LOVE MADE IN HELL

LOVE MADE IN HELL

I had decided to surprise her. I knew she was suffering everyday while cooking her meals in that single cube she had rented in Muchatha shopping center. For those who know, using kerosene stove to cook your meals is one hell of a job especially if you are an ugali lover like yours truly. It was end month and therefore, I was loaded. I went to a gas dealer at Kamukunji market and bought a cylinder and a cooker for her. I boarded the mat at Koja Round About and once it was full, we embarked on our journey. I could not wait to see her face when she sees the cylinder. I alighted at the shopping center and took a motorbike.

I knocked her door. She was not expecting me so she was not in her usual lingerie that used to 'awaken the demon'. She was happy to see me and the gift I had brought her.
She did not have a seat so I went to sit on her bed and unfortunately, i sat on the sheet that separated her ''sitting room'' from the ''bedroom'' . The sheet came down. I stood up to fix it but before I did it, my woman gave me a slap on my face. It caught me by surprise. I sat down to nurse my then burning face.

''How dare you remove that curtain?'' thundered Wanjera.
''I am sorry, it was not intentional.'' I murmured while anger was burning in my intestines.
I had promised myself that I was never going to physically attack any descendant of biblical Sara and I was determined to keep it that way.

''Sorry my stinking armpits!'' It was difficult to be sorry to her. That was just the beginning of my tumultuous journey into the canyon of pain, suffering and bitterness. She never said thank you for the little gift I had bought for her.
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I had met Wanjira years back while still in campus. She did not like me then but after we were done with schooling, she found me on social media and we hit it. She was a cool girl. She was the type of a woman any man would wish to take to his mother. I thought I was lucky. I think I was until she started having irreducible minimums with my life.

One night she dropped into my bedsitter cubicle unannounced and started searching all over while throwing tantrums. It was late in the night and I was preparing to rest for the day. After she was done with her unwarranted search, she came to where I was standing watching her.

''I am looking for whores which you bring here while I am away,'' she announced. I had a long day at work and I wanted to sleep. The last thing I wanted was a confrontation with Wanjera. I therefore brushed it off and went to bed. 

''I am talking to you fool. Where are they?'' she hissed at me. 

''Under the bed sweetheart.'' I calmly told her. The slap I got from her sent chills down my spine. It made my head spin like the turbines of an electricity producing dynamo. I stood up but she was fast. She darted for my kitchen knife and faced me.

‘’Just you dare move towards me! I will chop of that little piece of chalk you carry between your ugly legs!’’ Wanjira was now fuming. I was helpless. I picked the sofa cushion just in case she charged at me. I was right. She did. I was anticipating that and therefore, I put the cushion on the way of the knife and it tore across it and into the bicep of my left arm. I held the hand that was holding the knife with my right hand and took away the knife with my bleeding arm. I used a lot of energy to get away the knife and hence, I bruised her hands.

‘’Kill me you maggot,’’ she was now shouting, ‘’No man will ever treat me the way my mother was treated by my father. I will kill you tonight!’’

‘’What have I done? Calm down,’’ I said while trying to control bleeding on my arm. 

‘’Calm down my foot! I will not allow you to bring any whore in this house!’’ At this point, I was almost slapping her. I had given her no reason as to why she should suspect that I was cheating on her. She had access to my house any time of the day and also had full access to my mobile phone. I had put her in all my plans for the present and the future. 

The neighbours had heard our commotion and they came. One of them, a certain pervert we used to call Kababa, saw my hand and gave me first aid. He then took me to the dispensary where my wound was dressed. We left Wanjera screaming at the top of her voice that I should not go back to that house because she would chop off my tiny manhood. Actually, I overheard her saying that it is tinier than a filter of the cigarette.

That night I slept at Kababa’s cubicle. He had brought a woman there and I ‘’slept’’ on the sofa. How do you get real sleep while you know that your ‘’village’’ will be chopped off the following day and your neighbour is using his next to you and the woman would not take it silently? I woke up early and went to my door. To my dismay, the door was unlocked and there was no one inside. I checked all corners just to ensure that I was safe for the moment. I rushed to the door then locked it from inside and started to cogitate about the next course of action. I sent a text message to my boss and told him that I would be late for work then laid on bed facing the ceiling.

One hour passed and I had a knock on the door. I peeped through the window and saw Wanjera with two gigantic fellows one of whom had blood shot eyes. They looked drunk. I knew instantly that she had brought them to pulverize me into pulp by finishing what she had started. I had heard stories of women who hired men to beat up their boyfriends or husbands. They knocked again.

I played innocent. ‘’Who are you and what do you want?’’ I inquired.

‘’We are police officers. You are under arrest for assault,’’ one of the burly fellows said. I opened the door to meet my fate. Wanjira was smiling at me with those disarming teeth showing the gap between her teeth. I knew my goose was cooked.

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I was accused of something close to attempted murder. When I was taken to court the following day, my charge sheet read like a thriller. The story had changed that I was the one who wanted to stab her and ended up bruising her hands instead. I had another crime. Attempted rape. It was laughable but serious. I looked back and didn't know why she was treating me like this.

There was a time I was broke and she had demanded to see me. I had to look for money since in her house you would never go empty handed. This is despite the fact that she never even came with a packet of milk while visiting me. When she send me a message while at work one Friday telling me to go to her house lest she gave out my honey pot to her ex-boyfriend. I could not imagine filthy hands next to my Wanjera. I left work early that day to go and find a way in which i would facilitate my voyage to her humble hacienda. I tried to call my debtors but I hit the wall there. I went to a friend who was an electronic repairer and sold my DVD Player to him. I do not know how he discovered I was desperate for cash because he told me to take two thousands shillings or go back with my DVD. I had no more hope. I had to go to see my woman.

That and many other instances went through my mind as my charge sheet was read and i made a conclusion that if that woman would not kill me, ulcers or hypertension will. I made a decision that when all this is over, i would call it quits. I was bonded from the police custody by the court and I went to my house.

One week later, Wanjera through her sister called me asking if we can finish the whole mess out of court. I agreed and paid her ''damages'' and we officially ''divorced''

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When Wanjera left my life, it was both a relief and pain. Relief because I was done with drama and pain because I knew I loved her deep. I remember there was a time I had no cash and had to walk from Kahawa Sukari where I had shifted to all the way to Nairobi Arboretum to meet her. With me, I had Ksh 70 which I bought her yoghurt and a cheap single rose flower we found at the gate. That would not be enough today, would it? The drama began when I could not explain why I could not give her fare back to Umoja Estate. Thirty shillings. She knew I was not working but she insisted I must have the cash whether she had it or not. When she threw the single flower to me, picked her handbag and swung her buttocks off, it was clearly embedded in my subconscious that I was dealing with a dangerous animal.

All that drama was in my past. I had gone through a kind of therapy and Wanjera was no longer an issue to my life. I was happy. I had a job, a bigger house, great friends and many things that matter in life. My life was on the right direction according to me. Days turned into months and two years later, I got a call. I was driving along the highway and therefore could not pick the call. It is always my habit that I don’t pick calls while driving or eating. I return the calls later. When I reached the house, I called back that number and to my horror, the voice on the other end was way too familiar. I could not believe I was hearing it again.

‘’I am sorry to disturb you but I need your help.’’
What kind of trouble was she in?

 ‘’I am listening’’

She told me that she was in Malaba. She had been locked out by the landlord and she had nowhere to go or what to eat. I thought very first and decided to help. I had no cash with me but I was hosting my younger brother so I asked him to give me Ksh 2000 which I promptly sent to her and told her to catch the next bus to Nairobi.

When she arrived the next day, I could not believe what I saw. She had thinned, her skin had started peeling off and she was pale. The beautiful eyes that once sat on her face were now a shadow of former self. She was also heavy with a baby. I did not ask her anything. I made her rest then left for work. It was not easy to concentrate on my work that day. When I arrived back to the house that evening, I found her still sleeping. I woke her up, made some fruit salad for her and made supper. As I washed dishes in the sink after supper, I asked her what happened to her.

‘’I really don’t know what came over me. I frustrated you so that you can dump me. When that didn’t take place, I decided to push you to the wall. At that time I had another boyfriend who had everything I wanted. He promised to marry me only if I would go to live with him to Malaba. I quit my job and went to stay with him. When I told him that I was pregnant, he disappeared in thin air. His phone never went through. He never came for his things. I went to his place of work and was told that he had requested to be transferred to Trans Mara to be close to his wife and child. I was stranded. I knew no one there. I was doing menial jobs to fend for myself. There was no rent any more. I couldn’t call home because when I left home my mother and my brothers disowned me. When I reached the end, I remembered you. ‘’ she said with sobs.

The following day I took her to hospital and bought all the food stuffs she required to regain her best self. I started taking her to clinics and when the time to give birth came, I was there. My brother had since gone back to stay in the hostels in college. It was a beautiful baby girl. We called her Bahati. At this time, I was so much in love again but I did not tell her. I kept it to myself hoping that it would go. I told myself that I was helping someone get back to her feet and that was all.

She couldn’t still go to her people. She therefore continued to stay at my place. At this time, I realized that I was very much attached to the little Bahati and could not let her go anywhere. I wanted to her too. After a few months, I took her out for dinner and proposed. I was in love again

I realized that i was very much attached to the little Bahati

It was not easy to convince myself that Wanjera will not pull out on me again. It was a risk. The risk people make when they think they were in love. I also banked on the fact that when she was in deep crap, I was there for her and therefore thought she had learnt her lesson. It was worth trying it again. I took Wanjera to my parents back in the village and she was an instant hit. A very beautiful girl who could cook using firewood? You know nowadays the women men are putting themselves to, are a different breed altogether. They smoke anything but can’t cook in a smoky kitchen. They all liked her. For once, I knew Wanjera was going to be a good mother and wife. My coastline was clear. I felt rejuvenated. I had captured my future. How many people are lucky out there to marry their first loves? I was walking in the air. Actually, I was gliding in the air.

The wedding was posh. I wanted to give her the best so I put a lot of efforts and resources which included reconciling her with her family. It was very difficult especially with her brothers. When we were able to appease her mother and her uncles, the road was clear for us. The wedding went on as planned. After the honeymoon, we started looking for a job for her. It was not easy. She attended several interviews but all turned into a mirage. I gave up on them.

At that time, my brother had already finished his schooling and was running an electronic shop in town. He had recently gotten a job in Mandera and was looking to sell the shop. I bought it. Finally Wanjera was doing something. I let her make all the decisions pertaining the shop and the money that came from it. At first, it was a small shop but as time went by, it became bigger and bigger. She got connections on how to import her own merchandise. I was happy for her. Every evening she would narrate to me how she was doing well and how rich we would be. It was always funny listening to her. Bahati my girl was very charming. Her first words were ‘’Papi’’. I was elated. She grew very fast and the pressure to take her to school was overwhelming.

‘’Papi, me want school’’

‘’Come on Princess, you are still my baby. I don’t want to share you with teachers and your friends.’’

‘’Papi please!’’

‘’You have no choice. Take your princess to school.’’ Wanjera said while laughing. They had won. The following week I took her to a nearby school. It was in the middle of the term but they accepted her after a heavy bribe.

Time passed. I wanted us to have another baby. Wanjera was not ready yet. I played along since I couldn’t have a baby on my own.

Wanjera was now getting more money than I was getting. It did not bother me at all. All I wanted was to see her happy. I was only concerned when she started arriving home late. Sometimes she would not come home until wee hours of the morning with a little excuse that she was out with her girls. She started neglecting me and the baby. When at home with us, she would spend most of her time on the phone chatting with her friends. Most weekends she would leave us alone. We would go out with the little Bahati and have fun. We would go all the way to Nyeri to see her maternal grandmother sometimes and it was during one of these visits that we arrived at our place and got the shock of our lives. My house was empty except for my clothes, Bahati’s clothes and her playthings. On addition, there was a note.

F,
You are a good father. I give you Bahati. You are too reserved and too MAN. I need a life. Sorry about the little things I have taken. I know you can replace in one hour. Do not bother to look for me. I am done with both of you. Bahati reminds me of my cursed life. You can have her. Thank you for all the good things and moments.
W.

I don’t want to continue with this story any more despite the fact that I have left so much unsaid. It is seven years since these events took place. It is in the middle of the night. Bahati is in her room sleeping. She got tired of asking when her mummy would be back. From far, I can hear the sound of occasional vehicles on the road. I walk to the balcony. I look at the stars. They are in millions. Like my past dreams. I hear footsteps behind me. I don’t turn. I know them too well. Then a hand on my shoulder.

‘’Papi, it is your time to sleep,’’ she says sweetly.

My Circle by Hussein Muchiri

MY CIRCLE

My Circle is Large.
It's that time again,
The sun rays hit strong,
Dim but determined to complete its duties,
It's evening once more,
The sun has now disappeared, yonder 
Quicker than it came,

Darkness calls in,
My heart races,
My eyes struggle,
My mouth is agape with awe,
My conscience is critically troubled,
I feel like darkness has gone,
To my world alone.

Slowly, I strut home,
I think of what is awaiting me,
Just a cold room,
Wordless clothes, and utensils,
A colder bed, for my warm skin,
I live in solace, my company is a promise.

My best  friend; the padlock,
For he alone, guards my all,
As cold as it is, am happy,
For if it had warmth, then,
I would rest assured, of having some!

Everyone who sees me alone,
Think  am a lonely soul in bone
But I know deeply, I ain't,
For this big  circle, though small to you,
Has taught me an elephant thing,
Best of the best being,
To appreciate all.

©️ Hussein Muchiri

Lamentations

LAMENTATIONS
My life was as attractive,
As the plateaus of Jordan,
But see my life,
Looking like a postponed burial!
All i had in my life, 
All that I called mine,
Has now flown away like a dove,
All people I held close,
Have turned out to be
Exactly what they said they will never be.

I even no longer get surprised 
when people let me down
Do not pity me, no please don’t,
I expected the pain,
But didn't prepare for it,
Now it's too much to bear,
And now that I have it,
I wish I knew how to make it go away,
How do I make my heart turn cold? 
I don't want to hurt anymore.

I get scared of becoming close to people,
because all they ever do is leave,
Forgiveness is such a simple word, 
but it’s so hard to do,
when you've been hurt.

And to make it even worse,
No one notices your tears
No one notices your sadness,
No one notices your pain,
but they all notice your mistakes!

I want to leave this cruel word,

My stabbed heart bleeds,
If death is the ultimate path out,
I want it right away.

But before I leave, here's a caveat
When i die don’t go to my grave,
And sit there telling me,
How much you loved me or miss me, 
For those are the things,
I needed to hear when I was alive

©Hussein Muchiri

THE INFLUENCER

THE INFLUENCER

There are people you meet for the first time and instantly know that they were created to be thugs and only the spirits of the ancestors keep them sane. These are the people my mother would call ‘’placenta’’ because the baby was buried in place of it. But all the same, these characters later become kids and grow though there are very few traits of chills running in their blood. He was a new boy in our school. I met him two hours after admission in the dining hall queuing for something that looked like food-Sukuma wiki which tasted like tobacco and overcooked ugali. It was Wednesday hence we were assured of one piece of meat and a jug of water in the name of soup which Khisa the cook splashed on top of the ‘‘tobacco.’’ I was behind him in the line. When it was his turn to be served, he did not move after one piece of meat was placed on top of his vegetables. He looked at the cook and told him to add him some more pieces.

‘’kijana songa, hakuna nyama,’’ Khisa said harshly as if the boy had asked for his spleen. Loosely translated, Khisa was asking the young man to move because there was no meat.

The young man looked at him for a moment then asked him, ‘’Unaongea aje mbaya ni kama wewe ndio ulichinjwa hii nyama ikapatikana?’’ a huge blast of laughter emanated from the students as Kossy (as we later came to know his name) walked to sit with his food. He had asked the cook if he was the one who had been slaughtered for the meat to be found. Those who know our cook those days will tell you that he was such a mean guy. If he gave you poison, you would not die because he would give you too little to cause any harm. He would taste the poison even to ensure it works!

He was tall. Very dark. The only way he could be noticed in darkness was if he smiled. He was the true definition of ‘’MADE OF BLACK’’. Guys used to joke that the water he used to bathe from turned to a gelatinous black precipitate. He would laugh it off. He became a legend because of his escapades. I was always a good boy. All the way from form one, I was getting accolade after accolade because of my academic and discipline prowess. This came to an end immediately the boy became my friend.

One night he came to my bed and told me to follow him outside. He had two white plastic tins of either Kimbo or Kasuku cooking oil- I don’t remember. He gave me one and pulled me towards the school cow shed. He taught me how to milk the cows without attracting the security’s attention. We took the milk to the assistant cook with a warning that if he reported us, we would boil him. We would do this every Tuesday and Thursday. One of those days we were almost caught. We ran away while putting the white tins on our heads. The security guards did not see us but in the morning they reported that two Wakorinos were milking the cows. There were actually two turbaned fellows in the school. One was a form one and the other one was our classmate. The beating the two innocent fools got from the deputy principal was enough for ten grown-ups! We survived but never got caught.

We got in the wrong books of almost all the teachers. One morning the prefect on duty called the students who were making noise during the previous night’s preps. We were there. He had another list of the students who had missed the morning preps. We were there. The school captain came with another list of the boys who had not spread their beds. I do not need to repeat that we were there. We moved from one list to another. What saved us was the fact that we were so good in class than almost everyone else-including the prefects calling our names! We formed a cartel that was so powerful and went scot free any time. There were other cartels too but ours was feared because it was double edged. Only the deputy principal could deal with it. There was a time sneaked out of the school and on coming back, we decided to use the gate because we knew that the gate-man was illiterate. He told us to write our names on a sheet of paper and we did. Kossy wrote his name as Dichloromethane Alcanoic Acid and I wrote mine as Drosophyla Domestica- whatever they meant. He took them to the deputy and up to date he is looking for the two musketeers though we were top suspects.

We were the best letter writers. Other boys usually came to us so that we would write letters for them to send to their lasses in different schools. This was done at a fee. Due to this, we rarely ‘’whistled’’, taking tea without the bread. Sometimes we would write the same letters but baggers would not understand. We only changed the names.

Shaving became a thing of the past. I cannot remember how many time the principal had bundled us in his car to take us to the barber. Sometimes he gave us money to go and shave and we would come back to school looking worse after spending the money on Chapati madondo at Shimenga eatery near the school. He became tired of caning us. Any time we were caught in a heinous crime, he would give us an assignment to do in Geography and submit it the same day. It is not like we loved school, we just wanted to be together. I could not stand school food and morning preps!

When we did our final exams, it was very difficult to let go but it wasn’t long before we received our university admission letters. We had been admitted in the same campus! He had been admitted to study Business while I went to do Literature. Our escapades in the university is a story for another day. Today the fool is a very senior police officer. I think he was given the job because of his skin colour. He can pretend to be a burnt log in the war front. The enemies will not notice him. I am not trying to tell my readers that they should not joke around with the son of a tiger. No. you can go ahead and do it but remember that he is just a call away. You do not want to sleep on cold cement, do you?

THE DEAD END.......

THE CUL-DE-SAC

As I stood there watching the waters of River Koitobos flowing, I was counting my loses. I had decided to end my life there. I remembered the sacrifices and the time I gave up to get the happiness of the heart but later became a mirage. I had built my life around Cheptoo. Now she was nowhere. My life had reached the cul-de-sac. I had stopped my bicycle next to the river. I had then walked a few meters away and stood hands akimbo, cogitating the next course of action. I watched the waters that were to take my life to the next world and wondered why this earth was so full of heartless people. I had nothing to live for. I was about to jump into the river when I heard a voice behind me. It was my friend Namunyu. He wanted us to go and take Busaa and had traced me all the way to the river.

Cheptoo was and still is the woman I met and fell in love with on the same day. I am not saying this to prejudice anyone against me or Cheptoo. It is the truth. It was one evening I was walking in our neighbouring village. I was with my friend Namunyu as usual. He had taken me to a new Busaa base. We had closed campus. He was in a different university from the one I had gone to. He was known to have the characteristics of a hyena hence his botanical name. The way he use to hunt for girls was top notch. He has slept in the same house with his ‘’father-in-law’’ without his knowledge- a milestone I have never reached in my hunting escapades. It was not easy to be his friend. I had to contend with stories of hyenas and ogres. The only thing that made us close was our love for the academy. The idiot had gotten a plain A in the form four exam. He was later to get a first class degree in law and a scholarship abroad.

That fateful evening on our way to the brewing den, we met a shabbily dressed girl going to the poshomill. On her head, there was a traditional basket made of dry reeds and smeared with cow dung full of maize. I watched her as she approached. From the way her chest was, she had no brassiere. Her blouse did not have one button hence exposed partly her cleavage. At this time I was not listening to Namunyu’s war stories. I looked at her eyes when she was nearer. They kissed mine. When we passed each other I had no choice but to turn. Her anterior sides were even more captivating than the posterior. I started salivating tears. This is when Namunyu realized that I had been hit by a thunderbolt. He went to drink Busaa alone.

I followed her. I asked her name. ‘’My name is Cheptoo.’’ I leant that she was home waiting to join campus in a few weeks’ time.  I went for the jugular. The hunting instincts inculcated in me by Namunyu were awoken to activity. I remembered that I was a jaguar. The son of a hunter. We talked for some time then promised to meet each other by River Koitobos to have another tete a tete the following Sunday. I ran back to the drinking dungeon and told Namunyu what had transpired. He was not shocked. He told me that he knew a time had come for me to have a real skirt wearer and not the cheap skunks he saw me with in the village-as if he was any different.

That evening as I walked back home, the liquor I had galloped was not talking. Love was talking. I was singing to some Kalenjin tunes mixed with Mugithi rhythm. I was on top of the world. I was in love. I dated Cheptoo for exactly nine months and eight days. One day she just refused to pick my calls. I could not eat. I could not attend the lessons. I went to check what was wrong with her. I travelled for over 300 kilometres to the village. She had not been seen at her home for almost a week. I went out to investigate. A friend at the shopping center told me that she had gotten married as a second wife to a certain soldier in her neighbourhood. That killed me.

I tried reaching her in vain to reach her. I used her friends. She never wanted anything to do with me. She crashed my destiny. I wanted to die in the name of love. My Cheptoo was gone. Later I heard she had left the traumatizing marriage and gone back to school. I kept pursuing her. She never let me meet her. It is now seven years since I saw Cheptoo. If you see my Destiny tell her I have never moved on. 

THE POACHING GAME

                                THE POACHING GAME

It was so difficult to get a girl those days. But we got still

Hunting girls in my village was supposed to be a discreet venture. Let me tell you why. I come from a village where most girls’ fathers are teachers, soldiers or former colonial slave drivers- like my father. These people are known for their meticulous attention given to protecting their lasses. They would employ different tactics to do so. Some had German Shepherds which would scare the would-be scavengers like yours truly and his brothers. Others like my father would counsel their daughters with enough threats of curses of leprosy and other scourges. You would not meet these girls anywhere beyond six o’clock in the evening. At this time they were all coiled at the hearth in their mothers’ kitchens either holding for them the famous tin lamp tandika nilale or just listening to their mothers stories of them days. Sometimes they would cook. Actually, most times they would cook for the families. Majority of these girls ended up in very good colleges after high school education and some are lawyers, teachers, police officers, doctors, nurses and others ended up in business. I actually know one daughter of a teacher who is an Aeronautic engineer. Her sister is an accountant. This accountant will take a whole chapter in my memoir one day.

Now, hunting these girls required one to be creative. You had to be as efficient as their fathers. You had to be hawk eyed like their brothers. You had to be an artist as well as a scientist. You needed courage my friend. You had to be the man. For your information, there were no phones those days. Despite all the challenges, ‘’hunters’’ got a way around it. A story is told of a soldier who got lost in a grassland where there were no trees. He neither had a gun nor bullets. He met a lion. He climbed the nearest tree! There had to be a nearest tree. My brother was living in the neighboring town and he would come to the village every weekend to ‘’see us’’. He would give me his sweater to carry for him and then tell me to go to my neighbor’s place to see if his friend Mburu was there. Little did I know that they had a deal with Mburu’s sister that if she sees me with his sweater she should know he was around. As I write this, it is death that separated them.

I remember when I was a little boy somewhere in class four and my friend Wanyama wanted me to graduate and become a man. He told me stories of ‘’giants’’ of anthill climbers. This ended with a piece of advice for me to go and ask for the ‘’it’’ from a certain big girl who was in class six. She had terribly failed to move to class seven now for the sixth time. I was scared. He encouraged me and I gathered courage. I went to her and used direct language. She looked at me as if I had demanded for her liver. she looked at me from bottom up then up bottom and concluded that I was taking her for a fool. She decided I needed a lesson from her hands. I just heard her tell her friend, ‘’Lola khana khano’’ loosely translated as ‘’ look at this child.’’ She held me by the scruff and lifted me up. My legs were dangling in the air. She gave me slaps which my mother used to call ‘’of come and see.’’ Wanyama the fool was rolling on the ground with laughter. The gods of my ancestors have never forgiven him.

All the same, graduation day came. I was older. Big boy. No struggle. It just came. I received the following letter;

P.O Box,

Love via Romance.

Whatsup my lover,

It is high time I take this opportunity to bombasticate this missive to you hoping and believing that you are well and kicking. I am also fine. The main aim of jotting this missive is to inform you that I have accepted to be your girlfriend. I love you. Next Sunday I will sneak from the church and see you near the banana plantation at Mama Nyokabi’s farm. See you my lover.

Yours in love,

Nanjala

The rest as  it is said is history………………………..

THE HEIGHT OF HATE SPEECH

THE HEIGHT OF HATE SPEECH

                                                                                   Hussein Muchiri

Those who personally know mwaura karagu may have heard him blow his trumpet on how he went to Mombasa on air and return by bus. Little is known of the trip, and the day to expose chaff from grains for all to see is nay. Take your seats and carry a blanket, in case a handkerchief is not enough to wipe your tears of sadness and pity.

 

On one tuesday morning while coming from a rough sleep-over(thats a story for another day), Karagu boarded one of the Lopha buses to town. He found a two seat empty space an occupied his, leaving room for another passenger. Then a plus-size woman came and occupied the seat. She was so huge that Karagu could not breathe properly  from the squeeze. Salty sweat odour was the newest perfume in the bus. Karagus shirt had a lion's share of that, with her armpit completely covering his chest. His morals could not let him complain. He had been taught to respect the less advantaged in the society. To win his way out of the situation, he told the lady "my legs have got numb. Let me stand instead." That way, my guy left his seat and involuntarily commuted to town while standing. Some giggles from passengers laughing at him were the greatest tormentor.  When they finally alighted, the madam pulled him her way and whispered, "your legs have nothing wrong. Its the discomfort you were running from." Karagu and his manners almost denied but the madam cut him short "sssssssh. Its usual. Am used to it. Have my card and give me a call." Thats how they exchanged contacts.

Later in the day karagu called and the madam apologized profusely for the morning incident. In fact, she confessed that the guilty  was troubling her conscience so much  and she wished she could do something to  change that. As an eye and ear witness, i swear with all my village ancestors and elders that karagu said  more that 15 "don't mind madam am okey". The madam saw no hope forthcoming and she could not beat around the bush anymore. So she told him "why can't i take you to mombasa as a compensation this weekend?" Karagu almost objected, but the lady said her dictionary does not have no for answers. That how Mr. Mwaura Karagu toured the coastal region. Or how else did you expect a mere teacher, surviving on meagre peanuts and groundnuts for a pay, to fund luxury trips? Other teachers are busy demonstrating and rallying behind sossion and he is busy globe trotting and site viewing.. now you know.

Mwaura asked whether he should help her book a bus seat, near a window, because he has a cousin of a friend who works at Channia Genesis, those thika like buses that commute to coast. The lady in a full socialite's voice said she does not do buses. In fact, she had already booked 2 KQ tickets. After hearing that he will board a plane, i can attest without fear or contradiction that mwaura slept with  his shoes that day, their muddy state not withstanding.  He packed his clothes two days earlier.

*******

Mwaura filled our timelines and whatsapp groups with photos of him at the airport. Right from the gate to the staircase into the plane. All the moments were captioned "mombasa here i come". 45mins, photos of him looking exactly how goat matata looked while reading an inverted newspaper flocked our timelines, complete with sunglasses. The photos had the hashtag #SummerBunnyManenoz, whatever that means. Jealous and envy covered us like corruption. It was all over. Surely, the prophecy that  God will turn your shame to fame was no fallacy.

Fast foward

The next day after arrival, my phone rang at 6am. I ignored. After the caller persistently called 5more times, i decided to check. It was karagu. I wondered what could have made him call so early. He sounded shaken, " please send me 700 i will explain  later. Please now, its urgent." I almost retorted "i don't have(sina)", but he cut me short with "jua mahali utakopa". That was the end of the beginning. He sent me 5 flashbacks(please call me). I called and he told me he had no credit so i send him 50. I almost  called him a genetical crossbreed of satan and sorcerer, but it was a sabbath to seventh day adventists. So i sent him the credit. Even a thank you sms was alien to my inbox. He kept quiet just like that. But because we serve a living God, he wrongly sent an sms meant for his sponsorress to me.

"Pole kwa kukusumbua. Lakini umenihurt sana kuniambia nimekupaka uchafu. Urefu ni Mungu hupeana, upana hutoka kwa chakula, kifuniko cha biro unachokidharau ni zawadi kutoka kwa Mungu. It will one day grow long."

Came an sms from him quickly followed by "oh shit, not yours".

That evening, i met him at the Chania Bus stop almost fighting with a conductor because the conductor had refused to give ksh.50, because mwaura had bargained for the fare to be 650 not 700. From his looks, he looked like he had come from a porcupine's hole. He was the exact replica or the prodigal son.

I took him to  Kamiri Hotel River Road, where amid tears, he narrated how the woman had expected  him to last 90mins like a football match, and he lasted meagre 2mins like a movie preview despite sweating 3buckets of water and 2 buckets of fat. He was kicked out unceremoniously and the bouncers instructed should he been seen anywhere near the vicinity of the hotel they had booked, he should be given  a dog's beating. She did not even ask if  he had money on him.

Wacha niende nikaombee mwaura kwanza nitarudi.