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!