Mosquito Nuisance

It’s half past one in the night. Satanic hours, as my former higher school principal used to refer them. As with these times of the night, awake, I normally nourish myself with whatever food that remained after supper. I had eaten githeri, and disregarded its soup which I found too salty. Now I am taking spoonfuls at irregular intervals, feeling as though I have discovered a new exotic culinary delight. Why was I awake at these satanic hours? Well the answer is mosquitoes.

It is one big problem which, I strongly believe, should have been factored in the building bridges initiative, and if not, a commission of inquiry formed with immediate effect to look into these mosquitoes that are giving ordinary Kenyans, who diligently file zero returns every financial year, sleepless nights. Despite magnificent, huge, momentous and gigantic inventions man has ever discovered, these extremely tiny creature was purposefully made to teach human beings to be humble. You could huge and intelligent, God must have been saying when making mosquitoes, but tiny brainless creatures will torture your nights, and you may never discover the vaccine of malaria. And God and the angels burst into prolonged guffaws, which made him forget that he was creating a human being. The error saw Him make Hitler.

I recently came back from the village to Nairobi to run important errands which are keep hustlers company and continue my hatred for mosquitoes. I learned that, despite evidence showing that they do not have brains, these creatures are actually intelligent. Within minutes, they had also landed in droves with their persistent annoying whine close to your ear especially when you are concentrating a particularly serious thought – where do I steal huge amounts of money and never get caught? Without a doubt, mosquitoes are already in the moon waiting for you.

It leaves you to wonder why Jesus died and never took away the annoying mosquito whine. You could have just closed your eyes, and really loud whine, overtaking the supersonic jet, flies close to your ear and off it goes. It was on a reconnaissance mission. The second time it circles your ear looking for a landing spot where it goes silent and deploys its suction tools. So your role is to subvert them by swatting and making serious and laudable efforts namely: missing it. It flies away laughing in mischievous mosquito laughter.

The aforementioned scenario is only idealic – there a billion mosquitoes my friend ready to take a sip of your blood. Thinking of it, why is human blood a mosquito’s only meal? Why couldn’t God make a Christmas thing, leaving them to survive on ugly and useless creatures such as rats and politicians? Just animals that do not have the ability to reason: I don’t want to name names.

If the ecological role of mosquitoes is quite indispensable like, for example, defecating why couldn’t possess at least three functioning brain cells? I base this on the fact that you could wake up in the middle of the night and manually kill them and arrange the dead bodies on the nightstand but they still come in droves. If they had brains they would know that this place is dangerous, and warn others never to step there. At that is the way it is in my ancestral home, Kerio Valley.

You see, in Kerio, you cannot plant maize, sorghum or millet without the intervention of monkeys. And they are very lazy, they don’t help when planting, only showing up when it is ripe. Anyway it is not their problem – they have adopted noble characteristics of certain species of animals known as slayqueens. They wait until its ripe then they wreck havoc. You have to rise as early as six in order to beat traffic…haha…sorry, there is no traffic in the village. You rise up early because monkeys don’t take chances with their laziness. And so you wad them off until you harvest.

However, the monkey problem can be easily be solved by simply killing one and placing the dead corpse on your farm as a warning. Being avid readers, they take seriously such warnings and they never step there generations after generations. Unlike mosquitoes. But they are just like us every election year.

PHOTO/PEXELS 

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

Letting Go

The dawn, the unwanted dawn is heralded,

By birds chirping as though singing dirges

For these are beginnings of empty days

Of days thinking about the memories, love

Of abandoned plans, plans to love forever

It feels like you’ve just boarded a bus. A train

A ship and sailed away, far away from me

The yearning of my beating heart couldn’t stop you

The cry of my love sounded like a some nasty noise

Who needs noise when it all involves is sorries?

I have said a thousand sorries, many times not even,

At the back of my mind, knew why was doing so,

And these sorries depleted my sorries account

Now sorry – sorry sorry – is a sorry word

There’s nothing more I can do except let you go

The Ultimate Kenyan Dream

A palatial home. For a mere driver of a university vice-chancellor.  It left many Kenyans in awe of the exceptional business acumen of a man holding one of the least desirable careers. It turns out the only qualification is a complete lack of integrity.

I hereby corrupt – which is now a cherished talent of ours – a line from a movie I once watched: do not be addicted to integrity; you will resent its absence.   

The audacity of the Mara University heist does not surprise anymore. Hairdressers and receptionists have made away with millions of shillings before; paling the driver’s if attempts at comparing it are made.  

Kenyans, in their characteristic manner, decried the blatant theft by – and this is a country that prides itself in a constitution that dedicated a whole chapter on integrity – inquiring where they can get such a lucrative driver’s position.  Overnight, being driver was the most coveted job.

It turns out that, despite constantly decrying the vice, the ultimate Kenyan dream is make way too much money with the least effort. Being in charge of public funds gives one the same status as that of a Fortune 500 Company Chief Executive Officer.

There have been numerous news of heists that have served one core function: to be awed by the mindboggling figures being quoted by the media. Then we move on until such a time we shall be required, as a civic obligation, to be awed by another mindboggling plunder of public funds.

Goldenberg, Angloleasing, Eurobond, SGR, Arror group of dams and the latest, Mara Heist have come and gone. If not, Kenyans shall apply the time tested mantra – forget and move on even if a container of carcinogens is imported, and, which is often the case, cleared by Kenya Bureau of Standards.

The question that courses through the minds of many right thinking Kenyans (and I here I mean any person who could use an extra one billion shillings) is: are we angry enough at rampant theft and abuse of public office?

The answer is: yes. Many are angry at the fact that it is someone else stealing and not them. Many are angry that they have to persevere through a 5-8 job (wake up at five in order to get to work at eight, and leave at five in order to get home at eight) and millions others who are enduring joblessness.

Many Kenyans cannot simply turn down an opportunity to make money through dishonest means. Straight from matatu touts to doctors the potential to be corrupt is limitless. I can’t even talk about the police. In fact, as recognition of their distinguished service, they have been rewarded with new uniforms for one critical law enforcement purpose – to make them visible.

It is not a wonder why Kenyans keep electing leaders with questionable backgrounds. Even if they possess the integrity of pubic lice, they will be vetted, and voted in quite overwhelmingly. It helps if that man is monied, as it helps the electorate to exercise their inalienable right of asking for handouts.

Once a leader has been accused of making away with public money, the electorate will come out in large numbers and – get this clearly – elect them to public office if they don’t occupy one already. This is often done as a sign of protest. (I know one such leader who is already preparing his victory speech for 2022).

But there’s hope. There is always the light at the end of the tunnel especially if you get the tender to supply electric poles. If you are informed you already know that this has been taken.

It all boils down to what an individual feels about corruption. Most people start as honest citizens until they are confronted with a moral dilemma of whether to use money meant to purchase life-saving drugs for millions of people or purchase a private plane.

As Kenyans whose blood can be identified with Wanjiku’s, there’s nothing we can do except accept and move on until such a time we shall be called upon to make poor electoral decisions. These are the only times we truly care about the fate of our country. 

Breaking Down

The sight of your name in my inbox,

Reminds me of you, of the wrongs

Some that I did, most that you imagined

And you blew them up to the right

The songs that we loved to listen

Break me apart with the memories

Unable to think about anything else

Except your love, your touch, you kiss

Without a doubt, you are gone forever

There’s no energy left in me to fight

Every single day there’s this and that

Unable to love each for a week

 There were no lies on my part

And if there were, kindly forgive

If you can, because I never found a wrong

I couldn’t forgive in you

The sight of your name in my inbox,

Reminds me of you, of the wrongs

Some that I did, most that you imagined

And you blew them up to the right

The songs that we loved to listen

Break me apart with the memories

Unable to think about anything else

Except your love, your touch, you kiss

Without a doubt, you are gone forever

There’s no energy left in me to fight

Every single day there’s this and that

Unable to love each for a week

 There were no lies on my part

And if there were, kindly forgive

If you can, because I never found a wrong

I couldn’t forgive in you

Back

She doesn’t even beg to get back

She strolls back like it was all normal

Like it felt all too good when she wanted out

When all I felt was something drain out of me

Something that smelt like life or love

I thought we were done for good

Every single thing we held dear – I

Felt them disintegrate to a point –

A point I didn’t want to try anymore

Neither did I want to care

Yet, when you seem to have made your mind

You stroll into my life like we are some lovers

Who had been away from each for a while,

ours’ been a year – just imagine a year

of waiting, longing for something ungraspable

a part of me died from the constant bickering

and I have often – always -  watered it

with the thoughts of you, wondering incessantly

if I had erred so much to worthy of forgiveness

the more I did, the more I wanted you close by

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.