WHO WILL SPEAK FOR THE BOY CHILD?

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

 PHOTO CREDIT: PIXABAY.COM

Boys will always be boys right? So, if you are a male between 41 years and infinity, you are a grand old boy. Those between 18 and 40 years are old boys while any male below 18 years is the real boy. Any objections? No? Good! Very good. We are now heading somewhere.

Now to the big question, have you set your eyes on the boy child lately? For those of you who live and eat in Kenya, have you seen the boy child since that day when Dr. Fred Matiang'i, the cabinet secretary for education unceremoniously released the K.C.S.E results? For those folks who normally read this blog from the USA, Greece, Ukraine, China, Philippines, Germany, Belgium, Egypt among others (I wish I could mention all of you), KCSE means Kenya Certificate of Secondary Education.

The results in question seemed to suggest that the boy child has an inferior and partially dysfunctional brain compared to the girl child. It is believed that from the available statistics, the boy child failed beyond salvage, hence resulting in collective embarrassment of the grand old boy child, the old boy child and the real boy child. 

Since the onslaught of that Tsunami brought about by those results, the boy child has started walking around with stooping shoulders, not because of new evolutionary changes, but social stigma (who wants to associate with a dysfunctional brain?). Even his neck is too shy to support his head, hence the head is always leaning forward out of shame and feelings of worthlessness, his eyes constantly looking at his toes. For the boy child, confidence is no longer his acquaintance. Creativity seems to have deserted him, ever since the girl child became empowered. The boy child now drowns his sorrows in illicit brew while others can be seen occasionally sucking at some unfortunate cigarettes or chewing Khat.

The change in the boy child's fortunes is also partly attributed to the fact that women and girls have taken over the world of success and are now ruling it with  iron fists. Girls and women are now busy discussing about getting those degrees and proceeding for masters and PhD's. They are also eager to conquer the corporate world.

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Several Organizations and even Television programmes have been started to cushion the girl child against the harsh realities of life. I have heard of programmes such as 'Daughters of Zion', meant to empower the girl child, but I am yet to hear of a program called Sons of Zion. Several financial institutions have also been set up to give affordable loans to the girl child.

What about the boy child? Nothing to write home about. Betting is his new hobby as he tries to look for short cuts in life, because the world is becoming too harsh. The old boy child has been reduced to a sperm donor, since in the event of a divorce, the children do not even legally belong to him. The choice is left to the children, to deny or accept their father, once they turn 18, so the mother has 18 years to engineer the brains of the children against their father.

The grand old boy, alias Sponsor is not doing any better. Young girls are now chasing him about. Girls young enough to be his daughters. They want to rob him of his hard earned cash. They do not have to use force or violence to achieve that. All they need to do is praise his pot belly, his bald head or his grey hair, and the gates of generosity will be opened in his heart.

"Your grey hair is the greatest gem of wisdom." says the girl child, and the grand old boy will smile.

"Your bald head is the only golden beauty that nature gave to the world." says the girl child and the grand old boy will giggle.

"Your protruding beer belly is the benchmark and epitome of masculinity" spits the girl child and the grand old boy will laugh until his molars see the light.

In the quest to find an easy way out of poverty, the real boy child is now obsessed with moneyed older women who go by sweetened names like sugar moms, the same women who have been neglected by the grand old boy. The sugar mom will feed and clothe him, in exchange for intimacy. This arrangement will go on until a fresh and stronger replacement is found.

It is now common knowledge that the boy child is likely to be a member of 'Team Fisi' (Team Hyena), an association of perverted boys, who come together with a common aim of salivating and oggling at every girl or woman they come across, especially those with curves at the right places, most preferably on the backside.

In the midst of all these unfortunate circumstances, the  logical conclusion here is that even as ladies are encouraged to unleash their potentials and even as the law bends over backwards to give the female child the upper hand, the boy child should also be encouraged to move along rather than being left behind to be mauled by the harsh realities of life.

 

KITENGELA AT NIGHT

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

PICTURE CREDIT: pixabay.com

Recently, something (a voice within my head) lied to me that I could leave Kitengela for Nairobi, then to Eldoret at night.

The voice, which I think is a spirit or a soul within me said, "You are a man bwana, men travel at night. Night time is adventurous" and so I agreed to the flattery from the voice.

And so it was that I left the house at around eight o'clock in the evening, to guarantee that I get a Matatu to Nairobi.

I walked past that club near Arusha meat den and it was still clear, and by clear I mean those girls who normally gather around there wearing almost nothing had not yet assembled to look for customers who might be interested in nocturnal adventures. I therefore enjoyed my peace as I passed by.

There is a time I was walking past that club at 11 p.m and one of the girls called out, "Pst! Sema customer" (also interpreted to mean welcome customer). That made me blush. Being referred to as customer by those girls, makes you look and feel guilty, because it implies that you are a frequent beneficiary from their services. Let me make it clear here that I have never developed any appetite for whatever they sell. I know you are already asking what I was doing there at 11 p.m in the first place. Well! I had just arrived from Nairobi, thanks to endless traffic jams, which ensured that I was late. If you don't believe me then I don't blame you. Even the Missus found it hard to buy that story. That is not even what I wanted to tell you, please don't give me that look. I don't even have anything against those girls. I know life can be unkind sometimes.

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Okey folks, back to business, where were we? travelling? Oh yeah travelling. So, I board my favourite matatu, lets call it Mzigo shuttle, because I won't mention any names here, for my own safety. I do not want anyone laying an ambush on me in some dark street and breaking my neck. I am afraid I want to speak some crap about them. The matatu looks almost full. In fact, the tout is only looking for two more people. I board it but the strange thing is that every time a passenger boards, another passenger alights. The matatu crew was employing a trick where some people who have no intention of travelling whatsoever, take the seats, to give the customer the impression that the Matatu is almost leaving (nothing attracts a passenger like a matatu which is full and almost leaving). The occupants of the seats then get out one by one as new customers get in. I thought we had outgrown such dirty tricks. I felt molested.

You see, the main reason why I was impatient was because I wanted to be in Nairobi just on time to get that North coach bus, which is spacious and affords you the chance to feel like you are on a plane. I have never seen the inside of a plane before, so pretending to be in one is a welcome relief. Inside the North coach, you can watch movies, read a book, sleep and even charge you phone. Couples even get the privacy to cuddle and fondle (you know I am kidding here right?), but from the look of things, I knew I was going to miss the North coach, oh my dear North coach.

Back to Mzigo shuttle, we finally left after what seemed like an eternity. The matatu crew was very rowdy and the interior of the vehicle crowded that night. Traffic rules were flouted with reckless abandon. The vehicle was overworked an molested severally as the tout banged on the door, to alert the driver to stop for more customers.

And then there was music. Someone told me that before Satan became rebellious, he used to be an angel in charge of music in heaven. I have a reason to believe that on that particular night, Satan himself took charge of the vehicles music system. (by the way, is Satan a 'he' or 'she'?).

The music was arrogantly loud. Did you really get that? No? Lets try it again. I have just stated that the blaring music from those unkind speakers was painfully loud and harsh to our ears. To survive, you had to keep your mouth open exposing your teeth, and your face contorted, making you look like someone who has not had a decent meal for several days. I mean have you ever listened to music and instead of the music soothing your soul, it rains punches and kicks on you? That is what happened to us. At some point I think I could feel my heart beating in the same rhythm as the music.

One more thing, the tout who forgot to return my twenty shillings change was surrounded by groupies. They were probably what I believe to be some close friends of the tout. They stood inside the bus while some hanged by the door, to avoid paying the eighty shillings fare. Most of them were chewing miraa. (khat), leaving some unsightly green substance on the corners of their mouths. Please if you want to enjoy miraa, take it with a soft drink to wash down that disgusting green substance.

I used to think that only celebrities have groupies, but it seems I was terribly wrong. Some members of  the tout's close circle of friends were singing badly alongside the loud music, from the music system. Some even attempted to dance by shaking their unappealing bottoms. Dear gentlemen, I always hold this belief that only ladies should be allowed to shake their bottoms. Not Men. The men can shake any other parts of their anatomies but definately not their behinds. There is nothing to write home about a man's bottom (whether humongous or tiny).

And then, there was that small matter we need to discuss about men. Almost ninety nine percent of the occupants of the vehicle were men. I know I am one of them but I will still pause the question. Where exactly do all those Kitengela men travel to at night? Do we really have men left in Kitengela at night? Who takes care of the women, uh?

The funny part is that, with all that nocturnal rowdiness, the Kitengela Matatu crew members are the most disciplined during the day. I do not know what gets into them at night. Another thing, just so you know, I missed the North coach. Oh! my dear North Coach.

THE FATE OF MAINA'S DONKEY

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

 IMAGE CREDIT: https://www.pinterest.com/dmddashshund/donkey/

It is true that water is a scarce commodity in Kitengela. You can actually tell a crowd in Kitengela that water will flow endlessly from available taps for the next one week and they will laugh, mistaking it for a joke. I am even suspecting that you can build a fruitful career in standup comedy by talking about water (at least in Kitengela). So scarce is the commodity that some people are making a living just by selling water to the residents. Most houses do not even have taps. What is the use when they are almost always dry?

One of the beneficiaries of this perennial water problem is my good old friend Maina. He owns a handcart which he uses to ferry water to his regular and loyal customers including yours truly and sons plus wife minus daughters company limited. For a long time, he would personally pull this handcart from one customer's house to another, but sometime in November 2016, he decided to upgrade and work like a boss by buying himself a donkey. The donkey was to do the dirty work and he was to reap the benefits.

He personally travelled all the way to Naivasha. Let me remind you that travelling from Kitengela to Naivasha is not as easy as munching roast goat meat at Arusha meat den in Kitengela. I am not kidding here. You have to travel from Kitengela in Kajiado county , through Mlolongo in Machakos county where you will see beautiful flowers planted by Governor Alfred Mutua, to Nairobi city in Nairobi county, where you will pay homage to Kidero grass, planted by Governor Evans Kidero (so the grass grew at last phew!). You would then finally proceed to Naivasha in Nakuru county. Does that sound like a joke?

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Finally at Naivasha, Maina bought his donkey for Ten thousand shillings and that was after bargaining. He then transported the same donkey to Kitengela at the cost of Four thousand Kenya shillings, bringing the total cost to to a whooping, fourteen thousand Kenya shillings. He even told me that he used a Toyota Probox to ferry the donkey back to his work station. I am not lying here. I equally marvelled at the thought that a Toyota Probox could carry a donkey, but you know very well that in this country, miracles do happen. I will no longer take a Toyota Probox for granted. Besides I have seen worse things like a Toyota Probox meant to carry five people ending up carrying twenty people, leaving me wondering whether people shrink in size when they get in there, so don't be shocked my dear reader. I do not know whether the donkey sat at the co-driver's seat in the the car with it's forelimbs on the dashboard, next to the driver or at the booth. I also don't know how the human occupants of the car faired on as a result of the donkey's habit of passing wind without any apologies. But, let us not worry so much about these things. The most important thing is that the donkey arrived safely at Kitengela.

For a whole month, things were good at least as far as Maina was concerned. He was no longer pulling his cart, because he now had an assistant called a donkey who did the hard work of pulling the cart. He loved his donkey and made sure the donkey never lacked anything. His donkey worked harder. The donkey loved him too (I am not sure about this) and some kind of friendship based on mutual trust developed. I bet they even shared secrets.

Then on 24th December 2016, when Maina was worshipping God in church, awaiting the birth of Jesus Christ, the bad guys struck. They stole the donkey and slaughtered it somewhere near Athi river, next to the railway line. Maina only found the head of his donkey the following day at the crime scene. There was no evidence of the donkey having been tortured before slaughter. (I have actually heard horrible stories of seven grownup men, with fully grown beards, raping a donkey!).  Neither was there any evidence that the meat was sold outside Kitengela.

Now I am feeling guilty, and by guilty, it does not mean that I am the one who slaughtered Maina's donkey. Some of you might start having funny ideas. I am having this feeling because I might be one of those who enjoyed thedonkey's meat during the Christmas holiday. You never know, especially because where I buy meat, the butcher normally cuts the meat from the larger piece in the display area, then proceeds to add some smaller pieces of meat to my portion, from somewhere below the counter, where my curious eyes cannot reach. What if those pieces of meat belonged to Maina's donkey? I am also sad that the donkey died before Maina could even recover the cost of his investment.

And now, Maina's source of livelihood is gone. That donkey and his cart was his office. Now he has to personally take the place of his donkey and continue pulling the handcart.

WHAT HAPPENED SOMEWHERE IN MBEERE SUBCOUNTY?

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

photo credit: http://www.kenya-information-guide.com/embu-county.html

December 17th 2016 found me deep in Mbeere sub county(Embu County). I was glad because it granted me the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. First I was able to say hi to my in laws and secondly, I got the opportunity to attend the wedding of a relative in law and by extension, to show them that I care. Nothing in this world surpasses the opportunity to impress your in laws. About the wedding? well the most interesting thing is where you have to send a delegation comprising of both men and women to go for your wife to be and I understand that money has to change hands, for your bride to be released by her parents and members of the extended her extended family.

We later converged at the grooms home for an extension of the party. It was at a place where if you stood at the right place at the right time, you would see the famed Mount Kenya where Ngai the god of the house of Mumbi resides. That however is besides the point. What is within the point is that celebrations in this region are never complete without 'muratina' (the local brew). This part of the celebration usually comes way past sunset.

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As the people prepare to overindulge, you can almost smell the excitement. This particular night the sky is clear (well, it almost always is). The moon is up and smiling, as if giving us the nod to begin the party. It is a bit confusing to me though because the moon seems to be appearing from the North and not East as it usually does, but I know it is because my brain is playing a few games with me.

I look around and see a few crates of soft drinks. From a distance, a woman is preparing tea. The availability of  soft drinks and tea tells me that those of us who don't take 'Muratina' are safe. We are safe because we would not have to sit through the celebration on  empty stomachs. I don't usually indulge in alcoholic beverages in whatever form, first as a matter of principle and secondly because, when interacting with important people like your in laws, you don't want to indulge in anything which can possibly 'murder' your reputation. You don't want to find yourself insulting your father in law or oggling at female in laws (a taboo) and having to pay the fine in the form of goats.

The 'Muratina' party is slowly catching fire and it is clear that people are having a good time even though I have no idea what they are talking about since they are speaking in 'Kimbeere' language, a language I am yet to learn. The only two words I understand in this language are 'Nehatia' and 'Nekwaro'.

I also noted that 'Muratina' is highly respected. It is a symbol of unity. It can be used to seal deals and make covenants. In fact, during such a party, you do not just arrive from no where and pour yourself a cup of muratina and start drinking. No, they take muratina, following a very special ritual which I am yet to  see elsewhere. They always sit in a circular formation, facing one another.They leave some space in the middle where a woman sits on the floor, holding the container containing 'Muratina' while the container sits comfortably on her thighs. The container remains above the floor until it is emptied of its contents, then the next container takes it's place. I wonder whether that woman ever gets tired. Yes! it is always a woman (not a girl, I repeat not a girl). An elderly woman will first take a mouthful of muratina and blows some droplets towards the people gathered on the ground, as a sign of blessings, then she chants some words, thereafter the party begins. It is a spectacular sight to behold though I am yet to understand it's meaning and significance. May be next time I will muster enough courage to ask.

I must say though that I was happy to be there. I took lots of soft drinks in quick succession. (I wonder how they got along in my stomach). I met an old man who was also not into muratina. He told me that he was once an alcoholic but stopped when it almost made his children to drop out of school. We gossiped about Moi and Gideon Moi (Whoever said men don't gossip?). We talked about Raila, Uhuru and Ruto. We talked about Mau Mau and Koitalel Arap Samoei. We also seriously discussed about Euro bond and NYS scandal. Then he told me a thing about one guy who was drunk and making so much noise during the party. His left - or was it right? - arm was missing (That is what mixing hot tea, Coca-cola and Fanta does to you. It impairs your judgement). He told me that the poor chap once struggled with a crocodile while bathing somewhere along Tana river and lived to tell the story, but the crocodile left with his one arm as a trophy. Something to show the other crocodiles that he or she at least tried.

As we left the venue of the party (way past midnight, one o'clock to be precise) I walked alongside very happy people. Muratina seems to make people happy unlike chang'aa which links you up with nasty vocabulary from the devil's library, making you spew obscenities from you mouth. May be it has something to do with the differences in chemical compositions between the two types of alcohol. I was holding the hand of one of the elderly guys, who was telling me so many stories. The moon was still happy and smiling.