THIS WORLD IS NOT OUR HOME

EDWIN KIPTANUI CHIRCHIR edchirchir@yahoo.com edchirchir85@gmail.com




PHOTO CREDIT: PIXABAY

Less than five years ago, on a date, month and year which I cannot remember very well, I was inside the North Coach, seated comfortably, with a considerable level of arrogance and a sense of entitlement. After all, I had parted with Ksh 800/= for that ride. What was that? Are you rolling your eyes? huh? I was heading to Eldoret from Nairobi. On the screen inside the bus, the driver had decided to play us a re-run of Churchill show and everyone was fairly happy, because they were laughing happily. It is possible that they were laughing, not because the jokes were hilarious, but because they were well fed, after all we had just made a brief stop in Nakuru, where we took overpriced but delicious meals at Nakubreeze restaurant. Get me right, I am not trying to belittle any comedian here, but I believe we are all in agreement that it is very difficult to make a Kenyan laugh, so we cannot just assume they were laughing as a result of the jokes. A kenyan can only laugh when they are well fed and they are not broke, period.

Now, come closer guys, come closer and listen very carefully. Somewhere, not far from Sachang'wan (the famous road accident black spot), we came across an accident involving six vehicles. Apparently, a 22 wheeled truck ferrying maize towards Nakuru, had developed a problem with the braking system and lost control, hence ramming into oncoming vehicles on the opposite lane. It would have been better for the lorry to hit, vehicles of similar size and make, but no, it rammed into smaller and weaker passenger vehicles and hence there was no way the incident could come to a happy conclusion.

Our bus stopped shortly and that is when curiosity kicked in. Half of the population in the bus alighted and each of them wanted to see the accident scene for themselves, with their own naked eyes, as if seeing it from the bus window was not real enough. As expected, the impact of the accident was great, because it had claimed the lives of more than eight people and many more were injured.

Some professional eye witnesses were already at the scene, speaking to journalists from various media outlets. They were narrating the story, point by point, ending with their own opinions on what might have gone wrong. Some said the truck driver was drunk, others said the vehicle was faulty. I think I even overheard someone blaming the force of gravity for the accident or may be that was a product of my imagination.

Our impatient driver kept hooting, trying to remind us that it was time to leave. It seems drivers do not want to be reminded of what could possibly go wrong on our unpredictable roads.

Once all of us had trooped back into the bus, we encountered a number of changes. First of all, there was some uneasy calm as the previously noisy passengers went mute, with a few, murmuring softly about how short life is, while shaking their heads.

The driver immediately switched off the T.V and started playing the old school gospel songs such as 'Kila mtu atauchukua mzigo wake.' - Everyone will bear his/her burden and 'Bwana nipe uvumilivu' by Rose Muhando. Those songs that seem to draw you closer to God. The kind of solemn songs which I sometimes like to imagine the 24 old men surrounding the throne in heaven, usually sing.

A middle aged man called Kangethe, who had made it known to us at the top of his lungs that he was a rich man, went mute. In fact he switched off his phone and proceeded to wipe his face several times, to get rid of the sweat. He was no longer interested  in making loud phone calls and discussing lucrative business deals, at the top of his voice. I mean, this is the same guy who a few minutes ago had been calling a number of people and introducing himself loudly, for all and sundry to hear, as Kangethe. I had started to imagine him as one of those guys who own a number of businesses under the roof of a single tiny structure. You are getting the script right? I am thinking of something like Kangethe wa Kangethe enterprises, deals with: Motorcycle spare parts, car tyres, 'Thufu' (Soup) and Mutura, Stationery, shoe repair, photocopy, printing, photography, key cutting, coffins, guidance and counselling, artificial teeth, fresh vegetables and fruits, sugar, mobile phone repair, shoes, farm implements and electrical repair and installations - ALL UNDER ONE ROOF!

Some drunk fellow in the next row, also seemed to have sobered up, thanks to traumatizing images from the accident scene. He had all along been our only 'public noise maker' in the bus. He had severally pestered  the passenger next to him, trying to force stories down his throat about his daughter in Nairobi called Brenda, until that passenger threatened to beat him up. He momentarily recoiled, but shortly thereafter re - emerged, loudly singing praise and worship songs off key, to everyone's annoyance. I still do not understand why some fellows get drunk while travelling. I mean, do we really need alcohol induced confidence in order to travel these days? Is travelling that scary? huh?

I know you are wondering how I was doing myself. Was I shaken by the accident, especially bearing in mind that we would possibly have been victims, had we arrived at the scene 10 minutes earlier? The answer is yes. In fact I was so shaken that I forgot the name of the lady seated next to me, even though we had introduced ourselves earlier. I could not recall whether her name was Celina or Mary. I do not even know whether it was any of the above names. Thankfully, she also went mute for the rest of the journey, otherwise I would have had to call her 'Wee' or 'Nanii' if we were to converse about anything.

The prayer warriors in the bus were not left behind. There is a woman for example, who was seated behind me, praying silently in Kikuyu language, while hurriedly mumbling 'Ngai Fafa' and 'Ngai witu' in between her statements. Most of the other passengers remained mute but very much alert for the entire journey. It was as if their alertness would help the driver drive softly.

I learnt something about we the human beings that day, that we are very afraid of death although we sometimes like to think we are brave and immortal. This fear of death is always more pronounced, whenever we witness those of our kind dying or we encounter those who are dead. I hope this fear of death  remains, even as we go for our elections on 8/8/2017. Let this fear remind us that no one is immortal, hence we should not be the ones contributing to the deaths of other people, just because we have some ideological differences. It is good to acknowledge that this world is nobody's home and hence we should let everyone live to their fullest potential, before they proceed to the next world, other than forcing them to proceed prematurely. Vote wisely and keep the peace!

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HOW WOMEN FIGHT!

EDWIN KIPTANUI CHIRCHIR edchirchir@yahoo.com edchirchir85@gmail.com






PHOTO CREDIT: PIXABAY







Shallyn and Sherry have been fighting for the past thirty minutes.

Thanks to that fight, they are now both half naked, having torn each others clothes. The fight has also resulted in broken finger nails and faces which look like they have been modified by a fierce leopard, thanks to various episodes of scratching each other's faces.

The worst part is that they are mainly fighting using their mouths, more than their hands. That has now resulted into several pairs of ears, hearing nasty or dirty words, which are not worthy of being typed here. They have called one another names of the various parts of their anatomies. We now know that Shallyn is a serial 'Husband snatcher' who cannot carry a pregnancy due to barrenness, while Sherry has become a highly valued customer in some dingy clinic where abortions are performed. We also know that they are fighting because Shallyn stole Sherry's boyfriend, who happens to be some other lady's husband.

The place is crowded by both men and women who are watching the unfolding spectacle. Thankfully, most children are in school. None of the many people in the crowd are willing to intervene in this situation, reason? Anyone who intervenes becomes the recipient of nasty words from the duo. In fact they are so united when it comes to abusing anyone who dares to intervene in the fight.

A few minutes ago, two guys, Baba Deno and Baba Brenda, tried to separate them and thanks to their helpfulness, we now know that Baba Deno has been dating both Shallyn and Sherry and that they are actually fighting over him. So, now he has been promoted to be the 'bull' of the estate. The idea that Baba Deno was an errant husband was stated before the crowd and Mama Deno was in the crowd, so it is obvious that things will never be the same again in Baba Deno's house. It is a foregone conclusion that Baba Deno will receive the 'silent treatment' from his wife at best or will be scalded to death at worst. It is a fact we cannot ignore because Mama Deno is now sulking and there seems to be a dangerous red glare in her eyes.

Baba Brenda is not doing any better. This is because thanks to his intervention in the fight, we now know that he cannot stand with all his three legs, when it comes to bedroom matters. How Shallyn and Sherry knew that, we have no idea. The only thing we know is that Baba Brenda's self esteem has suffered a major blow from which it might never recover. His shoulders are suddenly stooping like those of a cow recovering from a bout of foot and mouth disease. To the crowd, Baba Brenda is no longer a man. We do not even know how to describe him because he has suddenly become a strange creature, who can neither be classified as a man nor a woman. It does not help matters that Mama Brenda is part of the crowd and she is possibly wondering how Shallyn and Sherry knew of her husbands little secret. She is possibly annoyed and in Baba Brenda's family, it is evident that things will never be the same again.

So, now the fight proceeds as people watch helplessly. The fight is majorly verbal, with a few and isolated punches which often miss the target, because they are delivered in the version of a poorly calculated projectile motion. The greater part of the fight is made up of bloody scratches on their faces and hair pulling, which ends up destroying the added weaves, revealing unkempt hair beneath. Our only hope to ending this fight now is to get an old grand mother to stand between them because in the African Society, you do not ignore the wishes of a grand mother, because the fear of curses still stands.

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EDWIN KIPTANUI CHIRCHIR edchirchir@yahoo.com edchirchir85@gmail.com









 PHOTO CREDIT: PIXABAY

 
What if?
What if we Kenyans could live
Together like brothers and sisters

Regardless of whether you pronounce danger,
as Tenja, Ndenja, Deja, Khadenja, Rudenja, Kudenja?

Whether you pronounce Boy 
as Mboy, Poy, Foy, Kaboy, Tuboy, Ruboy?

Whether you pronounce Fish 
as Fis, Pish, Vish, Fishi?

Whether you pronounce Thousand 
as Tausan, Ndausani, Zauzanzi?

Whether you pronounce Brother 
as Blatha, Frater, Mblatha, Prater, Broda, Frada?

Whether you believe in Jesus, Allah or Haille Selassie I and I?

Whether you ride in a Mutsubishi or Footsubishi?

Whether you take morning meal or breakfast?

Whether you will die or be promoted to glory?

Is it possible?

Yes it is, if and only if, we stop playing dirty politics.

 
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DOCTOR FRANCIS

EDWIN KIPTANUI CHIRCHIR edchirchir@yahoo.com edchirchir85@gmail.com



PHOTO CREDIT: PIXABAY

I wonder where Dr. Francis is. Whether he is still roaming this world unperturbed by this unpredictable life or whether he might have become (God forbid) past tense. The reason I have never forgotten Dr. Francis is because I was born and brought up, towards the end of an era where doctors used the same needle and syringe to inject the residents of a whole location, made up  of two or more sub locations.

That was before we discovered AIDS, or may be we had discovered it, but it was not yet a very serious problem. That was before AIDS made it clear who calls the shots in the medical fraternity, hence making it mandatory that each person gets to use one needle and syringe by himself or herself.

The doctor (Dr. Francis in this case) would just look at you thoughtfully, examine your eyes, make you say 'Ahaaa' then he examines your teeth, tongue, soft palate before he asks you a few questions including what you ate last night, how you slept (as if you would know), whether you feel some pain anywhere on your body, before asking you to cough and you would cough softly, trying to show him that you are almost getting well, just in case he changes his mind and spares you the injection. Of course, once you cough, he would conclude that you are ailing from either malaria, common cold, dry cough and whatever else was on the menu, and whatever it was, it always ended with an injection. Dr. Francis never engaged in 'nonsense' like collecting blood samples, urine and stool and you were sure to get well.

Just in case you are still rolling your eyes and wondering who the hell Dr. Francis was, then let me help you. He was a chap who used to be in charge of Sabatia dispensary, somewhere in Baringo county. That was before the birth of Solian health centre and Lebolos dispensary. That meant that most sick people from Naitili, some parts of Kiplombe, or ....... let's just say the residents of a whole location, would head westwards towards Sabatia dispensary. We all had to go through a thick forest, before deforestation reared it's ugly head. You also had to cross a frightening river called 'The river of donkeys' before briefly climbing a steep slope, towards Sabatia railway station and there, just a brief walk past the railway line, next to Sabatia primary school, you would find the good old doctor.

So, as a child, how did you earn yourself a date with Dr. Francis? Well .... It all started after you forgot to do you homework the previous night and since you knew very well that the subject teacher would skin you alive, you had to look for a way to skip school that day. Then you remembered that last night, you had been nursing a mild cough, which was no so serious and could go away with or without medication. But to save your skin from an irate teacher, you exaggerated your cough a little bit, to make you look more sick, than you really are.

Of course your parent or guardian would suggest that you continue sleeping and you keep coughing dramatically. lest they changed their minds and make you go to school.

Unfortunately, your continued coughing would generate another unsolvable problem. This was because your exaggerated coughing would start worrying people, making them think you might die and you know we are all afraid of death, hence soon afterwards, you would be on your way to see Dr. Francis. You would queue as you wait for the doctor hoping that he would be absent that day, but the 'nightmare' would promptly arrive at around 9:00 am. You are tenth in line and you are starting to get worried because every child who goes in to see the good old doctor comes out wailing. In other words, things are not looking good in there.

You are now second in line, your heart is doing some one hundred beats per minute because number one just got called in and you can hear the pressure stove humming softly in Dr Francis's consultation room, as he boils the other needle to sterilize it, the needle which is likely to be used on you. You can  already hear the imaginary voice of the good old doctor telling you not to tighten your muscles      
( how is that even possible?) because you might break the needle.

At that point, the few brave ones among the children would break free from their parents' tight grip and run back home, with an angry parent in hot pursuit, hurling unprintable abuses including, "I will kill you" but the child knows the parent will not kill him or her, because in Sunday school, he or she had been taught that children are a gift from God.



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MY CHILDHOOD 'SUGARY' ADVENTURES

EDWIN KIPTANUI CHIRCHIR edchirchir@yahoo.com edchirchir85@gmail.com

 

 PHOTO CREDIT: PIXABAY

 Let me take you back a little bit. It is sometime between 1992 and 1994 AD. I am still a very innocent looking little boy, but old enough to be entrusted with a little money to take to the shops and come back with some household goods. One of the items on the shopping list is sugar. Of course, there are other items like salt, tea leaves, cooking fat among others, but those ones are not closer to my heart, compared to sugar, which is the golden item in the list. An item which deserves a standing ovation whenever it is brought into a room where human beings have congregated. I even remember wondering why cows loved indulging in salt and not sugar.

Now, just in case you have forgotten, because forgetfulness is our nature as human beings, sugar is sweet to the tongue. It is sweet to the sides of the mouth and throat. It is sweet to the large and small intestines. I even dare say that it is sweet to the soul. You can take it (sugar) as a child without any qualms, unlike when you are required to take modern medicines or herbs. Don't you remember for example, that you always took the initiative to steal some sugar when no one was watching? Then what happened whenever you were required to take some herbs, just because grandma said so? You always put up a fierce fight, not so? It almost always took the effort of the whole clan to make you take those herbs.

Another thing ladies and gentlemen. Entrusting a small child with the duty of buying and delivering sugar back home is like requesting a hyena to take care of your goats. I remember this little cousin I had and still have, who was once sent to a neighbour's house to borrow a glass of sugar (I know I am starting to sound like a fossil). He got the sugar alright, but then proceeded to eat the whole of it, about fifty metres away from the neighbour's gate, as the neighbour watched helplessly. I wonder what he told his mom when he got home.

The surprising thing was that, it seemed as though girls were not so much into this sugar eating thing or may be they did it through osmosis. It was almost always the boys, who engaged in sugary politics. You would hear for example that Simeon was caught stealing biscuits in the nearby shop, or Thomas was caught stealing sugarcane in a neighbour's farm, or Titus has been rushed to hospital after camping in their maize plantation chewing maize stalks (which is quite sugary by the way). Did you see that? It was always the boys, in their endless quest for sugar.

It is also good to note that our childhood days were very different from today. This is because unlike today, where parents entice their children with sweets in order to bribe them into running some errands, our own parents and guardians always ensured they gave you the exact amount of money for the goods and no extras for your personal pleasures. You only got sweets, biscuits and other related stuff during Christmas. It would therefore be understandable that as a child, you would be sent to the shops to buy 1 kg of sugar and you got back home with only 3/4 kg, having licked a whole 1/4 kg. Some children even got carried away and ate the whole of it, only to realize that they would now have to look for alternative accommodation, rather than going back home to face the wrath of a scorned parent.

In my case, I would quickly dash into the bush, on my way back home, from the shops, then proceed to quickly lick my self awarded share of the sugar, then head back home, mouth wiped clean, humming a Sunday school song and looking as innocent as is humanly possible. As I edged closer home, I would start crying and of course, mom would want to  know why. I would explain that it was 'Kina Deno's' dog, who attacked me, making me spill some sugar in the process. I think psychologists call this behaviour 'Emotional Manipulation.' Trying to make your  parent or guardian, see you as a victim and not the perpetrator of the crime, which led to the disappearance of 1/4 Kgs of sugar.

My sobbing and explanations would lead to some soothing and that day I would even get the 4 o'clock tea, which was a preserve of adults only. Then mom would go about quarreling no one in particular, about some manner less families who didn't know how to tame their dogs. I would still pretend to be sad as I took tea, but in the real sense my heart was smiling.

Then, later in the evening, a problem would present itself in the name of Makena. Makena was a beautiful little thing, but with a dark soul. She would come get milk from our place, because their cows had apparently refused to produce milk. The cows were on strike, if human standards were to be applied. As Makena was leaving, she would announce to my mom that she saw me in the bush, eating sugar. Apparently, she was collecting firewood in the same bush where I was enjoying my sugar. How the hell did I fail to see her? I would freeze for a moment, knowing that a 'Syria like situation' was brewing deep inside my mom's heart and would erupt any moment from the time Makena opened her mouth.

I would also be frowning, while ugly thoughts concerning Makena raced through my mind. I was thinking of when an opportunity would present itself, where I would put hot coal on a chair, then make Makena sit on it, then I would watch with satisfaction as she got roasted in her own malice.

But then, at the moment, Makena has created a recipe for conflict between Mom and I, thus endangering my behind and in such a situation, an elderly relative like Grandma or Grandpa can save me from the whip, but since we are living in the same compound, they may not be of much help. The next plan is to look for my Auntie, who happens to be married nearby. I therefore make a quick exit as Makena concludes her summon by declaring that I will not go to heaven, because I danced with Satan by eating 'just' a little sugar.












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