A Letter From The Bush.

Lalur aka fisi.

Dear Nairobians,
Warm Greetings from this other side of the planet. This side of the world you have inconsiderately eaten up in the name of development. It is no wonder ng’etuk (the stray lion) paid you a visit earlier this year. We would have strolled down your streets as well but with the fate that befell my friend ng’etuk am afraid we gonna have to pass.  But as politeness and respect (or fear, call it what you want) would dictate, RIP ng’etuk, we loved you but KWS feared you the most.

Let me introduce myself, they call me lalur here in the jungle, but you know me best as FISI – hyena. I took to writing because you left me no choice. The scuttlebutt reaching me has it that I am all cunniving, calculated, annoyingly narcissistic, and outrageously debauched or perverted. Well, I am writing to set the record straight. In as much as I would want to distant myself from these malicious innuendos, they are half-truths, ok, 99.98% half-truth. However, they in no way portray my true demeanor.
 
You see, these suppositions reached my many wives, concubines, and courtesan and didn’t pass my mistresses. My reputation is now questionable and I am exhausted giving deceitful explanations. I am a generous giver, I love my women equally with no bigotry whatsoever. They all get a part of me whenever and wherever they need. My prowess is exceptional. So I consider it a win-win situation.

Ever since my name started being part of your conversations, I have been having extremely hard time putting my women in their place! What happened to discretion? What happened to clandestineness?  Look, these things take time, it is not for public display. I hear you even formed a SACCO in my name and christened it: MAFISI SACCO!  Now that is just so cheesy!

My honourable name now finding it’s way in clothing lines. Did I say clothing lines? I mean every struggling jobless youth, with some poor graphic skills is using my pristine and prestigious name on some third hand T-shirts to get some coins. Now that hurts. Hurts my ego and pride to the core. Do you ever imagine you can earn a living off that? By soiling my honour?  Did you ever bother asking me for a piece of advice? You thought you had every right, yay? Felt I was too cool too dumb I guess. But now I am out of the bushes. Out to take back my honour. I’ve been watching all the braggadocio the use of my name has brought to your shallow lives.

I hear you even have a feminine version too; fisiress or fisilets, whatever you call it. That’s so silly of you, if you may ask me. That’s like walking into a funeral wake and slapping the bereaved family hot in the cheeks. Or going to a jilted husband and telling him that you are the one who has been laying his wife. It is this insult that prompted me to write you this letter. This protest letter. I’m out of the bushes but nowhere in your streets. Neither here nor there. But I’m here. I can yank kilos of flesh from you anytime, anywhere. But I chose not to. Not now. I wouldn’t let my retaliation be so obvious and predictable. I love being smooth. Call me Mr. Smooth Operator. For now I’ll pretend like nothing happened or is happening. I’ll assume we are friends, friends with lalur wannabes.   

For the sake of standards I want to see upheld, I’ll give you some free advice. Tell you how I want things done, just how they need to be – and not how you, Nairobians, want it to be. To set the record straight; we need to be discrete, we need to conduct our operations the chini ya mawaba way for the sake of our numerous wives and potential wives-to-be. Not a word of our activities should reach them, lest they pull a Bieber-too-late-to-say-sorry crap.

In the interest of haste, I will have to stop here lest the floods get me here. Oh, and my number one concubine is here so shhhhhhhhhh. Quick advice, when you bump into your house on your way home from work, know that mother- nature in no friend of yours and you should stop littering your city. As for us we live by three rules only. Do not get killed, do not die and the third rule is if rule number 2 does not apply, please refer to rule number 1.

I will not be making any appearances in your flooded town and its suburbs, some of us learn from other people’s hard learnt lessons.
Cheers mates.

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Of Dreams and The Suspense!

Have you ever been woken up in the middle of some lovely dream? Say you had gone for months without eating chapatti and chicken stew! Luckily, somewhere in your dreams you get invited for lunch at a friends party. Set up on the table is your favorite meal, just as you wished it was. You wash your hands and with all your mastered appetite and eager stomach that is now rumbling as if in a celebratory mood, you grab a chicken drumstick and hungrily lift it to your mouth. As you open your foul smelling mouth to take a bite the worst happens… someone slaps you across the cheek sending you back into the real world.

You feel your right cheek and touch something soft that move toward your mouth and another part to your temple. You jerk up thinking it’s a snake.  You reach for a matchbox on a rickety stool that sits next to your bed. Accidentally, you knock off your old tin lamp. You catch the matchbox and strike a matchstick and discover it was a pair of ugly geckos that had ruined your sumptuous meal. The stupid geckos on a rendezvous on the roof of your grass-thatched hut, decided that it’s better for them to fall off and continue their love making on your cheek at the expense of your dreams. 

You pick up your tin lamp that has now spilt almost all the kerosene. The matchstick burns your finger tips as it dies out and you drop it to the floor cursing under your breath.

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Back inside your old dusty blanket that you must have inherited from your late grandfather, you appeal to Jehovah God to allow you back to the dream, back to the chicken you were about to devour. You cover yourself from head to toe because you do not want any interruption.

Fortunately, God answers your prayers and you drift back to sleep, then back to your dreamworld…

You are part of a tumultuous crowd waiting to receive Nelson Mandela. Mandiba himself. He’s supposed to be dead, you wonder! But the fact that the whole town is waiting for his arrival,  he never really died, you console yourself. It was all a lie, a conspiracy, a dream. After some waiting his motorcade finally arrives. One funny thing with dreams is that it’s never clear, you can be in this place and then another at the same time. So you are in a hall and then you are standing along the street. Mandiba singles you out from the crowd. He calls you by name and you are excited. You walk towards him wielding that boyish grin. You shake hands and he requests you to address the crowd. You are the centre of attraction and you can read envy in the people’s eyes.

You start talking and then you find out you are in a get together with friends. Talking about your past moments and reliving memories. You fight to shift back to Mandiba but it’s fruitless. You decide it was just a dream in a dream and you quit trying.

One minute you are driving home (back to the village) in this sleek state of the art Lamborghini with butterfly doors (doors that open like wings) and you just can’t wait to get home and show it off, then when you are approaching your home you are riding on an old bicycle.

Another instance, you meet this hot lady or dude and things are just going as you want them to. You decide to exchange contacts and when she/he starts saying the digits something wakes you up, and you remain grumpy the whole day! What a loss!

Dreams are sweet and fascinating. Dreams are silly and annoying because of the suspense. Most of the times, when I retire to bed each night I think of things I wish to dream of, once in a while it happens but mostly it plays tricks on me. Leaves with raw appetite. Hungry for more. But it never gives me the MORE.

I’m Smitten!

It’s thirteen hours since I landed in Mombasa (I used a bus though.)…

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Love struck

I woke up at around 6:30am in my hotel room despite having slept quite late. I couldn’t understand why I was awake that early yet I was supposed to be enjoying my weekend at the coast, and dragging my ass as ‘coastarians‘ do. I had a feeling something good was about to happen, but I couldn’t figure out what exactly! I got out of bed and did a quick cold shower, got dressed up and sat back on the bed flipping through channels on the 32inch ultra slim Toshiba tv set that the room boasted of. Still I couldn’t settle. A room attendant informs me that my breakfast is ready and I rush for it in the dinning area, ready to hit the town.

An hour later I drive into Likoni Ferry roundabout a in tuk tuk. I’m busy chatting the tuk tuk driver who had ferried me as I  ransacked my backpack trying to get a hundred shilling note out of the wads of notes I had stashed there ( Luo will kill me, haha). Opposite me another tuk tuk pulls over, the right door opens and a white doll shoe steps out, then a whole right leg in blue jeans pants. Later an arm with a black bag and finally she wholly stepped out clad in pink blazers. She pulled out two more bags, and then I saw it. That smile. It was familiar, like I had seen her in a past life. No, in my dreams I suppose. She was pretty, prettier than a goddess, and that I was sure.

“Vipi kaka?”(Hey bro!) I’m interrupted by the drivers voice.

I get back to my senses and realise I had pulled out a thousand shilling note instead of a hundred. A quick search and I fish out the right note and hand it over then walk out, my eyes trained on the disappearing beauty. I catch up with her as she put her three bags on the scanner rack at the entrance to the ferry terminal.

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“Si uniachie begi moja?”(Let me have one bag) I tease in her in a fake Swahili accent that I acquired when I arrived in Mombasa, as I pick up one of her bags at the other end of the scanner. She looks at me with that sweet familiar smile and I feel weak for a second then get my zeal back.

“Niko sawa!”(I’m good) She protests but later lets me have my way. She’s so charming, I decide.

I walk beside her feeling so homely. Feeling like a married man.

“Si tuketi upande wa juu!”(Let’s sit on the upper deck.) she suggests as we get onboard the ferry.

“Oh, yea!” I agree with her without any second thoughts, how could I not agree. And who in his right senses wouldn’t! I follow her up the stairs and sit beside her, facing the ocean – on a bench she picked. I gave her surreptitious looks and imagined her with a protruding belly carrying my unborn child. I pictured us seated somewhere on a sandy beach watching our kids play. I saw us going out on hikes and karaoke nights. I travelled in to the future, the virgin future ahead.

I’m interrupted by the hooting of the ferry. It’s like I had been lost in my own world for ages, hadn’t noticed the ferry had been slithering across the ocean and it was now time to disembark. She’s ahead of me as we get off and I keep my eyes on her as we find our way through the crowd. Not saying a word. Out through the exit gate the crowd eases and I rush beside her.

“What’s your name Miss. Stranger?” I manage to ask, avoiding conversation in Swahili. She looks rather calm. She looks me in the eyes and giggles.

“Call me Irene. And you? ” She answers and throws back the question just as I hoped.

I tell her my name and after a little chitchat we exchange contacts and go our separate ways. I don’t get that smile out of my mind all the way… 

I Had to Walk Naked!

I’ve been hearing complaints about the current generation dressing skimpily, ladies that is, and some call it walking ‘naked’! It’s fashion. It’s a trend. An in-thing they call it. Personally, there’s nothing so worrying about all this – in my perspective! Why? I grew up when civilization (according to the western culture) was just about getting to my village or our small world then. The only clothes or dresses akin to us then was a piece of beaten or softened goat or cowskin cut in a triangular shape with all the tips having a rope extension. The ropes aided in fastening it around the waist after placing the cloth like an inverted triangle below the waist at the front. The hanging rope then passed between the legs, through the butt-crack and fastened at the waist on the  one around the waist. It only helped to cover our manhood. Does the description sound a bell? Looks like the ‘thong’ aka ‘G-string’, dah? Yes, we wore thongs back then.

Enough of all the noise!

Now, all this took place one evening around 1946. 

I was sixteen years, strong, healthy and masculine.  The boy of the home. My dad’s favourite son. Reason? I knew how to look after cattle and ensured they ate to their fill and well watered. For this reason I was never sent to school (education had already been introduced by the white missionaries in the village). That is where weaklings were taken, those who added no much value to the home. They were sent to school as punishment.

One fine afternoon, bright and calm by all extensions, I decided to take the cattle for watering at a nearby stream.

At the stream after the cattle had drunk water, they set out grazing along the banks. Since it was fairly hot, I took the opportunity to bathe. I gave my ‘thong’ a fair wash and left it to dry up on a rock. Water caressed my skin and gave my body some bit of  relief I badly needed. Finished, I sat on another rock as I let water drip out of my body as I watched the cattle graze.

After a while, I decided it was time to walk the cattle back home. I turned to the rock where I had spread my ‘thong’ to dry but to my shock, it wasn’t there. Where could it have disappeared to? I kept checking and turning dry leaves as I moved closer to the herd. It’s then that I noticed a cow chewing but not dropping it’s head down to pick up grass. Something like a string hanging from the side of her mouth. 😠. On close inspection, it was my ‘expensive ‘thong’.

How was I going to walk home ‘naked’? Walk with my manhood swinging like a pendulum! I just looked at the cow not knowing what to do to her. I sat back on the rock and thought of what to do. At this instant I heard some monkey chattering. l looked at the direction of the sound, and something caught my eye, a banana plant. Scanning the leaves, an idea struck me. I went and plucked a leaf and tied it around my waist. My problem was solved, at least for nom till I can make it home and retrieve another ‘thong’. I directed the cattle back home but all the way I felt naked, not used to the breeze hitting me from below. My balls felt like they were freezing. Lucky for me, back then you could walk for miles before meeting another walker.

Don’t be asking yourself how old I am! This story was narrated to me by friend of mine who is 85yrs now. 😅😅

How I wish I was born then. But never getting old and wrinkled.

The Wheel

We have dreams, we have misions, and we have visions followed by a well thought out plan or strategy. With all this in place, we have a well oiled wheel to surpass mediocre metes.Keep on jogging and never stop, except to analyse our progress. We can do it fam,trust and believe.

~jagweng

Destiny

Destiny is not a matter of chances; it is a matter of choice. It is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved.

~William J~