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.
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