I AM BEING INCITED AGAINST MY GOVERNMENT

I went to visit Walubende again; the man my mother insisted is bad influence. But this guy greeted the president in 1998! just to be clear, Walubende has been angry since 1998, he wishes he would have slapped His Excellency instead.

Walubende is angry with politics and he is inciting me.

"The son of a poor man, subject of the digital government, how are you!" he greets me jovially as I enter his stuffy hut for the second time this year. He spits on the fire and disturbs the burning embers with his walking stick.

"What subject do you take at the college my son?" he falls in a coughing fit.

"Media Science..." I answer when he's done coughing. Walubende is getting old. He laughs at my broken voice.

"that is why I thought about you when my son was reading the newspaper to me" I am impressed. the old lad has a good memory still. "I am told KANU is at it again... the funny business of firing and harrasing journalists..." I correct him. KANU is not in power now. not anymore. But Walubende is a proud man who does not appreciate correction. he tries to hit me with his walking stick. I know this move, thats why I made sure that the distance between him and me is longer than his walking stick.

"Do not be smart with me young boy, the old men of KANU are still drinking milk in state house!" Walubende coughs again. I excuse his old age and try to reason...

"They are not old men, the president is in TNA and his deputy in URP. Multi-party!"

"Multi party nonsense! Those who fought for multi-party have no power. those in power are the ones who fought against it! Take your president for instance..."

"Uhuru?"

"No! Not the loud one, the quiet one."

"But Walubende, Kibaki left the big house in April this year..." Walubende should really buy more newspapers!

"Whatever!" he spits on the dying fire again and pokes the firewood with his stick. "I watch news at Peneteta's hotel. I have seen your president and his gang, young man I know the jogoo party when I see one!" Well, I might have underestimated the old man afterall, he seems conversant with current affairs.

"So the son of Jomo has the power to fine and fire you once you start working on TV, radio and newspapers?" He asks. It hits me, Walubende has heard the rumours about a bad media bill.

"Its not him doing the fining and firing but some people he appoints..." I correct. He swings his stick at me and misses.

"Stupid boy! when I hire a househelp, does he do what he is supposed to do or does he do what I tell him to do?" Good question Walubende has.

"But he has not yet signed it..."

"Dont be a fool, all bills are written by him and his jogoo party!"

"You mean TNA?"

"I mean KANU!"

We are both confused. he sighs loudly and spits on the fire then pokes it. Why on earth does he keep doing that? He stretches his old bones. From behind the stool he is sitting on, he puls out a bundle of newspapers.

"Take this to bwana Muigai down at the butchery. Buy some mandazi with the fifty shillings he gives you." I thank Walubende's generosity... But I have this feeling he has just incited me!

KOMBO, THE SON OF NASIPWONDI

After enjoying a hearty lunch that was composed of two ugalis and three quater kilograms of nyama choma, my friend Sarah Nalyanya could not hide her surprise when I told her that I am a stand up comedian. She even let out a small scream when I said I was soon going to do a comedy tour! It is funny therefore how she quickly believed me when I informed her that I am in Musikari Kombo's campaign team!

If the small meetings at Barasa's Park inn Kimilili are anything to go by, then I am indeed campaigning for Nasipwondi's son.

I know friends who are making that noise Sarah Nalyanya made when she learnt my job. well, let me state categorically that I am in it for the money and I do not support the ideologies of New Ford Kenya! There are those of the view that I am not political (especially my girlfriend) but what do you expect? I am a grandson to Mwalimu Sylvester Wakoli Bifwoli! Whom I am sure will not win...

That said the, it is hereby my duty to war Honourable Moses Wetang'ula... the son Of Nasipwondi, also known as Owa Nasipwondi by the people from my village, is seriously almost winning the upcoming by-election in Bungoma county.

Before I am labeled traitor by my fellow "foot soldiers" (that is what we, door-to-door campaigners in Kombo's camp call ourselves) I hereby stae that I am not a registered voter in Bungoma county... My name is in one of the IEBC register in Uasin Gishu, the county where I almost voted... Now they have a good reason to stone me!
Back to the good man Wetang'ula, Owa Nasipwondi means to win by all means. I have witnessed and also taken part in his aggressive campaign. He is directly in touch with over 300 voters in each polling station. Weta you got to work hard sir!

Owa Nasipwondi is also successfully soiling Wetangula's name. He has managed to convince almost half of the county that Musa is responsible for all the violence in the ingo county. Talk of the killing of Advocate Wanyonyi and Weta's name is dragged in. The annoying Eugene Wamalwa even gave a dramatic moment of silence for the good lawyer and then went ahead to accuse Mose of murder in front of a crowd of hardworking kimililians!

talk of death threats to Kombo supporters in Sirisia and the CORDed Moses Wetang'ula's name is dragged in! He is trying to sway voters by tarnishing other's name. And it is working.

Owa Nasipwondi Musikari Kombo might be the next senetor of Bungoma county!

I KNOW PEOPLE! NAIROBI PART TWO

Smart Joker has a bad handwriting. Thats right, I am talking about 'the sweet joking smart joker kutoka Kibera' you know him from Churchill Show. He is quite a cool guy, I had a small chat with him as he signed me an autograph (from which I now judge his handwriting) Ever since I started seeing him on the telly, I have always wondered if his eyes are that big when he is off the stage. They are. But he doesnt lean that way in real life...

The point I am trying to brag away is that I was at carnivore Simba Salon during one of the live recording of Churchill Show. True to my being, while there, I tried to borrow Big Ted's coat.. you know that giant. He didnt give it to me. it was one of those moments when the stage was being set and the audience was invited to do their thing. The first guy to take the opportunity was painfully not funny while the second guy was tone deaf but tried to do a reggea number! The third guy was me, Prof Chochi Celeb Phd, I treated them with one of my "choir master" jokes... It is awesome standing on that stage.

Speaking of choir masters, I also met YY... a comedian in Churchill Raw. I bumped into the boy at night in Kenyatta University. He immediately noticed my knack for Luhya jokes. I crack them a lot now that am writing the script to my one man stand up comedy show "THE PEOPLE FROM MY VILLAGE"

Very few folks believe me when i say that I had lunch with Tonny Timase, he of business news. Okay, I will confess that it happened by accident... we happened to share a table at a restaurant near the Norfolk hotel.Ther man ate a whole fis while I did with two sausages and a sodaa (they did not have chips and their chicken was way too expensive. do not judge me!) I was tempted to talk to him and even ask for an autograph but some say he is not as friendly as the sweet joking smart joker. I however managed to get a blurry snap of him on my cell.

I will be a hero and maybe the people of my village will elect me as their county assembly representative when they read this: I saw Cyrus Jirongo! We were trapped with him in a traffic jam.... well, I was in a stuffy "citi hoppa" while he was comfortably dozing off in his black range rover. this guy wanted to run for president, right?

there you have it Prof Chochi Celeb PhD (born Nalyanya Kennedy) knows people!

MY VILLAGE HAS ARRIVED IN THE CITY: NAIROBI PART ONE

Five minutes into Nairobi and I had counted more than fifteen people from my village. That and adding those who had euther been arrested ir passed on, I can comfortably confirm that my village, indeed, has moved to Nairobi. Talk of rural-urban migration and i will promise you the people from my village as the perfect case study.

Let me start from the "big" people. Adviceroi Mundalo, the man with the strange name, you all know him from the romantic kumbekumbe story. This avid lover of flying vegetables was idling on top of that flyover next to the good university of Nairobi. He tells me that he is now a manager. He manages all the beggers in River Road and a few along the begging hot spots in Jogoo Road. This man seems to have put his vast knowledge of Mathematics into good use.

I cannot fail to mention Wabwire... You might have met this man in one of your encounters with my blog, the photoman. Yes, the man too is in the city, and no, he is not taking photographs. He is in the smuggling business. He tells me that beer is a lot cheaper in Uganda and since he was born in Busia, he is well versed with "panya routes" to our neighbours to the west. He seems to be doing well too judging from his afro and the pot belly under his ribcage.

I also bumped into the good man, Shiramba. He would kill me if he learns that I didn't mention him in our blog. (it is now known as "our blog" to the people from my village). I met him within the fences of Jomo Kenyatta University of Science and Technology. I might have not seen him considering the nice hangover I was nursing after an all night party with th old boys of Friend School Kamusinga in Thika. Shiramba doesnt allow himself be ignored. H e called me by the name only people from my village use. He tells me he is a lab techinician at this technological institution. Though I do not believe him, he seems to be leading an honest life unlike Mundalo and Wabwire. A good man that Shiramba is.

How can I forget the man whom am angry with? Douglas, the boy who came to Nairobi and changed his name to a short. Literally he calls himself  "Suruali fupi" which actually means "small underwear" back in my village. I am angry with him because I did not physically meet him yet he knows how much I value handshakes! But atleast we used his alcohol which he told us to pick at Ruiru on our way to the party in Thika....

Nairobi part one, it gets funnier :)

I BROKE WESISI'S LEG

Now that I am more than 500 kilometers from Nasianda village (The village where my mom rests) I can fearlessly confess that I was the one who broke Wesisi’s leg.

I got only one reason for administering that fracture: Wesisi is one annoying man.

Where does one begin to describe this creation of God? Lets start from the basics, Wesisi is a serial funeral attender. He has attended practically all the funerals in my village. The only time he will miss a funeral is if and only if it coincides with another funeral. Trust me, attending all funerals in my village is a Herculean task, the people from my village die a lot!

Perhaps it would help if Wesisi brought a little laughter and good cheer to these sad businesses. But no, the good seventy five year old boy comes to funerals and mourns louder than the griefing. It doesn't help that he composes songs for the departed…. It is an annoying habit that would drive even the most meek of beings (i.e. me) to that bone-breaking point. He simply cannot be tolerated.

Take my mother's funeral for instance; Wesisi, or rather, his voice arrived at our homestead at 6.30 am only for him to arrive thirty minutes later. He was singing the names of people who died since 1989 in a very high pitched voice. What annoyed me more was that he had taken the eulogy, translated it into four different dialects of luhya, exaggerated it and finally made it into a song.

Upon setting foot in the homestead, Wesisi demanded to be shown the kitchen. He claimed that someone might have sensed he was coming and was trying to poison him. so to save his life and those of others, he should supervise the brewing of breakfast! I wanted to poison him right there and then! No one needed to show him the kitchen, the good old boy sniffed his way to it.

After harassing the women in the Kitchen, Wesisi finally came out with a whole debe of steaming hot tea. He was loudly sipping the brew while complaining that the milk used to make the tea was from an old cow. He even went ahead to accuse some of my good aunts for hiding sugar in their bags instead of putting it in the tea!

Immediately after downing the last drop of tea, Wesisi resumed his "mourning". He danced around the compound and seeing he wasn't attracting his desired attention, he threatened to throw himself into the grave. This did not stir anyone. Deciding to make his threats real, he took off and actually did it! too bad for him the grave diggers were only a foot into their work...

Tired of his morning drama and having exhausted all the energy his breakfast had given him, Wesisi sat behind the bathroom going over and over a monotonous chorus... I know you are wondering why I hadn't broken his leg yet... wait for it.

When lunch-time was approaching, Wesisi suddenly became sadder and grief struck him like nobody's business! He shot up and cried his way to the kitchen cursing the spirit of death! Were it not for one brave woman (a distant relative) to hit Wesisi straight on the face with a hot ugali-coated cooking stick, the man would have once again taken over the kitchen. I am sure Wesisi cried for real for the first time since he woke up that day, for I know the pain that a hot ugali-coated cooking stick brings (read the story http://nalyanyak.blogspot.com/2013/09/my-cousin-is-heartless.html?spref=tw )

That silenced the man for a while...

Now this is where I break Wesisi's leg... It is that moment when the coffin is being lowered, everyone is crying (and others pretending to), Wesisi the drama king of my village decides to grab me and take me away from the grave because he had apparently read my body language and deduced that I was going to jump in because that's what he would have done... I remembered a martial art maneuver that i have mastered and kicked the old boy right on his left knee...

I left him there yelling and went to watch the most painful scene in my life...

WORLD TOILET DAY

As a comedian I am forced to recognize this day... otherwise i would rather sit back and crack jokes with my cousin Terry than subject my fingers to this Herculean task of typing. (I am a painfully slow typist and i use only one finger)
Today is World Toilets Day, no. its not what you think about it something about sanitation. but thats not good for comedy, I have googled it. This day has an awesome name and deserves to be celebrated in equal measure! On that note, here are two toilets I would never want to use.

1) PRISON TOILET
 Right there on top of my list is the Prison toilet. I have never been arrested thank my good manners. But I hear they do not have doors. No, hygiene is not my issue. but a doorless toilet is a place you dont want to be, especially if there is a queue of pressed criminals in front of you hurling threats. It is even worse when you are constipating; which is probable considering the kind of food prisoners are given. But my friend Musa who was arrested last week for impregnanting the chief's daughter who is in form two, told me that it is not that bad. I don't want to confirm that

2) PUBLIC TOILETS
Like anything else public, public touilets cannot be trusted. Notice how they issue toilet papers and soap then charge you money for it? AHA! That was a trick question. now i know who goes to public toilets. Dont worry, I know it was an emergency.... the issue with public toilet is that people judge you when you come out... The people collecting money at the door will give you away. I remember when a friend of mine (a lady whose name i wont mention) shyly coming out of a public toilet in Eldoret only for a young man to add to her embarassment by shouting "Haja kubwa ni twenty bob madam!" (a long call is twenty shillings madam!)

happy toilet day everyone....
 

WHY I AM SCARED TO MEET THE PRESIDENT

I dread to meet the president of this republic of ours. This is because when I do, I would look him straight in the eyes and punch him squarely on the nose. To his bodyguards: Do not kill the messenger, I have been sent by Walubende. Walubende is popularly known in my village as the man who greeted the president in 1998. Since he was too scared to punch the then president, he has sent me to complete his mission if/when I meet the president.

Don't get me wrong, i do like that guy who stays in state house. in fact I almost voted for him (darn those electronics masquerading as laptops during the general elections!) Shhhhh... Walubende thinks I actually voted and voted for Dida.

Walubende tells me that one only gets a chance to punch "big people" His expired in 1998. i try to reason with him. I tell him that our new president is different from the 1924 born dude.
"Are you crazy?" Walubende screams as he hits me on the head with his new walking stick. "He is the son of that old guy from Kabartonjo!" I am tempted to correct him but this old boy is wise, he foresees my impending correction and hits me on the same spot with astonishing accuracy.
"Those people killed Matiba! This is why I am telling you, Punch that man on the face!" I shake my head. Walubende is painfully behind in current affairs. I tell him that our president was not even a politician then and that Matiba is alive and kicking. I n fact, i add, the deputy president went to the hotel where he stays and had a chat with the good old boy.
"He stays in a hotel?" Walubende is shocked. this old man is good at looking on the negative sides of things. "And if he is alive, why didnt he run for president?" Walubende asks, preparing his walking stick just in case he doesnt like my answer.
"That is because he suffered a stroke while in detention and has not recovered properly. you should know that bwana Walubende!" Walubende hits my big head again.
"Go punch your president!"
Reasoning with walubende is like forcing a cow to lay eggs! I try to approach the situation from another angle...
"Tell me bwana Walubende, what has the president really done to you?" I move away after this question just in case it warrants another walking stick to my head.
"You fool!" he screams (it was wise to move away!) "he has not done anything wrong to me, he has done everything wrong to you! Why do you klisten to him when you know he is good at convincing people? look at what he did with the teachers!" i am now blinking like a faulty motor bike indicator. " Taxes on everything are risising! look at his cabinet! it was better when we had politicians in there!" he clears his throat and spits on the dying fire that made his breakfast. "now i hear we are not getting things from America and that parliament is back from holiday just to remove us from the Rome statute! isnt your president aware that this country is poor?" He is now trembling. " i could continue counting but I have run out of fingers!"  I laugh at this. Walubende is really funny. I wonder why people say he is a crazy old man with bad politics...
"And milk! Why is the price of milk going up?" AHA! Now i know why the old man has "caught feelings" like they say!
"have we sold our cows to Uganda?" he asks painfully.
"Actuall7y we have stolen all our cows from Uganda!" I try to be funny which only attracts another hit on the head. how does he manage to hit that exact same spot?
"Dont you care about milk?" Actually I dont. I don't take milk. WAlubende sends me away.

So next time someone punches the president, that might just be me... or Walubende. It is not my intention, I would just be helping an old man express himself. Otherwise I would rather shake his hand and tell him some of my best jokes...

MY COUSIN IS HEARTLESS

My cousin killed a cat with one stone. He picked up the rock and hurled it with such a determined force that the feline went down without a fight. if that is not heartlessness then my name is not Kennedy Nalyanya!
Maybe there are to sides to this story (there are always two sides). since the cat is not alive to tell the tale, i will tell it from my perspective.
I was perched on top of my favourite guava tree that grew mysteriously next to our leaning toilet that i usually refer to as the tower of Pisa. i was swallowing away the guava seeds in a very hungry fashion. In my defence, for those who might be tempted to critic my feeding habit, i had waited for this month of the year when the guavas are just about to turn yellow. You have to get them at this stage before the birds discover this delicacy. Enough with my agricultural expertise. Where was i? Right, at the top of the tree munching away guava seeds....
So i was perched between two strong branches enjoying this God sent fruit when something flashed under the tree. I hugged one of the branches in fright, fighting to remain as still as a cold corpse. It might have been a snake. you don't move when there is a snake in the area otherwise i would have gladly done so! Everything was so quiet. I think i peed a little. (it happens to everyone, do not judge me!)
there it passed again. This time my biological sense discerned that this was a rat. a very big white and black cat... or was it? It was at this point that my cousin saved me from the tedious task of identifying the creature.
"Arrest that cat!" He screamed in Bukusu, the language of the people from my village. all this while he was waving a cooking stick wildly above his head. He was jumping up and down like a possessed donkey (I have seen a possessed donkey!) This dance was accompanied by some words which are only uttered when a traditional circumcision ceremony has gone wrong.
Something bad happens when these words are uttered.
Still hugging the tree, i decided to help. I can be a really good negotiator when put to the task. i remember solving a huge dispute between the woman who makes bad alcohol and the county women representative. It was a big case that one.
Moving on with our story, i decided to help and immediately wished i had not!
"I think it has gone under that bush..." my heartless cousin did not let me finish my well intended sentence. A cooking stick caked in hot ugali locked me squarely on the nose sending me headfirst to the ground. that is not the worst part: my shorts were hooked at the top of the tree leaving me naked from the waist downwards. And I landed on the cat! This time I am sure I peed.
"There it is!" My bad cousin shouted adding the wicked circumcision sentence while hurling a brick which landed directly to where the ugali coated cooking stick had previously visited. Without even apologizing, my cruel cousin reached for a king sized rock, bigger than Chipkeezy's head. he hurled it; it missed me by two inches (I measured0. The next thing I know I was lying next to a dead cat.
The other side of the story is short and precise. I got it from my cousin as he picked up his cooking stick. Without even looking at me he offered the explanation: "IT LICKED MY SOUP."

WHY I WILL NEVER SHAVE AGAIN USING A RAZOR BLADE!

Hairstyles are the in thing currently in my village. Gone are the days when the standard shaving style was a jordan, where every hair on your head was liquidized. The more enlightened folks in the village would go with the famous "bakisha kidogo" (leave a little hair). the downright spoilt ones would go with a "box" otherwise known as "punk". Those were the bad examples of the village and form one dropouts.
My mother however, has a bad idea of shaving. Where ingredients like salt and avocados are involved in shaving one's head is just inhuman. It is a family ritual that all male members of the family get rid of their hair every fortnight. This of course is with the exception of my father.
EXTERMINATION
the process begins with the washing of the head. A stone is used to scrap off any living thing that is present in the head and a stick to remove the non-living ones. Boiling salted water is then run through the thoroughly washed head just to make sure the extermination is successful.
UNDRESSING
For some strange reason, we were always naked before the shaving began. The idea, my loving mother explained, was not to dirtify the shirt. those were the days when a small boy did not require to wear anything below the waist. As long as the shirt was long enough to cover the important areas, we were good to go... until we were forced to strip during the shaving. And do i need that the shaving was done in public. Apparently the lighting indoor was was not favorable for my mother's shaving skills!
THE AVOCADO
Imagine my excitement when my mother sends my sister to buy ten avocados.. obviously i sharpen my appetite and make a mental note not to steal guavas from our neighbor's orchard. Come the shaving time and my hopes are dashed. Each one of us is smeared with two avocados on the head. The reasoning is to soften the hair. I still object to the use of food in this manner! (hujuma!)
THE BLADE!!
This is why we had a fight with my father at the age of eight when he tried to explain the concept of circumcision to me. I was never good under razor blades! The blade was passed only once, taking with it my hair and pieces of my scalp! nerves and capillaries were not spared. We dared not shed a tear just in case we got a thrashing from crying!
THE BABY POWDER
After our heads looked like the bottom of a calabash, the baby powder was introduced in not such a soft manner. it was slapped on our heads with astonishing    sharpness. this was to kill the germs that the blade had introduced and also heal the wounds we had acquired in the process.
TIPTOP
This specific brand of petroleum jelly was smeared generously leaving our heads shining like disco lights!
though i appreciate my mothers expertise in the barber industry, I will never shave again using a razor blade! not even my beards!

MATTERS OF THE WINDOW!

A good friend of mine from the village (now a town girl who has finally lost the accent and the ways of my people from the village) once narrated to me an ordeal she encountered when the door of a matatu they were traveling in got stuck. This is not an uncommon scenario in our beloved country! As long as a machine has a yellow band and can move, it is qualified as a public service vehicle.
The long journey started when Melissa's alarm clock decided not to wake her up after she had kicked it to the floor the previous morning. Downing a huge cup of hot tea down her throat, for she had not completely forgotten the ways of her people, Melissa took off the house and in no time was at the stage. She was terribly late for work.
No sooner had her sharp pointed high heels stepped on the stage than a rattling assembly of rusting metals with a yellow band parked next to her. The matatu was as full as a sack of potatoes with all kinds of body parts sticking out of the window! The tout, a loud mouthed class five dropout with an otherwise outstanding skill in addition and substraction was hanging by his finger nails at the door. This guy could spot a traveller from a mile away. It is no big news then when she swept our ever elegant Melissa into this potential accident.
The innards of the machine were worse than the out. there was no space to even wiggle! There seemed to be some heat generating device from behind the driver's seat and someones shoe was melting due to that heat. A deadly stench of onions fed the nostrils of half of the travelers who were not lucky enough to have blocked an running noses! The owner of the onions did not smell any better. She was a generously sized mama mboga with no concept of hygiene. The irony was that she was loudly complaining of the bad smell in the nissan.
"Kuna mtu hajaoga hapa! Tutamuosha vile tuliosha Kamau wa butchery! (There is someone who hasn't taken a shower! We shall wash him just like we did to Kamau the butcher!)" said the big woman suspiciously looking at the tout. No one commented. Everyone was looking ahead as if in deep meditation. The mama mboga went on to narrate in gory detail how Kamau the butcher was picked out as an anti-shower thanks to her super natural sense of smell. It was in a matatu just like this one where our stinking stench picking madam had apparently raised the alarm and Kamau consequently arrested and thoroughly cleaned at the heart of the capital city! All this while the onion smelling Mama mboga was narrating this graphic story, she was animating it with all sorts of non-verbal cues occasionally sticking a thumb into poor Melissa's nose! The tout, sensing the pending danger of being picked out as an anti-shower gave the big woman a tongue lashing; threatening to kick her out of the vehicle. She defiantly changed the subject and started complaining about the government. a topic which everyone contributed.
A space finally opened up next to mama mboga. It was much better than sticking out ones behind outside the vehicle while it cruised at a blood-chilling 90kph! The space was a piece of wood cleverly placed in between two seats to serve the illegal extra person. Mama Mboga, sensing how unpopular she had become, she decided to boost her fan base. She gladly offered Melissa her seat saying that beautiful ladies who worked in offices should not sit on 'sambazas' (the wooden chairs!)
She then offered the seat to Melissa. As she sat on the sambaza, the piece of wood pinched Melissa! The Mama Mboga did not seem to move any time soon!
Tragedy was when the door stuck and the big woman had to go out through the window and over Melissa! Talk of deals too good!

MARKI WABWIRE THE SUPER PHOTO MAN!

It is either the people from my village are revoltingly ugly or Marki Wabwire the photo man is a bad photographer. Photo shoots in my village are an annual event when Wabwire is in "town". The singing of the joints of his old black-mamba bicycle wakes the whole village up with a start. Mothers dive into their closets hunting down for clothes that do not have patches on them. This is the point where clothes are discovered lost and many househelps lose their jobs. On this day, petroleum jelly is used extravagantly leaving faces shining like alluminium foils in the sun. kids are forced to put on matching 'vitenges' with their siblings.
The old men generally maintain their cool. They treat Wabwire's arrival not as important but of course jumping like small boys on the inside. They would look for their Christmas coats and ask the house helps (assuming they are not fired or arrested and charged with stealing their wives' clothes) to iron them. Others will be sipping their breakfast while fighting with a stubborn tie that refuses to be tied. Those wealthy enough to own shoes will be airing shoe polish tins in the sun so that the little residues of polish present will melt and avail themselves for usage. Schools will be empty with only the camera shy teachers sulking in the staffroom about the myopic nature of my people from the village. This is how big Wabwire is in my village!
But do not be fool by the air of importance around the man. Ironically, he is one photographer whose image he forgot to care about! he had a small head with everything big on it. His neck was long and surprisingly strong, and from which a black camera the size of a suitcase hanged. His bony hips danced to the tune of the creaking bicycle as his toe stuck out of his akalas pedaling away to the stuffy structure that was his studio. On the door of his studio, a sign was proudly written on a cardboard with charcoal "WABWIRE AND SONS PHOTOGRAPHY STUDIO" Underneath the sign was a rough translation:"DUKA YA PICHA"
By noon, the studio will be full with a long line outside. Wabwire would have hang a blue bedsheet he used in highschool to serve as his back drop. he would then take the families one by one into a gruelling task of posing and smiling. At the end of the day, everyone went back home anxiously waiting for their photographs. Wabwire would ride away to the city where he allegedly "washed" the photos. Weeks would grow up into months and Wabwire wopuld be a cursed man in the village. Everyone complained about his delay; from the chang'aa dens to the "chama cha wanawake" women's group; from primary school playgrounds to the market place. Rumours will even start going round that Wabwire had robbed them off their money! some even vowed never to take any photos again!
But several months later, Wabwire will ceremoniously return with photographs containing ugly people from my village! the anger against him would soon be forgoten as soon as people received their poorly taken photos.
"When will you come again?" the women would ask the super photoman.
Trying to wear a business like face, which made him look like a scared scare-crow, Wabwire would take sometime then answer: "mmmmh... let me check my schedule and i will let you know."
With that, the bad photographer would travel to the next village to continue with the vicious cycle of terrible photography!

*the names used in this blog do not refer to any real person. The characters are purely fictional. any reference to a real name is purely coincidental. lol ;-)

THE SHORT JOURNEY OF A CHICKEN THIEF!

From the very first glance you throw at him, something will tell you that there is something really odd about Embeywa. Born and raised at the banks of River Nzoia, the boy has mastered the art of  chicken stealing. Were it a degree, he would have been the proud owner of an M.Sc. Poultry stealing!
His escapades started way back in 2000, at the dawn of the new millenium when he dropped out of class two. At age seven, with no role model other than his uncle Waliaula the cockrell (who had impregnated half of the village), Embeywa had no other person to look up to.
His journey to the life of crime kicked off one hungry afternoon. The sun was on fire up there, making the empty stomach more empty! (that thing in physics about heat and expansion...). Embeywa was yawning as if he had been sent. He wished he was one of the birds in the air... those freaks dont labour or anything, they just wake up and eat! Or the neighbor's cows being zero grazed, what was the deal with them? just to sit there and be fattened? Or his uncle's chicken.... wait!
That was the birth of a bad idea! Embeywa looked longingly at the clucking hen in front of him. He had a decision to make. It was like having a hot potato in your mouth and you start debating whether to spit or swallow.... Good Embeywa decided to swallow. He took the bull by its horns, or in this case the chicken by its neck. You always go for the neck otherwise the bird will scream like a woman facing a handbag snatcher (story for another day). After ripping off the hen's head out of hunger, anger and panic, Embeywa roasted the big bird, kick starting his career in chicken stealing that would later land him in trouble.
So  our story begins while we were gossiping about our new governor in the shopping center. My friend Pascal, who claims to have taught at the Kenya school of Law was busy misquoting our good constitution when something whized past us leaving behind a trail of red feathers. While we were still nursing our confusion, a generously sized lady flew on the same route in an equally terrifying pace. After a second or two, a crowd of market people rampaged, on the same route singing war songs. this was no new scenario, a thief was being chased! You would have been a fool not to have joined in the chase! This was not only  an opportunity to catch up with old friends whom you had not seen for some time but also a chance to pick the pockets of strangers!
After hours of serious chasing and not knowing where we were, i finaly caught a glimpse of the thief. As you might have guessed by now, it was good old Embeywa, sweating like no ones business with a headless red chicken under his armpits!
We caught up with him. At this point it is important to mention that the generously sized lady did not get her hen back. Both the hen and Embeywa are victims of mob (in)justice.

MY FRIENDS HAVE BAD MANNERS! THATS WHY THEY ARE MY FRIENDS!

My friends are weird. I am officially concerned. One minute we are having a really deep conversation on matters of life and the next one is dancing to a non-existent lingala beat! photo sessions have neber been a serious affair; I am telling you my camera has seen all sorts of facial distortions. One lady friend of mine once commented that it is safer to look ugly on purpose (she is one of those who has locked away her passport photo in a cupboard with an intricate security system!).
My friends have low self esteem. In fact it is so bad that they can no longer take complements! There is this one who is really beautiful, but dare you say anything to that effect and all you will get is:"Are you making fun of me?" accompanied by a face the would suck blood out of you if that were possible.
My friends have bad table manners. They are greedy and their love for food is unhealthy. Three quaters of my friends will give anything for food! the other quarter has low self esteem and is trying to slim!
My friends are rude. We socialize by insulting each other. "Stupid boy" in our language means "you are smart and I am proud of you", "toka hapa, kuku wewe" means "please dont leave i need you". And a painful slap on your back is an equivalent of a congratulatory handshake!
My friends are careless. Apart from the lady friends, the rest never ever spread their beds under their own volition. I have taken it as a personal initiative to demoralize any friends who tends to make their room tidy!
My friends have no sense of fashion, save of course for a few of the lady friends. We might just decide to look smart as a gang or decide to "rust" as a gang! of course we prefer the latter to the former! I got friends who shows up in class in pajamas! of course i won't judge him or her because i would be wearing one myself.
My friends are spoilt brats! But they are angels infront of any of our parents (I hope mum won't read this part!) You should see how we smile innocently when one of our parents is around. But under no supervision, we are as cheeky as small class two boys!
My friends are poor at keeping relationships, unless the patner is part of the gang. because honestly no one understands us!!
I could go on and on about my friends... Mark you i am not complaining, they are my friends because i chose them. In the years to come, we shall make the weirdest and awesomest grandparents EVER!!!!

KUMBEKUMBE DILEMA: VILLAGE ROMANCE

If good looks is anything to go by, then Mundalo is one guy beauty forgot. Mundalo is a freshman at  Sirakaru polytechnic taking a course in carpentry. But ask anyone in Tuti shopping center where he hails from and they will tell you that their boy is taking a masters degree in mechanical engineering!
Mundalo's head looks like a deflated rugby ball and his nose seems to be on the wrong place! His teeth have refused to stay inside his small mouth and defiantly stick out as if in protest. He doesn't have a neck; his shoulders start where his ears end. His chest looks like the fist of a sick watchman. Needless to say, he has a six-pack under which two legs that resemble hockey sticks are hanging!
His extraordinary love for kumbekumbes (flying termites emerge from the underground) did not make him any more attractive! Mundalo would literally run mad mad at the sight of the insects. He would let out a strange cry from his throat and start salivating like a leaking pipe. His kumbekumbe trapping skills were way above average. he would devour the insects alive by simply tearing off their wings and smashing them between his molars! During the kumbekumbe season, when the termites grew wings, Mundalo's weight improved  dramaticaly and his head would assume a rounder shape... these were the best times of his life!
So how he managed to Impress Imelda is a difficult one to answer. it was one of those rainy afternoons when the rain had trapped the students at the verandahs. Imelda was a finalist taking a tailoring course at the polytechnic. Unfortunately or fortunately for her, she happened to stand next to Mundalo. A few smiles later and the two were chatting like old lovers. Every man who was eying Imelda walked away (in the rain) in disgust.
Mundalo and Imelda's chat became more interesting and more animated by time. But things came to a complete standstill  when the kumbekumbe's decided to emerge from their hideout. Mundalo fell into a salivating fit. He decided to excuse himself hoping that Imelda would leave the premises. The plan was to come back exactly two minutes later in get into the feast.
Lucky for him, Imelda was the first to excuse herself. No sooner had her behind disappeared at the corner than Mundalo sprung into action. He wildly attacked the anthills, grabbing the flying vegetables and chewing them like a savage!
He was sweating profusely despite the cold weather. It was then that Imelda appeared. The moment their eyes met, it dawned on him that Imelda had hatched the same plan as his!
At that very moment, Mundalo had found his soul-mate!

ANTS TO THE RESCUE: NJOGA'S PRAYERS!

(i fished this story from my archives when i wrote "the weekly lightning" way back in high school. enjoy!)

The moment I saw her I knew I was in trouble. Madam Wamukota was back from her annual maternity leave! She was our no nonsense Chemistry teacher.

“I want to see my assignment!” she announced sweeping her blood-shot eyes across the stuffy form 2W. truth be told I had not touched my Chemistry note-book (or engaged in any chemical issue for that matter!) ever since Madam Wamukota got pregnant!

Our desks flew open and the whole class started hunting for Chemistry notebooks, half of which were non-existent! Madam Wamukota, sensing potential punishes, fished out a meter rule from behind the blue door.

“Leo mutaaimba kikwenyu! (today you shall sing in your mother-tongues!)” she threatened, advancing towards Njoga’s desk. Njoga was our good Christian Union chairman. Though ordained and spirit filled, the good Njoga, like 75% of the class, had not seen any Chemistry text since the evil Wamukota started expecting!

“go to the corner you lazy bones!” Madam Wamukota escorted our small CU chairman with a kick. Next was Ambani. The boy was trying to get clever with the Chemistry teacher. He was busy scribbling the assignment with a very uncooperative red pen! Madam Wamukota electrocuted his chubby cheeks with a slap I have never witnessed since 1993! With a heavier kick, he was sent to the corner.

The drill went on for another 20 minutes, after which a whole bunch of whimpering form twos stood there preparing for the worst. I cursed the day I passed my KCPE!

“So you thought I had gone forever?” she was panting like the bulls from Ikolomani! “I am going to whip your lazy behinds you wont be able to sit down for weeks!” with that she left, headed for the all too famous Kumusambale tree, known for producing unbreakable whips!

Njoga broke into prayers, cal;ling for the holy spirit to come down and save us from the arms of the evil one Wamukota! And prayers did work!

As madam was fighting with a stubborn Kumusambale branch, she disturbed an ants nest! She suddenly broke into a break-dancing fit, stripped naked and sped away never to be seen again!

We made a point to join the Christian Union that very weekend.

AKARANGA'S LEFT SHOE

Akaranga has been in a bad mood since 2007. that is the year he lost his left shoe. He preffered not to call them shoes but rather "army boots". He swore by his missing incisors that those were the very pair he wore during the maumau war! Believe me, Akaranga's parents had not even met during the fight for independence. I remember him as a teenager whe he would bully the urine out of our bladders!
Ask anyone who knew Akaranga well and they would tell you he was the kind of drunkard that drunkards called drunkard! On the fateful day that Akaranga lost his left shoe, he was seen swinging into Mama Perpetual's den already high on something. Now, Mama Perpetual was an alcohol vendor. the people from my village proudly refered to her brew as "poison". Poison was a concoction of fermented porridge, sour milk, ethanol and formalin. Where she got the latter ingredient is still a mystery to the Criminal Investigation Department. Though it is common knowledge to the people from my village that Perpetual works at a mortuary in Eldoret.
So Akaranga had swung into Mama  Perpetual's den loaded with cash. Since politicians were careless with money during the campaigns in 2007, Akaranga had stumbled upon a handsome amount from one of the presidential candidates (whom he did not vote for!). He immediately announced his presence.
"Leo tutakunywa mpaka kuku warudi nyumbani! (tody we shall drink till the roosters return home!)" This announcement was received with jibilant circumcision songs from the already drunk patrons. The brew was downed in his name. An old man even swore that he had witness Akaranga killing a colonialist's dog with his teeth, a compliment which Akaranga accepted by buying the old chap another round.
Akaranga had gotten really drunk when he decided to entertain Mama Perpetual's customers with one of his far-fetched maumau tales. As he was animating how he had kicked one colonial army general on the back, his left shoe shot off an literaly disappeared in the thin air! That is how the party ended!
"Someone had better produce my army boots or I go fetch my maumau gun!"
Nobody had ever lain eyes on this feared "maumau gun" that Akaranga apparently possesed. but somehow the people from my village believed iot existed and nobody dared challanged the man after he mentioned it!
A shoe hunting committee was quickly formed and a seasrch began. The shoe was searched till the roosters returned home!
The reason I write this story is because the revered left army boot was found yesterday. it was resting at the bottom of Mama Perpetual's brewing tank. We ceremoniously returned it to Akaranga's compound and intended to throw a bash but he mentioned the maumau gun! Nobody has ever asked how the shoe stayed in the tank for all those years, except one old guy who attributed his newly found wife-beating techniques to the added flavor of Akaranga's left shoe to their favorite brew!

JUMP OR I BREAK YOUR LEGS!

Life was not easy for those of us who fell in love with the outdoors as kids. Some how, my parents insisted on us staying within the confines of our barbed wire fenced compound which we then considered prison. but as usual, the defiant boy in me would be tempted to break this commandment "Thou shall not step outside the compound" and the bad devil even tempted me further to break yet another one: "thou shall not climb a tree!"
The temptation of climbing a tree is one every African boy can tell you, is impossible to resist. I like comparing our childhood back in the 1990's with this new millennium. In ways more than one, parents have evolved into softer and more understanding species. I mean, take my little brother for instance, the boy is only 11years old and i can swear by the belt marks on my back that the little rascal is more cheeky than i was at 11! But truth be told he receives far less beatings than i did!
Inasmuch as so much has changed since the dusk of the last millennium, the urge of climbing trees is still constant among small boys. What has changed is our parent's reaction to this grave crime! not so long ago, while the whole family, save for my small brother, were sharing a lighthearted afternoon in the house watching a local comedy, we heard a high pitched scream from behind the house. to me it sounded like pig that had just woken up in the middle of a surgery. Naturally we all panic and rush out in confusion (without even formulating a plan!) and guess who is hanging on the topmost branch of the old tree (whose name we have no idea of) behind the house? my youngest brother of course.
Now there are several things i would have done differently if i was on top of that old tree. One of them, I would never have called for help! I would have rather stuck up there than be helped down only to face the wrath of my mother!
The next words my mother said made me to look at her for a whole ten seconds just to confirm it was her!
"Don't worry dear we shall get you down from there!" My mum went, attracting a pitiful whimper from the cheeky victim up the tree. I quickly flashback to how this same mum would have reacted was she to find 11year old me up the forbidden tree....
"Jump down this instant or i will come up there and break your legs!" and at this i would have hugged the tree even tighter!
I looked at her face again trying to see the logic behind her kindness. Was it to trick the little boy into a false sense of security before letting all hell lose on him? No. Her next words disapproved my hypothesis:
"Don't worry dear, we shall call an ambulance to bring you down, okay?" and the little rascals nods and carelessly blowing and wiping his nose whimpers again!
in my situation, an ambulance would be a far fetched fantasy! i would have gotten a: "get down from there or i will call your father!"
Now who is stupid enough to stay up there till dad is summoned? certainly not an African boy!
I LOVE YOU MUM!

GOD LAUGHED WITH ME

God looks at me and says: "Son, you are crazy and i love you"
i am like: "but Father, what about those who hurt me?"
God pats my shoulders and goes like :"Tell them a joke!"
I put on my business face:" Dad am trying to be serious here!"
God laughs:"There goes your problem! that's not how I created u! i created you in a way i created no other! i created you to be happy to make others happy. i created you with music playing in the background... angels were partying hard while i was creating u dude!"
I grin:"Really?"
God: "Am I man that i should lie? now go do something crazy to ur hair, tell those jokes and sing for me... and remember, if u love me u will not break my commandments!"
I laugh
God: "Whats so funny"
I smile cheekily:"Comedy Corner by Prof Chochi celeb PhD!"
God: hahahahaha! i bless u my son
AMEN
*COMEDY CORNER is a standup comedy show by Nalyanya that is held every friday evening in Moi University Main campus