FRIENDS AND FOES

We make acquaintances along the road of life. Some we decide that they are going to be our friends without any rational reason as to why, may be because they look good on camera or something related to it. Then you are friends, just like that. And because nature is a good teacher, it brings misfortunes to these people called friends to taste their loyalty, or lack of it, to rid us of inconveniences that comes with the bs that’s friendship. But then again, in the course of our lives, nature tags along people who remain aloof, mysterious and detached from what insane people consider normal. Some of them however reveal a little about themselves, that when we sit in the middle of the night when lovers have decided not to be lovers anymore, and you try to find out why you may deserve that kind of life, you are relunctant to imagine the cards life dealt to some people. Your mind cannot help but conjure unsavoury images such as them waking up from trenches if they ever did anyway…

One such a man is Kipketer.

He often sat alone in a corner, silent. He seemed a man deep in contemplation of course of the inconveniences caused by living. Judging from his nonchalance, a half cut exercise book, or sometimes an upgrade, folded foolscaps that he seemed to have picked from a trash can, I knew he was experienced in matters academics. He knew the uselessness of taking notes in a serious manner, and even more important, he knew the importance of not doing his assignments at all. Sometimes he came to class smelling cheap alcohol. Almost always, he often left with the lecturer, as if they had important matters to attend to. He of course the finish up the bottle of Jebel he left, and the lecturer to silently note the effects.

And because our names share a prefix, people often wanted me to talk to him or rather talk sense into him. I did, and now I am one of his students, the few of them to have ever graduated. Sometimes I do go to the hospital worried why I am not drinking as much as I should. Unlike most people, which no one does anymore, I am completely uninterested in intruding other people’s worlds. People may see chaos in other’s lives but to them there is perfect order. People may see ruins but to others that’s where they thrive. There were many ‘maybes’ to leave him alone, until one day, drunk on cheap alcohol, I ventured into his unchartered world, a world where every sane person wanted to be in and probably make the sun rise from south.

He had just emerged from a brief sojourn into his world of stupor, drunk as a kite. Kipketer was not the type to stagger, and with a loosely hanging pullover, we met by chance; teacher and student. The sun was blistering as if someone had abused it. Drops of sweat gleamed on Kipketer’s forehead, either unsure where to go or because they were waiting to swear in their president then troop down his face. We exchange greetings in our language.

We trudge along Baricho Road, I heading to my shithole, and he to meet a friend at the Baricho-Uhuru roundabout. Because Kipketer had no phone, I assumed that they had devised a language of their own, that they would communicate over long distances without any technological aid. Pride welled in me because Kipketer would teach me that language in the near future. As at then, we were still stuck at basics, like where to get cheap liquor. He carelessly gesture with his hands as he talked, as if words were not just enough. And that’s when I asked him what inspired his lifestyle.

“You need to find what makes your happiness, “ he said curtly.

I looked at him, urging him to go ahead.

“Sometimes, in this world, people will struggle to understand what makes you tick. They want to control the way you live your life. That wasn’t with me,” Kipketer launches his monologue. “When I joined campus, I asked my parents to reserve a room for me when we closed for long holidays. The hustle of getting a room in this part of town is akin to a villager hoping to land in the moon. Even though the rooms dilapidated, they scarcity makes it worrying. For their denial, I vowed to revenge. “

At the roundabout, the guy he was to meet was there waiting. He did not even reprimand him for being late or something, and that was amazing. Or maybe Kipketer was on time. The guy urges him to talk to him, to take education seriously. I think they shared blood. I leave them and head to by sheethole, may be catch some forty winks or type away random words that I would later call poetry. He asks if we have class the following day. I don’t remember if there was. And so we part.

Life goes normal, I stranded with the normal routine and he trying to spice up normalcy. He showed in class rarely, and when he did no one even noticed he was around. Time flies. Before we knew it we were sitting the last paper, a handful of us who had decided that there was still something beautiful in the newspapers. Kipketer was there. I was pretty darn sure that there were missing marks on his name but he showed dutifully. That takes guts, if you ask me.

One time, I met him at the gate. We talk briefly, but in that moment he told me that his friend, the one I had a chance of meeting, was dead. He had been knocked by a speeding car. What was remarkable about the tragic news was the way he said it. He didn’t seem emotional at all. He struck as a man who had made acquaintance with death, and the two would strike a perfectly normal conversation.

‘Aha! My friend,” death would say.

“What’s going on? I can see you are on an errand buddy,’ Kipketer would may be say.

‘Kama kawa. I should keep the world’s population manageable,’

‘Okay. When it’s my turn, do not be sentimental buddy.’ 

‘I have never employed such nonsense since I was born.’

‘By the way when is your birthday? Maybe I can invite you to celebrate your service to humanity. I hear you just took my cousin?”

‘The bastard crossed the road carelessly when I was rushing to take one of your politicians.’

I was really thankful for him. No emotions at all. I don’t know how I would have condoled with him. That’s just not my strength. I can’t stand human emotions, and suffering. Every time I see beggars with indescribable deformities and scars, I feel like shooting them to end their suffering once and for all.

I do not know where Kip is now. But I do hope everything is okay with him. I do hope that he never drowned in one of his drinking expeditions. I do hope that one day he sobers up and goes to fetch his degree, even though it is yet to bring tangible benefits to some us, a year down the line. We are stuck with hawking our credentials from one office to another, hoping that lady luck shall smile upon us one day. She never seems to be in a hurry though. Maybe she’s been bribed by politicians to smile at the first. Here, we hold on to hope.  

WHY WOULD YOU CARE?

And the rising sun brings forth uncertainties

A cold shiver runs through your spine

You loved a man that you barely knew

Now, you are almost sure he’s on his way

To lands yonder, having stolen your happiness

Nights find you sipping your favorite wine

Hurt and confused by all that’s happening

Scared too of thinking about the future

Drunk, you ask yourself, why would you care?

Yes, why would give a shit?

You are out of your mind, and you like it that way

You swear you’ll do whatever it takes

To get back even with him, whatever it takes

And when everything’s been done and dusted

He’ll live with regret for the rest of his life

But for now why would you care

When every has been broken and to trust

You must begin from scratch cautious like scientist

Yes, you are a scientist trying to experiment again

After a failed attempt, grave as leaving you broken hearted

But then you won’t care about anything anymore 

THE CIGAR SMOKER

He makes a point of ringing the bell, before he slots the key to open the door, as to warn whoever is in the house of his entry, and perhaps finish any mischief before he enters. He then straddles in, with a newspaper and a black plastic bad, places the newspaper on the table and removes a coca cola bottle from the bag and places it on the table as well. All this time he doesn’t say a word to anyone, not even a hello. It’s fine. After all everybody is fine, except street kids and no one bothers to ask them how they are doing anyway.

The rest of the contents, he goes to the kitchen counter and drops them like one would do to trash. With this done he heads to his bedroom, changes into a shuka, then back to the kitchen where he fetches his ash tray. He proceeds and sits on his usual place, a designated chair where no one dares to put their bum, not for the fear but for the reverence he seems to have bestowed on the chair. He reaches out for the remote and switches to Citizen TV that is if someone switched to other channels, a rare occurrence.

He lights his cigar and smokes casually, without a hurry in the world, oblivious of the warning on the packet, SMOKING KILLS. He reads the newspaper in the process as thin wands of smoke find their way into the air, choking fresh air into submission.

Once he stops and gives me a lecture on how it’s important to talk to people. He says its important to talk to people because we learn from interacting with others.

“Don’t stare at your computer all the time. You could be hiding valuable information people would use,” he says. “You see, with me, the computer knowledge I have is archaic.” I nod. Truth is, I don’t find anything worth sharing about the computer. I am not a wizard. Most times I am just typing away my thoughts or indulging Pablo Neruda’s poetry.

I thought he was trying to show care. He even rose and gave me bananas and a bun, which I didn’t need but I remember staring at them and wishing they’d to be eaten. He was suddenly being too nice, an unusual thing for him.

But when the doorbell rang and a fine lass entered the room, I understood the message he had been trying to send to me. She would be the second girl in a span of week, but less pretty than the first. He orders her to make tea, and she boldly says hi to me. From the dressing, black tights, a brown flowered dress that flattered her and a stocking on her head, I deduced that she wasn’t a sophisticated girl; she could pass either a basic whore or a mboch.

She made tea, drunk and they went to the bedroom. When the dawn broke, she was nowhere to be seen. She might have slithered into the darkness to wherever gave her the most discomfort. 

A picture of Kenya in twenty years

It’s an assignment. One of those you will wait until it is due the next day then you hurriedly type down your thoughts, save and head to the printer, a normal day of someone yearning to get the paper and get done with school. But not this one, however. It requires you to picture yourself in the next twenty years, assuming you plan to live right into the edge of life (old age) and die peacefully in your sleep. Also, you will have to picture how to change the world as an intellectual too assuming that there are things around you that need change too.

It is easier to picture about one’s life in the next twenty years. For me, I intend to have completed at least two PhDs, should have had a family housed in a home that no one checks in every month to demand rent, a car to ferry my family around as well as myself. Nothing much, but a simple life devoid of wars with the ecosystem.

But how about the society? Of course every right thinking member knows that the crucial element of the society, which is politics, is wrong and needs to be fixed as soon as possible. In the next twenty years it is more likely that we will still be voting against tribal lines as opposed to ideologies, still battling corruption as opposed to hunger and diseases…..so much. Even then, it is more likely that a high number of Kenyans shall have at least attained college education.

It is quite sad that learned people are lauding blatant abuse of the rule of law, even when they are lawyers who should know better. Having a conversation with a university student comes with great risk such as brain hemorrhage when it comes to important matters such as the direction of our country. Personally, an ideal country should be one that feeds its people, provide adequate and quality healthcare services to its people, equal and adequate opportunities for everyone, fidelity to the rule of law, justice and fairness, education and infrastructure. None of these things ever come out of a university student.

The country has slowly entrenched a system where laziness is glorified, theft cheered upon, lack common sense enshrined in peoples DNA. The leaders have been active proponents of these backward ideals. Once in power, it is almost certain that their IQ rapidly races to a single digit. Their utterances make one cringe with shame, questioning if one should actually be proud of their country or not.

The youth are the ones who should be at the forefront in changing the ideals, just as others before them did when championing for democracy. It’s a wonder that one studies critical thinking as a core unit, studying the arguments of Socrates without examining their own lives. Instead, they bury their heads in gambling websites and scream about ‘mtu wetu.’ Such a shame.

In the next twenty years, Kenya should not be grappling with the same issues that it has  since independence. The youth should be at the forefront in ensuring that it is better than they found it.  If you are twenty years old now, in the next twenty years you will be forty and probably with a kid, a teenager perhaps, and you may be wondering where to take them next. If you don’t prepare the world for them today by demanding the best from yourself, then your neighbor, then the government, then of course you will find yourself swimming in the murky waters that you prepared yourself. 

AN ANCIENT PIECE OF JUNK

She lay there, still like she is dead. She stares at me with unblinking eyes for straight two days. I prodded her, slapped her, and almost flung her against the wall. But that’s not how I was raised, and besides she has been with me through thick and thin. Finally, realizing that she was not going to budge, I carefully placed her inside a bag, and went about town seeking someone who can heal her. We’ve been through this process a couple of times, save for one moment that I abandoned her for a slay queen. She’s been faithful, even when all around have been giving up on their lovers. I can legally say that we complete each other.

I am talking about my computer, an ancient piece of junk that I have been using since I can remember. It is a hand down. However, I do not plan on handing it down to anyone. A few days ago it became seriously ill. I thought it was the ebola of machines or something viral. It turns out it needed just a RAM. And I rewarded it with a 2BG. She’s happy with. There’s a remarkable improvement in her attitude. She doesn’t sulk when I command her to open a word document like she used to. It is like she’s just been reborn.

One thing that I do not like however is its gross forgetfulness. For example I can shut it down, and the next time I boot it up it says that I am in 1980 (its favourite so far). Sometimes I am in 2025.  It gives me problems when I open the documents folder, which I have arranged according to the date modified. I have documents that I have written sometimes in the future (hehe), others have been written or will be written later this year, then it comes the present (today), earlier this week, last week, earlier this year, and lastly those that have been written a long time ago. It allows me to time travel.

And because I dream in series

I haven’t yet found someone to try my new insult on, preferably a woman. It’s mainly for the type of women who fall asleep too quickly, as if they dream in series and can’t wait for the next episode to begin. Knowing about this system of dreaming, it involves thorough intellectual skills such as sleeping all day and expecting to be a millionaire in a year. Through sophisticated research, I have discovered that you can perfectly dream the same dream, in continuous form if you sleep in on a Sunday afternoon. At exactly 4.37 pm, your mind will start by replaying the last scenes of the previous episodes. You should read the findings, I have pasted them on all public toilet walls. Pop into one and have a bliss.  

It’s perfectly normal and easy to dream the same dream as I have stated above. I am the authority in this field that’s why you should read my peer reviewed journal. For those who would rather empty their bowels in familiar toilet bowls, I am going to explain a few things so that you can make progressive political decisions henceforth.

The dream begins a long time ago. As young man, barely into my teens, I doused in gasoline a grass thatched house back in the village. It served as village drinking joint, an equivalent of your favourite joint, say Kiza Lounge or 1824. It had no name but it was perfectly useful so long as people would find it. As it turns out, three drunkards did not make it out alive. If you value progress like I do, you wouldn’t be bothered by the fact that the world was less of three drunkards. As fate would have it, I made away with the murder. Life went on normally; I ate and shit normally, breathed normally, and of course I will die normally in my sleep and in old age. People don’t do this anymore but that’s what is in my script which is being reviewed by god. Except for my transgressions, he may….I don’t want to make suggestions yet.

I may have lied that life went on normally, because I would dream being pursued by petite ladies who were on the trail of the bizarre and shocking murders. It think you can agree with me that there was something wrong with the ladies because we often ended up making out until the passed out but then I would wake up scared stiff that I may revealed that I killed people as men sometimes brag in when they let passion override the faculties. The ladies would show up. We would go through the same sequence again and again. For ten years. Until today. Fourth of February twenty eighteen.

And so today came. A call came through.

“Hallo, are we speaking to Kipchirchir Rop?” the caller asked

“Yes, that’s exactly me,” I said boisterously because that’s the name I would love to be known by when I become a famous author. I thought that may be someone one had spotted my writings somewhere and decided that I was good enough to be awarded a contract for my debut novel ‘The Sound of Invisible Things.’

“We are calling you in connection with murders that happened ten years ago,” the caller said.

I tried hanging up. It wouldn’t. I had to remove the phone battery. I hurriedly packed my clothes in a sack and left home. I had the idea of fleeing, to a country like Kenya where fugitives usually hide. 

When I opened the gate, I found a large number of soldiers with their guns trained on me immediately I stepped out. In shock, I dropped the sack that had the best clothes but instead rats squirmed out. In shock I woke up. I think in the next episode I will be in jail or Kenya. The later seems more likely.

GLEAM OF NOTHINGNESS

Misty, blurry-the gleam of nothingness

And thoughts stream out incongruously

-everywhere at the same time-

Potent in its futile attempt to fill blanks,

The crevices that her sweet scent once filled, gape

With long –deep, desirous, almost delirious