Tales from our Bukusu Househelp

Life. It is earth, it is living, and it is everything. The week that has been has been an extra ordinary one. One, we all know what August is like to many of our forsaken lives. I have not heard of any politician’s death and we are almost mid-month. Not to smile though, the grip that death has on this bewitching month has already robbed us many we would have otherwise not wished to die. But such is life, all we have to do is accept the string thought of destiny and wait for our days. That is a better way of living. A way that makes us all look forward to the opportunities that life grants us with the fear that living is quite the unlucky sport (just kidding). Anyway, I am always inspired by the enormous efforts everyone is putting into making sure their future riches are sealed. Forget the drunks and the potheads, there are several rehabilitation centers

Afraid of ghosts

to accommodate all of them. The son of Jomo tried to give them a new leash of life and the country was sober for a few weeks. On Sunday however, as I dragged my inspired self from church following my way through to the nearest supermarket for the week’s supply, I met close to 9 Rambo whiskeyed fellas. Their dry bodies’ oozed unfathomed stench, a mix of cane, spirit, brandy, beer and cow innards (mutura). A pig sty had better stench. It is then that it hit me, Kasin Barry left, EABL Has sold enough keg for the monies they wanted to raise. The common drunk was back to his place. A place where merries are turned into sorrows after the last coin has been spend and the only abode would be the unforgiving floor of some den or outside the landlord’s house.

I will not talk about August deaths and muse about the drinking culture in our country. I would rather muse about botany and ghosts that are our ancestors. You see, people are weird. Ever sat with your house help on a random Tuesday and let her just feel good about herself? Encouraging her to speak out about her fears and dreams about her future husband. We have a funny one at our place. This madam did some schooling. The problem with her is that she is a faith whore. She believes anything under the sun. I will not tell you about her four thousand Mpesa story. Some thug in Kamiti got lucky. Now, this mama was telling me about how August is cursed and I kept asking my silly self, is I really that serious. I get her by the way and since she hails from those sides of sirisia, I would get her red eyed were I to argue with her on some issues. I wouldn’t want her to keep wagging her heavy tongue while she fights her urge of reverting to Bukusu when we argue. So I let her flow, slowly relaxing at the reverie of her contorted line of thought. She tells me about how ancestors visit in August, and I clear my throat moving my seat closer. Let me hear this. It has been ages before tales about ancient folklore and beliefs have hit my ears.

Afraid of ghosts

The visitation of ghosts

Last year, she goes on, was very traumatizing to her. It was one rainy night in those western escarpments. The hills were in commune with the gods and it was time for the ancestors to visit. She says it was the year her two brothers became men. They were strong and steadfast as they bravely stood outside their mother’s hut on one morning. Before the smiling sun kissed the grounds in Bukusuland, their foreskins had gone. They did not cry nor did they shed a tear. The whole village broke into song and dance rising to a crescendo that evening when stomachs were filled and heads were spinning for the unholy froths had they had indulged. Pamela had been no exception. I imagine her shaking derriere to those fastidious Bukusu tunes and quickly switch that thought of. As of any merrymaking, the aftermath in more cases than one bound to bring problems. Her tummy kept turning and making noise while she slept. She in return had to toss and turn in her rickety bed, profusely sweating from the pain pangs ludicrously gnashing away in her tummy with reckless abandon. She had to go out and relieve herself.

The terrors of dark nights have been told all through the generations of mother earth. Pamela’s grandmother – now deceased had warned her of August nights. Her tummy could not wait however lest she decided to make good of her bedding. She was sure however that no one would sleep henceforth because of the contents she would subject the house to. She wouldn’t tell the level of the pungent toxic that would follow her suit. As she thought this, she was already at the door, her hands shaking in pain as her forehead became a towering waterfall. She unhinged the improvised lock and made way to the pit latrine at the far end of the homestead. She did not carry any matchbox. Her brains were focused on the task ahead. She did not realize someone on her heels. She did not care. Just when she had pulled away the sack that acted as the door to their makeshift toiletry and got in eager to squat in position and breath out her pains did she see it. It was dark and silhouette-like. It was the figure of a man, shriveled and strong at the same time. She told me he was right there in front of her while her body relented into panic. She heard her name and thought she was dreaming. Mum was calling her. We should pick up from here next time she breaks from her chores.

Wooooi!! The sirisia ancestors though, why do you visit in such times?


Tortured Husband

Tortured Husband
This is to all your sorry souls, the tortured ones.
Actually, I have thought about you for a while now but it has become really hard sharing my misfortunes because of the spirit of transparency and openness. My password is mine no more, what should I be hiding anyway? We agreed to be one and that is the shallow depth of your brother’s stupidity. I heard you are now loyal to your heart bearer. Go ahead, be the knight in her shining armor. I don’t know if she deserves you though or even if you deserve her yourself, but as the adage goes brother, you are the beholder and only yourselves have seen your two beauties. As for my wretched soul, I am writing to rant. To complain about your ever pessimistic nature. Woe unto me, your premonitions have all turned out true.

The other day, it was a Wednesday, I came home late with a colorful polythene bag from the chain store. Our boss, the weirdly generous feminist gave all of us at work some Nakumatt shopping vouchers. She even hosted us for dinner at Emerald restaurant. Brother, you know I am not the type to turn down such niceties regardless of who the offeree is. Furthermore, I spent a better part of my salary last month shopping for a nice tux in preparation of the unforeseen date with a future someone. I have this gut feeling it is soon brother. I told my wife it is for our father and mother’s anniversary attire. 30 years of peaceful marriage as far as I can tell is close to a miracle nowadays. I have not in my intentions misused that word, it is in the mystery of it that my soul is tortured and tired. I am throwing in the towel and just like wind, I will go wherever the music sounds sweeter. I will not quit my job however, it is this marriage that is killing me ooh! Of course you are asking about what my wife said about the Nakumatt polythene. Brother, I am sorry I almost let my guard down. I found the bathroom mirror broken in the morning. My toothbrush was missing too. Apparently, I am sleeping with my ‘ugly’ boss to enjoy the benefits that come with such status quo. That I defended my boss’s beauty did not augur well with your in-law. She said she has always known I am a cheat and a fraud. I said my boss’s intellect is what intrigues me. Her bile then shot to her mouth brother and that is how my blue shirt, the one we bought together in north London flared up in tatters. I can’t even see one button but I can smell the plastic from somewhere in the compound.

I am seated at the bedroom window as I type away this maladies. If it were to be a ballad, I would name it a ballad of the broken heart. I don’t know if you will read this if I send it to your email. I am sure your inbox has a million messages right now. That is why I am writing to you via my personal space. I hope you read it. Don’t be afraid by the tone of this narrative has adapted because I am not about to kill myself. It is just that I have not eaten since yesterday. You should know that I have not reported to work today. You see, I don’t know if you will understand this but I am kind of locked up. In my own house. I woke up dizzy. Everything around me was blurry and the first thought that came to mind was how I have been taken captive by the enemies of yours truly. In the presence of everyday trauma, the mind can play silly games on you. My dreams have not been all good as well. It is like I am always afraid of the unknown. However, my fears came true. My wallet and car keys are gone, with my phone as well. I cannot call anyone for help. I have been shouting through the window all morning but you know our neighborhood. The wireless connection is working however. But I have to type this first while I await the response of my emails to my unforgiving boss. I mentioned to her that I was drugged. She thought I went out until I told her it was through homemade food. I am sure you are shaking your head as much as she did while we skyped a few minutes ago. Do not wreath in anger yet brother; while asleep, she somehow managed to call my boss. It is why my boss wasn’t smiling into the webcam while we conversed.

I badly need medical attention brother. I know my wife. She has been having this thing with medical students. I know she has been fondling those young men. They have tasted her impotent juices, of that I am sure. By the way, she has been complaining about me not touching her but since the day she forgot a used condom full of immature semen in her handbag, I have been wary of her. Do not ask what I was doing in her handbag. She is my wife remember? She saw it as a revenge for me sleeping with my boss. I have never argued with her about this and it somehow confirmed her fears. She is positive I sleep around. But those are problems that we loyal husbands face. I would rather it were someone mature. Someone she would walk with in the evening on the shores of the Indian Ocean. Someone who would make her look lovely, like banging the sunset over the ocean. Someone who would take her from me and care for her. This freshly admitted college boys are still afraid of life. They are only but explorers. Maybe it is the money she gives them that attracts them to her. But what do I know? Maybe she is just on a revenge mission. To me, that is not bad. At least she will feel good about it. As these morgue drugs take their toll on me, I have had the chance to reflect upon my life one more time. The discovery I have made brother, I hope I will be alive to tell you when I sell this ring on my finger.

emptying love

My heart has bled out all the love

I don’t know if she will return but I have made peace with all the atrocities she has done to my sorry self. I have not included half of those here for they were literally running up my mind and down. The swirling I could not untangle. My mind is still blurred. I do not know if I have let out what I was supposed to but as the day wares off, I hope someone comes for me. I have made effort and polished my lonely oxford shoes and my tux. I feel like I will take myself on this date. One thing is for sure though, that scoundrel has ceased to exist in my conscious conscience. If you talk to her about what I wrote, tell her I wished we lived in the days of nature. I would have hanged her naked on a tree on the seventh market day. I would bribe all the old women of our tribe to curse her and her generations. I would let monkeys see her naked body and scare her with injustices untold. If we lived in the past century, I am sure you my brother would have asked for my permission to beat her merciless and send her shredded remains to her relatives. However, I will not do that. I will just walk out and leave. With what I have planned, I am sure she will never hear of me or my tortured soul.
Yours truly,


The other day I was in the house waiting for my evening tea to make itself as darkness slowly encroached and engulfed our blue sky. I was at the back of the house as these insects kept jumping about and making shrill noises in their dusk awake. The small Chinese kitchen radio was on and the half hour news was coming on. The female presenter, I am guessing she was young by the twang in her crisp acquired American accent, never minced her words. God knows, commercials have to be run lest the sponsors would be up in arms for refund of their money. The tea is finally ready and my younger sister is serving me. I do not pay much attention to the news; I will be watching the comprehensive bulletin later on in the evening. As i absent mindedly answer my sister’s unheard queries about the month’s electricity bill, something about abortion blares out the small transmission device. Apparently, FIDA is suing the Kenyan government on something about legalizing abortion. I do not have the specific details of the suit but this was one of my favourite taboo topics in college. I have forgotten what my sister was talking about because my co principal walks out of the house fuming.
I have always known she is a conservatist of sorts but not to this extent. Her name is Mia and I can live with the fact that she loves babies but such impositions on other people do not augur well with me. In short that Nerea song should be for melody-ish musings, a song to listen to when girls are hangovered and don’t even know where they are. Such mornings that make them pull out their phones to check what time it is and how many times they have been called, missing from the radar. They then turn to check who their host stranger is. The egoistic fool laughs and shrugs at any serious question about the details of last night. Nerea comes on and all the girl thinks of is the pharmacy that should be at the corner on your way out of this strange hood. Anyway, let not words be many, there is always language and conversation in silence. My other half goes on and on about how immoral abortion is. I keep interjecting her nonetheless. What makes it worse is the fact that she brings up the recent gay marriage judgement by SCOTUS. That is the Supreme Court of the United States folks. I gulp down my now cold tea and clear my throat. I am ready for this verbal intercourse, perhaps I should teach her one or two things about opinions.6d216ae4ef0691e758e3c1d33fd880d3
Personally, i have no problem with abortions. I am aware that the Kenyan Constitution provides for extreme situations where it would be legal. I do not however, comfort in that school of thought. The school of thought that has killed and maimed many in our country. Let me explain. I once knew a beautiful girl whose real name was Miriam. Her’s was an old name alright but what made me notice her was her unseen beauty. She was a natural and just like honey, she was sweet. Nothing of the same could be said about her parents though; they had that old school thing in them. I could never, even once, pin point it. In addition, they had the misfortune of being uneducated and lacking as well. It was her undoing. My loins would sometimes give me away when i was in her presence. It was only normal for the pimpled adolescent stud i was. I regret though, that such meet ups were rare because i was in boarding school trying to make out a future for myself. I came for the August Holidays one cold year, that year that Kijana Wamalwa stopped watching Tom and Jerry and Muthoni Bwika quit Kiss 100, then i heard that Miriam was no more. Her body had exasperatingly swollen up like that of a dead street dog. Every one who had viewed her body had their own harrowing tale. I heard of blood and pain and herbal abortion pills. She had died a shell of her beautiful self. She had cheated on me twice, once with an inconsiderate villager, and she had succumbed to the second. I heard many more stories about such deaths, and as I grew to the imbecile I am, my mind can only be clearer, such deaths are avoidable if abortions were legal.
The argument I had with my sister and my girlfriend was mind opening. There are girls who base their morality on religion and the law. The latter is arguable. There are so many religions around the world right now. Some cults with their leaders baptizing their sorry selves into bishop hood also purport to prescribe some form of morality and way of living. As you walk into any street of any town or city in this country, you will be perplexed by how religion has turned impoverished souls into blind believers. There are dress codes you look at and wish we were still in the era of the many gods. It is not in my place to admonish them however, but methinks abortion should not be looked at a religious point of view. This perspective is short handed, blind, sad, unfair and promiscuous. Why? There can never be one religion supreme to all the others. While some religions would call abortion a sacrifice to the gods, others would turn against the woman and condemn her for the lose morals. Some extremist believers have in the past shown their hard-line stand against such ‘filthy’ women by stoning them to death. It does not help therefore that such an intricately widespread phenomenon should be left to religion and morality.
As a citizenry worthy of any right we should claim from the leviathan, we shall forever be indebted to the law. As such, it should be our only saviour in the clamour for legalizing abortion. As forward-looking as it may look, time is quickly running out for the women who for the fault of being poor, are forced to live in dangerous neighborhoods where it is only by grace that one is not raped. Help me preach here, how many girls who for lack of a decent education are unaware of their bodies’ evolution? These are the same girls who are easily lured into unplanned coital encounters without much choice and reason. And who in this silly life never makes a mistake? I guessed so. Should we then force these vulnerable women and girls to forever live with the pain that will become future kids? Yes, there are ladies who would care for rape products for a lifetime but I am here for the bitter souls whose rape was so graphic that none other than the parties involved have the clear details. It is on the news every now and then, the tales of women and girls who passed out before their ordeals were over. Some say these kids could grow up to be important people in society. Some could be Obama, but think about this way, Osama was someone’s kid as well. It is pointless to mention the street kids roaming the multiple cities around the world.
FIDA should carry on with this suit. There as i have said before herein, an insurmountable amount of rebellion against such agitation to fully legalize abortion. However, our eyes should always be on the price. We do not need more deaths. We do not have to live with unwanted consequences any more. Just by the stroke of some pen, all this could go away. Our Kenyan parliament has in the past passed laws that would amaze any sane person. Let us trust our judiciary to deliver on this.