MAN’S BEST FRIEND
BY BRIAN MOSETI
The
dogs are staring at me eat.
Out
of long faces with drawn expectant looks that follow my movement from hand to
mouth in a looping circle. Faces that demand want and pitiful ambitions of
sharing my supper of Ugali, Managu and Maziwa Mala. I’m bitterly thinking,
“will I have to share this with the dogs?”
The
bigger one that seems to grow with each passing day has streaks of black
running down his face beginning at the eyes and disappearing into a furrow of
dark bristling whiskers. They look like tears. A longing expression stares at
me behind which lurks a broad sinewy chest and a mane so thick my hands
disappear in it when I’m rubbing it. The puppy, a shiny black color is dwarfed
by the remarkable frame of Topi, as my brother named him. The puppy
interestingly has not been baptized, and my brother does things by the book; a
strict catholic, he will say a prayer, pour water over a hapless dog frightened
and yelping beneath his hands and christen it complete with a prayer. When I
had to bury one that was poisoned, he came back from school and asked me why I
never erected a cross on its grave.
Topi
sniffs and moves closer forcing me to throw him a morsel which he grabs midair
and swallows in one gulp. The puppy whines. “Survival for the fittest huh?” I
chuckle to myself.
The
food is sweet, the Managu fresh from my mother’s garden, the ugali unsifted
flour, caked over a smoky fire to a taste that sifted flour will never achieve.
The milk exquisite and I feel very selfish as I pour a quarter of a pint cup
into a bowl, break off a mound of my Ugali, cutting it into little pieces and
giving the dogs. They slurp loudly as they eat and I chew my Managu thinking,
“this sounds like that.”
They
finish before I have even had three mouthfuls. Topi stares hopefully but I chew
on in stony defiance finishing as they stare whining from time to time.
The
moon is out when I head to bed, sparkling from behind the clouds. A big silver
orb between two darkening clouds that give the sky an impression of a big eye.
The moon is one endless iris of a blend between orange and gray that brings
back memories of times gone by. Village dogs howling in unison from one end of
the village to the other when the moon was out during my primary school years.
Of waking up in the morning just after we had moved from the smaller house that
later again got pulled down. Four AM I used to wake up. Dad had this guitar
shaped clock that he left in that room, its alarm a sweet melody that sometimes comes to me in
nostalgic tinges.
The
following Morning, there is a protest in the outskirts of town over grabbed
land. We see the smoke rising from the hills above Kisii School from Kisii
university grounds where we are covering their Cultural Week opening ceremony.
In one wave, all the journalists move as an army, abandoning the function to
chase the story that is cooking, pun intended, on the other side of the valley.
We
dissect through Kisii University, crossing Nyakombisaro River the main river
that runs through Kisii town. Up into the hills of Kiong’anyo to the scene of
the incident. We hurry, running in the process so as the story doesn’t
overcook. We shortcut through an enclosed compound cresting an outcrop of rocks
to emerge as the residents protesting and burning property run thinking we are
police. We call them back since we want the story and they hail to one another
from behind Kionganyo forest where they have retreated to. “come tell your story”, “let it be told, hear
the injustices”, they, call to one another.
Irate
men and women swarm over the two structures built of wood and iron sheets in a
new wave so that the media can capture their anger, wielding panga’s, axes and
some just plain wood slashing and hacking the structures to the ground. They
are all ages, from the old toothless one who will tell of how he was young and
vividly recalls of when the land was donated to KARI to the young one who will
tell that the land belonged to their forefathers and it should revert back to
the community, not go to the hands of private individuals who are demarcating
parcels for themselves without consideration of the public. The two structures
are on fire but no one is bothered by the heat. One woman with the inscription
of MWANAMKE SI UREMBO on a lesso wound tightly around her waist is beating at
the structures and screaming, just screaming not saying a word.
My
eyes rove around to behold a smaller upturned structure which overwhelms and
angers me when I move closer to inspect it. It is a Dog Kennel that has been wrecked
and inside lies a dog half dead. These villagers have killed the dog, and they
have not even killed it properly! It lies there on it’s back head turned to lie
on one of the broken planks, gasping for breath, twitching and waving one paw
in the air, whining helplessly with eyes as white as flour staring in a
pleading demeanor.
“What
did the dog do? Why have you killed the dog?” I ask one of them.
“It
is the one that guards the property together with the arrow-wielding Maasai
guards and chases us away when we try to come ask one why they are taking our
land.” He answers and walks away.
I
call him back and ask him to kill the dog properly. What ensues is a scene that
will be etched in my memory as one of the goriest scenes I have ever beheld. As
a child I once saw a dog killed and it did not excite me because the dog just
died. Peacefully without even a sound, one moment it was lying quietly and the
next moment it was the same but only dead. Our neighbor did it after his dog
went rabid and ate all his chicken. I remember he led the dog to a secluded
place in the bushes by the river with accompanied by his two sons, me and a man
I did not know. My neighbor kept talking gently to the dog all along and
patting it after we sat down on a flat rock. He produced a piece of meat which
he fed the dog and it lay next to him contentedly head lying on the rock. The stranger then produced a mallet from a
sack he had been carrying, motioned to us to be silent and quietly approached
the dog from behind. One swing it took. One swing and a sound like a tree
branch breaking and the dog was there quiet and dead. It did not even whine and
I did not feel anything as he asked us to dig a grave in the bushes.
What
this man in Kionganyo does is however is a shocking! He picks up a pole, the
kind that is purchased from hardware stores and is used for fencing and starts
whacking the dog with it. It makes thuds and I want to ask him to stop but I
turn away in disgust. He hits it repeatedly and every time the dog whines, the
sound dying away with each whack until there is no more. When I turn around he
is standing there wiping sweat from his brows and telling calling to another
man. Before I can understand what is happening, they pick the dead dog and
throw it into one of the burning structure.
I
am so angry all I can think of is how my little brother could react if someone
did that to his dogs. I picture how he adores them, like his little children
and they respect him. When he is home, the dogs follow him everywhere. I
picture someone hurting my little brother and I am so enraged I feel helpless
because of these villagers.
It’s
common sense that a dog can never attack a mob. What did the poor dog ever do?
ENDS
@mossetti
