LOROT SON OF THE HILLS Chillin’ out with my boys at the golf course.
Mwai Kibaki, Lucy Kibaki, Tiger Woods and 73 other friends like this.
TIGER WOODS Do it my boy. Someday you will make it. I miss my hangout with you while in Kenya.
KIBAKI Naona bado unaregarega tu. Sema Lorot, utakuja siku gani State House?
RAILA Wewe ni popo tu. Nilikuambia uache golf ujoin Kogeloo.
LOROT SON OF THE HILLS @Tiger, twas great times Woods. You spoilt yoself silly my boy..Might be visiting you sometimes January next year. @Kibaki, hiyo ni hatespeech nitakushitaki kwa Mzalendo Kibunja. Bado Lucy ako? Didn’t like the way she treated me..tukutane Muthaiga Golf Club @ Raila, nyef nyef..Mnachapwa na Sofa Paka batoto ba Mungu!!
MIKE SONKO Big up Man Lorot..Stori zako hazinibambi jo. Yangu ni ma-bling. We ridin’ high men, We flossin’ ‘em up like no other. Matter-o-fact, let’s meet our favourite joint tudiscuss ile deal yetu.
REUBEN NDOLO I don’t like this. Boxing is the game.
Margaret Wanjiru dislikes this.
LOROT SON OF THE HILLS @Sonko, you still owe me zile 500K, what about the container we were to ship into Kenya?..inbox me the progress..Like I told you I might be flyin’ anytime soon. @Ndolo, shindwe @Margaret, seriously, which sport do you play and please don’t say preaching!
MAINA NJENGA Lorot, I don’t like that comment about my spiritual mentor. Please delete that comment.
LOROT SON OF THE HILLS @Maina, kwani utado?
MAINA NJENGA Lorot, don’t make me yearn for my times before I saw the light…Get thee behind me Satan!!Nkt
Reuben Ndolo and Conjestina like this.
LOROT SON OF THE HILLS Maina, come out clear..which times and what Satan?
MARGARET WANJIRU I speak reconciliation to those two brothers..Devil, I speak condemnation against you
BRO PAUL Amen.
NGUGI WA THIONGO Am still waiting for the Manuscript you promised me. I am inviting you to the African Writers Conference here in Carlifornia sometimes in December this year.
WOLE SONYINKA Lorot if you miss it am going for your throat!
Chinua Achebe likes this.
PLO LUMUMBA Lorot Son of the Hills remember that culture is the celebration of diversity. Let us therefore not deny our origin; but instead celebrate ours as a cultural mosaic not a tower of Babel , but a power of Babel ala Ali Mazrui.
KALEMBE NDILE PLO point yako ni gani? Hii ni Facebook. Diversity, mosaic, tower of babel na Mazrui zinatoka wapi na Lorot Son of the Hills anadiscuss stori za golf?
PLO LUMUMBA As for accusations even the divine Jesus of Nazareth was accused of many things; even Martin Luther King Junior was accused of many things; even Mahatma Gandhi was accused of many things. But it is our duty to prove our detractors wrong by our actions."
Kalembe Ndile dislikes this.
KALEMBE NDILE You make the life of people like me complicated. Lorot Son of the Hills hebu mtoe kwa list ya Friends zako!
Friday, October 29, 2010
Things we Want to See in the Finalist Dinner
(Written on Monday, April 12, 2010 at 6:02pm)
To all finalists, the Finalists Dinner will be coming up on 30th or thereabouts. Lorot Son of the Hills is at it again. It is getting even more madder!!
1.GUYS SHOULD BE IN PAIRS. I mean if you have no spouse by now please call the Guidance and Counselling Office immediately because you are the problem. If that doesn’t work out there’s a list going round of lonely souls..please write your name, faculty, registration number( both old and new), account balance as of 1st April this year and attach a short history of such cases (or lack of them) in your family. Please note that such data will be confidential and whereas a spouse will be found for you, issues of non-compatibility should not arise as a matter of courtesy.
Ps. Onyango has personally confirmed to me positively that he is set for everything, including a partner. I can only disclose further details on mutual agreements sealed by some form of compensation.
2. PLEASE, PLEASE AVOID LAW TERMS IN THE OCCASION. The law students are culprits in these. Imagine somebody like Lorot Son of the Hills presenting his manifesto to an Education chick and goes like: Ipso facto, the ration decidendi of me caling you honey is because you remind me of the convention we read. They have different names, you could call it protocol, treaty, instrument. Instead be human and say: Tell me about your teaching practice, can I be your Makmende?
Same to our biology guys. Sample this told to a BCom dudette: You see, I confuse things. You can’t be serious! The proper name for a multinucleate heliozoan is actinosphaerium eschorni, not pinaccophora fluviatilis..Ooh, similar to Acanthometra. You know what I mean? You mean nuthin’. Why the hell aren’t you a Nobel Laureate for Biology Tonguetwisters 2010?
3. NO DISCUSSION OF EXAMS PLEASE! And this is to Onyango. Imagine you are in the middle of working on your chicken then he says: Don’t tell me you did not write short notes on terrorism? And that question on black water I loved it..by the way, that problem question was about IAC and not NIAC. I beg you Onyango, Finalist Dinner will not be an extension of the Exam Room. As a precautionary measure, the Committee will work closely with the bouncers should you freak people out.
4.Marvin Onyango should give vote of thanks on that day. By all fairness he should. Please refer to point 1 from line 3.
5. Either Kim, Nick or Leduc should give prayers before meals. I vote Nick, what do you think?
6. Lorot Son of the Hills should be the rapper for the day. I mean he should spit out rhymes and cause ripples. Kwani what is the big deal?
7. Miss Gikonyo should be allocated time for a confessional. Something to the effect of causing academic distress to us and warning us of everything including not getting into Mathrees with loud music.
8. Karanja should be made to sit with the Vice-Chancellor and the administrator or Kip. Sample this: as dudettes you are catching up with the latest celeb in pulse who was cornered by the fashion cop. Enters Karanja then: According to section 49 sub section 3 of paragraph 9 of the constitution as you read in accordance with section 73 especially the last two words of the Rome Statute where it talks about…
9. For those who will be in borrowed suits and dinner dresses, I tell you this for free. Please pay your deposits in advance and if possible one week before 30th . It will spoil the occasion if the MC announces: Lorot Son of the Hills, if you are in the house please see the owner of the suit you are wearing near the door. He says his deposit is not paid!
10. For our supervisors, take this with the seriousness it deserves (you are serious with foot notes, be serious then with this head notes for you) At no point on 30th or 31st either during the day or night, whether for emergency or not or even detection of plagiarism of the whole project, should you call either using safcom, Zain, Yu, Wireless, booth….or by word of mouth or notice or Kenya Gazette or a Letter to the Editor…Imagine you are still bragging to that social science chick that you finished project on Feb then the supervisor calls and says: Brainless idiot, I cannot see your chapter four, title page and bibliography and by the snuff bottle of my grandfather I swear your chapter one has not literature review..Kwani where are you? Hello, hello…Take two running jumps to hell.
The PROM NIGHT is here. Any suggestions on do’s and don’ts ? Any comments? Any observations? You have the poetic licence to add anything. The list is growing. We are at number 11…Let’s go…
To all finalists, the Finalists Dinner will be coming up on 30th or thereabouts. Lorot Son of the Hills is at it again. It is getting even more madder!!
1.GUYS SHOULD BE IN PAIRS. I mean if you have no spouse by now please call the Guidance and Counselling Office immediately because you are the problem. If that doesn’t work out there’s a list going round of lonely souls..please write your name, faculty, registration number( both old and new), account balance as of 1st April this year and attach a short history of such cases (or lack of them) in your family. Please note that such data will be confidential and whereas a spouse will be found for you, issues of non-compatibility should not arise as a matter of courtesy.
Ps. Onyango has personally confirmed to me positively that he is set for everything, including a partner. I can only disclose further details on mutual agreements sealed by some form of compensation.
2. PLEASE, PLEASE AVOID LAW TERMS IN THE OCCASION. The law students are culprits in these. Imagine somebody like Lorot Son of the Hills presenting his manifesto to an Education chick and goes like: Ipso facto, the ration decidendi of me caling you honey is because you remind me of the convention we read. They have different names, you could call it protocol, treaty, instrument. Instead be human and say: Tell me about your teaching practice, can I be your Makmende?
Same to our biology guys. Sample this told to a BCom dudette: You see, I confuse things. You can’t be serious! The proper name for a multinucleate heliozoan is actinosphaerium eschorni, not pinaccophora fluviatilis..Ooh, similar to Acanthometra. You know what I mean? You mean nuthin’. Why the hell aren’t you a Nobel Laureate for Biology Tonguetwisters 2010?
3. NO DISCUSSION OF EXAMS PLEASE! And this is to Onyango. Imagine you are in the middle of working on your chicken then he says: Don’t tell me you did not write short notes on terrorism? And that question on black water I loved it..by the way, that problem question was about IAC and not NIAC. I beg you Onyango, Finalist Dinner will not be an extension of the Exam Room. As a precautionary measure, the Committee will work closely with the bouncers should you freak people out.
4.Marvin Onyango should give vote of thanks on that day. By all fairness he should. Please refer to point 1 from line 3.
5. Either Kim, Nick or Leduc should give prayers before meals. I vote Nick, what do you think?
6. Lorot Son of the Hills should be the rapper for the day. I mean he should spit out rhymes and cause ripples. Kwani what is the big deal?
7. Miss Gikonyo should be allocated time for a confessional. Something to the effect of causing academic distress to us and warning us of everything including not getting into Mathrees with loud music.
8. Karanja should be made to sit with the Vice-Chancellor and the administrator or Kip. Sample this: as dudettes you are catching up with the latest celeb in pulse who was cornered by the fashion cop. Enters Karanja then: According to section 49 sub section 3 of paragraph 9 of the constitution as you read in accordance with section 73 especially the last two words of the Rome Statute where it talks about…
9. For those who will be in borrowed suits and dinner dresses, I tell you this for free. Please pay your deposits in advance and if possible one week before 30th . It will spoil the occasion if the MC announces: Lorot Son of the Hills, if you are in the house please see the owner of the suit you are wearing near the door. He says his deposit is not paid!
10. For our supervisors, take this with the seriousness it deserves (you are serious with foot notes, be serious then with this head notes for you) At no point on 30th or 31st either during the day or night, whether for emergency or not or even detection of plagiarism of the whole project, should you call either using safcom, Zain, Yu, Wireless, booth….or by word of mouth or notice or Kenya Gazette or a Letter to the Editor…Imagine you are still bragging to that social science chick that you finished project on Feb then the supervisor calls and says: Brainless idiot, I cannot see your chapter four, title page and bibliography and by the snuff bottle of my grandfather I swear your chapter one has not literature review..Kwani where are you? Hello, hello…Take two running jumps to hell.
The PROM NIGHT is here. Any suggestions on do’s and don’ts ? Any comments? Any observations? You have the poetic licence to add anything. The list is growing. We are at number 11…Let’s go…
Five Theories on Exams
1.SCARE AND DIVIDE THEORY: The proponents of this theory hold that even when a student has not read, he should pretend otherwise. He should shout about a case he barely understands, explain a concept he has no idea and repeatedly say ‘this unit is an A..It is an A I swear’.
2.THE NOVELIST-IN-THE-CLOSET THEORY:It is the oldest theory. During exams when the invigilator says ‘start’ write anything on nothing as if there is a gun above your head. Look at questions once even if it is a problem question. In any given exam, it is a punishable offence not to finish one exam booklet and request for more.
3.HAITI-EARTHQUAKE- AFTERMATH THEORY: Complain about everything. No exam is never cheap, that is the starting point. Accuse the lecturer of ‘targeting’ you. Complain about time, blame your dad for stupidity or even on alcohol. Bitch on anything.
4.EXAM DISCUSSANTS THEORY: This school of thought provides that just like in primary and High school, revision should be immediate—as closely held as after exam. Feel free to say ‘that problem question was on capacity to marriage and not validity of marriage and if one can’t tell that then one is in the wrong place’. In all these, your eyes must glow with the learned glitter of Lord Denning and voice as clear as Nyaberi.
5.THE WALL FLOWER THEORY: This theory postulates that there will always a group of candidates who you can’t tell whether they are happy or sad about any exam. They are never angry or joyour, never bitching nor cursing. At most they will say ‘I did the paper and I heard God say let my people go” meaning that is a D for that Unit.
2.THE NOVELIST-IN-THE-CLOSET THEORY:It is the oldest theory. During exams when the invigilator says ‘start’ write anything on nothing as if there is a gun above your head. Look at questions once even if it is a problem question. In any given exam, it is a punishable offence not to finish one exam booklet and request for more.
3.HAITI-EARTHQUAKE- AFTERMATH THEORY: Complain about everything. No exam is never cheap, that is the starting point. Accuse the lecturer of ‘targeting’ you. Complain about time, blame your dad for stupidity or even on alcohol. Bitch on anything.
4.EXAM DISCUSSANTS THEORY: This school of thought provides that just like in primary and High school, revision should be immediate—as closely held as after exam. Feel free to say ‘that problem question was on capacity to marriage and not validity of marriage and if one can’t tell that then one is in the wrong place’. In all these, your eyes must glow with the learned glitter of Lord Denning and voice as clear as Nyaberi.
5.THE WALL FLOWER THEORY: This theory postulates that there will always a group of candidates who you can’t tell whether they are happy or sad about any exam. They are never angry or joyour, never bitching nor cursing. At most they will say ‘I did the paper and I heard God say let my people go” meaning that is a D for that Unit.
15 Things I will Miss in CUEA
1. Law Classes: And in the Class my friend Onyango springs to mind. We are in First Year trying to figure out how the hell we are supposed to spell Appellate Jurisdiction and this man is talking about mens rea, actus reus. He needed a special class because he intimidated us right from the word go.
2. Miss Gikonyo: Forget the haters, Gikonyo rocks. First class and she says: I know you might be the only person in your village who has done law. But if you joke you will fail. You came alone. People, how frank should a lecturer be? I loved the intimidation and the Supps because it kept our minds alert.
3. Roman Law and Canon Law Lecturer: Our good Father Fabiano was a good chap. We learnt Papinian, Ulpian, Furiosi, jus civile ( pronounced yus chivile), and praetor. And when he had cracked a joke, our good Father laughed that laugh I have never heard anywhere else.
4. Social Development Lecturer: And this might sound straight from the creative mind of Lorot Son of the Hills but no it isn’t. Our guy loved to ‘ogle’, no hypocrisy, just ogle. And those words like ‘to stimulate economic growth’, ‘sex as a basic need’. Ladies, how did you survive that class?
5. Vibandas: I miss them, for real. Chapo minced ama Chapo msalaba, ndegu, githeri (obsolete nowadays till school focused guys come). And Mlembo and Mogaka. And jamaa wa mahindi. When their vibandas were demolished, the whole campus cried foul. My friend Josphat looked to the East every morning for a week saying: This can’t be..this can’t be..am finished
6. Cultural Festival/Freshers’ Bash/ Carnivore Experiences: During the day we heard songs, dances, poems. Yours truly recited the poems like ‘December 27th’ . Then when the day grows old we head to Carnivore and get to know side B of everything. Cool stuff.
7. Doctor Ajwang’ Owuor: First time in Constitutional Law Class and daktari with no book, chalk or pen starts talking about constitution, about Madison, about the Executive, about sections of the constitution. He paces around talking about constitution and I was like: Well, Lorot Son of the Hills, you are screwed up. You are in a wrong place.
8. Steve the Simplifier: Mr. Steve is a multifaceted man. Evidence class and he is talking of Loyangalani and the chap who jumps through the window. I miss those jokes. And the Swa. Question, though: That Coasto lineage…
9. Credit Control: Those long queues for paying fees stretching forever. Somebody told me that one funny thing about CUEA is that you ‘struggle’ to pay them fees. And you stand for 2 to three hours ‘waiting’ to pay them. And when you are there, you are told ‘Zero balance’ yet you have read for the afternoon paper for the last 72 hours non-stop.
10. Registry: If you never lost your mind while ‘having good time’ at the Registry, you ain’t losing it ever. Relax, you are made of tough stuff. If you got an I or a Z and was able to be sorted out and still retained your mind, count your stars. It is a drama of lining up, filling forms, coming again, filling forms, asking, going back to HOD, coming back to Registry, meeting lecturer e.t.c. It is called the Elemi Triangle.
11. The Auditorium: Also known as SlaughterHouse, Abbatoir, Torture Chambers, Stupidity Investigation Department ( S.I.D.). In all my 4 years in CUEA I was disturbed by those guys who handed their papers 30 minutes before time and when they did so they created so much noise with their seats banging each other. Those freaks scared hell outta me.
12. Park Place: In your sorrows, Park Place welcomed you. In your joy, Park Place shared with you your jubilation. On the dance floor, everyone pulls his move. A drunk one gullycreeps atop three bottles on the dancefloors. Kwani baba yake ni nani?
13. The tournaments: You might not be a sport person but don’t you think the sack race, the egg race and especially the passing of oranges was just fun? Speaking of which, I will miss Oimbo a lot. He appeared with afro in a Faculty Assembly!
14. Student General Assembly: I attended them not because solutions were offered ( if at all they were offered) but just to listen to the harangues of my fellow students. About zero balance. About expansion of the gate. About Registry and rude secretaries. About transcripts. Then the DVCs and other staff members will say: Students, courtesy. Courtesy.
15. Generosity: Being a student entitles one to being a beneficiary of philanthropy. Fare is provided. Lunch catered for. Airtime squeezed in. And a small time con can live good. Exit student status and even fare is questioned, haggled over and bargained. How I miss being a student!
2. Miss Gikonyo: Forget the haters, Gikonyo rocks. First class and she says: I know you might be the only person in your village who has done law. But if you joke you will fail. You came alone. People, how frank should a lecturer be? I loved the intimidation and the Supps because it kept our minds alert.
3. Roman Law and Canon Law Lecturer: Our good Father Fabiano was a good chap. We learnt Papinian, Ulpian, Furiosi, jus civile ( pronounced yus chivile), and praetor. And when he had cracked a joke, our good Father laughed that laugh I have never heard anywhere else.
4. Social Development Lecturer: And this might sound straight from the creative mind of Lorot Son of the Hills but no it isn’t. Our guy loved to ‘ogle’, no hypocrisy, just ogle. And those words like ‘to stimulate economic growth’, ‘sex as a basic need’. Ladies, how did you survive that class?
5. Vibandas: I miss them, for real. Chapo minced ama Chapo msalaba, ndegu, githeri (obsolete nowadays till school focused guys come). And Mlembo and Mogaka. And jamaa wa mahindi. When their vibandas were demolished, the whole campus cried foul. My friend Josphat looked to the East every morning for a week saying: This can’t be..this can’t be..am finished
6. Cultural Festival/Freshers’ Bash/ Carnivore Experiences: During the day we heard songs, dances, poems. Yours truly recited the poems like ‘December 27th’ . Then when the day grows old we head to Carnivore and get to know side B of everything. Cool stuff.
7. Doctor Ajwang’ Owuor: First time in Constitutional Law Class and daktari with no book, chalk or pen starts talking about constitution, about Madison, about the Executive, about sections of the constitution. He paces around talking about constitution and I was like: Well, Lorot Son of the Hills, you are screwed up. You are in a wrong place.
8. Steve the Simplifier: Mr. Steve is a multifaceted man. Evidence class and he is talking of Loyangalani and the chap who jumps through the window. I miss those jokes. And the Swa. Question, though: That Coasto lineage…
9. Credit Control: Those long queues for paying fees stretching forever. Somebody told me that one funny thing about CUEA is that you ‘struggle’ to pay them fees. And you stand for 2 to three hours ‘waiting’ to pay them. And when you are there, you are told ‘Zero balance’ yet you have read for the afternoon paper for the last 72 hours non-stop.
10. Registry: If you never lost your mind while ‘having good time’ at the Registry, you ain’t losing it ever. Relax, you are made of tough stuff. If you got an I or a Z and was able to be sorted out and still retained your mind, count your stars. It is a drama of lining up, filling forms, coming again, filling forms, asking, going back to HOD, coming back to Registry, meeting lecturer e.t.c. It is called the Elemi Triangle.
11. The Auditorium: Also known as SlaughterHouse, Abbatoir, Torture Chambers, Stupidity Investigation Department ( S.I.D.). In all my 4 years in CUEA I was disturbed by those guys who handed their papers 30 minutes before time and when they did so they created so much noise with their seats banging each other. Those freaks scared hell outta me.
12. Park Place: In your sorrows, Park Place welcomed you. In your joy, Park Place shared with you your jubilation. On the dance floor, everyone pulls his move. A drunk one gullycreeps atop three bottles on the dancefloors. Kwani baba yake ni nani?
13. The tournaments: You might not be a sport person but don’t you think the sack race, the egg race and especially the passing of oranges was just fun? Speaking of which, I will miss Oimbo a lot. He appeared with afro in a Faculty Assembly!
14. Student General Assembly: I attended them not because solutions were offered ( if at all they were offered) but just to listen to the harangues of my fellow students. About zero balance. About expansion of the gate. About Registry and rude secretaries. About transcripts. Then the DVCs and other staff members will say: Students, courtesy. Courtesy.
15. Generosity: Being a student entitles one to being a beneficiary of philanthropy. Fare is provided. Lunch catered for. Airtime squeezed in. And a small time con can live good. Exit student status and even fare is questioned, haggled over and bargained. How I miss being a student!
TWO THINGS INVOLVED- Adapted from Basket Mouth Comedy( Naija)
Basket Mouth had his rib-shattering Comedy of Two Things Involved. That Naija boy has got talent. You remember it? You could be wiped either from the front or the back? Lorot Son of the Hills decided to do a Kenyan version.
Here we go...
In this world, there are two things involved. It is either you are in Zain or in Suffericom. If you are in Zain you are safe. If you are in Suffericom, there are two things involved, it is either you are rich or poor. If you are rich, you are safe. If you are poor, there are two things involved. It is either you survive on please call me or you make calls. If you survive on please call me you are safe. If you make calls, there are two things involved. It is either you work in Suffericom or outside Safaricom. If you work in Suffericom, you are safe. If you work outside Suffericom, there are two things involved. It is either you are a prepaid or a postpaid customer. If you are a postpaid customer, you are safe ( after all you are rich); if you are a prepaid customer, there are two things involved. It is either you are a man or a woman. If you are a woman, you are safe. If you are a man, there are two things involved. You are either a convert of the Masaa ya kubamba market gimmick or not. If you are not, you are safe. If you are a convert, there are no two things involved. There is only one thing involved. YOU ARE FRIED!
Here we go...
In this world, there are two things involved. It is either you are in Zain or in Suffericom. If you are in Zain you are safe. If you are in Suffericom, there are two things involved, it is either you are rich or poor. If you are rich, you are safe. If you are poor, there are two things involved. It is either you survive on please call me or you make calls. If you survive on please call me you are safe. If you make calls, there are two things involved. It is either you work in Suffericom or outside Safaricom. If you work in Suffericom, you are safe. If you work outside Suffericom, there are two things involved. It is either you are a prepaid or a postpaid customer. If you are a postpaid customer, you are safe ( after all you are rich); if you are a prepaid customer, there are two things involved. It is either you are a man or a woman. If you are a woman, you are safe. If you are a man, there are two things involved. You are either a convert of the Masaa ya kubamba market gimmick or not. If you are not, you are safe. If you are a convert, there are no two things involved. There is only one thing involved. YOU ARE FRIED!
One- Act -Play: Little Drama At State House
(Enter Kibaki in a cap emblazoned ‘Rega Rega’ and holding a golf stick. He wears a weird smile twitching at the sides of his mouth. He does some push-ups and unknowing to him, First Lady Mama Lucy is impressed. She serves Kibaki a steamy mug of millet porridge.)
KIBAKI: (Exasperated) At home, State House. Been a hectic day for Baba Jimmy. Lucy, my dear, what’s the news in the newspapers?
LUCY: (Scornfully) That ODM foorish thing. ODM is trouble and Raira is the Devil. Since 2002 I have not understood those fries forrowing Raira. Don’t know that ODM begins with O for Omolo, Odinga and Oginga? Very foorish!
KIBAKI: (Getting to his feet, like a man after stepping on hot coals) Who is foolish? Me? You call me Pumbavu?
LUCY: (Sympathetically) Who has called you foorish? Are you ODM? (Kindly) I keep on reminding you to wipe your ears with those cotton buds. Seems like you forget it—just like my birthdays. (In sudden realization, sphinx-like) Hey dear, take your porridge, the thermos flask is not yet half-full.
KIBAKI:(Ignoring her) How is my face, Lucy? I try to smile but people say that I only twitch the corners of my mouth. How far can one smile as a president?
LUCY: (Matter-of-factly) As far as ones cheeks can go. (Sarcastically) Of course one can smile at ticks like Raila,Uhuru and Kalonzo as they suck the rittle brood ( Pronounced Kikuyu way) of honour left in you. Do you want to be a toothless dog or a saint?
KIBAKI: You shrub again. What rittle brood are you talking about? I think we need a Kikuyu translator in this house to sort things out.
(Lucy’s shoulders stoop)
LUCY: (Confidently) What the herro are you talking about. Mama Rucy knows English.
(Rasp on the door. Enter Michuki, Minister for Internal Security. He gives his usual squint and a bent gait. As he steps into the House , a pair of torn socks peek. Kibaki notices it, ignores it but Lucy explodes)
LUCY: ( Brandishing her fore-finger) Haiya Michuki, you cannot terro me that you have not bought another pair of socks since these ones you are wearing were spotted by the hawk-eyed journalists.
MICHUKI: (Humbled, squint in active mode) Uchumi ni mbaya mama. I am the only Minister North of Marsabit and South of Pwani who walks a lot in the course of duty, a strict follower of Mzee chant-line Walking Nation. My socks speak for themselves.( To Kibaki) Mheshimiwa, what do we do with ODM? They are rattling the snake, this time not in the belly but in the fangs!
KIBAKI: ( Licking the corners of his mouth) What do you mean ‘what do we do with ODM’—Did you ring the Arturs? They need to do it like the Standard Raid. You are a Minister for Internal Security sio kuregarega tu. Pumbavu tu…but hiyo ni ukweli.
MICHUKI: ( Swallowing hard) I hear you Mzee. Now Kiraitu. Why reinstate him to the Cabinet—you gave him his only chance, he blew it.
KIBAKI:(In pure paternal passion) Kiraitu is a growing boy, a political midget. This time round I take him to Energy. Henceforth, he shall talk Kilowatts, power rationing and KPLC, not Anglo-leasing. That Bully of Githongo is Pumbavu, bure kabisa. (Miffed) Do people eat soil or speak oxygen?
MICHUKI: Yes, bure kabisa. He rattled the snake.
(Both explode in a hearty laugh. Kibaki grunts till the cup slips and crashes on the carpeted State House floor. Lucy ducks to the Sitting room and is aghast)
LUCY: (Balefully) By the Mountain of Kirinyaga, Baba Jimmy, have you broken the cup again? I am tired of going for shopping, Lucy in Lucy out.
KIBAKI:(Ignoring Lucy, to Michuki ) Don’t mind her. The cat that she loves best passed to glory in her sleep two weeks ago before I went to China. She wore a dark gown for five days. I believe it is the spirit of that cat she fondly called Three Bridesmaid. God bless her soul. Lucy pestered me to declare that the flag should fly at half-mast.(Business-like) Do you love the Press?
MICHUKI: (Fidgeting, Lucy’s eyes close on the ill-fated socks. Michuki too) Why do you ask, Mheshimiwa?
KIBAKI: Poor soul. I ask ‘ do you’ and you ask ‘why’. Did you learn your English under a tree?
MICHUKI: (Breaking into a sweat) Not under a tree, on top of it as bullets flew below it. You don’t remember Mau Mau? Sorry, err, I hate the Press just like the Mungiki, Taliban, Kamjesh and Standard.
(Both men laugh hysterically. Lucy fixedly looks at the cup held by Kibaki)
LUCY: (To Michuki, arms a kimbo) Another broken cup and you ,Michuki, will kiss yourself out of State House just like Matere Keriri. (To herself) He doesn’t know who Rucy is, he should ask Derrick Otieno of KTN. I beat the herro out of him.
KIBAKI: (To Michuki) Michuki, you are my right-hand man. The Press is the problem. Combine the Standard Raid with Nation and Kenya Times and tell hao wapumbavu ‘ Threat to Security’ or ‘ Rattle the snake’ or this time round ‘Rattle the Anaconda’. These journalists are chasing away investors. And they expect the economy to grow.
MICHUKI: Sure, Mheshimiwa. And all after you’ve sold the image of Kenya in China and exported elephants. Presidency is a thankless job.They forget that you are an economist, breathing and dreaming economy. Do they know GDP and your economy recovery scheme? Wao ni bure tu. Wapumbavu.
(Both men give a throaty laugh. Lucy trains her eyes on the cup which crashes to smithereens. Lucy hauls Michuki, Derrick-style, and throws him out. He winces in pain, wipes his coat and limps away to the State House gateman who shakes his head and smiles hideously)
KIBAKI: (Not amused) By the virtue that you are a First Lady, it doesn’t mean that you can always be fast and furious in chasing away my visitors. You forget that there’s a First Lady who came before you. Pumbavu kabisa!
(The two adults size each other up. Lucy springs up in the air and gives Kibaki a deadly kick on his chin. He is dazed. He romps the room in search of the golf-stick which he doesn’t find. Lucy gives another blow, Kibaki bends and it lands on the concrete wall of State House. Lucy screams in agony, Kibaki’s left hand is on the chin)
KIBAKI: (Lovingly) Be a nice woman, Lucy. Is this the way a President and a First Lady should behave?
(Lucy is transfixed. Her palm is still plastered on the wall, red with blood)
Curtains pull down.
All the characters and scenes on this play are purely a creation of a writer’s imagination. Any resemblance with persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental .
KIBAKI: (Exasperated) At home, State House. Been a hectic day for Baba Jimmy. Lucy, my dear, what’s the news in the newspapers?
LUCY: (Scornfully) That ODM foorish thing. ODM is trouble and Raira is the Devil. Since 2002 I have not understood those fries forrowing Raira. Don’t know that ODM begins with O for Omolo, Odinga and Oginga? Very foorish!
KIBAKI: (Getting to his feet, like a man after stepping on hot coals) Who is foolish? Me? You call me Pumbavu?
LUCY: (Sympathetically) Who has called you foorish? Are you ODM? (Kindly) I keep on reminding you to wipe your ears with those cotton buds. Seems like you forget it—just like my birthdays. (In sudden realization, sphinx-like) Hey dear, take your porridge, the thermos flask is not yet half-full.
KIBAKI:(Ignoring her) How is my face, Lucy? I try to smile but people say that I only twitch the corners of my mouth. How far can one smile as a president?
LUCY: (Matter-of-factly) As far as ones cheeks can go. (Sarcastically) Of course one can smile at ticks like Raila,Uhuru and Kalonzo as they suck the rittle brood ( Pronounced Kikuyu way) of honour left in you. Do you want to be a toothless dog or a saint?
KIBAKI: You shrub again. What rittle brood are you talking about? I think we need a Kikuyu translator in this house to sort things out.
(Lucy’s shoulders stoop)
LUCY: (Confidently) What the herro are you talking about. Mama Rucy knows English.
(Rasp on the door. Enter Michuki, Minister for Internal Security. He gives his usual squint and a bent gait. As he steps into the House , a pair of torn socks peek. Kibaki notices it, ignores it but Lucy explodes)
LUCY: ( Brandishing her fore-finger) Haiya Michuki, you cannot terro me that you have not bought another pair of socks since these ones you are wearing were spotted by the hawk-eyed journalists.
MICHUKI: (Humbled, squint in active mode) Uchumi ni mbaya mama. I am the only Minister North of Marsabit and South of Pwani who walks a lot in the course of duty, a strict follower of Mzee chant-line Walking Nation. My socks speak for themselves.( To Kibaki) Mheshimiwa, what do we do with ODM? They are rattling the snake, this time not in the belly but in the fangs!
KIBAKI: ( Licking the corners of his mouth) What do you mean ‘what do we do with ODM’—Did you ring the Arturs? They need to do it like the Standard Raid. You are a Minister for Internal Security sio kuregarega tu. Pumbavu tu…but hiyo ni ukweli.
MICHUKI: ( Swallowing hard) I hear you Mzee. Now Kiraitu. Why reinstate him to the Cabinet—you gave him his only chance, he blew it.
KIBAKI:(In pure paternal passion) Kiraitu is a growing boy, a political midget. This time round I take him to Energy. Henceforth, he shall talk Kilowatts, power rationing and KPLC, not Anglo-leasing. That Bully of Githongo is Pumbavu, bure kabisa. (Miffed) Do people eat soil or speak oxygen?
MICHUKI: Yes, bure kabisa. He rattled the snake.
(Both explode in a hearty laugh. Kibaki grunts till the cup slips and crashes on the carpeted State House floor. Lucy ducks to the Sitting room and is aghast)
LUCY: (Balefully) By the Mountain of Kirinyaga, Baba Jimmy, have you broken the cup again? I am tired of going for shopping, Lucy in Lucy out.
KIBAKI:(Ignoring Lucy, to Michuki ) Don’t mind her. The cat that she loves best passed to glory in her sleep two weeks ago before I went to China. She wore a dark gown for five days. I believe it is the spirit of that cat she fondly called Three Bridesmaid. God bless her soul. Lucy pestered me to declare that the flag should fly at half-mast.(Business-like) Do you love the Press?
MICHUKI: (Fidgeting, Lucy’s eyes close on the ill-fated socks. Michuki too) Why do you ask, Mheshimiwa?
KIBAKI: Poor soul. I ask ‘ do you’ and you ask ‘why’. Did you learn your English under a tree?
MICHUKI: (Breaking into a sweat) Not under a tree, on top of it as bullets flew below it. You don’t remember Mau Mau? Sorry, err, I hate the Press just like the Mungiki, Taliban, Kamjesh and Standard.
(Both men laugh hysterically. Lucy fixedly looks at the cup held by Kibaki)
LUCY: (To Michuki, arms a kimbo) Another broken cup and you ,Michuki, will kiss yourself out of State House just like Matere Keriri. (To herself) He doesn’t know who Rucy is, he should ask Derrick Otieno of KTN. I beat the herro out of him.
KIBAKI: (To Michuki) Michuki, you are my right-hand man. The Press is the problem. Combine the Standard Raid with Nation and Kenya Times and tell hao wapumbavu ‘ Threat to Security’ or ‘ Rattle the snake’ or this time round ‘Rattle the Anaconda’. These journalists are chasing away investors. And they expect the economy to grow.
MICHUKI: Sure, Mheshimiwa. And all after you’ve sold the image of Kenya in China and exported elephants. Presidency is a thankless job.They forget that you are an economist, breathing and dreaming economy. Do they know GDP and your economy recovery scheme? Wao ni bure tu. Wapumbavu.
(Both men give a throaty laugh. Lucy trains her eyes on the cup which crashes to smithereens. Lucy hauls Michuki, Derrick-style, and throws him out. He winces in pain, wipes his coat and limps away to the State House gateman who shakes his head and smiles hideously)
KIBAKI: (Not amused) By the virtue that you are a First Lady, it doesn’t mean that you can always be fast and furious in chasing away my visitors. You forget that there’s a First Lady who came before you. Pumbavu kabisa!
(The two adults size each other up. Lucy springs up in the air and gives Kibaki a deadly kick on his chin. He is dazed. He romps the room in search of the golf-stick which he doesn’t find. Lucy gives another blow, Kibaki bends and it lands on the concrete wall of State House. Lucy screams in agony, Kibaki’s left hand is on the chin)
KIBAKI: (Lovingly) Be a nice woman, Lucy. Is this the way a President and a First Lady should behave?
(Lucy is transfixed. Her palm is still plastered on the wall, red with blood)
Curtains pull down.
All the characters and scenes on this play are purely a creation of a writer’s imagination. Any resemblance with persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental .
Out of the nostrils, with love
I was a public speaker at a huge gathering. My talk was about The Challenges of A Child From Rural Areas.The panel of judges was seated in the front row, business written on their faces. My discourse was flowing well when, out of the blue, I sneezed. A slimy,viscous and vicious mucus flew out of my bulby nose and, as if to prove its point, it hung on my nostrils.One could swear that it was a moustache.
My quick-fix idea of gallantly groping for the handkerchief proved to be an exercise in futility. Feeling like to scram, I made to move but, as you've guessed it, I stood there. Innovative as I am, I rubbed my left forearm on the demeaning fluid, coughed for reassurance-- then plodded on! Later, my friend confided in me that my face looked like that of a white-striped warrior.
Till now, I make a point of having three handkerchiefs in my pockets.
You never know when the rascal of embarassment shall knock at the door
of your repute. Ye watch people!
My quick-fix idea of gallantly groping for the handkerchief proved to be an exercise in futility. Feeling like to scram, I made to move but, as you've guessed it, I stood there. Innovative as I am, I rubbed my left forearm on the demeaning fluid, coughed for reassurance-- then plodded on! Later, my friend confided in me that my face looked like that of a white-striped warrior.
Till now, I make a point of having three handkerchiefs in my pockets.
You never know when the rascal of embarassment shall knock at the door
of your repute. Ye watch people!
My Carnivorous Ways
( I wrote this piece on Friday, February 23, 2007 at the time when talk of Rift Valley Fever was rife)
The Rift valley Fever came, saw and conquered. Came because it threw every other ‘Carnivore’ like me into panic; saw because it took into its sight the wide populace in Kenya and nodded its head in satisfaction and conquered because the nation is dying.
I hate Rift Valley Fever. Let’s call it RVF because it’s a taboo topic.
The RVF instills in me ‘Feveriosis’. I develop goose bumps whenever I watch those helpless RVF victims. There’s the anomaly in the name. You see, this Rift Valley thing has not caught up with Rift Valley province per se yet it’s called Rift valley Fever. Rift Valley Fever my foot. It’s a bad omen. Why not Central Fever or Nairobi Fever or Eastern Fever? But that’s not the issue.
The issue is me. Yes, me. You see, RVF means everything you can think of. And it starts and ends with meat. Ok, let me confess: I love meat. It’s no secret in my village.Nothing gives me delight than in fixing my healthy set of jagged, serrated, crush-‘em-to-tiny-little-bits teeth on a roasted or fried meat. Like a dutiful lawnmower or hacksaw, my teeth determinedly munch anything fleshy to a fine, even paste and then my agile tongue rolls it into the cave of oblivion. Meat of any ‘creed’, whether red as crimson or white as Santa Claus’s beard, whether boiled or roasted, whether domestic or wild’s, enjoy protection against discrimination. You see, true to form and colour, my teeth enjoys unity in diversity. My two lower teeth were knocked off as I struggled with a stubborn, fleshy, cartilaginous piece of bony meat ( I don’t exaggerate). I had set my grip tight (you may say like a G-Clamp) on the bone and as I swung my jaw sideways in a noisy mouth wrestle, the offending bone let loose and left two gaping holes in their wake. I have hung those two teeth near the door to my house as some sort of a souvenir. Below them I have written: “The price to pay on chewing gone astray”.
I am worried of my canines. You see, through adaptation to the tricky process of stretching and cutting fleshy tendons, they have evolved into secateur-shaped prongs like those of an old warthog. I do not complain. It’s the price. I lost the use of my left molar four years ago due to my negligence: through wear and tear, they lost their hardness and started aching. I did the needful, in one of the meat eating sessions; I clamped it with a sharp bone and knocked it off. In its place is a hard gum that can go beyond its call of duty to squeeze succulence out of meat (such sacrifice!)
My love for meat didn’t start yesterday. It’s a solid reputation built on many years of trying and at times painful experiences of jaw-shattering duels. It’s a CV structured on the layout of carefully devised experience of carnivorous ways. I hold 23 titles of ‘Meat Jugular’ Tournaments that I have contested in. In one of the tournaments, before a packed hall of more than one thousand people, I licked clean a fleshy hind leg of a roasted pig in a record 10 minutes. The crowd gave me a standing ovation. The referee filed an appeal in the Meat Jugular Bout Complaints Tribunal claiming that I had rigged my way into the tournament. But it’s the price. I took the referee to my house and showed him the two teeth hanging near the door. He just stared at the teeth, shook his head and went to his knees. He knew I meant business, promptly apologized and cancelled the appeal. Let me confess that I had planned to risk one of my canines in order to fix it in his arm if he didn’t co-operate. But that’s water under the bridge. Now I have my certificate.
Unfortunately the damn RVF is about to bring an end to this. I suspect that this is part of an orchestrated, well-planned scheme by the vegetarians and my detractors. They want to bring me down by instilling fear in me of Rift Valley whatever. But I shall stand firm. Where were they when I lost my prized lower teeth in a lonely meat wrestle? Or when my canines took the form of a snake’s bare fangs? What about when I single-handedly knocked my own molar without the aid of a dentist,( professional or backstreet), and never used an anaesthiser? And do they realize such a great harm they might be doing to the economy of Kenya when they are joking with an international title?
It’s people like me who keep the economy of Kenya ticking. I keep butcheries in business; I provide a case study of the limits to which teeth can be pushed to (By the way it was one of the thesis topic of a dentist student in his PhD entitled Exploring New Dimensions: Relationship Between Teeth Agility and Food Types). Any way, meat and I shall together be one in this love-hate relationship—Rift Valley Fever (oops, RVF) or no RVF!
If you meet those vet meds tell them I said hello.
The Rift valley Fever came, saw and conquered. Came because it threw every other ‘Carnivore’ like me into panic; saw because it took into its sight the wide populace in Kenya and nodded its head in satisfaction and conquered because the nation is dying.
I hate Rift Valley Fever. Let’s call it RVF because it’s a taboo topic.
The RVF instills in me ‘Feveriosis’. I develop goose bumps whenever I watch those helpless RVF victims. There’s the anomaly in the name. You see, this Rift Valley thing has not caught up with Rift Valley province per se yet it’s called Rift valley Fever. Rift Valley Fever my foot. It’s a bad omen. Why not Central Fever or Nairobi Fever or Eastern Fever? But that’s not the issue.
The issue is me. Yes, me. You see, RVF means everything you can think of. And it starts and ends with meat. Ok, let me confess: I love meat. It’s no secret in my village.Nothing gives me delight than in fixing my healthy set of jagged, serrated, crush-‘em-to-tiny-little-bits teeth on a roasted or fried meat. Like a dutiful lawnmower or hacksaw, my teeth determinedly munch anything fleshy to a fine, even paste and then my agile tongue rolls it into the cave of oblivion. Meat of any ‘creed’, whether red as crimson or white as Santa Claus’s beard, whether boiled or roasted, whether domestic or wild’s, enjoy protection against discrimination. You see, true to form and colour, my teeth enjoys unity in diversity. My two lower teeth were knocked off as I struggled with a stubborn, fleshy, cartilaginous piece of bony meat ( I don’t exaggerate). I had set my grip tight (you may say like a G-Clamp) on the bone and as I swung my jaw sideways in a noisy mouth wrestle, the offending bone let loose and left two gaping holes in their wake. I have hung those two teeth near the door to my house as some sort of a souvenir. Below them I have written: “The price to pay on chewing gone astray”.
I am worried of my canines. You see, through adaptation to the tricky process of stretching and cutting fleshy tendons, they have evolved into secateur-shaped prongs like those of an old warthog. I do not complain. It’s the price. I lost the use of my left molar four years ago due to my negligence: through wear and tear, they lost their hardness and started aching. I did the needful, in one of the meat eating sessions; I clamped it with a sharp bone and knocked it off. In its place is a hard gum that can go beyond its call of duty to squeeze succulence out of meat (such sacrifice!)
My love for meat didn’t start yesterday. It’s a solid reputation built on many years of trying and at times painful experiences of jaw-shattering duels. It’s a CV structured on the layout of carefully devised experience of carnivorous ways. I hold 23 titles of ‘Meat Jugular’ Tournaments that I have contested in. In one of the tournaments, before a packed hall of more than one thousand people, I licked clean a fleshy hind leg of a roasted pig in a record 10 minutes. The crowd gave me a standing ovation. The referee filed an appeal in the Meat Jugular Bout Complaints Tribunal claiming that I had rigged my way into the tournament. But it’s the price. I took the referee to my house and showed him the two teeth hanging near the door. He just stared at the teeth, shook his head and went to his knees. He knew I meant business, promptly apologized and cancelled the appeal. Let me confess that I had planned to risk one of my canines in order to fix it in his arm if he didn’t co-operate. But that’s water under the bridge. Now I have my certificate.
Unfortunately the damn RVF is about to bring an end to this. I suspect that this is part of an orchestrated, well-planned scheme by the vegetarians and my detractors. They want to bring me down by instilling fear in me of Rift Valley whatever. But I shall stand firm. Where were they when I lost my prized lower teeth in a lonely meat wrestle? Or when my canines took the form of a snake’s bare fangs? What about when I single-handedly knocked my own molar without the aid of a dentist,( professional or backstreet), and never used an anaesthiser? And do they realize such a great harm they might be doing to the economy of Kenya when they are joking with an international title?
It’s people like me who keep the economy of Kenya ticking. I keep butcheries in business; I provide a case study of the limits to which teeth can be pushed to (By the way it was one of the thesis topic of a dentist student in his PhD entitled Exploring New Dimensions: Relationship Between Teeth Agility and Food Types). Any way, meat and I shall together be one in this love-hate relationship—Rift Valley Fever (oops, RVF) or no RVF!
If you meet those vet meds tell them I said hello.
Armageddon
“Then I saw an encrypted message: Armaggedon on a marble wall which I didn’t understand. I was told it meant Armageddon, The End of the World.”
Armageddon! It’s the end of the world! The prophesy is getting fulfilled. I had gone to commune with voices in the Mountain of the Tortoise Shell. I wore my camel skin sandals and off I went.
A voice said to me: Salem, Son of Truth (I am not boasting, I am reporting the vision verbatim), I have seen great sin in the world. I send miracles in abundance to draw people to me but my servants use it as a bridge to getting posh cars and tailor-made suits. People, my own people, worship money and secular things like my children of Israel who worshipped the gold idol. I will destroy them like Sodom and Gomorrah.
The voice then asked me: Salem, Son of Truth, not even one stone of this city, not even these tall skyscrapers will remain.. I will send a bog earthquake and thunder and tremor. Not even one soul shall be spared. Not one!
“But Lord,” I pleaded, “Please Lord, I beseech the in all thou providence and mighteth, there are those who exorcised demons in full glare on Television sets in thy Holy Name, there were those who shunned riches and sought thee, Lord, spare them, Please”
The mountain was covered in a thick fog. I saw three billows of smoke that rose to the East leaving a round ring which was extremely white. The white ring glimmered as the smoke cascaded . I tried to look at it but the voice told me: Salem, Son of Truth, look not on this white ring for thou knoweth not that it is surrounded by glory. Look at the smoke, son, not the ring.
For a long time I looked at the cloud of smoke. It cascaded to and fro, round and round till it hung heavily like a huge canopy. Then it changed to so many crying faces of very sad people. I saw tears of blood which accumulated on shining cheeks. I turned my head around and on my back I saw so many other hands, just hands tapping drum. The drumbeats begun on soft tones which gradually rose to fever pitch. I heard humming of low tones which resembled a dirge. Everywhere became sad and sullen and surreptitious.
“Salem, Son of Truth, those who give to charity are generous in order to be seen like the Pharisees, they give in order to show off in high places; those exorcising demons do it for their own glory, praise and status; those shunning riches for thine glory do it with little faith and pegged conditions for blessings and rewards; verily, verily, I tell you Son of Truth I the Lord will strike them all with thy vengeance”
My stomach boiled with fear. The thick fog became very thick and there were slight drizzles. The three billows of smoke gradually changed and hung heavily. They transformed to long bearded faces, one of Moses, the other for Elijah and the other for Jesus. Their beards were soaked in wet drizzle and their eyes carried no emotion. The white ring spun round and round and formed a halo around their faces. The many faces of people at my back hung loose with sadness, tears and suffering. Their tears were crimson red, tears of pain. The drumbeats went on and on in low mournful tones. The hands that beat them were frail, weak, and flabby even.
Then the voice told me: Salem, Son of Truth, go tell them to repent their sins. Like their forefathers, they should wear sack clothes and bathe in ash to atone their sins. They should unchain themselves from the mire of sin and wretchedness and seek my face. I will lessen my wrath on them if they repent and seek favor in my eyes. If they don’t, I will send my forces to descend upon their city which will rock every building North or South, East or West, for the Christians and the Pagans, for the rich and the poor, I will leave dust on their fields.
The three billows of smoke rose high and high till they disappeared. The halo changed to a wonderful bracelet that read: Armageddon. The faces of crying people changed to curved statues and from somewhere very far I could hear the soft patter of rums. The mountain suddenly changed into a city, the faces of the crying people I saw on the mountain again changed into happy, smiling people going about their business in the city. On the tallest skyscraper I could read: Armageddon. Armageddon.
I hurriedly descended from the Mountain of The Tortoise Shell. There were thunder-claps and whacks of lightning and dark cloud was hunging loosely. It was about to rain.
Armageddon! It’s the end of the world! The prophesy is getting fulfilled. I had gone to commune with voices in the Mountain of the Tortoise Shell. I wore my camel skin sandals and off I went.
A voice said to me: Salem, Son of Truth (I am not boasting, I am reporting the vision verbatim), I have seen great sin in the world. I send miracles in abundance to draw people to me but my servants use it as a bridge to getting posh cars and tailor-made suits. People, my own people, worship money and secular things like my children of Israel who worshipped the gold idol. I will destroy them like Sodom and Gomorrah.
The voice then asked me: Salem, Son of Truth, not even one stone of this city, not even these tall skyscrapers will remain.. I will send a bog earthquake and thunder and tremor. Not even one soul shall be spared. Not one!
“But Lord,” I pleaded, “Please Lord, I beseech the in all thou providence and mighteth, there are those who exorcised demons in full glare on Television sets in thy Holy Name, there were those who shunned riches and sought thee, Lord, spare them, Please”
The mountain was covered in a thick fog. I saw three billows of smoke that rose to the East leaving a round ring which was extremely white. The white ring glimmered as the smoke cascaded . I tried to look at it but the voice told me: Salem, Son of Truth, look not on this white ring for thou knoweth not that it is surrounded by glory. Look at the smoke, son, not the ring.
For a long time I looked at the cloud of smoke. It cascaded to and fro, round and round till it hung heavily like a huge canopy. Then it changed to so many crying faces of very sad people. I saw tears of blood which accumulated on shining cheeks. I turned my head around and on my back I saw so many other hands, just hands tapping drum. The drumbeats begun on soft tones which gradually rose to fever pitch. I heard humming of low tones which resembled a dirge. Everywhere became sad and sullen and surreptitious.
“Salem, Son of Truth, those who give to charity are generous in order to be seen like the Pharisees, they give in order to show off in high places; those exorcising demons do it for their own glory, praise and status; those shunning riches for thine glory do it with little faith and pegged conditions for blessings and rewards; verily, verily, I tell you Son of Truth I the Lord will strike them all with thy vengeance”
My stomach boiled with fear. The thick fog became very thick and there were slight drizzles. The three billows of smoke gradually changed and hung heavily. They transformed to long bearded faces, one of Moses, the other for Elijah and the other for Jesus. Their beards were soaked in wet drizzle and their eyes carried no emotion. The white ring spun round and round and formed a halo around their faces. The many faces of people at my back hung loose with sadness, tears and suffering. Their tears were crimson red, tears of pain. The drumbeats went on and on in low mournful tones. The hands that beat them were frail, weak, and flabby even.
Then the voice told me: Salem, Son of Truth, go tell them to repent their sins. Like their forefathers, they should wear sack clothes and bathe in ash to atone their sins. They should unchain themselves from the mire of sin and wretchedness and seek my face. I will lessen my wrath on them if they repent and seek favor in my eyes. If they don’t, I will send my forces to descend upon their city which will rock every building North or South, East or West, for the Christians and the Pagans, for the rich and the poor, I will leave dust on their fields.
The three billows of smoke rose high and high till they disappeared. The halo changed to a wonderful bracelet that read: Armageddon. The faces of crying people changed to curved statues and from somewhere very far I could hear the soft patter of rums. The mountain suddenly changed into a city, the faces of the crying people I saw on the mountain again changed into happy, smiling people going about their business in the city. On the tallest skyscraper I could read: Armageddon. Armageddon.
I hurriedly descended from the Mountain of The Tortoise Shell. There were thunder-claps and whacks of lightning and dark cloud was hunging loosely. It was about to rain.
Doughnut size, bumps and rough rides
I have terrible visions nowadays. I think I am a sick man. When exams approach, I keep on dreaming that wham bam, I have an A. This worries my head off because, in all candidness, I don’t deserve an A. Since I came to the University, my preserve has been Ds. Sometimes I sit for supplementaries (which is welcome) and yes, you guessed it, I exactly strike D with notorious predictability. But this is not the issue.
The other day, a friend told me( he has doughnut size, birds of the same doughnut size flock together). My friend is a peer counselor and when he talks it’s as if he’s swallowed a tape. I told him many things, negative things why I couldn’t but he egged me on, repeating on and on as if it’s his chant line ‘As a man thinketh so is he’. But, again, this is not the issue.
The issue is my brain. My head compares to the size of two doughnuts stuck together. It has so many bumps and rough rides that whatever I hear has to be tossed here and there, ricocheting and rebounding in a clean state of confused noise. I can’t read for an hour. I once tried it for 50 minutes but my mind was sledgehammers, booms and all. My friend is right, I have the willpower but will-power is not brain. I need good brains.
I am your regular cant-miss-the-library student. I think I spend more time in the library than in the hostels. The Brinks Security guards know me by name and face because we are one- the only difference is that I am a student and they are security guards. I once fell ill last semester for 2 days and the chaps got worried. Of course they had a cause to be worried. The safest bet to find me any day at any time is in the library. And I don’t just appear there and doze off like other students do—I read as if somebody is holding a pistol and pressing it on the nape of my neck!
Let me confess that I am studying Law (But let this be our secret, I think I am ‘Most Wanted’ in the Law Department). In class, I sit on the first row such that if I stretch my arm I can comfortably give my lecturer a short and brief handshake. I miss no classes. Most of my fellow students sit like our Kenyan MPS in Parliament but as for me, my spinal cord, in ordinary lecture attendance, is like the Y-axis, I cork my ears an tilt my head to trap all the waves from my lecturer’s mouth( who said being a student is a passive affair?) By the time I finish every class, my ears are wet because of the moist breathe of my lecturers. This, to me, is a test of a lecture well spent.
So you understand the ‘exclusive’ disappointment I get hammered with when I have never risen from grade D. My closest friend Adala, a gigantic fellow with chubby cheeks, barely attends lectures, romps every nightclub every other weekend, can’t tell the difference between the Reserve Section and the General Section let alone the clan name of Chief Librarian Fr. Kisenyi. Imagine the dude shows me his transcript he has a B.(somebody give me a glass of water- I am chocking with emotions). The other lady in my class who sits at the back of the class catching up sleep during the weekend and recovering from the break-up from his boyfriend told me she also had a B, like Adala. There’s also Loitabela-he’s always in the Yellow Pages playing chess and laughing at the world. He mentions celebrities’ names as if they are members of his clan. He got C and expects a B this semester. He had this burning confidence in his eyes I instantly hated him.
But as I told you it is my brain. Adala has a big, round head. Miss Sleep Lady has pumpkin-shaped head also. As for Loitabela, his is square, not hexagon-shaped like mine.
In my visions, a voice speaks to me: “ Salem, my son, thou afflictions have I heard and thine head size worries reached me; thine head I increase and shape correct because I have seen the cry of thy heart and the toil of thou hands”. I see an encrypted letter on a wall. Adala, Miss Sleep Lady and Lotabela are not amused. I look again at the wall-the A has disappeared. I jerk from my sleep and feel my head—Doughnut size, bumps and rough-rides!
The other day, a friend told me( he has doughnut size, birds of the same doughnut size flock together). My friend is a peer counselor and when he talks it’s as if he’s swallowed a tape. I told him many things, negative things why I couldn’t but he egged me on, repeating on and on as if it’s his chant line ‘As a man thinketh so is he’. But, again, this is not the issue.
The issue is my brain. My head compares to the size of two doughnuts stuck together. It has so many bumps and rough rides that whatever I hear has to be tossed here and there, ricocheting and rebounding in a clean state of confused noise. I can’t read for an hour. I once tried it for 50 minutes but my mind was sledgehammers, booms and all. My friend is right, I have the willpower but will-power is not brain. I need good brains.
I am your regular cant-miss-the-library student. I think I spend more time in the library than in the hostels. The Brinks Security guards know me by name and face because we are one- the only difference is that I am a student and they are security guards. I once fell ill last semester for 2 days and the chaps got worried. Of course they had a cause to be worried. The safest bet to find me any day at any time is in the library. And I don’t just appear there and doze off like other students do—I read as if somebody is holding a pistol and pressing it on the nape of my neck!
Let me confess that I am studying Law (But let this be our secret, I think I am ‘Most Wanted’ in the Law Department). In class, I sit on the first row such that if I stretch my arm I can comfortably give my lecturer a short and brief handshake. I miss no classes. Most of my fellow students sit like our Kenyan MPS in Parliament but as for me, my spinal cord, in ordinary lecture attendance, is like the Y-axis, I cork my ears an tilt my head to trap all the waves from my lecturer’s mouth( who said being a student is a passive affair?) By the time I finish every class, my ears are wet because of the moist breathe of my lecturers. This, to me, is a test of a lecture well spent.
So you understand the ‘exclusive’ disappointment I get hammered with when I have never risen from grade D. My closest friend Adala, a gigantic fellow with chubby cheeks, barely attends lectures, romps every nightclub every other weekend, can’t tell the difference between the Reserve Section and the General Section let alone the clan name of Chief Librarian Fr. Kisenyi. Imagine the dude shows me his transcript he has a B.(somebody give me a glass of water- I am chocking with emotions). The other lady in my class who sits at the back of the class catching up sleep during the weekend and recovering from the break-up from his boyfriend told me she also had a B, like Adala. There’s also Loitabela-he’s always in the Yellow Pages playing chess and laughing at the world. He mentions celebrities’ names as if they are members of his clan. He got C and expects a B this semester. He had this burning confidence in his eyes I instantly hated him.
But as I told you it is my brain. Adala has a big, round head. Miss Sleep Lady has pumpkin-shaped head also. As for Loitabela, his is square, not hexagon-shaped like mine.
In my visions, a voice speaks to me: “ Salem, my son, thou afflictions have I heard and thine head size worries reached me; thine head I increase and shape correct because I have seen the cry of thy heart and the toil of thou hands”. I see an encrypted letter on a wall. Adala, Miss Sleep Lady and Lotabela are not amused. I look again at the wall-the A has disappeared. I jerk from my sleep and feel my head—Doughnut size, bumps and rough-rides!
CUEA Campaigns
I was digging through my writings. Here's what I wrote on Wednesday, March 12, 2008 while fellow students in Campus were busy campaigning.
Here we go...
This week CUEA has been in the campaigns. Everywhere there has been posters: VOTE DOUGLAS, VOTE CHANGE; VOTE ONYANGO VOTE VISION; VOTE FRANCIS VOTE ACCOUNTABILITY. But that is not something that has amused me. It is the writings of cheeky students that has made me laugh.
For instance, on one poster one student has written: DEATH ANNOUNCEMENT, WE LOVED YOU BUT GOD LOVED YOU MORE. On another is written, ARE YOU A WORKER OR A STUDENT? On yet another is written: ARE YOU A MASTER'S STUDENT OR WHAT?
One student went out of his way and painted the teeth of one of the portraits. Before he looked nice. Now he looks like a Maasai with the upper canine painted black.
Oh, the little humour in campus!
Here we go...
This week CUEA has been in the campaigns. Everywhere there has been posters: VOTE DOUGLAS, VOTE CHANGE; VOTE ONYANGO VOTE VISION; VOTE FRANCIS VOTE ACCOUNTABILITY. But that is not something that has amused me. It is the writings of cheeky students that has made me laugh.
For instance, on one poster one student has written: DEATH ANNOUNCEMENT, WE LOVED YOU BUT GOD LOVED YOU MORE. On another is written, ARE YOU A WORKER OR A STUDENT? On yet another is written: ARE YOU A MASTER'S STUDENT OR WHAT?
One student went out of his way and painted the teeth of one of the portraits. Before he looked nice. Now he looks like a Maasai with the upper canine painted black.
Oh, the little humour in campus!
If Jesus Was to be Crucified in Kenya
Suppose Jesus was crucified again( oh, again! that would be unfair...Ok I said suppose) especially in Kenya how would the passage be written?
I guess this is how it shall be written:
And it came to pass that unto Kenya the son of man was born and died. Unto Kenya was our Lord crucified. Jesus was tormented in mind and spirit seeing his hour had come. He cried to Abba Father: Father, if it be my will, remove this cup of suffering from me, not my will but your will. But a man named Judas Tribalism had sold peace in Kenya for thirty pieces of silver. Judas gave Jesus a kiss and seeing that Jesus was betrayed hung himself on an akoretee tree near Chebengi on the dark morning before the Peace Accord was signed.
Jesus wept for Kenya.
He wept for her leaders who led but were guided by the lust for money.
He wept for her people who instead of loving, hated each other more than hate itself.
He wept for her innocent people who were silent when the atrocities bedevilled Kenya.
He wept for our Latter Day Simon Peters who have betrayed him and embraced violence.
Jesus wept.
And so, after the Sanhedrin had discussed about the affairs of Jesus, they decided that he had to be crucified. He had blasphemed. At the Tribal Square where lay machetes, pangas,rungus and blunt axes, Jesus was declared guilty.
The crowd shouted:
He has to die, He has die!
The blasphemer of our tribal thinking has to die!
And so the son of Man was whipped through the lands of Rift Valley, Murang'a, Burnt Forest and Kisumu. He was flogged, he was crowned with thorns and spat at. He carried the wooden cross of tribalism and was lashed at again and again and again.
And when the hour came, the son of Man cried out a loud: "Eloi, Eloi Lama Sabaktani" meaning " Kenya, Kenya, why have you forsaken me".
When the tribal bigots had made sure that Jesus had died, he was removed and buried. On the third day he arose and shouted:
"To Kenya do I rise again, To Kenya do I resurrect, I died for you so that you may receive lasting peace"
I guess this is how it shall be written:
And it came to pass that unto Kenya the son of man was born and died. Unto Kenya was our Lord crucified. Jesus was tormented in mind and spirit seeing his hour had come. He cried to Abba Father: Father, if it be my will, remove this cup of suffering from me, not my will but your will. But a man named Judas Tribalism had sold peace in Kenya for thirty pieces of silver. Judas gave Jesus a kiss and seeing that Jesus was betrayed hung himself on an akoretee tree near Chebengi on the dark morning before the Peace Accord was signed.
Jesus wept for Kenya.
He wept for her leaders who led but were guided by the lust for money.
He wept for her people who instead of loving, hated each other more than hate itself.
He wept for her innocent people who were silent when the atrocities bedevilled Kenya.
He wept for our Latter Day Simon Peters who have betrayed him and embraced violence.
Jesus wept.
And so, after the Sanhedrin had discussed about the affairs of Jesus, they decided that he had to be crucified. He had blasphemed. At the Tribal Square where lay machetes, pangas,rungus and blunt axes, Jesus was declared guilty.
The crowd shouted:
He has to die, He has die!
The blasphemer of our tribal thinking has to die!
And so the son of Man was whipped through the lands of Rift Valley, Murang'a, Burnt Forest and Kisumu. He was flogged, he was crowned with thorns and spat at. He carried the wooden cross of tribalism and was lashed at again and again and again.
And when the hour came, the son of Man cried out a loud: "Eloi, Eloi Lama Sabaktani" meaning " Kenya, Kenya, why have you forsaken me".
When the tribal bigots had made sure that Jesus had died, he was removed and buried. On the third day he arose and shouted:
"To Kenya do I rise again, To Kenya do I resurrect, I died for you so that you may receive lasting peace"
On Campus Fast Lane: The Bad and Ugly
You arrive at the hallowed grounds of the University, dead tired but upbeat nonetheless. You have worked your way here by honest hardwork. You have been grilled by the toughest of surprise cats and survived. You have sat weeks of KCSE and wrote your answers and secured an admission to the university. You stand at the gate and say to yourself, ‘Salem boy, here at last in the University. You are now a campus boy!’ You don’t believe yourself. ‘Somebody pinch me, Somebody pinch me’ you mutter, this time a little louder. You have conquered all the village academic tyrants and now you bestraddle the university grounds like a colossus. Too good to be true.
A guard comes to you and asks, ‘Kijana, iko nini. Wee umepotea?’ You shake your head and answer, ‘Hii ni university hee?’ The guard responds, ‘Kijana soma pale unafanya nini hapa?’ You tell the guard that you are from a long, long journey from a place called West Pokot. He remembers something, ‘Ooooho, nyinyi ndio wale wezi wa ng’ombe’ You feel insulted but you realize that he still is the guard so you smile through your teeth. After explaining that you are a new student, he shows you around and as a parting shot he says, ‘ Kijana, huku hakuna ng’ombe so hatuna wasiwasi’. You walk away bearing the collective shame of a branded society.
Then on the next day, you are called for orientation. You are introduced to the University’s who’s who. There’s the Chancellor, the Vice, The DVC Academic, The DVC Administration, the Chaplain, the Dean of Students, the Financial Administrator and Heads of Departments. You are told to use your common sense. The chaplain invites you to ‘edit’ your life by attending the mass services. You are in a big hall with big people and having big dream. Then you dine at the Cafeteria and reassure yourself that your hardwork is now paying off.
Then the honeymoon is over.
There is no assembly, no teacher on duty, no one following you around. Then you tell yourself, ‘This is the place to be, I am free at last’. But you are terribly wrong. You are not free yet. You have master the names of buildings, to know where Tzadua is, Rugambwa Hall, Otunga Hall, Jubilee Hall, Missio Hall. They are all confusing as their names. Even after putting in heart the names and locations of the halls, half of your mystery is solved. You have to locate the lecture room number. You climb stairs like a mad bull to beat the 8 O’clock deadline. You sit in wrong halls and wrong lecture rooms being introduced to thermodynamics when you are a First year Law student. You secretly wonder, ‘But does this Physics thing follow people even in law?’ You realize your foible and walk out as miraculously as you had come in. You leave the room occupants in stitches. You miss your classes for a whole week before finding your right place.
And when you think you are now home, you are reminded that you are still a stranger. The lecturer asks, ‘What is your name?’ and a disciplined boy you are you stand up straight as a flag post and say, ‘Lomertapem, Sir, I am Lomertapem’. The class laughs and you are bitter. What is so funny about a man’s introduction. For all you care, you were the sharpest English boy in your village. ‘What a mouthful, Lomer-somebody,’ and almost as quickly , the lecturer adds, ‘and don’t stand next time. This is not High school.’ In High school, it would be sacrilege for a teacher to say that.
For the next three weeks, your classmates find delight in calling you Lomer-somebody. You don’t know whether they are kidding you or they just love you. Especially the ladies. They will mutilate your name and call you Loma-sumbady, Lomateypeym. You realize your name has been butchered and before you cry murder they are hugging you and teaching you how to rub your right (or was it left?) palm on their soft backs.
Your lecturers come and go with their different set of challenges. A lady lecturer caps it all. The staccato sound of her high-heels announces her presence. Then she dictates to you foreign notes in a foreign pronunciation . She pronounces your as yo and how are you as how you doin. It is fast so for hours you keep writing your own set of mis-spelled and mis-contrued words. It is only in second year that you look at your notes again and say to yourself, ‘Who was this? By God I must have been green, green as an algae can be’
A guard comes to you and asks, ‘Kijana, iko nini. Wee umepotea?’ You shake your head and answer, ‘Hii ni university hee?’ The guard responds, ‘Kijana soma pale unafanya nini hapa?’ You tell the guard that you are from a long, long journey from a place called West Pokot. He remembers something, ‘Ooooho, nyinyi ndio wale wezi wa ng’ombe’ You feel insulted but you realize that he still is the guard so you smile through your teeth. After explaining that you are a new student, he shows you around and as a parting shot he says, ‘ Kijana, huku hakuna ng’ombe so hatuna wasiwasi’. You walk away bearing the collective shame of a branded society.
Then on the next day, you are called for orientation. You are introduced to the University’s who’s who. There’s the Chancellor, the Vice, The DVC Academic, The DVC Administration, the Chaplain, the Dean of Students, the Financial Administrator and Heads of Departments. You are told to use your common sense. The chaplain invites you to ‘edit’ your life by attending the mass services. You are in a big hall with big people and having big dream. Then you dine at the Cafeteria and reassure yourself that your hardwork is now paying off.
Then the honeymoon is over.
There is no assembly, no teacher on duty, no one following you around. Then you tell yourself, ‘This is the place to be, I am free at last’. But you are terribly wrong. You are not free yet. You have master the names of buildings, to know where Tzadua is, Rugambwa Hall, Otunga Hall, Jubilee Hall, Missio Hall. They are all confusing as their names. Even after putting in heart the names and locations of the halls, half of your mystery is solved. You have to locate the lecture room number. You climb stairs like a mad bull to beat the 8 O’clock deadline. You sit in wrong halls and wrong lecture rooms being introduced to thermodynamics when you are a First year Law student. You secretly wonder, ‘But does this Physics thing follow people even in law?’ You realize your foible and walk out as miraculously as you had come in. You leave the room occupants in stitches. You miss your classes for a whole week before finding your right place.
And when you think you are now home, you are reminded that you are still a stranger. The lecturer asks, ‘What is your name?’ and a disciplined boy you are you stand up straight as a flag post and say, ‘Lomertapem, Sir, I am Lomertapem’. The class laughs and you are bitter. What is so funny about a man’s introduction. For all you care, you were the sharpest English boy in your village. ‘What a mouthful, Lomer-somebody,’ and almost as quickly , the lecturer adds, ‘and don’t stand next time. This is not High school.’ In High school, it would be sacrilege for a teacher to say that.
For the next three weeks, your classmates find delight in calling you Lomer-somebody. You don’t know whether they are kidding you or they just love you. Especially the ladies. They will mutilate your name and call you Loma-sumbady, Lomateypeym. You realize your name has been butchered and before you cry murder they are hugging you and teaching you how to rub your right (or was it left?) palm on their soft backs.
Your lecturers come and go with their different set of challenges. A lady lecturer caps it all. The staccato sound of her high-heels announces her presence. Then she dictates to you foreign notes in a foreign pronunciation . She pronounces your as yo and how are you as how you doin. It is fast so for hours you keep writing your own set of mis-spelled and mis-contrued words. It is only in second year that you look at your notes again and say to yourself, ‘Who was this? By God I must have been green, green as an algae can be’
Ignorance: It Came, Saw and Conquered…But For How Long Kinsmen?
Our people are dying. They are dying not from diseases nor accidents nor raids. They are not being swept away by the evil forces of nature. They are dying from ignorance. You might think, ‘But, this isn’t right, ignorance never kills!’ I understand your retort. You are right, ignorance never kills even as our people die prematurely from the baggage of uncomfortable life. Ignorance indeed never kills even as children are doomed to be shepherds yet they have best of brains. I understand why you say ignorance never kills while thousands of herds of cattle are swept away by drought and lokit after years and years of looking for them greener pastures. Yes, you are damn right ignorance never kills. That like rat it bites and breathes on the spot but doesn’t kill.
And so we exclaim, ‘But tunadumisha mila’. Which is a good thing, I might say. And in the spirit of tunadumisha mila we send hundreds of girls to early graves. We pluck them from schools, mutilate their womanhood and marry them off to the oldest men in the village. We bargain for a trade-off with their lives and we clinch ‘good deals’ sealed with the stab of a double-edged sword into their hearts. We shackle our young boys in the bushes to herd cattle and chase after birds and rats. We look at our herds of cattle and secretly wonder whether there is any other rich man all over the village. We count the rich cattle-owners and bubble with excitement over the fact that they are not richer than us. And so, brother, when I ask you if ignorance kills you look at me as if I am walking on my head. You say, we are rich.
Again, you may ask, ‘How do you measure ignorance? By the theories we read and western trends we absorb?’ Brother, I understand your frustration. So what is ignorance then? I will not give you a clear-cut definition. I will give you some scenarios.
On a Sunny Market Day, a cattle-seller counts his money under a tree. The fifty shilling notes are pressed using the left toes. The hundred shilling notes are clamped in between the toes. The five hundred shilling notes are held by the left hand while the one thousand shilling notes are held by the right. It is a windy day and the exercise must go on. Not even the flutter of the notes and the slow pace of the exercise dampen the zeal of the under-a-tree-cashier.
Behind the hills somewhere far away from the dispensary a family is in a grip of despair. It is past midnight. A child is sick. As a matter of fact, the child has been sick for the last three days. It is not yet Sunday, a Market Day, the day the child should be taken to the dispensary. The terror-stricken parents rush the child to the dispensary some twenty kilometers away. Unfortunately, the child passes away some hundred metres away from the dispensary. The parents cry in low tones and the man says in-between- sobs, ‘Worry not, the woman of my children, we will have another one’.
The period for the registration of voters has come and the clerks are dispatched to the villages. A clerk is in the heart of a village conducting the exercise. He explains his motive and elucidates the process to be undergone. An ageing woman shuffles near the clerk and speaks rationally, ‘My boy, you people amaze me. Last year you came and wrote our names. This year again. But where is relief?’ The clerk prepares to answer but she advises her listeners, ‘This boy is a fraud. He is one of those cons to get people’s ID’s and disappear. Don’t let him!’
Somewhere in another village a woman is in the grip of labour pains. Under the moonlight, the undergone-FGM woman mutters all the names that come to her mind. It has been couple of hours of agony. A midwife makes a lot of incisions on her birth canal. The orgy goes on and on and on ad infinitum. The woman succumbs to death at dawn. The frustrated midwives mutter, ‘We gave our best shot. Too sad she had to die. We thought she was a strong woman.’
And almost with irritating predictability, drought will strike, people will cry about hunger and many will survive, literally. No one controls the hand of fate, I agree. I don’t laugh at those who are in pangs of starvation either. But I feel the problem would have been alleviated with education. Feeding on wild-fruits while there are hundreds of cattle beats my logic. The burdens of being a pastoralist!
You might be thinking, ‘You don’t understand our people. They are that and will remain that.’ But I refuse to believe that they are that. If you come to think of it we suffer from ‘they-are-that’ syndrome. Its patients always feel comfortable about the status quo. They are the outsiders. They look at the problem as some sort of a one-page actuarial science question to be answered. They say, ‘They are used to that life—the shoe-wearer knows where it pinches’. But again I refuse to admit that our people are ‘used to that life’. The problem is more complex than we think. You will agree with me that the height of a mountain is made possible by the flat landscape, the cleverness of a child is made possible by another dumb one and delight is achieved by presentation of two alternatives for which a person picks one. But our people have not been awarded the luxury of two alternatives. Theirs is a one-way alley for which they walk on unaware of a highway of life where they can choose their lanes. Theirs is one story about struggle and hanging on the rope. Theirs is a sad life with one theme and one chapter. And when the footnotes of history will be written, a clever historian will write in a diary, ‘People die. They die not from diseases nor accidents nor raids. They die not by being swept away by the evil forces of nature. They die from ignorance’.
Time has never been ripe as now for us to examine ourselves. To admit that ignorance is killing our people and seek clemency within classroom walls. To ask ourselves hard questions about our extent of kudumisha mila. To find reasons as to why we should pay the costly price of ignorance with tears and blood. Our people need to be freed from the chains of ignorance for there is no worst and debasing atrocity against liberty than the limitation of the freedom of the mind.
And so we exclaim, ‘But tunadumisha mila’. Which is a good thing, I might say. And in the spirit of tunadumisha mila we send hundreds of girls to early graves. We pluck them from schools, mutilate their womanhood and marry them off to the oldest men in the village. We bargain for a trade-off with their lives and we clinch ‘good deals’ sealed with the stab of a double-edged sword into their hearts. We shackle our young boys in the bushes to herd cattle and chase after birds and rats. We look at our herds of cattle and secretly wonder whether there is any other rich man all over the village. We count the rich cattle-owners and bubble with excitement over the fact that they are not richer than us. And so, brother, when I ask you if ignorance kills you look at me as if I am walking on my head. You say, we are rich.
Again, you may ask, ‘How do you measure ignorance? By the theories we read and western trends we absorb?’ Brother, I understand your frustration. So what is ignorance then? I will not give you a clear-cut definition. I will give you some scenarios.
On a Sunny Market Day, a cattle-seller counts his money under a tree. The fifty shilling notes are pressed using the left toes. The hundred shilling notes are clamped in between the toes. The five hundred shilling notes are held by the left hand while the one thousand shilling notes are held by the right. It is a windy day and the exercise must go on. Not even the flutter of the notes and the slow pace of the exercise dampen the zeal of the under-a-tree-cashier.
Behind the hills somewhere far away from the dispensary a family is in a grip of despair. It is past midnight. A child is sick. As a matter of fact, the child has been sick for the last three days. It is not yet Sunday, a Market Day, the day the child should be taken to the dispensary. The terror-stricken parents rush the child to the dispensary some twenty kilometers away. Unfortunately, the child passes away some hundred metres away from the dispensary. The parents cry in low tones and the man says in-between- sobs, ‘Worry not, the woman of my children, we will have another one’.
The period for the registration of voters has come and the clerks are dispatched to the villages. A clerk is in the heart of a village conducting the exercise. He explains his motive and elucidates the process to be undergone. An ageing woman shuffles near the clerk and speaks rationally, ‘My boy, you people amaze me. Last year you came and wrote our names. This year again. But where is relief?’ The clerk prepares to answer but she advises her listeners, ‘This boy is a fraud. He is one of those cons to get people’s ID’s and disappear. Don’t let him!’
Somewhere in another village a woman is in the grip of labour pains. Under the moonlight, the undergone-FGM woman mutters all the names that come to her mind. It has been couple of hours of agony. A midwife makes a lot of incisions on her birth canal. The orgy goes on and on and on ad infinitum. The woman succumbs to death at dawn. The frustrated midwives mutter, ‘We gave our best shot. Too sad she had to die. We thought she was a strong woman.’
And almost with irritating predictability, drought will strike, people will cry about hunger and many will survive, literally. No one controls the hand of fate, I agree. I don’t laugh at those who are in pangs of starvation either. But I feel the problem would have been alleviated with education. Feeding on wild-fruits while there are hundreds of cattle beats my logic. The burdens of being a pastoralist!
You might be thinking, ‘You don’t understand our people. They are that and will remain that.’ But I refuse to believe that they are that. If you come to think of it we suffer from ‘they-are-that’ syndrome. Its patients always feel comfortable about the status quo. They are the outsiders. They look at the problem as some sort of a one-page actuarial science question to be answered. They say, ‘They are used to that life—the shoe-wearer knows where it pinches’. But again I refuse to admit that our people are ‘used to that life’. The problem is more complex than we think. You will agree with me that the height of a mountain is made possible by the flat landscape, the cleverness of a child is made possible by another dumb one and delight is achieved by presentation of two alternatives for which a person picks one. But our people have not been awarded the luxury of two alternatives. Theirs is a one-way alley for which they walk on unaware of a highway of life where they can choose their lanes. Theirs is one story about struggle and hanging on the rope. Theirs is a sad life with one theme and one chapter. And when the footnotes of history will be written, a clever historian will write in a diary, ‘People die. They die not from diseases nor accidents nor raids. They die not by being swept away by the evil forces of nature. They die from ignorance’.
Time has never been ripe as now for us to examine ourselves. To admit that ignorance is killing our people and seek clemency within classroom walls. To ask ourselves hard questions about our extent of kudumisha mila. To find reasons as to why we should pay the costly price of ignorance with tears and blood. Our people need to be freed from the chains of ignorance for there is no worst and debasing atrocity against liberty than the limitation of the freedom of the mind.
The Pokot Dream: Lorot Son of the Hills, go and tell them...
I was sleeping in a mud-hut. Outside, the rain was pounding. The village was serene.
I covered myself with a shuka and tried to catch some sleep. I drifted further and further into the slumberland...
I found myself standing in a lush grass vegetation and thousands of herds of healthy cows. Cow-bells, the noisy lows of cows and occasional whistles of shepherds could be heard. I was mesmerized.
I just walked aimlessly.
Then I came upon another area. It was filled with buildings, skyscrapers and other modern structures. I heard the noise of humming engines and the chattering of hawkers. It was a din to behold. My village ears could not bear!
I just walked.
Then I saw two files of people, one on the right and the other on the left. The right file was neat. The left one was shabby and miserable. I really wanted to go near them and shout: 'My people, why are your countenance shadowy and your eyes heavy with sadness?' but somehow I was drawn to the right file of the beaming faces. I was attracted to their happiness. I asked myself, 'Why are these people upbeat with happiness and their faces bright with sunshine?'. Each person wore differently. I saw one with a knapsack sprayer on his back, helmet on head and a hoe on his hand. Another wore a white coat and a stethoscope round his neck. Immediately after him was a man carrying a huge file, a wig on head and a black gown. I saw a man, then a lady, all carrying Bibles and wearing big crosses. And a turbaned Sheikh in a flowing kanzu, tasbihi coiled in hand. It was a long file and I stood there for a very long time. I continued looking at these people. Guarding the file was a no nonsense fiery man with an AK-47. Then there was a smiling woman. Her hands were filled with chalk-dust and a red bick pen neatly stuck on her breast-pocket. There was a clown running around. He called himself Tafutayan. He could translate any of the Pokot, Kiswahili, English, Sabei, Turkana, Tepes and Karamojong tribes. In one kokwo, Tafutayan even made the DC laugh on the material day of the Disarmament Operation.
The other file was a miserable lot. They were scrawny, shabby and silent. They only whispered in very low tones. When they laughed, there was no enthusiasm-just dry and hollow laughter of the teeth. I pitied this lot. One carried a torn piece of what was an obituary section of the newspaper. He struggled to read it. I could see his face twisted with effort and lips quivering with determination. I drew closer to him. The part he wanted to read was 'DEATH ANNOUNCEMENT'. There was a warrior in war gear. Part of his forehead had been shattered by a blunt instrument. His back was bathed in blood. One of his hands held his forehead and another covered his back. He was wincing from excruciating pain. A drunk old man dragged himself near the warrior. He asked him where busaa was being brewed that day. The warrior didn't reply and out of anger he blubbered:' Tsk.Tsk. Our men nowadays have become women. During our days, we could run for days to raid but these ones run from one hill to another and breathe like their last!' He staggered away. Another man gave him a cup of changa'aa. He stood straight and gulped it down in one swig. When he was finished he let the cup drop and using one hand he held his forehead. His eyes were closed tight. I guessed may be his lungs were burning from the brew. I shool my head and walked away. I got closer to the warrior and asked him: 'Brother, you are bleeding like a speared cow. What happened to you?' He bit his lips for a while and replied: 'Kinsman, what should a man be remembered for?' I was dumbfounded. Remembered for? This was a tough one. I had to tread carefully. 'It depends. What do you want to be remembered for?' He was in deep pain but somehow he wanted to talk.
'Kinsman, when we die in other people's fields and are eaten by hyenas what do we want to be remembered for?'
'I think they will say that you did not die in vain--that you were caught in the crossfires of bullets and that happens in 'battlefields' ' He was not impressed.
'They will say. But what will they do. Will they breathe into my nostrils again and say 'Kinsman, breathe again'? They won't. And if I escape with my body bleeding like a shot enemy, they will say 'Our son, you are now growing like a man'. When lokit comes all my four-feet creatures will disappear and I will think 'Mmmmh, it has been long. Let me go and bring back my cows. They are now multiplied. But for how long? Till the killer bullet shatters my brains?'
He went away a broken-hearted man.
I just walked away. The file was still long. A tall, elegant lady stood by. She was in a blue vest and an enchanting lorwaa. I did my mental calculations and I was sure that she could fetch a cool thirty cows, nothing less. But she was remorse. She carried a suckling baby on her arms and a two years plus boy on her back. She was nothing more than 15 years. A grizzly, balding old man stood next to her. He was sniffing his tobbaco. Once in a while he could touch the child at the back of the lady and smile, revealing a set of darkened teeth scattered in his mouth. The old man gave me a fierce look and I continued walking, never stopping to greet that lady.
I just walked.
Then a voice came to me. 'Lorot, Son of the Hills, what do you see?'
I saw a big mountain. On it was a big clock ticking furiously. I replied, 'A mountain and a clock'
'Good'. I looked at the clock for a long time. The right file of the happy people never admired the clock. They looked at it and ran away. They were always running to do things. The clock was a reminder, not a decoration. The left file never stopped to admire the clock. For instance, they could wonder, 'How can such a thing tell what exactly the time is and as sure as the cows will come back home it will be right'. They could be heard asking, ' Those small sticks in the clock are very clever. The father which is the longest runs faster than the wife and the child'. They could laugh and talk about this. Tafutayan was once called to unravel this mystery but he said that he did not have time for such a foolish thing. Even the clown flatly refused. His time was precious. He said, 'Making people laugh is not a laughing matter and there was no time to waste'. He is after all a busy man.
But the left file never ceased to amaze me. They always slept under trees and talked about the clock. For instance, the joked that during the times of their ancestors they didn't have clocks. They looked at the skies and told what time it was. They came to believe, rather superstitiously, that the clock was the plan of a local witch from a neighbouring community to divert their minds. The right file hated to talk about the clock. But they occasionally looked at it.
I then came again to an urban centre. A voice said to me, 'Lorot, Son of the Hills, what do you see?'
I said, 'A city with buildings and houses and vehicles and people everywhere'
'Good'. I had never seen such a place before. The noses of buildings touched the skies. Tall buildings, tall houses, tall everything. These people were always running. In the morning, they ran. In the evening, they ran. At night, they ran. They always had children of the clocks on their wrists. May be my people were right that the clock was a scheme of a witch because everytime they looked at them they could spring and run like hunted gazelles. Oh, the city people! I sometimes looked at these people and laughed but the voice told me, 'Lorot, Son of the Hills, laugh at yourself and your people. Cry for your good people for they take the clock as a decoration and not a clock. Laugh at your folly, Lorot, Son of the Hills'. I tried hard not to laugh but I ended up suppressing it. Then I bumped at Tafutayan. He was carrying a big dictionary and was in great haste.
'Tafutayan,' I greeted, 'What brings you here?'
'Kinsman, I ran from poverty. I ran from ignorance. I sought refuge in this city, the city of lights'
'But you ran from our people!' I protested. Tafutayan looked at me with a pained look.
'Kinsman, you don't understand. I want to learn the ways of the city, the ways of the educated. When I go back I want to teach my people the tricks of the city. I know they will laugh at another of their bewitched sons.' Tafutayan was in a hurry. He just sprang away and got lost in a crowd.
I just walked. Then I came across a compound full of children. The voice asked me, 'Lorot, Son of the Hills, what do you see?'
I said, 'A school'.
'Good'. I saw clever,clean children. One child came over to me and asked, 'Stranger, how are you?' I replied, of course in a broken English, 'Mimi si stranger. Me is fine'. The child laughed at me and ran away. I was embarrassed. Then I thought: here is a child at nursery speaking English and confusing Lorot, Son of the Hills, I who translates difficult English words to my chief for a small fee, being beaten by a class nursery child. What about our among'oo-angalalio- and- arol eating children of class five in the village? I was very sad. As a matter of fact, I never knew how to read MADE IN KENYA till I reached class six. I always read it MADENI KENYA. I always wondered, by God, there is a lot of madeni Kenya. And I was one of the brightest children in the class. What about my other brothers who could not even pronounce madeni?
The voice told me, 'Lorot, Son of the Hills. This is the Pokot problem. Children who fumble half of their life in education and half of it trying to undo the problem. Sad. Too sad' I shook my head. I did not like the tone of his voice. It was as if it was blaming me.
'Whose problem?' I asked painfully.
The voice answered. 'Whose problem, you said Lorot, Son of the Hills? It's our problem. It starts when your pastoralist father keeps you herding goats and cattle till you become 10 years. It begins with that lazy teacher who who doesn't mark your books. Perhaps it starts with that madam who smiles when the children talk Pokot from morning till evening. It is not blame game. We all contribute.'
'But that is not all. What about lack of goals?'
'Interesting, Lorot, Son of the Hills. A Pokot boy grows up in the plains of West Pokot, is circumcised, marries and raids. His circle is closed. He thinks that that is a life well lived, well explored. A Pokot girl enters puberty at 13, is circumcised and forcibly married off to a balding old man. Her circle is also closed. She delivers ten plus kids and the rest of her life is spent on fetching water, carrying sick children to the dispensary more than 10 kilometers away and gossipping with other women at the well.'
It was painful to hear this. But however biting it was I remained silent.
'Lorot, Son of the Hills. Look at your people. They are energetic, there is life in their talk and there is a spring in their walks. They are clever. They are beautiful...' The voice stopped and asked, 'Lorot, Son of the Hills, what do you see?' I saw a chariot. There was a horse pulling it. I said, 'A chariot'
'Good'. Then he asked, 'Which is pulling which?' I looked carefully and responded, 'The horse is pulling the chariot' Then the voice was never heard for a very long time. When it came, it was slow, low and mournful, 'Lorot, Son of the Hills, I am sorry to say this but your people, beautiful as they are, energetic as they are and clever as they are, are the ones pulling the chariot. But for how long? Their backs are about to break. Their nerves and muscles are about to tear. For how long should they pull the chariot? The chariot of illiteracy. The chariot of FGM. The chariot of early marriages. The chariot of leadership with no vision. For how long, Lorot, Son of the Hills, should your people pull the chariot? When are they going to be pulled by the horse?' I cried. I cried for my people. And all this while they pulled the chariots and never knew of that fact. And all this while they looked at the clock not as a reminder but as a decoration. And all this while they were baptized bandits, raiders, bloodthirsty lot. And all this while they were a pariah tribe. I cried for my people but the voice reprimanded, saying, 'Cry not for your people, Lorot, Son of the Hills, go and educate your people. Go and seek audience with them. Go and show them the beauty of being pulled by the horse. Weep not any more, Lorot because I know the Pokots. They are steadfast and when they seek your way not even a villageful of langalangas can change their minds!'
I just walked.
Then the voice asked me, 'Lorot,Son of the Hills, who is that?' I saw a man in a white-coat and a stethoscope swung around his neck.
I said, ' I think he is a doctor'.
'You think, you can't be sure?'
'He is'
'Good'
The voice then told me, 'Lorot, Son of the Hills, your people are being swept away. If it is not malaria, it's polio. If it's not polio, it is kalaazar. If it is not that, it is TB. But for how long, Lorot, Son of the Hills? You have no doctors that can be counted on one finger. Meningitis kill you, typhoid kill you but you never learn. You trek for days to get a tablet for malaria. You die in remote bushes because you have no sons who are doctors. You build no hospitals nor dispensaries. You have no clinics near you. When will your children learn about these diseases and cure you?' One of my Aunts had died due to sickness. I remembered her. She could have lived longer had there been more hospitals and dispensaries.
This voice tantalized me, mocked me and probed me. It pricked right into my heart. It had hard truth. But I walked on. I had no reply.
Then I came upon a lady in a dark gown and a wig. She was carrying files and was standing beside Milimani Commercial Courts. She wore sunglasses. She appeared well read. I remembered that lady in the left file carrying two babies. My mind brushed off that old man. I did not want to picture him in my mind, at least not then. Then I wondered, 'That lady should be like this lady here. Oh, the burdens of a Pokot girls!'
The voice then came upon me. 'Lorot, Son of the Hills, what are you thinking?'
I replied, ' I am thinking about ths lady here and ladies from the village. The city girl carries files. The village girl carries babies. The only difference is that the city girl smiles while carrying the file while the village girl is all sad' The voice laughed at me.
'You've spoken, Lorot, Son of the Hills, I tell you this lady is not worried what she will eat tonight. Upto five in the evening, your village girl would still be unsure of what to eat. Sokorya? Musar? Sagaa? And when a decision about what to be aten would have been reached then the other question would follow: How many mouths to feed today. Of course,half will eat at night and the other half tommorow.'
This voice spoke in short biting sarcasm. It never hid reality. It just came out softly, like a bullet from a silencer. But I liked the voice because it never wanted to please. It just spoke. It didn't care what people will react or say. It was a unique voice. I tried to remember when was the last time I heard such a voice but it just didn't come out--especially in my village.
I was astounded by the buildings in this city. They were tall and raised their arms as if they wanted to hug the skies.
I just walked. Their roads were smooth. There were no potholes. Flyovers were there. Cars just moved past. I pictured Pokot land, the place of my birth and I laughed. I laughed and cried at almost the same time. The voice asked me, 'Lorot, Son of the Hills, what makes you laugh?'
I answered, ' I laugh at my people. No wonder they don't get rich. They fast, eat less and feed on wild fruits to save some money for a Matatu. They eventually buy one from Uganda but the roads are not merciful. They ply the cowtrack fields they call roads for 6 months and their vehicles rest in pieces on four stones, tyres removed and engine sold.Expectant mothers deliver on the roads due to the corrugations. People travelling for interviews on the other end reach the office and the first thing the boss asks, ' Please wait outside, my car is still in the garage. Please come and repair it later,'
The voice laughed.
'Are you serious or you are joking?'
'I have never been serious in my life' Then the voice quips, 'Lorot, Son of the Hill, Remember what I told you. The Pokots need to be pulled by the horse not them pulling the chariots.'
We walked a lot of distance. I saw a lot of things. I heard a lot of things. I thought about this Pokot Dream. It came at night. In the deep recesses of my mind, the dream came. But this was no ordinary dream because it is a dream which can make or break Pokots. I have always thought about this dream in my waking hours. I usually ask myself, When will the Pokots be liberated? When will they be pulled by the horse? When will Pokots walk into the emancipation of development and prosperity. You Pokot ( or our reader who has found time to read this ) reading this you are part of the Pokot Dream. Tell our people that education will liberate them. Tell our people that the Pokot Dream is this: That a Pokot boy can pursue whatever he feels like and not be limited by the father wanting him to be a shepherd. That a Pokot girl can reach the zenith of her education without being forcibly married. That a Pokot warrior will walk into Sabei land and shake hand with his foe and drink milk from the same gourd. That Pokots will still keep cows but milk them in banks and their employments. That the enrolment and retention of children at school will hit the ceiling in what has never been experienced in Kenyan history. That Lorot, Son of the Hill,( and other Lorots who have not mastered their English) will never again answer, 'Mimi si stranger. Me is fine'. This is the Pokot Dream. And as one family of Kenya we will live in peace with them and not be regarded with silent suspicion.
I covered myself with a shuka and tried to catch some sleep. I drifted further and further into the slumberland...
I found myself standing in a lush grass vegetation and thousands of herds of healthy cows. Cow-bells, the noisy lows of cows and occasional whistles of shepherds could be heard. I was mesmerized.
I just walked aimlessly.
Then I came upon another area. It was filled with buildings, skyscrapers and other modern structures. I heard the noise of humming engines and the chattering of hawkers. It was a din to behold. My village ears could not bear!
I just walked.
Then I saw two files of people, one on the right and the other on the left. The right file was neat. The left one was shabby and miserable. I really wanted to go near them and shout: 'My people, why are your countenance shadowy and your eyes heavy with sadness?' but somehow I was drawn to the right file of the beaming faces. I was attracted to their happiness. I asked myself, 'Why are these people upbeat with happiness and their faces bright with sunshine?'. Each person wore differently. I saw one with a knapsack sprayer on his back, helmet on head and a hoe on his hand. Another wore a white coat and a stethoscope round his neck. Immediately after him was a man carrying a huge file, a wig on head and a black gown. I saw a man, then a lady, all carrying Bibles and wearing big crosses. And a turbaned Sheikh in a flowing kanzu, tasbihi coiled in hand. It was a long file and I stood there for a very long time. I continued looking at these people. Guarding the file was a no nonsense fiery man with an AK-47. Then there was a smiling woman. Her hands were filled with chalk-dust and a red bick pen neatly stuck on her breast-pocket. There was a clown running around. He called himself Tafutayan. He could translate any of the Pokot, Kiswahili, English, Sabei, Turkana, Tepes and Karamojong tribes. In one kokwo, Tafutayan even made the DC laugh on the material day of the Disarmament Operation.
The other file was a miserable lot. They were scrawny, shabby and silent. They only whispered in very low tones. When they laughed, there was no enthusiasm-just dry and hollow laughter of the teeth. I pitied this lot. One carried a torn piece of what was an obituary section of the newspaper. He struggled to read it. I could see his face twisted with effort and lips quivering with determination. I drew closer to him. The part he wanted to read was 'DEATH ANNOUNCEMENT'. There was a warrior in war gear. Part of his forehead had been shattered by a blunt instrument. His back was bathed in blood. One of his hands held his forehead and another covered his back. He was wincing from excruciating pain. A drunk old man dragged himself near the warrior. He asked him where busaa was being brewed that day. The warrior didn't reply and out of anger he blubbered:' Tsk.Tsk. Our men nowadays have become women. During our days, we could run for days to raid but these ones run from one hill to another and breathe like their last!' He staggered away. Another man gave him a cup of changa'aa. He stood straight and gulped it down in one swig. When he was finished he let the cup drop and using one hand he held his forehead. His eyes were closed tight. I guessed may be his lungs were burning from the brew. I shool my head and walked away. I got closer to the warrior and asked him: 'Brother, you are bleeding like a speared cow. What happened to you?' He bit his lips for a while and replied: 'Kinsman, what should a man be remembered for?' I was dumbfounded. Remembered for? This was a tough one. I had to tread carefully. 'It depends. What do you want to be remembered for?' He was in deep pain but somehow he wanted to talk.
'Kinsman, when we die in other people's fields and are eaten by hyenas what do we want to be remembered for?'
'I think they will say that you did not die in vain--that you were caught in the crossfires of bullets and that happens in 'battlefields' ' He was not impressed.
'They will say. But what will they do. Will they breathe into my nostrils again and say 'Kinsman, breathe again'? They won't. And if I escape with my body bleeding like a shot enemy, they will say 'Our son, you are now growing like a man'. When lokit comes all my four-feet creatures will disappear and I will think 'Mmmmh, it has been long. Let me go and bring back my cows. They are now multiplied. But for how long? Till the killer bullet shatters my brains?'
He went away a broken-hearted man.
I just walked away. The file was still long. A tall, elegant lady stood by. She was in a blue vest and an enchanting lorwaa. I did my mental calculations and I was sure that she could fetch a cool thirty cows, nothing less. But she was remorse. She carried a suckling baby on her arms and a two years plus boy on her back. She was nothing more than 15 years. A grizzly, balding old man stood next to her. He was sniffing his tobbaco. Once in a while he could touch the child at the back of the lady and smile, revealing a set of darkened teeth scattered in his mouth. The old man gave me a fierce look and I continued walking, never stopping to greet that lady.
I just walked.
Then a voice came to me. 'Lorot, Son of the Hills, what do you see?'
I saw a big mountain. On it was a big clock ticking furiously. I replied, 'A mountain and a clock'
'Good'. I looked at the clock for a long time. The right file of the happy people never admired the clock. They looked at it and ran away. They were always running to do things. The clock was a reminder, not a decoration. The left file never stopped to admire the clock. For instance, they could wonder, 'How can such a thing tell what exactly the time is and as sure as the cows will come back home it will be right'. They could be heard asking, ' Those small sticks in the clock are very clever. The father which is the longest runs faster than the wife and the child'. They could laugh and talk about this. Tafutayan was once called to unravel this mystery but he said that he did not have time for such a foolish thing. Even the clown flatly refused. His time was precious. He said, 'Making people laugh is not a laughing matter and there was no time to waste'. He is after all a busy man.
But the left file never ceased to amaze me. They always slept under trees and talked about the clock. For instance, the joked that during the times of their ancestors they didn't have clocks. They looked at the skies and told what time it was. They came to believe, rather superstitiously, that the clock was the plan of a local witch from a neighbouring community to divert their minds. The right file hated to talk about the clock. But they occasionally looked at it.
I then came again to an urban centre. A voice said to me, 'Lorot, Son of the Hills, what do you see?'
I said, 'A city with buildings and houses and vehicles and people everywhere'
'Good'. I had never seen such a place before. The noses of buildings touched the skies. Tall buildings, tall houses, tall everything. These people were always running. In the morning, they ran. In the evening, they ran. At night, they ran. They always had children of the clocks on their wrists. May be my people were right that the clock was a scheme of a witch because everytime they looked at them they could spring and run like hunted gazelles. Oh, the city people! I sometimes looked at these people and laughed but the voice told me, 'Lorot, Son of the Hills, laugh at yourself and your people. Cry for your good people for they take the clock as a decoration and not a clock. Laugh at your folly, Lorot, Son of the Hills'. I tried hard not to laugh but I ended up suppressing it. Then I bumped at Tafutayan. He was carrying a big dictionary and was in great haste.
'Tafutayan,' I greeted, 'What brings you here?'
'Kinsman, I ran from poverty. I ran from ignorance. I sought refuge in this city, the city of lights'
'But you ran from our people!' I protested. Tafutayan looked at me with a pained look.
'Kinsman, you don't understand. I want to learn the ways of the city, the ways of the educated. When I go back I want to teach my people the tricks of the city. I know they will laugh at another of their bewitched sons.' Tafutayan was in a hurry. He just sprang away and got lost in a crowd.
I just walked. Then I came across a compound full of children. The voice asked me, 'Lorot, Son of the Hills, what do you see?'
I said, 'A school'.
'Good'. I saw clever,clean children. One child came over to me and asked, 'Stranger, how are you?' I replied, of course in a broken English, 'Mimi si stranger. Me is fine'. The child laughed at me and ran away. I was embarrassed. Then I thought: here is a child at nursery speaking English and confusing Lorot, Son of the Hills, I who translates difficult English words to my chief for a small fee, being beaten by a class nursery child. What about our among'oo-angalalio- and- arol eating children of class five in the village? I was very sad. As a matter of fact, I never knew how to read MADE IN KENYA till I reached class six. I always read it MADENI KENYA. I always wondered, by God, there is a lot of madeni Kenya. And I was one of the brightest children in the class. What about my other brothers who could not even pronounce madeni?
The voice told me, 'Lorot, Son of the Hills. This is the Pokot problem. Children who fumble half of their life in education and half of it trying to undo the problem. Sad. Too sad' I shook my head. I did not like the tone of his voice. It was as if it was blaming me.
'Whose problem?' I asked painfully.
The voice answered. 'Whose problem, you said Lorot, Son of the Hills? It's our problem. It starts when your pastoralist father keeps you herding goats and cattle till you become 10 years. It begins with that lazy teacher who who doesn't mark your books. Perhaps it starts with that madam who smiles when the children talk Pokot from morning till evening. It is not blame game. We all contribute.'
'But that is not all. What about lack of goals?'
'Interesting, Lorot, Son of the Hills. A Pokot boy grows up in the plains of West Pokot, is circumcised, marries and raids. His circle is closed. He thinks that that is a life well lived, well explored. A Pokot girl enters puberty at 13, is circumcised and forcibly married off to a balding old man. Her circle is also closed. She delivers ten plus kids and the rest of her life is spent on fetching water, carrying sick children to the dispensary more than 10 kilometers away and gossipping with other women at the well.'
It was painful to hear this. But however biting it was I remained silent.
'Lorot, Son of the Hills. Look at your people. They are energetic, there is life in their talk and there is a spring in their walks. They are clever. They are beautiful...' The voice stopped and asked, 'Lorot, Son of the Hills, what do you see?' I saw a chariot. There was a horse pulling it. I said, 'A chariot'
'Good'. Then he asked, 'Which is pulling which?' I looked carefully and responded, 'The horse is pulling the chariot' Then the voice was never heard for a very long time. When it came, it was slow, low and mournful, 'Lorot, Son of the Hills, I am sorry to say this but your people, beautiful as they are, energetic as they are and clever as they are, are the ones pulling the chariot. But for how long? Their backs are about to break. Their nerves and muscles are about to tear. For how long should they pull the chariot? The chariot of illiteracy. The chariot of FGM. The chariot of early marriages. The chariot of leadership with no vision. For how long, Lorot, Son of the Hills, should your people pull the chariot? When are they going to be pulled by the horse?' I cried. I cried for my people. And all this while they pulled the chariots and never knew of that fact. And all this while they looked at the clock not as a reminder but as a decoration. And all this while they were baptized bandits, raiders, bloodthirsty lot. And all this while they were a pariah tribe. I cried for my people but the voice reprimanded, saying, 'Cry not for your people, Lorot, Son of the Hills, go and educate your people. Go and seek audience with them. Go and show them the beauty of being pulled by the horse. Weep not any more, Lorot because I know the Pokots. They are steadfast and when they seek your way not even a villageful of langalangas can change their minds!'
I just walked.
Then the voice asked me, 'Lorot,Son of the Hills, who is that?' I saw a man in a white-coat and a stethoscope swung around his neck.
I said, ' I think he is a doctor'.
'You think, you can't be sure?'
'He is'
'Good'
The voice then told me, 'Lorot, Son of the Hills, your people are being swept away. If it is not malaria, it's polio. If it's not polio, it is kalaazar. If it is not that, it is TB. But for how long, Lorot, Son of the Hills? You have no doctors that can be counted on one finger. Meningitis kill you, typhoid kill you but you never learn. You trek for days to get a tablet for malaria. You die in remote bushes because you have no sons who are doctors. You build no hospitals nor dispensaries. You have no clinics near you. When will your children learn about these diseases and cure you?' One of my Aunts had died due to sickness. I remembered her. She could have lived longer had there been more hospitals and dispensaries.
This voice tantalized me, mocked me and probed me. It pricked right into my heart. It had hard truth. But I walked on. I had no reply.
Then I came upon a lady in a dark gown and a wig. She was carrying files and was standing beside Milimani Commercial Courts. She wore sunglasses. She appeared well read. I remembered that lady in the left file carrying two babies. My mind brushed off that old man. I did not want to picture him in my mind, at least not then. Then I wondered, 'That lady should be like this lady here. Oh, the burdens of a Pokot girls!'
The voice then came upon me. 'Lorot, Son of the Hills, what are you thinking?'
I replied, ' I am thinking about ths lady here and ladies from the village. The city girl carries files. The village girl carries babies. The only difference is that the city girl smiles while carrying the file while the village girl is all sad' The voice laughed at me.
'You've spoken, Lorot, Son of the Hills, I tell you this lady is not worried what she will eat tonight. Upto five in the evening, your village girl would still be unsure of what to eat. Sokorya? Musar? Sagaa? And when a decision about what to be aten would have been reached then the other question would follow: How many mouths to feed today. Of course,half will eat at night and the other half tommorow.'
This voice spoke in short biting sarcasm. It never hid reality. It just came out softly, like a bullet from a silencer. But I liked the voice because it never wanted to please. It just spoke. It didn't care what people will react or say. It was a unique voice. I tried to remember when was the last time I heard such a voice but it just didn't come out--especially in my village.
I was astounded by the buildings in this city. They were tall and raised their arms as if they wanted to hug the skies.
I just walked. Their roads were smooth. There were no potholes. Flyovers were there. Cars just moved past. I pictured Pokot land, the place of my birth and I laughed. I laughed and cried at almost the same time. The voice asked me, 'Lorot, Son of the Hills, what makes you laugh?'
I answered, ' I laugh at my people. No wonder they don't get rich. They fast, eat less and feed on wild fruits to save some money for a Matatu. They eventually buy one from Uganda but the roads are not merciful. They ply the cowtrack fields they call roads for 6 months and their vehicles rest in pieces on four stones, tyres removed and engine sold.Expectant mothers deliver on the roads due to the corrugations. People travelling for interviews on the other end reach the office and the first thing the boss asks, ' Please wait outside, my car is still in the garage. Please come and repair it later,'
The voice laughed.
'Are you serious or you are joking?'
'I have never been serious in my life' Then the voice quips, 'Lorot, Son of the Hill, Remember what I told you. The Pokots need to be pulled by the horse not them pulling the chariots.'
We walked a lot of distance. I saw a lot of things. I heard a lot of things. I thought about this Pokot Dream. It came at night. In the deep recesses of my mind, the dream came. But this was no ordinary dream because it is a dream which can make or break Pokots. I have always thought about this dream in my waking hours. I usually ask myself, When will the Pokots be liberated? When will they be pulled by the horse? When will Pokots walk into the emancipation of development and prosperity. You Pokot ( or our reader who has found time to read this ) reading this you are part of the Pokot Dream. Tell our people that education will liberate them. Tell our people that the Pokot Dream is this: That a Pokot boy can pursue whatever he feels like and not be limited by the father wanting him to be a shepherd. That a Pokot girl can reach the zenith of her education without being forcibly married. That a Pokot warrior will walk into Sabei land and shake hand with his foe and drink milk from the same gourd. That Pokots will still keep cows but milk them in banks and their employments. That the enrolment and retention of children at school will hit the ceiling in what has never been experienced in Kenyan history. That Lorot, Son of the Hill,( and other Lorots who have not mastered their English) will never again answer, 'Mimi si stranger. Me is fine'. This is the Pokot Dream. And as one family of Kenya we will live in peace with them and not be regarded with silent suspicion.
I Refuse to Die
Cynthia was a second year Law student. She sat on her bed flicking with her phone, not doing anything in particular, legs propped on a stool. Her TV set was booming a soft, lilting Rise by Gabriele. On her table was stacked a lot of law textbooks, question papers, unfinished drafts of term papers and exercise books. There was Evidence by Cross and Tapper, Equity and Trusts, Partnership Law and other textbooks. Her statutes lay higgledy-piggledy on the table. On the wall, snapped a handwritten slogan: Old Lawyers Never Die. Cynthia stood up, shuffled to the table and looked at her timetable, she had exactly one week to read for her End-of-semester exams.
Earlier in the day, her Evidence lecturer had warned that the stakes will be higher. What was his phrase? An exam for crème-de-la-crème. He wanted authorities and cases and reasoned answers, not regurgitated notes. Cynthia dreaded the supplementary exam. She already had two from last semester, one for Evidence and the other for Criminal Procedure. She twiddled with the course outlines, recommended reading lists and table of cases. Time was running out fast. This churned her stomach. Not even Gabriele could sooth it.
Cynthia was always fascinated with law since she was in High School. Her school had organized for a motivational speaker to help them get incentive to work hard. The speaker had driven in a Peugeot 504, and then the car had held Cynthia stupefied. If it was the car that exuded the financial clout of the speaker, you had to wait till he stepped out. There he was, resplendent in a dark three-piece suit, swinging his car-key, walking every inch a big shot lawyer.
He had talked about the importance of goals, hardwork and the campus life. He had painted a rosy picture of the life there—of the cozy lifestyle, of good meals, of well-spaced lectures. Cynthia yearned for the university. That was 10 years ago in Manufaa Yajayo Secondary School. Thus Cynthia read books like there was a Hangman above her neck. She made amends with her weaker subjects and bugged her teachers on topics she hadn’t understood.
Then she had received admission in the Faculty of Law and as she sat in the packed university hall during orientation she kept congratulating herself for her feat. Coming from Manufaa Yajayo, a school whose name elicited a lot of laughter from her classmates, she repeatedly told herself that her dreams were half-fulfilled. The Chancellor had welcomed them, the lecturers, DVC Administration and Academic, and the Dean, all of them shown. The Chaplain had urged them to develop ‘holistically’ and not to forget their ‘spiritual growth’. After wards, they had eaten at the Campus Cafeteria and for once Cynthia told herself that that was the place she was to be. Where in her village she ate wild vegetables and sorghum flour ugali, that day she had eaten a plateful of rice and deep-fried chicken. Oh the ironies of life!
But the honey-moon was soon over. For weeks she kept going to the wrong halls and wrong lecture rooms. She remembers that day when she entered a two-door hall by mistake. For a couple of minutes she had been fed on thermodynamics and wondered where in hell physics will return to haunt her in a law class. Realizing her folly, she had dashed out through a rear door, walked the pavement outside only to enter the front door and stand feet away from the same horn-rimmed lecturer. Cynthia had made a U-turn and left the hall in stitches.
If Cynthia was baffled by the university life, that would be an understatement. She kept being in the wrong places, gawping and missing lectures. It was after a fortnight that she ‘discovered’ where she belonged. By then the first topics had been taught and most of her colleagues were adjusting to the ‘culture shock’ of the university. She kept miss-spelling cases and legal jargons. She just wrote what her Manufaa Yajayo English teacher had pumped into her head. She was introduced to various legal systems, constitutional law and contracts and a medley of other units. Latin terms came popping up…mutatis mutandis…locus standi…ab initio…locus classicus. For some strange reasons, her lecturers rolled the terms as if she was coming from a legal family. Without a bat of an eyelid, they could ask: What was the ratio decidendi of Cassman Brown? For Cynthia, with a poor Math background, a ratio dealt with numbers. And what about this Cassman man? It was a tough life, the law class.
She had then enrolled in Moot Court, Kenya Model United Nations and the Law Club. Wet behind ears, Cynthia tried to scoop as many certificates as she could. No conference missed her presence right from Theology to Social Sciences. That was vintage Cynthia. But she always felt that her time was always in perpetual conspiracy with her: time was always scarce. She had also attended the Miss University beauty pageant and became a runner-up. Cynthia’s name had become the university household name.
But exams knew no household name. She had to read and pass the exams and this she had to do fast. Cynthia just squirmed on her bed flicking her phone. A soft rap on the door jolted her to her feet. She rose and went to answer it.
‘Ah Cynthia girl, you forgot about the Evidence discussion?’ her friend Liz spat. They had agreed to have the discussion after dinner. It was now past 8.
‘Good gracious! Forgot about it till now. Could we do it justice now?’
‘It’s ok. Evidence gives me the creeps. You saw the timetable?’
‘Yeah. I feel being on a Hangman’s noose, so much to do so little time’
‘You heard about Chris? He’s resolved he’s not sitting any paper’
Chris was a party animal. He always knew where a party was to be held, by whom, when and whether it would be a smash or not. He held the Campus event diary by heart. You could name any club in the city and he will tell you its location, its bartenders, its patrons and its DJ’s nickname and real names. In the university, Chris came to be regarded as GoogleEarth since like an Entertainment writer he knew the rendezvous spots like the palm of his hand.
‘Not my cup of tea. Better I flop than wait for specials. Got an idea why they call it special? There to fry you.’
They had discussed Hearsay, the justifications, the limitations, the cases supporting them and tried to analyze a problem question. But at the back of Cynthia’s mind was a nagging question: Was she really prepared for the ‘Crème-de-la-crème exam’? Was she really cut for it? Cynthia always had a penchant for English. She loved reading good novels by Grisham and Ludlum. She wrote articles regularly for Campus Clincher, the university magazine and was already making a collection of her poetry. Perhaps she could have made a fine Literature student? Perhaps she could have been reading a novel, enjoying it and yet reading for exam? But she wanted to stand in court, thumbing big files and winning big cases and driving in a posh car. She wanted to be addressed ‘counsel’ and called wakili in her village. She wanted to be that motivational speaker, every inch a big shot lawyer.
*****************************
The Auditorium was filled with more than seventy soggy-eyed law students. Some flipped through their mwakenyas, looking up on the roof to test whether their minds could remember the last-minute facts and holdings of cases. Others made frantic efforts to confirm one or two forgotten issues. Yet others appeared to be resigned to fate, wistfully staring at the space. Cynthia sat in a front-row, trying to be as calm as she could be. The tense air in the exam room could be cut with a knife. GoogleEarth was there. Cynthia saw him and suppressed her sudden laughter. But her laughter was tinged with the exam phobia. It was 8:45. Exam was to start at exactly 9.
It was the metallic voice that startled the occupants of the Auditorium.
‘Wazalendo, the hour of reckoning has come. No reading will help at this time so put away all the mwakenyas and anything that may incriminate you. Please make sure you keep your mind-you will need it, very’.
The students laughed and stood to put away their law materials. After about five minutes, only an occasional sneeze and shuffling of feet could be heard.
That past week had been the toughest for Cynthia. Though not a library girl, she had frequented it like a research fellow immersed between shelves containing the Law reports and journals. She trawled the Blacks Law Dictionary as a forensic expert does to a fingerprint specimen, jotting down important notes on topics she dreaded. During discussions, she collected a wide array of views on an issue she was not clear about. She had photocopied examination past-papers and discussed them and conceptualized possible twists of questions and their possible answers. The promise was a crème-de-la-crème exam and there were no taking chances.
The normal instructions were said about the gravity of exam cheating and being found with ‘incriminating evidence of possible exam cheating’. Examination papers were distributed to the students, good luck wished and exam ordered to start. As usual, clicks, subdued grunts and uneasy shuffles were heard. Noses were blown and fingers snapped.
Cynthia sat in the Auditorium and glanced over the question paper. The compulsory question, as usual, was a page-long passage. She exclaimed, ‘I refuse to die’ to reassure herself. She read the remaining questions, four of them in total. The Auditorium abruptly burst into a paroxysm of laughter. Before the invigilators was GoogleEarth, paper in hand, face distraught. He was engaged in a heated argument with the invigilators and stepped out. He mumbled something to do with lecturers setting questions to frustrate future lawyers.
Examination booklets were written on and more requested for. It was a race against time. Periodic time reminders were given.
‘A half an hour left,’ the invigilator boomed. ‘Thirty minutes left!’
‘W-h-a-t!’ the Auditorium cursed in unison.
‘I said one thousand eight hundred seconds!’
It was not the ostensible huge chunk of time left but the serious tone of the voice that diffused the tense-filled room. An occasional do-it-fast-terrify-‘em handed over his examination booklet a half an hour earlier and threw the Auditorium in momentary panic.
Five minutes were left. Two queues were already formed. The dying minutes of the two-hour exam ticked away.
‘Stop, your time is over! Stop writing!’
****************************
The new semester came. Lecture time tables were collected and holiday experiences recounted. But the campus was stiff with apprehension over the past semester’s transcripts to be collected the following week. Though the usual reluctance and lay-off manner that is characteristic of the beginning of the semester showed, transcript collection due for the following week hung like a guillotine over every student’s head. Lecturers struggled to retain the concentration of divided minds.
Finally the day came.
Faculty of Law had been scheduled to start collecting their transcripts in the afternoon that day. Tentacles of fear wrapped the morning law class. Cynthia thought about the Evidence exam last semester. She had given it her best shot but time was not just enough. Will she have a supplementary exam again?
The queue dragged. Cynthia’s sweat-soaked palm clutched her College ID and the financial department confirmation slip. As she stood in the Registrar’s office before the glass wall, her feet turned jelly-like. The assistant took her ID and slip and pulled her transcript from the sheaf. Cynthia signed off beside her name, grabbed her transcript, folded it and wobbled out of the lounge.
Naturally, her eyes looked at the mean-score.
‘Not that bad’ she gasped. With a lot of trepidation, Cynthia looked at the printed sheet. ‘Yes. This was an antidote for that crème-de-la-crème exam!’ Liz stood before her, beaming with joy, transcript in hand.
Earlier in the day, her Evidence lecturer had warned that the stakes will be higher. What was his phrase? An exam for crème-de-la-crème. He wanted authorities and cases and reasoned answers, not regurgitated notes. Cynthia dreaded the supplementary exam. She already had two from last semester, one for Evidence and the other for Criminal Procedure. She twiddled with the course outlines, recommended reading lists and table of cases. Time was running out fast. This churned her stomach. Not even Gabriele could sooth it.
Cynthia was always fascinated with law since she was in High School. Her school had organized for a motivational speaker to help them get incentive to work hard. The speaker had driven in a Peugeot 504, and then the car had held Cynthia stupefied. If it was the car that exuded the financial clout of the speaker, you had to wait till he stepped out. There he was, resplendent in a dark three-piece suit, swinging his car-key, walking every inch a big shot lawyer.
He had talked about the importance of goals, hardwork and the campus life. He had painted a rosy picture of the life there—of the cozy lifestyle, of good meals, of well-spaced lectures. Cynthia yearned for the university. That was 10 years ago in Manufaa Yajayo Secondary School. Thus Cynthia read books like there was a Hangman above her neck. She made amends with her weaker subjects and bugged her teachers on topics she hadn’t understood.
Then she had received admission in the Faculty of Law and as she sat in the packed university hall during orientation she kept congratulating herself for her feat. Coming from Manufaa Yajayo, a school whose name elicited a lot of laughter from her classmates, she repeatedly told herself that her dreams were half-fulfilled. The Chancellor had welcomed them, the lecturers, DVC Administration and Academic, and the Dean, all of them shown. The Chaplain had urged them to develop ‘holistically’ and not to forget their ‘spiritual growth’. After wards, they had eaten at the Campus Cafeteria and for once Cynthia told herself that that was the place she was to be. Where in her village she ate wild vegetables and sorghum flour ugali, that day she had eaten a plateful of rice and deep-fried chicken. Oh the ironies of life!
But the honey-moon was soon over. For weeks she kept going to the wrong halls and wrong lecture rooms. She remembers that day when she entered a two-door hall by mistake. For a couple of minutes she had been fed on thermodynamics and wondered where in hell physics will return to haunt her in a law class. Realizing her folly, she had dashed out through a rear door, walked the pavement outside only to enter the front door and stand feet away from the same horn-rimmed lecturer. Cynthia had made a U-turn and left the hall in stitches.
If Cynthia was baffled by the university life, that would be an understatement. She kept being in the wrong places, gawping and missing lectures. It was after a fortnight that she ‘discovered’ where she belonged. By then the first topics had been taught and most of her colleagues were adjusting to the ‘culture shock’ of the university. She kept miss-spelling cases and legal jargons. She just wrote what her Manufaa Yajayo English teacher had pumped into her head. She was introduced to various legal systems, constitutional law and contracts and a medley of other units. Latin terms came popping up…mutatis mutandis…locus standi…ab initio…locus classicus. For some strange reasons, her lecturers rolled the terms as if she was coming from a legal family. Without a bat of an eyelid, they could ask: What was the ratio decidendi of Cassman Brown? For Cynthia, with a poor Math background, a ratio dealt with numbers. And what about this Cassman man? It was a tough life, the law class.
She had then enrolled in Moot Court, Kenya Model United Nations and the Law Club. Wet behind ears, Cynthia tried to scoop as many certificates as she could. No conference missed her presence right from Theology to Social Sciences. That was vintage Cynthia. But she always felt that her time was always in perpetual conspiracy with her: time was always scarce. She had also attended the Miss University beauty pageant and became a runner-up. Cynthia’s name had become the university household name.
But exams knew no household name. She had to read and pass the exams and this she had to do fast. Cynthia just squirmed on her bed flicking her phone. A soft rap on the door jolted her to her feet. She rose and went to answer it.
‘Ah Cynthia girl, you forgot about the Evidence discussion?’ her friend Liz spat. They had agreed to have the discussion after dinner. It was now past 8.
‘Good gracious! Forgot about it till now. Could we do it justice now?’
‘It’s ok. Evidence gives me the creeps. You saw the timetable?’
‘Yeah. I feel being on a Hangman’s noose, so much to do so little time’
‘You heard about Chris? He’s resolved he’s not sitting any paper’
Chris was a party animal. He always knew where a party was to be held, by whom, when and whether it would be a smash or not. He held the Campus event diary by heart. You could name any club in the city and he will tell you its location, its bartenders, its patrons and its DJ’s nickname and real names. In the university, Chris came to be regarded as GoogleEarth since like an Entertainment writer he knew the rendezvous spots like the palm of his hand.
‘Not my cup of tea. Better I flop than wait for specials. Got an idea why they call it special? There to fry you.’
They had discussed Hearsay, the justifications, the limitations, the cases supporting them and tried to analyze a problem question. But at the back of Cynthia’s mind was a nagging question: Was she really prepared for the ‘Crème-de-la-crème exam’? Was she really cut for it? Cynthia always had a penchant for English. She loved reading good novels by Grisham and Ludlum. She wrote articles regularly for Campus Clincher, the university magazine and was already making a collection of her poetry. Perhaps she could have made a fine Literature student? Perhaps she could have been reading a novel, enjoying it and yet reading for exam? But she wanted to stand in court, thumbing big files and winning big cases and driving in a posh car. She wanted to be addressed ‘counsel’ and called wakili in her village. She wanted to be that motivational speaker, every inch a big shot lawyer.
*****************************
The Auditorium was filled with more than seventy soggy-eyed law students. Some flipped through their mwakenyas, looking up on the roof to test whether their minds could remember the last-minute facts and holdings of cases. Others made frantic efforts to confirm one or two forgotten issues. Yet others appeared to be resigned to fate, wistfully staring at the space. Cynthia sat in a front-row, trying to be as calm as she could be. The tense air in the exam room could be cut with a knife. GoogleEarth was there. Cynthia saw him and suppressed her sudden laughter. But her laughter was tinged with the exam phobia. It was 8:45. Exam was to start at exactly 9.
It was the metallic voice that startled the occupants of the Auditorium.
‘Wazalendo, the hour of reckoning has come. No reading will help at this time so put away all the mwakenyas and anything that may incriminate you. Please make sure you keep your mind-you will need it, very’.
The students laughed and stood to put away their law materials. After about five minutes, only an occasional sneeze and shuffling of feet could be heard.
That past week had been the toughest for Cynthia. Though not a library girl, she had frequented it like a research fellow immersed between shelves containing the Law reports and journals. She trawled the Blacks Law Dictionary as a forensic expert does to a fingerprint specimen, jotting down important notes on topics she dreaded. During discussions, she collected a wide array of views on an issue she was not clear about. She had photocopied examination past-papers and discussed them and conceptualized possible twists of questions and their possible answers. The promise was a crème-de-la-crème exam and there were no taking chances.
The normal instructions were said about the gravity of exam cheating and being found with ‘incriminating evidence of possible exam cheating’. Examination papers were distributed to the students, good luck wished and exam ordered to start. As usual, clicks, subdued grunts and uneasy shuffles were heard. Noses were blown and fingers snapped.
Cynthia sat in the Auditorium and glanced over the question paper. The compulsory question, as usual, was a page-long passage. She exclaimed, ‘I refuse to die’ to reassure herself. She read the remaining questions, four of them in total. The Auditorium abruptly burst into a paroxysm of laughter. Before the invigilators was GoogleEarth, paper in hand, face distraught. He was engaged in a heated argument with the invigilators and stepped out. He mumbled something to do with lecturers setting questions to frustrate future lawyers.
Examination booklets were written on and more requested for. It was a race against time. Periodic time reminders were given.
‘A half an hour left,’ the invigilator boomed. ‘Thirty minutes left!’
‘W-h-a-t!’ the Auditorium cursed in unison.
‘I said one thousand eight hundred seconds!’
It was not the ostensible huge chunk of time left but the serious tone of the voice that diffused the tense-filled room. An occasional do-it-fast-terrify-‘em handed over his examination booklet a half an hour earlier and threw the Auditorium in momentary panic.
Five minutes were left. Two queues were already formed. The dying minutes of the two-hour exam ticked away.
‘Stop, your time is over! Stop writing!’
****************************
The new semester came. Lecture time tables were collected and holiday experiences recounted. But the campus was stiff with apprehension over the past semester’s transcripts to be collected the following week. Though the usual reluctance and lay-off manner that is characteristic of the beginning of the semester showed, transcript collection due for the following week hung like a guillotine over every student’s head. Lecturers struggled to retain the concentration of divided minds.
Finally the day came.
Faculty of Law had been scheduled to start collecting their transcripts in the afternoon that day. Tentacles of fear wrapped the morning law class. Cynthia thought about the Evidence exam last semester. She had given it her best shot but time was not just enough. Will she have a supplementary exam again?
The queue dragged. Cynthia’s sweat-soaked palm clutched her College ID and the financial department confirmation slip. As she stood in the Registrar’s office before the glass wall, her feet turned jelly-like. The assistant took her ID and slip and pulled her transcript from the sheaf. Cynthia signed off beside her name, grabbed her transcript, folded it and wobbled out of the lounge.
Naturally, her eyes looked at the mean-score.
‘Not that bad’ she gasped. With a lot of trepidation, Cynthia looked at the printed sheet. ‘Yes. This was an antidote for that crème-de-la-crème exam!’ Liz stood before her, beaming with joy, transcript in hand.
The Pokots: "The Bandit Lot"
You read in the papers, "Raiders believed to be from West Pokot have moved with 400 heads of cattle and killed 12 people". You turn in your seat in disgust and say "These Pokots have nothing to do--just stealing and killing". From your TV set you watch that Pokots carry guns just as people do walking sticks.Your minister for Internal Security calls for an Operation to disarm them and knock their heads off. Then in the comfort of your living room you say "Time this bandit lot were taught a lesson--enough of their bloodbath!" Over the years you come to regard the Pokots as dark-skinned, blood-shot eyed, blood-thirsty and ready-to-kill lot. Over the years you have concluded that the Pokots might not even be human beings.For you think, what is human when he kills? What is human when he steals from the other? Therefore you have conjured the worst picture of what a Pokot is. You have become a puppet of the media.
In these coming pages I will show you why Pokots have been given a bad name yet they might be a peaceful lot. I will give you the other side of the Pokots because the press has resiliently held on raiding as "newsworthy pieces". And in the end I invite you to visit the Pokots themselves and meet them as "dark-skinned, blood-shot eyed, blood-thirsty and ready-to-kill lot". I will also invite you and see for yourself "how less of human beings they are"
This is the Pokot Story.
The Kitale Incident
This writer was in Kitale sometime in 2003 and met a mitumba seller, an entrepreneurial Kikuyu.Lorot Son of the Hills joked(of course he was serious) to him that he was a Pokot to which the seller looked at him questioningly for a couple of minutes and concluded, rather firmly, "No, not you--Wapokot hawaingii town, macho yao ni red na wako tayari kuua saa yoyote" which translates to, "no, not you--Pokots don't come to towns, their eyes are red and are ready to kill anytime".
This is the impression people have of the Pokots. I forgave the person--I knew he was another puppet of the media. This got me thinking--how much damage has been done to the Pokot image? Although I laughed it off then this was not a laughing matter.
Elsewhere, the only Pokot professor Lonyang'apuo, the then principal of Chepkoilel Campus of Moi University was telling us in a motivational speech about the difficulty of being a Pokot. You see, in the campus compound there were hundreds of cattle. The staff regarded him suspiciously. They feared that he might steal them one day. And when the day never came they concluded, "the man is just fattening them and big your surprise will be, good people". But he never stole the cows but they believed, rather superstitiously, that like a thief he is no one knows the day and the hour.
Which beggars the question: What are the human values of the Pokots?
The Human Values of the Pokots
"Kikuyus love money--if you want to know if they are truly dead in a mortuary then all you have to do is to drop a coin"
"Kambas are witches"
"Luos are a bragging lot"
"Pokots are raiders"
These are some of the many stereotypes that we have constructed for different communities. But are they just that? Can't they be beautiful, enchanting, productive, hospitable, honest and good neighbours? What are some of the positive aspects that we can identify from them?
Human values are multi-faceted.They refer to those endearing virtues that a fellow man is capable of having which reflect the good nature of man and the image of God.It might be inborn or learned.For example, a person's kindness might be inborn while tolerance might be learned due to exposure and peaceful co-existence with other people. Human values are the glue that hold people together.
My umblical cord is buried somewhere in the soil of West Pokot. I have lived in Pokot land the whole of my teenage years. I have observed their way of life and come to appreciate them.I have fallen in love with them. During Annual Music Festivals I have listened to their sacred songs and folk songs, enthrilled by their singing games and percussion.I have attended their Sapana ceremony and witnessed blessings being showered by grizzly old men. I have seen men caught in adultery being tied to trees and bitten by ants(kondolo). I have witnessed drought only for rainmakers to "beckon" rain in their torrents.
The Pokots are essentially spiritual people. When they call their God "Tororot" whom are they referring to? When they slaughter their bulls and offer them as sacrifices whom do they want to appease? And when a person dies and libation is poured, what do they believe of life after death? These are some of the questions we need to ask ourselves so that we can arrive at an incisive understanding of the Pokots.
There's a Pokot proverb which says "Kakisityi nyinte Mtelo" which translates to "He/she has been placed on the top of Mount Mtelo" Mt. Mtelo, according to the Pokots, is a "holy place". If then the Pokots take Mount Mtelo to be a holy place then what can we infer from this? It is this: The Pokots believe in a supreme being who resides, but not necessarily, at Mt. Mtelo.
I have also had the benefit of attending Pokot barazas locally referred to as "kokwo". You might call this their "arbitration system" or their "courts". From these sessions you might be led to conclude that Pokots are understanding and favour justice. There is a good hearing of a person's case. Both sides are well-heard before witty, old men who then pass judgment. In most cases their decisions are well-balanced and fair. This is Pokot justice. And if they be this just, wrong-doers in the communities are punished for their crimes to serve as deterrence to the others.So you will agree with me that the Pokots are not your dog-eat-man-man-eat-man kind of society. They have their codes, norms, customs and practices. In these "kokwo", men talk freely so that truth can be deduced.Pokots are interested in truth and not sugar-coated lies.That is why they are prepared to spend long hours to handle a case as long as truth will finally be manifested.
The Pokots are hospitable. Among the people, there is a saying that you cannot deny somebody "hyena's water" (pogho kawagh).It means you cannot deny somebody drinking water which is as "valueless" as to be drank by a hyena. Therefore visitors and strangers will be welcomed and provided a "hide" to sleep on for the night.They will be asked where they come from and where they are going to. Conversations will be not as sketchy as the modern world has been them to be. They will span years and months and range from the latest livestock disease to some undiscovered greener pastures in some other lands somewhere. These conversations will be skillfullly told and carefully listened to.
But perhaps what has always befuddled my mind is that if there is a people who fear the dead then it is the Pokots. Occasions have been many where dead relatives have been fled from. Years back there was a watchman from Konyao who died in Nairobi and a bus brought his remains to Konyao. Hardly had the coffin touched the ground than the relatives of the deceased scattered to the nearby bushes. Last year, I buried my aunt Kama Lotee in a remote village. Villagers stood at safe distance and watched in a perplexed manner as we dug the grave.They must have thought, "What people are these that can touch a dead person--ghosts?"
Then there is the "muma". Muma is your "swear occasion" where you swear that a calamity befall you if indeed you have done something.This happens when two people have differing opinions over something. One might say, "He did it" while the other might say "I didn't do it".In this case, there will be a muma. I have attended a "muma" before and I can confirm that my hair stood on ends. It was frightening. You see, muma is a serious thing which can wipe both distant and close relatives before visiting upon the "accused". Therefore, a liar will be forced to speak truth or else wipe away his entire lineage.
Life to Pokots is held sacred.To prove this point, there's a long-held tradition of "lapay" where one who kills is punished by having his relatives' cattle being taken away. Also, those who kill during raiding are normally "cleansed". Women and children, for this is like an abomination, are not to be killed fo whatsoever reason.Old men with prophetic glint will usually guide young warriors on what to do and no to do during raiding. One of them is unnecessary killings.
And speaking of raiding, this is a far more complex problem. This is not just theft and killing.It is not just some lawlessness.It is something to do with long-held tradition of "taking" (for that is how the Pokots refer to raiding) cows which had been "taken" away from them previously. I will be the first to admit that raiding is perhaps one of the worst manifestation of robbery with violence.It is theft and killing-for that is what it really is.Knee-jerk reaction of mounting operation on the community will not suffice.Neither will arrest do. It is about thinking along the lines of alternative custom and addressing the Pokot Problem.
This is the Pokot Problem: While Kenya moved after independence, the ordinary Pokot is 40 years back in the Kenyan clock. He lives a nomadic life with cow-track fields for roads and no water supply and no tangible means of survival like in the agriculture.He lives a boring life shut from the rigours of the racy Kenyan life.No one speaks of his problem and if one does it is to solicit for votes--not poverty alleviation.And when he come to the limelight it is all for the wrong reasons.He earns a theft tag and is regarded suspiciously.Tragically, he is left to his own means and the cycle continues on and on, ad infinitum.Thus he remains a raider and enjoys not the fruits of the modern Kenya.And when someone somewhere writes about their hspitality, their generosity and their attachment to the sacredness of life, a cynic will smirk that this is another PR endeavour.So the Pokot is regarded as the tyrant, the bulldog, the thorn in the flesh.Half of his story is told filled with plain hate and hasty generalisation.Another half is not told, things about "muma", "lapay", "Mount Mtelo" and the "kokwo".It is not told because it it a wide contrast from what is usually reported.It is not told because you might wonder whither come the calm and hospitability yet he is "blood-thirsty" "eager-to-kill or a "bandit-lot". It is not told because the Pokots are citizens like them, communities like others with norms and customs, codes and regulation.It is not told because this is not the Pokot story. The Pokot story has a human face, can cry, can console, can live with the other.
In these coming pages I will show you why Pokots have been given a bad name yet they might be a peaceful lot. I will give you the other side of the Pokots because the press has resiliently held on raiding as "newsworthy pieces". And in the end I invite you to visit the Pokots themselves and meet them as "dark-skinned, blood-shot eyed, blood-thirsty and ready-to-kill lot". I will also invite you and see for yourself "how less of human beings they are"
This is the Pokot Story.
The Kitale Incident
This writer was in Kitale sometime in 2003 and met a mitumba seller, an entrepreneurial Kikuyu.Lorot Son of the Hills joked(of course he was serious) to him that he was a Pokot to which the seller looked at him questioningly for a couple of minutes and concluded, rather firmly, "No, not you--Wapokot hawaingii town, macho yao ni red na wako tayari kuua saa yoyote" which translates to, "no, not you--Pokots don't come to towns, their eyes are red and are ready to kill anytime".
This is the impression people have of the Pokots. I forgave the person--I knew he was another puppet of the media. This got me thinking--how much damage has been done to the Pokot image? Although I laughed it off then this was not a laughing matter.
Elsewhere, the only Pokot professor Lonyang'apuo, the then principal of Chepkoilel Campus of Moi University was telling us in a motivational speech about the difficulty of being a Pokot. You see, in the campus compound there were hundreds of cattle. The staff regarded him suspiciously. They feared that he might steal them one day. And when the day never came they concluded, "the man is just fattening them and big your surprise will be, good people". But he never stole the cows but they believed, rather superstitiously, that like a thief he is no one knows the day and the hour.
Which beggars the question: What are the human values of the Pokots?
The Human Values of the Pokots
"Kikuyus love money--if you want to know if they are truly dead in a mortuary then all you have to do is to drop a coin"
"Kambas are witches"
"Luos are a bragging lot"
"Pokots are raiders"
These are some of the many stereotypes that we have constructed for different communities. But are they just that? Can't they be beautiful, enchanting, productive, hospitable, honest and good neighbours? What are some of the positive aspects that we can identify from them?
Human values are multi-faceted.They refer to those endearing virtues that a fellow man is capable of having which reflect the good nature of man and the image of God.It might be inborn or learned.For example, a person's kindness might be inborn while tolerance might be learned due to exposure and peaceful co-existence with other people. Human values are the glue that hold people together.
My umblical cord is buried somewhere in the soil of West Pokot. I have lived in Pokot land the whole of my teenage years. I have observed their way of life and come to appreciate them.I have fallen in love with them. During Annual Music Festivals I have listened to their sacred songs and folk songs, enthrilled by their singing games and percussion.I have attended their Sapana ceremony and witnessed blessings being showered by grizzly old men. I have seen men caught in adultery being tied to trees and bitten by ants(kondolo). I have witnessed drought only for rainmakers to "beckon" rain in their torrents.
The Pokots are essentially spiritual people. When they call their God "Tororot" whom are they referring to? When they slaughter their bulls and offer them as sacrifices whom do they want to appease? And when a person dies and libation is poured, what do they believe of life after death? These are some of the questions we need to ask ourselves so that we can arrive at an incisive understanding of the Pokots.
There's a Pokot proverb which says "Kakisityi nyinte Mtelo" which translates to "He/she has been placed on the top of Mount Mtelo" Mt. Mtelo, according to the Pokots, is a "holy place". If then the Pokots take Mount Mtelo to be a holy place then what can we infer from this? It is this: The Pokots believe in a supreme being who resides, but not necessarily, at Mt. Mtelo.
I have also had the benefit of attending Pokot barazas locally referred to as "kokwo". You might call this their "arbitration system" or their "courts". From these sessions you might be led to conclude that Pokots are understanding and favour justice. There is a good hearing of a person's case. Both sides are well-heard before witty, old men who then pass judgment. In most cases their decisions are well-balanced and fair. This is Pokot justice. And if they be this just, wrong-doers in the communities are punished for their crimes to serve as deterrence to the others.So you will agree with me that the Pokots are not your dog-eat-man-man-eat-man kind of society. They have their codes, norms, customs and practices. In these "kokwo", men talk freely so that truth can be deduced.Pokots are interested in truth and not sugar-coated lies.That is why they are prepared to spend long hours to handle a case as long as truth will finally be manifested.
The Pokots are hospitable. Among the people, there is a saying that you cannot deny somebody "hyena's water" (pogho kawagh).It means you cannot deny somebody drinking water which is as "valueless" as to be drank by a hyena. Therefore visitors and strangers will be welcomed and provided a "hide" to sleep on for the night.They will be asked where they come from and where they are going to. Conversations will be not as sketchy as the modern world has been them to be. They will span years and months and range from the latest livestock disease to some undiscovered greener pastures in some other lands somewhere. These conversations will be skillfullly told and carefully listened to.
But perhaps what has always befuddled my mind is that if there is a people who fear the dead then it is the Pokots. Occasions have been many where dead relatives have been fled from. Years back there was a watchman from Konyao who died in Nairobi and a bus brought his remains to Konyao. Hardly had the coffin touched the ground than the relatives of the deceased scattered to the nearby bushes. Last year, I buried my aunt Kama Lotee in a remote village. Villagers stood at safe distance and watched in a perplexed manner as we dug the grave.They must have thought, "What people are these that can touch a dead person--ghosts?"
Then there is the "muma". Muma is your "swear occasion" where you swear that a calamity befall you if indeed you have done something.This happens when two people have differing opinions over something. One might say, "He did it" while the other might say "I didn't do it".In this case, there will be a muma. I have attended a "muma" before and I can confirm that my hair stood on ends. It was frightening. You see, muma is a serious thing which can wipe both distant and close relatives before visiting upon the "accused". Therefore, a liar will be forced to speak truth or else wipe away his entire lineage.
Life to Pokots is held sacred.To prove this point, there's a long-held tradition of "lapay" where one who kills is punished by having his relatives' cattle being taken away. Also, those who kill during raiding are normally "cleansed". Women and children, for this is like an abomination, are not to be killed fo whatsoever reason.Old men with prophetic glint will usually guide young warriors on what to do and no to do during raiding. One of them is unnecessary killings.
And speaking of raiding, this is a far more complex problem. This is not just theft and killing.It is not just some lawlessness.It is something to do with long-held tradition of "taking" (for that is how the Pokots refer to raiding) cows which had been "taken" away from them previously. I will be the first to admit that raiding is perhaps one of the worst manifestation of robbery with violence.It is theft and killing-for that is what it really is.Knee-jerk reaction of mounting operation on the community will not suffice.Neither will arrest do. It is about thinking along the lines of alternative custom and addressing the Pokot Problem.
This is the Pokot Problem: While Kenya moved after independence, the ordinary Pokot is 40 years back in the Kenyan clock. He lives a nomadic life with cow-track fields for roads and no water supply and no tangible means of survival like in the agriculture.He lives a boring life shut from the rigours of the racy Kenyan life.No one speaks of his problem and if one does it is to solicit for votes--not poverty alleviation.And when he come to the limelight it is all for the wrong reasons.He earns a theft tag and is regarded suspiciously.Tragically, he is left to his own means and the cycle continues on and on, ad infinitum.Thus he remains a raider and enjoys not the fruits of the modern Kenya.And when someone somewhere writes about their hspitality, their generosity and their attachment to the sacredness of life, a cynic will smirk that this is another PR endeavour.So the Pokot is regarded as the tyrant, the bulldog, the thorn in the flesh.Half of his story is told filled with plain hate and hasty generalisation.Another half is not told, things about "muma", "lapay", "Mount Mtelo" and the "kokwo".It is not told because it it a wide contrast from what is usually reported.It is not told because you might wonder whither come the calm and hospitability yet he is "blood-thirsty" "eager-to-kill or a "bandit-lot". It is not told because the Pokots are citizens like them, communities like others with norms and customs, codes and regulation.It is not told because this is not the Pokot story. The Pokot story has a human face, can cry, can console, can live with the other.
I Sing of the Pokots
I sing of the Pokots, my kinsmen,
of their beautiful shukas
of their colourful beads
of their lorwaas
I sing of the Pokots.
I sing of their warm hearts
and their ebony-black skins
which shine under the African sun
for when others sing of them otherwise
of raiding
of killing
of maiming
i know-much as they know-that
they are quilty of expanding truth
with untruths and half-lies
I sing of the Pokots.
i sing of their dome-shaped huts
mud-walled
grass-thatched
ringed to form a manyatta
and in the evening when the sunset retreats
behind the hills
i hear the cow-bells
and the bleat of goats
interspersed with the whistle of a herdsboy
I sing of the Pokots.
In the evening at the fireplace
I hear grandma Ko Chepkura saying
her witty Hare tales
exposing her toothless gums
laughter filling the smoke-filled hut
I sing of the Pokots.
When I hear my brothers say that
Pokots are blood-thirsty, I wonder
assuming they are, then are they
cannibals, my kinsmen?
when I hear my brothers say that
all Pokots love stealing cows, I wonder
could it be true that it is genetic, hereditary?
assuming, again, that they are
I wonder then what becomes of the good lot?
Brothers, why then are your tongues quick
to brand communities
and classify them as scientists do to animals?
brothers, why then are your pens quick
to write "bandit lot", "blood-thristy" or "eager-to-kill"?
Be that as it may, I sing of the Pokots.
In the morning, I wake with the sound of
women chattering at the cow-shed
their smiles bright as sun
their walks energetic
I sing of the Pokots.
of their beautiful shukas
of their colourful beads
of their lorwaas
I sing of the Pokots.
I sing of their warm hearts
and their ebony-black skins
which shine under the African sun
for when others sing of them otherwise
of raiding
of killing
of maiming
i know-much as they know-that
they are quilty of expanding truth
with untruths and half-lies
I sing of the Pokots.
i sing of their dome-shaped huts
mud-walled
grass-thatched
ringed to form a manyatta
and in the evening when the sunset retreats
behind the hills
i hear the cow-bells
and the bleat of goats
interspersed with the whistle of a herdsboy
I sing of the Pokots.
In the evening at the fireplace
I hear grandma Ko Chepkura saying
her witty Hare tales
exposing her toothless gums
laughter filling the smoke-filled hut
I sing of the Pokots.
When I hear my brothers say that
Pokots are blood-thirsty, I wonder
assuming they are, then are they
cannibals, my kinsmen?
when I hear my brothers say that
all Pokots love stealing cows, I wonder
could it be true that it is genetic, hereditary?
assuming, again, that they are
I wonder then what becomes of the good lot?
Brothers, why then are your tongues quick
to brand communities
and classify them as scientists do to animals?
brothers, why then are your pens quick
to write "bandit lot", "blood-thristy" or "eager-to-kill"?
Be that as it may, I sing of the Pokots.
In the morning, I wake with the sound of
women chattering at the cow-shed
their smiles bright as sun
their walks energetic
I sing of the Pokots.
Dear Museveni
Dear Museveni,
Greetings Mr. President. While it should not matter I am a Kenyan. Since lying to you amounts to high treason, I will mention facts as straight as they appear to me. About that small island of Migingo, you can have it. Let your flag flutter there as high as you may want. As you are well aware, we Kenyans still suffer from the 'Post-Election after effects' --we have now extended our bloated intercenine warfare to the spirit and intent of the East African Community. We are struggling to seek relevance even in issues as straight-forward as Migingo. Any student of Public International Law, Mr. President, will tell you that a flag is a symbol of any country's territorial rights. That Kenya has no flag in Migingo is a clear indication that she has never owned Migingo and never will.
In short, Mr. President, I am not writing to you about Migingo (or as you call it Mijinjo). That has not been in dispute. Forget about the planned survey of Mijinjo which will cost Kenya more than 230 Million. That is part of the tired politics of Kenya--'your little brother' in the East Africa Community. Kenya sucks.
Mr. President, there are more big issues that I want to channel to you. Issues more pertinent than Migingo.
Let us start with our president and the prime minister. Take them. We don't need them. On the one hand, the president only comes in public with vigour when his family structure is in the public limelight. On the other hand, our prime minister only complains about having a carpet,a toilet in office and being leader of government business. Take both of them to your Matokeland and ensure that they don't return for great has been our sorrow and sad has been our tale for what they have done to Kenya.
Also take our VP for admonishing our Good Samaritan Koffi Annan to 'stop babysitting our country'. Kalonzo is yours. Please confirm flight details so that we can get rid of him in the earliest convenience.
If you have capacity, your excellency, you can have our MPS-- I mean the Rutos, the Murungis and Kimunyas of our Kenya. We also don't need them. They talk as if they have swallowed tapes. They talk this and that and when they talk that they don't talk this. At the end of the day they become talking machines. Do your MPs talk like these ones, Mr. President? You see them in churches, in funerals, in garbage mounds. Hell, they even talk in pirated ships!
I almost forgot this, Mr. President. You know our Government spindoctor Alfred Mutua? If there be one flight for our 'deportees' and there be a question of lack of space, take note that I'd rather the MPs like Wakoli (for his Luhya cheer breaks the monotony in the House) remain in Kenyan soil than Mutua. This man we give to you in the spirit of a united East African family. Should you express reluctance, please let us schedule more time to discuss this pertinent issue.
Kenya is still big, Mr. President. Don't be offended, your excellency, to have Budalang'i, Kanyerus in Pokot North District, the Northern Frontiers and even the Parliament. For a relief it will be if you take up Budalang'i in the spirit of the East African brotherhood to save it from floods that our government is unable and unwilling to fix. Of what use is the Northern Frontier be if we cannot build good roads and provide water for them? Mr. President, have the Northern Frontier too. As a matter of urgency, if you find it in your kind heart, please take our Kenyan Parliament--they represent us not, tax themselves not and to add insult to injury they behave as if they are the hearthrob of this nation. I speak for my fellow countrymen and women when I say that you love Kenya in the true spirit of East African Community--Please regard this matter as expeditiously for Kenya needs a serious fix.
East African Citizen,
Salem Lorot
Greetings Mr. President. While it should not matter I am a Kenyan. Since lying to you amounts to high treason, I will mention facts as straight as they appear to me. About that small island of Migingo, you can have it. Let your flag flutter there as high as you may want. As you are well aware, we Kenyans still suffer from the 'Post-Election after effects' --we have now extended our bloated intercenine warfare to the spirit and intent of the East African Community. We are struggling to seek relevance even in issues as straight-forward as Migingo. Any student of Public International Law, Mr. President, will tell you that a flag is a symbol of any country's territorial rights. That Kenya has no flag in Migingo is a clear indication that she has never owned Migingo and never will.
In short, Mr. President, I am not writing to you about Migingo (or as you call it Mijinjo). That has not been in dispute. Forget about the planned survey of Mijinjo which will cost Kenya more than 230 Million. That is part of the tired politics of Kenya--'your little brother' in the East Africa Community. Kenya sucks.
Mr. President, there are more big issues that I want to channel to you. Issues more pertinent than Migingo.
Let us start with our president and the prime minister. Take them. We don't need them. On the one hand, the president only comes in public with vigour when his family structure is in the public limelight. On the other hand, our prime minister only complains about having a carpet,a toilet in office and being leader of government business. Take both of them to your Matokeland and ensure that they don't return for great has been our sorrow and sad has been our tale for what they have done to Kenya.
Also take our VP for admonishing our Good Samaritan Koffi Annan to 'stop babysitting our country'. Kalonzo is yours. Please confirm flight details so that we can get rid of him in the earliest convenience.
If you have capacity, your excellency, you can have our MPS-- I mean the Rutos, the Murungis and Kimunyas of our Kenya. We also don't need them. They talk as if they have swallowed tapes. They talk this and that and when they talk that they don't talk this. At the end of the day they become talking machines. Do your MPs talk like these ones, Mr. President? You see them in churches, in funerals, in garbage mounds. Hell, they even talk in pirated ships!
I almost forgot this, Mr. President. You know our Government spindoctor Alfred Mutua? If there be one flight for our 'deportees' and there be a question of lack of space, take note that I'd rather the MPs like Wakoli (for his Luhya cheer breaks the monotony in the House) remain in Kenyan soil than Mutua. This man we give to you in the spirit of a united East African family. Should you express reluctance, please let us schedule more time to discuss this pertinent issue.
Kenya is still big, Mr. President. Don't be offended, your excellency, to have Budalang'i, Kanyerus in Pokot North District, the Northern Frontiers and even the Parliament. For a relief it will be if you take up Budalang'i in the spirit of the East African brotherhood to save it from floods that our government is unable and unwilling to fix. Of what use is the Northern Frontier be if we cannot build good roads and provide water for them? Mr. President, have the Northern Frontier too. As a matter of urgency, if you find it in your kind heart, please take our Kenyan Parliament--they represent us not, tax themselves not and to add insult to injury they behave as if they are the hearthrob of this nation. I speak for my fellow countrymen and women when I say that you love Kenya in the true spirit of East African Community--Please regard this matter as expeditiously for Kenya needs a serious fix.
East African Citizen,
Salem Lorot
Some Thoughts on Career: What Next After Form Four?
'Teaching is a noble profession’
‘A nurse is like a mother, the second God’
‘Bring insecurity and there’s no humanity, give it up for askari’
‘Life is architecture from landscapes to rocks’
‘Engineering is the heartbeat of the society’
Nothing is so frustrating as to pick on ones career. It is like entering into a dark blaring hall with the sound of a drum, cymbals, piano, trombone and whatnot and being asked to identify one sound that impresses you. And it has to be quick. There is no time to waste.
Our environment is also uncompromising. You grow up behind a hill, go to school, pass your exams then somebody asks you ‘What career do you want?’ You laugh sheepishly at the teacher and mumble, ‘What career? Which course do they offer at the university?’ Your teacher also laughs. You take it as a joke but it is a serious problem. We lack exposure. Most of the time, the career we always pursue is what is shoved our way and not what we honestly desired for. It is like going into a hotel with a one-item menu. You are starving and there are no alternatives. Unaware that there can be other better meals, you munch your way to sustenance, not satisfaction.
So are our career choices. At the earliest opportunity, I would wish to say that there is no better career than the other. I will not underrate one and exalt the other. I will not even attempt to draw distinctions between careers. To do so will be like saying, ‘You are a watchman? God save you. But I thought you were better off being somebody else than a watchman!’ First, I would have insulted all the diligent watchmen who sacrifice their sleep to protect life and property from vandalism. Secondly, watchmen will squirm inside their houses and wonder why they had to be lesser human beings. Thirdly, nobody will like to be a watchman, that is if I am lucky my throat is not torn.
Every career is noble. That is the premise we have to work on. Without a teacher, there is no engineer, doctor or lawyer. Without a farmer, there’s hunger. Without a policeman, there’s chaos. We need each other. I understand that a society is like rainbow. Its hue is magnificent due to its different colours. Imagine of a society without a priest or a sheikh for instance. Imagine of a society without a doctor or a nurse. Now imagine of a society where everyone was a computer wizard. All of them know about the computer gimmicks. When the computers are damaged, the owner repairs them. There will be no computer teachers, web designers, technicians and so on. The society will be one heap of a dull lot. It will be a tragic society.
Back to the chap who grows up behind the hill. His teachers have told him that if he works hard, he will live a comfortable life. He does not disappoint. He is the best student in the whole district. He doesn’t know what a comfortable life is. He works hard because that’s what he’s been told. He has no sufficient a reason to burn the midnight oil. He’s slept on hide, he’s eaten wild vegetables and his hobbies have been killing the most rats in a day. He has never been to a rich person’s apartment. The best he has got from our 8-4-4 system was a Geography field trip to Menengai crater. Even for that he felt cheated because it was like the hill in his backyard. So our chap finds himself in the university. He suffers the culture shock. In the village, you are told what to do. In the city, you do what you want to do. It is very tricky for our chap. For a semester, he’s mesmerized by the city life that he can’t concentrate. He uses the first month on how to cross the busy town with all the speedy cars and honks. He spends the first three weeks entering wrong lecture halls and being laughed at. He bears the burden of learning what finje, rwabe, tenje and karau mean in city slang. A colleague tells him that he’s doing chemical engineering. He wonders what engineering chemicals need. May be she is complicating it so he guesses that it must be an advanced form of titration. Why use big words when you can do it easily with simple ones? It is an honest question and he asks it. The lady laughs and asks which backyard of nowhere he comes from. He bottles up and curses his parents for being brought up from where they were brought up. The chap hears of double English and double Mathematics and breaks into a sweat. ‘Are the people doing these courses human beings like me?’ he wonders. It is a Wonderland. Another says he’s doing chemotherapy. He’s heard of physiotherapy. He’s now frustrated. ‘By the bald head of Loitabela, how many therapies are there?’ he throws his arms in disgust. It is only when he came to Nairobi that he knew who a stockbroker and a geologist is.
The chap’s world spins. He is not a peaceful man. Could he have been an actuarial scientist? An engineer? A stockbroker? An architect? A chemotherapist? …Or may be a graphic designer? Why not a pilot? What about doing Bcom? Social science may be?...Wait, why not a software engineer or a journalist or even an air hostess?..the list is endless.
The chap is told to look around his village. He’s told, ‘By the snuff bottle of your grandfather, how can you be an architect? Whose houses can you design when everywhere from Kacheliba to Kiwawa they are only huts?’ He’s told there’s no market for the job in the village. Which is right: there’s no market in the village. Then I propose new courses be introduced in our universities. Managing The Trends of Droughts in ASAL Areas. Understanding the Patterns of Dagoretti and Bumala Cattle Selling Points. Kokwo Analysis: How to Solve Village Disputes Under a Tree. Practical Mining. Pokot Translation Course. From Kadam with Miraa and Lots of Cash. Why not? The market will be there after all droughts, sale of cattle, village tribunals and mineral sites. Our young men and women will be absorbed in gainful employment, not some will-push-down-your-throat kind of courses. Right? Wrong!
Let’s go back to our chap. The chap has been fascinated by science all along since primary. Geography impressed him especially the topics on forestry and vegetation. Different types of trees like mahogany, elgon teak and others made him excited with delight. For two semesters, he thinks about having another course. It is a tedious exercise and it takes months before he settles for science. After all, how about somebody asking him what he’s doing in the university and the chap answers with all the time in the world, ‘Wood S-C-I-E-N-C-E’. The educated elites in the village are up in arms. They protest. It is now a village issue. The chap explains, ‘You see those trees behind our hill? That’s my territory in the university. Give me four years and I will tell you all you need to know about them. And by the way, it’s SCIENCE and not your small little courses that you talk about!’
Well, I rest my case.
‘A nurse is like a mother, the second God’
‘Bring insecurity and there’s no humanity, give it up for askari’
‘Life is architecture from landscapes to rocks’
‘Engineering is the heartbeat of the society’
Nothing is so frustrating as to pick on ones career. It is like entering into a dark blaring hall with the sound of a drum, cymbals, piano, trombone and whatnot and being asked to identify one sound that impresses you. And it has to be quick. There is no time to waste.
Our environment is also uncompromising. You grow up behind a hill, go to school, pass your exams then somebody asks you ‘What career do you want?’ You laugh sheepishly at the teacher and mumble, ‘What career? Which course do they offer at the university?’ Your teacher also laughs. You take it as a joke but it is a serious problem. We lack exposure. Most of the time, the career we always pursue is what is shoved our way and not what we honestly desired for. It is like going into a hotel with a one-item menu. You are starving and there are no alternatives. Unaware that there can be other better meals, you munch your way to sustenance, not satisfaction.
So are our career choices. At the earliest opportunity, I would wish to say that there is no better career than the other. I will not underrate one and exalt the other. I will not even attempt to draw distinctions between careers. To do so will be like saying, ‘You are a watchman? God save you. But I thought you were better off being somebody else than a watchman!’ First, I would have insulted all the diligent watchmen who sacrifice their sleep to protect life and property from vandalism. Secondly, watchmen will squirm inside their houses and wonder why they had to be lesser human beings. Thirdly, nobody will like to be a watchman, that is if I am lucky my throat is not torn.
Every career is noble. That is the premise we have to work on. Without a teacher, there is no engineer, doctor or lawyer. Without a farmer, there’s hunger. Without a policeman, there’s chaos. We need each other. I understand that a society is like rainbow. Its hue is magnificent due to its different colours. Imagine of a society without a priest or a sheikh for instance. Imagine of a society without a doctor or a nurse. Now imagine of a society where everyone was a computer wizard. All of them know about the computer gimmicks. When the computers are damaged, the owner repairs them. There will be no computer teachers, web designers, technicians and so on. The society will be one heap of a dull lot. It will be a tragic society.
Back to the chap who grows up behind the hill. His teachers have told him that if he works hard, he will live a comfortable life. He does not disappoint. He is the best student in the whole district. He doesn’t know what a comfortable life is. He works hard because that’s what he’s been told. He has no sufficient a reason to burn the midnight oil. He’s slept on hide, he’s eaten wild vegetables and his hobbies have been killing the most rats in a day. He has never been to a rich person’s apartment. The best he has got from our 8-4-4 system was a Geography field trip to Menengai crater. Even for that he felt cheated because it was like the hill in his backyard. So our chap finds himself in the university. He suffers the culture shock. In the village, you are told what to do. In the city, you do what you want to do. It is very tricky for our chap. For a semester, he’s mesmerized by the city life that he can’t concentrate. He uses the first month on how to cross the busy town with all the speedy cars and honks. He spends the first three weeks entering wrong lecture halls and being laughed at. He bears the burden of learning what finje, rwabe, tenje and karau mean in city slang. A colleague tells him that he’s doing chemical engineering. He wonders what engineering chemicals need. May be she is complicating it so he guesses that it must be an advanced form of titration. Why use big words when you can do it easily with simple ones? It is an honest question and he asks it. The lady laughs and asks which backyard of nowhere he comes from. He bottles up and curses his parents for being brought up from where they were brought up. The chap hears of double English and double Mathematics and breaks into a sweat. ‘Are the people doing these courses human beings like me?’ he wonders. It is a Wonderland. Another says he’s doing chemotherapy. He’s heard of physiotherapy. He’s now frustrated. ‘By the bald head of Loitabela, how many therapies are there?’ he throws his arms in disgust. It is only when he came to Nairobi that he knew who a stockbroker and a geologist is.
The chap’s world spins. He is not a peaceful man. Could he have been an actuarial scientist? An engineer? A stockbroker? An architect? A chemotherapist? …Or may be a graphic designer? Why not a pilot? What about doing Bcom? Social science may be?...Wait, why not a software engineer or a journalist or even an air hostess?..the list is endless.
The chap is told to look around his village. He’s told, ‘By the snuff bottle of your grandfather, how can you be an architect? Whose houses can you design when everywhere from Kacheliba to Kiwawa they are only huts?’ He’s told there’s no market for the job in the village. Which is right: there’s no market in the village. Then I propose new courses be introduced in our universities. Managing The Trends of Droughts in ASAL Areas. Understanding the Patterns of Dagoretti and Bumala Cattle Selling Points. Kokwo Analysis: How to Solve Village Disputes Under a Tree. Practical Mining. Pokot Translation Course. From Kadam with Miraa and Lots of Cash. Why not? The market will be there after all droughts, sale of cattle, village tribunals and mineral sites. Our young men and women will be absorbed in gainful employment, not some will-push-down-your-throat kind of courses. Right? Wrong!
Let’s go back to our chap. The chap has been fascinated by science all along since primary. Geography impressed him especially the topics on forestry and vegetation. Different types of trees like mahogany, elgon teak and others made him excited with delight. For two semesters, he thinks about having another course. It is a tedious exercise and it takes months before he settles for science. After all, how about somebody asking him what he’s doing in the university and the chap answers with all the time in the world, ‘Wood S-C-I-E-N-C-E’. The educated elites in the village are up in arms. They protest. It is now a village issue. The chap explains, ‘You see those trees behind our hill? That’s my territory in the university. Give me four years and I will tell you all you need to know about them. And by the way, it’s SCIENCE and not your small little courses that you talk about!’
Well, I rest my case.
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