KARMA CHOOSES THE MENU.

The streets continued murmuring rather audibly with laughs emerging spontaneously here and there. Shouting and screaming of touts rose with the falling of another call to attract commuters into their vehicles. With a designer shoe, or a college jacket. The touts of Nairobi were known to keep up with street fashion. Not forgetting their rather sharp tongues which never missed answers to stupid or obvious questions. “Panda nduthi ndio ya mtu mmoja kama hii haina watu.” Skojan answered a petite lady in her early 20’s.

Skojan was never short of answers. Where he lacked in physical height he comfortably compensated with his sharp and witty replies. Back in the ghetto no one knew his real name. The most people ever knew about him was how the name Skojan came about. A story is told that one day while seated in their base. Rico came complaining of how his flash disc contents were quickly formatted when he inserted it into his laptop to watch a movie. Skojan came with the most logical answer, “buda io ni Skojan horse, virus mbaya, itabidi uchangamkie flash yako fathee.”

And thats how the name Skojan came about. From trojan horse to skojan horse, he never knew he will wear his mispronunciation for the rest of his life as his eternal nickname.Some nicknames are a for a lifetime.

This was the much people knew about Skojan. No one knew where he came from. Rumours, gossip and news never lacks in the ghettos. In fact a relevant phrase that captures this in totality is ;
If you Haven’t heard it in Kije, probably it never happened. And the dwellers here believed in the phrase to the letter. The few jointed stories ever told about Skojan was that he was a prisoner given a presidential pardon. He served different sentences depending on who you will ask in the village. They ranged from murder to the trivial loitering. But what they all agreed was skojan was a an ex convict. This was never said straight to his face though. They remained rumours and at its best gossip.

Taking tea and 2 mandazi, skojan continued to listen to his wife. Who by now was outside their single room house, wiping clean his designer Nike air force shoes for him before he leaves for work. ” Sko,” she called out, ‘ before my due date, we have to visit my family for formal introduction .” Skojan intentionally decided not to respond to that. He knew where this conversation will lead to. And who is more persistent than a woman who wants you to make it official. For the wife, it was a show of love for skojan to show commitment, and to score in the dying minutes of the match against women who never stopped to predict their eventual fall out. But for skojan this meant blowing up his cover, literally going naked. He knew the elders won’t leave any clothes untied. He will be stripped naked. His family, roots and previous misdoings will be public. And that is a risk to big for skojan to take. Not now not forever.If only the wife knew the foundation of their relationship was built on this side that skojan wanted hidden. She will never have insisted. And he couldn’t risk sharing his life with his wife. On the mere foundation of love. He knew and very well so, it will be stupid for him to share his darkness on the mere premise of love, a subtle feeling that can change with passing of time. For an extra mouth that knows your secret, its not a secret anymore.

The crackdown by traffic police early in the morning affected the matatu industry. Work was slow and boring. Skojan who by 10 on normal days would have made 12 trips to and from town, managed 3 trips today. On the other side this meant that touts and drivers would have time to seat down and chart while taking a cup of porridge and getting latest gossip in their village. Experienced drivers will share their stories of the past on how they managed to escape traffic crackdown. Touts will chip in on how they made a kill on Saturday evening and spent the whole week slowly clearing bush for the meru people.
The stories will swing from laughter, sadness and pity depending on what subject was being discussed. A single story here would be told in more than one version, with each group claiming theirs is the true copy of the story.
Skojan was always sought after, to quickly settle the argument and give verdict on which version holds water. This position he earned, not because he knew the village better, but he was the most quiet whenever the stories were being told.

“Bald Rasta” came to a halt. To allow an old woman to alight. Skojan helped her to carry her luggage, she followed rather slowly dragging her left foot, and today ours truly was not in a hurry. He patiently waited for her to alight, and just before he could tap and swing his right foot on “Bald Rasta” he saw a familiar face. And the girl stared back at him. Their eyes met. Each awakening past devils. Buried and forgotten. Her sharp eyes penetrated his soul, slowly piercing the wall of guilt he had erected. And before he could loose it, he banged heavily and shouted” iende saana dere”.

He gave up all his remaining rides and went home. Luckily his wife was about to leave for pre natal clinic and later on converse with her friends. She won’t return until late in the evening. This was the only good thing that had happened to him today. A silent room. Screaming thoughts. And awaken past. He had enough cud to chew while sinking to depression and a guilty conscience to eat him from within. Lying on his bed. He realized all along he has been sweating profusely. The hell from his past was clearly boiling. He knew well enough, that sleep won’t come. And just like a bad rash, the past has an itching sensation that calls for scratching. And he can’t ignore it forget about finding sleep.

He went for it under the bed. Inside an old converse rubber shoes. His shortcut to sleep. Yes. The blessed herb. That medicinal herb. He took a long puff, blessed the herb took another puff, blessed the picture of Gregory Isaacs,and for once the picture came to live. He saw Gregory smiling at him and he smiled back. Blessings mutual. He took another long puff, made rings. To keep past devils at bay. Rings of herb prevent harm.

He lay down on his bed, eyes facing the sack made ceiling. Lights off. He reached for his radio. Switched on for some roots music. Volume only for his ears. And slowly the music carried him away to a world free from his haunting.

Your child is healthy and kicking, I hope he won’t be quiet like his dad. The nurse on duty said in between laughs. Magdalena Vakaeri felt proud and angry. Proud that she will soon become a mother, angry because skojan never uttered a word when she mentioned the idea of making it official between them. She tried everything possible to make him comment on that subject but Skojan never gave in. All the tricks given by her fellow women never bore any fruit. She agreed that its Skojan who wrote the book of tricks that she tried to use against him. She bade the staff good bye and left with her thoughts. Today she started from Genesis.

On that Friday morning on her way to school. A 2nd year students school of health science. Bubbly and outgoing. She boarded the matatu that changed her life. To others for the better and to some for the worse. Her eyes met his. Short , dark, well built, incisor coated with silver, brown hasty eyes and a long nose. She unconsciously smiled at him and her classes changed to his bedroom. Really quick. She changed her course from health science to family health welfare.

She didn’t notice how fast she was walking until she was stopped in her tracks by a friend. In the whole ghetto this was her only friend. Mama brayo. A woman late in her 20’s who like her she fell for the charm of Nairobi’s notorious tout. They exchanged pleasantries. Mama brayo had two gentlemen with her. A tall dark man in his early 30’s and a well built average height man in his mid 40’s. ” Thank God I found you, I was on my way to your house. This 2 gentlemen had asked me to show them where you live. Baba Brian is about to come from work, lemme rush home and prepare something small for him. With that mama brayo left the 2 strangers at the hand of Magdalena. A certain uneasiness crept over her, but she had to show them home. She led the way as the 2 guys followed her behind closely.

Skojan had slept peacefully for quite sometime now, before she appeared again in her dreams. That girl at the matatu stage. This time skojan remembered clearly how he shot her dad dead. And how a robbery that was supposed to end without violence left 3 lifeless bodies at the scene. The girl was his Ugandan girlfriend. Those days he used to live in Uganda. And he wasn’t stupid to go for such an operation alone without his gang and covering his face. But when the girls dad reached for the phone to call the police, Skojan had to do what he had to do. He shot the old man dead. And called out to his fellow gang member to hurry up and pack.

The girl recognizing his voice shouted ” skojan”. He couldn’t get himself to do it, nor would he allow his fellow members to cut the loose end in their operation. He was dismissed from the gang and came to start over in the ghettos of Nairobi. Her face and the scene kept appearing and disappearing in his dreams.

Sko” Magdalena called, stretching his hand and wiping his eyes while seating upright. He met with 2 bullets. One on his forehead and another on his chest. He went back to sleep only this time with no dreams whatsoever. Blood was painted all over Gregory Isaacs face. Before Magdalena could do anything the 2guys left as quickly as they came. She was too shocked. Tears dropped slowly following each other. She crawled next to his lifeless body. He was cold. She let out a scream before passing out.

And Skojan died. A bullet for another. He used a girl to get to her father, and they used his wife to get to him.
For Karma chooses the menu and the serving method.

The World Owes you Nothing.

Adorned in uniform;white shirt and a trouser with four vertical stripes running down the garment. This was his uniform for the sentence. A sentence he received amid cheers from the public. The same people who cheered him on outside there. Now cheered as he was locked inside. He lived for the cheers. If only this time the cheers were for him not against him.

Msau Muthao, was raised in a family where everything was lacking except problems. In a family of 4 and most of the time 3. Msau was the 1st child whom the mother claimed he was raised by a single parent. She never agreed to count the timeless times, His dad showed up. She brushed that away as a mere tactical appearance. She will remind her kids, the number of times their dad made them happy, could not pass the index finger after starting to count from the thump. On the same breath, up until Msau was in his 20’s, the mother attributed all his problems to his ever absent Father. And the child took cue, he learnt quickly how to play victim in life. Every problem he had, he found a soul to blame.

Up until his sentence was read, Msau was a victim of evil machinations by human beings. Who according to him, were envious of his success. He was a proud owner of the unbeatable Cockrel 3 years in a row in the local annual “Feather fight” in his village. In fact Msau, remembers the warning of his dear friend, that day he was interviewed by the local radio station after the fight. The cheers he received will be the alarm used to finish him. His friend reminded him, that the local MCA now saw him as a threat. And this grandiose statement was imprinted in his mind. From that day his friend warned him, he walked with an aura of confidence never seen before. His head was held high, chest thrust forward and he waved imaginary to his fans whenever he walked. In local gatherings, he was angered whenever his presence was never recognized. He will furiously leave that meeting, with a foaming mouth full of anger. Cursing and swearing that he will put them in their place. “The only one who speaks after me is the president, only to give me a vote of thanks by gracing his meeting.” He will say that loudly while walking angrily away.

At the age where every man is reminded to get married, Msau was never bothered on having a wife by his side. He quickly found fault on every woman he met. He actually claimed none of the women in the village was worth his time. The world owed him! And rightly so, was that village not known because of his cock which won the championship thrice in a row? Wasn’t he the one who introduced the beauty of drinking local beer by jug? Don’t forget he is the only one in that village who reminded the villagers to tuck in their vest.

Msau lived alone quietly accompanied by his grandiose thoughts. His single room had a bed and mattress. A bed supported on all side by old tins of vegetable oil filled with sand and stones. This trick was to raise the bed to a respectable height. The legs had survived two generations and they succumbed to the weight they carried over the years. They now had to be supported. The mattress was a piece. Covering a quarter of the bed. The other side patches of sponge, old pillow, and pieces of clothes fully compensated the side that remained. The mattress was home to bedbugs, living on the upper most side, neighboring lice and family who found refuge in the middle of the park. On the far end where Msau placed his legs uncle flea and family were struggling to survive there considering his dirty state of legs. Mosquitoes gave up in sucking his blood, the competition was too much.

He had 3 mugs, 1 was broken another one he placed it as a collateral at the local pub for a drink and the one he used now coupled up as jug and a mug depending on the occasion. He never cooked, with his humanitarian heart he decided to sell his sufurias. ” Instead of them dying with pneumonia because of cold.let me spare them the cruel death” he justified his sale and successfully put his name in the book of life.

The villagers were already up. Women, children and men were exorbitant. The president was opening a watershed in the village. The 1st time a seating president had visited their forsaken village. Everyone had prepared to attend and to have a look at their president. Local area chief job of mobilising mobs to attend wasn’t a task at all. Mention of free lunch after the event attracted the villagers without trying. Kids were dressed in their old new clothes tucked away waiting for such occasions. Women had practised a song to be performed in front of the respected guest. The chief guest was to be entertained by a group of young men carefully selected to perform a victory dance to symbolize the not mean feat the village had achieved. Ours truly was left out in all this planning. He blamed the local area chief. ” He knows once am given an opportunity, the president will question why am i not the chief of this village.” He said while leaving the local area drinking joint.

But on this Morning, Msau meticulously picked his broken suit. Wiped his Yellow coat with patches of brown with a wet cloth. He pushed a few socks inside his oversize sport shoes to at least fit him for the day. When he locked his door, he remembered his purple tie, under his bed, now home to the newly wed among the flea. Waking them from their honey moon he pulled out his tie. Wrapped it around his maroon shirt and went for the door. This day. Just like the sun, Msau swore he will rise. He will go for his rightful position. He will seat among his peers; The president and his ministers. The chief will have nothing to do, but bow at his command. And those who looked down on him, they will have to stretch their necks to look up to him. Today. The sun will set with all his problems. He smiled gleefully. And left for the baraza.

The beats from the drums were inviting. Old men couldn’t help but tap their feet following the rhythm. Small kids jumped to the beats. The youth gyrated their waist and hips in obedience to the drums. Older women shook their behind with such ease accustomed to the experience ones. Everyone was laughing the mood was ecstatic.

Typical of African “waheshimiwa” they were perched on table. Over looking the whole baraza. In fact their table was literally a high table. Water, soda and juice, were spread across the table. To remind them how easily they had a choice of variety. This drinks were never taken. Even in food, our leaders had to play stupid PR stunts.

When the drums went silent, speeches started to flow. All were praises to the visiting president. “He who gives you water has given you life. You are our life Mr president.” Local area chief finished his speech. Ministers followed successively. It was now time for the president to address the hungry crowd. Well past 2.30 pm. When the president began his speech, Msau meandered through the crowd and found his way at the front line. He shouted, “I am Msau, the rightful owner of that position, how dare you speak without recognizing me. ” He continued with his speech, all along going for the dais, just a few meters he was tackled down. He woke up a few hours in the local area chief cell. His head spinning. Large crowd had gathered outside the cell. He was given water to drink. Ushered out, the mammoth crowd laughed at him. Women , children and youth all followed him to his place throwing jabs and insults at him.

He locked the crowd out. Placed his head on his mattress. The pain. The hurt and the humiliation was too much. He couldn’t take it no more. He went for the rope under his bed. Tied it tightly around his neck. And just when he was to climb his four legged stool. To put a full stop on his story. The door gave in. The chief entered with 4 administration police. He was charged. Attempted suicide. And disruption of government function.

What gave birth to all this charges was a simple offence. “The world owes me”.
Hey.
The world owes you nothing. You came here naked. Whatever it throws on your face, wipe it away or lick it away. Because this world, is not yours. And it will be here long after you are gone.

May the day break!

The Son I Became

Asalam aleykum Ayo…

I know the last 89 weeks have been nothing short of torture for you. You have blamed every single soul you’ve come across for my disappearance. You’ve cried to sleep only to wake up shouting my name.

I am deeply sorry for the hurt i have caused you. Sometimes i imagine what you are going through and am tempted to come back home. But i made a blood oath, and i have to remain steadfast in my course.

Now dry those tears mum am fine and well. Your prayers have reached me deep inside the jungle. South the city of Sana’aa in a remote village of Ghazwaa.

I have survived 3 land mines with a scratch or two. Keep praying for me mum. For the uterus of a mum carries both the evil one and the righteous, but your love doesn’t distinct the two.

Before you hate yourself for my decision to take up kalashnikov. Don’t be tempted to think your upbringing of your children is questionable. Don’t buy into the narrative of your co wives that you failed as a mother. No!

In all my childhood no single time have the neighbours launched a complain against me. You taught me well, my manners were admirable in madrassa and school a like. No one in their weirdest dreams could have imagine what i would have turned to.

It was my call my decision as a grown up man to choose this path. My own decision Ayo. Don’t feel guilty. I have made my bed and i will lye on it. Am now a rebel soldier, fighting the tyrannical government. We left the university to join the movement of liberalism. I could not remain neutral and close my eyes to all the injustice going on. Neutrality during oppression is taking the oppressors side.

I choose to follow this path because i believe in this course. I know my path is decorated by land mines, shootings, and grenades. But i will die on a course that i believe in.

I know me and dad never shared a meal on the same plate. He used to compare me with his other sons from my other mothers. He constantly blamed me for being born in the middle of 6 women. According to him, your affection and that of my sisters had made me weak.

He kept referring to an incident when i was a mere 4 year old boy. I came home crying and my sisters teamed up and went to beat up the boy who made me cry.

Dad was never impressed by whatever i do. Even though i recited and memorized the Quran better than my brothers he still preferred them over me.

One day while leading us in prayer, i corrected him when he erred in his recitation. After the prayer he gave me a beating claiming i had embarrassed him. I never related the incident to you. That was my breaking point. I stopped accompanying dad to the mosque. I never became the son he wanted, but what really did he want me to become?
I felt i was being punished for the mistakes of another.

I remember when i joined the university to study nursing. For the first time after that incident which was back when i was in class 6, father called me to his room. He gave me a mouth bashing of how westernized i had become. He tried to talk me into not going to university. Even though i had secured a full scholarship. He urged me to join him in auctioning goats at the markets. And by doing so i would have proven to be his son. I did not answer him. I just left and you know what my decision was.

Say hi to him, if he ever ask about my whereabouts, tell him i became the son i wanted to be.

How are my sisters doing? I miss them a lot. I left when the last two were about to get married. I know they will make good wives to their husbands. Just like the other 4. You trained them well.

I miss playing and baby sitting my nieces and nephews. How they listened and loved stories of the prophet that i narrated to them. Kiss them for me. May they grow to be God fearing individuals.

Pass my regards to their mothers, ask them not to cry, a silent prayer will go along way for me.

In sha Allah one day we will meet. And i will seat between them just like old times. And we will reminisce the good old days when we were young.

In two weeks time i will get married. My brothers in faith have organized the wedding for me.

A small celebration for the nikkah. I haven’t met my wife to be. I don’t know her. I will meet her on our wedding night.

But from what i hear, she has a forehead, she is tall and slender, light skinned and so shy her name is Misbah. She is a hafidha, her recitation of holy Quran is superb am told.

Her lineage is good her father is our imam at our local mosque. Maybe one day i will bring her to visit you and the family in sha Allah.

If Allah blesses us with a daughter i will name her after you, so every time i call her i will remember you and pray for you.

I have to stop here Ayo. If anything befalls me, you will be informed. I have instructed my brothers here, that in case of any eventuality they will write you a letter, to inform you how i died and where i was buried and where my kids are in sha Allah.

Ma’asalam Ayo. May Allah keep you.

For we all choose what to become.

Your Son.

©itsawal

Asalam aleykum Ayo…

I know the last 89 weeks have been nothing short of torture for you. You have blamed every single soul you’ve come across for my disappearance. You’ve cried to sleep only to wake up shouting my name.

I am deeply sorry for the hurt i have caused you. Sometimes i imagine what you are going through and am tempted to come back home. But i made a blood oath, and i have to remain steadfast in my course.

Now dry those tears mum am fine and well. Your prayers have reached me deep inside the jungle. South the city of Sana’aa in a remote village of Ghazwaa.

I have survived 3 land mines with a scratch or two. Keep praying for me mum. For the uterus of a mum carries both the evil one and the righteous, but your love doesn’t distinct the two.

Before you hate yourself for my decision to take up kalashnikov. Don’t be tempted to think your upbringing of your children is questionable. Don’t buy into the narrative of your co wives that you failed as a mother. No!

In all my childhood no single time have the neighbours launched a complain against me. You taught me well, my manners were admirable in madrassa and school a like. No one in their weirdest dreams could have imagine what i would have turned to.

It was my call my decision as a grown up man to choose this path. My own decision Ayo. Don’t feel guilty. I have made my bed and i will lye on it. Am now a rebel soldier, fighting the tyrannical government. We left the university to join the movement of liberalism. I could not remain neutral and close my eyes to all the injustice going on. Neutrality during oppression is taking the oppressors side.

I choose to follow this path because i believe in this course. I know my path is decorated by land mines, shootings, and grenades. But i will die on a course that i believe in.

I know me and dad never shared a meal on the same plate. He used to compare me with his other sons from my other mothers. He constantly blamed me for being born in the middle of 6 women. According to him, your affection and that of my sisters had made me weak.

He kept referring to an incident when i was a mere 4 year old boy. I came home crying and my sisters teamed up and went to beat up the boy who made me cry.

Dad was never impressed by whatever i do. Even though i recited and memorized the Quran better than my brothers he still preferred them over me.

One day while leading us in prayer, i corrected him when he erred in his recitation. After the prayer he gave me a beating claiming i had embarrassed him. I never related the incident to you. That was my breaking point. I stopped accompanying dad to the mosque. I never became the son he wanted, but what really did he want me to become?
I felt i was being punished for the mistakes of another.

I remember when i joined the university to study nursing. For the first time after that incident which was back when i was in class 6, father called me to his room. He gave me a mouth bashing of how westernized i had become. He tried to talk me into not going to university. Even though i had secured a full scholarship. He urged me to join him in auctioning goats at the markets. And by doing so i would have proven to be his son. I did not answer him. I just left and you know what my decision was.

Say hi to him, if he ever ask about my whereabouts, tell him i became the son i wanted to be.

How are my sisters doing? I miss them a lot. I left when the last two were about to get married. I know they will make good wives to their husbands. Just like the other 4. You trained them well.

I miss playing and baby sitting my nieces and nephews. How they listened and loved stories of the prophet that i narrated to them. Kiss them for me. May they grow to be God fearing individuals.

Pass my regards to their mothers, ask them not to cry, a silent prayer will go along way for me.

In sha Allah one day we will meet. And i will seat between them just like old times. And we will reminisce the good old days when we were young.

In two weeks time i will get married. My brothers in faith have organized the wedding for me.

A small celebration for the nikkah. I haven’t met my wife to be. I don’t know her. I will meet her on our wedding night.

But from what i hear, she has a forehead, she is tall and slender, light skinned and so shy her name is Misbah. She is a hafidha, her recitation of holy Quran is superb am told.

Her lineage is good her father is our imam at our local mosque. Maybe one day i will bring her to visit you and the family in sha Allah.

If Allah blesses us with a daughter i will name her after you, so every time i call her i will remember you and pray for you.

I have to stop here Ayo. If anything befalls me, you will be informed. I have instructed my brothers here, that in case of any eventuality they will write you a letter, to inform you how i died and where i was buried and where my kids are in sha Allah.

Ma’asalam Ayo. May Allah keep you.

For we all choose what to become.

Your Son.

Miqdad.

Sleep..

Sleep was avoiding his eyes. He tossed. Right left and right again. Its now well past midnight. The shanty was quiet. Only barking of the dogs and their heavy panting was audible. This dogs barked. And the dwellers knew there is nothing to worry about. Ironically, when the dogs went silent, is the only time the villagers will worry. This dogs barked! And barked till day break! Maybe to cry to their gods for their misery! No food to eat! No leftovers to feast! This carnivores are doomed! And whatever kept them here, is what kept the villagers here! HOPE! They all hoped their tomorrow will be better than their today. Hope is a poor man’s bread. Their daily bread.

His continues search of sleep went on. And at the junction just before he could meet with his yawn number 342, she popped up into his mind.

That woman! Her legs went on, and on. Her skirt was tailor made to cover, wrap and infectiously arouse wild imagination. “My name is Ein, kindly direct me to the human resource manager” her voice now played in his mind for the umpteenth time. The woman had stopped him in his chores. Cleaning tiles and scrubbing them clean. This is where he scrubbed life. And every end month, he will pick from the shiny tiles 1200 shillings.

“Go straight and turn left” he repeated an answer that he had mastered. Not a single day will pass without him giving that reply. And without being told, he knew all the questioners were scrubbing for a job. Jobs were hard to come by on this side of the Sahara.

“Thank you” she wrapped her lips on those two words and proceeded on to her destination. He stared. As the woman dribbled across the room. Juggling her behind comfortably with such ease. And the legs! He wondered where they ended,but he eagerly followed them above the slit where they disappeared to eternity.
And when she turned left a few meters from where he was standing and disappeared from his sight. He remembered his answer, and quickly whispered “your welcome”.

Why did i give her the direction to the human resource office. Why was i even kind to her. I thought she came looking for a place to scrub, but she came to scrub as all from our work. And why on earth will she give me 200 bob when she was leaving? My share as her accomplice in scrubbing? Or my start up package for a life without a place to scrub!! Immediately she left, the Hr summoned them all and he was given his dismissal letter together with others. She said the company was cost cutting. And the 1st people to go without a notice was us. The casuals. The menial labourers. Those who pick their salary from the floors they shine. And they knew we couldn’t take them to the courts. Justice is for the rich. Why should i use money to find justice with an empty stomach?

He met with his yawn number 372, and his eyes gave in. He fell asleep. Only this time when he will wake up. He won’t have a place to scrub. But he will have his daily bread;hope. A poor man’s bread.

The sun was up. Sometimes it will fight to shine, through the thick grey clouds, but ultimately it will shine. However dim its shine might be amid the heavy rainy clouds. It persistently tried. And when the clouds give way, it shines brightly as if revenging for the few hours it was dim. Today it pierced through the rusty iron roof in the shanty where he laid his head. As if sent it shone brightly on his eyes, chasing away the little sleep he could afford for the night . The economy was too bad that sleep was not affordable anymore. He sat on his now 1inch thick mattress. Hands on his heads. Trying to hold the weight of his problems together. No work, no food and no rent. His eyes raised to meet a canvas he placed on the wall. Just before he could read. A squeaking voice emanated from the corner of the room. A rat was mourning the death of another rat. He wondered who would have killed the mouse. He certainly did not have money to buy rat poison. Nor the strength to chase and kill. It died of starvation. Poor thing. The economy doesn’t even spare the rodents. May they find peace to bury their relative and the money for the funeral expenses. He silently wished. He quickly remembered that he switched off his phone when he heard his relative had passed on. He was sure he will be asked to send something small for his decent send off. Why should he be sent decently while he lived in abject poverty. A man should be buried the way he lived. He quickly justified his actions. Hurriedly cutting that train of thought.

Brothers and sisters, he who started a good thing in your life will not forget to finish what he started. However dark the night might be, the day must break. Let your hope be on the cross. For our salvation comes from above. This last sentence angered him. And he decide to walk away from the crowd that had gathered at a local crusade deep inside the ghetto. He questioned the help from above. How long does it take to come? And who deserves immediate rescue? And if it was a queue, at what position was he in the line? Wasn’t his case dire enough to guarantee a salvation? He did not notice that he was already opening the door to his house. Another day without success it was. Every company he went to the answer was the same. But luckily today his stomach was full. An old colleague bought him lunch. They bumped into each other while searching for work. He now rested his head. And before he could sleep. He switched on the radio. The politicians were still drumming for a referendum. As fast as he had switched it on he switched it off.  Let me worry about my tomorrow. Not about a referendum. This eyes were heavy, the stomach was as well.

Of Africa and their leaders.

 

“You can decide to cry, but to weep is not an option.” She said as she banged the door on her way out. This was my 4th and last attempt at love. Malika. She embodied the goddess of beauty. In Greece, everyone as quickly as you can say abracadbra would have believed that she is Goddess Venus reincarnate. Her voice pierced the ever mentioned Great Firewall of Iebc. Her eyes were as clear as the Virgin Mau streams before their were raped by Mr politician. My Malika never walked. She glided gracefully. As if choreographed since the day her mother declined to welcome her monthly visitors. It will be mean to forget that everything she touched turned to Gold. Like that day she touched a plate in a certain restaurant. The bill was too expensive. Or Goldly.

And this is not the 1st time my Malika left me. In fact we both left and came back as many times as Ruto has been mentioned in corruption cases. The most memorable one is when I received a link to join a group in WhatsApp “Single and Searching” Only to find my Malika was the group Admin there. We all agreed. That we joined the group by mistake and not by choice. And she was made an Admin by chance. Not choice.

But this time, I was worried. She left with a quote. Like when you were young. Terrified. And scared stiff. Your mum will shout at you” nikirudi tutajua nani alizaa mwingine kwa hii nyumba”. And you will sit there. Imagining the beating you will receive. And your siblings will help you in drawing images in your mind warming you up for the beating to come. Ungejua Mathe vile amekasirika, alikuwa ananoa meno na singenge! Hanab will shout. Sisemi mathe amejam but alikuwa anapiga ukuta ngumi, only this time ukuta ndo iliiumia. And I will be seated there contemplating my fate. And now my Malika had left with a quote.
Ladies and gentlemen, I met Malika on a day the sun was so welcoming, spreading vitamin D kama blue band kwa mkate. Sorry spreading kama kitanda za boarding before inspection ya boarding master. I was in cloud 9 just past cloud 8 on my way to cloud 10. We bumped into each other. My bumper hit hers. Only this time my bumper wasn’t mounted on a motor vehicle.
I don’t remember anything more. What I know is that we started talking and our conversations never got boring. And I started getting used to her. I would look forward to her text. In the evening, like her supervisor she will debrief me of her days doing. Her laughter was infectious. Her voice was melodious. And slowly I started getting used to her. Quickly falling into her abyss. I can never pin point the moment I fell in love with her. In between those texts and long calls, my heart stopped pumping blood, and started to love her.
And we started to date. We celebrated many events. Anniversaries. New hair week. Ped and Manicure celebration. And those celebration that I toasted to but I can’t remember the occasion. And everyday our dating life was a celebration. From little fights to big arguments .To mini breakups, to weekly “give me space” and to monthly i won’t give up on you.
But this time, she left with a quote. A threat. To be precise.
Mid morning. In the quiet lobby of Parliament building. A few MPs are sipping tea a few minutes before they get inside to transact business. The founding father of the nation is the president this time. A commotion and raised voices breaks the peace that had engulfed the area. Rushing outside, Mzee Jomo Kenyatta and the fiery, out spoken national hero Pio gama Pinto were exchanging words only this time in Capital letters. The two were held at a distance from each other. Who knows words would have been exchanged for bare knuckles. Freeing himself from their grasp. Pio gama pinto left with a quote ” I will fix you Kenyatta “. Everyone there knew the gravity of his statement. Pio gama Pinto was assassinated in 1965.
Be wary of those who leave with a quote, coated in a threat.

Am waiting for my fate.

Ramadhan Mubarak.

We are typing…Welcome everyone

Hello everyone. Ramadhan Mubarak to my fellow Muslim brothers and sisters.

From this side of town, north of Jomo Kenyatta International Airport. And a mere 6hrs to the beach.

Welcome to my blog. Here In sha Allah, I will be writing on anything and everything. Any random thought that will come into my mind, I will type it down.

Consistency has been my Achilles heel. I will try to heal the heel. And post at least once a week if not twice in sha Allah.

You are allowed to criticize any content posted here, share, like or read silently and leave.

May we live before we leave.