A life's salvation is a personal affair.

One time, a mother called me. She lived on the other side of the village stream along my grandfathers shamba. She asked me how old I was. I said I was 14. She added me a sugarcane she had cut. She asked if I knew her son, Mutuma. I said yes. I see him all the time. Himself and his younger brother Mutethia. She asked me to be his son friend. I looked at her, worried. His son was younger than I was. I looked at the sugar cane I was holding, the ripe shinny sugarcane on my hand and I nodded in agreement. 

She encouraged me with desperate plea of a mother who meant well for her son. But persuasively. She asked if my mother was a nurse, the one that owned that clinic near the local health Centre. I said no. the woman was a family friend. She only came around to visit my mother from time to time.

She nodded and tied and retied her headscarf. She described a few occasions where she saw us together with her son on the village playground. She asked me to come back by this time the following day, I would meet her son. She persuaded me until I ate half of the sugarcane. I wiped my mouth and hurriedly left.

I came back the next day as agreed. True as the sun that shines in the sky. Mutuma started throwing us stones, me and his mother. He picked up a large concreate and lunched it at his mother. He threatened that if I ever came near their shamba again, he would break my big head.

The woman gave me another sugarcane. This time round, she made it two. She pleaded with me and apologized on behalf of her son. But that was the last day I went there. 

I suppose it is not easy for mothers to watch their sons become outliners. To accompany them through decrepit paths without any possibility of helping them. I suppose for fathers watching their sons lead the kind of lives they choose – making the same mistakes they once made, but unable to help them - must be excruciatingly difficult.

Mutuma, today just as you might have expected. if a bird was singing the same names of living men, his name would be missing. I don’t know the real story. I heard he was picked by mob justice and they decided to practice body building techniques with him, before handing over his barely alive body to the authorities. 

That was the last time anyone ever heard of him. You can speak to your children with the eyes of one who has seen, you can graze their skins with the knowledge of a heart that has been put through trials, but there’s very little else you can do. A life’s salvation is a personal affair.

Electric Torches

 7 years today. I was once tricked in buying the electric torch. 

You see, I am not a friend of darkness. So one day, Kimani convinced me enough that it was a good idea, I should procure this device to protect myself from " Watu wa ngeeta," so I bought one. I requested Kimani to let me test the device on his skinny ass but he declined, telling me that he once he electrocuted a full-grown elephant with it. 

That night, I took one too, many, and because I was totally harmed with an electric torch nikaamua nitembee home. I had not walked half way to home when I was grabbed by what felt like a crane. I was floating mid-air as I struggled to reach my electric shock torch to save myself. I reached it while trying to get some air in furtile. 

I electrified whoever was giving me a lift to almighty. Wapi....... I reached to hold the hand around my neck, and it felt like a piece of mugumo tree. My torch did nothing. The giant idiot grabbed the katorch from me, and he directed it on my buttocks.

I haven't screamed that loud in my life. He let me go and gave me a hard kick kimadharau, leaving me on the ground, minus my wallet.

Damn electric torches.

 

Just the other day I attended a wedding.

Ten years ago, I met a girl on a Unique Shuttle from Meru to Nairobi. After 3 hours of deliberation, I gathered courage & introduced myself. I said "Hi, my name is Knight, on a bus". She said "Hi Knight, I am Nkirote, Chritine Nkirote to be precise, & you're late": I couldn't help but laugh, I'd met my soul mate.

And for the next 7 years, Nkirote gave me life. She gave me love, she gave me devotion: she gave me belief. Nkirote got married today, and the groom by her side wasn't me. I played myself gents! I played myself.

We spoke about a month ago: 1 year and 3 months after she'd left & I only learned of the depth of pain I'd caused this woman when she asked,

"Did you ever love me?"

I shared 7 years of my life with her, yet somehow, through my actions, I'd made her doubt everything in the 7 years.

Last week mom asked about her. She lamented that Nkirote hadn't spoken to her in a month, "is everything ok?" Long after she'd broken up with me, this woman was still checking up on my mama. I almost broke down when Mama said, it's time I married her, "what are you waiting for"?

How do you tell your mother that you lost the girl that helped her sweep her Verandah? The girl that loved you enough to love your mother.
The girl that brought her lipstick and "sampoo" from Nairobi. How?

And boy have I suffered for it! I called her, a week before her wedding. I said, "Please Nkirote, please. Just one more chance, please" And this time I meant it. Must have been too late. Coz she said, "I gave you 7 years, and you wouldn’t change. It's done" So soul mates get over you afterall?

I think the hardest part about it is knowing that people will love you, but not with her intensity and honesty: not with the fear she had - the fear of losing you. That the safety you felt will never be there. That you'll matter to some woman, but not with a similar passion.

 

Undressing a Meru Girl

She was tall, she was suave, she was regal and she was beautiful. The very essence of her presence awakened the throbs of many a sleeping snake. Many of them viewed her from a distance, not daring enough to come up close. She clearly belonged to another class;... the class of straight talking knights who looked straight ahead without blinking. Lesser mortals invariably lacked the chivalry to make her week on the knee. She was nobody’s bully, but her enthralling majesty scared away many would be suitors.

Her maiden name was Kaburi, (a small goat) and she hailed from Munithu, the clan of the rising sun where all girls learnt to brew potent Marwa, Ameru drink of champions. That is how Igoki neighbours regarded their brave, cattle rich proteges’ bordering Tigania to the east.

Being part of the Imenti forest belt, their land was fertile and well watered by numerous springs. They produced plentiful bananas, yams, Ncabi, millet and sorghum. Even when seasons were poor, they never lacked. This was evidenced by their big body frames and palpable pride that made their girls a formidable catch and their warriors a dreadful terror.

In the time honoured conventions of courtship, warriors had to transcend clan boundaries to seek love. It was abominable for one to seek matrimonial warmth from across the fence. Igoki suitors hence had to wander thither amongst their outlying neighbours to seek love. As it were, intermarriage within the same clan was regarded as incest and dissenters were sternly ostracised by the community.

In 1907, one year before the coming of Mr. Edward Butler Horne, the first DC of Meru, Mukenye (an uncircumcised girl) Kaburi received a visitor at their home in Munithu. When he arrived, the burly visitor, who moved with a spring in his step, walked straight to the fourth hut in her father’s compound. The unique dwelling was situated next to her grandmother’s roundval (Kiuru). The dwelling of interest had two moulds on either side of the entrance that closely resembled the tits of a maiden. A hut so branded was called a Muthimbeere, and it housed nubile girls who had attained the age of majority.

The hut was positioned in such a way that any external visitor getting in had to cross the line of vision of her grandmother, usually seated behind her hearth enjoying the warmth of the evening fire. She was effectively the sentry, always on duty as she guarded the girls from marauding hyenas.

The hyena that arrived today was big in body and great in fame. His name was M’Mburugua O M’Inanga, the general in charge of the Ramare troops of the larger Igoki clan. When he approached the periphery of the homestead, he did what all warriors in such a mission did; he cleared his throat loudly, a gruffy cough not at all caused by an irritated throat. It was a customary warning that the homestead was receiving an important visitor whose interest was the two moulds on either side of the girls’ hut. On hearing that sound, everyone was supposed to clear the way like a siren does to a traffic jam.

The visitor found his way to the right address and he planted his spear snugly on the right hand side of the entrance. In case of a threat, he would rush out and easily grab his weapon with his right hand and engage his adversary. During this visit though, this eventuality was unlikely, for Raibuni Ntomburugua was well guarded by his personal security. After all, he was the general in charge of the Igoki Ramare army. Even as he courted the future first lady, an elite team of seven warriors surrounded the homestead, out of sight.

The tall, burly knight stooped his way into the small hut where he found his quarry warming herself across a vibrant fire. A cursory look around the interior of the hut betrayed the fact that this nocturnal visit was not wholly unexpected. The girl was lounging on a low earthen bed on the left hand side of the hearth that was lined with a fluffy sheepskin. Across from her was an earthen mould that sat about one foot from the ground. This provided a seat for the visitor. On the far side sat a golden brown gouard with a generous bottom that made it rest firmly on its own weight. Its neck was capped with a funnel (Kiauu) of the same hue that was about a foot long. When the secrets of the gouard were unveiled, the funnel would hold the contents for the visitor.

Save for a gaping peep-hole above where the girl sat pensively, the hut was otherwise plain and featureless.

The burly visitor was the first one to speak. His voice was raspy and commanding as he let off a few pleasantries to break the ice. In his line of duty, he was far removed from the niceties of normal talk, especially to the opposite sex. The girl quickly picked the que and moved towards the gouard. She uncorked it, rolled it on the ground in three quick jerks and proceeded to pour out a generous measure of its contents into the funnel. She bent down on one knee as she passed the fully charged receptacle to her visitor while avoiding direct eye contact. It was considered bad manners for a girl to match the gaze of her warrior nemesis.

She reached above the peep-hole and retrieved another smaller funnel (Kauu) that she proceeded to refill for herself. Though they prepared the broth, girls were expected to take only a little beer, more for socialising than the reckless abandon of men. A drunk warrior could stagger his way home, but an inebriated girl could be eaten by hyenas, and there was one on the prowl.

She then flashed a shy intoxicating smile towards her guest and nodded, a sign that the party could commence.

The contents of the gouard was Marwa, the potent millet beer that she had prepared herself for the visitor. The knight gulped down his share in three furious swigs after which he belched loudly. He then passed over the funnel for a refill. As he settled down to a leisurely sipping of the second round, his faculties of the gab opened up.

They were soon lost in animated banter that continued until the dark night was flooded with the halo of midnight moonlight. In the haze and warmth of the dying fire, the Raibuni launched his romantic lines the best way he knew. On the third refill of his funnel, the warrior had grabbed her by the torso and pulled her onto his lap. The resulting embrace was the closest a Meru warrior was allowed to indulge an unmarried girl.

Unhinged by the fuddled ambience of the environment, the voluptuous girl responded with gusto. Her knight had floated in like a Golden Eagle. He had embraced her heart with the warmth of his fluffy feathers and as the musky aroma flooded the room, she knew she was taken.

As the night aged away, the knight found his footing. He reached from under his loin leather pouch and pulled out a bundle of Miraa (Gitundu). He pulled out one twig and handed it to her gingerly. He extracted another twig for himself and they started to chew together. This was the final indication that he had been accepted in her heart.

He handed over the rest of the bundle to the girl which she accepted with a knowing wink. As far as she was concerned, she had located her match. The following morning, the bundle of Miraa would land on her father’s palms, witnessed by her mother and her grandmother. When asked whether he could partake of the offering, she would gladly say “yes”, a vow of sorts initiating marriage procedures to commence between the two families. In another time, in another era, this would be the equivalent of saying “I do”!

Had she turned down the Raibuni's proposition for any reason, she would have pushed the Miraa offering through the peep-hole above her bed to fall outside. Her grandmother would have noticed it there the following morning. By and by, the gossip mills would have churned out negative vibes that would have reached the knight’s family three rivers away. The home of M’Inanga would have known that their son’s romantic overtures to the Munithu clan had hit a snag. The moran would promptly have been advised to set his snares elsewhere.

As things unfolded, Raibuni M’Mburugua had secured himself a future wife. Even as he proceeded with his busy matters of state security leading his Ramare troops, his family was left to pursue the rest of the customary protocols necessary to bring his newly found bride home. God willing, by the end of the harvest season of the year 1907, M’Mburugua O M’Inanga would have himself a new home, complete with a tall, beautiful maiden with thighs of thunder.

 A story a Dei

MBÙRI NTÙRÙTÙ ÌTÌETAGĪRA MÌRIGO ÌKÙNJWA;

Ameru proverb

Africans had a way of collapsing long Stories into short phrases loaded with verb and vibe - this is one of them. In its simple 5-word construction, this particular missive is so loaded it has no English equivalent - even attempting a translation may bring the wrath of Njurincheke hurtling in my space.

And it came to pass that one time, a famous goat keeper, M'Aburi, discovered that one of his he-goats had a conduct that exceeded the expectations of normal he-goats. During the mating season, it would howl all night barely allowing the village peace to sleep.

The villagers sent a delegation to Elder M'Aburi to control his stud, but he dismissed them with a naughty retort; what is a he-goat for if it doesn't serve my herd? The nightly ndombolo-ya-mburi continued. M'Aburi, an elder of repute, had a way with the village Kiama caucus, so the villagers couldn't take him anywhere.

One day, the naughty he-goat did the abominable; as M'Aburi's last wife, Mucheche, was grinding porridge behind her hut, the he-goat spied her from behind and liked what he saw. He stomped his front legs on the ground once, twice - just like amorous studs are known to do. Then, he made that lustful whine he-goats make when about to attack their prey.

In a split moment, he pounced on her - bringing the whole ensemble of porridge-making equipment tumbling to the ground. In the midst of broken pots, jumbled grinding stones and rivulets of fresh porridge soaking the ground, Mucheche was screaming at the top of her voice for help.

In no time, the whole village was there to witness the spectacle. As the crowd swelled, M'Aburi was still on his mount, Mucheche was sprawled on the ground and the village was cheering them on....and just like that, a famous Kimiiru proverb was promulgated…”A naughty he-goat does not await goods to be prepared”…(don’t argue with my version of the tale until you reach the end of the spiel of the Dei).

Fast forward:- Ameru have yet another saying; GÙTÌ MBITI ÏTÌ MUNYANYA - paraphrased; ‘There is no Hyena without a Lover!’

This far, Meru County has had four great leaders since the new political dispensation was adopted.

There was Laing'o Munya, who created the blueprint for the County. He spruced up dead market centres, created roads through virgin bushes and generally made Sense out of a big expanse of No-sense. He had his shortcomings; we all do.

There was Kiraitu Murungi, he of the Crocodile infamy. He planted acacia trees along the highway from Nanyuki to Kiirua, in an imaginative dream that unfortunately refused to bloom. He lived his 5 years in power and created for posterity a famous quote amidst his classic giggle: I AM NOT AS FOOLISH AS I LOOK.

There is Mama Kawira Mwangaza, the indefatigable damsel who felled the Crocodile with a hefty blow delivered with a Box Guitar and a cocky Sombrero resting on her bosom. It’s barely 8 months since she sat on the high stool, but her vibes are promising. Like Munya, she has her weaknesses; we all do!

Then there is M’Aburi, a cantankerous he-goat whose greatest achievement in this space has been soiling the village spring - kumiira Iriuko.

When Laing’o Munya was in power, NO PEU, when Kiraitu ruled, MERU NO KURIRA and now with Mama County, the naughty he-goat thinks he has got a weakling to bully!

Armed with a KIBIRI (soup stirrer), M’Aburi is exciting the airwaves with a claim that he is poised to do the abominable on Mama County! Two days ago, the women of the County came out in droves in solidarity with their kindred. The naughty he-goat has been dared to get more IBIIRI, for he has to dispense his lovey-dovey services not to ONE, not TWO but to all the voluptuous maidens of the County!

OUR TIME

 Don't deny other people their things just because your things haven't come yet.

 

I have a friend i have not seen in 8yrs, let’s call him Mutwiri. Although I have not seen him in 8yrs; now and there when we find time, we video call and catchup. For the past 10yrs Mutwiri has struggled with getting a job as well educated as he is. He had started developing a bitter attitude towards life and everyone around him.

 

In 2019 during a phonecall, he said, "Nich, why is it that I can help others get a job, but I can't help myself?"... I think said to him, "Ndugu, life is designed in such a way that we are all bridges to help each other cross". There is no" self-made" person. You can tell a friend to apply for a bursary you applied for, and they end up taking them instead of you, it means you were a bridge for your friend to cross. You can tell your friend about an internship, both apply, and they take him instead of you, you were a bridge for them to cross. You can tell a friend about a job, both apply, and they hire him instead of you, you were just a bridge for them to cross. You can tell a friend to apply for business funding, both apply, and they get the funding instead of you, you were bridge for them to cross. You will get to a point where you start questioning why is it that others are making it through you, but you seem not to be making progress.

 

I understood through some of my struggles in my early 20s that it is possible to help others get ahead while you struggle. There is no "Self-made" success. We all are connected to other people's destinies somehow. Not that your dreams need a specific somebody to succeed, but somebody holds the keys, and it is up to you to try and find the right key holder. If we stopped buying coke, can coke be successful? Can the people who work at coke have jobs? If we decided to stop using Facebook, can Mark be successful? Life is weird in such a way that your junior in high school can be on the panel of people that interview you and decide your future. Dreams delayed are not dreams denied. And there is no way on earth that your blessings can go to someone else so keep clapping for those that have crossed through you.

 

I know a lady who convinced her friends to apply for nursing college in 2010, they took her friends and not her. She cried so hard because she did not understand that she was the bridge for them to cross. In 2011 someone offered her funds to go study Physiotherapy and she is now enjoying her career. Your turn is coming.

 

2020 in October Mutwiri got a job in his field after years of trying and last night he video called me from his brand-new house to show me.

Keep the faith.

For the Hommies

    Under the slopes of Mt. Kenya lies a local market which never sleeps. Almost everyone knows everyone here. A stranger cannot walk and fail to get noticed easily. This is a story of us.

    I come from a place where we value brother hood, through discipline and Umiri “these are dos and don’ts according to Ameru culture” instilled in us during rite of passage we maintain the age-group ranks.

    I receive this phone call from my longtime friend Kimwana, ‘not his real name though’. He is my childhood buddy, from sound of his voice there seems some urgency as he echoed through the phone speaker. Immediately I knew that he meant business. This is the person whom when you get a phone call from, you should get a backup plan. He is a serious illicit purchaser and a great larynx wetter.

    With the humility of a Bishop, hands in my pockets, I tiptoe in dimly lit Murinya bar and Rest. This is our local bar usual meeting place. Everyone here knows everyone, darting my eyes I caught Kimwana’s heavily built body sited squarely at the furthest corner.

    This guy deserved respect bwana; having graduated from KDF (Kenya Defense Forces) combat school, it was a reason enough to summon me with such urgency. He had landed straight from the recruit camp after several months of combat training. There, in Lanet Forces Training Camp, I hear, is where they are hardened and taught various deep tissue massaging techniques, dodging of bullets and hostile handling methods. But now he is here, back home, for illicit buying revenge mission. Having spoilt his gullet previously before he joined the forces, my die was cast.

    I settle myself on a chair next to Kajana the village commander in chief and self-declared chief of staff at KASWA (Kamunyonta Swallows). He is the feared local daily throat irrigator and a perennial troublemaker. He earned the name village commander in chief after he single handedly clobbered three full grown men in a single combat.

    The last time he was seen in near sober state “Nguku Niciaumagaga” translated as, ‘chicken were urinating’. I am ready to irrigate my gullet proper. Sited with village top notch gullet irrigators, I felt inconsiderably misplaced, this is their field where they exemplary excel.

    I had not taken two lungs of air before my front view was graced with a Kibondi. This is highly potent, liver intoxicating stuff. A third-generation illicit drink so tough, not recommended for lightheaded individuals, especially if you are green in the fields of throat irrigation.

    I heard Kamenchu the self-proclaimed village professor vomited after taking six of the potent devil, the grass where he vomited burnt instantly like the Moses bush in the bible. If consumption of throat wetting fluids was a sport, this is where Kamencu core competency fell squarely.

    With these ninjas surrounding your table, it was clear someone had a plan to assassinate me using alcohol in bold day light. But “mimi ni nani?” From where I stood, I couldn’t see how I was going to hold my faculties straight for long without passing out.

    These guys are serious throat irrigators, and I didn’t come here to show fear of a hangover in the presence of a cut Baite, no. I held my head up like a real Baite. I excused my liver for holidays, executed my faculties and immersed my soul into merry and peace.

    We poured this bitter concoction down our gullets like we were on a trophy seeking mission. With stories from the training camp spicing the event and Demethew tracks (..’Ngoma ciakwa ikainaga....) it loses its flair in translation, ‘my devils will sing’ bursting through the air, time was at a slow motion. The poison was flowing freely, and we were really having a good time.

    We had not taken three of our Kibondi’s poison when Tosh ‘short for Gitonga’ showed up tagged along with Munyua and Kinoti. Tosh threatens to purchase all liquid content on the counter display including the barmaid. We take him seriously, taking note it was end month and his pocket was loaded proper. Money comes with heat and power.  He is a Ninja of considerable and mighty procurement capabilities.

    Immediately the table we are in is flowered with KBL products in different intoxicating varieties and makes his entourage highly noted. Let me tell you, if you sit down to take beer with these guys and your throat is weak with an empty trebling stomach then, you can find yourself dispatched to heaven in a blink of an eye. These are kind of guys who can swallow considerably huge amount of highly potent illicit bear like they are taking milk.

    They will walk head high and leave you staggering like a slay queen who has over gulped Tuskers Cider. You see, if there is an alcohol drink which was manufactured to bring aridity shamelessly in men’s pockets in presence of a female gender, it is this bear Shinda ‘Tusker Cider’. We baptized it shinda after it showed successfully it can bring immeasurable poverty in men’s pockets.

    Especially on a mission to entice and win her heart, you can purchase quiet a lot before she gets drunk. If by bad luck you guest a potbellied one, be assured to embarrass your pockets if not loaded proper. Its alcohol content is arguably near that of water (zero) and I have no respect for any male who gets his head intoxicated with this product.

    More beer is served, and English is taking over our mother tongue, especially for those who never completed pupillage. If you are not used to this den, you would think parliament is in section, the kind of debates which goes on here makes you wonder why Ole kiyapi dreamt of becoming the president of Kenya. We are seriously discussing matters of national importance. The kind of ideas thrown here could make the Kenyatta cabinet sitting look like a grade 1 pupils in session.

    I test my balance as I walk to the urinals, and I can feel my feet failing me. Then Kim, ‘short for Kimathi’ (long live wachia) walks in. This guy can embarrass when buying you bear. You cannot exult his purchasing capabilities. I didn’t know he was back from the capital. This was not Christmas, so such a face was not expected to grace such environs at the time of the year.

    I can attest this for free, that I am a lover of life in its diversities and peace is my solace, but when threatened in any way I respond in two ways. One, I fight head on, and two, I can try to take Uasin Bolt by surprise, and I break his record.  Precariously this was not a day for fights, especially your opponent is highly intoxicating liquid.

    “Lete crate kwa hii meza”...that was Kim’s voice buzzing through the air ordering more beer as he settled on a chair next to Tosh. That statement makes me start seeing Moses' milking cows in heaven. In a blurred imagination I started sensing trouble.

    There is no way I was going to commit suicide wetting my tonsils, no. With so many options at my disposal, including throwing myself in front of a moving Kiunu ‘a lorry used to ferry tea leaves from the buying center to the tea factory for processing’. Even on a suicide mission I cannot choose beer as a tool for ending my dear life.

    It was quiet a gesture, but my eyes had started seeing rainbows, the moment when every female in the houses have a beautiful figure than that of Vera Sidika. A very dangerous state of mind to trust your mental judgment capabilities, I guess.

    My throat was already hydrated beyond a certain threshold, and I was ready to abandon ship before I embarrass my faculties in presence of respected men. Stealthy like a marine behind enemy lines, I mingled my way out of KASWA, staggering like a three-legged stool and vanished into the darkness.

    I don’t know how I made it home that day, but it was a near fatal life experience in the line of wetting my arid larynx. So, for such guys, with honour in line with virtues of charity and philanthropy in sharing fluids of intoxicating varieties, I salute you all. In futile, those who always try to assassinate me with beer, I greatly admire your courage.

    These, are such friends you don’t call, text or meet in years but when you come face to face, it will be like you talked yesterday. Kind of guys, who will come visiting you on a hospital bed with a Kane “a near fatal potent illicit bear” smuggled in a Dasani bottle, make a joke of your pain and you forget your miseries, may your pockets never lack. Those guys, who will come knocking on your doorsteps, because they don’t trust your near-death
silence, May God have a special place for you.

And life needs such besties. Because we are the Hommies!

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