Memory into childhood, and how a caterpillar has jostled me into a creative streak

A fine morning. Fine Sunday morning. I am minding my business, reflectively as I am wont to do on Sundays. I save Sunday mornings for organizing, and structure — and prayer. Then there is the watering of my plants — a hobby I recently rediscovered. While increasing my list of pleasant activities, my confession is that I have gone all into it — and on Sunday morning; I check on which plant is blossoming, and which flower is blooming or which one needs a little help.

A couple of Sundays back, I discovered black droppings on the potting bench. They looked like crisp dried black wax. It later registered when I saw a tiny caterpillar on my plant. I looked right, left and right again while wishing it away. The stubborn thing was coiling its agile body which made me quickly retreat. Is it one of those that coil back before it thunders onto you and clings there? I should have figured that when you see a tiny one, the parent must be lurking by. I reached out into my toolbox for a pair of scissors and pruned the leaf that the offender had clung onto. I then threw the baby away — almost together with my hand. After the incident, I thought it was maybe a bad idea to introduce this plant into the succulent collection — but then isn’t dudu spray supposed to fix this. I had not thought about this beforehand; that when you green, you might need to invest in care for the green space. Well, then you might doubt my farm girl claim. As well as you might doubt my morbid fear of caterpillars, hairy or otherwise. And snakes — the reason I don’t watch Nat geo anymore because my nightmares reached unsustainable levels. And snails –my God! Any lovers of this sticky amphibian might start an appeal to have me fined for the torture I have caused them because the sight of them has had me use my salt shaker in an aggressive manner. Then moments after, I close my eyes as they melt away. And slugs — the black version of snails, making visits to marshy grounds horrendous for me. And chameleons –ha!

This morning. I am about to water the plants when I see a stretched-out caterpillar! This time I take a second but brief look because, Lord above no! My options are limited because my offending way of cutting the leaf won’t work. I swear that as I type on my computer, the thought of tossing the baby with the bath water is alive and well. Except that the bath water is a huge planter that besides the mess of a flying pot with soil crashing on the ground beneath, it might also cause irreparable damage. I cannot afford a suit — and I care deeply about the environment. You might debate my inability to co-exist with creepy crawlies as intolerance to the natural ecosystem as we know it. Not at all.

So, I sit. I ponder. I think of transferring my nightmare to someone else who does not share this inability to process the sight of creepy crawlies. I share this piece of daunting information while pacing up in the house expressing the shock. I even call a family member — who is asleep and is well not amused, because — ah, an adult female who in her many years of existence has not been able to process her fear of creepy crawlies. What a burden to bear!

I remember reading an article sometimes back about a woman who could not leave her house because of caterpillars and how after seeing one at dinner she could not eat lettuce for a whole year. I could relate to that phobia. And I remember reading the article squinting my eyes at the pictured caterpillars — and really sympathizing with her. I thought once I process my own phobia — I would write about this. This is that day, except that I have not processed the phobia. Instead, the phobia has jostled me into creative action — the written experience.

How did we get here? You might ask. I have heard that question numerous times. The contradiction is that I love nature and I will often be found in a farm, or a forest, or a park. Minding my own business until I see the creepy crawlies, or a reptile and my expedition is over. I recently watched a documentary on artisanal mining — and saw this guy casually remark, “shoot, there is a huge snake — a cobra ready to strike”. And they looked at each other, before the reptile quickly slithered away into nearby thicket, perhaps after sensing no threat. I remember thinking, how can you do that. Indeed, on behalf of that guy, I had already mentally jumped into the mine for his safety. Could never be me! I think a snake biologist or similar could never be a career option for me. Imagine I, as a plant pathologist, say specializing in sweet potato vine, and digging my fingers into an innocent furrow with succulent sweet potato vines only to unearth fat healthy worms! I would collapse into the raw open ground.

Back to the origin. I was about 7 years of age. Or younger. I had spent my day collecting coffee beans with my sister — that is what memory says. Or I was doing it alone. I could never tell why we had to collect coffee beans or why filthy looking black beans would make coffee. Neither would the brain of a child process who the end consumer was. But I did it. Then coffee was a cash crop– and the family farm had a decent crop. So, I spent time there, picking red berries only — and eating some; never mind the worms therein. My competition was bats and birds. Strange habits. So, I had occasional run-ins with the caterpillar, and chameleons. My bane was mostly chameleons — because of their famed ability to stick their stubborn self onto your kinky hair, and then methodically work their horn into your scalp exposing your brain to death. See!

This is until an evening, when I followed my mother around. Stubbornly holding her cloak because of a rash that me release a torrent of tears, and mucus and saliva. I could not be comforted because although I had stripped naked, my neck hurt like hell. And despite assurance from my mother that nothing was on my skin, I kept seeing the caterpillar from the corner of my eyes. It was a collar bone that I had confused for a caterpillar that had left become a permanent fixture on me. So, I kept scrubbing it off hysterically until my collar bone became sore. Chomba had passed by to collect a bottle of milk for his grandmother Joyce. Chomba was both my classmate and we also went to Sunday school together. This mortifying show of not only my intense cry, which reached peak level every time I imagined what had caused the rash but also of my little naked self meant one thing. I knew this story would be shared at school and overshared until the next story’s worth.

This experience never left me. And subsequent torments because when you grow up in a farm, the rodents, the reptiles, and the amphibians claim their part in your life. I cannot remember the year, because I relegated these experiences into distant memory, but here they were. A group of white people arrived in our bustling village market. They might have been from ICIPE or a similar dudu institute. And they had an offer. The going price for spiders et al might have been 5 dollars. Chomba was a little grown by now. A young man who had dropped out of school and initiated into young adulthood. An idler, as thought by long suffering school abiding children like me who thought of education as the ticket to better freedom. So Chomba and his friends were enticed to this expedition of catching spiders and other crazy life-threatening species from nearby places. So, our farm was descended upon given its proximity to the market. While I reveled at how quickly they made the dollar, how did they know which banana tree to strip or which natural fence the spiders inhabited. They had a collection to deliver. Of all shapes, sizes and variety. The white people picked what they wanted, paid and left as quickly as they had come. The fear now intensified to how dangerous the farms were.

My siblings knew of this fear — and made misery out of my life. I would be minding my business the next minute I would be on a sprint into safety only to come back because they had either apprehended me to submission or stashed a live caterpillar in my clothes. The conflict within me would get worse because my name as a child was spelt adventure. I swung on trees like a bat in fig season and switched to hopping like a monkey during loquat season. My brothers helped me perfect this skill. I brought a stash of fresh fruit to school each season. A child of many talents. I could do both well in school and on trees so why not! This talent showcase went on for years. I remember my little brother, then a toddler of one year crying in shock when I feel off a branch of tree when reaching out for yellow passion. I did it for him, but he was too little to understand this venture.

Back to the chameleon story. It was a loquat season. So yellow. So big. So round. So succulent. In plenty. My father had planted them all over. And avocados. So, we had plenty. A Friday evening, and my sister was always begging for her share at the trunk. We heard her prayers sometimes. Other times her pleas reached God’s ears and nightmares came twinkling down. One days these nightmares came during the day in form of chameleons. They had lurched onto my arms. In plenty. Picture this. I am sat on a firm branch, reaching out for a heavy twig then swinging it close and eating the juicy fruit one by one. The crazy swinging of the branches must have sent the chameleons into panic. And they fought back. The grip was tight, hence the futility in rubbing them off my arm. I let go and came tumbling off the branches. Into a final fall. Still like rock with chameleons splashed around me. Although nothing was broken, things changed. The swooshing occasioned by my fall invited my father to our forbidden activities. He showed up lighting up like a storm, and with a machete. I thought the machete was aimed at my sister. My father is not a violent man. But I also knew we had long tested his patience. So, I swung into action — crying for my sister. A misplaced cry because, child! You should have wept for the tree. In minutes, the tree, its fruit and chameleons were felled. And in its place, he planted some more. The punishment for us to learn our lesson by waiting for another tree to grow into fruitiness. Sigh!

And today we are here. I was at Mzima springs last year, and my gaze into the beautiful source of the waters was interrupted by caterpillars and I have vowed not to be back. But how far can you run, people around me always ask. Good question because while increasing my plant collection, I brought the enemy right at my door step. And now my phobia is alive and well. And I handle it by writing – the best way I know how. Until it is handled by dudu spray. This is the reason I am a bird watcher. I love birds. They have never harmed me! Oh, and my sister’s day came. She got bitten by a black mamba!

Seeing Norway- Besseggen Final part

WRITEthinking

Hike route -Maria

In my wanderlust experience, I have never had to go to any extreme places, and near death experiences do not naturally lure me. I always calculate what I can handle as I like my feet firmly on the ground. But as I found out from climbing Bessegen, my attitude shaken, I was to stand on a sandy ground – except that the ground was a piece of solid rock, and occasionally the protruding glaciers would remind me the deathly stare that hangs around the mountains—and the icy cold lakes beneath would stare at me – with but a calm dare. I perfected the habit of looking ahead – to the next step, and only looking around, when I had my feet solid and my attitude unshaken. This would be a first.

While starting out, I was upbeat and fresh –I wore my braids held loosely at the…

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Of little frustrations in Nairoberry, where just playing my part is not enough

Me, I don’t know.

I’m yet to find a day that I wake up to a world bila news that make me angry. Spent last Saturday morning reading worrying news of what’s been happening down in SA lately, xenophobia and all. But then a quick check back home and UNCHR has around 3 months to close Daadab. So bad is everywhere you look. I know, many issues. Our security a concern so much so that we are building a 700km wall. Oh, well. Hail the tenderpreneurs. Insecurity has big money. But then we are sending those refugees back to Somalia probably because we thrive on knee jerk reactions to our problems all the time. Jana I read that Yemen refugees have fikad the horn of Africa. Boats are docking at Djibouti, and probably they will come down to Somaliland soon. Look at Kidero now. I’m no expert in queue theory but you can’t have 4lane traffic feeding into 2 lanes and not expect awkwardness. That’s the only nice term I can afford for the chaos that I experience everyday. But what do I know; the mtungi and mchanga people wouldn’t have won tenders to supply the drums. I know I shouldn’t envy Rwanda much but last I visted, they didn’t have traffic mess, insecurity and their streets are lit and clean, man. Maybe I should write a personal letter to Kidero.  Why aren’t street lights never working or harvested all the time they are put up. Now Nairobi is like a little dark hole. Ok, a big dark one. Oh, I know some parts are. And then the little mounds of earth that we have along the Yaya-Kileleshwa-Riverside bypass.

Having been accustomed to walking home under the cover of darkness, and saw some vans a couple of weeks ago, seemingly digging out earth in a manner of laying down or repairing some electric fault, I was excited that perhaps things will work again. I could not tell whether the vans belonged to Kenya Power but my skepticism was starting to wear off, and a far off was a little excitement that lights would work. And I would even walk home a little later in the evening without mistaking every pole or little bush for a terrorist or moving object with an ability to harm me. Actually a few more lights worked and it looked beautiful. But suddenly most of them are off. I have been keenly checking whether night runners may have run down the street light pole or a bulbpreneur may have lifted it off to sell it again, but nay, things are as they were before. Where a light never worked, it still never works. Where we had pole standing erect with no bulb, we still have no bulb. And where a light pole was flattened off by a swinging night runner, a strayed motorist or similar, the pole is still knocked off.

And now this is what annoys me most. I had started to toy with the idea of investing in a bike, as while my route to work is traffic ridden, it’s probably the only route I have seen with a nice pedestrian and cycle track. But they have messed it up. Never fixed lights hence making me more upset than I was before they attempted to fix it. Why, you tell me, would they excite me that the street would be lit and then squash my hope? Anyhow, I have moved on quickly. My current annoyance is the little mounds of earth along the hitherto pleasant to walk on, walkways along the bypass. Why would they leave that mess there?

And then all the uchafu in the drain along the road. I remember breathing fire under my nose another day because a mama in some little car had her kids throw this huge pizza box through the window. Luck was on their side because they sped off just as I was about to reach them and inform that they had dropped one of their goodies, and should make a turn to go and pick it up. I know there are people who will litter the streets whether or not bins are installed at their feet. And then if only Kanju people arrested these  people with the diligence as they collect levies. I remember a buddy who was carried up in the air by Kanju people for talking on phone while crossing the road. Before we could turn in his direction, they has scooped him off, and already bargaining for their cut.

Just outside Yaya, there are all these Vibandas. And hail the entrepreneurial spirit of these mamas who wake up to make all kinds of goodies for passersby. But this is right next to a bus stage. Where because of aforementioned traffic chaos on the bypass, you factor an hour of queuing before catching your bus to work. Matatu, I mean. And while at it, inhaling all kinds of stench, the urea from the street rascal that used the drain in the manner of a urinal, right next to where the vibandas are, and the filthy water and residue from these food vibandas. Very unsightly. Only that the men who squat there every morning, gulping in the milky tea and sweet potato with relish, don’t seem concerned about what bothers my mind.

I got no idea how the permits for these food kiosks work, but if someone is checking, shouldn’t there be a regulation against having food prepared in open jikos right next to a bus stop? Probably make better food stalls, ventilated, proper drainage and lease out to these mamas at a small cost, if we must do it this way. But chaos is everywhere, so moving to a different place is not a solution, because I dream of a better Nairobi. And in my dreaminess, I hope they will fix security, traffic and the city would be clean. Maybe we need someone to adopt our security. Someone to adopt our traffic management. Someone to adopt our waste management. I just don’t know.  I can afford patience when we are making even the faintest steps in the right direction. But when we are cruising at high speed towards the wrong direction, I get very worried. Didn’t someone wise already tell us that if you find yourself in a pit, the first step is to stop digging. Jesus take the Wheel. Me, I can’t.

From the fly on the Wall

Of China opinions, Land conversations, & others

“Many people may think that, now there is Uhuru, now I can see the sun of Freedom shinning, richness will pour down like manna from Heaven. I tell you there will be nothing from Heaven. We must all work hard, with our hands, to save ourselves from poverty, ignorance, and disease.” Jomo Kenyatta, first president of Kenya, from an Independence Day message to the people, as quoted in Sanford Ungar’s Africa, the People and Politics of an Emerging Continent, New York, 1985.

Kayla relocated from Kigali to Nairobi nearly 2 years ago. Her talk is awash with fond memories of Kigali though a much smaller city, where she cycled to work. It’s nothing like Nairobi, she tells Lillian. When Kay went to the Junction the first week after she moved, she felt like she was in London. Well, coming from a smaller city, there was evidence of someone who had missed a bigger city lifestyle, albeit not as much, because she identifies with a country girl.

She is a fond person, mostly because she also reads widely, a habit Lily is yet to adopt. Kay and Lily often pick kitchen discussions busting myths, poking conventional wisdom, and sometimes forming their own “intelligent opinions” on matters around the world. Opinions, just like this piece. At times brilliance can be so annoyingly deceiving. Sometimes, you are just no too sure, and you end up abashed.

Kenya has celebrated Jubilee recently, and Lily feels some impatient thunder emboldening her from within. “You know, the most important gain was independence, there is nothing like freedom. Whilst I agree that being colonized is an unfathomable ill, I also believe that the capability to rule self as a nation is boldly expressed when you give citizenry a reason to be proud of,” she confidently asserts.

We have made considerable gains. Some locust years. Some years of plenty. The economy boom evident, but so has been corruption, multi-million dollar scams. Like in a competition, seeking to outdo the other. To the mwananchi, who works hard to pay the taxes, to feed the kingpins of this country, there is impatience. But for a people who are determined to make each day, the tipping point does not seem so close. In fact there might not get be a point where the taxpayer will demand accountability. The strength we trust is systems, except that their structures are not respected by the ruling class. The rant goes on.

Lily of course doesn’t mean to just whine about all that is not working in the country but feels that we can’t turn a blind eye to all the mess now, can we? Kay thinks the country is right on course, 50 years on and so on. Well, bigger economies took longer to build, and Lily agrees. But 50 years is enough to ensure that the citizenry have access to education (good scores to the free primary education), except that in poverty ridden areas, a child will need a full stomach too, poverty indexes are not too good, and this would fair better if the corruption monster was slayed. And ignorance tops them all, for there is an educated but ignorant mind. This is basing on the indexes that the first president famously mentioned.

 Lily’s brother, Mwek has just returned from China on business the previous evening. He also has been scouting for business in Rwanda. And spurred by the previous intelligent conversation with Kay, goes to catch up with Mwek.

“So how did it go in Rwanda? My bud tells me that that Kigali is amazing! The country is documented as one that has ease in terms of doing business. Additionally, the economy is booming.” Lily asserts without referencing the source of her data.

Mwek agrees and disagrees. There is a misconception you can only discount through experience. He had perched on such thoughts too, but now that he has had experience getting around the bureaucracy of registering a business and it’s not all rosy. It is true you get to register a business within a day, but to operate you need a resident permit to do business, which is a nightmare to obtain. You can give up between the shuttling across different offices, which keep sending you back to where you just came from. “The short of it is that I haven’t commenced,” says Mwek.

Lily is sorry, and quickly adds that there is nothing easier anywhere else anyway. Her biggest challenge is always to bear on the confident gait the brother carries, and the fact that he, being a sociologist turned businessman, advances arguments that make hers look guiless.

And the China trip? Lily asks, hoping Mwek will confirm her opinion that the East is out to ruin Africa. She wears an astonishing look when Mwek says, “No, amazing. Again, l had a chance to bust myths and misconceptions. China is an amazing country. We could learn from them.”

Lily is wary of the look East policy and is for a more cautious approach. Incidentally she doesn’t laud the West either particularly for ills of colonizing the continent and so on. She, in an uncanny way feels the East is on a marauding mission on the continent. She keeps thumping to anyone who cares to give her audience that she doubts the ethos of the Chinese. That one day future generations will curse us, the dead by then, for mortgaging their inheritance. Being market place discussions, there is no empirical evidence to support such aspersions. What she mostly advances as opinions, are carved out of Kay’s opinions.

Mwek does not feel strongly for the West, whom he thinks are causing trouble and funding wars everywhere. “You don’t hear China funding warfare anywhere for economic gain?” he says.

Hold on there, does that make them the angels? All I am saying is we should be careful by getting into agreements and deals that will work for the continent. Not everything on their terms. I hate that we have a bulging unemployed youth but when the East wins these contracts, they ship in their labour. It would make sense if they ship in the experts but the skills we have locally should be utilized. Why is the government not seeing this?

We need funds and investors all right but the fact that we have opportunities for the investors to lunge into, makes Africa an equal party into the discussion and not a desperate case.

But we are own enemies. I have seen it as folly that the governments of Africa despite having an umbrella body AU, don’t seem to do business well together. I am not an economist, but lay knowledge tells me that we could do well if we made and consumed our own products. Develop capacity for our nations to trade with each other. Pray tell, what ails our manufacturing industries? Remembering a term she heard Kay use, “South to South” markets, she tells Mwek that this is Africa’s future!

“The manufacturing industries are so capital intensive, and unless the government buttresses the economy with subsidies, not many can break even.  Also when you say that we should make and consume our own products with equal relish that we consume foreign brands, the quality of our products is wanting. This again ties to capital. It may make economic sense for example, for a fashion enthusiast, to import clothes from China, sell and make profit than to invest in their own fashion label. Quality fabric is expensive so is the cost of doing business. Someone said that after realizing that it would take them 1 hour to fix 3 buttons, they began hunting a button attachment machine, which to their shock cost 150,000. “Patronizing won’t pay bills, you know,” Says Mwek

Lily agrees but she strongly feels that Africa can make and consume own products. See, most African nations have incredible amounts of natural resources, and we keep reading newer discoveries every day. But other than leverage on this, we are busy fighting each other. Then with all these resources, many countries have complementing resources, for example a country that has coal, doesn’t have iron ore, but another has copper etc. but we would rather export all these and import a finished product from other countries;. Can’t we harness our strength, or what is this that keeps us from trading with each other? If gemstones can be mined in Africa, why can’t they also be cut here? I hear in some cases we even sell dirty coffee to processors out there. I guess on of the problems of the African continent is that it never colonized any other continent. No one has seen our might.

But that is why we now have African imperialism. Or is what Uganda is doing in Rwanda or even South Sudan not imperialism?

“I didn’t think it that way,” Lily makes a mental note to read more about imperialism and perhaps cross check with Kay whose opinions she reveres.

Mwek goes on to tell Lily that one thing he liked about China is that no one seems to have a problem with food, or housing or transportation?

Lily is in utter disbelief, as she recalls her entrepreneurship lecturer one day stating that the Chinese live 40 storey skyscrapers, where, even if you were to own a car, there would be no space to park it. It only makes sense to just own a bicycle if you must. “Besides, there are no rich people there. Just a small of the billion population. Do you find that admirable?” she prods.

Lily thinks that either the brother is either out to frustrate her ‘well-formed opinions’ or he does have a better mind. “At least their population lives in dignity. The follies of capitalism have landed us where we are. Murky ditch”, says Mwek.

She hates the mass concentration of wealth to an individual but wonders whether Mwek has not lost it to suggest the socialism way. Why, Tanzania with its socialism seems to fare a little worse than us.

And that’s where socialism provides the answer. In 1930s, in China, the government made a ruling that all land reverted back to the state. And even with a huge population, no one starves.people may not be as wealthy, but they live in dignity. Their transport system is superb. If you own a car, the permit is so damn expensive and so is the license, an approximate Kshs. 200,000. Not many can afford that.

Amazing. On that note, we can borrow that piece. Whilst l will not go for the government taxing such immoral sums to have a license, as it has not provided alternative & comfortable means to mobility, we can glean the lessons to apply to the land sector. I mean who knows how else to kills that mammoth of a monster that sleeps at Ardhi house?

For example, those who own huge tracts of land, which are idle, should pay taxes, not the measly rates, but a huge fine to discourage speculators and have capital channeled in other viable economy growing sectors. Though l think the ridiculous attachment to land is an African thing. It may not just go away overnight. But you should not own all the earth while the rest of the population is homeless. There would be resistance but see where our greed has edged us into? Ridiculous subdivisions that is threatening food security. Like the Chinese we should in every community have people settlement schemes, and the rest of the land is owned by the community, each having relevant shares. In that case, they will take advantage of economies of scale and higher returns will mean everyone is happy. Is that not the essence of life?

They both agree that the extremes of both set ups have their cons, but a better balance can be created where necessary to have a “capital-communism” economy if need be. When she later mentions this to Kayla, she is amazed at her opinion. That even in Britain they have inheritance tax, due to a person’s estate beyond a certain worth when they die. Of course Lily wonders whether the ruling class who own all the earth in this country would welcome even the imagination of such an idea.

She is reaching out for a book she has seen on Kay’s desk. She has noticed besides work files, Kay has also lined up a collection of fat spine books of all fields, and wonders whether this is the reason why she always sounds so intelligent.

Her reverie is interrupted when Kay starts to explain to Mure the genesis of the beef between Ukraine and Russia. She had hitherto convinced herself that Europe is out to have Ukraine join the EU for its own interest, because they would rather have the Caucasians that the Africans. She fears this is naïve but proceeds anyway, stating that perhaps Europe needs cheap labour but Africans carry a more huge burden and would strain their resources. The look on Kay’s face seeks to discount this. Kay counters this argument by stating that Europe would rather Africa to Eastern Europe, as they have the kind of skills that Britain, for example, requires e.g. nursing. The migrants from Eastern Europe on the other hand mostly migrate to Europe to offer labour e.g. picking vegetables. She strongly asserts that Ukraine definitely needs EU more than EU would need them. The US and EU are more avert to a situation of cold war and that’s why they there is an interest.

Lily wonders whether it was a good idea to offer her unsolicited opinion. Her eyes hover over the cover of the book that had caught her eye, “Deterring Democracy” by Noam Chomsky. “My goodness,” she thinks to herself “I need to love to read,” as she wonders whether her mind can crack up such a title.

 

 

Leave Specializ…

Leave Specialization to the animal kingdom

“Human beings were not made for specialization; Specialization is for the animals.

A worker bee can only be a worker bee, a Queen bee can only be a queen bee, and once her output diminishes, she is replaced.We are not an animals, We have got incredulous abilities, that if we all reached within, we would connect with. Can you write, by all means write, can you sing, by all means do. Are you a passionate entrepreneur, birth those ideas into existence. You will be amazed that we have got so much energy for the myriad abilities stored within us, we are tenacious, and can do so many things efficiently, at the same time. Quit limiting yourself, by edging a box around yourself and give room and space to your abilities”

This has been one of the most liberating truths I have discovered.

 

Rethinking Schooling, and Others

It’s a sunny morning at Kilimani Primary School. March 03^rd 2013. We are on a queue, waiting for a chance to exercise our civic duty to vote in a new crop of leadership. New, in this case is debatable. It could be edged in our mind that new means finally a young leadership. And that again has the potential to be stretched to accommodate as many opinions. Why, I am of the opinion that young denotes energy, but this energy could also be bottled destructive energy. Just as old age is not always wisdom. It’s always great folly to meet an old fool, by the way, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. And as the queue snakes its way around the run down classroom blocks, my mind is awash with such thoughts. I am not sure my candidates will make it beyond the ballot box, to be President or something else, but I have learnt to follow my conscience. Vote with my conscience. And this morning, like many others, I am convinced that my conscience is not flawed, and whatever choice I make, despite the consequences I can live with it. My leader of choice may not make it, but that is okay, for the primary reason is not to make a leader, but to exercise a democratic right. This is so individualistic, and I can only hope as many see my sense, and the guy wins. In case he doesn’t it is well. I played my part.

But it’s the small talk that ensue the conversation with my neighbor, which makes it easier to brave the 3 hours ahead. He is joined by an acquaintance, who I am to learn is an engineer. He works in Kilimani but lives in Easleigh. He has been out of school for a couple of years but his demeanor is nothing but a man who labors to eke out a living, which seems to pass him by. But why, this was that kid in school who had big hopes of being the road engineer that would fix the village cattle track that is the road to his home, that kid who braved long cold nights reading mole concept, Polymers etc. At times I am grateful to the small mercies of nature that I attended a high school where morning preps were not compulsory; this is besides the fact that my mind could never absorb anything meaningful beyond 8.30pm. Probably a reason why I haven’t yet become all that father dreamt of me. Those big candid dreams. But I digress.

Not that all men and women of great brains look miserable. In fact the mere thought of being a great brain is a huge plus. If you don’t believe me, try arguing with a fool. But probably nature should reward them more for these brains. And others for being cheated out of their luck and wits, imagining a great end out there, that proved just the beginning of tale end miseries. But it is a tough jungle for all out here, from the art student blogs some vanity that crossed her mind, to the Engineer and even the Doctor. Poor souls the doctors. It baffles me that the government is yet to take their work grievances seriously.

My neighbor on the queue is an artist and seems to share my sentiments. I also, for the sake of the conversation take up an artist title. I crotchet some pretty little stuff (not table mats though or granny sweaters!), I sew, I tell stories etc. That is a work of art, no? He tells of this guy in their high school class who was so brilliant, applied little effort in studies but effortlessly scored A’s, well, apart from Kiswahili. This boy had a thing for sciences, and dismantling stuff and reconstructing them was his pastime. You would expect his future to be bright. But we have an education system that has refused to adapt. I still don’t understand why their idea of revising the primary school syllabus, for instance, meant doing away with GHC, ACM etc If you can’t get these acronyms right, you are far from getting my story. Not that the subjects were structured with a better aim beyond getting good grades, but it’s mockery to imagine what they came up with as an alternative. Less subjects, less burden to kids, more chances to pass exams, That’s kind of makes sense in our competitive system but doesn’t make things right yet. I fault a system that doesn’t think beyond grades, and that’s why we have to contend with an unmanageable mess at the end of this conveyor belt that is the 844 system.

My neighbor then tells of his encounter with this brilliant chap of his day. He had gone to a customer care/retail center of some leading Telcom. And there was some confusion at seeing this genius there. He had finished his engineering degree, and he found a job. As a customer care person. Nothing challenging or to tap his otherwise brilliant mind. Just a friendly smile, politeness and all these other basic etiquette niceties they require in customer care is all he needs for his paycheck. And his frustration could be read, as he spoke to his former school mate. That’s where the world ‘out here’ placed his ambition.

Think of Albert Einstein. My neighbor suddenly says. Alert, and knowing where this is headed, I nod in agreement that the school system, if it has to get us beyond the ‘grades’ and ‘degree’ system needs to be overhauled or to be accommodative of individual student needs. But this may be too much asking of a poorly paid teacher. Back to the point, why torture a student who is good at languages (that was ME!) with Physics. I wouldn’t care much for gravity laws as long as I remain grounded and my steps steady as I walk or that if I fly, the plane won’t be perched on the skies. I would only be worried to lift my foot and instead of the accustomed walking way, be thrust high or jumping up and not coming down. I would prefer that the guy in class who is good with Physics, or wires and stuff gets all attention that would otherwise be wasted with me. That reminds me that only bulb is currently functional at home, because I can never help myself to change a bulb. Probably a kick for hating Physics.

And just as Einstein, I could bet many students felt victimized by a system that stifles creativity. You are not allowed to invent. Look at that guy who tried to fly his “homemade plane” the other day at Ruiru. He was barred. Like it’s a criminal offense, and the chiding remarks regarding his home made contraption were not helping manage his creativity or push it a notch higher. To me, it was simply an evidence of some lack in our education system. A gap that one is trying to fill. A JAB admitted Uni student would tell you the woes of being taken in an Anthropology class, against will, simply because that’s the merit of the grade, besides the disillusionment that this graduate faces after 4 years of school life. I think I was so far from brilliant, I identified what father thought was good for me, and not sure I would reach there following his route, ditched it for my 2 plans. I have somehow managed to get to a path to both, one as a career, and the other a hobby.

200,000 pupils may miss secondary education this year. No places for them, and by extension no proper place for them in society. As much as education is a door opener, even to possibilities beyond our imagination, some educator somewhere, should re-invent what ‘education’ means. So that when a kid misses the ‘great grades’, that doesn’t mean an end to living. Some of my village peers, who could hardly spell out their own names, have turned out well. Well, here means respectable,. Respectable denoting many things including legally made money and enviable businesses. Conversely, some fellows who easily made ‘good grades’, have only managed to make even greater grades in their second degrees and third degrees. It’s the folly of life.

Next month, if I could remember, may be the time we get results for 2013 KCSE. There will be Aaahs, and Ooohs and other indescribable feelings. I have always pitied a child who exuberantly says what they want to become, and most of these choices are pegged to what the society has branded as ‘good career choices’. A friend in Medical sciences recently told me that she is considering an Arts Degree for her Masters studies. Taken aback, I asked why. She didn’t belabor to explain that Arts has always been her thing, Sciences was merely for ‘employ-ability’. That employ-ability hasn’t been as satisfying for her, evidently. But in a society that thrives on its set ways, why am I even suggesting chasing the wind.

Winded up reading some Harlequin classic, “Trick to getting a Mom”, and Alex, the 9 year old who doesn’t seem to help herself in getting composed with right manners for a proper school child, is ever getting into trouble. Her father and she, love ‘lobstering’, and she is so masterful in the skill…., and it feels that she is already living the life that the rest of the kids are being prepared for out there. She has got such rational thinking for her age; you almost think she is an adult trapped in a baby body. But her Principal lacks this understanding, perhaps why it’s easy for her to send the adventurous girl for a two weeks’ suspension, when all that would be needed was to identity a system that would work for this child and her interests. But it is easy for the society to say that she lives in fantasy world. I think there remains a place for formal schooling, and even more special place for those that accommodate areas that kids excel in, and go ahead to give a chance for their skills to thrive in the society.

All said, it’s still never too late to be what you might have been!

Njeru- A short story

Njeru is a year 3 student, yet he schools with year two’s. To the ordinary onlooker, or outsider, there is nothing telling to what lurks beneath the character of his skin. I have barely been at school for a month, but I wouldn’t have noticed him. Not for anything strange about his demeanor, but his name has become a hostel name. I am later to learn.

Why, he sneaks out of school and things sneak out of the hostel too. Always a simultaneous action. Just like that. Always awakening some trail of mystery. We ideally would have been together, for our love to teach children. At least for me, that’s why I am here. My folks may think am big-headed but at least am in school. I have taught before and I know this to be my calling. I could hypothesize and reason the same to apply for Njeru, but not to be too sure.

I sneaked out of school, on a cloudy morning. No, I am not rebellious like that. You are learning to make the rules that students will break in future, why you are living a contradiction? I hear you ask. Wait, I would like to explain. This is not breaking rules-as in break. Neither is it sneaking from college as in sneak-sneak. It’s reason. I had to act.

Yesterday, I went out with year mates. Four of them. One is a year two but a year one. Let’s call him Tum. He drank, and failed his tests. He could not scheme work. He could not do his teaching practice. He failed. That’s how he is in year one. He borrowed 50bob, on the day I reported to college. Mama had barely left my sight, after she saw me through the registration process. I gave him the 50bob. It was low ceiling anyway. He didn’t ask for big money. But I hated that this micro-borrower didn’t return my 50bob on due date. I threatened him, but there was nothing to take from him as collateral (albeit late). Probably his shoe-laces.

The other two are year one-one. We reported to college days apart. I had a premonition not to join the usual stroll to the market to fill for the weekend break. Why, I only needed a sketch book. No, just get it and be back in time for group work, I reason. We drag our feet, up the long hill. I have borrowed one of fellow year one’s phone and inserted my sim-card. Tum borrows the phone to ‘please call-me, Thank you’, the sister at Gikumene Market. I sense no danger and save a fellow boy. Like a flash of Lightning, he vanishes. We scan around the shops, the boy is gone. Unless his feet are akin to the tyres of a Miraa Van, I don’t seem to see the how around the disappearing mystery.

See, this fellow must be used to his trade. And he saw amateurs, who posed no risk of smarting him out of his trade. I worry. And no, not because of the Kshs. 2500 phone but I worry. We are to later learn that Tums climbed by the banks of River Mutonga. He took Chang’aa doses with the Mulika Mwizi phone as collateral. The pressure I have is that my other year mate needs back his mulika mwizi, before we are back to school.

The plot twists when we miss the 6pm roll call at school. Tum is drunk and is now like blind, and he can’t remember how he lost the phone to Chang’aa gumbles. The confrontation attracts students and the scuffle invites market idle-layers. They like noise. They like to use their idle energy. We sense danger. The protruding push-overs welcome the police, who are happy to take Tum in. A useless drunk now, guest of the state.

I know father will slaughter me. School fees is paid for me to be in school, and not to bargain with police, I hear his lurking fury breathing in my ear. The useless questions from police manage to drown father’s fears away. I focus. Like a man. I don’t want Tum jailed. Honoring the sleep over at the police’s quarters means I will also get a slice of the bitter pie. This is more than I would tender for. You go to school, you two, leave this leech in our care, the police submits. We stroll back to college. We missed the roll call. I hardly sleep. All night, my eyes are like rolling in their sockets.

I hatch the plan at 5am, having crafted and revised it all night. I know it’s foolproof. Before classes, I will be back. Year mates like the plan, and three of us go back to market on the hill to bargain with police. Tum is all sober now. The gamble is endless. Constable want coins too, we don’t have. We almost promised to bring some, after Tum is released but we back-track on a quick word. Tum can’t be released and constable calls principal on us. I tell year mates to run; we don’t have to thicken the soup for all of us. They smart and run.

Back to school, I am on the corridors of disciplinary justice. How could I goof? Who will believe the story I share, that I too didn’t ‘drink’ the Mulika-Mwizi. The Mulika Mwizi is not the big problem here. The drinking student is. That is how I meet Njeru. He is here too, and listening to his story shames mine. He is accused of 38 counts of wrongs. Being in possession of stolen shoes, being in possession of stolen shirts. Disappearing through the window. Re-appearing through the window. The list is endless, all the way to 38. I momentarily forget that am facing father later that morning, to explain why am at home, yet fees is paid and we are not on holiday.

“Njeru, how old are you?” the principal asks. 38 years old. Say what? 38 yeeearrs! Maybe the many years, warrants the long experience at petty peeves, long denoting many. I feel downright ashamed for him. He ate his school fees. He had cheated his father that his semester fee was double the amount and with 50,000 at his disposal, Njeru could do anything, right? Wrong. He could not untwist his mystery now. He had traded his cheque with a fee in cash student, and the student paid as if Njeru paid for him. Njeru bonused the difference.

His philanthropy was as varied as his sneaky habits. He gathered his hostel crew, and declared with such a tidy sum to boot, they had no business drinking at the normal county den. They needed to move to another county. They chose Meru Nithi County. As a father to his children, he bought his crew new shirts and some shoes, and kept the balance of kshs. 20, 000 in an M-pesa account. Only he forgot having shared his PIN at some point. It’s a long story, having woken up in another county, still doper from his drinking and an empty M-pesa account.

He needs to go home, and explain to parents why he missed his teaching practice, because of unpaid school fees. We stroll towards the college gate. My case now seems simpler, I only need to make father understand I was not at a drinking spree, as they have made me confess in writing. I figure out that I would rather to speak to Mother about this.

Njeru’s case is doper. He only has 200bob. He needs to go home to Embu, several counties away. His fare not enough, he quickly reasons and resolves. “I will drink Kshs. 150 bob, and walk the remaining journey”. He disappears by the bank on River Mutonga.

I wickedly smile.

Hail! Our Land of sideshows

In Kenya, BAD is GOOD. Morality and integrity has never been a consideration of leadership, so what makes us shamefaced when a script with the cast we picked is played?  What makes us burrow our heads in shame, or even look away? The most bold of us, put a brave face and curse, abuse, disown and chastise. Even the ones looking away throw a pebble, a stone, or something at the fellows who seemingly have hurt our very perfect society fabric. You know when you air your dirty linen, I will laugh, not because mine is clean, but there is some consolation when I see yours has some ‘holes, not one perhaps, many or more than my holes’ or it’s faded, or it has some hideous colour, heh heh! And that makes me feel better about my probably more deplorable state, no?

What has all of a sudden become so shaming about two grown ups who have decided to abandon the chastity of their marital vows and run into each other’s arms? Would it be okay if it never soured up and we, the righteous jury never got wind of it? I am an ardent lover of books and in my elementary literature, especially drama reading, I learnt that the characters would always represent the society, so that when you laugh and condemn for example, Wak in John Ruganda’s Shreds of Tenderness, for running away when his country gets into some political mess and everyone has gone into the bush, and you are wondering with the other readers , ” but how could he empty the last coins in the family’s coffers, leaving a sickly mother, and goes into exile for a whooping 10 years, only to crawl back home with some tiny sling bag”. But how could he? Coward! This is because we mostly love to look at the happenings of the society as a mirror but we refuse to believe it is a representation of who we are. We refuse to believe that common narrative that has lived with us, how we love BAD. Anyone who points to the flaws of choosing corrupt leadership or even leaders who lack a strong moral fibre is our enemy. There is something that he is seeking to exploit in us. We love our devils, and we like it when they are daredevils. So what’s the melee when our devils go out on a parade, and we see corruption, we see murderers in suits, we see mercenaries, and generally immoral demons scouting for us to admire them?

What annoys is that we have turned into a society that despite having a choice, we still find ourselves with the worst selection. Every five years, we get a proposed cast of as many, demons, angels, a mix of both, and with different levels of demonism, and different doses of angelism, but we love to choose the worst. Because the BAD is our representation. Though we love to cringe when it’s displayed for our world to see. As much as blame lies on leadership, to lead by example, they are drawn from us, much like us, only that we don’t like vetting them, and even if we vet, we like the worst. If we make a primer of leadership values, we prefer A-Autocracy , we prefer to say B-Bureucracy,….D-Dictatorship and we go on (not that we can agree on this, and this seems to be democracy, only that what is democractic is so depending on what angle we are viewing it from. Even the soft among us may say, A-Amen, and assent to everything flagged to them, and when you question, they say B-Maybe Blood of Jesus (safer side) or Blood split by our courageous martyrs, our heroes, when they want to have some political relevance to the talk. We discuss this further and our democratic views cannot find a congruence, and since we are getting further into our political game, and the elections are drawing close, we draw the curtain on discussions and go to what we know best…T-for Tribe/Tribal affiliation etc, and we choose whomever. Our indicators that guide expected outcomes could include, those who “steal and share the loot’ et al.

And so here we are. A political ride of Five years, stuck with a leadership that stink of impunity, privatized corruption etc. We have Tana Clashes, hundreds are dead, before we get answers, a terrorist attack, and even before tears are dry on eyes, some Billions walk out of closed doors. Unaccounted billions, hands in pocket, straight faced, neck firm on the shoulders in a confident gait. Billions, just like that. The Billions dressed in an expensively pressed suit, even turn their shoulders to look back or twice, not that anyone cares to follow or look, but customarily it has learnt from other smaller monies that disappeared that no-one will be hot in pursuit. I don’t know whether these billions are what we loaned from International Banks, or what is earmarked for the Infrastructure budget. I don’t know whether it is part of what I pay in income taxes (let’s not start this difficult discussion). I don’t even know whether it’s part of that ‘new small tax’ I noticed a week ago, when I separately did some bank transactions, and there was something like kes 220 in Bank A, and a different bank Kes 150 (in new taxes). All that I know is no one knows where Mr. Walkaway Unaccounted Billions went. We will commission a search, by giving some retired fellows something to do with their time, and as any other report, nothing will be enforced, not even better controls.

And our die seems cast. Only we like it that way. If my person is eating, I know he will share with my people. He might devolve the loot. And even if he doesn’t, am okay when his stomach is full. And so our expectations get lower. Our leadership seems to have learnt our psychology well, so that they can predict our behaviour. So when a debated issue of national importance comes up, and we are all macho demanding answers, the political leaderships throws to us, like dogs a piece of bone to keep us busy. We growl over it but they know our focus is on the bone, and while we are it, we forget other key issues that demanded answers, that needed dialogue, that needed us to question our conscience. It could be some two politicians, one that has landed a stingy slap on another, or two caught pants down, and as much as we should ask questions that regard our torn moral fabric, in fact our society fabric is a sack cloth now, there is nothing to hide, we walk with our chapped buttocks bared for all to see, but when they laugh at you, you realize you also have something to laugh back at them. Unfortunately, even the men of cloth are caught in it, so that many no longer have a moral obligation to curse some of these demons. Like those folks in the bible(sons of Sceva) who went to cast out some demons in a man, and the devil had its day, what of its strong nerve in saying,  “Jesus I know, and Paul I recognize, but who art thou folks?”.  This was before they were pounced upon, overpowered, they run from that house wounded. Can’t the remaining unbowed stand up to be counted then?

We are a society that suffers collective amnesia. But I feel that our condition is a little complex, like collective selective amsenia. Maybe we need urgent check up. And Visit our society back yard to start sorting our rot, and however vintage a piece looks, if’s not functional to our present theme of unity and development, moving forward, it ought to be cast away. Otherwise some of these bones we so want to cherish and keep will some day speak to us from our back yards. Our dust-balls will become too big to hide. And even if not for our sake, we want to have a sane talk with our children some day, that our country was built on good values. But hey, the rot is too much. Do your part. One day you will owe the country a  clear conscience, though a drop in the ocean, that you did your part well.

It’s Moi day, I don’t even know why it would have historical importance, except that it would be bliss to miss school years back. Have a reflective one, and be the change you want to see in the world.

BooksRant; One day I will write about this place (Review)

BooksRant; Songs of Enchantment (Review)

During literature classes, one of the things we always attempted to do when reviewing a book or its thematic content, would be to look at the meaning of whatever title the author had given it. I had mastered this ability and it was transcendent to any other question I would answer. Probably to show an instructor or impress them with my grasp of the issues that the author sought to bring out to our attention as it was to confuse him on my lack of knowledge sufficient to answer the question. I once was confronted with a CAT that required us to talk about our understanding of the book “Grain of Wheat”. And I had not given it much of a read beyond the introduction that the lecturer had done in class. I had instead decided to focus my attention on books I had deemed difficult reads, like, The Anthills of the Savannah. My fears were that we were more likely to be examined on such a difficult book than Ngugi Wa Thiong’o Grain of wheat.  Ridiculously though, Mr. Ndogo shocked me when he set a question from ‘Grain of Wheat’. I have some uncanny thing of not believing in failure, not at least before I attempt and as it were, I decided to discuss the book with little knowledge of the themes, characters, setting et al. To short the journey, I formed my own characters, placed them on a setting, decided on the themes and the flow of the plot and discussed the 15marks question. For the answers had undertones of Kameno and Makuyu (the ridges in the River Between) and a mix of other concepts drawn from other books. I actually got some marks for the efforts…I guess it was 08/30. Not so bad, I thought. Mr. Ndogo made some remarks on the side that amused me more than made me sad-(It seems you wrote your own book and set your own question and then proceeded to answer it).

The same nerve that made me do that also makes me wallow in difficult reads even when my mind agrees that the story is not clear on its direction. Perhaps the reason why I have held on to Ben Okri’s Songs of Enchantment that clearly wasn’t written for the ordinary reader. Not so because of the fact that it’s clouded with mythology and circling habits of the spirit world and inter-fuse with reality of the struggles of the ordinary village person in some village in Nigeria, but also because it takes a brilliant mind to piece that kind of book together. And I want to be that  brilliant reader that cracks its reading code. ha!

I had been enthusiastic to read this book and will still read Ben Okri again, until “I get him”. He is not the kind of authors to easily ‘get’, or understand if you like.  I read Philip Ochieng’ the other day saying that Ben Okri writes for Poets. Why, he is a Poet besides being a novelist. Am not sure yet, but if he so does, then those poets must be Soyinka and the like. It may come out as a little complex poetry. As I mused earlier, when I set out to read Okri, I was enthused, lit up, savoring in anticipation. Well, the language is rich. He is a cooked writer. What I don’t understand like many readers, to quote my friend Sheshi “Ben Okri killed me with the Famished road and no matter what you tell me about the sequel you are reading, I am not getting convinced”. He is a difficult writer.

I am not sure why the writer chooses to tell the story of a poor village in Nigeria, which could also be a setting anywhere in Africa, through an Abiku-a spirit child. The book picks up from where the Famished road left and again, Azaro, an Abiku finds himself in the center of the imaginative mind of the writer. He was not a child willing to be born and he always seems to be in a conflict, overpowered by the love for his parents and the calling world of the spirits. How he resolves this conflict of terrestrial versus supernatural creates some mess that is not easy to web through. He seems denied the life of a normal child and it does not help that the village is also gripped by the powers of political magicians and it’s hard to weave through the collective dreaming of that is upon the villagers, probably caused by their desire to free themselves off the shackles of suffering and the devastation caused by the political magicians. The weird hallucinating effect is annoying as it is devastating.

At the start of the book, there seems to be glimpse of where all this is headed but it keeps getting crowded by the whims of the supernatural. I at first hated to see Azaro and his spirit-child compatriot, Ade suffer. It even seems more annoying that the parents never seemed to see something amiss. The father was more overwhelmed at the time by the burdens of the poor, as a rep of the Party of the poor and the havoc the Party of the Rich, which Madame Koto seems to support. So that when he tells him that dad, my head grows bigger in the night, all the dad does is to ask him to stop reading.

Azaro is the unwilling adventurer into the chaos and sunlight, into the dreams of the living and the dead (pg4). My unforgiving attitude is why a child who is supposed to be leading a normal life has to bear the torturous burden of the sprit life.

(*In those days it didn’t rain, but I didn’t go to school anymore because even at school my spirit-companions tormented me. Their songs distracted and confused me, and when I copied the wrong things I got into trouble. There was a history class, for example, in which the teacher was horrified to find my exercise book covered in complex mathematical equations. I didn’t know where they had come from. When we were being taught mathematics under a dying silk-cotton tree the face of a penitent oppressor of our people stared at me from the drunk. On one day, I saw the radiant face of Pharaoh Akhnaton, on another the faces of the unborn. When I stared at them, mesmerized, the teacher flogged me for not paying attention. In the English class my spirit companions sang polyphonic chorales at me ……It became difficult to concentrate…..The worst thing was that I seemed to know our examination questions before they were set, and I knew the answers well. The teachers found this very peculiar. Suspicious of the accuracy of my answers, they often failed me because they thought I had been cheating. In short, my sprit-companions played havoc with my education. They made me seem strange to the other children, and so I didn’t have many friends. There was only Ade, but he was succumbing to the world of spirits……Pg. 4&5*)

Despite the heavy imagery, one does not fail to note the emblems of misery. The untold suffering of a child who wishes to live a normal life but is alienated in loneliness, and the spirit companions seems to take advantage of this loneliness by insinuating themselves into his vision. Tongue in cheek, the spirit havoc wreckers seems to cover up for this by making him a genius, an effort his teachers crack a whip on. This doesn’t deter them for they pour all manner of arcane knowledge into his head, to quote (“ in the midst of my new solitude, and particularly at night when I am asleep, they frequently read to me from invisible books of history and science, philosophy, musicology and geography…They filled me to bursting with spirit books of literature, archaeology, quantum physics and advanced lessons in counterpoint and chiaroscuro long before I even read…..Tired of being singled out for merciless whipping, I took to sneaking from class and wandering through the ghetto……”) And as the spirits filled poor Azaro with useless facts, the poor lad walked barefoot in a world breaking down under the force of hunger.

Meanwhile his father seems to be carrying the load of his poor people, which I felt, could be the reason why he ventured deeper into hallucinations. As he dreamed of building the beggars a school and he is disappointed when they decide to leave. His fiery energy and fantastic ideas are enviable. He talks to building the beggars a unique school. He was going to supervise the education of all poor and illiterate people. He said they needed education the most. “That is how the powerful people keep us down,” he maintained. “They keep us illiterate and then they deceive us and treat us like children.” Rings a bell? He swore that he was going to teach the beggars mathematics, accountancy, law and history. He said that Azaro would teach them how to read. He talked of turning all the ghettoes into special secret universities where the most effective knowledge in the world would be made available….pg. 8).

I get a feeling that a man weighed down by the madness of a society is at a bigger risk of becoming a philosopher. And it is worse when there is no implementing plan of the grand strategy to get his people to his dream. This is what Azaro’s father is going through so that when he is frustrated at the political front, he seems to take this to the domestic front. Chest heaving, he complains that his family is betraying him, that his wife only cares for herself. That they had no respect for him, that they didn’t even see the importance of carrying his schemes while he recovered from his fight. He harangues them as if they are failed members of a government cabinet. ….. (He was angry that that we had not supervised the beggars, had not encouraged them, and had not looked after Helen—FYI, he has a thing for this girl and this is the reason his wife gets more estranged later leading to more conflict – , ….He rounded on mum because she had not been keeping in touch with political developments, and had done nothing to recruit women to his political party. And he turned on both of us for failing to keep alive his dream of a university for beggars and the poor.

Mum said:

‘You spend all your time talking about this university for beggars, but what about us, eh? Are we not beggars? Don’t you hear how cracked my voice is? From morning till night I walked this ungodly city, hawking my provisions, crying out, while you slept like a goat for seven days.’

Of course the man leaps on his feet, vents his full anger at the wife and blindly hurls his boots at the cupboard, whose door flew open, revealing pots empty of food and cockroaches are sent scampering everywhere. And since the man cannot face the reality of what his wife is addressing, he stamps his feet, and goes berserk with shouting etc. He seems devoid of the irrationality of his passions and this reality seems poked by the boldness of the wife’s interruption, ‘improve our condition first’. It hadn’t occurred to him that he had neglected that role that was being filled by the wife who he says, is devoid of vision and spent all her energy counting her wretched profits, while he tried to improve the condition of the people.

“Where will you get the money to build a school for mosquitoes, talk less of beggars, eh? Will you steal, eh? Do you think money falls out of dreams, eh?

I am not sure why the wife and son forgot to take his lottery win from Sami the lottery shop man, worth of a sizeable fortune. Or they had been consumed by their everyday struggles that even when luck smiled on them, it also by passed them. Or luck was against them perpetually. The man definitely went with the loot. But perhaps the man was also stupid enough to trust his dreams in fragile hands that clearly had nothing to do with his political ambitions. Maybe also a failure to have proper strategy to make his wife buy in into his political ambitions. With a lost fortune and only empty dreams, a misty rage was sparked:

You are not on my side, he bellowed at mum. ‘You are clearly my enemy! You want me to fail! You want me to be destroyed by the world! You go around in dirty clothes, and ugly shoes, and a disgusting goat wig of a he-goat (would it matter if it was a she-goatJ), when I have hundreds of pounds across the street!”…

The man trolls on, that she enjoys poverty, that she starves the son while she eats in secret and chases her away. When her husband exhausts herself, she bundled her possessions, like someone who had almost reached her forbearance, her undergarments, her old wrappers, her moth eaten wig, her old blouses, her slippers, her cheap jewelry, her tin-can of money into an ancient box…and left, like someone carrying the weight of long-life frustration.

Meanwhile the man gets hypnotized by Helen’s beauty. The one the wife says had a bad goat eye. The lead of beggars. His spirit was whirling with grand dreams of love. He even begged her not to leave with the other beggars, but stay around and be his second wife. By the way, this is an interesting read, and a book worth every effort. It’s a book that spurs dialogue-and that’s the only thing that keeps my love for books alive btw.

The fellow loses the wife, who was tired of a profitless marriage, and also lost the beggar. He had also lost the money, as Sami had left, packed away. He had lost the beggars, whose interests had been close to his heart. He had only his son and dreams of course. Probably he also needed to learn how to fail. The interweaving of the spiritual confusion increases and seems to have overcome Azaro’s mum as well. They go out searching for her, and wandering in the dirty streets, rutted pathways that seemed calculated to make them lost.

Didn’t your mother ever take you with her, eh? Dad asked.

No. I replied.

After a long time, his voice humbler deep with shame, dad said:

‘I didn’t know that your mother walked so much every day. Why didn’t she ever tell me that she suffered so much to sell so little, eh?

I didn’t say anything. I don’t think he really expected an answer. After we had been conquered by fatigue, and had worn out our soles searching, we went to a kiosk, and dad bought some beans and soft drinks. He had finished eating when he remembered his promise not to eat or sleep till mum forgave him, and he tried to spit out the food but it had already gone inside and I was a little ashamed of him but I ate and drank because I had made no such promises and because my eyes were throbbing and red with hunger.

I think the conflict portrayed at the family front was reminiscent of what the entire poor village was struggling with. Misery that was beyond them and despite their attempts to break the fetters, more shackles would web their efforts. The aspiring political class was representation of greed, and with their political machinery, like the thugs hired by Madame Koto, and use of political magicians, threats that the Party of the Rich employed to keep their followers loyal, there doesn’t seem to be a chartered way out of their misery. Any efforts are unwelcome and in fact, any challenger gets double misery for any single effort they seem to employ.

‘Africa is the home of the world, and look at how we live in this world…’

‘poverty everywhere, wickedness, greed, injustice all over the place, goats wanting to lead the country, cows running for elections, rats scheming to be governors. This could be the great garden of the earth, but it is now a backyard,’ cried dad, pg. 126…………..

’We are fighting to be born, fighting to have our souls sit correctly in our bodies. So why don’t you sensible people vote for me, eh, instead of wasting your votes on a party that keeps oppressing us. Believe me, to be born, to stay alive, and to turn into a destiny is a long and great struggle. Pg., 127

At times hope seems to conquer the lethargy and:

He began to shout animatedly about the kind of ruler he would be if people voted for him. He said that a country that rules anyone who proposes war as a solution to any problem must first enlist their wives, their children, their parents, and all their relations into the army and must all be given front line positions before the war can begin. Pg. 210.

He was launching into another speech when the battle of mythologies started to rage at the bar front……

It’s rather frustrating. No progress of liberation. Ade had died in a failed assassin attempt on Madame Koto and the father (a carpenter) seems berserk and on a revenge mission. He also dies in the process. The mother is in the hospital dying of some incurable disease. Azaro is frustrated and the whole society seems to be dreaming, hallucinating, spirit infested and the imagery is so heavy and scaring. It’s not funny to hear of some blue snails stuck on Madame Koto’s car, or the snake perched on the roof of her car, or the masquerades that keep growing bigger at her bar front, or the father who turns blind for days and he doesn’t seem to close his eyes even at night, of Ade visiting and conversing with Azaro, even playing spirit mind games with him. Or Madame Koto bragging her magical prowess, as the daughter of the Iroko tree, the mother was a rock (bah!). It’s annoying. The circling suffering, the circling misery, the efforts that bear no fruits at either self or societal liberation. Unlike you have lived in heavily spirits infested society, where there is such high sorcery, most of the imagery and the mythology doesn’t make sense. It works to cloud the story line, even as it works to work the consequences of its actions on the people. Probably this is the point we need the poets, who recreate our dreams and shape our realities.

Here is a conversation between Azaro and Ade during one of the many visits. There is an eerie of triumph when he says ‘ my spirit companions had tried to scare me from life by making me more susceptible to the darker phases of things, and by making reality appear more monstrous and grotesque. But so far, they had failed. And they had failed because they had forgotten that for the living life is a story and a song, but for the dead life is a dream. I had been living the story, the song and the dream, pg. 293

Tell me something that will help me, I said:

‘One great thought can change the dreams of the world.’

I think I know that already. Tell me another.

‘One great action, lived out all the way to the sea, can change the history of the world.’

The book starts out with what they didn’t see, and seems what they didn’t see made them unprepared for the realities of what was awaiting ahead. The struggles in recreating lives, the upheavals to come, upheavals that were already in their midst.

 It also seems to end on a high tone of hope and longing;

‘Maybe one day we will see the mountains ahead of us. Maybe one day we will see the seven mountains of our mysterious destiny. Maybe one day we will see that beyond our chaos there could always be a new sunlight, and serenity.’

I am very skeletal in the concepts covered, and as I earlier indicated, this is not an easy book, and attempting to review it, is just another of my defying attempts to failure or success. As for where triumph lies in this book, I think it’s starts with the bold imagination of the writer.