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Friday 31 March 2017

TEA, TRAFFIC AND TANTRUMS

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

PHOTO CREDIT: PIXABAY

There are days you make tea and then you proceed to take the same tea like a  necessary evil, because the taste is just  not right. You feel that there is something missing. You feel like the tea still requires a little bit of adjustment of its ingredients. You frown as you swallow the contents of your cup, making you feel like someone who is taking poison (I have never tasted poison by the way, so I don't even know what I am talking about). Even the loaf of bread accompanying your tea is not excited about such a lousy beverage.

But then, there are days you make tea using the same ingredients and the taste is awesome. The blending of the ingredients is just mathematically correct. Your body tissues warm up and loosen up a bit as you swallow the tea. You smile and day dream. The loaf of bread giggles with excitement as you crush it between your teeth. The warm drink caresses your teeth and the sides of your mouth as it trickles lazily down your throat and into your stomach.

As you take such tea, your mind relaxes. You start thinking like a supposedly intelligent person should. You even remember the names of all your high school classmates. You start thinking of new solutions to life's problems, which in this case includes Nairobi's traffic jam. You cannot face that traffic jam if you have not taken well made tea because the jam will make you moody and grumpy. It will break your heart. You will feel like you want to cry (this applies to both male and female). Sometimes you might get out of your car to go and quarrel someone in the next car and some times people (strangers in this case) will exchange blows right there on Mombasa road.

Talk of Nairobi's traffic jam (anyone up there who still thinks this story is about tea?) there is always a police officer who controls traffic flow around Nyayo Stadium round about, even though we have traffic lights, which I think they should be turned into street lights. The problem is, he always seems to favour those vehicles coming from Lang'ata and Karen. He will stop vehicles from Kitengela, Athi River, Embakasi, JKIA, Machakos and Mombasa, then he will allow about 129 handsome and sexy vehicles from Karen and Lang'ata to join the highway and move beyond the round about towards the beautiful city centre of Nairobi. Then when our turn comes, he will allow only 9 vehicles to go past the round about, then we are back to Karen and Lang'ata yet again, while the police man gives us that look which seems to suggest that we should 'know people'

I am told that if you are used to tea every morning and you miss the tea one day, you become too moody for your own good. The policemen around Nyayo Stadium round about are always moody, but the guys from Karen and Lang'ata seem to take the trophy when it comes to moodiness.

There was this time I was in a matatu from Kitengela. Out of no where, a black eyed young male adult from Karen route, barely out of his teens, stopped our matatu (not far from Nyayo Stadium round about) and attempted to engage our driver in some quarrel. He was driving an intimidating car, which probably belonged to his mom or dad. His reason for stopping us? Our driver had refused to let him bully his way into the highway, but he should have waited,why was he so impatient anyway?

Our driver, a carefree fellow who seemed to have no worry in the world just looked at the fellow without saying a word. The guy kept on overworking his lungs, by engaging our mute driver in a senseless quarrel, while not even minding that he had parked his car right there in the middle of the highway, hence obstructing other vehicles. He was probably trying to please that young and beautiful girl inside his car. He probably wanted to show her that he was the King of Nairobi's concrete jungle.

Everyone in the matatu I was in, jostled for a better view. We all wanted to see this this big baby with 'bling' on his neck, a stud on one ear, a T-shirt, Open shoes and a trouser which looked like a hipster. His trouser (hipster I swear), was sagged so half of his underwear was out there, basking in the sun. We were waiting for him to throw a tantrum and cry while rolling right there on the tarmac.

I was pissed off and almost joined the quarrel on behalf of our mute driver. I actually have a whole library of obscene words in my brain, which are crying to be used. I wanted to tell him to take the car back back to his 'mama'. I wanted to remind him to show some respect to his underwear and hide it. I wanted to tell him to go and change into something proper, not walking around on a hipster. I would have loved to get out there, so that we could hold each other by the collars of our shirts or T-shirt and push each other around, with our noses about one centimetre apart -I am almost sure he would have requested somebody to hold him or he kills somebody (me) - but then I remembered that some of these kids from Karen route sometimes walk around with their fathers' guns and their fathers or guardians can afford seasoned lawyers, so I cooled my brain and tamed my tongue. We then allowed him to vent his anger. The only disappointment is that the beautiful girl in 'his' car was busy on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram, posting things like #Friday Manenos or #I love my life, hence not listening to her hero or future husband(hopefully). Those tantrums should have earned him 1500 brownie points with the girl, to be redeemed in the near future.

YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE: FORGIVE ME LAVENDER


Tuesday 28 March 2017

FORGIVE ME LAVENDER

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

IMAGE CREDIT: PIXABAY

I have this lovely clipboard, which I have named Lavender because of her confidence. The clipboard is a girl by the way and I feel like girls named Lavender are confident. Lavender helps me hold a number of foolscaps as I write.You should see the way foolscaps lie flat on her chest, with a sense of entitlement as if they have arrived at their final destination and nothing else matters in their lives. Now, I am that old fashioned writer who still writes on foolscaps, before transferring whatever I have written, into the computer, through the 'the finger harassing' process of typing, so you will understand why I fell in love with Lavender, my beloved clip board, the only clipboard in my heart.

So, last Saturday I lost my cool and temporarily ended my relationship with Lavender. It was at about 6:00 pm. I was tired and hungry, because I had been building the nation with my bare hands. For those of you who have ever had the pleasure of hosting fatigue and hunger at the same time, you will understand that at such times, you are in no position to make wise decisions, because your thinking is somewhat hazy. Your decisions are most likely to be rushed and poorly thought out. Don't you remember for example that Esau sold his birth right to Jacob, when hunger pangs struck?

So, in that state of fatigue and hunger, I started rethinking and re-evaluating my life's goals (I had not discovered that I had life goals, I thought having a wife and kids was the greatest of all goals, but no, hunger and fatigue told me I had other goals).

The outcome of that thinking was that this writing hobby had to go. I kicked my clipboard out of my life, just the way scorned lovers kick their partners out of their lives. Yes, I was done. No turning back. No going back to Egypt.

In my state of self - righteousness, I felt that this writing business could go to hell, together with my clipboard. My clipboard sulked. I refused to look it in the eye. After all, we had our irreconcilable differences. I kept myself busy. I even googled the words 'why writing sucks' and my long suffering KADUDA phone seemed to 'blink' out of shock. I got a lot of responses from google, but none of them seemed to discourage me from writing. Instead, they seemed to glorify this thing called writing. It seemed writing had more advantages than disadvantages.

But my horns grew longer. I refused to turn back. I was not taking opinions from anyone, not even if they had ten PhD's. I even took out some old high school math text book and kept myself busy with some sums, in order to distance myself from this writing thing and of course the clip board, but I discovered that at my age, high school math sucks even more. The sums seemed to be much simpler than they had been when I was at that level, hence making it look like child's play and we all know that there is nothing thrilling in solving simple sums.

Then I thought that may be I should have been a fine artist. I took out some paper and tried some drawing. I felt liberated for a few seconds, but then I realized I had just lied to myself, because I could not even draw to save my own life. The only positive outcome of this process of becoming a fine artist, was that I laughed. Yes, I broke into a prolonged laughter, complete with prolonged coughing in between the bouts of laughter. I was laughing at myself. If anyone had seen me do this, they would probably have concluded that I was losing my mind.

Then I checked my blog. It had received some 28 views from Uganda and around 37 views from various places including Russia and Switzerland in a few hours. I felt excited and sang the Kenya National Anthem, right there in my house (Okey, this is a white lie, nothing of that sort happened), but who does not like page views, huh? Trust page views on your blog to coax you back into writing. But I was still adamant.

Then I decided to sleep over this self-inflicted problem. Yes, I slept, but not as peaceful as expected. In fact, I did not dream of anything. I was disappointed. I felt molested because to me, sleep without dreams is a wasted opportunity and time.

Then I woke up feeling guilty. Guilty because I remembered guys like Bethwel Ogot (aged 82 I think) and Stephene King (aged 67 if I am not wrong, today I am too lazy to google anything) had written more than 70 and 50 books respectively. I realized I was joking. I looked shyly at the clipboard (Oh! Lavender). The clipboard was still there, a few metres from my bed and on the floor for that matter. I felt sorry. I felt like I had cheated on my clipboard. I picked it (or her) up tenderly, then I dusted it. I felt like hugging it. Kissing it would have been better. I felt like promising it impossible things like taking it to see River Thames yet I have never even been to River Nile. I felt like confessing and repenting my sins in the nearest church. I had truly sinned by neglecting my clipboard and denying it love, when it needed me most. In other words, the prodigal son was returning home. There I was, headed back to writing.

I learnt two things from this recent experience, one,never make decisions when you are tired and hungry and two, this thing (a disease I think) called writers block is real, but I shall overcome.


YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE: BROKEN MEN

Friday 24 March 2017

BROKEN MEN

 People, Peoples, Homeless, Male, Color


PHOTO CREDIT:PIXABAY



 I am a man (no doubt about that, since I have a fully grown beard and can pee while standing), but then, is that enough to make you a man? Definately not. Manhood is more than breaking your voice. It is more than the ability to sire a few off springs.

For the past few weeks, I have been a worried man. Worried about the Male Kingdom. The things 'we' men are doing are no longer a true depiction of manhood. I think we need to hold a serious male only conference(no ladies please, thank you very much). We can all go to Beijing if necessary, to re-define our manhood and maleness.

It all begins in my own county of Baringo, where fully grown men go about shooting women and children (not that it is acceptable to shoot men  either). I mean, I thought men were supposed to sort out their own issues, man to man. What happened to that arrangement where (in pokot for example) young men who disagreed were allowed to vent their anger on each other using sticks and under the close supervision of wise old men, who would sit under a tree, while sipping from a tin of 'busaa'? What happened to elders, sitting together and discussing the offending issue and reaching an amicable solution?

In the Kalenjin community for example, women and children don't own much in terms of cows and goats. Why then should any grown up man, open fire, killing or maiming them in the process? Why engage in such a taboo?

But it is not just in Baringo, where men are broken. Going by the news lately, there are so many examples of broken men. There is for example a young man in Murang'a, who is known to rob, rape and kill women. He even raped an old grandmother while at it. Is that a true depiction of manhood?

What about that thug in Nairobi who goes on a killing spree, raping victims in front of their families and killing most of the victims. What point is he trying to make? Is he trying to impose the burden of his manhood on other innocent people? What are his gains apart from the ill gotten wealth?

You see broken men everywhere. They beat up or kill their wives all the time, they idle in cities and towns for the whole day, asking for five shillings and sometimes oggling at unconcerned women, they get drunk and sleep in ditches. Some rape their own daughters and other people's daughters. A man even went a head to beat up his three year old step son to death (What exactly can a man quarrel about with a three year old, T.V channels?). What does such actions depict? Broken men.

There is also the tendency of most men nowadays to overindulge in alcohol. They lack the capacity to take alcohol like gentlemen and instead, go ahead to swim in illicit brew.

One time, I saw this young guy in Nairobi. I was at the city at around 2:00 am. Of course you all know that Nairobi rarely sleeps, thanks to a very active night life especially on Friday. The guy was seated (comfortably I suppose) in the middle of the road along Moi Avenue. Thankfully there were few vehicle at that hour, otherwise there was a high possibility of someone losing his life that night. The guy had no shoes on, he was totally drunk. He was surrounded by four of his totally drunk peers, urging him to put on his shoes so that they could leave, but the guy was not in a hurry. In fact, he wanted to take off his pair of trousers and shirt.

Is that what we have become as men? The skunk or eyesore of the society? I think it is high time, we men converge somewhere for some serious talk. Seriously, we need to 'beat Ambaka ' about this manhood business. We can converge anywhere. We can meet on the foot of Mount Kenya or somewhere in Nandi hills, we can go to Arabald (minus the guns), we can meet deep inside Menengai crater or Mount Longonot crater, we can hold court in Mashuuru in Kajiado county, we can meet below those hills in Taita Taveta or somewhere in Oloitoktok, we should not meet in Nairobi (too much distractions), instead we can go to Isebania in Kisii or Kerio Valley in Elgeyo Marakwet county or Kakamega forest. We seriously need to hold a very fruitful discussion on manhood and how to behave like men.

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Wednesday 22 March 2017

MASHUURU

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

MASHUURU SHOPPING CENTRE FROM GOOGLE MAPS
Mashuuru is a small dusty town (or shopping centre) depending on your attitude and mood at the time you are thinking about it. It is a place hidden somewhere on the aching knees of Kajiado County. Somewhere 70 kilometres East of Kajiado town. It is the headquarters of Mashuuru sub-county. It is also not very far from Emali. Oh! how I wish I could visit Emali someday, because the name sounds like a place with very many rich people.

The reason as to why I was there in 2014 is not important, because a man sometimes has to be left alone to attend to some personal adventures. In other words, a lion leaves home when he feels like leaving home and goes home when he feels like going home.

Now, there are several ways through which men  get to know one another. One such way is the kind of complicated arrangement where your missus befriends another man's missus. The man's missus introduces your missus to her man. Your missus then introduces you to the man, where you lie to one another saying,"It is a pleasure to meet you, I am Baba Alex and you are who?"

"I am Baba Dan," replies the man as you shake hands. No smiles and no hugs, only lots of suspicion in the air.

Thanks to such an arrangement, there is this man in Kitengela, whom I only know as Baba Ian (A modern version of a Maasai gentleman, who does not wear 'shukas' and cannot jump to the tune of Maasai songs to save his own life) who had offered to drop me using his personal car, at Sultan Hamud, along Nairobi - Mombasa highway, so that I could 'catch' a motorbike to Mashuuru through a long dusty road. One problem is that he wanted us to leave at 4:00 am to get to Sultan Hamud at around 6:00 am. The other problem is that I had to cough out Ksh 800, to get to Mashuuru from Sultan Hamud, using a motor bike, a two hour journey, so I said, "No thank you."

I took the second option which was; go to Kajiado town, get a minibus to Mashuuru, Cough out Ksh 300 and get to Mashuuru in 4 hours! Did you get that? 4 hours and the way Nairobi folks whine and scream when they get stuck in traffic for just one hour.

Even though I disappointed the guy called Baba Ian, I made sure I asked him a lot of questions, for example whether I could find clean water, lodges, toilets, food, soap, tissue paper in Mashuuru and he told me I would not be disappointed.

So, I got to Kajiado at around 10:00 am, which was four hours earlier because I had been instructed to be there by 2 pm, in order to get the minibus. There are actually two minibuses heading to Mashuuru. One leaves at 2:30 pm while the other leaves at 3:00pm. You miss those two and your goose is cooked, because you will have to travel the following day, unless you are willing to go all the way to Sultan Hamud.

So, I got into the first minibus at 2:30 pm, having booked a ticket as early as 11:00 am, in readiness to traverse the expansive Kajiado County, where I expected to smile at a giraffe, expecting it to hopefully smile back.

Fortunately, there were no excess passengers. Most of the travellers were elderly people who I believe had been to Kajiado to sell a cow or two. The elderly people (both men and women) had extra large ear piercings, which could accommodate the 25 ml kiwi shoe polish can. There was also too much luggage taking over the floor of the bus. A number of household items and food stuffs being transported back home. The funny part  though, is that most of the luggage, taking over almost 70% of the floor space, was the Keg beer barrels. I had not expected to find a single pub in Mashuuru. I had not expected that the maasai drink lots of beer. I actually expected them to indulge in mainly milk and blood. The road is not tarmacked, all the way to Mashuuru which explains why the journey takes four hours. I asked an elderly woman, next to me why this was so and she said in her scanty Swahili, that the political leaders always promise to improve the road network during campaigns, but once they win, they retreat silently back to Karen or Muthaiga in Nairobi.

I saw only two shopping centres between Mashuuru and Kajiado. I do not even know their names because there were no sign posts. So I will call them shopping centre A and B.

At shopping centre A, we found lots of maasai women selling ornaments. The driver picked a drunk old man, to give him a lift to shopping centre B. The old man was speaking in maa language.

In his drunken stupor, the man was uttering very dirty words. Words which I suppose were the maa version of 'F' words. You might be wondering how I knew the words were dirty, yet I could not understand the maa language. Well, that was because most of the maasai occupants of the vehicle were uttering the word 'Osho!' while holding their heads, which tells you that they were shocked and embarrassed by the old man's words.

At some point, the woman seated next to me holds her head and says, "Osho! Aiyayayaya, maneno chafu kabisa (exclaiming how dirty the words from the old man were).

The old man alights at shopping centre B to everyone's relief, including myself.

Now, for  you to drive all the way to Mashuuru, you need to be an expert driver because the road is rough. Our driver even drove through some dry river bed because there was no bridge, which made me wonder how they manage to do that on a rainy day or may be it never rains at all. After crossing the seasonal river, the driver went ahead to make some dangerous maneuvers along the river bank, because there was no other road!

Not far from that river, we found a police road block, manned by five male officers and 'womanned' by one female officer, who had constructed a grass thatched makeshift structure on one side of the road. I really could not understand, because very few vehicles go to Mashuuru, so clearly these were not traffic policemen. May be they were taking care of other issues such as smuggling, but then, what can you 'smuggle' out of Mashuuru apart from the underage daughters of the soil?

We eventually arrived and drunkards will be happy to note that there are lots of pubs (playing lots of modern tunes) in Mashuuru. I dare say they are more than residential houses, churches (Did I even see a church in Mashuuru?) and police roadblocks in Kajiado county.

I found a lodge, costing Ksh 500, but I don't remember the name. It was being run by a maasai woman, so the name might have been 'Mama Ole Somebody' guest house. The lodge has a pit latrine and next to the pit latrine is a bathroom. The bed is beautiful and strong (couples wink! wink! he he he), the beddings are clean, no bedbugs and lice, noise free, no T.V, but they are connected to electricity.

You can get warm water for bathing in the morning, which the woman boils using firewood on a traditional fireplace. No instant showers folks. The reason I chose that lodge was because I had some reading to do and the others were next to pubs, hence too noisy.

Mashuuru is warm but dusty. While there, you feel like you are in the middle of nowhere, with the place being generally flat and with very few trees. The horizon is dark and you cannot see the characteristic yellow illumination of the sky above nearby towns because the towns are far far away. The only saving grace is that you can see the moon, which assures you that you are still on planet earth.

There is a police post nearby, a girls secondary school, boys secondary school and a primary school. There is also a dispensary in case you get sick, but any critical illnesses like those diseases which threaten to uproot your liver and transfer it to your forehead. will either take you to Kajiado town or Sultan Hamud.

Now, picture this. You have been accused of having the intention to 'smuggle' underage daughters of the soil from Mashuuru and selling them off to some Sultan in Saudi Arabia and the Maasai are threatening to drive spears and swords through your heart, how do you make a quick exit from Mashuuru? The only option is to run to the nearby police post.

Now, to leave Mashuuru after your business is a humongous challenge. The two vehicles leave at 4:00 am in the morning. Miss those two and you have to consider another exit strategy through Sultan Hamud.

In fact, on the day I left Mashuuru, I missed the two vehicles but was lucky to get a GK vehicle heading to Thomas Fish Secondary School through another dusty road. A road where you meet giraffes and gazelles on the way. The problem is, the double cabin vehicle was full, so I could not find space inside, but only at the open space at the back and I ate lots of dust.

By the time I got to Sultan Hamud, I was unrecognizable, thanks to dust everywhere on my body except my eyes. I could not care anymore as I boarded a bus to Nairobi at Sultan Hamud. The missus will be happy to note that there was no way I could Have stolen the heart of some 'Zainabu' or 'Kabindu' in that bus. Not with all the dust on my body.

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Friday 17 March 2017

VILLAGE WEDDING? FEASTING WAS AND STILL IS A MUST

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

 Food, Grilled, Chicken, Spicy

PHOTO CREDIT: PIXABAY
 
I was young and innocent, but there was something I knew. I knew that a wedding in the village was supposed to be a time of feasting. A time to take three plates of pilau and three bottles of soda in quick succession, even if it meant constipating the following day.

Constipation was not a big problem because we knew it could be easily sorted out using Andrews (a digestive salt), which worked just like Eno. You were just required to empty the contents in the  sachet into a glass of clean water and drink the mixture as fast as possible, before the bubbles died down.

A good wedding was synonymous with the amount of food and drinks one engaged in. Woe unto you, if your wedding was to be said to be lacking in the food department. You would  remain the laughing stock of your village and nearby villages for generations to come. Your name would be incorporated in proverbs and traditional songs. A dance move might even be named after you. Cheap fame huh!

To pull off a good wedding, which was to remain in people's lips for eternity, animals had to die, beginning with goats, cows, sheep and a respectable number of hens. No one gave a hoot as to how special the wedding gown was, whether it was imported or how much it had cost. That was left to the urban folk to fuss about. Food and I mean food was the standard (or benchmark for NGO fellows and MCA's). Special food had to be cooked and to lead the pack was 'Pilau' and 'Chapati'

People had to eat. In fact, the food had to trickle down to every member of the families in you village and nearby villages and the leftovers had to get to the rightful owners (read dogs and cats). Yes! the domestic animals (not all) had to eat to their fill, regardless of whether they could comprehend the term 'wedding' or not.  In other words, a statement had to be made across the animal kingdom and that could only happen if everyone was well fed. Now, let me make a statement which I think is intelligent and might be quoted in future books and proverbs, "In terms of making the animal kingdom happy, especially as far as feasting is concerned, it seems the herbivores had to die, in order to make omnivores and carnivores happy, which I think is extremely unfair" end of quote. Now, let me bask in the glory of that statement as I wait to be famous he! he!

In the village(rural setup, if you work for an NGO), you do not impose nonsense rules such as 'Invite only' affair because such rules only work in Karen and Muthaiga. Back in the village, a wedding is a communal affair. In fact you do not invite individuals, unless they are larger than life. People who go by titles such as 'Muthamaki' 'Laitoriat' and 'Sultan' Instead you invite families and churches, so that everyone could attend without restrictions.

And then there was the cake cutting adventure. To lead in this adventure was some elderly woman who was experienced in family matters. She would exaggerate a lot of things, for example she would say:

"This cake is the 'Ugali' which Jepkosgei has prepared for us, but before feeding us she is going to feed her husband Kipsang."

Kipsang then opens his mouth wide and Jepkosgei does the feeding as people laugh, half embarassed and half excited, because they are not used to public display of affection.

Back to the woman, "Now Jepkosgei and Kipsang will feed the guests, to show us how generous they will be in future."

As that statement comes out of her mouth, people would stand in strategic positions to get a share of the cake. The only problem is that sometimes the brides maids would assist in distributing the cake and that is where people including yours truly get pissed off. The maids would be shy little things, hence not confident enough to walk as far as possible with those pieces of cakes, hence most people would miss the cake.

The cake may not touch everyone's lips, but at least, it had to be displayed for people to marvel and oggle at it, but it was extremely important for the cake to enter the mouths of important and influential members of the society, for example, Pastors, MCA's, Chief, Assistant chief and church elders, otherwise your wedding may not get the necessary approval.

Most of our conversations as children, after the wedding consisted of:

"How many bottles of soda did you take?" Johnny asks, struggling to breath, because his protruding belly was too full.

"Two bottles." I would reply, also struggling to breath, but happy.

"Only two? Imagine I took four bottles!" Johnny Interjects.

"But at least I took three plates of Pilau and ate the cake." I fight back.

"O hooooo! I also took three plates, the only thing I missed is the cake." This from Johnny.

By this time, I want to cry because I am wondering, 'How the hell did I take only two bottles of soda?'

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Tuesday 14 March 2017

CONGRATULATIONS CUSTOMER!

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



PHOTO CREDIT: PIXABAY




It is 10 hours past midday (that is 10 pm, for those who do not want to think too much).

 I have just disconnected a phone call to the missus. Just then the message pops in, 'Dear customer, congratulations, you have just received fifty shillings 'storo' bonus airtime.' I smile wearily, like a HELB loan beneficiary who has received a reminder from HELB, to repay his loan and he is yet to get into any meaningful employment. I smile knowing that the 'storo' bonus will expire in the following two hours.

Getting fifty shillings 'storo' bonus at that hour is a great fortune, but then the big questions is, whom do I  call at that hour of the night? I cannot call the missus, because well! we just talked a few minutes ago and exhausted everything we had to talk about, including whether the children have eaten or not and whether she is sleeping, even though she is just there talking to me. Besides, calling her too much is like acting suspiciously. You will look like you are hiding something, hence you are overcompensating by making frequent phone calls. Of course I can call her and request to speak to the kids, but what do we talk about at 10 pm assuming they are not snoring away already? Homework? Besides, the kids (boys in my case) are rarely in talking terms with me. The only time we seem to be in agreement is when I am providing money for yoghurt.

Then to the next question. Should I call mom? calling mom at such an hour is a no! no! situation. She must be asleep by then after a hard day building the nation. Besides, every time I call her during odd hours, she gets worried. She will ask whether I have eaten, as if she will provide food should I answer in the negative. She is yet to understand that I am a big man now. A big man with a broad chest and a fully grown beard.

My kid brother is in high school. so I can not assist him in any way. Not when schools are yet to accept mobile phones among students. Even if he was around in the case of school holidays, he would still be busy in that prayerful contemplation, trying to force his brain to absorb the concept of organic chemistry as well as intergration and differentiation, so I let him be.

Calling my colleagues at work, whether male or female is unacceptable, if not suicidal. Remember, most of them are married and I do not want to be a major contributor to the rise in cases of domestic violence, just because I called a female colleague who happens to be someone's wife, during odd hours. Besides, we spend most of our working days together, hence we exhaust all there is to talk about, during the day.

What I am trying to say is that it is practically impossible to call anyone at that hour, so I sit, sulk and watch as time runs out and my bonus airtime expires, just like that. 

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Tuesday 7 March 2017

LOVE BREWED IN COLLEGE

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

Photo credit: Pixabay

When it comes to love, no one can express it better than a college student. I am particularly interested in the love affairs brewed behind Poa Place in Eldoret, just next to the railway line. A place where a college man will strive hard to explain to the wide eyed, hard to please college lady, how he is going to bring the moon and the stars to her door step.

Lots of love affairs sprout  here, especially among students from various colleges around. The affairs grow rapidly, competing with the green water hyacinth growing on some contaminated stream running through the SOS school, thanks to a burst sewer line.

The sewer line has been blocked for as long as I can remember. The municipal sewage line maintenance guys have even given up on it, after trying and failing in unblocking it for too long.

 During morning hours, the place is generally calm and free from commotion, occupied only by cattle herders. Once in a while you will find sweaty railway workers carrying out some repairs or the herders trying to pull out some unfortunate cow stuck in the mud, by the stream. It is only later  in the day that you will notice signs of love affairs.

The mess created by the leakage from the sewer, creates some unsightly mess and stench, but out of the stench emanates some deep and intimate relationships among the young people (the fact that I can use the word 'young') means I am growing old, hence should be appointed village elder as soon as possible.

The intimacy and closeness displayed can make anyone green with envy,especially how the male and female students hold one another under each others armpits in turns, but mostly it is the ladies who are being held under the men's armpits, which makes it important for any self respecting man to clean his armpits thoroughly every morning, not so?

In fact married couples whose relationships are on their knees, should pay this place a visit instead of calling the local radio stations to iron out their marital issues, every morning.

Wife says, "Hello, is that XYZ FM?"

Host replies, "Yes this is XYZ FM, how can we help you?"

Wife: My husband no longer hugs me in the house.

Host: That means he has a new catch, are you light skinned?

Wife: No, I am a black beauty.

Host:  Ha! ha! ha! haaaaaaaaaaaaaa! your husband has found a new light skinned catch. Do you sleep together? Does he play with 'Migingo? Huh!'

Wife: No

Host: When was the last time he played with migingo?

Wife: Last year

Host: Ha! ha! ha! ha! haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!(Holds stomach) Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! he! he! he! he! heeeeeeee! We shall tell our listeners to advice you he! he! he! he! heeeeeeeeeeee! he! he!

Instead of all these, a visit to that place behind Poa place might heal some wounds in your married lives. It can remind you how to love again. Yes ladies, just visit any area with students who are in love. Make sure you tag your husband along.

It is also a place where you can visit, to rethink your issues about life, especially the troublesome issues like when your teenage daughter falls in love with a man thrice her age or your teenage son marries his high school teacher. The smell may not be pleasant, but just observing the students in love may wipe away your worries.

I once met a woman crying there, although I suspect the reason for the tears, was not out of love gone sour. Thankfully, a lady passing by intervened, since I did not know what to do. I have never learnt the art of handling a weeping lady. If there is a college somewhere, teaching about how to sooth a crying lady, please let me know.

My only exception about the place behind Poa place is a guy who once in a while, parks a range rover there, next to the stinking sewer. That is so disrespectful to the vehicle. I consider the Range Rover to be a brand, too great to park near a stinking sewer. I do not really know what that guy does there. Could it be a driver trying to gain love mileage , using his boss's top of the range car? I could be right on this one, since once in a while, you find the vehicle making some odd dance moves, as if dancing to Diamond's song, Salome.

I can imagine it is some smooth talking driver who has managed to capture the heart of some college student, whom he has promised to find a job and even marry as soon as she completes her studies, and now it is all about:

'Inama Kidogo, shika magoti
Nimesimama kama ngotigoti
Mtoto jojo, sio roboti
Chumbani bingili bingili sambasoti

Tukimbizane nini Salome wangu?
Hiyo michezo ya jogoo
Mbona watizama chini Salome wangu, Ukimuona jongoo.................................................................

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