MOTHERS

I was brought up by a mother who held a cane in one hand and love on the other. Talk of the right hand not knowing what the left does. Automatically it follows that i should share the same plight of  a child who is being whipped.  In most cases, i got whipped for my mistakes and some were not but were meant as a lesson all the same.
The other day i'm walking to my house. to get to my house you have to follow this path that has trees growing on either side of it. Some of the roots show above the ground and if u are not careful you will definitely stumble. This lady was walking ahead of me and she had a little boy barely three years walking slightly behind her to the side. She was also chatting to another woman and so busy that she was not minding the child. what made me take interest in the child was the fact that the child was walking half naked. He was only wearing a T-shirt. that took me back to when i was a kid.
Then the kid caught his foot in one of the roots and went sprawling on the ground. He started crying. The mother turned around arms akimbo clearly not overjoyed to be interrupted so rudely from her story with the other lady. I supposes she told the kid to get up. I did not understand her language as she spoke in vernacular the baby continued crying. by then i had of course stopped to watch. As any normal mother could do(i suppose) was to help the child up and reassure him, she dint do that. what she did next hit me with so much surprise i almost cried.
She picked a stick that was lying next to the kid and started beating the poor kid. Still the kid was on the ground. Now the cries of the child which had been soft cries of help turned into screams. You can imagine a little kid screaming at the top of his lungs.
I was shocked stiff!
 Who does that? I asked myself. When the mother saw that the kid was not quietening down she picked him roughly and slung him on her back like a sack of potatoes. Then she and the other woman continued walking as if nothing had happened and within a beat they were laughing.
WHAT HAD THE KID DONE?

WHICTH HUNT

Last night i sat down to watch a clip. I was moved. how does one human being have the nerve to set another on fire. we are no longer in those medieval times when witch hunting was the norm of the day. those barbaric eras where people used to cheer the torching of others. I sat there out of dire curiosity watching the whole thing progress and towards the end I was so disgusted that i almost puked my guts out. i could the pain the victims were going through, I could the misery as one man tried to run away only to be beaten senseless with a pole and thrown back to the fire. I could also hear the unmistakable cries of angry men and women who were imploring for the victims to be burnt.
 Tears welled into my eyes as I watched this old woman who just lay there burning, not moving, my heart went out to her. all I could hear from her were sobs and the statement, "I am not a witch" uttered in her mother tongue. they beat her and set her afire. using twigs, shrubs, and sticks.then a tyre was added later. i wept for her.
I wonderd how much nerve one had to muster to set one ablaze. I wondered the amount of courage the cameraman had to stand and film the whole thing.I wondered why the police took so long to arrive. They only arrived to pick the charred remains of the victim. one was still alive but suffering. I wondered why society couldn't find any other ways to deal with the victims instead of going barbaric on them. and worst off all I wondered why I had chosen to watch the clip in the first place and stood it to the end.

Sadness 2

The funeral day.
Aunts arrive from far away places. They have come to mourn the only son who could have saved the family( in future) from the grinding poverty. As per the customs, two banana stems are planted on the path leading to the compound. That proclaims the message that a funeral is in progress. That is, incase the public address system that is a must have in every funeral is missing. The lack of such potrays the height of poverty and that you are the lowest life form in the village and that no one gives a rats tail about you. 
This family is poor, that is apparent, they can not even manage to convince the priest to come and do the last rites. The priest will not get enough 'sadaka'. So instead, he sends a mere cathecist in his place. There are not many people at the funeral. Those villagers who come just show up for formality's sake. They must come or their own funerals will be empty too. The genuine mourners have been camping there for the whole mourning period. The people sit on a small garden that had  previously contained vegetables. What will the family eat after the funeral is done?
The mother sits sorrounded by her sisters and close friends. She is genuinely mourning. The father sits beside her wearing an expression that does not tell anything he is thinking or feeling. You cannot tell the bereaved family apart from the other mourners. The family could not afford mourning clothes, they choose to wear their sunday best instead. The little kids are seated just behind their mother evidently confused  and bored with the whole proceedings.
The eulogy is about to be read. What is there to say? What had the little boy achieved? How many hearts had he broken? How many times had he had his heart broken? It is a short eulogy. After all he was only in class seven. They say how nice a kid he was. Isnt everyone at the time of their untimely demise?
The coffin is simple, timber boards carefully nailed together by the village carpenter. The timber was donated by the village. The coffin has been painted a dull brown. Perhaps an attempt to make it look nice. Definately the little guy did have agemates who will miss him especialy in play, but they are not old enough to be the pall bearers or the grave diggers.
He is buried in the afternoon. The weather is nothing like it was in the morning. The sun was fierce and unrelentlessy schorching. The head of his grave bears a simple cross that has been paited white with his name and age written in black. The skies are overcast and pregnant with rain. On his grave is a simple home made wreath of bounghavillea flowers.
PETER MANG'ABO
1998-2012
RIP  

SADNESS

A little kid has hung himself in Nairobi. The family learns of it via a neighbours phone. They do not posses a mobile phone yet. I wonder how the bearer of the news mustered enough guts to go tell a mother that her son  has hang himself. Screams pierce the night, the whole village comes to investigate. All the women who come end up shedding tears and wailing loudly. The men huddle in groups with the father of the child talking in low tones. No one cries among the men. The other little kids just look in confused and wondering why there are so many people in  their compound. Some of them are crying because their mother is crying. It is dusk. Soon the majority people will go away and leave  the bereaved; they will be back tomorrow though.
The family is poor. It is apparent. There is one grass thatched house and another one with an iron sheet roof but the walls are made of mud. It has been decorated with white clay and it looks nice. In the living there are three arm chairs and a dining table that serves many purposes. The women sit on the ground sorrounding the mother. A tin lamb is lit as the sun sets and it becomes dark.
The boy had been living with his sister in Nairobi. The sister is married. She had taken him there so he might go to school. Tommorrow, the men will travell to Nairobi to make the funeral arrangements and to transport the body back home. They do not have enough money so they are collecting it among themselves and from all families in the village.
The women weep and wail, the cry kids themselves to sleep, hungry and exhausted. The men talk on in low tones. There is not a laugh to be heard anywhere. The mood is sombre! The moon peaks weakly from behind the clouds. It might rain during the night. 

CHASE

Sometimes you hear real life tales of other people and you just brush them off as some intresting anecdotes. You hear them, laugh about them and forget them, unless ofcourse you are the type that copies other peoples expiriences and you go masquarading in them. Other times you might be moved by the story you hear, you might even shed a tear. If its a dude telling the story to other dudes, he is bound to recieve hearty claps on the back, another round on the table and life continues. In the case of a chic, there will be a tear shed, lots of hugs and alot of ooing and aahhing over the issue. Not to forget the innumerable chorusing. Ive always wondered how they do that as if on cue. That is until become the character in the story and you are going to be the narrator the next time you see your friends.
I happen to be a victim of such. I have always brushed peoples stories off. Like they would never happen to me. Well, piece of advice, ukiona mwenzako kanyolewa, chako tia maji. The police are a very intresting lot. More especially at night. They pop up out of nowhere, when you least expect them and when you are having a jolly good time( read high). Why do they shine their lights in your eyes? Ever wondered? Lets just say that is a rhetorical question after having asked the culprits in a not so polite manner owing to the fact that i was a wee bit indisposed. Very intresting fellows the police. Then i committed the worst fellony of all. I ran! Dint go very well with them. That i found out the hard way when after a few steps of my drunkn form i was staring into the bared muzzle of vicious canine. The growls and snarls making me do unspeakable things to my pants. Haki yetu! You do not just set dogs on innocent drunk fellows who are no trouble at all, save for the fact that they are having a good time.
I think im going to be taking other peoples expiriences more seriouslg now. That is untill i forget my 'harrowing'  expirience.(can one call pissing on ones self that?) Then i'll go back to making fun.

I love my country.

Wallowing in mud, u never fail to wonder if u r in this sweet country that we all love and 'vumilia' equally at the same time is doing anything anything towards betterment of the roads in the country. Then again you watch the news and notice that it is not you alone who is seriously suffering from the sheer neglect of some malicious fellows who do the planning of the country.
Our country is purely amazing. Think about it, what other country has its citizens dying of raging floods in one end and others dying of hungerand droughts on the other end. A pure contrast. Dont u think? 

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