Sunday 28 September 2014

Growing up 2

The tales of my growing up continues. I finally graduated to upper primary and the drama that was my life in class 4 and 5 will leave you in stitches. I hardly remember any gud things that I did during that time in my life apart from the good grades and being smart in composition writing. Atleast I was good in school. I however found myself on the wrong side of the law back at home. I think its the company I kept. It had a negative influence on my life as compared to the one I had in school.

I think I should start this post by telling you this. It is one thing I hate to remember. In meru culture, especially the Tiganians where I come from, young boys have to undergo some rights of passage (Wiiyi bukuru). These are several stages that are meant to prepare a young boy before he becomes of age and finally faces the knife for him to be termed as an adult (Nthaka).

During holidays and on weekends, I could join my cousins and other young boys for herding. I must admit that I was very tiny hence the weakest of them all. Whatever they told me I would most definetely do. I had to adhere to their rules or else I risked being sent away with our two cows at the middle of the day (Kwathurirwa) or worse still get a ban of not going herding with them any more.
During this time, I had not undergone the young boys right of passage and so were my cousins and friends, I later learnt. They however teased me that they had, a thing I so innocently believed.

‘We  shall not be herding with someone who has not undergone the right of passage (Mbura muu).’ My cousin protested. You either accept that we do it for you or you cease to be in our company. I had to fit in no matter what. I had to be man enough and accept to cross the line although I had no idea what the procedure was like. My crystal balls told me it wasnt something cool thou. However, after some serious soul searching I finally woke up one day and told them that I was ready for the breath taking event. You wont believe what those young naive village boys did to me all in the name of a right of passage.

‘Strip naked,’ My cousin instructed. This I did with so much ease. Boy! He plucked a euphorbia tree stem (Muthuuri) and squeezed its poisonous milky sap on my member. Have you ever seen someone whose eyes have come into contact with that euphorbia juice? Thats exactly what I’m talking about. You could have seen my walking style that evening as I walked home, legs apart and in a snails pace. The pain I was experiencing was unbearable. I wont talk about how swollen my member was here. It is an abomination, besides I still have gat my manners.

Before I continue, I must tell you categorically that what those boys did to me is not part of the normal Meru rights of passage. It was just an invention by those small boys to trick me that they had undergone the same and that they were more men than I was. I later underwent the normal rights of passage a year later while in class five and I tell you they had nothing to do with smearing my member with Euphorbia juice. It is however not within my mandate to share with you what the normal rights of passage were like. That I will have to connsult Njuri ncheke elders and get back to you with the tales if they give me their blessings to do so. Keep your fingers crossed that they do. I digress.

When I got home that evening, it never took my mum long before she finally discovered that there was something terribly amiss with me. When she insisted that I tell her what it was, I told her that euphorbia juice got into my member as I was urinating on a fence during the day. See, I never lied to her. Atleast I mentioned euphorbia juice and my member, I only forgot to mention the boys who did it to me, I blame my forgeting on the pain I was experiencing thou, hahaha!!. However, mum did not take my explanation just like that. Mum is the kind of a person who feels it deep in her blood system when you cheat. She didnt need rocket science to know I was lying. I however insisted and she finally took it. I remember how she used warm water to wash my member that night with hope that it would save the situation.

In the morning, the situation had become worse. Mum carried me on her back to the nearby Tigania Mission Hospital. In hospital, I was placed on a bed in my birth suit, the nurse threatened me to either tell her what had happened to me or she would cut the whole thing off. See, this thing aint hair or grass, it would not sprout after being chopped off. Confession ensued. Believe you me I never left out a single drop of the truth during the confession. I had to do anything possible to save the ‘Future Generation’.  Mum listened to every bit of the truth I had denied telling her the previous night. Finally I confirmed her worst fears.

Thank heavens the nurse worked on it well and by the following day things were back to normal. The lesson was learnt, though through the hard way. It took mum more than a year before she allowed me to go herding with those naughty boys again. When I went back herding I had undergone the full cycle of the rights of passage, and so were my friends. We were all mature boys then (Iyiyi biikuru).

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When we joined class 4, we were mixed up; those who were in class 3 Tiger and Elephant. I was lucky I remained in Elephant once more. It is while in class four Elephant that I met friends that I have kept to date. Martin and Titus stands out. I have fond memories of how we played during break time, branding ourselves wrestling stars. Martin – Mike Tyson, Titus – Hitman and myself – Shawn Michaels. Mehn! We fought all in the name of playing, wrestling was our thing. We always ignored the ‘Dont try this at home’ warning that is repeatendly played during the wrestling show on TV. Sorry, we never ignored coz we never tried it at home anyway. We only did it in school. On Sundays after mass we would go (The three of us) to Muriri shopping centre to catch a movie for five bob. I would do anything to get that five bob even if it meant stealing it from my mum or not taking offertory during mass and instead saving my five bob offering to go watch a movie (God have mercy on me). My favourite actor was Van Damme back then. On Mondays movie reviews would fill the air and take the better part of our free time, narrating to our friends who were not as previleged as we were to make it to the ‘7D Movie Theatre’ (A small dark room the size of a 14 seater nissan matatu that accomodated about 35 people and fitted with a 14 inch Sanyo TV that showed actors the size of my small finger).

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I so loved Speedo pen, a black speedo pen to be precise. Ngai! Si! that pen was a monster! There was something about this pen that got me fascinated. I can brag if my humble self allows me to; that there was no any other boy or girl who used Speedo in my entire class during those days (If you say I’m lying, just raise up your hand and imma give you a second to prove it). May be they never used it coz they didnt get the magic of writing using the pen or because they had no idea where it was being sold. They all struggled with Aim and Bic like it was a prescription to them. But do I say!
Speedo – Write on!

I credit my good grades in English composition and Kiswahili insha to that pen. I remember the first composition I ever wrote was titled, ‘My School.’
Mr. Kathurima our english teacher who doubled as our class teacher didnt care what you wrote when he added us each a foolscap. All he wanted was a foolscap filled with writing at the end of the 40 minutes. During the first 5 or so minutes, the entire class became so quite, we exchanged glances, giggled, smiled and scratched our little heads. A few minutes later, I looked right, left back and forth and saw people writing. Whatever it is that they were writing I had no idea. My pen finally stepped on that fool scap about ten minutes later. Ideas finally started rolling in my oval shaped head. You would have seen how my black speedo was doing endless break-dance moves on that white sheet of paper.

I wrote on a whole one side of the foolscap in a record 25 minutes and handed over my paper to to the teacher. A week later, the teacher gave us back our papers, know what? I was the top with 28/40. He poured me praises for my good writing and even requested me to read my composition aloud to the entire class. However, he told me had I not used a pen to write I would have scored higher marks.
‘I said, use pencils in writing your composition, it seems its only you who didnt follow instructions. I however forgive you because you scored good marks,’ Warned the teacher.
I honestly could not remember when he said we use pencils. There I was, used a pen and managed to score 28 when most of my classmates had a zero-something. That gave me confidence and I maintained good grades in composition writing.

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It is while I was in class 5 that the school feeding programme by the Plan International was introduced. This was the second best thing that ever happened to our lives while in school after the Nyayo Milk for Schools that we only tasted twice or thrice while in nursery school before all the Nyayo cows died of foot and mouth disease.

The school feeding program helped us a great deal. Not because there was no food at home but because it saved us the agony of running home for lunch in the afternoons, a one and a half kilometre distance. Before the programme we would run all the way home, take lunch while standing and again run back to school to save time for playing. This made us sweat so much that concentrating in class in the afternoon was next to impossible. Most of us especially boys went to school bare footed, not because we didnt have shoes, but because of our love for the ball. Those with shoes would hardly be allowed to play football for claims that they would injure those without during the match. To save ourselves the ordeal, we opted to leave the shoes back at home.

During the hot season, the dusty paths would become too hot and walking bare footed was so hard, we had to walk besides the fence on either sides of the paths. Mum forced me to put on shoes, I would sometimes, though I would hide them on the fence immediately I was out of the gate. I would pick them and put them on with my dusty feet to avoid a beating from mum. I told you I was naughty, sorry! I was smart.

Eating in school felt so cool. It saved us alot. People ate so much, those who took more than one plate we branded them ‘Combiners’ These were mostly boys, you could not miss a girl or two thou, who had such mannerisms. The greedy ones. Far from combining, there were those who traded the ingredients they carried with food. Not every day that food would remain for them to combine. Sometimes the teacher on duty would notice them and chase them away as they tried  to combine while the entire school had not been served. To make up for that, they always carried royco cubes, curry powder and avocado fruits. You see, these merchants would put you a small fraction of a royco cube and in exchange he would get two spoon full of githeri from the client(A royco cube used to cost 2 shillings and 50 cents then and it would be shared among 5 or so people, that translated to ten spoon full of githeri). This applied to Carry powder and Avocado as well. Some people had eating records I tell you.

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Bullies never miss in any place. My school was no exception. One boy, a classmate was that type. He bullied me every opportunity he got. I feared him to bits and froze any time he came near me. Coincidentally, they had a piece of land next to our home. On Saturdays, he would come to the shamba with his brother. They would visit our home during the day after their investigations showed that it was only me and my kid brother that were at home. They would beat us at our home, get into the house, eat our lunch and threaten us that they would beat us on Monday if we dared tell anyone. We played by their game. Zed (Thats the name we called him in school) made my life both in school and at home so difficult. One day he beat me and my friend Martin so hard that Martin reported him to his cousin, Muchena who was in class seven then. The following day Zed received a discipline of its kind. That marked the end of his bullying and the begining of our friendship with Zed.

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I know I have talked so much about mum in this post and the previous one and I can feel you ask, ‘how about you tell us a lil bit about your dad?’ Here we go. I know I will have to do a whole post about my dad. However, it would be only good if I introduced the great man right now.

When I was growing up, my dad used to work several kilometres  away from home, in Maasai Mara Game Reserve – Mara Buffallo Camp. He was at home very few days in a year. However, the little time he was at home meant alot for us. Mum always made us understand why dad had to be away for several days. That we understood so well, he loved us, thats why he stayed away so we could eat, drink, put on and remain in school. It is absolutely because of his prolonged absence and lots of sacrifices from this great man that I am where I am today. Thank you dad.

Whenever dad was at home you could actually smell it. You didnt have to see him to know he was around. My dad used to smoke (Thank God he finally stopped). Growing up there was no smell that was as good as that of cigarette (Sportsman). It smelled so sweet. Something in me changed eventually and the opposite is now true. Maybe because dad stopped smoking or they might have changed the flavours that made cigarette back in the day.

The second thing that would tell you that dad was around was the soap he used for bathing. He still
use it to date. Protex! Dad loves that soap. Protex manufacturers should actually give dad a call right away and reward him for being such a loyal customer. It is a common rule that dad must use protex for bathing. I can actually smell Protex as I write this article some 450 Km away from home.
As I write this, Dad is somewhere in Washington DC with his two lovely grand daughters, his elder sons’ daughters. I will have to call and find out if there is Protex up there in the land of opportunities.
Enough about my dad for now. I have to save the rest for another post. He deserves a whole post about himself. Trust me it will be a nice read, that I promise. Deal!?  

My speedo pen has to take a rest before it embarks on writing yet another post on the tales of our growing up together (The Speedo and myself). Watch this space for part 3 of this sequel.


Dad & his grand daughter, Imani in Wasgington DC

Thursday 31 July 2014

Growing up 1

I am seated in the office as I write this post, doing what you are doing right now; stealing your boss’ time. The only slight difference being I’m stealing time to write while you are stealing time to read it. You won’t regret though. That, I assure you.



I felt I should write and share with you how my growing up was like. This means I should walk you through the stages of my life from childhood to date. Although I can’t remember every bit of my life in detail, I’m dead sure that the little I can remember is not less than five volumes of a novel put down in a simple uncomplicated queen’s language. My very early childhood is so scattered that’s why, at the very onset, I must admit it’s hard for me to put all the pieces together, lest I be put on the cross for the sins of omission. All I know, to begin with, and as an indisputable fact, is that I was born in Tigania Mission Hospital, the so called “Kwa Baatiri”, somewhere in Tigania, Meru.
My small mind developed that part that records events (Natural memory card) when I turned five. This is the age when I was enrolled in nursery school in Muthara Primary School. Sorry, did I  forget to mention that Muthara was not just a Primary School but a Full Primary School? It is at Muthara Primary School where I can comfortably start telling you about my childhood. Don’t ask me whether I was not in existence before I turned five. That I don’t know. I have been looking for the answer for the last two decades too. How google happens not to have the answer as yet, I’m yet to know. Back to the story. Where were we? Oh! Here! How excited I was as mum held my hand as we walked to school for the first time is beyond words this keyboard can print. The broad smile I wore on my face told just a fraction of what I felt inside my already throbbing heart.

 Photo courtesy of Google images 
It had not hit me for a second that Mum was going to leave me in that ugly place called school not long after ‘depositing’ me there. Cried I did, I must tell you, upon realizing that Mum had left me. There I was, helpless in this big room full of boys and girls, some so tiny and others so big (Bigger than my elder sister who was in class four then).  Two minutes ago, I walked in that class smiling and now here I was, crying so loud, louder than I used to after getting an injection at Mutirithia’s dispensary. If this is not what they call mood swing, then I don’t know what it is. I was happy and smiley for five minutes, but the next five minutes, after remembering my family members, I was weeping and sobbing uncontrollably
Were it not for the tender care and timely intervention of one teacher Nkatha (May she R.I.P) who soothed me to stop crying by inviting me to sit on her chair as she went about her teaching business; I guess I would not have stopped wishing I never joined school. 
Did I tell you I had several neighbours in class? Oh! Sorry! I almost forgot. There were a bunch of them. But of all those neighbors, Simon, aka “Saimo” stands out. Saimo became my friend the very first day. Frankly, he is the one who took me home that day. Needless to say, he is the reason I loved school. As a brother, he always protected me from the naughty classroom bullies. I remember him carrying me on his back severally as we crossed the river on our way to and from school using the wooden bridge. I had this unending phobia of crossing the river using that wooden thing they called a bridge. I thought I could fall and get swept away by the waters of Kwathumara (Ewasomara) River. Even when my friend carried me on his back, I shut my eyes and only opened them when he told me we were already on the other side. Saimo made my life in school so smooth by helping me in virtually everything. In the mornings he passed by our home and called me so we could go to school together. I wish I recorded my whole nursery school life in some tape somewhere. It would have been a very thrilling movie to watch; especially in 3D, or Blue Ray!
Eventually, and unwillingly, I should add, I got used to school and loved everything about it although I had one problem: waking up in the morning. I still have that problem to date. I still find it difficult to cut short the sweet warmth of the blanket when the cock crows and face the cold wind and the dew on the grass all in the name of ‘not being lazy, but hard working’. I have fond memories of how we made alphabetical letters using grass outside the classroom, molding different things like pots, toys and radios using clay that we collected from the banks of River Kwathumara, and building houses using stones. Back then, we had lovely singing voices too. We sang after every fifteen minutes or so, maybe to cut on the monotony of class work or to keep us awake. Here is a treat to one of the songs I loved. Don’t mind the language. When we coincidentally meet next time kindly wet my ever-dry throat with some good whisky and I swear I’m gonna teach you how it goes:
Twana twa nursery
Ni tuwirakua, tukiaria gichunku
turi cukuru
Teacher ni mwarimu,
Chair ni giti,
Window ni ndiricha,
Door i murango

There is nothing much to celebrate about my life in class one to three. I so much hated school during this time in life, why lie? You see! I have a sleeping problem, as I have already revealed to you. How on earth they expected me to make it to school by 7:30 AM I couldn’t understand, neither have I understood to this date. Many are the days when I faked illnesses so I could not go to school. Some other days I could just hide in a thicket somewhere along the way and after an hour or so go back home and report to my mum that I had been sent back home by the teacher on duty for tardiness.
Mum would not take my excuses for not going to school on all occasions. On occasions, she would beat me up and call me all sorts of names whenever she learnt that I had lied to her. My mom is the kind of a person who would beat you up using anything she laid her hands on. Sometimes she would pinch your ears and your thighs so hard that you got wounds. On other occasions, she would turn ‘carnivorous’, as my elder brother always joked about her later, and bite your arms unreservedly, all in the name of fighting the stupidity and the stubbornness in us. I was used anyway; pity me not much for were it not for that beating though, you could not be reading this piece today. 
After mum beat me I would disappear and hide somewhere in a dark corner within the compound sobbing. At night, mum would always grab a torch and start looking for me threatening that if I did not turn myself in to sleep in time I would be attacked by ‘Muka-o-kiundu.’ The mere mention of Muka-o-Kiundu would send cold spells down my spine. The name itself sounded so scary, doesn’t it? This used to scare me to hell, and I would run towards her and we would reconcile before retiring to bed. Mum always made sure she punished us after having eaten super. I have never known why; I must ask her one of these fine days, at least to confirm my wild guess.
I loved the games we played. It was so much fun playing ‘thari’ ‘tapoh’ and making cars using match-boxes and bottle-tops as wheels. Are you asking me about computer games? Excuse me! I was born long before generation X came into being. So, are you now asking what generation X is? I know not much about them, but I’m told that it is the generation that hosts those who replace an S with an X in every word they write: The xaxa xema xwirie generation. Garrit?
At the School, our games changed with seasons. During the rainy season we used to swim in dirty rain water and slide in mud with all our clothes on. I wish the guys who did that Omo advert came to our home for the ‘Dirt is good’ advert shoot. Dirt to us was indeed so good. I was so smart, not as smart as mum though, or at least as she expected her favorite son to be. I would change my clothes after they got dirty and hide them under the mattress on my bed.  Nevertheless,  my ‘all-knowing’- mum would soon discover them after a few days during her routine checks of whether I had done what I was so good at; wetting the bed! Can’t believe I just said that! Shhhh! 

I so hated myself for it. This is one problem I always tried so hard to fight. Don’t laugh at me if I tell you that I did it till the end of first term in class six! You can imagine the trauma I was going through, a whole class six boy wetting the bed while his kid brother who was in class three then was not.  
It was a common rule in the entire family that I should never be given any form of liquid at night. This disturbed me for I could not sit down staring at my siblings enjoy ‘Kirario’ (Fermented gruel), coffee, tea or juice. “Don’t give him, ‘akeeya kwonoria nkibutu’.” Mum severally warned my siblings. It is all these collective efforts from every family member that saw me stop that bad habit. I am glad that I finally did. 
Back in school, my performance deteriorated. I was never serious in class, not even at one moment. What the teacher taught got in through one ear and went out through the other. I remember being number 28 out of 32 in second term in class two!
Our school was three streamed, if you know what I mean; we had Tiger, Elephant and Lion. I was in class One, and Two Lion. Our class teacher was tough. And here, I mean tough, as nails, because he made us fear him. He used to beat us ruthlessly and mercilessly. Methinks he is the reason I performed so poorly. Mr. Mwika (Kabitotooh), for that is the nickname students had assigned him; made sure we toed the line no matter what. And towing the line we did.
It was a sigh of relief when we reported back to school in January ready to proceed to class 3 and it was announced that there would be no more ‘Lion’ stream. This meant I would either join class 3 Elephant or Tiger. I joined Elephant. And there, in Elephant, I remained up to class eight. It is while in class three that I met Madam Arachi, the class teacher. Madam Arachi, in more ways than one, changed the way I perceived school. My grades improved tremendously and in third term I booked my prestigious place in the top ten list. I was number 8! I never looked back ever since. And from that time on till I completed my primary education I never at one time went below number 8. All credit, unreservedly, goes to Madam Arachi who made me change. 
Anyone who went to Muthara Primary School during my time knew Ms. Kaloki. She was elderly and had only one leg. We used to carry firewood for her. The entire school did. I remember how the Headteacher, Mr. Muthaa, would make the announcement during the assembly that all pupils should carry a piece of firewood for Ms. Kaloki the following morning, failure to which one would be severely punished. This he made sure sunk and got stuck in our little heads like glue. He finished his announcement with his usual Kimeru phrase, ‘Buwikua luui chiana.’ Once firewood was brought, we would sometimes be tasked with the responsibility of taking them to Kalokis’ home during break time. There would be no better way of doing a CSR than what we did to Ms. Kaloki, may she R.I.P. I know she is happy for all of us for what we did for her while she was alive. 
Most pupils did this act of charity in the morning and during lunch hour they were doing totally the opposite, walking through another old woman’s garden all in the name of a short cut. Her name was ‘Nkingo chobo.’ Pupils called her so because of her swollen neck, I assume. This woman would utter the worst insults you can think of, throw stones at the trespassing pupils and worst of all throw the panga she used for weeding. She was so fierce; I can’t count the number of times she came to the school to report to the headmaster that pupils were trespassing through her shamba calling her all sorts of names. You see, this woman was half blind. If only pupils would pass without calling her names, she couldn’t notice them. Mannerless little brats with rotten behavior.
‘Tomorrow come with a kiili (A thorn branch), buwikua luui chiana? (Have you heard you children?) The head teacher would tell us. The thorn branches were to seal the openings on the fence where pupils used to make their way through the old woman’s garden. Whoever used to remove them after sometime must have been one heartless person. 
The schools lower primary classrooms were not cemented on the floors. The three walls were made of iron sheets, while the remaining side was made of half iron sheets and half tree branches. The half that was made of tree branches acted as windows. On Fridays we used to carry jerry cans for fetching water to pour on the floor of our classrooms to calm the dust and chase the fleas that were a nuisance in the rooms.
Every last Friday of the month we would carry cow dung and ashes. The two would be mixed with water to make a paste-like mixture that would be used to ‘cement’ our classrooms. Girls would perform this magic as the boys fetched water down the river to make the magic work. I loved Fridays, I still do.
I loved Kimeru lessons like no other; they were the best lessons ever. I’m a person who loves his mother tongue to the core and speaks it every opportunity I get. I pity today’s children, especially those that are born, raised and educated in urban settings. Which mother tongue do they identify with? You see, that’s the reason I’m 100% behind Prof Kaimenyi and his entire team that is advocating for mother tongue to be taught in every public school in the entire country from class one to three. This would help in a way.                                          
Books like; “Wui wiiji atea”, “Jukia iuku tukathome” and “TKK”. I remember the stories and the songs between the covers of these three books like yesterday. If you happen to be reading this right now, which I’m sure you are, and you have these three books, or even one of them, plus the other that had “Kaaria, Meeme and Kaburu akimunta muntaa ruuji na kamuti”, please halla at your boy, Kaburu a.k.a. “Doctor”. I need them more than ever before. My copies must have been consumed by ants somewhere in a dark corner inside my rectangular shaped hut back in Linkurungu village.
It is while in class three that I acquired the nickname I have retained to date, ‘Doctor.’ This name was given to me by a class mate, Kabengi. We were just playing normal games during break time and he got injured. I picked chalk dust that had fallen below the black board and smeared it on his fresh wound. Miraculously, he came to class the following morning with his wound having dried up and he just called me Doctor. For healing his wound he gave me the nicest nickname one could ask for. Almost all my friends call me by the name to date.
Now you are in the know, so don’t ask me when I went to med school or did my PhD. I did mine while in class three.
Did I tell you that we could tell the time of the day using the busses that plied the Meru – Maua road? Yes, we did. Our home is a stone throw-away from the road and so we could clearly tell the vehicles on the road without much ado. Kamawe bus would make it to Linkurungu some fifteen minutes to or past 1 Pm. That cardinal rule announced time for us to have lunch especially during holidays when it was hard for us to tell what time of the day it was (There used to be a huge clock on the wall in our house but it was next to impossible to tell what time it was by merely staring at those three thin sticks in it like our seniors used to).  
Overland bus would pass around four o’clock in the evening closely followed by Gathanga bus at around five. The rest of the busses and mini-busses, such as Nyayo bus, Stagecoach, Mwakilishi (Junior and Immaculate), Kibwango (Witness and Generation) rung no bells to us for they made endless unpredictable trips that to us were meaningless. 
It’s with so much nostalgia that I remember how we used to sit on those stones outside our gate overlooking Kuani hills in the evenings as dad listened to rhumba music on his radio and we (Myself & kid bro) counted cars that passed on the road while mum and grandma would be peeling beans or peas for supper. Wui tene!!
If there is any dirty person that I have ever set my eyes on in my entire life, then it should be Muribi. He was tall and black (Not dark, but charcoal black). During CRE lessons in school when the teacher told us to imagine and draw a picture of what we thought satan looked like, Muribi always came into my mind, I don’t know the connection, but it used to happen. God forgive me. Methink it’s because the teacher always told us that cleanliness is second to Godliness. 
Whenever I met that man on the way I would just turn back and run as fast as I could. The only time he might have come into contact with water since his birth would probably be a day or two when rain caught him unawares. I assume!
Mehn! You could have seen his coat. It was a linen suit coat that would be mistaken to a black leather jacket because of that dirty layer that glittered from a distance. Muribi had put on that coat for as long as I had known him. He even died in it. Yes! I know because Muribi died peacefully as he took a nap under a tree in Muriri shopping centre holding a half loaf of bread (Kadogo) R.I.P Muribi.
I feared this one man to bits, I feared him more than I did these three men; Mwana-o-mulukia (The padlock engineer), Kauwiria -Ntothiring’a (The man who had a PHD in insults) and Thomas-Toma (The mad man in my village who spoke the best English I had ever heard in that part of the universe).



Tuesday 17 June 2014

Somewhere in Karengata

Its been a long time since we were together
I am still in Karengata and I miss you more than ever
In early spring we parted and I’ve been here since then
But if I could only see you again
 
Meet me in Karengata on a moon lit night
We could be in Jubilee again being shone by that beautiful light
We should be together and may be we just might
If you could only meet me somewhere in Karengata tonight
 
I remember Blax as we sat on that beautiful couch at the corner
And as the music played we cracked the best jokes ever
In a restuarant in Karens’ cold day
And the memories refuse to go away
 
Dont you remember those beautiful days?
I miss your laughter and all your little ways
I can still see you in Blax dancing on that beautiful square
Drinking wine in that fine glass, how i wish that we were there
 
I hate fate for driving us different ways
If we were meant to be, then we shall, one of these fine days
My prayer for you is to always be happy, hoping that our bond forever stays
I treasure every moment we ever shared, and wish you well always