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.

LETTER TO THE WOMAN I LOVE.......

THE WOMAN

Dear my future wife

It is long since I wrote you a letter. The emergence of whatsapp and facebook messengers has driven the last nail in the coffin of the art of letter writing. I hope this missive finds you in peace and tranquility that you deserve. I am quite sure that THE WOMAN in you is still alive and that your strength and my prayers have kept you going. I am looking forward to the moments we will be together everyday laughing and crying when we don’t feel like laughing.

Sometimes it is difficult to find the right words to express the depth of feelings that I have for you. You have given me strength to face life with confidence. You make me believe that all my dreams shall come true. I love you princess. I love you tenderly because you are wonderful. I just want to pour all my love and kisses upon you. I could never express the happiness your love brings to me. I will always hold you with utmost tenderness all through my life. I love you sweetheart. You are wonderful

I want to make this promise through this missive. I will never love anyone but you. Whenever you need me beside you to caress your tender heart; and to hold your loving hands; to capture your beautiful smile and to breath words of love in your ears, I will always be there for you. I love you forever. Darling, thank you for sharing my world. Thank you for warming my life with your thoughtfulness and brightening it with your laughter. Thanks for always listening with patience and somehow understanding what I can’t find words to say. Thank you for always listening with a heart ready to help and to bear with my agony. Thank you for reaching out so often with a tender look or smile and gently touching my heart. I thank you. I am grateful that you are part of my happiest moments and bringing sun to my cloudiest of days. Thanks for encouraging my highest hopes and praising my smallest successes. Thanks for giving me so much of yourself and helping to discover so much about myself. Thanks for being the caring person who makes my world so beautiful.

You are not materialistic. I met you when I had nothing. But you still loved me. There were many who admired you, whose fathers owned the ground and the sky, but you chose me. A normal boy who feels like a prince whenever he is with you. You always appreciate the little gifts I buy for you no matter how little they cost. Thanks for being a WOMAN.

I remember that first day we romanced. Held you close and unbuttoned your blouse. And the twin fowls were there staring at me. I swallowed. But I saw there was no tattoos embossed on them. They were just a beauty to watch – and touch! Your eyes begged me. Your lips meeting in osculation with mine. And then there was zero distance between us. We became one. Got lost into each other. And never wanted to be found. Every time you sleep in my arms, I don’t sleep a wink as I watch you sleep in my chest. I watch you breath warmth on my chest, heaving with pleasure. Then you open your eyes. They meet with mine. They kiss. And you hold me close as if you are scared of vultures stealing and tearing me apart. You are MY JOY………..

Sweetheart, I want to come to the end of this letter with another promise. I will marry you. Yes. I will. I want to live with you. Get children with you. And wake up every morning and the first person I see is you. I really do love you. Marry you soon.

Yours in love

Hubby to be

Mwaura wa Waceke

FATUMA AND THE JINI by Hussein Muchiri

FATUMA AND THE JINI

Hussein Muchiri

Finally, our guy from christian background and chaste history have joined us fornicators. The only difference is that his was a bit involuntary and impromptu, but karma is never questioned.

So last Friday  at around 8.00pm my guy was seated on his Bob-mill sofa from Bush Furniture when his  iPhone rang. He picked and a feminine voice came. "Where are you?" She asked. After confirming he was in his house, the girl said she would be there in a few minutes. He couldn't remember her well, but after arrival he recalled she was a girl they sat on the same seat in a Lopha Bus when headed to town.

As social as always, he welcomed her and gave her fruits as he continued cooking ugali beef for their supper. His assumption was it was a brief visit then the lady would leave as they had no plans for the visit whatsoever. At 10.00pm they had their supper. The lady finished first, and stretched her huge trunk on the sofa to rest. Her name was Naliaka. They had a lot of stories together for the better part of that evening. Shocker was at 11.20pm when the lady asked for something she could sleep in. Rober realized his goose was cooked. His knees got weak; his spine had chills. But after three Hail Marys and two signs of the  cross, he was strong again. So he passed to her his favorite saggy pants for her to try, but she saw no need as she was twice as big as the pants. He gave her a Lesso that was left behind by her ex girlfriend. She was content. She made his always untidy bed and they headed to slumber-land.

After switching off the lights, and getting tuck in between the sheets, some warmth started encroaching. That is normal enough. Trouble was when the lady put her hand on Rober's chest. With newly grown hair in that region, he wouldn't take chances with illegal entrants who might decide to do some deforestation there. So he threw off the hand, which astonished the lady. She tried  again with similar results. But she did not give up...after several trials she succeeded.  Getting into details got Fatuma into Jini's hands and her nose got pulled. So ignore the details a little bit.

Rober the innocent, was taken through a step by step  guide on how to hit it till the devil changes his religion center from hell to heaven. Round one was a struggle but quite a success. Round two was better. Round three and four will soon occupy your Guinness book of records in 2017. The house was smoking hot than Jeff Koinange Live(JKL). My guy was all smiles despite being totally worn out,he was feeling like he  had won the Olympics. Unknown  to him, he was not halfway through.

He turned over to catch some sleep. The lady shook him so hard that he vibrated like a Tecno smartphone. He woke up startled and asked what the problem was. The lady, quite shocked, asked "tunne tu?"(only four rounds?). Rober never saw that coming. He quickly composed himself and answered " that's enough for today. There is always a next time." The lady screamed a big no, like she had met the guys featured in Wrong Turn 5. The neighbours were now woken up by that scream.  The girl saw that Rober had no intentions to "get on top". She tasked  herself with the leader's role. I hear them(#Thuglife) calling it BJ (whatever it is). Rober told us that the last time anything was sucked that hard was when their only cousin had developed respiratory problems. He got twitchy and pooooof! He busted. The process was repeated thrice amid screams and moans of the poor guy. The neighbours in the spirit of Nyumba Kumi Initiative were now gathering and preparing weapons for a rescue mission for our guy. Before they could strike, the moans died and deep snores ensued.

The next morning, Nalias requested Rober to go for breakfast. Robert came back with a packet of milk to cook tea and half a loaf of bread. The girl, looking shocked asked "kwani Rober haukulangi mkate?" Just like that,Robert was out of the bread's budget. So the lady squarely and fairly dealt with the half loaf alone. That startled my guy but with previous night experience he did not mind. Afterwards they showered and headed to the bus stage to see off Naliaka.


*********
On coming back, all neighbours were at his door seeking answers to the noise at night. Some wanted to know whether the lady was from Nyeri county. A trusted source intimated that Rober had not gone to work since then and his joints are extremely dry he cannot even bend his knees. And he is looking for a vacant house elsewhere because he cannot withstand the nosy neighbours. Contact him if your plot have a vacant house to let.