mean I was disgusting. Another, a lady, spoke of how I had done well, considering the fact that I am an introvert. There being no other business, proceeded to sit. My mind was racing, wanting to another drink to drown the humiliation I had gone through.

Instead of walking t town then catching a mat to my hood, my feet failed to cooperate after receiving classified information from the brain. Ten minutes later, I was at the stage to my hood, where the story actually begins. I am seated at the back, and the touts are shouting: mtu mbili! Wa haraka mtu mbili! At that point some passengers are beginning to alight, and then are paid. How awesome can that be!! Incredibly, passengers filled in and we set off.

Just in front of me sat a couple with two children, a boy and a girl. The man and the woman were separated by the aisle. Both kids sat on the father’s lap, while the big fat woman, whose body spilled on the aisle, sat cozily sipping yoghurt. She was talking to the little girl who I guessed was about seven years old. I didn’t get a word for she was speaking Kikuyu.

The little girl had these really cute eyes that, I guarantee you that, will give men problems when she turns eighteen. The big fat woman sipped her yoghurt, as she talked to the girl. She talked. She talked.

Then, the little girl cried. Not the usual cry. A silent tear cascaded down her chubby cheeks. That tear corroded my heart. It felt like sulphuric acid had been poured on it. At that point, I wanted to know what the fat woman had told her. The father sat quietly, said nothing. I remember the kind of man who wouldn’t defend his children.  

As the journey wore on and people began alighting, a hawker stepped in selling candies. The girls face lit up as he tapped her father, and pointed at the sweets. The father reached into his wallet and retrieved an old fifty shillings note. The little girl picked those chocolate candies. Surprisingly, she shared with the fat lady and her brother. A selfless act. Her father didn’t eat the candies and she had an extra. All the while, the fat old lady spewed her words, words that were silently destroying the little girl’s heart.

But then again I wondered what made the little girl cry. Was she told that she would be slaughtered once they got home? Was she told that she would be adopted by monkeys? Was she told she was as impressive as exotic bacteria? Its never worth it. Kids are beautiful and they are supposed to cry loudly. Not silent tears. I can never understand it for I forgot about her when I sipped my left over vodka.