My Parents Dry Humping.

Haha! This is crazy. It’s silly. It’s weird. Yeah, I know. But could you just give me some audience before you fill your heart with ‘feelings’? ‘My parents dry humping, you ask? Now, if you don’t know what the phrase means, it’s whereby people simulate an act of sex by rubbing onto each other with their clothes on. We are on the same page now I suppose, yar? You are probably now wondering how a sane person could take his time, pen and paper…sorry, it’s keypad this one…to write about his parents steamy moments.

Let me stop wasting your time…

As you know, traditionally, we, Africans, are a very conservative bunch. There are things we just don’t do, or say, or even hear. They are taboos and might lead to death – I don’t how true that is, so don’t ask me how. My guess would be, psychological death. That’s my idea, or reasoning, not yours.

For example; seeing your parents naked or sharing a bed with your parents (say mother and son or father and daughter). Short and, or, revealing clothes are seen as immoral and disrespectful. This one to me is hypocritical. Hypocritical because, let’s face it, back in the days the closest thing we had to decent dressing was a thong made of hides that only covered the private area. The rest of the body including the dark rough butt was left bare.

Whether they were fleshy or boney, the butts, they were left uncovered; daughter, father, son and mother’s. The breasts, whether they were like an apple or sagged like a deflated wind sock, were left bare assuming whichever position they wished. Different shapes and sizes. But no one died just by seeing that. This generation we live in wouldn’t withstand that. A lady walks past a bunch of boys dressed in tight revealing clothes or a mini skirt and hell breaks loose.

I know I’m boring you with all this crap, I should dive in to where my parents are dry humping, right? We are heading there, but let me explain that it’s not a pleasant scene you just ‘dive’ in. I watch television shows, and movies. The whites do their thing: They do whatever there culture and societal set up allows them to do. And since we decided to embrace their ‘civilization’, we are copy-pasting everything and bringing it home. It’s cool. It’s hip. It’s chic. I don’t fight that, but some just freaks us out.

It’s like say, a friend, a classy friend invites you out to some fancy restaurant, he or she orders lobster or prawns, and whatever weird stuff people eat, you’ve never tasted this kind of thing, but since you’re scared of losing points or scoring less on their scoreboard you half-heartedly go with the order. You eat but feel like crying, you hate yourself. In the middle of it all you excuse yourself and head for the washroom, thrust your fingers into your throat and throw everything into the toilet then flash it down. Wash your hands and rinse your mouth. You come face to face with ‘yourself’ on a mirror fixed above the sink as you lift up your head. Your feel ashamed of yourself for stooping so low. You then walk back forcing a smiling. You pretend you are full. That’s the life, a facade.

The previous night I was watching a movie. nd then there was this scene where a guy walks into his parents house, a mansion where he also has a room, you know that kind of life, yah? And finds his parents dry humping on a couch in the living room. His reaction was not anything close to what mine could have been: ‘Come on guys, you can do better than that, go to your room!’ His dad just said sorry, laughed then lifted his mom on his arms and up the stairs they went. Like seriously?

Now, there’s almost a zero chance that I could ever walk in on my parents doing that. Should I do, I guess my reaction would be to just shut my eyes and bolt out the house, and disappear for like a month. Definitely, they’d be so embarrassed, so, to avoid torturing them each time we come face to face I’d simply avoid contact.

If you are so conservative, which I’m not so much of, and is so taboo-minded then you are doomed. A slight sign of a common-cold-like symptoms and you’ll be ‘dead’. You hit your leg on stone, you blame it on that. Your milk goes bad, it’s signs of looming death. You lose appetite, have constant headaches, your health deteriorates, drastic weight loss, and become lethargic. But not me, I wouldn’t go down that road; if I ever walk into my parents dry humping.


‘The Green Lodge’

‘The Green Lodge’. Sounds swanky a title,yar? Except that in this case we are talking about a village kind of swankiness. A unique feel that only a herds boy deep in the village would understand. For the sake of fairness, my green lodge here refers to a natural lodge made up of bushes and grass.

A few days ago we were having a conversation in a WhatsApp group with some of my friends then one, Larry aka Sakko made a joke about how he would love to have sex with a village girl, in a bush. He confessed to having had the experience while growing up back in the village. I loved the level of honesty. Most men will shy away from admitting to such while deep inside they burn with the desire for such an experience. After the conversation my mind travelled back to some of the sexcapades I had witnessed or heard of. Just to clarify, I never took part in any of them.

In the early 90’s, when I was growing up, these ‘lodges’ were a fad. Mostly, with the youth and herders. Practicaly, most youths looked after cattle. The village wasn’t so populated as it is right now. Homesteads were scatterd and in between existed the grazing grounds,which is also where ladies went to fetch firewood. A perfect meeting point. In these bushes bulls and cows mate. In these bushes snakes, squirrels, ants and other living creatures that inhabited them had sex. Man also decided to join in this lovemaking frenzy. God looked down from the heavens and saw it all. He must have a really difficult job,this our Creator. Does he frown or just smile when he sees human beings and animals having sex at the same time in one small bush? Does he rate them? Why doesn’t he stop them? Throw down ice. Pull a burning-bush-stunt like the one he did in the bible, with Moses.

Picture this, you are making love in the bush, everything is going paradise and you are about to climax. You feel some heat hitting your back but you try to ignore it. You imagine maybe you are too good that the sun has decided you deserve a standing ovation. You feel crackling sounds from the leafy ‘roof’. You look at your partners eyes, and they are frozen in terror, a keen look into her eyeballs and you notice a reflection of what seems like flames of fire, but with no burning umbers. Then you hear a thunderous voice bellowing from above calling out: “John and Mary, why have you decided to defile this holy bush?”then it continues: “Its me your God, the God of Abraham and your forefathers. ” You stiffen up, you feel as if something is tying your gut into knots. Your breath almost stops and your heart ceases pounding for what seems like eternity. That could scare the hell out of anyone.

Of all these love making sessions, man’s was somewhat organised. Some preparation went into it. Mostly, it began with a meeting by the river where both the boy and lady went to fetch water. The boy would them offer to help the lady with her water pot. This gentlemanly gesture was a plus, it increased your chances of winning the ‘prize’. If she kept nibbling on her nails and avoiding eye contact, and when you did occasionally stop to rest she drew on the ground with her toe (most walked barefoot), you were in. All you had to do was say the day and name the bush and she’d be there.

On the meeting day, the boy would take a bath and take the herd of cattle out for grazing, no questions asked. On the other side, the lady didn’t have to do any convincing to her mother. She only needed to take a bath, get a rope and carry a wrapper, that was self explanatory. In the bush, the boy had already scouted for the best location and ‘built’ a ‘lodge’. He’d then wait by the edge of the bush until his date arrived. They didn’t have all the time in the world, so after exchanging a few pleasantries they went down to ‘business’. Condoms or emergency pills were not so available in the village back in the days, let alone where to buy them.

What baffles me is, there were less children born out of wedlock compared to this current time. Is it that we have become very fertile than folks were back then?

In Readiness For Christmas.

Merry Christmas.

It’s about that time of the year. The time you started looking forward to from as early as the first minute of the year 2017. Time to indulge yourself in pleasantries and vices you can afford. There are those, with means, who have managed to put away some money to take their; families, lovers, besties, side chics and FWB’s for treats down to the coast or some exotic beaches and the like. Shops display products on ‘Christmas offer’. Tour and Travels firms have offers for the holiday lovers. Business is booming. All in readiness for Christmas day, it’s just A DAY – twenty four hours.

Entrance to most supermarkets and various shopping malls have someone dressed as Santa ringing a bell as he ushers in clients. Most eateries and entertainment joints are packed with most bars recording high number of patrons. The mood is set. The footloose, are travelling upcountry. Travelling to show off their ‘sophistication’ to the village folks. A few with means, fly. While majority opt for public transport, others make do with personal or leased cars. It’s time for mishpocha to be united and pass those family resolutions – like forming an association or sacco, or having an investment plan. As long as people travel back to town, all done and said is left where it belongs, in the village.

As people in towns make their preparations, we in the village too are busy. Getting ready for the BIG DAY. Ready to welcome our loved ones back home from town. Making sure the village is a ‘paradise’ for them. Comfortable by village standards. Just like in town. We the villagers meticulously plan for Christmas, and time is invested the preparations. Mostly begining from as early as mid November.

Sparking off the whole process is renovations done to the houses. The mud walls are redone. Those with grass-thatched roofs have a more tedious job of ensuring the roof is repaired just in case it has some leakages – this is the most stressful as thatching grass has since become a rare commodity. Thanks to the ever growing population. To make sure you get your grass when you need, one is forced to book in advance, as early as 4months. If you are unlucky, someone sets fire on the grass fields and that means you don’t get to repair your roof. For those lucky enough to have iron sheets, their work is simplified – they only have to worry about then earthen floor and the mud walls.

To get the walls and the floor done, patience and some hint of aggressiveness is required. This is so when you don’t have cattle in your homestead as one of the most important material is cow dung . During this season the demand is quite high, and the number of cows or bulls within a village are quite few. Not forgetting, it’s a dry season so there’s very little grass for the cattle to feed on. Yet still the entire village puts their hopes on the few underfed cattle to supply them with this precious good. Children are woken up by 6 a.m and sent with basins and sacks to the nearest home to collect the dung. Woe unto you if the home you are sent to has dogs or is gated. You have to stand by the gate until the owners are awake and the gate opened, because knocking would be so rude – some don’t mind it though.

Picture this: You are the owner of a gated home who is lucky to have some few heads of cattle. You are deep asleep, probably dreaming or maybe, just maybe, having morning glory. Somewhere in the middle you hear a knock at the gate. You try to assume it hoping it will go, or that you just imagined the rapping on the gate. The knock is persistent and there’s no sign of it going, instead it’s growing louder and bolder. You curse under your breathe and get out of bed grudgingly and walk out the house, praying it’s something worth it. You walk to the gate and on opening you are met with faces of barefoot children carrying basins and sacks. The smallest one, a boy, is standing at the front, has mucus streaming from his nostrils, he removes his tongue and licks them clean. You almost throw up . Yuck! His head patched with ringworms. He has blue t-shirt with words ‘I love Obama’. He has on a pair of torn black shorts. You take your eyes off him and study the other three. They are all scared to talk. In your mind you already know what they have come for – cow dung.

At this moment you have two choices: First, you can chose to let them inside the compound. Which means they’ll definitely be back the next day and you’ll have to sacrifice your sleep, for up to a week. Secondly, you can opt to send them away. Give them some lame excuse like your cattle have had constipation and haven’t been letting out any dung. Or that they hate being disturbed early in the morning, worse off, by kids trying to pick their dung, and that doing so would earn them deadly kicks.

In readiness for Christmas, when the houses have been redone. Some go an extra mile to put some writing on the walls – “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year”. Some remember to add the words ‘WELCOME!’.

What really does wreck my heart are these ‘civilised’ guys from town. They carry with them some misplaced air of sophistication and braggadocio. They complain and compare almost everything with whatever they use in towns. Lame lines like “Mbona maji ya huku si tamu” or “Mbona huku hamtumii unga ya hostess.” While truth be told they seem to be living a desperate life in town than we do back here in the village, and the closest they have ever come to tasting the ‘unga ya hostess’ is on a tv advert. Funny enough,it could be coming from someone who grew up here in the village. Walked barefoot. Went swimming in those muddy and dung-filled streams, occasionally swallowing that unhygienic water.

We , villagers, can not go through all this pain to prepare to welcome people from town,only for them to make a bagatelle out of it. It hurts. Then as they will be leaving the village, after apopemptic speeches soaked in fairytale promises, they’ll trick us into lending them money to use as fare back. There has always been a cri de coeur about those who, after going back to town, don’t remember to clear the debts left behind, and phone calls go unanswered. What a shame!

Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year.

Brother, it’s Christmas!

Dear bro,

Merry Christmas my brother. It’s my prayer that you, Othieno, are doing well in Nairobi. Allow me to convey greetings from your family back at home. Grandma also sends her greetings. We are doing’ fine except Father. We were happy that Obondo delivered the maize to you. Crops didn’t do so well this season and that’s why they are less compared to what we sent you last season.

Father has been sick, for a while now, but we didn’t want to bother you with it. We took him to the local health centre and the doctor said he has developed stomach ulcers…wounds in his stomach…due his excessive use of chang’aa (he rarely eats as he is drank most of the time). We have tried talking some sense in him but our words have fallen into deaf ears. We even talked to Nyaloka not to be selling chang’aa to him,but still he comes home drank. We even sought spiritual intervention from Omondi Ja polo, who told as that he has been bewitched. We bought; candles, about 10metres of fabric, a hen and paid him some money, mom had to sell that goat that was left to raise the money. All that money was swept down the river. His drinking got from bad to worse. Anyway, that’s enough about baba.

Mama is managing well,but I know she’s just putting on a brave face not to worry us. Deep in her eyes I see pain. She talks about you most of the time. Worried that you might marry those ojua (know-it-all town ladies) and make your life miserable. Or worse still, squander all your money and disappear with all your belonging like they did Owiti. But I assure her that you are smart. She didn’t raise no fool. You can identify a decent lady from athongo (a loose lady). Grandma travels with her in the worry-train too. They have promised to talk to you about their concerns when you come home for Christmas. I overheard them talking of proposing that you take Adhiambo, Okere’s sister as a wife. I agree with them. She has grown up and is very respectful. Her behind is the type you like. She’s also not the loose type. She’s very hardworking…noticable from her love for farming. However, the final decision will be yours to make.

Our younger siblings; Anyango,Akeyo and the little boy Othwindi are already in the mood for Skukuu (siku kuu) , christmas. Skukuu cries can be heard across the village. Making me remember how we used to wake up early to do the call out: ‘Sukukuuuuuu!’ then Owiti and his brother would respond with: ‘Obwogouuu!’ across the stream. We would do the shouting for weeks until the very Christmas day. The night to the big day took like forever. It was always the longest night of our childhood. We woke up quite early, as did mom to bake maandazis. Do you remember that day you stole some of those maandazis and gave some to me,then we stashed them in our pockets to church? Hehe. That was gross. We came back from church and mom noticed our pockets were shinny with cooking oil stains. She then denied us some more, saying we already ate our share. Miss those days.

Anyway, I don’t know what you plan on buying me this time when you’ll be coming home, but there’s this jeans trouser I saw when some Nairobi boys came for some burial here in the village that really caught my eye. It looks like an old pair and with tarters around the knee, I don’t know how they call it but I’d love it if you got me a pair of one of those. And any nice shoes you see there in the city. I want to walk with you on the skukuu day and I need to look the part. I wish I had gone to secondary school like you. This village would have respected me. I could have been in Nairobi too,with you. Together we would have taken care of our family, big brother.

Othwindi, our younger brother, lost his shoes before they closed school for holidays. I don’t understand how. So, you’ll have to consider him in your shopping. Akeyo has overgown the shoes you bought her last christmass, the dress too is torn. Anyango has, at least , been the responsible one. Her shoes and dress are still in good condition, but you don’t want to bring a conflict by leaving her out. Just try and get her something to even things. As for mama and grandma, you know how you always do your magic with those two.

I would like to leave it at that. I have a lot to discuss but that can wait. I’ll be a attending the village baraza today. Ogwindi was found stealing maize from Nyar Puoyo’s farm and the matter is to be handled by the elders today. Nyawiny was also caught yesternight cohabiting with her pastor inside the church by some boys who were attending a village disco and were attracted by some sounds emanating from inside the church. The pastor managed to escape but not without leaving behind his jacket, containing his wallet that had an I.D, and a hat. The pastor has since gone missing. I’ll tell you more when you come home. Bye for now.

Your loving bro,


Merry Christmas and Happy New year to all who took time off their busy schedule to visit this space. Shout out to; Sakko da Prefekt, Wizzi,Alade, Calvo, Oposhe, Pee, Rigo aka Wambizi, Kivi and G-Mlazoh. It’s that time of the year. Hope to see you guys.

Just before you leave. Support a brother by clicking and watching Bandika Bandua by Prefekt and Lexxboi

Super Sales Rep.

They create a link.

There is always something unsettling about the smiles of sales reps. Unsettling because you never know if the smile is genuinely from the heart or some kind of bait. After a lot of observations I have come to learn that it’s nothing but a trap. A trap to indirectly lure one into something without having prior planning. Don’t you think it’s some kind of thievery in itself? Some level of conning, yah? Now, this sales reps…when handling male clients…are mostly female, beautiful female sales reps. Reason is, no man in his right senses would resist some attention from a gorgeous lady with a disarming smile.

Let’s say, you had a rough day at work. The Mpesa lady that you have had a crush on and have been trying to win hasn’t been showing signs of ever giving in. Three days ago you realised she hasn’t been showing up at her place, instead there’s this odd looking guy with an even odder looking Rasta Cap. In your mind you concluded he smokes bhang, because he also has the trademark bloodshot eyes. Your crush hadn’t given you her number so you don’t have a way to ask her where she disappeared. You are walking through the alleys trying to distract your mind with various items on glass display. Most of the shops have either some dude ringing a bell or some bevy of beauties inviting potential customers inside the shops. They are cheerful and adorning the cutest smiles. They could make you forget all your troubles and imagine you are super rich. You forget that your rent is due and the landlord had threatened to evict you because you have always paid rent late. Your cooking gas had ran out earlier in the morning. But still these ‘sweeties’ would make you buy a pair of shoes worth 7k, an equivalent of your rent for 3 months back in the ghetto.

Now, my story is different. I have a penchant for buying stuff online. At least for 4 years now. I’m so addicted to this that going into boutique to, say, buy myself a pair of shoe seems like an awkward thing. Recently on one of my shopscapeds, I had ordered for a customized pair of shoes from one of my contacts. It took weirdly long than I was accustomed to, I was almost giving up. I had been ripped off… It’s a risk one has to be ready for…the meagre 3k I had paid. Out of the wind, I get a call from a different dude informing me that he had a parcel that should be sent to me and wanted to confirm the shipping address before sending. It was slightly past midday. It was a busy day at work and I didn’t give it much attention.

Later that evening when I was back inside my ‘hut’ watching a movie, I remembered the phone call. Fiddled with my phone scrolling through its call log so that I could call back and ask if the mysterious guy had managed to send the parcel. On dialing, when the call finally connected to the other end, a female voice came through and I almost hang up. You know, one thing with me, I hate suprises. No, I loathe suprises. Akwardly, this female voice didn’t seem spooked at all. She was all calm, like she expected me to call. She sensed the skepticism in my voice somehow and introduced herself as Nancy. She knew about my parcel and that it had already been sent and I should expect it the next day. I was impressed.

I hang up and placed the phone back on the coffee table and let my mind replay that conversation. Feeding on the calmess in that voice, her voice. The usual sales reps thing. She was just being ‘professional’ if you understand what I mean.

The next morning I decided to pass by the courier office to check if indeed my parcel was due for pick up. Sadly, it wasn’t there yet. I was told to check the following day. Later in the day, Miss Nancy decided to call back to enquire if I had actually received my parcel, of which I informed her that I was told to go back the next day. There was some level of genuineness in her voice that I found intriguing. Somewhere in my heart I felt it was still ‘professionalism’. After I received the boots, she started asking if I still wanted to purchase anything else. Then I got a Gucci wallet. She sold me a Gucci jacket too. There and then, I knew I had to stop myself before I grew the wont of shopping every day of the month. There are times she could just check on me. She got me confused. I was right and I was wrong. I got to know her full name. Then she told me she was from NYERI. I assure you my phone almost fell off. I swallowed hard and convinced myself I was in no imminent danger. I felt my pants to see if my ‘member’ was present, and with a sigh of relief, it was there. Intact and unaware of my fears.

I am so happy to have known her. Made friends with her, at the time the country is polarized. As politicians are busy pitting tribe against the other, Nancy (A Kikuyu) and I (a Luo) are getting to know each other. We are doing what this country badly needs, breaking the shackles that bind us, tribalism. I Love this Nation. I love the diversity and the difference in culture. Nancy Wangu, thanks for being a SUPER SALES REP. The Best I ever met. Thanks for being a friend. A Kikuyu friend for that matter. It’s always an honor to do business with you.

How I Survived A Mob ‘Justice’.


Is mob ‘justice’ really Justice? Is it the solution to increasing crime rate. There are situations where I would agree that it is. Like when someone is caught in the act, defiling a minor or a woman of age. I would understand when people act out of rage and beat up that savage.  But there are some instances where it becomes an injustice.A thousand people have lost their lives in the hands of mobs, a thousand innocent lives. Simply because someone suspected they had done something wrong (sometimes they didn’t really do it). They end up being beaten up, and/or burnt to their death. How people get excited by the sight of blood is something I still can’t bring myself to comprehend. Have we just become wicked or simply bloodthirsty? When a mob lynches wrongdoers, is there a difference between the people in the mob and the actual wrongdoer? I don’t think so, at the end of the day they have all committed a crime. We blame it on the laxity in our justice systems and the inefficient law enforcement apparatus, but still it doesn’t justify the need for mob lynching. Arrogating ourselves the role of the punisher, issuing instant justice is rather hypocritical of us. We have all, in one way or the other, committed certain crimes secretly and luckily got away with it, what then gives us the right to give out punishment to others? If we all had to pay for our secret crimes would there be anyone walking this earth?

That said, let me fast forward to my story…

It’s one hot and dusty evening when I walk into the countryside bus terminal (Machakos), five years ago. I was traveling back to the village from Nairobi. A stream of bus scouts kept approaching me, persuading me to go to a specific bus, others were honest enough to tell me that that’s the only way they would get their commission. But my mind was set, I had a specific bus in mind – the hottest countryside baby on the road, Destiny Coach. When I got to where it was, dressed in the latest graffiti art and neon lights, I was home. To add more life, the ticketing guy turned out to be my classmate back when we were in primary school in the village. After booking me, we talked for a while and then he advised me to get inside the bus and pick the best seat before they were all occupied.

Inside, I chose a seat in the first row next to a lady I found already seated next to a window. After assuming my position beside her, we shook hands and then I got out my  IDEOS smartphone from my pocket, plugged in it’s earphones and turned on some music. I was looking earn some points. For your information, IDEOS smartphone was an asset back then, smartphone was just hitting the Kenyan market, and being in possession of such a gadget was a plus. 

A friend of mine texts me, asking me where I was and when I told him that I had booked a bus back to the village and was leaving at 9pm. It was still some minutes past seven so he suggested we meet up in town for supper before I left. I decided why not? I requested the lady beside me to watch my space as I rushed to pick something in town. She suggested I place something to mark the seat. Since I had no bag I decided to leave my coudroy jacket behind. I walked into town and met my friend and then at around 8:30pm, he offered to walk me back to the terminal.

On reaching, the bus was not at it’s parking spot. I asked one of the scouts and he offered to take me to the clearing exit where the bus was. I bade my friend and rushed behind the scout, pressing through sweaty masses of other travellers, scouts, touts, hawkers, idlers and petty thieves. Finally, we got to the ‘baby’ and I offered twenty shillings coin to the scout and he walked away after giving me a strong handshake. I got in and walked to my seat. To my shock, it was occupied already. This lady must be so dumb, I thought to myself.

‘Hey, where’s my jacket?’ I asked dejectedly.

‘You’ll give me back my phone!’ She shot back at me.

‘Are you nuts? Where’s my jacket?’ I demanded. She didn’t bother responding to my question. She stood up from her seat. 

‘Conductor here he is!’ He called out at the front.

The intruder seated at my place remained calm. Bodies of hawkers pressed beside me as I stood in the alley. I was about to ask a third time for my jacket when someone grabbed me by the collar of my short sleeved shirt, cutting the words from my throat midway. I turned my eyes to see who the ‘joker’ was but I my eyes only met bloodshot eyes. The attempt turn my head around made my throat hurt and I felt like being cut off air. I gasped for air and returned my head to the initial position.

‘Where’s that lady’s phone?’ My captor asked. Saliva spurting out of his mouth and settling all over my face.I turned to the lady, my eyes almost popping out as I tried to get some air in and trying to speak.

‘Di…d I t…ake  your …phone?’ I managed to ask with the little breathe I could get.

‘You stole my phone and went to sell it in town!’ She shouted back.

This was the craziest thing I ever heard my all life, being accused of stealing. Stealing a phone whose price must have been a quarter of the one I owned, this ridiculous. When I left she was typing on the phone. Before I could talk, someone slapped my head from the back. Then a punch followed. My captor stillof maintained his grip and tightened it occasionally to make me confess. He tried to slap me but I blocked it before it landed on my cheeks. I was now sorrounded , shouts of ‘Thief! Thief!’ rippled in the air inside the bus. 

‘Let’s burn him’, a voice suggested. And it was chorused by the others. 

‘Burn him!’

I tried to plead with my captor that I was innocent. That I didn’t steal the phone in question. But I realised that the more I pleaded, the more guilty I looked to them. My fate was sealed.

‘We are used to you idiots. You are all always innocent. We are going to see how innocent you will after we set fire on you!’ Someone barked from behind me.

One guy ransacked my pockets and fished out my gadget and showed it to the lady if it was hers. She said no. The slaps rained on me in tandem with the questions about where the phone was. I decided to keep quiet and wait for my death. I always wondered how I would die, where and what I would be wearing on that fateful day. My guess had always been that I would die in a road accident. That day had finally come, I know knew how I was going to die. A painful and embarrassing death. I felt for my family and friends. What a shame I was going to leave them. Lynched by a mob snatching a phone. I thought of how they were going to learn about my death. An update would run under the screen of television news broadcast: A NOTORIOUS PHONE THIEF LYNCHED AT THE FAMOUS COUNTRY BUS TERMINAL! That would be me, a ‘notorious phone thief’. They would just ignore it or maybe say it deserved the thief right.

After some days when I didn’t make it home and my phone dead.A  search would ensue. Only to discover that I was the ‘phone thief’.

I thought of a scenario where the police would intervene and handcuff me to the nearest Police station…Moroto… that is less than a hundred meters from where I was facing ‘justice’. They would hold me there for a while until I bought them some ‘tea’ before they could let me go.

My stream of thoughts were interrupted by someone’s voice ordering people off the bus. My captor loosened his grip and I looked back and I recognised that face. He had been down there with my friend, the ticket guy.

‘Aren’t you a passenger in this bus?’ He asked when he got to me. I gasped for air and told him that I was.’Show me your ticket!’ He demanded, but in a soft way. I reached for my shirt pocket and luckily it was there. I showed him and then he turned to the lady who had been accusing me. I remembered my phone but I couldn’t see any of the faces who had held me captive. But that didn’t matter now, I just escaped death.

How To Kill With Flaccid Breasts.

Killing with flaccid breasts you ask? Yes, I mean exactly that, what you just read. It’s ridiculous, that I agree, but not to everyone. At least not with my tribe. I have heard this since I was old enough to  make sense out the the words that reached my ears. How true this assertion was I didn’t know, until few weeks ago. 

There are numerous taboos embedded within my tribe that seem control how people relate with one another. I remember when we were young, we were always warned not to look at female kids while they are passing urine. Let me make it clear to you that we never did look at them with ill intent, but mostly it was out of curiosity. We had a pipe with which urine jetted out, but they didn’t and our young minds found that fascinating, very fascinating.  But we had to stop, as we didn’t want mother lose her breast. We were also warned against crying or wailing at night, as evil spirits would pick up our voices and we would loose the ability to talk. 

In adulthood, existed more serious taboos, that lead to death. If someone, out of anger showed you his or her butt hole, you were done for. The only remedy is to whip that person’s butt instantly or show them yours too. Hahaha. Crazy, huh? Another bizarre incident is when a wife hits her husband with her panty, food or cooking stick ,this means death unless special intervention by elders were done immediately. How true this beliefs are, I can’t tell. Woe unto you if an irritated woman unleashed the the curse of breasts on you, by undressing and slapping them, or even her thighs. Death visited you immediately. It is this last one that I was set to prove after I witnessed it in play, a few weeks ago. 

It’s around 10:00am, and the market is just warming up for the day. It’s a fair weather and most people are busy setting up there wares of trade, so the market is relatively calm and quiet. The eerie silence is disrupted by Otieno, preaching at the top his voice. He stops it abruptly, just as he had began, and the serenity is restored. Now, Otieno is just the market lunat, the only twist is that he preaches the word of God. Wasonga, another of Otieno’s kind , runs and prances, and leaps across the market. He makes a sudden halt, then starts dancing to some imaginary tunes . These are normal occurrences that rarely draws peoples’ attention. 

I’m drawn to my work when I here someone wailing, a woman’s voice. It’s a mix of screams and words that at first are inaudible. The voice gets closer and the words are getting clearer. A look at the marketers and I realize their attention is trained to the source of the noice. 

Atieno, you have destroyed my house! ‘ the voice screams. ‘I’ve been quiet for so long! ‘

Finally, the source of the voice comes into view. A woman, noticably around 60 years of age, medium height and dark in complexion. She had no blouse or bra on, just her dark trunk with two loose pricariously hanging socks-like breasts, flapping like elephant ears on her chest. I stepped out of my shop and my eyes followed her to where she was headed. Then she stopped right in front of her, Atieno. Atieno is a maandazi vendor. She’s somewhere in her 30’s. She’s blessed herself with a light skin, thanks to the cheap bleaching lotions sold in every salon and beauty shop. She must have been accustomed to this kind of attacks from other women, because all this time she remained calm, handling her maandazis. Or it must be she was waiting for the old woman to dare touch her, she must have been confident the woman was no match. 
It is this calmness that irritated this woman more, she jumped slapping her grotesque breasts, unleashing curses, insults and threats at the sametime. I feared for Atieno. She was going to die, if the beliefs were true. Seeing that Atieno wasn’t shaken, she dared to undress and curse her with her womanhood. As she began lifting up her skirt, some two women rushed in to restrain her, offering a shawl to cover herself. They walked her away, calming her down and trying to keep the shawl in place. She had totally lost it, she was fighting for her husband. 

It’s almost a month since that last incident, and I have been watching Atieno closely, monitoring any change in body weight or business falling, but nothing. She seems to have won the battle. The other woman lost her dignity. The woman was justified in her course, but it was misguided by belief that she could cause someone’s death by embarrassing herself. Maybe there was another way of handling the whole issue without causing unnecessary loss of dignity on her part.