Perpetual Panic

"Some old men who know little Baganda will wake from their sleep, laughing, saying: This thing this boy of ours is carrying is a witch. How can it carry the song of Museveni, the one Museveni, who says a word and we hide ourselves inside the caves of Mt. Kadam? Our son, if you have learnt the trick of stealing Museveni’s song into that thing then what we wait for is for you to bring him here so that we sing with him and praise our bulls..."

To avoid the scorching sun of the land behind the hills, I usually opt to sit under a tree shade probably that of a Tamarind tree. People behind the hills call the tree Oron. This big oron tree has the capacity of accommodating more than 50 people. Old men will perch their heads on their traditional stools and comfortably catch an afternoon nap. Others will prop their heads on a walking stick delicately balanced between two traditional stools. Lorot Son of the Hills™ would comfortably lie somewhere, half-asleep half-awake, listening to the folklore of old men and gleaning their well-knitted arguments.

Today I will not talk about what they discuss under that tree. I will focus on some stray thought that has gripped my mind. It is nothing big really.

In my self-induced sleepy state, I saw this young man with a broken chip of glass smoothening a walking stick we call lökûp. He was never in a hurry, never in any self-inflicted haste. He could blow off the stick-dusts. He appeared never to be worried about the flying time. I asked myself: Lorot Son of the Hills™, does this man have deadlines? Is this man a slave of time? When the sun sets in the evening, does he look back and scream: So much to do, so little time to accomplish them? Does he worry about diplomas, degrees, masters and PHDs? 

He never appeared so. In his state, he had reached his “self-actualization”. He had found his inner peace. Under that Oron tree, I looked inwardly into myself, of my academic papers, of my race with time, of my jittery nature, of my state of “perpetual panic”. What will be my self-actualization? Where will I find inner peace? Hadn’t I been told in Form Four that I will come to realize that the more I read the more I will discover that I don’t know? Hadn’t I sadly surmised that the race will always be of “perpetual panic”? 

Looking at the contentment of that man under the tree (as against my feeling of “I need to do one more thing”), feeling the relaxed mode he had assumed of life (as against mine of “haste, waste no time”), I envied the man smoothening the walking stick. But then again, I thought to myself: True, the man is contented. True, the man appears to have inner peace. But, what would be the thrill to this man upon discovering the hidden knowledge between book covers, of Google, of his-story, of explanations to many questions that remain unanswered in his mind? How would he feel seated there with grizzly old men peeling off one gem of knowledge after another before his audience? How would this man be like when he finally receives the revelation that the world is more than smoothening lökûp?

With such knowledge, perhaps the man will read Daily Nation over the internet, or most probably The Daily Monitor. Under that oron tree, he might say: Kinsmen, in akanta (for that’s how the people behind the hills call Uganda), Museveni has decided to sing to get more votes ( in reference to Do You Want Another Rap?). To thrill them, he might go to YouTube and play them the song from his laptop. Some old man who knows little Baganda will wake from his sleep, laughing, saying: 

This thing this boy of ours is carrying is a witch. How can it carry the song of Museveni, the one Museveni, who says a word and we hide ourselves inside the caves of Mt. Kadam? Our son, if you have learnt the trick of stealing Museveni’s song into that thing then what we wait for is for you to bring him here so that we sing with him and praise our bulls. When I had strength, my son, I could stand like a bull with crossed horns, placing my palms on my temple and praise my bull with all the adjectives a warrior could use. Then I could leap into the air as if my feet had wings. I swear by this snuff bottle, my agemates still say I used to sing as if I had been possessed by the spirit of my bull.

If Jesus Was to be born in Kenya #2

1 O’clock news K.B.C. News on 25th December:

Taarifa ya kuzaliwa kwa Yesu hapa nchini yazua hali ya sintofahamu na mshikemshike kwa viongozi na raia. Tulipokuwa tunachapisha habari hizi ili kuwaletea, ilikuwa bado haijabainika kwa kweli ikiwa mtoto huyo ni Yesu au la. Serikali imeamuru mtoto huyo afanyiwe uchunguzi wa DNA ili kubaini ikiwa DNA yake ni ile iliyoko kwenye biblia.

Translation:
News trickling in in our newsdesk have it that the birth of Jesus continue to elicit confusion and jittery feeling to the leadership and Kenyans as a whole. By the time we were going to press, it had not been confirmed whether this baby is the real Jesus. The Government has swung into action and directed that the child should undergo a DNA test.

One random citizen asked on this will say that Mary is an attention-seeking woman. He will point out that this is another version of the Deya Saga but with a female character in place.

By around 2 P.m. of 25th, curious Kenyans will rush to the place where Mary Mother of Jesus is said to be. Characteristic of our Government Spokesman, he will suggest the Moktar Daddah Street to be Jesus Street and a national monument to be erected. While generously saying ‘Najivunia kuwa Mkenya, Najivunia Yesu kuzaliwa Kenya’, he will call upon the President to declare Jesus Street a tourist attraction.

Visitors will flock Kenya. Ads will be placed on the telly. Sample this:

Apart from the wildebeest migration and the Maasai, Jesus Street is now open to members of the public which is our Bethlehem. Come visit and see where Mary Mother of Jesus actually delivered Jesus.
Kenyans who are business-savvy will line up the Moktar Daddah Street with every religious item that is worth selling: crosses, rosaries, bibles, t-shirts with religious writings, holy water, holy oils, holy piece of handkerchief that Mary Mother of Jesus actually used to wipe her brow, the soil upon which Mary sat on before delivering Jesus, the shawl that actually tied up Jesus.

Somewhere in the pages of the Classifieds one businessman will place the ad that the City Inspectorate Van that carried Mary and Jesus is up for sale at 45 Million.

And somewhere in a village, the news will spread of this development. One man, intoxicated by liquor, will spring to his feet, take a swig and declare:

Joseph, Son of Arimathea, comes from our Clan, the big buffalo clan of the Suk. His great great grandfather could take 12 gourds of sour milk while standing. Arimathea was a great man. This Joseph is our son although his blood got mixed a little to make him a carpenter but he still remains a great warrior in his blood. He could kill an antelope with only one arrow. He once tore a lion’s mouth into two.
See, friends, the Suk come from the eye of the sun, k’ongasis. We come from Israel, the land where our great grandfather, Arimathea, hails from….

The growth of the baby Jesus will be monitored closely by the Establishment. Inside State House, the cronies of the president will whisper:

Your Excellency, my breath is not worthy of your ears but allow me to say this. This child who is said to be a king is growing up fast and is gathering a huge following. He is not calling any political rally, he is only 12 but he is on every one’s lips. Direct the arrest of Joseph and Mary before things run out of hand.

There will be opposition even among religious leaders. It will not be uncommon to hear a religious scholar intone: I have studied Theology for 17 years now and based on that this is not Jesus but another ordinary baby and ordinary distressed woman trying to bring up an extra-ordinary story. Jesus? Which Jesus?

Then Lorot Son of the Hills will approach Jesus Son of Man and say: Jesus, I am Lorot Son of the Hills, you were born in the streets and I was born on the way. This is Kenya. There are some positions you might easily fit in like the Governor, Senator or the President. And if you get it, don’t forget me Jesus. I will be your campaign manager, for free. I will write your speeches, weave moving political poetry, mobilize Kenyans to follow you. It will be a door-to-door campaign. We need to create a Fund, Jesus, for our political rallies. You see, these parables things won’t work without something small. You will make it. You are the news, Jesus.

But Jesus will look at me graciously and say: Verily, verily I tell you Lorot Son of the Hills, the Son of Man never came to this world to seek the glory of man. I am Prince of Peace, the Anointed One, a Wonderful Counselor. I seek spiritual kingdom, not a political leadership…

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year my readers.

If Jesus was to be born in Kenya #1

And so it came to pass that baby Jesus was born in Kenya. Mary Mother of Jesus was in great pains and was looking around for a place but the response she was getting was ‘vyumba vyote vimejaa’ ‘all houses are full’. Ironically, where Joseph and Mary went were surrounded by perimeter walls and written mbwa kali, bibi mkali. There was general consensus that such a king was part of political witch hunt, a well-calculated plan to deceive Kenyans in order to take reins of leadership. A commission of Inquiry was thus formed: A Commission of Inquiry into the Circumstances of the Birth of Jesus. Questions were floated, like the need for many Baby Jesuses to be born to have a regional balance and that the date of its birth be subjected to a Referendum.

In Parliament, one angry and distraught MP rose up to speak:

“Mr. Speaker, there is an important national matter. It is about a baby named Jesus born less than 48 hours ago at Pumwani. Word is going round that he is King. Mr. Speaker, I find this a comic relief between the issues of the Hague Six and Implementation Committees of the Constitution. What baffles my mind is that the country somehow believes this make-believe story, Mr. Speaker.  Mr. Speaker, I seek your indulgence on this matter. This is hogwash. Let this nonsense be stopped, Mr. Speaker.”

As this voice drones off in the August House, baby Jesus and Mother Mary are braving the sharp, searing glances of passersby and receiving coins thrown meters away. But the City Council askaris haul them into their white stuffy  wire-meshed  City Inspectorate Van. The askari will tell Mary Mother of Jesus: Jitetee Mama, hii mambo tumalizie hapa. Uko na ngapi? Offence yako ni serious kwa by-laws za kanjo. Kwanza, pretending to be the mother of Jesus. Second, littering the city. Causing distraction. Fine yenyewe si less than 10 k. Ongea Mama, ongea.

But Mary Mother of Jesus will say something like: God you will not be mocked, I glorify you. The kanjo will say something to the effect that he can’t be threatened by those calling upon the name of God for no reason.

Meanwhile, a Press Conference will be called by one disturbed politician who will look into the camera and while pointing into the skies say:

Can’t you see this is a plot by the international community? Can’t you see that this Jew Baby has been made to be delivered here to impose on us their leadership? No. We are a Sovereign State….We have had enough of our own internal tensions during the post-election violence. We don’t want foreign ones, the ones we have here are enough…

One consoling thing is that all this will be forgotten by the beginning of the year 2011. There will be no more captivating headlines like ‘Baby Jesus Born in Kenya: Fact or Fiction?’ The findings of the Commission of Inquiry, like others, will gather dust in bookshelves and soon Kenyans will think of other more important things like County Government Structures, Who will be who 2012 or who is the father of Ocampo and whether he has a Luo lineage.

In Capital Talk, Joseph and Mary will be interviewed by Jeff Koinange. Vintage Jeff will introduce the show:

What a show, what guests! Joseph and Mary. Yes. You heard it right. Joseph and Mary of our Bibles are on the bench tonight. Good grief! It is smokiiiiiiinnnn. Now Joseph, how does it feel getting the attention while, let’s face it, you are a carpenter? I mean you are the one trending, you are taking twitter, facebook  by storm, you are the hottest topic In the news, man….

If Jesus was to be born in Kenya #1

And so it came to pass that baby Jesus was born in Kenya. Mary Mother of Jesus was in great pains and was looking around for a place but the response she was getting was ‘vyumba vyote vimejaa’ ‘all houses are full’. Ironically, where Joseph and Mary went were surrounded by perimeter walls and written mbwa kali, bibi mkali. There was general consensus that such a king was part of political witch hunt, a well-calculated plan to deceive Kenyans in order to take reins of leadership. A commission of Inquiry was thus formed: A Commission of Inquiry into the Circumstances of the Birth of Jesus. Questions were floated, like the need for many Baby Jesuses to be born to have a regional balance and that the date of its birth be subjected to a Referendum.

In Parliament, one angry and distraught MP rose up to speak:

“Mr. Speaker, there is an important national matter. It is about a baby named Jesus born less than 48 hours ago at Pumwani. Word is going round that he is King. Mr. Speaker, I find this a comic relief between the issues of the Hague Six and Implementation Committees of the Constitution. What baffles my mind is that the country somehow believes this make-believe story, Mr. Speaker.  Mr. Speaker, I seek your indulgence on this matter. This is hogwash. Let this nonsense be stopped, Mr. Speaker.”

As this voice drones off in the August House, baby Jesus and Mother Mary are braving the sharp, searing glances of passersby and receiving coins thrown meters away. But the City Council askaris haul them into their white stuffy  wire-meshed  City Inspectorate Van. The askari will tell Mary Mother of Jesus: Jitetee Mama, hii mambo tumalizie hapa. Uko na ngapi? Offence yako ni serious kwa by-laws za kanjo. Kwanza, pretending to be the mother of Jesus. Second, littering the city. Causing distraction. Fine yenyewe si less than 10 k. Ongea Mama, ongea.

But Mary Mother of Jesus will say something like: God you will not be mocked, I glorify you. The kanjo will say something to the effect that he can’t be threatened by those calling upon the name of God for no reason.

Meanwhile, a Press Conference will be called by one disturbed politician who will look into the camera and while pointing into the skies say:

Can’t you see this is a plot by the international community? Can’t you see that this Jew Baby has been made to be delivered here to impose on us their leadership? No. We are a Sovereign State….We have had enough of our own internal tensions during the post-election violence. We don’t want foreign ones, the ones we have here are enough…

One consoling thing is that all this will be forgotten by the beginning of the year 2011. There will be no more captivating headlines like ‘Baby Jesus Born in Kenya: Fact or Fiction?’ The findings of the Commission of Inquiry, like others, will gather dust in bookshelves and soon Kenyans will think of other more important things like County Government Structures, Who will be who 2012 or who is the father of Ocampo and whether he has a Luo lineage.

In Capital Talk, Joseph and Mary will be interviewed by Jeff Koinange. Vintage Jeff will introduce the show:

What a show, what guests! Joseph and Mary. Yes. You heard it right. Joseph and Mary of our Bibles are on the bench tonight. Good grief! It is smokiiiiiiinnnn. Now Joseph, how does it feel getting the attention while, let’s face it, you are a carpenter? I mean you are the one trending, you are taking twitter, facebook  by storm, you are the hottest topic In the news, man….

Mwenge Edition #2

Wikileaks. I don’t know why there is brouhaha over Wikileaks. In Kacheliba, inside Mwenge, we are the brainchild of Wikileaks. We don’t even need to hack any computer to obtain secret data. We have the data, it is in our public domain. And we say it with chin raised in honesty  for all to hear. 

In Mwenge House, we can tell you what happened last night in the chief’s house, how he quarreled with his wife in bedroom and on which side of the bed did he sleep. We will tell you that is the reason why  he is walking around today with miraa inside his mouth not talking with people. We know all these things, you know.

We will tell you that the third child of that Mama Mandazi is not the true son of the man in the house. That child belongs to the watchman, Lotim. We have looked at the child’s nose, it is as bulby as that of Lotim. And those legs? And those legs? If I am lying then let Kacheliba Hill fall on me. Those legs are the legs of Lotim. They are as hairy as those of Lotim. In Mwenge we know these things.

We will also tell you how many wizards are currently in Kacheliba, for we have our figures.  They are around 11, not counting the one who migrated to Amudat. You see, these wizards have their Annual Leave. So this one we are talking about has gone to Amudat for a ‘fact-finding mission’. Ok, let us just say that they are 10. We have information that one wizard is sick because he danced on graves at C.P.K and somehow slipped and fell in one gully, injuring his leg. And this particular wizard is hopping around in the Marketplace. We have eyes and we can see.

We can accurately tell you which family slept hungry yesterday, which one drank just water and which one will break up on the 14^th of next month. We can also tell you whose daughter was impregnated by who and where.  Well, we don’t like discussing such matters but only do so between one taksin of miraa and another just as a commercial break between important issues like when exactly River Suam will ultimately rebel and refuse to flow under the bridge.

We sit here in Mwenge House having official secrets of the state. We know, for instance, that Raila whistles before he sleeps. We know these things. As for Baba Jimmy, well we know it, he loves liking Facebook groups. He can sit the whole night doing it. He uses different names, of course, we are too clever to know this. We also know who are in the Secret Ocampo Envelope. Those six people we know them, we don’t need Wikileaks to leak it for us. We are not very sure about the other five but we are sure of one. And that is the person who sent a bulldozer to demolish the canteen opposite the road. This man is Hague material, we have concluded. He is running everywhere saying that the bulldozer ‘accidentally’ demolished the canteen? He can’t lie to us, Mwengeans. When Ocampo calls the names, he will be there. Even if he builds another Canteen, Ocampo will not be duped.

We don’t need wikileaks to tell us who will be president in 2012. We already know. We have the information, you know. We also know whether Obama will retain his seat or not. We also know whether Museveni will continue being Uganda’s president. We also know the founder of Wikileaks: Isn’t this Assange Jullian ( whose proper Mwengean names are Julius Kasange) whose father used to sell fitos In Orolwo way back before Poryo Maua?

As Mwengeans, we appreciate our heroism. So, after tracing the lineage of Assange to one of our own, we will conclude, while holding sticks of miraa to demonstrate our point: Kama si hizi miraa na jua ya Kache, haki ya Mungu tunaweza enda farthest kama huyo Julius!

Ode to Men #4

Having communed with the hills, I trudged down to seek audience with man. My camel-skin sandal straps tied my feet just as well but it was not much of my concern. As I walked in the darkness, I kept telling myself: In this darkness is the story of man silhouetted. In this darkness is there fight between evil and good. In this darkness is the message for man, of his triumph and of his defeat.

So I was on the footpath, as a messenger to man, walking with a message in my breast trying to find best ways to tell man this peculiar message. Man was asleep by the time I enter my hut, slip off my camel-skin sandals and go to sleep.

On the Village Square, the following day, I stand to address men as thus:

“I have message from the seven hills, sons and daughters of the hills. I have a message for you. It is not in my tradition to keep you waiting and being long-winded. The hills, the seven hills, are displeased with you. When I told you they will go into forty days of mourning, they did so and finished that yesterday. The evil among us will die eventually from the rot of their actions. The good among us will be like the endless plains, expansive and a good sight to behold. The hills have said that they will not condemn you. Let the evil rejoice. Let them celebrate, but for a while. For the hills will not send wind nor misfortune nor condemnation. The hills have cried for man, the sons and daughters of the hills.  The evil among us can still change their ways—there is always that window.

“I have spoken the message. I am done. Let evil and good both live, the hills say. For the cause of man, let both live. I am finished, my message is delivered.”

Ode to Men # 3

That night the hills continued telling me thus:

“Lorot Son of the Hills, we have mourned for forty days and nights—for man.  Winds have blown the hills, echoes have ricocheted across the seven hills, we have peeled off boulder after another again and again; our waterfalls have flowed furiously in mad anger. In these forty days and nights, we had no choice but to dry up ferns, fungi and shrubs leaving balding seven hills to showcase shame to man. Our monkeys have chattered on the ledges, hyraxes have lifted their limbs and sang dirges. And now the forty days are over.

“We will not rescind our previous message that we gave you. It is the tradition of the hills not to retract their messages. Now the die is cast, the fate of man is sealed. Man has never seen the revolt of the hills. Man has never witnessed the strength of the caps and peaks of the hills in supplication. Even whirlwind that can uproot a tree, he’s not witnessed it across seven hills.

“We have deliberated on this grave issue, Lorot Son of the Hills. The seven hills met and talked about it at great length. And it was our broad consensus to let good men live. Doesn’t the sun shine to both the righteous and sinners? Doesn’t the picturesque, beautiful landscape of the seven hills beckon the eyes of both its lovers and haters alike? Is the story of man all about loot, plunder and rape? What about the success story of man: of hard work, of honesty, of respect for human dignity? If it be true that man has mastered the art of doublespeak, what will we say of other men whose mouths are fountains of hope and truth from which are tributaries of encouragement and direction in life to friend and foe? Even if we protest that men have stopped loving, isn’t such a sweeping generalization to condemn man wholly yet on the flipside there are those who have sacrificed their souls and bodies on the altar of love for mankind? If the world is awash with men, deceptive men, disguised as the be-all and end-all of modern day virtues, what will we say of honest men who live quiet lives away from the glare of the public strengthening the cord of humanity? What shall we say of such men, Lorot Son of the Hills?

“About these men did we deliberate upon. For the story of man is not all about condemnation and failures. The story of man is a complex issue. Where he kills, there is another who promotes that life in orphanages and rescue homes. Where he is the Grim Reaper, another dedicates his time to nurse and care for the victims. Where he pillages, another man is collecting coins for a cause, to build a church or to care for the orphans. That is why we exercise restraint in judging man wholly, if only for the good of the few good men.

“What good will it be to us if we sent forth a rushing gale of wind to the homes of man to destroy his houses? If we are mad enough, as we actually are, and decided to hurl all kinds of misfortune his way, what good do we do to the righteous among men? What happens to the cause of man? No. Lorot Son of the Hills, we will not condemn man. Let good and evil continue to live, the good men do will outlive them; the evil men do will soon catch up with them and destroy them eventually.”