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Your friends affect you either negatively or positively. Mine have all diligently affected me negatively. Those niggas I have interacted with are the reason I am amazingly poor, a slum dweller, semi-illiterate and single.
Most of these ruffians who are the sole reasons for my current state; I met them in high school, in college and at Kariobangi where I stayed before moving to the leafier suburbs of Pipeline, and recently to Mtwapa.
A sneak preview to their characters, dreams and lives.
DONALD
He reported form 1 while aged 37 as a late beneficiary of Free Primary Education. He was the 5th grandson to Nabongo Mumias( so he claimed) and always found it honorable to remind us that he was a Bukusu – Maragoli pointee, a sub-tribe in Luhya which has specialized in marrying Asians.
We shared the same double decked- bed.
Donald was the meanest person I have ever seen. I found out that after we went to sleep, he used to sink into the blankets and eat biscuits by dipping them in water so that I won’t hear him chewing. In fact, he used to buy a carton biscuits but transfer them into a ‘Ushindi Soap’ carton to kill suspicion.
He had all his shirts marked with his name in capital letters across the back, the neck and everywhere. This was to professionally discourage anybody from borrowing them.
He used to sniff tobacco, a habit I found archaic and village like. His father was a Colonial-British soldier, or so he told us. He had a huge scar running across his left chin, which he told us was inflicted on him by his father when he asked him why he never shaved his beards.
Donald used to speak slower than the implementation of devolution.
We later found out the reason was because he used to think in Bukusu then translate it to English which would take him surmountable minutes.
During visiting days, his second wife used to come, with plenty of greetings from the first wife.
He befriended one of the female cooks, which guaranteed him of an extra portion at meal times. This of course didn’t go well with the rest of us and it was not a surprise when one of us informed his second wife about the affair. During one of the visiting days, she confronted both of them, causing a stampede in the kitchen. Those who were near the scene reported seen the wife stuff a rag in the cook’s mouth. That night Donald ‘skived’ out of the school, and that was the last we heard of him.
I met him recently at Bungoma Agricultural Show where he was displaying pumpkins. He told me that he had used his Form 1 agriculture knowledge to start a multi-million pumpkins plantation. I doubt about it being a multi-million investment but altogether he seemed happy with what he was doing.
I learnt very little from that Nigga but the two terms we spend together he influenced me greatly, especially about the wrath of women.
Mr. KIMEMIA alias Mr. Simon Makonde.
He was not my classmate at all; he was a teacher. He was an awkwardly tall man with a shaggy goatee and advocated for the rights of Ganja smokers with vigor. He used to smile with his mouth closed. His eyes had a continuous flow of globules of tears, rumor had it that it was his natural adaptation of washing away dust.
Courtesy of few teachers in TSC’s payroll, he served as the games master, the Dining Hall superintendent and notoriously as the discipline master.
He was revered and mocked with equal measure. His English was broken and torn and he often used pronouns for conjunctions!
He was tough and unforgiving. He used to walk around the school with signed suspension letters to dish out to any injudicious character. He also had an old fierce dog which he used to walk around with, threatening to release to any culprit who dared ran away from his suspension letters.
Nobody knew why he was nick named Simon Makonde. He personally loved the name.
He had a nasty saying. At parade he would look straight into our eyes and say,” A child can play with his mother’s breast but not his father’s testicles.” As if to practically demonstrate the point, he would place his left hand on his groin and move his right hand towards the headmistress’s chest. We would all clap.
One day he called me to his office. He had accidentally known that I could write fairly good English. He proposed to me to become his personal assistant to help him draft suspension letters. I knew it was an opportunity to revenge on Form fours who had bullied me. I took the offer. My payment was a daily ratio of top layer from the kitchen, which Mr. Makonde effected religiously as the D.H superintendent.
The only thing which I learnt from this gentleman however was dressing. He had a taste for fashion. He was always in his trademark Savco jeans, brown leather boots and with a short sleeved grey shirt. He used a white handkerchief occasionally as a bow tie- especially during parents’ days. He believed that Socks and belts were colonial and we never saw him wear any. During cold weather, he had an oversize green poll-neck jumper written ‘Ku Klux Klan’.
He is currently an old retired man. I recently bumped on him at Umoja, Nairobi at Egesa Villa where he demanded a bottle of Vodka. I told him I don’t take alcohol and after a long debate, I reluctantly gave him 27/= to treat himself with ‘Fanta ndogo’.
MUTHANG’YA
For you to pronounce this name correctly you have to lift one leg, close one eye, roll your tongue, sneeze, tap your back, cough twice and fart.
Muthang’ya was a fairly thin boy with a ready smile from Mwingi. He belonged to that notorious sect called Kavonokya which doesn’t prescribe to going to hospitals. He used to brag that he had never received any vaccine in his life. To prove his point, he would roll his sleeves on his left hand and truly to his word there was no scar for this BCG Vaccine (for you who don’t know what BCG vaccine is, just look at that ugly scar on your left arm, it was left there after you were vaccinated against Tuberculosis at the age of 2 weeks).
Given that Muthang’ya was the only born again fella in the class, he was unanimously appointed the class monitor. In our school noise making was a very–minor-petty crime. The work of the class monitor therefore was to write down the name of those reading pornography magazines and pickpockets. To be a class monitor in our school you had to have a thick skin. Thicker than python. Muthang’ya resigned after receiving death threats.
Before he resigned, he had paid a dearly for his responsibilities.
One day an idiot smeared super glue on his desk and he had to walk to the dorm pantless after his shorts stuck to the chair.
The guy himself was humble, God-fearing and over ambitious. He pushed for the launch of a Christian Union in the school unsuccessfully.
You know, 98% of our school was convinced they will never go to heaven and were okay with it. The sins which used to happen in our school would make Sodom and Gomorrah’s immorality look like a normal tree pollination.
Muthang’ya loved two things extremely- God and Sleep. Sometimes he would take his breakfast in the evening so that in the morning he won’t have to wake up early for breakfast. He was also gifted with a rare ability of sleeping with his eyes wide open. He would stare at the teacher while he is fast asleep, only to be betrayed by an occasional snoring.
In his over-ambitiousness, he always insisted that he will become a veterinary doctor.(I should add that the closest he has come to being a veterinary doctor is by hawking dawa ya Panya and mende)
English however was his greatest weakness. I must have told you about one instance when he told our History Teacher, Mrs Shantelle Kaigwa: Please Madam, let we open out the windows so that we don’t fornicate with you. The bugger meant suffocate.
The worst was when he wanted to tell another female teacher that he was sorry for coming to the class late, after the teacher had already started the lesson. He told the teacher, “I am sorry madam for entering you behind. I should have entered in the front but you had already comed.”
Muthangya lived few blocks from me in the leafy suburbs of Pipeline, and as I told you earlier, he is living his dream as a Veterinary Doctor by hawking dawa ya Panya and Mende ( Rat Rat).
Ole PARASAYIP
He was an Ole Ntimama look-alike who hated liars with a dangerous passion. His father was a Country manager with a Local NGO which meant his son was pampered and filthy rich. To be sincere, I first heard the word DSTV from him, those days when even owning a Black and White TV would have earned you a seat as a MCA in my village.
He was a lumpy bully and form 1’s feared him more than an Ebola outbreak. He had only one weakness- he was water phobic.
He used to bath only when it was necessary. When we couldn’t bare his stench anymore, we organized to have him cleaned. We did it the day there was a music festival in our school. Armed with Jik, Omo, Geisha and Epic, Steel wires and water guard, we trapped him on his bed. Before he could know what was hitting him he was naked. We scrubbed him and carried him ‘ hobela hobela ‘ around the school as the visiting girls jeered and laughed.
He vowed to revenge. Since that day he became reserved and moody, angry about anything and everything.
Being the richest guy around, most times he was the one who sponsored guys to go and drink.
We had forgotten his vow for vengeance but he had not. One unlucky day, he planned with our usual chang’aa brewer to have the drink poisoned.
He then announced a free party. That Friday everybody, almost everybody, sneaked for that treat.
Mr. Makonde caught me as I tried to escape. He gave me a reprimand of drafting suspension letters for the rest of the school, a tedious task which took me the whole night.
It was a blessing in disguise.
To cut the long story short, it was a tragedy. Three students almost died. Hundreds were hospitalized with severe diarrhea . The principal fought hook and crook to ‘kanyagia’ the story and it never reached the media.
Ole Parasayip was arrested, tried and convicted.
He is serving his final year at Industrial Area prison.
Crime never pays.
CAPICHE?
A B.M.W production ©
