lost passion

Procrastination has truly got the better of me. What I'll not try to do is to excuse myself or offer detailed explanations why i have not been able to post anything in over a year now; no, i write this blog for myself so trying to justify my inaction would amount to cheating to myself.

When all is said and done, a lot has happened since i last uploaded anything  here. Contrary to what most people would think, I never stopped writing. Actually the reason why i had nothing to post here is because i found somewhere i could write for a pay.

Now that i find myself having some spare time, it is my hope and desire to rekindle and revive  my narcissist self and make regular update. 

Going Home

He had had enough. Spending three years as a cobbler, Maina had finally made a resolution. Tired of his father’s constant tirade he had decided it was his time to show his father that he could be a man that he himself had been unable to become.

“Wanjau’s last born son has bought a cow for his mother,” the old man said while tapping at his snuff box. “I hear he want to build a big house for his parents.” He continued, looking directly at his son. His wrinkled face betrayed his optimism in his son, a mixture of doubts and hopes fuelled by the palpable envy he had for his friend’s son. Mania understood what his father meant and all too well did not object or approve. Inwardly, he was also tired of the prosaic country life, longing for the day he will break loose. That morning he had observed with jealousy at the eagle flying high and mighty. He wished it was him roaming high above with nothing to worry about but his own food. Mzee's words hang in the room, echoing in his ears. At last he decided that he too will make his parents proud that he will also be the talk of the village.

“I will make you proud; I’ll be more successful than you.” Maina swore inwardly while contemplating his options. If Wanjau’s last born son who was years younger than him could succeed in town, Maina too would try his luck.

He had noticed how humiliated his father would appear whenever in the company of his peers who were constantly bragging of their son’s success. He left home determined that he too will be the talk of the village one day. He was a man in a mission, to find any work that comes his way and save as much as possible – may be in a year or two, he could surpass his neighbours build a house for his parents, buy them a cow and perhaps be in a position to buy himself a car. He had always thought of owning a car; it was his standard of success and when he left home for the land of dreams that dream felt to hold more water, it was reachable.

Seated in his small cubicle, he looked around and remembered all the dreams he had when he arrived here three years ago. Things had not turned out as he had anticipated; not only had he been unable to go back home, he had also not saved anything. It was nearing end month, a torture time when his landlord would descend on him for he had not been able to save enough money to pay the rent. He sat there contemplating on what options he had at his disposal, maybe he should go back home to his parents. That idea did not auger well with him but options he had few.

He retraced his experiences and hardships he had endured in search of success. He had arrived in town and stayed with his cousin for a month. At first Kamau had been hospitable and understanding. Maina would wake every morning and go to round looking for anything to keep himself busy. He tried a construction site where the work lasted for a week before the owner halted the work when the project was called off by the same agent of government which had initially approved it. He tried for the next couple of days but nothing substantial was forthcoming. He managed doing some odd jobs, jobs whose inconsistence was full of frustrations.

When a cobbler who mended shoes in the shade near their estate abruptly closed his practice, Maina saw a business opportunity. He had enough money to buy the necessary tools of trade and had even the surplus to rent a single room. His cousin had suggested of his desire to marry and of late his girlfriend had been spending a lot of time in his tiny room so it was only convenient for Maina to move out.

“I have decided to move out”, he told his cousin that evening who was glad than amused of Maina’s considerations. He had been thinking of a strategy which could kick Maina out and now, peremptorily, Mania had solved the problem which had been in Kamau head.

“Seriously, when and where are you moving to?” Kamau asked sounding concerned.

“I have found a room where I will move, with the money I will save from my business, I will be able to afford it”, said Maina confidently. Kamau smiled and assured his cousin of all the support he might need. He was even generous to lend him an old mattress and beddings. He was glad to have his cousin out of his house while they were still in good terms. Not many family members who lived together in town happen to that but somehow they had managed.

His business picked up well. In the next few months Maina was able to save enough to buy a bed and some furniture. He had amassed loyal customers who regarded his work as exquisite and true he always carried his work with diligence. He had even been able to send some money to his parents in the upcountry.

“Just wait, a couple of years and things will come to fruition,” he thought. He could see his dreams nearing each day, step by step was his slogan. Just a couple of years, he consistently reminded himself.  To supplement his cobbler business, Maina also started selling charcoal. It was a dirty business but at the end of the day he was glad to be making good money out of his sweat. Charcoal around his estate was a moving commodity and within a couple of months he had been able to expand his business to a point of seeking an extra hand to aid in his business. All was going well.

He had woken up early as usual on that cold July morning. His charcoal stock had arrived the previous night and he was set to start off early. The idea of his money being tied in stock was always unnerving. He would open his kiosk early so as to target his morning customers. By nine in the morning, when charcoal business will have subsided, he could start his shoe mending business and juggle between his businesses for the rest of the day.

Business was going on well; he had been busy that morning he had hardly rested. He had the screeching tires as the range rover came to a halt just outside his kiosk. 

“Nani mwenye hapa?” It was a hoarse voice, unmistakable the accent of a police officer. For some strange reason, all police officers wear this accent like it is a part of their training.  He raised his head to find himself surrounded by club clutching police officers. He was puzzled and confused for he had done no crime, at least as far as he could tell.  His mouth dried and the tongue failed him. Until then, he had not thought himself timid but he found himself trembling under the scornful eye of these law enforcers.

“You are the one destroying forests, the law has caught up with you.” It was the same voice that had spoken earlier. Before he could utter a word, he found himself flying into the back of the range rover. Momentarily his dream faded then vanished from his mental sight.

“What have I done?” he protested but the police officers were not bothered with him. They just threw one bag of charcoal into the back just in time as another police vehicle came to a halt. The rest of his charcoal was loaded into the new vehicle. It was the last time he ever saw it.

The judge sentenced him for two months in police custody or a fine of twenty thousand. He couldn’t raise the fine and two months later when he came out of cell, even the single bag which had been used as evidence in his case was untraceable. The little money he still had was barely enough to cover his accumulated rent. Back to his cobbler business, he found out that his customers had moved on and another cobbler had erected a tent just adjacent to his.

Four months after he was released from police, the town council descended on demolishing what they referred to as illegal structures. Demolishing other people’s dreams and livelihood was a job the government was committed to carry out well. They executed it so well to find a ray of hope on their path was unheard of. Maina woke up that day to find his kiosk gone. There had been no notice of the same so nothing had been salvaged. His customers’ shoes were in his kiosk and by the time he arrived, anything that could have been salvaged had already been looted.

He stood there confused as to the next course of action he should take surely he had had enough share of problem for one lifetime. His determination had paid nothing. In a way he was at peace, at least he was still alive and his determination to succeed was intact. All he needed was just time; with time he was assured to come out with something.

The experience had been anything but what he had imagined and his suffering was vain. He had done his best to succeed but nature had conspired to scuttle all his efforts, instead rewarding him with underserved troubles.

“Betters the days when I was in the villages.” With that, he made up his mind to go back to the village perhaps that was where his blessings were.

Kabaiko was a hardened criminal who had terrorized the country for a long period. He had been in the police radar for years but his tact had ensured he had always managed to escape the police net. With most of his gang members killed or captured, he had grown extremely paranoid and distrustful of anyone. His usual hiding places did not feel secure for he feared that any of the captured comrades could crack and reveal where they hide their stashes of cash and tools of their outlawed trade. He decided that he had to go move everything to a safer place and avoid all areas known to any of his buddies. He knew all too well that the moment he crossed the path of the police, he will be done since he was wanted alive or dead.

With the town next to a national game reserve, the gang had secured a place in the park where they were certain that no one was likely to venture. The tourists and the game warden usually followed a mapped route and stayed in their vehicles most of the time. In a hill near the fence of the park, the gang had identified a perfect spot to hide their loot among the boulders of rocks. He embarked early in the morning to retrieve the money after making up his mind to move to another town, one where he suspected that none of his buddies would suspect he could hide. Back in his house he decided that he could not afford to sit with all that cash till night. Rather he felt that he needed to move and act right away.

Maina sold all his furniture and left his other possession with his cousin. He had made up his mind to swallow his pride and go back to his parents. They sure were going to be disappointed that he had not been able to find success in town but they were his parents and he was sure they would be glad to have him back home safe and sound. Actually, he was not feeling well. His bowel movement were relentless and his stomach would hear none of the few tablets he swallowed. None the less today was the day he had decided to go back home, to leave the town behind and maybe that way he could forget the hardships he had endured in this town. He had bad memories of the place; memories he wanted to forget.

There was no way he was going to travel by bus or any public vehicle in an upset stomach. With his home about a hundred kilometres from town he thought may be one of the few motor cycle riders could accept to ferry him. He was willing to pay any reasonable amount as long as the rider would from time to time stop so that Maina can relieve himself in the bushes. Since he did not have any cargo with him, it was not hard to get a rider.

The sun was higher and the morning looked brighter. He felt relieved to be heading home to his parents, to the only place where he was certain he will not suffer or have the headache of what he was going to eat as long as he toiled. He could imagine the reaction of his parents on seeing him. For the first time in a long time, he felt at peace and relief swept over his face. He wondered why he had not done this earlier, why he had not even stayed at home instead of going to town. Try as he did, he could not figure out anything of value he had gained by coming to town. He had not bought a cow or built a house for them and had actually not sent anything to them for a long time now. His clothes also, were no reflection that he had been staying in town.

Back in the village, he was sure to be the talk of the village. None of the people who had left the village earlier had ever come back in a sorry state as he was going now. But man must live, our luck does not always match and he felt stupid for coming to town in the first place. .His stomach was giving him trouble and it was time to relieve him. The rider stopped and he rushed to the bushes on the roadside.

The police were alerted of the sighting of Kabaiko when he stopped to fuel his car.  They wasted no time and were soon on his pursuit. For an experienced eye, Kabaiko had been on the lookout for the first sign of trouble. His guts and suspicion told him that things were about to get ugly the moment he saw the fleet of vehicles chasing after him. He hit the gas pedal and the machine responded well. He figured out that he could try and loos the chasing cars before reaching the next road block where he suspected more police vehicles were waiting for him. After taking a few corners, he diverted his vehicle to the bushes, took his bag of money and took off on foot.

Inspector Ngotho was determined not to let the bustard live this time. He had worked in the forces for a long time now and promotion had been evasive. He craved that pay rise, fame and respect that a promotion would accord him. Today was going to be his day of fame. He could imagine his ugly mug on the telly with headlines praising him and the admiration of his superiors for nailing an evasive rascal. More so the reward money and the promotion he would get fuelled his determination. Fame was something he had always sought but so far he had been unlucky. Today was going to be his day and if it meant he would die in pursuit of the fame, he was prepared to.

Navigating the corner, he caught a glimpse of skid marks and tire trail heading to the bushes. He spans his vehicle in that direction and followed the marks. A few metres in the bushes he found the abandoned car but the suspect was nowhere in sight. He radioed and alerted other police on the pursuit that the suspect was now on foot and not on the highway.

Kabaiko was counting his luck. Hiding in a bush he had heard the speeding police cars pass nearby. He knew there was a junction nearby and decided to walk to the road that connected with the highway at the junction.

Mania was squatted, relieving himself when he saw the man with the bag. The man looked nervous and eager to rid himself off the bag. Maina saw the man throw the bag in a bush and cover it with dry branches before hurriedly walking towards the road. He scanned the direction of the man, his curiosity now piqued and he uncovered the bag. On unzipping, his eyes glowed; a muffled moan escaped his gaped mouth. The bag was full of crisp notes of money, so much money like Mania had never seen before. His body stiffened and trembled as he imagined all he could do with such money. He was afraid of heading back to the road but there was no way he was going to sit there in the bush with all a that money. Whoever the man was, Mania was certain he would come back for the money. He lifted the bag and started for the direction the man had come from his brain working complex calculations of things he would do with the money.

Inspector Ngotho was determined to nail the suspect. He had been on foot now for a couple of minutes and was tracking direction of the suspect’s foot prints, when he saw the man with the bag heading towards him. He looked nervous, occasionally peering in all the directions like someone who was aware he was being followed.

“This is my time,” thought Ngotho as he aimed his gun on the unsuspecting approached man and impetuously fired. The gun sound rang at the same time. Mania did not know what had hit him as he fell dead. Ngotho kicked the dead man, a smug of satisfaction in his face as he was sure he had earned his way to fame. He was about to radio his success when he heard a gun sound and his radio cackled.

“Roger, Suspect down. We have short the suspect, over.”

                                                                               

© Steve Karathi

Politics and Religion

Kenyans are a religious lot. Just flip through the TV channels on a Sunday morning and see the vigour reverence with which we worship. We even have a national prayer day where even the president attends, to pray and break fast. I won’t question the wisdom of the one who came up with that idea since there don’t seem to be any and for a show, the whole thing was poorly done.

Where the Christianity encyclopaedia (bible) tells that to pray for something as big as a nationrequires fasting, commitment and should not be a one day event but a continuous process, we have chosen to approach the whole concept from the rear. You see, as a nation we break the fast that has not even started and conduct our prayers in the comfort of posh hotels. Such an amalgamation of the Kenyan elites and their guests, hypocritically masquerading as leaders, we are made to believe, carries anything worth of nation’s identity. Well I didn’t identify with it and I doubt many Kenyans apart from the corporate elites who get free publicity by gracing the annual event (and maybe the religious lot) did. In a country that has starving populace, their leaders are showing them that prayers are not to be conducted on empty stomachs. Did I miss the joke or were you mocking us? How many terror attacks were stopped by the prayers, anyway?

Am reminded that the good book still cautions against judging others and for a moment I contemplate of quitting this piece lest the pious be offended. Instead, let me issue a disclaimer that this is in no way a judgement so, now, Christians can breathe. You see our self-rightousness have made us so complacent that questioning even the basics is termed as sacrilege particularly if that thing happen to touch on our religious belief. For people who maintain that God distinguished us from other creatures of His creation by according us wisdom, we seem to have no clue how to apply the same wisdom in solving the daily conundrums of our life. It is worrying that with this God given wisdom we are still imprisoned by religion even on simple matters. This reminds me of my favourite quote from that old song by The Eagles (Already Gone), “So often it happens, we live our life in chains, and we never even know we have the keys.”

Our judgement on simple matters is incomprehensibly poor, so poor that we stock all the policy making organs of our country with the purest scum. With the looming elections, every politician is on a marketing spree, trying to sell his or her gimmicks to the unsuspecting masses that applaud and cheer even when the said politicians do as much as belch. It is disgusting to see people cheering a confessed idiots urging them1 on to continue annoying and mocking the whole concept of leadership. This scene is also very common in churches where the most obnoxious thieves continue to plunder, ripping off the masses in every imaginable method. If criminals like Maina Njenga can call themselves pastors and  get followers, the church has been shaken to its core and more so the society that continue to support such hypocritical groupings of imposters. Church has offered a safe haven for criminals, where all they need to say are a few magic words like Praise Jesus, and that is supposedly all that is needed to hide their dark past and make us belief they are now born again.

What is it with all converted criminals that they think after getting saved (from what?)  their next place to land is a political office? Is it merely a vehicle (mbus as Kiraitu would call it) some sort of diversification of their earlier dealings? Whatever it is, it seems their god(s) has not been keen in answer their prayers since the previous ones have not succeeded. If at all religion has a synonym, then it should be hypocrisy and the last thing I can ever do is vote a born again Christian in any political office. Never.

The recent elections of the EALA delegates showed a grim picture. How can someone who depends on other peoples votes spoil a vote? One spoilt vote is a little bit tolerable, but when we have 10 out of 140 MPs spoiling their vote, that’s a joke whose embarrassment is on the electorate. A person who cannot be trusted to elect himself/herself has no business seeking votes and how they found themselves in parliament is a clear testament of how unreliable we are in choosing leaders. There must be something wrong in being an MP, either there is undocumented mental degradation going on at parliament building or Maslow’s theory failed to document a state of satisfaction at which brain development hit a rewind, a state which is only attained when one reach parliament.
The hailed new confusion (constitution) will be a disappointment when we more than double the number of idiots as our representatives in parliament. But as a famous American comedian said a more than a century ago, “Everything is changing. People are taking their comedians seriously and the politicians as a joke.”



                                                                               (Images via: http://evolutionspace.wordpress.com,www.sodahead.com, www.wayodd.com)

Her Majesty the queen of pettiness

There is a void that has just been filled in my life, not that it has made any difference but I finally meet her: the most obnoxious girl, at least in North Rift. Taking such an award is a celebrated achievement and as such I feel obliged to profile her. To think I have known for a couple of years is enough to give me shivers and to even imagine the couple of times I have heard her bitching about who she hates and who talks ill of her or a guy she has recently fallen out of touch with confirms that as a friend I failed for not telling her to tame her inanity. That said, I think it’s not that late to seek for cure, if need be an emergency brain transplant. She is a quintessence that nature is not always perfect in screening bad genes since there is no doubt her passing that test was a mistake of nature.

If you ever visit Nakuru and happens to be anywhere near Mwariki estate, perhaps you should consider looking around for this mighty queen of pettiness, her majesty the daughter of King. Fame is surely indirect proportion to body size since her stature is miniature and thus it is not a surprise her brain is equally meagre. May be it is by keeping in sync with her body size that has limited her brain development, may be it is the association or childhood background. For now that is hard to tell but what is evident is for age, her reasoning or lack of it is telling.

In spite of her age and all other physical follies, it would be unfair if I fail to note her face is fair. I won’t talk about her other assets but on average I would rate her assets as ok. There is a lot of things you can learn about a person and it surprises you to think you once thought you knew that person. Behind their mask of hypocrisy, deep where the compendium of their ignorance lies, lies another version of the same person which is rotten and murky after ages of suppression. This is the face you see when the said person decide to come out and if only people knew, a second of the re-emergence of the dark side is enough to destroy everything you have built for ages.

Trust a man to do anything for sex. Trust him to be blind and ignore minor flaws as long as there is a prospect for a laid. Trust him to patient and act concerned when around you as long as the pussy carrot is dangling in the air. Trust me to do all this unquestioningly; precisely what I have been doing for the past few months and vainly so. It is easy to mistake the intention of a guy but getting bored comes naturally with time, whether we score or not.

How did all this come to an end? I blame it on Nikita, the TV series. True Nikita ruined it for me, just at a time when my score sheet was showing some progress. It happens that somehow the series ended in my laptop and Her majesty would come watch it from time. We would hang out, eating chipo mwitu as she busied herself with the series. On this particular day, she was nearing the end of the season one but there was no time and she borrowed my laptop for the night to go and finish the episode.

Anyone who knows me well would tell you that night time is usually time for me and Nyambura (my laptop). We are nearing our first anniversary now which is probably the longest relationship I ever had, and we are still going stronger. There was no way I was going to give out Nyambura for the night so that anyone can go watch a movie which was not going anywhere! Absolutely no chance. You see, Nyambura not only come in handy when watching movies, night time is time when I vent on her while she dutifully listens as I pour my heart out. This was a decline that was not taken lightly.
”I see you value your machine more than me. I will never ask u for anything.”

The inveterate moron went ahead to shoot torpedoes of expletives accusing me of being selfish. By disregarding that I have far much better use for my laptop than watch a coincident flooded series, the self-righteous twat could not discern that calling me selfish was more of an oxymoron. The pettiness of the issue and the amount of hot air it blew served to confirm that indeed there are people whose IQ is far much lower than their age. Doesn’t it shame you when you start name calling simply because someone took a stand on his/her property? Call it whatever you want but my computer is not for watching movies! You say am selfish? Cool with me but that, sweet heart will leave me unmoved. The way you behaved after this incident confirms that was right not to give the comp you since you are indeed not mature enough to handle it.

It is said that rudeness is the weak man’s sense of defense so seeing anyone burning up to bandy nasty words is a sure confirmation of defeat. You can win in an abuse contests but that won’t take you far. The real win comes in knowing how to live with other peoples and knowing how to handle your mistakes and mistakes of others. You still take of offence since I have called you stupid? I don’t blame you; you are too dumb to know anyway.

For anyone who have bought or attempted to buy second hand clothing, my judgement being that most of us have, as a rule if the seller shoots a price which Is triple what you are willing to offer, trying to bargain is usually pointless. This also happens in our daily life, in every discussion or argument, the stand an individual takes is a clear indicator of the persons reasoning. The basic measure to take in every conflict is to try understanding why the said person is taking the stand he/ she has taken and try to see things from his perspectives. The problem is people are not willing to go that route. The result is that we have a lot of fixed minded individuals, showing their prowess and perfections by blindly dismissing the stand of others.

There is no way we can live without conflicts, what we need to do is to tame our snobbishness and acknowledge that we can also wrong others. If you are always the one who is wronged and other peoples reasoning is always stupid while yours always right, then you are the problem.


                                                                                                       (Images via www.123rf.com)

Ray Dear

Heads turned wherever she past. At only fourteen, Ray Dear was causing uproar and sighs could be heard escaping the gaped mouths of lecherous, virilious men. She enjoyed being in the centre of admiration and hardly would she miss an opportunity to release her torpedoes. Though she was still too young, her body was painting a different picture.

Sundays were her days when she would dress spic and span. She enjoyed the murmurs and the lustful and bewildered ogling in the church. She could walk in during the middle of a sermon, trudge confidently, elegantly all the way to the front bench and, as if to pronounce her grand entry, her high heels rarely disappointed. Even the most disinterested person won't ignore the kong kong. It would be irritating to some though most attended the service in order to pick at her bumptious thighs. Her screaming perfume would pronounce her presence in the church just like you won't mistake a he goat in your surroundings.

Ray Dear had everything. She was a stunningly beautiful girl with long, slender neck, impeccable pure white eyes with a tiny black ball at the centre. They were invitingly captivating and every man who got the chance to look at them at a close range would be hypnotized. They were eyes which came in handy often and were in fact one me the most precious asset she had. Her well curved body can only be termed as the evidence no how meticulous the creator was when He was engaged in creating her. Every angle was to the proportionate measure and each organ in its place producing an intricate piece of creation. She had those long athletic legs she enjoyed flouting around but who can blame her? With such a beautiful body even Virgin Mary might consider losing her virginity just to have a chance to show them around. Such a beauty is not one to keep all to just oneself, no, that would be selfish and Ray dear didn't consider herself selfish.

Her lips were a sake shade of pink complementing her brown skin. Whenever she smiled, an array of perfectly arranged white teeth shone. Whenever she walked, her firm bottom would shake with every step as if mocking whoever would be staring, and oh, there would certainly be a culprit. They were not too big bottoms though they won't pass for small. What is true is that they were in precise proportion with her body. For those who didn't fancy asses, the pair of boobs on her chest would leave you paralysed. Other girls were constantly filled with envy in the presence of Ray dear often making them scurry since looking at her made them question God.

She grew up being the admiration of many. Being her mother’s blue eye left her arrogant and conceited. Though Ray Dear was brought up from a humble and poor background, she could never swear of ever lacking anything. Since sometimes it was not always availed promptly, her impatience made her more innovative. After all you couldn’t blame her for at heart she was still a child albeit one in an inflated body.

"Baba Jemo likes me, I’ve seen how he always looks at me", she thought. "I’ll ask him to help me”.

That’s how it started, a simple innocent but rather advertently stupid and ingenuous resolution. Baba Jemo was her next door neighbour, a family friend for ages. To the eyes me the villages, if was a quintessential of hardworking family man a perception that half earned him respect, not only to the old but equally with the young. Even the old respected him. Only one person in the village had more reverence of the villagers than him; the headmaster.

Baba Jemo had seen Ray Dear grow up with his children. He was there when she was born though that now seemed ages ago. Now Ray Dear was in class seven and her feminine body was shaping all too well. She was naive about it, prosaic about the changes happening to her. The sight of the burgeoning little tits made Baba Jemo's mind take a digression down the fantasy lane and though he tried shrugging the intrusively nagging thoughts off his lascivious self, it sent blood pumping in his manhood. For a married man to be carried away by the mere prospect of adventures if could have with a small girl is something he found repugnant. He had always read news about men molesting young girls with unabated contempt. He closed his eyes, tried hard to fill his mind with something else and only with a lot of struggle did he manage to shut the immoral thoughts.

He continued spraying his potatoes occasionally refilling his pump with the pesticide. To keep away stray thoughts of Ray Dear, he was thinking about his wife and daughter. His daughter was the same age with Ray, and though she could not match Ray's beauty, what she lacked in looks she compensated with brains. She was smart and intelligent with a magnetic memory and a cute eye for details. He dearly loved her and sworn he would kill if any man ever laid his hands on her. Thinking about his daughter brought the picture of Ray in his mind. He tried to shut the image out and replace it with his daughter but her soft melodic voice was clearly unmistakable. He froze, sure that something was amiss with him but he couldn't figure what. Again the voice rent the air startling him. He spun only to find Ray Dear standing so close to him with all he alluring beauty. He shut his eyes, now certain that he was losing his grip on reality. For a moment he contemplated that perhaps the pesticide was getting into him making him see things. He took a long breath which came with the sweet scent of her cheap perfume. He opened his eyes only to meet her flinty imploring eyes all on him. She looked beautiful in her moment of stupor.

"Are you alright Baba Jimmy?”

He tried to speak, mumbled something. His muddled brain was failing him. He traced the outline of her body and liked everything he saw. He wanted her there and then. For a moment it didn't matter about her age, he didn't care that she was his friend’s daughter and also her daughter’s friend. The little teenybopper, he felt was seducing him!

Suddenly he realized he had to say something.

"I'm ok, you just surprised me", he eventually mumbled. With that came the realization of his throbbing manhood, and he turned around, ashamed and wondering if she had noticed it. "This little devil, God what’s wrong? What am i thinking?" he cursed inwardly.

Events were moving faster than he had anticipated. That morning where this uncanny feeling first crept in his mind, he had vainly shrugged it and hadn't given it much thought. He wished he had explored the possibility of nailing the little queen, wished he had given it much attention for he was now lost in which direction to go with it. He wished he had figured out how to execute his evil plan.

His trail of thought was interrupted by the piquant voice of Ray, "Sorry to surprise you, I enquire if you'll go to town soon? I was looking for someone to buy for me hair glo in town."

He stared at her blankly, this thoughts completely failing him. No matter how hard he tried to keep the thought of him laying her, the idea remained stubbornly pegged in his mind. The harder he tried to shrug the nasty thoughts, the stronger the urge became.

"I might go tomorrow morning", he found himself mumbling even though he had no such plans. He licked his dry lips, lustfully fantasizing at her inchoate breast. He wondered how his hands would feel around her breast, how smooth and soft her lips would feel against his. He could swear she didn't have a bra; her tiny pointed nipples were clear evidence. His mind gravitated around her groin curious what she had on. Would he fit in? He had to find out and he wanted to find out now!

Ray Dear caught his eyes and momentarily understood what he thinking was. The headmaster had called her to his office a couple of times and tried in vain to convince her into doing it. At first she had not understood his fascination with her and though she had not allowed him put his thing in her, she had let him touch her breast and grope her body while she watched with amazement how his face had brightened, and how lustfully he had groped her body. He had even turned to begging and pleaded something Ray Dear could not understand. How could a revered man who commanded respect from all the parents including the aged be reduced to a beggar, pleading with a mere school girl?

That day in the headmaster's office she realized what she had was indeed a treasure with which she could use to control even manipulate the lots of men who were always nicer to her than they were to other girls, her friends. What she felt when the headmaster was caressing her had been a strange but pleasant feeling, one she had never felt before. It was as if his hands had electrical power which sent mild shocks all over her body, leaving her numb and begging for more.

Now standing here in front of Baba Jemo, seeing him looking so lascivious, her body demanded for him. She had respected him and admired him like everyone else admired him in the village but today she saw him in a totally different eyes. She saw that not even the revered Baba Jemo was immune to her charms. With a gleeful smile she eyed at his groin and was satisfied to find what she expected. He shuddered embarrassed with the realization that Ray Dear had read his mind and was fully aware of his dirty thoughts. He opened his mouth but his tongue failed him. His lips were trembling, eyes begging as he stretched his hand, run it over her smooth face, rested it on her shinny hair and looked beseechingly in her eyes. He didn't see any rejection or approval in them. In the back of his mind he was aware of the abhorrence nature of the act in his mind but his thoughts remained blurred, clogged with a deep tenacity that couldn't wear off. He tried to think of all the possibilities, all the repercussion of his act. He was still thinking about how despicable his act was but still pulled her close and planted a deep kiss in her tiny mouth.

It didn't bother him that it was on a broad day light and in the open. It didn't bother him that the girl was like a daughter to him. He wasn't bothered or didn't seem to care.

Pulling her tiny skirt, he laid her on the sweet potatoes vines, quickly unbuckled his leather belt and navigated his way in her.

She flinched with seething pain before letting out a loud mournful scream. He quickly covered her mouth and pushed deeper. He was still engaged in his sadism, when someone let a wail from close to them. He turned only to come face to face with his wife and daughter. The thermos flask dropped from her hands as she went berserk wailing loudly after seeing what her lovely husband was doing. 

Soon the whole village would be in his shamba. Soon.

                                                                                                                © Steve Karathi

See Her

Swaying and gyrating her body

We walked side by side

She told me her name today

And when she smiled

My joints watered.

I was overcame with desire

As she lifted my spirit higher.

I hope to see her tomorrow

For the sight of her clears my sorrow

Planting hope joy and other virtues

Where vices once roamed.

I told her my name

She reached and held my arm

Soothingly soft was her palm

We held hands

Making a point of avoiding each other’s gaze,

Suddenly she had to go.

Reluctantly our hands parted

Our gaze locked

I kept looking, her beauty baffling me

She wanted to say something

I wanted to tell her

But she had to go.

I hope to see her tomorrow

I can’t live with this sorrow

I have to see her tomorrow.

                                                © Steve Karathi

False hope

False hope is what these people are living with. From one plot to the next the storyline is the same. It is something they are all too familiar with where the word research is a common lingo. I am at the Kaptembwo slum in Nakuru conducting a social economic survey on behalf of a certain Ngo which for convenience of this article I will not name. It is my job to talk to at least 250 people from different households within a period of 15 days and I must admit the prospect of talking to all these strangers at first appears insurmountable. Some of the questions required to ask ask appear quite irritable and my worry is that most of the respondents will not be cooperative. Soon I will be on the ground where I brush shoulders with helplessness and ignorance as well as pure bad luck.

Contrary to my expectations, the people I thought belligerent were mostly cordial and friendly, mostly unperturbed by the insensitivity of some of my questions. Few would hesitate to mention their average income per month or list their assets and I can’t blame them for that. I would also be sceptical about anyone who, for whatever reason, tries to dig into my personal life. There are those who would agree to do the interview but back out halfway and these accounted to the atrophy of my eraser. Some of the questions would jolt the respondents, guilt and shame littering their faces and you could sense their deliberate attempt to veer from the questions. You would see the struggle of a mother trying to remember the number of children she has, at times unsuccessfully.

What I have witnessed in the slum is a mixture of helplessness and despair which have led to my questioning the relevance of the research I am undertaking. Overreliance on government and NGOs help has led to slackness, an insidious infection slowly eating away the once able bodied workforce. It beat me why you would stay in a plot that does not have a toilet and lament waiting for the government and NGOs intervention. With such pictures in mind it is easy to agree with the politicians’ (only on this) slogan that change start with you. If at all anyone will assist these people that change must start with them.

It is a case of man eats man society and a lie has been planted on our major slums that NGOs are there to help. Most of those organizations that go with the theme of fighting poverty have set their firm bases in all the major slums in all towns. They are busy, spreading their roots and achieving their missions and visions, breaking milestones and winning awards all in line with their goals and objectives. With this paper achievements one wonder why the slum problems are on the rise. There can be two explanations to this, either these NGOs, international and local, are not doing enough or are not doing what they are saying.

The slum inhabitants are getting tired with this tomfoolery and are now sceptical about their activities. “You people only come here to ask question and don’t do anything”, someone jeers at me. I had not prepared a comeback for this so I just smile and urge them to be patient for change but by then it is obvious that this individual will not grant me the interview. I would raise my concern about this with those in the office and they will knowingly smile, perhaps reflecting on how they joy ride on the plight of the poor.  If truth can be said, the people running these organizations are in for a kill. They are on a mission of making lemonade with the slums; not to eradicate the slum problems. Theirs is a parasitic relationship, one propagated under the guise fighting their hosts. Hardly a month pass, am told, without some organization conducting a research in the slum yet nothing can be seen about these researches.

The other lot of people are those whose houses flood every time it rain yet they continue blaming the landlord. Sure he cannot be exonerated from the blame but if you tell me that the house has been flooding in the past two or three years and you are still there loyally paying your rent every month, then you are the problem. Could be your brain too has flooded with mucus to keep in psych with your sewage water flooded house. Pardon my tone but if you expect any change, start with your attitude. I went into one such plot where confusing me for some health workers, all the tenants took turn narrating their ordeal and their incessant fruitless cries to their landlord. It was a lengthy banter where I was forced to spread false hopes that “we will be back” to take actions. After listening to these people, I still don’t understand why you would complain that the toilets are always dirty yet it is your responsibility to keep them clean.

Here, I met mothers who don’t know how many children they have, wives who don’t know what their husbands do for a living and I saw plots that that doesn’t have toilets and bathrooms. All these are waiting for the government and other organizations to come mend their lives. On a lighter note, all is not lost since deep in these slums, there are a number of people who are faring quite well and I should add that these were not helped by these NGOs.