it just happened

IT JUST HAPPENED

She was always there. She was a cooing dove, she was you and I’s dreams. With his unquestionable prowess to judge human character –the class teacher- had made them share a desk. Growing up is always a challenge.

He would sit next to her, pubescence announcing itself all over his face. Her flimsly blue school dress leaving nothing to imagination… His fickle mind would soar. Soar to heights higher the mountains his civics teacher spoke of. Higher than Kilimanjaro and Everest mountains…

He noticed, he noticed that she had had an accident that was making her chest swell.  The accident, a malfunction of nature, left her with a long lasting condition of a swelling chest. SHE TRIED HER BEST TO HIDE IT.

Class seven was a mix of a T junction, fly over, round and about combined. He could no longer join the school choir. His once mellow soprano was now a rusty blue band tin that could not even be used to fashion toys. A school term earlier, he had drawn a line on his school desk. A perfect survey demarcation that rang louder that Donald Trump,s wall. (He of mexico-USA border wall)

As acne further land- scaped his face, he kept noting that, she kept crossing the boundary he had fashioned on the desk (he never got a Title dead for his land). She had a way of making her legs cross the demarcation with her legs, and warming his legs they were.  It always happened, that moment he tried to steal into his polythene bag (the bag that had everything apart from nuclear war heads complete with authentic launch codes and heat seeking missiles... ) mostly when their teacher   was delving into the topic of adolescence…)

He must have been a narcissist, a sadist –so I believe-, Why, why on earth would an an accident that made your desk mate develop ever growing boils on her  chest make your pair of blue school shorts bulge ?iT JUST HAPPENED

Nunguni- my home

Yuta (who preferred to be called Judas Iscariot) was the main man at ever night vigil we observed. He was the man who always stoked the embers at funerals. He made us forget that the following day we would be interring/ burying one of us.

Like a loose branch, properly socked, swaying under the influence of the stuff he, without fail, day in, day out, had imbibed at Nunguni, That place, The place near what the locals called Mujinga high school, Yes Kwai Vavai, Kwa Mbaa musiu, would regale us with tales of how he betrayed the messiah. He would narrate tales of 30 bob for Jesus Christ, Tales of how he left (divorced) his Turkana wife for slaughtering his beloved dog. (He told us that the dog was called Mainduzi- according to him, it was the best Avocado seeking dog he had ever owned.)  Yuta, who was the best lumberjack  I have ever met  would boast of his Massive saw. He spoke of, with precision and to our mesmerized brains, his favourite saw. The 700 teethed saw…yes that was Yuta.  He would speak of how he had schooled with Kipkalias Arap Ng’eno. The same Ng’eno (who according to him)  had a paunch so bid that he would not scratch it with his bare finger nails afraid that it would burst.  He would say, “  Nasoomaa na Kiplakalias Arap Ng’eno. Yu ena ivu inenene. Athuaa Ivu na usia nakwa nio vaa kwa Muteti Ndilaka Makunu…?    (I schooled with Kipkalias Arap Ng’eno but now, I am scouring the forest for  mushrooms) He would make us forget the sorrow of a funeral.  He was Yuta. Maybe as I recall him, one day, one time Yuta (who preferred to be called Judas Iscariot , the same Yuta  who would narrate tales of how he betrayed Jesus Christ  for 30 bob, Tales of how he left (divorced) his Turkana wife for slaughtering his dog.  The same yuta who  told us that the dog was called Mainduzi- (according to him, it was the best Avocado seeking dog he had ever owned.  I don’t know whether it had the specs of a hit seeking missile or not) 

Yuta, who as I recall him I tumble into  memories of, Kivini (the insane man who who kept reminding us that he was the most handsome man you have ever met ( glazing at a shop window. Hapo chic Jambo hotel, he would say (I mean kivini), Indi  kana kaa  ti kombe) He would be donning more than 77 pairs of trousers) …

Nunguni,  Nunguni… Kilungu,  When you land there, fear not of how you will get to heaven. How do you get to pearly gates of heaven? Fear not. Cosmas Mathuva  was always ready to assign you a special number. A number to heaven. He had  tiny slips of paper that he distributed to all and sundry. In a soft voice, he would say,  “Kamwana nukwenda Kuthi Ituni? Kamwana osa namba ya ungaini.”  (would you like to get to heaven young boy? Here is your number.  I hope the registration number that he gave me is Valid. If not, St. Peter… get ready to explain)

Lulunda (our guardians)

Sometimes we would be in our mud walled kitchen. Yes that kichen that bore more holes than a milk sieve. Boiling Mukeu (Githeri) is no mean feat. One of us would be instructed to get more firewood.This meant getting a piece of wood from the "kiveta" (kiveta- a stack of firewood) literary explains the saying (ula wi kivetani uthekaa ula wi iko). In a lucky occasion,, you would see the fire. Let me call it fire for I don't know the right English word for it (flames/fre). Across the valley, you would see it burning, flaming, yes blazing brightly. the flames would glow embrace and reassure you. It is the most beautiful flame I have ever witnessed. The flames were radiant, illuminating and assuring. I recall grandma placing her hand on my shoulder and saying (In a voice she can only command) that is not normal fire. Our village is protected from all evils. What you see is not fire, it is "athiani " (living dead) they take care of us, protect us. It only strikes me now that I have a very vague memory of my great- grandmother who was a mundu-mue (she knew the ways of magic. I bet she would have given Harry Potter a run for his money in wizarding ways. J.K Rawling hear that....wink ..wink) back to the flames, there was a cardinal rule, never point at the flame. Next, upon witnessing the flaming glow torch of security we would summon our neighbors to witness it. some of us  remember us huddling on that rotten excuse of a fence? To cap it all, as we went to bed, we would be certain of where we saw the fire. We would be certain of the exact spot the flames were for we knew the ways of the hills. our blood breathed Nunguni hills. We were the hills and the hills were us. However, at the break of dawn, no matter how early we woke up, early enough to witness the frogs mating at "wakulila" stream (I don't know why they named the stream wakulila ) we never witnessed a scorched portion of land. It felt as if the flames of yesternight were floating, a figment of our collective imagination. The flames that never burnt a single leaf of dry eucalyptus tree leaves. The flame that mesmerized us, held us in perpetual awe. We gasped, we trembled, we were scared,we were safe for 'athiani' were with us. We simply named them (too scared to call the fire by its name) 'LULUNDA' That was my world, It is small because it does not have a voice. It is big because it rests on the crest of shattered dreams. It is wild for it is a ship who's captain lost it all. We are losing, we have lost everything, no more dances (kilumi, kithembe etc) born in a generation wallowing in a pool of lost identity. I can not claim to be Kenyan if I have no answer to the question, ' Who am I?' (oh the vitriol that follows you when you speak. Yes that accent I am trying to drop. I will be 'kienze, not KYENZE (PRONOUNCED CHENZE)) tuendelee ...... The next day, I would be chanting and memorising Catechism lessons. Getting tamed to be a good Catholic. Under the tutelage of Methodius Mitusi. The catechist who served the church for 36+ years. The catechist who Pope John Paul II acknowledged (I hope our parish did not lie about this) I recall the days and the joyful comfort of sleeping on grandma's Vono bed (it was springy and comfy) wetting it every other night. (remember Nyakake in John Ruganga's Burdens) I would wake up. (not prompted by pee on my bed) they would happen, they always did, tom tom, oh the sounds ,the sounds would come on risinng into a wild orgasmic crescendo of vibrating and 'adulating' Akamba music (lost and will never be recorevered). The mwali, nzeano,kilumi, lullabys would go on. I used to sit on that bed with my hair literary on the roof. Then she wakes up, Grannie wakes ups and says, 'I hear them too. Do not answer them. They are taking of us' I am not writing for Africa, I am trying to remember my moments of bliss . ohh Nunguni. Ohh Home, where i never belonged