Am looking at this mental picture, It’s still early in the morning. It’s a young Maasai boy, barely three years old, standing a few metres in front of a manyatta. The Manyatta is in one end of a Maasai Boma deep inside Maasai land. From a few metres above one can see the other three manyattas, all conveniently located in different ends of the tall thick enclosure. There are cows roaming outside the boma, others sleeping, others standing idle chewing the previous day’s meal. Beyond that, all one can see is endless stretches of stones, anthills, scattered acacia and ground all around the boma going as far as the eye can see. There is no road, only footpaths. The boy is naked, apart from a beads’ chain around his waist and the dust on his feet he is as bare as the sand in a desert.
The boy is holding his little manhood, trying to push his piss as high as he can. He is determined, determined to shove it as far into the heavens as he can see, determined to piss on the rising sun. He has only managed a few inches apart from pissing all over his fingers and toes; all the same he is determined. His face is bright and he looks as happy as any child can ever be. He stops, a little disappointed that he hadn’t reached the sun. Next time. With pissing, there is always a next time
There is a call from inside the Manyatta. A crispy clear female voice with a gentle scratch on it calls on the boy. The first call is ignored, and then there is another one, a wordier one, as the boy picks a rock with the intention of throwing it at a calf strolling nearby. He drops the rock and runs towards the curved space used for entering the Manyatta. Words that follow sound like warning, some directions, and then soft instructions.
From the exit the boy comes out holding a big bowl. The bowl is filled with ugali and steaming fresh milk. His hands are dripping water and his dust covered feet are decorated by wet spots spread randomly up to the knees. He is smiling widely. He goes and sits next to a calf – the same one that was strolling – and dips his fingers into the meal oblivious of the flies landing on his hands, face and plate.
The woman comes out next. She looks around with a deep sense of satisfaction and smiles. She is proud to have her grandson around. She will keep him around as long as she can.
“Baba yako alipigia simu mzee asubuhi (your father called my husband in the morning)” My aunt says, disrupting my mental image sequence. All this time I hadn’t realized that my eyes were watering. I try to focus on her face. She looks like a moving image from one of these poor quality digital cameras. I look away and rub my eyes with my thumb acting like something foreign is inside them. Who was I kidding? She knew it would get to me. That is why my dad didn’t call me.
I didn’t know she was sick, had an operation they said. Maybe am guilty of negligence, didn’t ask about her a lot. Or did I? But then, I should have been told. Nobody thought it was important to mention it in our numerous conversations? What the hell are those damn facebook inboxes for if they can’t tell you about your ailing grandmother?
She passed away. It’s painful and I can’t think of any other way to lessen the pain apart from writing. Telling those that will read this how it feels. That Maasai boy in the boma is now seated in front of this laptop 19 years later. His fingers shaking as they type this story. The screen beginning to blur. Damn these tears
Monday, July 25, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
STORIES FROM MY TEENS
There are three things that make this laptop bearable; these words I write, a very beautiful desktop picture of the scenery from the back door of the office – sometimes it just lets me imagine am looking outside- and this gospel folder especially Mfalme wa amani by Solomon. Though I don’t know his second name, his song is the cornerstone to the very fragile container that houses my good moods while I am here.
This afternoon, the moods are hanging on a balance. I feel shitty. I can’t stand my own presence and I understand how that kid across the river feels whenever he comes across this person I can’t stand now. Feelings that make him spit, twitch his nose and attempt to make the mscheeeeeew sound he sees women in these pointless Nigerian films make. You see, I had an experience with that kid across the river that I don’t like discussing. A few of my friends know it and make a point of mentioning it every time I piss them off. I hate that story. I hate the thought that I am about to write about it.
I live in a remote part of Kajiado North County. So remote that I have to describe Magadi Company to my comrades at Maseno so that they get a picture of home – Nguruman is more than 35 km away from Magadi on a dusty road that also serve as a seasonal river; so remote that youths pay to watch these epic Jackie Chan movies with some loud mouthed MC describing every move and giving the actors Kikuyu names. These ignorant MCs watch a movie once and become experts then start these off the topic translations while throwing in words like cheki sasa, jionee kisanga (I don’t know how to translate this), WTF. From this place, you pay only Kshs 2,000 for a return ticket to see the good old doctor in Loliondo. To take a shot of his mysterious concoctions apparently prepared to heal numerous diseases.
This village is divided into two areas by a mostly dry river which is a physical representation of all the other unseen differences between the villages. The other unseen differences involve this;
When I was a few years younger I scored myself this cute chic across the river. Men, She was beautiful, she was the most beautiful girl in the whole world (that was then. A few years later I have met ‘most beautiful girls in the world’, each in their separate times). I used to go and see her on weekends and everyday during the holidays. Sometimes late into the night we chatted, laughed, held hands.... ooh how I felt complete when I was around her, when she laughed... Damn that laughter...... Somebody slap me now.
One day I am flying home – I was walking; my spirit felt like a breeze, swooping past the road, untouchably – from seeing her. Am whistling the song these uncircumcised Maasai boys use to keep goats and sheep walking and grazing, swinging my head from side to side, smiling at the moon and feeling like I own that small world I knew which did not extend beyond Magadi.
A boy runs out of a bush and starts throwing punches and curses. I run, very fast and hard, followed and sometimes overtaken by rocks and curses. Some of the rocks caught my back, some missed but the curses all caught their target. I cross the river and sit on a rock off the road where nobody can see. Am confused, things like this almost never happen around here. Nobody is beaten on roads, nobody throws stones to strangers at night, nobody is demon possessed here, and nobody runs at night here. Nobody we have heard of.
This place has green, untapped crime potential. The only thieves here harvest your shamba at night and run like hell at the sound of a cockroach. That seasonal river has claimed more lives I know of than crime. The police in this area bask the whole day, occasionally having to deal with awkward land issues which are then referred to the village elders, and sleep soundly the whole night turning around when the neighbor’s dogs bark then going right back to sweet sleep without even bothering to open their eyes.
There has been only one instance in which someone was shot by thugs. The whole village has never recovered from the incident. They talked, coming up with all these crazy explanations, wondering what it meant to the family. They will never forget that one incident.
I meet this kid several more times. Every time in different places, catching me completely unawares and spreading terror along my spine. Then it became regular. This cursed idiot made me start walking like a mouse living in a household full of cats.
I couldn’t stop seeing her, I couldn’t tell her what was happening and I couldn’t tell anyone else either. I wasn’t going to look like a coward in front of my family and my girlfriend. Not me.
I started feeling like seeing her was costing me more than it gave. I felt tired, I felt terror. The memories of her smile that kept me going back were replaced by the pains on my ribs where his foot caught. Everyday I went, I felt worse than the previous day. I chose to stop, and I did.
But before I did I had to do something, in my days at the other side of the river, I had made a number of friends. I told them about my ‘ghost’. They said they had a plan so the next day I walk at my usual time, whistling Maasai folk whistles. Like usual he appeared, though less enthusiastically. I held on to him, screaming, cursing, holding tight. My friends who were a few steps behind me appeared and took over the holding then I did the punching. It felt good, God, it felt amazing. I punched, he screamed, I kicked, he yelled, I bit, he groaned. I never remember feeling that good in my life. I did not ask why, I just drained all that rage, all the pain, all the terror; I unloaded feeling lighter and lighter. One of my friends let him go, he held me, and I still punched and kicked in the air.
She never knew why I stopped and I am never going to tell her. It felt bad at first but my ribs felt better. I still think about her sometimes. But then her memory is always followed by that of the kid across the river.
I hate that story. It takes a very large chunk of my manhood pride. I don’t talk about it. And if you read this post, don’t dare ask me about it.
This afternoon, the moods are hanging on a balance. I feel shitty. I can’t stand my own presence and I understand how that kid across the river feels whenever he comes across this person I can’t stand now. Feelings that make him spit, twitch his nose and attempt to make the mscheeeeeew sound he sees women in these pointless Nigerian films make. You see, I had an experience with that kid across the river that I don’t like discussing. A few of my friends know it and make a point of mentioning it every time I piss them off. I hate that story. I hate the thought that I am about to write about it.
I live in a remote part of Kajiado North County. So remote that I have to describe Magadi Company to my comrades at Maseno so that they get a picture of home – Nguruman is more than 35 km away from Magadi on a dusty road that also serve as a seasonal river; so remote that youths pay to watch these epic Jackie Chan movies with some loud mouthed MC describing every move and giving the actors Kikuyu names. These ignorant MCs watch a movie once and become experts then start these off the topic translations while throwing in words like cheki sasa, jionee kisanga (I don’t know how to translate this), WTF. From this place, you pay only Kshs 2,000 for a return ticket to see the good old doctor in Loliondo. To take a shot of his mysterious concoctions apparently prepared to heal numerous diseases.
This village is divided into two areas by a mostly dry river which is a physical representation of all the other unseen differences between the villages. The other unseen differences involve this;
When I was a few years younger I scored myself this cute chic across the river. Men, She was beautiful, she was the most beautiful girl in the whole world (that was then. A few years later I have met ‘most beautiful girls in the world’, each in their separate times). I used to go and see her on weekends and everyday during the holidays. Sometimes late into the night we chatted, laughed, held hands.... ooh how I felt complete when I was around her, when she laughed... Damn that laughter...... Somebody slap me now.
One day I am flying home – I was walking; my spirit felt like a breeze, swooping past the road, untouchably – from seeing her. Am whistling the song these uncircumcised Maasai boys use to keep goats and sheep walking and grazing, swinging my head from side to side, smiling at the moon and feeling like I own that small world I knew which did not extend beyond Magadi.
A boy runs out of a bush and starts throwing punches and curses. I run, very fast and hard, followed and sometimes overtaken by rocks and curses. Some of the rocks caught my back, some missed but the curses all caught their target. I cross the river and sit on a rock off the road where nobody can see. Am confused, things like this almost never happen around here. Nobody is beaten on roads, nobody throws stones to strangers at night, nobody is demon possessed here, and nobody runs at night here. Nobody we have heard of.
This place has green, untapped crime potential. The only thieves here harvest your shamba at night and run like hell at the sound of a cockroach. That seasonal river has claimed more lives I know of than crime. The police in this area bask the whole day, occasionally having to deal with awkward land issues which are then referred to the village elders, and sleep soundly the whole night turning around when the neighbor’s dogs bark then going right back to sweet sleep without even bothering to open their eyes.
There has been only one instance in which someone was shot by thugs. The whole village has never recovered from the incident. They talked, coming up with all these crazy explanations, wondering what it meant to the family. They will never forget that one incident.
I meet this kid several more times. Every time in different places, catching me completely unawares and spreading terror along my spine. Then it became regular. This cursed idiot made me start walking like a mouse living in a household full of cats.
I couldn’t stop seeing her, I couldn’t tell her what was happening and I couldn’t tell anyone else either. I wasn’t going to look like a coward in front of my family and my girlfriend. Not me.
I started feeling like seeing her was costing me more than it gave. I felt tired, I felt terror. The memories of her smile that kept me going back were replaced by the pains on my ribs where his foot caught. Everyday I went, I felt worse than the previous day. I chose to stop, and I did.
But before I did I had to do something, in my days at the other side of the river, I had made a number of friends. I told them about my ‘ghost’. They said they had a plan so the next day I walk at my usual time, whistling Maasai folk whistles. Like usual he appeared, though less enthusiastically. I held on to him, screaming, cursing, holding tight. My friends who were a few steps behind me appeared and took over the holding then I did the punching. It felt good, God, it felt amazing. I punched, he screamed, I kicked, he yelled, I bit, he groaned. I never remember feeling that good in my life. I did not ask why, I just drained all that rage, all the pain, all the terror; I unloaded feeling lighter and lighter. One of my friends let him go, he held me, and I still punched and kicked in the air.
She never knew why I stopped and I am never going to tell her. It felt bad at first but my ribs felt better. I still think about her sometimes. But then her memory is always followed by that of the kid across the river.
I hate that story. It takes a very large chunk of my manhood pride. I don’t talk about it. And if you read this post, don’t dare ask me about it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)