I first knew Andonio Wekhutu (RIP) when I entered Class 7
and he was sitting next to the back window that also served
as a door for him. That I never knew him before is something
I’ll perhaps figure out some day because this man was
conspicuous in every single angle you regarded him. For one,
the son of Wekhutu was the most talented noise maker in the
history of formal education and I think he would take home a
Nobel anytime if those European panelists introduced the
category.
He had failed to be promoted to the Class 8 because of noise
and I left him in Class 7 end of that year because of noise.
And at Class 7 he prided himself in not knowing a sentence in
English or formal Kiswahili. All his listening and all his
stories were woven in the original fibre with the volume key
locked up.
He became synonymous with noise. Mwalimu Josephat
Wabuyabo would come to class and shout, Andoni Wekhutu,
itsa nende abasiru bashio, pulali fuul! And all noisemakers
would follow him out. During school assemblies held under
that tree, a teacher would have to keep saying Andoni-uleera
Andoni-nyamasa like a million times to have order. Or at
home if you complained that Mwalimu Maikol had kicked your
hash tag, your mother would ask if you were caned alone or
with the child of Wekhutu. And your answer would bring
amnesty or more pain.
In high school I never encountered a real noise maker: partly
because the principal, one Crispus Muganda Esq, was a no-
nonsense man chasing the school’s lost glory, and partly
because Imran Islim was in a different stream (hehe). Say St
Peters Mumias Boys and mens sana in corpore sano. Salute.
But at the university I met two chaps who were, in the words
of one of us, difficult. I think because noisemaker was an
understatement. They were blessed with a strong pair of lungs
where they were carriers of a pair of weak, mostly unused,
ears. Their language was scream. When they quarrelled you
they screamed and when they greeted you they screamed.
Even when they smiled they screamed. Before they began
living in the same room their respective roommates at the
hostels had complained that they screamed in their sleep also.
In an occurrence of fate rather than plight, one of them was
also called Andoni, and I swore that no child of my lineage
would bear the name Andoni while I still rose to the sun. (The
other man’s name will remain unmentioned for security
reasons.)
Story short, Andoni and his friend had a mad liking for politics
and they tried to outdo each other showing us what a man
could contain between two shafts of unused ears.
If you’ve journeyed my journey, you will therefore settle with
the conclusion that the three are the most decorated
noisemakers in the world.
Until you meet a Ugandan supporting the Cranes that are
trailing Egypt by a goal and now Oloya or Aucho has missed
an open ball and the game is dying and the hour of reckon is
come.
Oloya, find a lawyer. A friend of the court wishes to prosichute
you.
Nimechoka
iko threshold?
paragraph ya pili ndo niliwachia
Nimewachia “i entered class 7”
You remind me of Gillee (short for Gilbert) back in class eight; a proper manic. Once stole a mate’s lunch money and hid it in his buttcrack. Almost got away with it but as he walked outside the classroom the cheeks let go and the coins dropped. Someone had to skip lunch that day because they weren’t willing to touch the ass-money. Gillee never heard the end of it.
Kuna Momo? Yellow yellow? nice Breasts? Big ass?
Hakuna?
Kuna nini?
mbona inakaa copy pasted
That’s some good shit. If that’s the case then no son of mine shall be named Andony :D:D:D:D:D
umenimalisa!!
There is a neighbour’s son by the name Anthony back home. kijana is full of drama and vituko. An activist on his own.
I suggest a commission of inquiry be formed so as to investigate how this dude ended up a VE because there is no way a VE could give the worst hekaya ever
Paragraphs muhimu
Lazima uambiwe ni poetry
hizi zinakaa phrases
hahaha nimecheka alot
yes my name