I’ve missed you Lakech, taking solace only in the hope that perhaps wherever you are now, you have found as much peace, love and happiness as this world allows.
Wait, Lakech, do you still identify with the name? You would never change your name would you? Thinking fondly how you did smile from ear to ear whenever Baba called you. Do you remember him? Baba? I doubt you would. You were only six when you last saw the old man, may his soul rest in peace!
But I still remember your little delicate fingers, your gagged laughter and the light in your eyes. Light that never dimmed even when Mama and Baba contracted the disease and died within days as we watched helplessly, oblivious of the turmoil that lay ahead. They said it was a miracle we were not infected. Medics termed it unusual immunity among so many other gibberish. Whatever the case we did survive, but not each other.

I know some might consider my gesture pathetic, the last crazy rumbling of a dying man as Dr. Rakish here seem to think. He’s building an argument on how fear of my coming end is compelling my brain to conjure you (my imaginations) into existence. I dismiss him with a laugh. He doesn’t believe that you really exist, just like he never believed my wife and I were married for 25 years before she passed on. My daughter believes though. She has always been a daughter after my own heart after all.
It is to her that I’m entrusting this letter. Along with a photograph of six year old you and ten year old me. The only piece of you that has stayed with me this 40 years past. I’ve made here promise to never rest till this letter gets to you. I named her after you, you know. Lakech. Though she prefers Laky or Lucky. She is all love and light this one. Just like you were sister.

Do you ever miss me? Do you sometimes jerk awake in the middle of the night, the feeling of hollowness, emptiness hovering over you like a messenger of doom. Like a vital part of you is missing. An important piece of harmonious whole. Because this has been my life this past 40 years. The memory of you biting me like an angry cobra. And the hole in my heart, I’m ashamed to admit, not even my only daughter- your namesake has been able to fill. It is the hope I’ve lived for, perhaps a delusion that mine eyes shall not close till I see you again sister. And with perspicaciousness perhaps compelled by death I now understand Baba’s words- when it is hope, it can not be false.

Lakech, do I pour myself to you in melancholic tone? Does my words bring you sorrow? I do not want your last memory of me to be of sadness or gloom. Because then this letter would become obsolete, meaningless. Having failed to serve its only purpose; to give you closure and therefore bring you comfort. To give me closure too and a peaceful death. After all this turmoil in cruelty of this world, I should say I deserve some peace in death.

And so, I’ll spare you all the gore horrendous details surrounding our parents death, the destruction this disease brought upon our already crumpling economy. Laying to waste everything it came by. Annihilating rich families and dynasties long profiting from poor families like our own- who bytheway, were not spared either. It was a state of utter disarray, anarchy unleashed upon the land. Our parents death would be the onset of millions of deaths that would follow. No one was rich enough, powerful enough or smart enough to stop this scourge.

You must have read in African history books and journals how our country allowed this microscopic enemy to take such kind of toll on us. Medical funds from WHO disappeared in fat sweaty hands of daft maggots we allowed to lead us, such gaucherie. Our borders left open to foreigners all the while knowing that doing so was putting us into greater risks.

Do you know that of the total number of deaths recorded a quarter can not be credited to the disease? Yeah, a whole whooping quarter thanks to our proud brothers and sisters in uniform. Enforcing total lockdown indeed. Well, our vigilant police enforced even a lot more than we had burgained for. Results? Vandalized homes. Buttons allowed to run freely on folks with nothing but hunger growls in their bellies. And when that wasn’t enough, they opened fire, fancying the smell of blood and open skulls.

Perhaps then you would confirm what you’ve always known. That you were born in an unfeeling nation. Among a people inured to evil and taking sadistic pleasure in suffering and loss of life.

Eventually we did win. Humanity always finds a way to survive, see? Remember the flood in Biblical times? God became so angry he let his anger drown all of humanity. Noah and his family survived. The same happened to Lot’s family when God was raining down fire upon the filthy Sodom and Gomorrah. We too survived, in a crumpled nation nonetheless.
And from scratch I managed to build a little life for myself, sister. I’m sure Baba would be proud. I can only hope you did too, in the land far across the seas.

My fingers are growing weary from this incessant dribbling of the pen. I should end this letter now. Dr Rakesh says too much strain is no good. I can do with much work, I tell him, seeing that I’m about to rest forever.

One last thing before I conclude. You should know the day that American nurse adopted you and flew you to the US remains the darkest day of my life. And yet I couldn’t help but rejoice at your escape of this suffering, your promise of happiness. Apart of me hated myself for the pain I underwent. It was selfish to want to have you share in my turmoil, sit beside me as we watch this country burn. Such an oxymoron, right?

So, now, sister, my heart is as light as a feather. May this letter bring you to me before I breathe the last of this mortal breadth, and if you should find me gone, do not cry for me sister. Because I would have left a piece of me, in this writings. May this letter comfort you in ways I couldn’t. And may it always remain an evidence of our existence as siblings. I send you all my love, Lakech. Goodbye.

Yours Forever,
Okel

Writer: Tonny Ogwa

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The air is warm this evening. Everywhere around this fenced space is covered in bushes of rose flower. Their beauty accentuated by the crescent moon. I breath in, take it all in.
And suddenly, Kaleb’s voice whispers in my head: just breath, take it all in. Like always, he is somewhere lurking in my subconscious.

Today when you ask, perhaps everyone will have their own account of the war. How it begun. The genesis of it all. In truth though, nobody really knows the last spark that ignited one of the bloodiest tribal wars this country has ever witnessed. Because nothing really started the war. It just begun. Like an ejaculation whose time is due.
You know, not even the fancy fabrics we cover ourselves in or the beautiful haciendas we build for ourselves, the outstanding inventions our minds have conjured, scientific discoveries, great art we revel in…. None of these can hide one simple truth; that behind this facade we are kindred to every other beast of the wilderness. And beasts sometimes fight. No logical explanation behind it.

This village that lies between the thighs of two beautiful hills buried my placenta over three decades ago. It was beautiful then. The hills all green and alive, like two maned lions facing off on a duel over the control the little Hamlet below. And the rivers, fresh clear waters all flowing gracefully and to the glory of our ancestors. It’s by this river that Kaleb and I spent most of our childhood. Our fond memories still flows with the water as the river meanders along the hills towards the lake far away.

Now looking at her, the moon illuminating her two barren hills. Lifeless. Like two beasts bellowing their last death cries. The smell of death still hovers around. Everywhere you look is an evidence of man’s ability to destroy another man. Miruka village in all her glory, now just a pale shadow of her former self.

Under the same roof Kaleb and I spoke our first words. Mine was mama. His was Obedi, my name.
While I enjoyed the warmth of our mother’s thick wrapping arms and cherished the fresh milk from her bosom, Kaleb had no such pleasure. For our mother succumbed to severe haemorrhage a week after birthing him. I had been born a year before.
Baba says he smiled upon his first gulp of acrid air. Such a happy little human, oblivious of the grief he had caused by his mere existence. That he had taken a life upon his first breath did not seem to tarnish his personality one bit.

Baba never remarried. He hired a nanny to look after us when he was away, and he was forever distance in his business travels. Our maid, a young woman of Kisii ethnicity brought us up, saw us grow into lively and energetic boys. We found company in each other. Even as kids, Kaleb was quick, he was glib and generally a people’s person.
While I remained buried in books of poetry and short stories, Kaleb’s prowess in playing marble was well known far and wide. And marble game was revered by every boy in Miruka village. Sometimes we played by the river, moulding bulls using clay and ducking into the clear water clad in nothing but the love of our ancestors. Again in the water Kaleb was unrivalled swimmer. Seemingly, this lanky ever smiling boy that’s my brother was born ready made – with every skill on his fingertip.

Unbeknownst to us, our world was first changing. While we emersed ourselves in games and school and just being kids, in the real world- the adult world, tensions were fast rising, rifts forming between people who had once regarded each other as neighbours and even friends. Men had begun seeing each other in terms of us versus them. Our tribe versus their tribe.

For Kaleb and I, life was still as it was meant to be; one long party. Baba still went on his business trips only home on weekends something we had now come to accept as a norm. Sheila our nanny still made us her tasty soup, although we had noticed her reluctance to speak to us in her native language, a language she’d had devoted most of her life with us tutoring us in. She was more discreet now. As if there were eyes everywhere watching her every move.

In school both of us killed it in our own different ways. My brilliance in Sciences and mathematics was only matched with my wit in languages and literature. By the time I was in grade five, I could already recite several William Shakespeare’s sonnets much to the delight of teachers and students alike. One particular sonnet, the sonnet 18 was my every day tool for beguiling none suspecting girls I fancied;

 Shall I compare thee to a summer's day

Though art more lovely and more temperate
Raugh winds do shake the darling buds may…
And my fit bird would smile coyly, quietly slipping into the trap I had set for her.

On the friday evening when I recited Christopher Marlowe’s The Passionate Shepherd to his Love in front of the whole school still remains the greatest hallmark in my life. Even Baba took time off his businesses to watch my lips, his son’s lips give life to Marlowe’s ancient words, rolling them on my tongue, tasting their touch and beauty;

Come live with me and be my love
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills and fields
Woods or steepy mountain yields

When I was through with the last line, everyone in attendance was on their feet in a standing ovation. Tears in Baba and Kaleb’s eyes said it all. They had never been more proud of me.
In those few serene moments humanity was one united in their love for art. Right there in that very moment no form of difference man had subjected upon himself mattered. No tribe, language, religion or race could rift them apart. It’s almost impossible to imagine these same people would come to slaughter each other on the same ground a few years later.

Kaleb took to sports like a duck takes to water. He lived football, ate football, slept football and the only thing he wanted out of life was to be like that Brazilian football maestro Ronaldo Nazário. We all knew for certain that if anyone was going to lead our country to our first world cup tournament, it would be my brother Kaleb. Except our world was fast changing and not to the better. We were only too young to notice the accusatory glances thrown on those of us who were ethnic Luo by Kisii teachers. And then there was always the whispers. Adults gethered in every place whispering in low angry tones. If Baba wasn’t always too preoccupied he would be whispering too. I bet he was just as shocked as we were when it all went down.

The planting season of the year 2001 is the day my life as I had known it changed. We were just winding up on our first class when something roared like thunder. And our desks shook a little as the sky darken with smoke. We sprung to our feet and rushed out of classrooms panic written across every kid’s face. Window glasses shattered as men armed with homemade guns and arrows stormed the school.
“Miruka is Kisii only now, Luos must find another home!” They cried death written on their faces. We were frightened. Until then none of us had ever heard gunshots.

Apparently a Kisii sugarcane plantation had been touched the previous night and Luos were accused. Now Kisiis were out for revenge and they were baying for blood. And then exchange of fire and arrows ensued. As we ran about panicking and confused, none of us had any notion that our way of life had ended.
I remember Kaleb and I crouching towards the gate. And I remember something whizzing past my ear. And then I remember nothing else because suddenly Kaleb was sprawling on the ground an arrow from the back of his head sticking out of his mouth.

The two of us, Baba and I burried Kaleb on our garden behind the house that night. Sheila, the nunny had left a day before to I don’t know where. I would never forget the grief on Baba’s face that day. The pain in his eyes, the fear. Then I saw Baba do what I had never known him capable of doing. He cried. Baba wept like child. That same night Baba and I traveled to South Africa. Three decades later, only one of us made it back alive.

It’s getting dark. The clouds are slowly covering the moon. Soon it will be pitch dark, perhaps it will even rain. I cast one last long look at the fresh mound of Baba’s grave. I lay bunch of flowers where his head is suppose to be.

“You’ve had a long life old man, rest easy”, I mumble to myself.

Nearby is Kaleb’s grave. Covered in lovely flowers, as beautiful and as vibrant as he himself had been in this life. These flowers of war…

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King Solomon is supposed to be the wisest man to ever walk the face of the earth and his conjugal prowess was rumoured to be exquisite. Ask the queen of Sheba, she knows best. Sorry, you can’t, she’s long dead. Am I digressing?
Now this valiant man Solomon, owner of all wisdom and conquerer of all thigh lands and every other land in the nether regions authored a book that would later be dubbed Ecclesiastes by the leaders of the church.

In this book Solomon writes and I quote, “Naked a man comes from his mother’s womb and as he comes so he departs. He takes nothing…”
Now I’ve roved this village for decades and I can tell you with immutable certainty that the last bit of Solomon’s wisdom might not be exactly true as far as this village is concerned. Because here when people die they take things with them. Lots of things.

Dead people, nay, funerals take a lot of cattle from my village. And when I say cattle I don’t mean one or two emaciated cows that have seen better days, that would be preposterous! But who would even attend a funeral where less than ten bulls have lost their heads? Who? Even Nyawawa won’t take that funeral seriously. People must engage meat in a duel lasting for at least one month. It’s very difficult to mourn a whole villager on an empty stomach omera. Very difficult! So we slaughter bulls. Many bulls. Because we must mourn and not only in tears but also blood. Animal’s blood. The blood appeases our ancestors and assures the deceased a peaceful transition to the afterlife. The meat appeases our body.

But animals are not the only thing funerals take from us.

Funerals take a lot more. It takes our virginity. You laugh but it’s true. My friend Larry here lost his virginity in a funeral (don’t worry bro, they won’t know it’s you). When someone dies we have this thing called disco matanga. If you don’t know disco matanga there’s no way I can be of any help to you. This is one of those things you have to experience to understand, you know, like sex. You can’t expect a virgin to understand the experience of having an intercourse with someone who has body features they don’t. A disco matanga is basically organized for hormone ravaged members of the society to run wild and free through the night. There’s a lot of dancing, drinking of everything not allowed in the BBI and of course breaking virginity. People must show the deceased what they are going to miss in the afterlife.

Now I’m going to get very emotional on this one. The last funeral that occurred in this village took my sister with it. My sister! Once the deceased was laid to rest my sister was nowhere to be seen. Because that’s what funerals do, it takes other people’s sisters. And what perpetrate this vile monstrosity the most are these people called in-laws. They come stuffed in a lorry and most of them are young single males looking for equally young fit birds to trap. Like my sister. And so many other sisters. So these in-laws would be there pretending to mourn, all the while making eyes at our young unsuspecting girls. When they leave, they aren’t alone.

In my village funerals take things. The deceased don’t die alone. Solomon was wrong, tell him I said that.

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I was in the middle of Data Structures and Algorithm class, yeah, it’s one of those classes you attend only because your father sold his cows to send you to school and now your whole village is expecting a degree after four years. But I digress. When he replied to my I’m-in-class-call-later text message with another call I reckon he wasn’t going to stop calling until either I received his call or someone stole his phone, again.

“Village Rover mazee.”
“Omera I told you I’m in class,” I replied curtly.
“Chill mazee, attending every class won’t guarantee you a first class. In any case your codes rarely work.” It was typical of Larry that he saw nothing ridiculous in reminding me of my codes that doesn’t work when he’d just forcefully removed me out of a class that’s supposed to help me write codes that actually work.

“VR, remember that gig I was talking about? I’ve just started it.”
“What gig?” I asked disinterested. Of course he did not notice my lack of interest. Larry is a psychology student who is so alien to human psychology you would think he studies psychology only for monkeys.

“The PS gig!” His spirits were so undeterred.
Apparently Larry had bought an eons old second hand laptop at I don’t know what price and decided to venture into videogames with the PS2 he stole from his uncle. When it came to this lucrative business location, my house was the best choice. You would ask why and I think the reason is pretty obvious. Larry stays in a bed sitter with his girlfriend and her two friends. I stay in a bed sitter alone. Even an imbicile like Larry knows it’s impossible doing any business in his bedsitter (a little pun intended).

It was going to be a very lucrative business venture. And I was his partner.

Except for one problem. No actually two. Now I think they might have been more than two;
One, unlike Larry I was just a villager. I do not know how to play video games. Growing up the only game we knew was Ajuala- a football made of plastic bag. Maybe that wasn’t much of a problem but comrades paying to come to my house to play Fifa PS2 when PS5 was already out? Very unlikely. These and so many other setbacks that I do not have time for.

Three weeks into the gig and our business was yet to become lucrative. Occasionally friends would drop by but none of them would pay. They played for free. On the fourth week I had become so good actually. I could beat Larry in almost every game. On the fifth week we disbanded the business to focus on other important things in life like drinking keg and attending campus parties. Comrades should learn to support other comrades businesses!

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Y’all have this female member of your family. Perhaps a sister, cousin, maybe an aunt. She’s sassy by the very definition of the word. And book smart too unlike you and all your Neanderthal clansmen who hardly passes a test without cheating. Your father adores her and loathes your asses for not being anything like him and his daughter. He says it’s absurd he ever sired your sister and sired monkeys like you too.

She joins parklands campus. So she’s going to be a lawyer now, yet you can’t find the correct spell to cast for you to pass form two. Because education to you is like magic. Incomprehensible. Illogical. And utterly weird.

Y’all are scared of her the same way Jubilee MPs are scared of Ouru. You envy her especially now that her tongue rolls in fast English. And she can recite every feminist book Chimamanda has ever written just as good as anyone can recite John 3:16. So She’s a feminist too. Flippant? No. Far from it. Your father says she’s articulative and she’s poised. You don’t understand any of those adjectives of course. All you know is that you don’t want to fall on her wrong books. When she’s home y’all cook and clean like your life depends on it while the other female members of your family read the latest Chimamanda book. Wakili wants gender equality and gender equality she gets.

Am I still talking about Embakasi? Relax, keep it here.

Because she’s making up for your intellectual disability, this sister does her masters in Laws, flies to some country you’ve never heard of in Europe for her PhD. When she comes back you’re all now proud of her. She gets a job with one of those ivy league corporates. Surely this one will fetch you guys a lot of cows. And you’re looking forward to owning those beasts seeing that your education ended nowhere.

She turns 35 and still no sign of matrimony anywhere. You carefully and strategically throw a joke about cows and how they’ll look good in your father’s compound. She says that should not be a problem since there are already too many cows in the form of you and your clansmen. And you’re not making your father’s compound look any better. You recoil because even after having five tiny humans call you father, she still sends you all jitters.

And then one day she comes home in a Harrier with a three year old kid in tow. She introduces this kid as her daughter and announces that she’s in a holly matrimony with herself. She’s mild now. Harrier does that to women. You resign in disappoint at the realization that you’re stuck with her forever

But there’s nothing you can do about it. She does what she wants. Just like Embakassi.

Embakassi is sassy. And yes ‘it’s’ a she because Embakassi can only be a woman. She’s the only village in the city with matatus creatively named after her. The famous Embassava. If you don’t know Embassava then you’re an embarrassment to your ancestors. With the beautiful Croatian flag and airforce1 drawn on them, these matatus follow no rule but their own. Surely, even you, if you had the best international airport south of Sahara and north of Limpopo located in your backyard, would you still follow rules? For who? Ama you guys don’t know where JKIA is?

Embassava are found everywhere in the CBD unlike those Kawangware 48 vehicles that are stuck next to Archives all day. Such boredom! I pity those vehicles and cannot admire their complacency. You’ll find an Embassava at Moi Avenue where they are suppose to be. And sometimes you’ll be in upper Hill and an Embassava will be gliding past. Or you’ll meet one in Parklands, boisterous like the law school student it is not. They break no rules. They just choose to follow their own.

When you are an Eastlando (see how creative we are with names) you don’t look for a matatu in the CBD, the matatu looks for you. That’s just how cool we are.
You’ll leave CBD at 4pm aboard your favourite Embassava, not rushing to get home at all. Because thanks to Jogoo road jam, Eastlandos don’t rush to get home. Home rush to get them. Always, without fail there will be a Christopher Martin playing in the background, lulling you to sleep as you wait for your ancestors to clear Jogoo road jam.

Ah, the anaesthetic you only know the road when you’re missing home…. Such class!

Buruburu welcomes you to Embakassi. Home to the old and the vintage. A true testimony that old is indeed gold. And then you get to Donholm. One of the few members of the gated community. Donholm, home of Greenspan mall which in turn houses Benelix launge (they must pay me for this!). At Benelix, you could dance to Bilenge Musica and eat chicken every single day of the week and regret nothing. Not even the house rent and tithe money you would have drained in those bottles of Hennessy. Folks in Buruburu and Donholm have been in Nairobi since independence. It is in these places where you’ll find people who had former president Kibaki as their MP.

When you get to Tassia you realize that indeed Embakassi does what she wants and no one can do one damn thing about it. The southern part of Tassia folks have electricity yet no one knows what KPLC is. They just know they have electricity that is free like the sewage water they purify and tap. Oh and they also build their own houses by the sewage river. Most of them work as security personnel in Fedha and Nyayo estates.

I’ll ignore Kware ’cause Kware is just a quarry. There’s nothing much to it. But there’s a lot to Pipeline. Home of the brave. Land of the pilgrims, priglimaging mostly from Machakos and Makueni. If you have a phobia for heights you cannot live in Pipeline because every single building is atleast ten floors high. Research says people in Pipeline have the least daily geographical displacement. In simple terms, what I mean is, in the same apartment there’s a butchery, a wholesale, restaurant, saloon/kinyozi, and a bar. In the adjacent apartment barely 30 meters away there’s a church and a school. Where will you be displacing yourself to? Most of these folks work in Industrial area. Others pretend to work in non existent government offices.

There’s only one thing I can say about the twin brothers Mukuru kwa Jenga and Mukuru kwa Reuben. And it’s that these are the safest places to live in on earth. So peaceful. Folks here are not employed. That’s how self dependent they are.

Imara Daima, Fedha and Nyayo are all gated communities. And their ‘soldiers’, the guys from Tassia are mean. They will not allow me to rove around. So until next time, howdy.

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Well, our humble hamlet wasn’t left behind this time round. We too had our own equal share of this grandeur. And it was grand. If it wasn’t I would have told you so.

My village is not known for anything. Kamreri pacho has never been mentioned in any news bulletin or any of the local dailies. You see, even you the brightest amongst your kinsmen and the only hides and skins degree holder from your clan has no idea what I’m blabbing continously about. This doesn’t mean Kamreri has never had her own share of greatness. No omera.

Yet Kamreri sits at the heart of South Nyanza. Legends have it that Mreri our ancestor was the most beloved of Ramogi’s grandchildren. Of course y’all know Ramogi is the father of all Jorieko (intellects) south of the Sahara and north of Limpopo. And I’m a direct descendant of Ramogi. But you already know this so there’s no wisdom in reminding you.

I did not summon you under my tree today to tell you about my village. You all have your own villages to talk about. Neither did I call you here to tell you about my ancestors. Y’all know how shrewd they were (yours truly is their blood, ahem).

Still the bottom of this story does not begin before the name of one or two of our most outstanding ancestors is invoked. So I hail the spirits of Nyochieng Kogiri the valiant worrier who lived and died in the nineteen pat opuk (1900s). He wrestled rhinos, elephants and Lions to secure us land. And when the white man came to steal from us, he told him in verbatim to go hug a cactus tree then ride atop a porcupine back to wherever hole he crawled from. Today we excrete in large open fields thanks to his efforts. And we are not very proud to say he would have made a very good friend to the deputy president had he lived in this time. Of course you’ll know Uliam’s appetite for land.
And then I’ll hail the wise spirits of Lang’o Arek. He was not wise. No. Wisdom was him. It is in his spirits that today we celebrate the birth of a doctor in this village that sits right in the middle of the thighs of these beautiful hills of the gods.

I would have also told you about Ajuoga Janawi the great medicine man who placed his enemies in bottles of chang’a and threw them into the lake but I will not. Besides, now is not the time or the place to talk about Janawi. Lest he resurrect and put you all inside the bottles of those sinful drinks you’re taking now. All you need to know is that no child was ever named after him.

But many children including yours truly here have been named after Jakom Lang’o Arek(don’t ask to see my ID). And so is our doctor who just graduated from the big University in the city. The University of Nairobi.
You will not find him in the hospital though, looking at the bare battocks of some woman old enough to be his mother. That would be an abomination! The ancestors would be so angry their ire would strike him with blindness.
All we know is that he graduated with a doctorate in some degree no one in the village can pronounce- hunting and gathering or something-. We don’t know. We are all only too happy to call him laktar, the owner of all the knowledge and wisdom under the sun and the seas. He is the knowledge itself. If he wasn’t I would have told you so.

Now if you’ll excuse me. Daktari is about to address the nation from the chief’s camp. I must attend lest I miss all the wisdom. And we’ll know you won’t find it ( wisdom) in your governors office.

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I was born in the village. I’ve known life outside the village but still, if the fairy comes knocking on my door today, my only wish would be to live the rest of my life happily ever after in the village. Whatever you do with this information is your business. My business though, is the number of people named after Tom Mboya in my village. Because they are so many I could count on both my fingers and toes and still not arrive at the total tally.

My father recounts stories of his uncle who in the early sixties traveled to Nairobi in search of a sixth wife. When asked how he would facilitate his sojourn, he replied in boisterous laugh that Mbuya (Mboya) wuod Rusinga had built a huge boarding house in the city for every visiting Luo. You can imagine what transpired when he got there. Well, he came back to his five wives after two weeks, dejected and forlorn.

And with no new wife in tow.

To this day there are still people in my village who believe the statue of Mboya at Tom Mboya Avenue is actually pointing to a grand guest house complete with swimming pools and prestigious masiiidis ( read Mercedes) vehicles. All for city visiting Luo brothers and sisters.

And because today is a Sad Madaraka day, and because my father sold his coveted cows to send me to school so I can eventually force knowledge through your thick craniums, I’m going to give you a brief history of this man Tom Mboya. And in so doing, tell you why “friends” are the most unreliable thing after Airtel’s internet connection.

Your history books will tell you that Thomas Joseph Mboya born in some sisal farm in central Kenya to Luo parents was very pivotal to the Madaraka day you celebrate today, and I reiterate. What history books doesn’t tell you is that men like Mboya aren’t born every day. Tom lived far ahead of his time, but you already know that. What you may not have known is that Mboya’s life not only shaped kenyan history but international history as well. During the famous Mboya airlift of the 1959, among the many students lifted to various universities in America was a young Luo named Barack Hussein Obama. And like any other honourable Luo who respects himself, this Obama did not disappoint. When he left the US soon after Kenya’s indepence, he came back home with PhD and much more. Another Barack. Surely even your village mad man knows this other Barack went to become the first black president of the free world. Thanks to Mboya.

At the pinnacle of his life, this quick witted, sharp dresser and ever smiling man had a battery of friends surrounding him. Notably among them former ministers Dr. Njoroge Mungai, Dr. Julius Gikonyo Kiano, former president Mwai Kibaki and his best man and former AG Charles Njonjo. You remember in the 1960 parliament Mboya and Njonjo would be dubbed the senior berchelors since the two of them were the only unmarried members of the house. It’s okey if you don’t remember, you were not there in 1961. Mboya would wed a year later in colourful ceremony with Njonjo as his best man. Njonjo would wed 3 years after conspiring in the murder of his best friend.

What history books will not tell you either is that every single ‘friend’ Mboya had contributed in one way or another to his downfall. Because like petals that’s what friends do; they leave, they betray they decay. Here is what doesn’t leave, doesn’t decay; family. Even common sense that you were not taught in school will tell you that blood is thicker than porridge. Have a friend or two and make them family. Family never abandons, they never disappoint.

Also the world owes you nothing. It was here first.

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So along time ago before Baba invented the handshake and BBI was just an initiative to get cool kids to eat more blueband so they can grow tall, I did not know there was anything wrong with my eyes. Things were blurry of course and I had difficulties focusing on objects over a half a meter away. Hell yeah, I couldn’t read anything written on the chalk board in school and that was normal. Other kids could read stuff off the chalk board easily, but I was Tonny. And because I was me, it was normal that I couldn’t see as well as they did.

Right?

There couldn’t be anything wrong with me. My ancestors loved me. And they showed their benevolence by making me top my class every term. Surely it would be preposterous to even think they could strike me with blindness. Not blindness blindness, I mean the macho nne blindness. Back in the village anyone wearing angolo is cursed by the ancestors.

Donge?

Then I got to highschool and the headaches started. And then they got worse. Soon I was quoting Bible verses like fiongosi wa ponde la ufa because I couldn’t see the future. Those guys at the opticals said my vision was just as good as a bat’s and angolo, eye glasses was inevitable. My old man was ready to part with ten thausan for the angolo but who’s me? There’s no way I was going to disappoint my ancestors with angolo.

No way.

Just imagine the whole of me with angolo angolo on my face. The villagers will say I’m a pretender. And those market women with idle tongues will say I want to use angolo to eat their daughters with salt. And I’m a church elder’s son.

Not happening!

How I coild in revulsion at the thought of what they will say in church. That I had gone to school and education spoiled me. Made me slip and deviate from the will of God. That I had become so full of myself now I stared at people from the top of my angolo.

Over my dead body.

Even Nyawawa wouldn’t take me seriously when they come. They will ignore debe that I beat for them the way they ignore barking dogs. Surely, even Nyawawa can not respect a man who wears angolo.

And children wouldn’t give me fear. They would shamelessly call me Ja’Angolo as I pass by and ignore my threates to whack their behinds and marry every female member of their family.

So I refused. I said no to this great dishonor on my person.

Well, a few years ago I had to go back to the opticals for the glasses. And this time round, I was there alone and on my own bill. Fifteen thausan on my own bill. Tears.
But When my eyes made kinship with these lenses, my life changed. Before then I had no idea grass was this green or the skys this blue. Yaani I didn’t even know village women were this beautiful and fair.

This life yawa!

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The time for the events: Time and half a time before Covid 19.
Setting: A matatu vehicle.

Here we go;

I have just wrote the last sentence in my petition to see the chief of the ancestors because something needs to happen to them too. There’s no way ill fate can keep following me around while they watch and perhaps make fun of me.

This matatu I’m traveling in stops to pick a passenger. Lo! And behold the passenger in question is one voluptuous lady exhibiting a close genetic relationship with gabana wa Omabei. As if that’s not enough abomination of nature, she has two mango head kids trotting behind her . I’m looking left right and the only vacant seat is the one next to me. My heartbeat increases as beads of sweat begin cascading down my face. Si Wuod Min Jii is over. This woman is to murder Min Jii’s last born son. Suffocating is a fate far was than death.

Now why did I even board this particular Matt in the first place, I ponder. Aah, and how would I’ve known I would be neighbouring an hippo of a woman. If anything it’s not my fault. I console myself.

“songa kiti ya nyuma kabisa madam”, the tout motions the very back seat.

A sigh of relief. Dead right, you and your fat family muende tu uko nyumaa. I want to tell her but you’re right, I wouldn’t dare.

Donge my relief is short-lived when two heavy handbags are thrown at me from behind with, “kijana aki just help me with these two little handbags “. Yaani this woman has decided that I will know no rest till I die.

And to think that she didn’t even have the courtesy to say please!

I’m quite parched already. Waiter!!! More beer, on your bills jolly good forks…

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Take yours truly here for example, growing up in some village back in South Kamagambo my or rather – our favorite toy was a stick. Not that kind of stick you stiff necked monkey choker, or sucker- whatever. I’m talking about a literal stick here, you know, the one you get from a tree. These sticks had to have one side split into two, like a bull’s horn. Because the sticks were suppose to be bulls or cows, everyone had a prerogative of choice anyway.

So each morning every kid went around looking for the best stick to be their cattle for the day. You had to ensure that it was the perfect length and size, the ‘horns’ had to be thick and strong enough to win a bull fight. And woe betide you if you chose your stick from the wrong tree, you know, the ones known to be weak and break easily like the Jacaranda tree.

Now after securing your bull (most of us preferred bulls) you fixed a string to it’s ‘neck’ and fasten it on a tree like they do real bulls and then wait for the bull fight. I’m not even making any of this up bytheway.

When it was time, every kid led their bull by a string to the bull fighting arena. And then you would hold your bull and have it lock horns with another bull as you twist and push till either your bull broke the other bulls horns or vice versa.
We played shirtless like our ancestors would have wanted and sometimes during the fight an opponent’s bull would miss it’s target landing it’s horns on your bare chest drawing blood in the process.
The winning bull and it’s owner would be revered till the next bullfight.

Also girls were prohibited from the game. And I think the reason is pretty obvious. These were sticks and a stick can find it’s way into any hole anytime.

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