I TOO HAVE DREAMS

                               I TOO HAVE DREAMS

I too have dreams. I know I am not a child of a lesser God. I have dreams, I dream of a big belly, double chin and a fat account to boot. I dream of a nice, fat, distended pot belly. The kind of potbelly that is always threatening to rip open my shirt buttons. I need a pot belly that will balloon at the same rate with the national debt. That is the kind of pot belly I dream about.  There is pleasure in having a pot belly, every time I will be seated with my less fortunate tribesmen, I will keep massaging my pot belly. I will enjoy the pleasurable sensation of massaging my potbelly as I sooth the drumsticks I ate the previous night. My phone will ring, and as my PA hands it over, I will be leaning back in my chair, throw my head back and while leisurely massaging my beloved potbelly, I will proceed to talk to whoever is calling for the next pot belly hour.

I dream of a double chin too. The kind of fat, double chinned neck that shows all markings of success. I need a double chin that will keep the new wife I will marry busy. A man of my status needs a contingent of young wives to keep him young.

However, before I can actualize this dream, my brothers we must have a one on one. My brothers, those people have been eating, they have been stealing, it is about time our tribe produced a great leader. It is time, it is our time to eat. When I am elected, I will steal the same way they have been stealing, I will grow rich too. My brothers, the good thing is, when I grow rich, you grow rich too, I will build a mansion to behold, and then you can take photos of my wives and kids fighting in the rooftop swimming pool then post them on instagram and facebook. You will have a chance to get back to those people who have always insulted you. Those mean people who have always rubbed the poverty prevalent in our region on your faces. You will tag them in that photo of my wives and children fighting on the roof top swimming pool as proof of the fruits of devolution.

My, people, I am truly tired of the quacks in our public hospitals. I want to be certain that, in case I cannot sleep because of flatulence, or any member of my house is affected by constant flatulence, we will be flown to a far off land for medication. To deal with a case of wealth induced flatulence, you require doctors who are used to handling such cases. Our doctors are used to handling minor issues like kwashiorkor,marasmus, malaria, malnutrion etc diseases of the poor man. Flatulence is a disease of opulence. I would really like the certainty that, when it strikes, for it most certainly will, I will be flown to a distant country for proper medication.

My brothers, we are not children of a lesser God, at least one of us should have a pot belly and a double chin, and that person is me!

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

mathina ma mundu muka.... english version attached

MATHINA MA MUNDU MUKA
Indi muio uu mukambaua indii?
Kusyawa kana kaka kwatwikie no ta kusyaa nzee kana luma
Ai wiiw’a, “ Ngania nusyaie!”
“Asyaie Kamwana?”
Nimukulya, kusyaa kelitu to kiumo?

Kana kelitu, kainenevanga nivo kitau indi,
Kavithe vita utave kiw’u,
Katinda vita ukamanthe ngu
Kanini kua mwana
Mutuku na mutua,
Mwamina kusoma endai mukathauke
Indi kelitu ko ngamile kana ing’oi!

Amwi ma mbaitu, akii ekai kueka
Kelitu kainenevanga nasu masembete
“Inyaa kavithe, kelitu kaa kaivikie,
Kai kwisa uvita ivinda.”
Uiseng’a na kwiikulya kevika ko ndula, ikolovia kana ngwasu.
Mayiamuka iting’i syiile musainga, yaani syiile andu
Kwakya tene vala ndia yikilaw’a itheka
Mayosa wenzi, na uyathamya ta ndia inamina mboka
Ngw’e, kila ukona no nthakame na woo wi nthumi.
Kyalo kii kya kelitu ki woo na muvevetanio wa maeo

Ona uuma wa nzaiko utenavoa
Matumila manene meania mavu myatu
Na tungi twakuie tutialye o ametho
Maivitukana ta ngali kya mathau
Maivika- ai yu ni monie kiveti
Akiau woo wi mateng’e tusu.

Indi niwene wakwatiwa ni walola
Wavita matatwa ta yesu weuni
Uyoswa uthi ukatungate wia wa nyumba
Ona ndwisi kwivanguula kimia nesa
Kuamuka ni saa kumi,
Kukoma, ona ndukawete
Kuthambya miio,kuvua ngua, kuua, kuea syana
Muiseng’e indi, Kana kaaea kangi.
Uiseng’a uyona yila itumila ya musyi
Yitetemete na kwita mavuyu
Yii mavuyu ta ngiti ya mung’ethya
Uikaya ngai ndethya, yiyia aiutunga mundu muima.

Mathina ma mwiitu makuawa na mbawa
Ayosa aitwawa ni nyamu mbai
Yamina kwivuuia nzovi na nyama sya uvivya
Yitata ukwiliila ngundi ukaluma to kwaunya
Uikaya uitinwa utheele kitimba kyu kiyakana mwaki
walea utwaa ndii mwakoni Kati usu
ukakuiwa sivitali Kinyata

Anaasa ni mukulya,
Mbaitu nimuthaitha mundavye
Kyalo kii ki kyeva na methoi
Kyalo kii kya mundu muka kikathela indii?

A WOMAN’S WOES

Will  time’s ever change?

 Would you equate the girl child-

To a porcupine- a wild animal?

Once a baby is born, “Is it a boy child?”

There goes the question

Is a girl-child a curse?

As a girl child grows older,

So does her woes grow:

Kavithe, fetch water,

Kanini, take care of the baby

Katinda ,collect firewood

Mutuku and Mutua, after your homework-

It’s your playtime

Why make a girl a beast of burden

A donkey, a camel!

Adherents, custodians of culture and tradition                   

Hawk eyed aggressive troop to your home

“she has come of age, she is just about ripe!”

Ripe?  Wonder; is she an avocado or tamarind?

Early in the morning,

Before the crack of dawn

A chilly ungodly hour

There goes the sharp knife

Pain, violation and mutilation

The blood, the excruciating pain

The woes of being a woman

As the horrid sore festers

Men, old men start trooping in

Big beehive bellied men

Skinny wizened geezers

The yoke of early marriage

The terrors of being a girl

Lady luck smiles upon you

By the skin of your teeth escape

Yet the troubles are compounded

The yoke of child labour beckons

You are shipped off- an house-girl

The wee small hours- you wake up

Long work hours, long work hours

Utensils, laundry, cooking, children

Soon lands the man of the house

A rabid dog’s foaming

As you cream for help

Defilement, the pain of rape

Your Innocence is brutally devoured

A woman’s woes are insurmountable

 She lands a wife batterer for a husband

After a drinking and ‘nyama’ eating spree

It is blow after blow

it is either death or Kenyatta hospital

My brothers

My Kin, please answer me

It is always sorrow and tears

Will the tide ever change?

A TALE OF TWO RAILWAY LINES. PART 2: THE LOST SAFE

THE LOST SAFE

 The morning after the abortive tryst between Pita and the citizen, he woke up with an entire congregation of the Akorino sect members drumming and jumping up and down vigorously as they were wont to, in his head. The pounding in his head sounded like a mix of Allan Aaron’s ni kiriro and Daddy Owen’s System ya Kapungala. As he struggled to sit up on his bed, his head felt heavier than the cannon balls the Portuguese used in fort Jesus during the siege by the  Imam of Oman, Saif I bin Sultan.  The trip to the watering well to down some glasses of alcohol always produced the same results. A very nice feeling of being high and then the next morning, the mother of all regrets rests in your head chanting, I told you so, I told you so in a tone reminiscent of an evil mother-in-law taunting her daughter-in-law. It is crime and punishment.

He rose lethargically and started dressing. Personal hygiene was not one of Pita’s strong points and sometimes he could pull off a three day stretch without visiting the bathroom. The effect of this was that, he had a permanent characteristic odour hovering around him wherever he went. Apparently, he was a perfect embodiment of a childhood nickname that he had earned in class two- Lwenge (The skunk) He had earned this title because he had the uncanny ability of sending the class teacher out class whenever he felt like it. The process involved raising one cheek of his bum slightly and passing wind.

If you were unlucky to be within 100 metres radius from where Pita the lwenge  released  his secret weapon, then you would undergo an unforgettable chemistry lesson on diffusion. From his inner chambers, Pita would spew a stinking gas that could easily hospitalize a fully grown elephant, maim several rhinos and most likely put the entire population of the wildebeest in the Maasai Mara on the endangered species list. The stink would permeate the overcrowded classroom that normally would be composed of about seventy mucous sucking dirty imps listening to one old overworked teacher.

As soon as the stink attacked the teacher’s nose, she would shoot off her chair as though her humongous behind had been pricked with a pair of compasses. Her matronly figure would scurry out of the room with her dress, that could easily serve as a priests cassock due to its sheer size struggling to keep up with the retreating wearer. For such feats, pita was nicknamed Lwenge (skunk). Now a young man enjoying the vitality of youth, he had managed to add another feather to his gas releasing achievement’s cap. The stale odour of sweat.

Pita salvaged a t-shirt from a heap composed both dirty and clean clothes stacked next to his bed. He had for ages believed that, mixing dirty clothes with clean ones, reduced the dirt on the former hence reducing the number of times he would undertake the boring task of laundry. It was at this moment that he realized that he was not wearing his beloved pair of shorts. His heart literary stopped, he stood transfixed on the spot stupefied with his hand frozen midair, his mouth wide open and eyes literary dangling from their sockets. He stood mannequin challenge style for several minutes trying to reboot his memory. He was basically trying to reload the last known good configuration in his brain. 

Memory lapse or gaps were part of the myriad effects of the inebriating liquid he had taken the previous day. Pita rarely took off his prized pair of shorts. Now it was a catastrophe great enough to be declared a national disaster. His short, his safe, contained twenty nine thousand shillings wherever it was. One fact was certainly evident at this point, the short was not in his hut. His knees felt weak, his stomach churned and he started trembling with telltale signs of sweat registering on his door knob like nose. It was a scandal equivalent to losing 791 million ksh NYS money, it was Goldenberg, Anglo leasing and euro bond combined. It was a matter of national security. Losing the safe was like handing over nuclear codes to you know who, it was a matter that called for the UN security council to have an emergency session. A session that for once would witness China, Russia and the USA reading from the same script.

The realization of the missing pair of shorts hit him like a gush of cold water on his face. His brain though hit hard by the previous night’s drinking, went on overdrive and the events of the previous night registered in his memory in colour. All of a sudden it felt as if he was watching the events unfurl from a distance. It was surreal and he had to lean against the mud wall of his hut in order not to keel over. He remembered the watering joint where he had gone to drink, he remembered the sudden awakening of the president, and then he could see himself speak to the citizen and presenting his manifesto to her, paying the bill and walking out of the beer den hand in hand with the citizen.

As soon as the darkness swallowed them, they started groping each other lighting an inferno within their bodies. He saw the fateful moment he decided to use a green lodge to quench his fire. He remembered stripping to his Adam’s uniform and the fateful laugh of the hyena that saw him flee from the bush.

This last memory brought him up to speed. At least he remembered where he left his prized short and pair of shoes. He put on a pair of trousers and ran out the house like a mad man. Stones and thorns pricking the soles of his caked feet were ignored. However, the thorns ended up broken before they could pierce the soles of his hard feet. Sweating and panting, he negotiated the last bend and came to the bush he had rented from the gods of lust the previous night. His heart palpitating , he came to a halt and peered into the bush. On the grass, in the bush, lay his prized pair of shorts and worn out shoes. With unsteady hands, he picked up the pair of shorts, holding his breath and closing his eyes at the same time, he carefully searched the pockets. The safe was okay. The money was there. He exhaled.

LIVING IN A BEDSITTER IS A CURSE

LIVING IN A BEDSITTER IS A CURSE

Living in a bedsitter is a curse, it is an abomination. It is nature’s way of punishing the human race.

In a bed sitter, the kitchen is right within your bedroom. You are busy cooking, while your crush is sitting on your bed, you have that habit of tasting your soup using the cooking spoon. You go right ahead and taste it, only to turn around and meet her eyes dangling from their sockets in shock.  Now you have unwittingly committed a crime of blinding your crash!

The day might turn out better than expected and crazy things happen. You pant, you sweat and then come back to planet earth. Believe me; every bedsitter tenant worth his stripes knows that there is an evil spirit that conjures up all manner of ways to torture him/her. After a hot afternoon romp, you start looking for her clothes. You will look for that tiny handkerchief sized piece of garment for hours until when you are on the brink of giving up, you find it soaking in the multicolored soup you had cooked. It will be dyed in all colours from the green sukuma wiki, yellowish potatoes, omena  and any other ingredient that you had added into the lethal concoction you had cooked for lunch

Now, Now, now, the water closet is part of the kitchen, sitting room and bedroom. Your stomach decides it is the right time to offload some of its contents. You walked into that small cubicle and press the initiate button. Now, today, of all days, when your crush is sitting on your bed, the delivery process comes accompanied with sound effects. To make it worse, the toilet acts as an amplifier and the sound can only me measured on Richter scale. 

After an agonizing process you walk out of the cubicle with a smile on your face. Now this is where things go truly wrong. You find your crush with a handkerchief tightly pressed on a nose. The fumes from your gas attack rank on the same scale with Adolf Hitler’s gas chambers. Actually, you are on the brink of being charged with committing war crimes by unleashing lethal gas on non-combatants.  To quell the disaster you grab the air freshener and spray generously in the air. Now this is an atrocity, have you ever tried to use roll on or perfume to mask the fact that you have not had a shower the past three days? This is the time you realize that you should have invested in gas masks.