MY FEAR OF VASECTOMY

EDWIN KIPTANUI CHIRCHIR edchirchir@yahoo.com edchirchir85@gmail.com

 PHOTO CREDIT: http://freedom-muse.com/tag/fear/

There are days when I feel like a population control ambassador. Those are the days I feel like walking into any hospital, to ask whether they offer family planning services such as vasectomy

On such occasions, I use statements such as, 'Population explosion is the greatest hindrance to our economic mobility, hence we need proper strategies to curb unplanned growth of the population, which leads to economic stagnation. Big words huh! words which make you feel like you have been to school, chewed and swallowed a few books and brushed shoulder with a few distinguished professors. Words which can make you receive the Nobel peace prize, if the right people listen to you at the right time. Words which can make you give a speech in front of men and women with big titles before their names. Words which can make you be invited to give a lecture in Ivy league Universities, to very curious listeners who use words like affirmative action, impact assessment, impact analysis, cost - benefits, oh! the list is endless.

Forgive me for getting carried away. Where were we? Oh yeah, we were ruminating and ventilating on vasectomy (I hope I am not lying or insulting anyone here). Every time I think about vasectomy, I encounter a few problems (or challenges if you work for an NGO), the dorminant one being fear. The problem (fear) apparently originates from the mental impression created by Francis Imbuga's play - Aminata. Have you ever read that book? Life threatening I tell you, especially where vasectomy or the second knife is mentioned.

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One particular case of vasectomy gone awry, is Jumba, the village headman. He is trying to sire more children, after his children were unfortunately struck by lightening, leaving him with only one child. But apparently, the second knife- as vasectomy is referred to in this particular community, is irreversible. Jumba blames his brother pastor Ngoya for leading them in the wrong path and making them face the knife for the second time. He even believes that the ancestors might have punished him for failing to lead his people according to the dictates of culture.

He becomes paranoid there after and hates anything which comes from the church or from educated people such as Aminata. It does not help matters that pastor Ngoya had even led the women into eating chicken, when it was considered a taboo for a woman to eat chicken (but this article is not about chicken). He even goes ahead and ensures that that pastor Ngoya's grave is cemented, as dictated by culture, to keep his spirit grounded I suppose.It has been awhile and a lot of water has flown under the bridge since Francis Imbuga's book was written, so my question, which I believe lingers on many people's minds like traffic jams in Nairobi is, can vasectomy be reversed? Can that vas deferens be brought back to life, so that life can flow again if need be, especially now that we have made great stride in technological advancements? What happen when you find yourself in a situation where you still want more children?

  To make matters worse, anytime you think of going through vasectomy, someone probably older than you, will tell you to think again. They normally say it is like gambling with your own life and even equate it to castration. And you and I know that  old people are believed to radiate wisdom and most of them have never read Aminata by Francis Imbuga, so do they know something I don't?

JENNIFER FAILED HER EXAMS

 

photo credit: www.kth.se

Jennifer failed her exams
Which included difficult sums
But fail she did
While her friends passed indeed!
Making mom and dad's relationship die
For now, mom and dad don't see eye to eye
Because Jennifer failed her exams

Daddy blames mommy
Saying she is a dummy
That Jennifer inherited her foolishness
Instead of his intellectual richness
Daddy believes he is clever
But his ignorance makes one quiver 

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Jennifer is left in the middle
Her sadness pricking her like a needle
As her parents engage in endless quarrels 
Like empty barrels
No one notices her talent
Her singing and dancing can make drunkards silent
They don't notice Jennifer is hurt
All they notice is that
Jennifer failed her exams

THE EYE OPENING EXPERIENCES FROM THE STAFF END YEAR PARTY

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Once in a while, or very often, depending on how rich or poor your company is, especially around the time when the year is very tired and about to retire, your generous boss, who sometimes doubles up as your enemy, especially when you are not meeting the set targets, the same person you love to despise - especially when your salary is delayed even for three hours - will feel philanthropic, hence he or she ends up spoiling you by organizing a party for you and and you colleagues.

The party - also nicknamed 'bash' by the millenials - will most likely take place in one of the posh restaurants or high end resort, the kinds of places where a cup of tea (not really a cup, but a small imitation of a cup, ten times smaller than average cups, suitable for children playing 'kalongo') goes for the same price as a gram of pure gold, hence giving you a glimpse of how the high and mighty, those people with heavy titles before their names eat life with a 'large spoon' In fact, it affords you an opportunity of a lifetime to dine with the kings and queens of your class oriented society. If you are not considered a 'Mutongoria Njamba' (King) where you come from, then consider the opportunity as God sent.

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As the party unfolds before your eyes, it brings with it a series of entertaining sessions and eye opening experiences. Many things will happen, some openly, others undercover. Introverts will metamorphose into extroverts, the most reserved will mutate into coveted dancers and for some, it will be the first time they go to bed with wine. The usually timid men will be transformed into fast and smooth talkers, who can sedduce giggling  ladies within a few seconds, the same men whose 'love radar' had been so ineffective, that they could not pick up overt signals from single ladies in the office, as they palpitated their gluteus maximus (I know you will google that) along the office corridors.

So, how does it all begin? The party usually kicks off with a hurriedly taken meal (Lunch or dinner) washed down with a few soft drinks. Food is usually taken as if it is a necessary evil. Meanwhile, several pairs of restless eyes will be trained on the door from which 'booze' will emerge. The meal will be followed by a few platitudinous speeches about the year's progress and blah! blah! blah! No one really listens or cares.

And then finally the long awaited 'hero' named wine arrives and when it arrives it takes control. Nothing can explain the hullabaloo that follows as people engage in discourse, all at once, trying to outdo one another, in their knowledge of topical issues, from politics to relationship matters. That is when it dawns on you that 97.213% of employees in your company are actually drunkards (EABL are you reading this?). Almost everyone rushes to get a bottle of the hard stuff as music fills the air. All troubles, including unmet targets and heart breaks, disappear into thin air, as people sample the best of the frothy liquids from Ruaraka.

As the farmented liquids start taking authority over people's minds, they start getting up one by one and taking over the dance floor. That is when you realize that the guy from accounts department, who is always very reserved is actually an aspiring acrobat, as he unleashes one dance move after the other. You will find two people, a lady and a man, who have never engaged in any intelligible discourse before, dancing very close to one another. The man will dancing lustfully while salivating (typical of team 'fisi') at the lady's assets. The lady on the other hand will be gyrating her posterior without a care in the world. Not even the mention of the CEO's name can scare her.

The supposedly modest ladies and gentlemen will be seen hiding in dark corners as they dance to the music, but sooner than soon, they will be spotted on the well lit dance floor, dancing without any care in the world.

Then there is that guy, a new comer in the world of alcoholism. At first he dilly dallys with the thought of getting high. He misses the first round of helping oneself with a bottle of the frothy liquid. He has just remembered that his religious mom, an overzealous enemy of satan, made him swear never to touch alcohol. He is torn between listening to his mom or to the seductive voice of the wine, which seems to be beckoning him, "Come my son, come and experience the joys of my world." And you know very well that the voice of wine, can be overly sweetened, like that of a wicked seductive empress. He starts looking for biblical verses which support wine, not forgeting the one about Timothy being told to "Drink no longer water but a little wine for thy stomach's sake"

Do not be surprised when this particular guy starts mixing wine with the mango flavoured Delmonte juice at first, and then graduates into an award winning alcoholic as the party progresses into the wee hours of the night. He will most likely be woken up from his deep slumber on the dance floor by the waiters and waitresses, the following day, but then, the end year party is all about enjoying yourself and we do so in varied ways.

SCARS - BRAVERY OR CARELESSNESS?

PHOTO CREDIT:http://scarsandspots.com

I presented myself for a millitary recruitment exercise, some years ago. Of course I was nullified because of a weight issue. Apparently, I was below 55 kilograms, hence I could not carry a gun according to millitary experts. You might think I am so reluctant when it comes to eating, but no!, I eat more than most overweight folks, but still remain underweight by millitary standards.

As I sulked on my way home, I was sulking alongside fellows who had been turned back for having scars on their bodies. We comforted ourselves by speaking negatively about the millitary, that the millitary was dangerous, that you could easily get killed, that you could get very bad injuries, that they caned recruits, that the gun is heavy and can hurt your shoulders, that the boots are unhealthy for our feet, that the constant wearing of head gear could make you bald headed and Oh! That you will be forced to sleep in the bush where you could be bitten by snakes, not forgeting long periods of absence from your family, hence someone could easily snatch your wife, while you are busy ducking enemy bullets in some hostile hill or valley somewhere. We also claimed that you could be killed through what they call friendly fire by your fellow partners in combat. How comforting! Call it sour grape syndrome, but men, did we find comfort! Our negativity about the millitary, as a result of being turned back made us find some comfort. Finding comfort in negativity and numbers.

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But then, was it our fault? we honestly could not bring ourselves to understanding why one could be denied a chance in the millitary for having scars.

As far as I am concerned, people who have scars are adventurous and not careless as some people would like us to believe. They donot have an iota of fear when it comes to taking risks. They are not afraid to stand their ground when a push comes to a shove. They are ready to exchange blows when necessary, but I am not trying to market violence here, but isn't that what the millitary wants? Exchanging blows with the enemy huh!

Those are the reasons why a number of us were mad for being denied the chance to get into the barracks and handle guns. Who by the show of hands , does not think that guns are sexy? I wanted to be in, in order to become the next Rambo or Brucelee or Jackie chan. So that my kids could tell other children not to mess with them because their father is in the millitary.

I personally have a number of scars some where in less obvious areas in my body, so if my weight had not been an issue, I would still have been turned back due to the scars anyway. I also know of a number of friends who have more and worse scars than mine. Now, trust me when I say that none of those friends got those scars by spending time as a couch potato. They did not get them, while using play station or watching Tom and Jerry.

Amongst the people who have scars, I have seen some, who fell off some huge rocks while playing, as little children and they are still alive, with with some scars of course, but isn't rock climbing a sport in some parts of this country? Isn't that an indication of bravery? Ins't that an example of someone who can survive harsh terrain, scars or no scars?

I actually got one of my scars while chasing after some hare, with the hope of converting it into supper. If you have never tasted the hare's roasted meat you will not understand. I failed miserably because I ran into some stupid barbed wire fence, which threw me a few feet back, but I got up and walked away, as if nothing had happened. I only realized later that one of my arms had been cut. A cut which later graduated into a scar. And take note that I did not cry during the commotion. I was only trying to be a man and men apparently don't cry, even when they are burning within or rather they cry from the inside. And the hare? he or she got away. I missed the meat and I got a scar, but that should tell the millitary that I can chase after enemies of our nation without fear or favour.

I remembber one guy who dived into a shallow pool at the river, where else could it be? Our parents did not prioritize the construction of swimming pools. Food, clothing, shelter and education came first, so we had to create our own makeshift swimming pool by the river. They guy emerged from the pool limbing, because apparently, some enemy of development had thrown a few stones into our beloved pool. The enemy of development was probably an adult, who had missed the fun of swimming during childhood and now wanted to make the next generation to also miss out on the fun. Such courage and skill in diving was awsome and if you ask me, that guy should have been made to join Kenya Navy as soon as he cleared school. Of course he has a scar from the incident, but that should not be a big deal.

So, in every scar, I see bravery and not cowardice or carelessness, hence with our scars, we are ready to form the unfathomable force that will protect our country from external aggression.

WHY I COULD NOT DATE TRUPHENA

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Remember those days? No? Okey let me put it this way, do you remember those days when the only way to call a girl out of her home was by whistling or throwing a stone? Remember now huh! You had to be careful that the stone did not hit four common enemies of development, her mother, her younger brother, their dog and God forbid, her father.

I know some guys who were born yesterday are smiling thinking they know what I mean. Yes, I mean you guys who spell 'sasa' as 'xaxa'. Forget about nowadays, when you can easily SMS her or find her on facebook or twitter or whats-app. The possibilities are endless. Yes, life is easy for you guys who were born yesterday. You can throw her some pickup lines (or are they punchlines?) through facebook. And as if that is not enough 'emoticons' are there to help you open your heart to the object of your desire. And you object of desire probably goes by a borrowed name like 'Beyonce.'

Now that I have put you young men born yesterday in your place, allow me to speak about those days when my object of desire went by a borrowed name like 'Truphosa' or 'Truphena.' You literally had to go through tribulations to get her. Ahem!-- at this point I can refer you to the book of Revelations chapter----Okey I don't remember the chapter, Just go to page 1204 of your holy book.

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Allow me to begin with tribulation number one, so that you can get the picture of how difficult it was to get Truphena. There was always a nosy little brother, who was ready to sell you off to the headmaster of the family. Oh no! forget about the school headmaster. So the little brother, instead of behaving like a gentleman and concentrating on making toys or watching Rambo, he was always keen on knowing who was after his sister. You had to hate that young man. He was capable of saying this like, "Mum, that person who always calls Truphena has come again."  and pray that the headmaster of the family does not get wind of your presence.

And then there was that dog. Yes, an ill mannered dog, probably called 'Simba' or 'Tiger.' You were in trouble if he was to sniff you out as you hide in the bush, along the fence, near Truphena's home. This would most likely attract the attention of Truphena's loved ones.

One of those loved ones would probably be the man I have mentioned severally as the headmaster of the family - read father. He was the man to watch. He was always willing and ready to throw a club your way should he sniff out that you wanted to harass the morals of his daughter, and I mean, a big headed club or 'rungu' not the small headed one which 'Arap Moi' liked carrying around. 'Rungus those days looked ugly and had the capabilities of opening up your skull, unlike the decorated ones which we normally give to our politicians as we declare them elders.

So, picture this, you have been hanging around Truphena's home, evading any curious eyes, since twelve noon. You pray and believe that she will come so that you can 'pour' the romantic details in you heart, into her heart, hoping that it will have an impact.

She would later emerge at five o'clock, looking impatient. She almost hates you for endangering her life. She quickly tells you that she is rushing to the shops and that her mother would kill her if she finds out what is happening. You almost promise her that you will die for her, only to remember the kind of injuries her father could possibly inflict on you. She would not give you enough time to tell her what is in your heart.

You persist until she says, "Okey I will only give you two minutes." So you are preparing to capitalize on the two minutes, then you hear someone at their homestead asking,

"Mum, who is that talking to Truphena at the road?"

Ouch! It is that nosy little brother again. That spoilt brat whose main objective in life is to make other men miserable.

Truphena quickly runs to the shop as you dash into the bush to hide, lest her father finds you. From a distance, you hear her father swearing that he will kill somebody, and the somebody in question is probably you.

Any way, you have managed to hide, but you are left with sweet frozen words in your mouth. Words you rehearsed the whole night. You end up speaking to the trees as you hide and the trees seem to be mocking you and your sweet nothings.

You: Truphena, I will swim across lake Victoria, just for you.

Tree: Really? Don't you remember that last week you almost drowned at the river while swimming?

But you are not bothered. By now you are holding one of the tree tree trunks imagining it is Truphena.

You: My dear Truphena, if I had to cross a jungle full of lions, just to get to you I would do it.

Tree: Ahem!....Don't fool yourself man. If you are afraid of Simba the dog, what about real lions?

You: Truphena, you are the bone of my heart. The queen of my soul.

Tree: He he! If your biology teacher heard that, he or she would die of heart attack. Since when did the heart have bones?

From a distance, dark clouds are gathering. It will soon rain. It is also getting dark. It is time to go home. You walk back home a dejected man. You feel like Truphena's father is 'Babylon' the oppressor, who is always referred to in some reggae songs. You want to sing one of those reggae songs about 'Babylon' but you don't remember the lyrics. You want to remind 'Babylon' that one day, Haille Salassie, I and I will come to free you from bondage and take you to Ethiopia. Take heart brother, for such is life.

EXCUSE MY IGNORANCE

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I am minding my own business, inside a matatu heading to Nakuru. In fact I am nodding my head gently in rhythmic unison with a beautiful song playing from the vehicles music system.

Suddenly I am accosted by a stranger sitting next to me. He looks at me with exaggerated levels of interest then asks:

"Did you watch Manu and Man city last evening?"

It takes me a few seconds to understand that Manu is not the shorter version of the name Emmanuel

I don't watch football."I reply, to the utter shock and disbelief from the stranger.

In fact, the stranger gave me that look of horror,as if my head had just turned into the head of a reptile of the poisonous variety. I had to scratch my head,to ensure that I still had hair hence I had not turned into a reptile.

But the guy recovered and prompted me further.

"You look like a Man city fan. Is it because we defeated you yesterday and so you are trying to run away from your team?"

The guy was so talkative. You see, I have always held some ridiculously sick hypothesis, that people with big mouths tend to talk a lot (just like me) , but now my hypothesis was on the verge of collapse, because here was a man with a small mouth, but extremely talkative.

I chose to ignore the man, but his question had sent me into a reflective mood. Why is it that every man I meet seems to think that it is a sin not to watch football? Any anti-football comments are treated as blasphemous words.

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Nowadays, for you to be considered a total man, you have to know a thing or two about football, especially the names and massive details about players. Details about their girlfriends, wives and what they own. At least I know that Messi owns a house that looks like a football stadium. Not so?

It does not help matters that some daughters of Zion (Girls) have also developed an intense interest in football (probably to keep an eye on their men), so now I can neither claim to be a total man, nor a total woman.

What the stranger does not understand is that I have more pressing issues in my mind. They might be useful or useless issues but at least I know that by my standards they are important. For example I cannot understand why our matatu has just overtaken a small vehicle which is cruising at terrific speed when it is supposed to have a speed governor. I also seem to think that there is something funny about the gradient of the slope of mount Longonot, but I don't know what it is and I don't care.

Yes, I am also imagining that if Mount Longonot was moved to lake Naivasha, we can get lots of space for other things. Sounds stupid right?

It is not that I don't love sports. I watch athletics you know? I can tell you who won the last London marathon. I can also tell you the distance Julius Yego, threw the javelin. But there is a devil which blocks my mind whenever I think football. At least with athletics, you can watch it with a certain level of detachment. You don't have to invest your to invest your emotions into it. At least you will not hear of me stabbing someone on the belly, just because David Rudisha did not win. Neither will I jump off a tall building because Ezekiel Kemboi did not win gold.

Another thing, athletics unlike football, does not take up too much of my mental resources. I don't have to memorize anyone's name. I already have too many pin numbers to memorize. You see, I have at some point tried to be a 'Gorrmahia fan' but unfortunately, I am yet to memorize the names of the players. I only know of a 'Jaro Soja,' -the man with a strange bicycle- but I don't know whether he is the coach or one of the players, Ouch! me and my ignorance!

WHEN THE HUSBAND LOVES THE BOTTLE

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I am not a woman (thank you lord for that favour) but for once, let me pretend that I am one who happens to be married to a man who loves and worships the bottle and by that I mean a drunkard. So, in such a circumstance, how does a typical day look like?

Well, the beloved husband, probably called ‘baba’ Johnny, who happens to be the head of the family by virtue of the fact that he wears a trouser and an old coat, leaves very early in the morning, as if he is an expectant woman whose labour has arrived at the perfect timing. Speaking of labour, a little bird told me that the best time for pains to start is very early in the morning, rather than late at night, when finding a vehicle is a nightmare, unless you own one. He (husband) heads for the usual drinking den as if reporting to a new work station, following an appointment.

Whether the bar is a few metres or miles away, he will not care. What matters to him is to get there by all means. His mind is fixed on the end goal, which is to give that bottle of beer some kisses and trust me when I say that the bottle will get better and most passionate kisses than his dear wife.
As he gulps down the beer, to quench his supposed thirst, the beer will be tearing him to pieces.
“Another one!” He will shout at the bar attendant after swallowing the contents of the bottle.
He gulps down the contents of the second bottle in a similar manner, his Adam’s apple jumping up and down with excitement.

With every sip of beer, the man becomes less sober. With every bottle the bar maids become more beautiful. He buys them one or two drinks. Some evil minded – get rich quick – kind of bar maid might play along with his romantic ‘prey’ and ends up relieving of his hard earned cash.

Later in the evening, he will be heard singing songs off key as he heads to his house, walking blindly as is the norm. He will be staggering from one side of the road to the other, sometimes falling into a ditch.

The beloved husband and father will probably be hurling insults at everyone who passes by, and the recipients of the insults will ignore him, not that they are afraid of him, but because they are afraid of committing murder. Of course the general consensus among the insulted people will be that he is a stupid man from head to toe.

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If he was lucky, not to be robbed by the bar maids, then someone else will take the opportunity to empty his pockets of any legal tender, as he slips into a temporary coma by the road side.
By good luck he gets home, thanks to assistance by good Samaritans who most likely collected him from the ditch. Are you surprised? Actually we still a few good Samaritans existing in the twenty first century. He looks muddy and wet like a duck and has no recollection whatsoever as to how he got home. In fact he somehow believes that he had the strength to walk all the way home. He has forgotten that along the way, he slipped into a temporary coma, because of taking liquor on an empty stomach. He does not remember that some good Samaritans fed him with milk, to save him from imminent death.

The consolation is that, he is still safe and sound, except for a few bruises and cuts all round, the suspects being the frequent falls and some barbed wire somewhere, giving everyone a sigh of relief for, at least , they do not have to organize for a funeral. Remember coffins are expensive nowadays and you also have to tolerate some politicians who might want to hijack the funeral ceremony and turn it into an opportunity to gain political mileage or settle scores with an opponent. They have also been known to fight, during such solemn occasions.

His next target is food. Yes! Now he wants food! And he will bark at everyone as if he did them some good. He cannot even remember that he left the wife with no money for food and woe unto the wife, for without food, war will be part of life.

Then comes the dreaded time; time to retire to bed. The wife wants to sleep because of exhaustion and constant worry, while he husband wants to sleep because he is drunk. But the husband is all muddy and even the children are in agreement that he does not look like a daddy. But he wants to get into bed without having a shower. He is afraid of water! Yes, daddy and husband is afraid of taking a shower! But all the same, he will force his way to bed and snore away like a well fed pig, but wait, you switch off the lights and he will demand for his marital rights. You thought he was sleeping, huh!

WHEN YOUR COW COUGHS

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You are a hardworking farmer, a farmer who knows a thing or two about rearing cows. Not just cows, but real cows who produce milk and by milk I mean, lots of milk. You also have that favorite cow. Your beloved cow, a cow who has found a special place in your heart. A cow whom you love from the bottom of your heart and hopefully the cow also loves you from the bottom of it's udder.

Let us just say that one morning, your favorite cow will cough. It will most likely be after you have milked her and are satisfied by the results. You will be standing close to you cow hands akimbo, admiring her and by 'her' I mean your cow.

Now, listen. When your cow coughs, it is not like when a human being coughs. When a human being coughs, we can laugh, we can make fun, we can even mimic the way they cough (provided you are close friends. It is not polite to do that to strangers) because the human cough is only life threatening under very special circumstances. My good friend Kinuthia, sometimes laughs, with one eye closed, until the laughter mutates into a prolonged cough and then we laugh some more, followed by more coughing and tears of joy. See? No need to worry.

I have never began a sentence with 'but', so let me begin with some few meaningless and unnecessary words to avoid committing some grammatical sin. 'But' is a conjunction remember? Okey here we are, but when your favourite cow coughs, it could mean anything. It could just be a slight irritation, which is quite welcome. She could have swallowed something life threatening like a needle, now that is horrible. It could also be a life threatening disease and that makes it fatal to both your cow and your agribusiness.

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Now, at this point I need to tell you about sadists, because God forbid, your cow might or will die because of the cough. A sadist is a person who takes pleasure in other people's misfortunes. I am assuming that you and you cow live in the village, so I do not need to tell you that your fellow villagers might or will rejoice in the death of your cow. That is because, they will go for days without needing vegetables, thanks to the meat from your cow.

Okey, back to serious business, your cow is now dead, so let us talk about how your cow will be slaughtered. After many years of observation, I have concluded that almost everyone in the village walks around with a knife, for reasons only known to themselves. I know this is not good for security and the Inspector General of Police needs to know this.

Occasionally, such knives would be used to threaten each others lives, during various states of drunkenness or when fighting for women, but now that your cow is dead, they will come in handy in grabbing free meat. To cut a long story short, the human vultures will devour your cow within minutes, after all what do you expect when more than thirty people emerge from nowhere with knives?

You may protest in the process, but some self declared veterinary experts will declare the meat unfit for human consumption. They will therefore take on the responsibility of disposing off the meat. Large pieces of meat will therefore be taken away in the pretence of taking them to the various dogs in the various homesteads, but do not be fooled. That meat will probably end up on someones plate.

What you will however be left with, is the head, skin and the heart of the cow, which in traditional African set up belongs to the owner of the cow. The problem is, if someone gets sick from consuming the meat, the police and public health officers will come for you (the owner of the cow). That is double tragedy.

HOME SWEET HOME

My dear home Lebolos
Or is it home sweet home Olebolos?
Awsome Kiplombe to your East
And sweet Kirobon to your west
Peaceful Kokwomoi to your North
And the green Koibatek forest to your South
Flanked by the never drying ngaranarewo river
And Esageri the ever flowing river

I remember you fondly
Because you enriched my life wholly
And made me feel jolly
The lovely games we played
The helpful friends we made
The captivating books we read
And the ripe fruits, looking black and red

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I may be far this day
But I will be back someday
To enjoy the fresh air
The warmth of your care
The charm of your people
The food, delicious, fresh and simple
And the fond memories, like magic
Makes me feel nostalgic

My dear home lebolos
I shall be back, lovely lebolos
I know I am still assured of your love
The way you have my sincere love
I would love to walk on your pathways
Not on the city highways
And to let my children
To become your brethren
Long live our friendship
And long live our kinship

Kenya Defence Forces - Our Heroes

 

photo courtesy: https://sofrep.com

Our soldiers you are
And our heroes you are
The warriors of our mother land
Who brave the thirst and the hot sand
In the distant Somali land
In the quest for peace
So that we can live as we please

With your skills and bravery
You deliver us from slavery
As we pray for you everyday
We also declare this day
That you will subdue the enemy
Because that senseless and cowardly enemy
Is no match for you our heroes

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The enemy may be all smiles
Thinking he has gained extra miles
He wallows in pathetic ignorance
As he brags in his cowardice
But remember, Kenyans we are
And our heroes you are
We always stand uncowed
And we hereby remain unbowed

MISINFORMATION ABOUT CANCER IN THE VILLAGE

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Misinformation is the undoing of most villages. A few years ago, I was a witness to this kind of misinformation. It was during a time, when cancer had just reared its ugly head and started wreaking havoc on innocent families.

Because the name cancer was a mysterious name, it inspired lots of curiosity. It sounded more like the second name of the devil. Being diagnosed with it was like being kissed or hugged by the devil himself. No one really wanted to mention it by its name. It was as if acknowledging its presence would make the disease contagious. It also breezed in with diverse theories and with those theories the level of misinformation grew.
One of the theories normally had something to do with some Lilliputian insect, being the cause of the tumor. The insect was believed to be the same one that attacks dry wood, making it crumble and turn to powder.
Once in a while, a daughter or son of the clan, who happened to work in Nairobi or some other city worth its name, came back home with a cancerous tumour, somewhere in his or her body. Since in most people’s minds, the cancer did not exist, the son or daughter of the soil would be questioned on several issues, for example,

"Did you mess up with some members of a certain tribe?"

"Did you snatch someone's wife or husband?”

The 'certain' tribe in question, was one of those believed to have some very lethal 'traditional chemistry' - read witch craft

Others would ask whether you knew of someone who might have looked at you with 'bad eyes' whatever that means.

You would then be accosted by several self-appointed and self-proclaimed 'experts' who would direct you from one herbalist to another. You would be given examples of the diseases the herbalist has treated. They would then give you the testimonies of the many people the herbalist had helped, who were actually worse than you. Many people found this appealing because they had heard harrowing tales of what chemotherapy and radiotherapy could do to people. A treatment believed to be so agonizing that they called it 'Kuchomwa na stima' - being roasted using electricity. There was also the whisper that modern treatment could cause you to lose all the hair in your body. What a terrible nightmare!

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So, you migrate from one herbalist to another, who prescribe all manner of leaves and roots to boil. You try all these without much success and at some point you actually contemplate visiting a witch doctor, to find out whether indeed, someone looked at you with 'evil eyes'

Sometimes, sister or brother so and so would visit you for prayers. They would tell you that the tumour you are carrying on your neck is a demon, which can be cast out through prayer and fasting. You have to believe them because it is written that with just a little faith, you can move mountains. They will also let you know that prophet so and so or apostle so and so is coming to town and he has healed many people. At this point, you cannot resist because you are already frustrated.

Of course, one day without a name, you will end up in hospital. You will most likely be bed ridden. The doctor will confirm that the evil tumour on your neck is indeed cancerous. He will mention something about 'stage four' then he will look at you and shake his head, "If only you had come earlier." His statement makes you feel like you have just been handed a death sentence by a no nonsense judge. He will attempt to help you by performing the same chemo or radio therapy, you have been running away from. I think by now we know where this story is headed right? Well! There you have it folks, the earlier the better.