12th
December is supposed to be a day when the entire republic recognizes men and
women who fought for our freedom from the Englishmen in form of mass action coupled with crude armory ranging
from ‘rungus’,pangas’,arrows,spears and guns. These men and women went
further on this day to grab independence off the Englishman’s torturous, mean
hands. It would be important to note that the guns referred to here, that led
to attaining this precious end were not automatic rifles but those that
depended on the user’s strength to cock them. In my native language we call them
‘kiunandoo’ {guns that break at the middle}.For those that like
straight points and who may find my language a bit gibberish, I am talking
about celebrating a day my great nation attained self rule by lowering the
Union Jack, the so called God save the queen blubbery and in jubilation hoisting
the Kenya Flag and a new song altogether, our national Anthem. On this day we
honor the Mau Mau veterans too. This is Jamhuri day.
This time, however, we celebrate
not just the moment but also the milestones of our journey fifty years on after
that memorable moment on 12th December at 12 midnight of 1963. This
year it was our golden jubilee having fought and won independence from the
Englishmen through our gallant, brave and daring men and women of the day. That
said, my golden jubilee turned epic and drama has never been at higher note
than the personal experience I went through while fellow Kenyans celebrated in
ululations.
My Jamhuri day was a little bit typical because I had pockets that
were demanding. They were demanding pieces of hard spherical metals and sheets
of paper that bear a human portrait on them, creating a little distinction from
the ordinary paper. They also enjoy the prevailage of being recognized by law
as a medium of exchange. Simply, we have baptized the entire lot; money. Facing
that scarcity therefore, prevented me from joining other Kenyans at the usual
celebration shrine normally referred to as Nyayo stadium. [Oh, point of
correction there]. Nyayo Stadium has
for decades been our usual shrine of national rituals until the analogue era
paved way for digital thus moving the golden jubilee celebration to a new
shrine named the Home of Heroes aka Moi Sports
Centre Kasarani. I however think both shrines are one and the same thing
considering they are all Nyayo’s. I
thought of following the proceedings via frequencies that translate themselves
into motion pictures in a box that the same Englishmen, who colonized us, call
TVs or rather, Televisions. Since these boxes come in handy and considering the
fact that not every human can afford one in their living rooms, I decided to
walk to Mwaura’s ‘crib’ for an opportunity to catch up with the event
via his box. Unfortunately, my much needed neighbor had left; perhaps to wet
his throat at Mama Pima’s.
With all the disappointment
written all over my handsome face, it was time to engage my handful piece of
brain into useful thoughts pondering on the next move. Although my handful
brain has failed me in many occasions especially in school, it does not let me
down in times of crisis. It told me that, many Jamhuri days were bound to come but not every day that notes and
coins will occupy my pockets. At that point, I decided to go for business. I
have this little kiosk that I stock with green leaves originating from my
village backyard and some confectionery. Let’s just say that my ‘kangeta’ Base kiosk was loaded with a ‘drug’
that has since been condemned and banned by the same Englishman from entering
his country called ‘Miraa’ aka Khat and some sweets. I hoped that I
could make some notes and coins to end a spell of drought facing my pockets
temporarily.
Within sometime and after
engaging my legs in a little bit of exercise by trekking all the way, I was
open for business. Customers who have trained their cheeks how to become
elastic and to hold a huge ‘load’ of the green leaf, an art they have named 'loading
Taxis’, were already streaming
in. Business was booming until things started happening that are not
biologically accepted for a normal healthy human being. An organ we call the
stomach was launching a mission to rescue itself from unwanted intruders, probably
arising from too much ingestion of boiled eggs the previous day. I could hear
funny sound emanate from that area in protest. It was rumbling!! It is at this
instance that I realized things were about to become ugly and extremely
embarrassing.
I beseeched for mercy from the Supernatural
being in the heavens to proclaim healing upon me but I guess I did that at the
wrong time. Probably He was not interested or perhaps was busy throwing a stag with
patriotic Kenyans at the shrine. It is at this moment of prayer that things
began to turn ‘elephant’. The stomach had already sought audience from its all
time ally, the ‘behind’. Signals that were quiet unpleasant for the human
respiratory system that could spur the audience of the National environmental management authority were forthcoming. It is
at this moment also, that I realized that the rioting stomach was about to
create space for itself and quick intervention was required. It meant business
and was threatening to evict me from the face of the earth if I did nothing
about its business.
I hastily shut down my trade and
with feeble legs feeling the wrath of their neighboring organs, walked to the ‘matatu’
terminus with a dream of reaching home where I could rescue my stomach from
pressure and in turn deliver myself the apocalypse. May I take this opportunity
to intimate to the Governor of Nairobi that he needs to make available more cubicles
for such contingent emergencies around the city environs because where I reside
there are none and regardless of being miles away from the CBD, I still believe
I’m in Nairobi! I boarded a ‘matatu’ plying my route. The worst
mistake that I committed was to sit at the back seat because at every pothole
and every bump along the way, acted against the sorry situation I was in. My ‘behind’
was smoldering and the entire circumference was literally on fire. Luckily, I
managed to hold on the grip until the next terminus where I had to alight. I alighted
as astray gas declared doom on my fellow commuters who had their noses complain
of oxygen impurity forcing them to direct the organ to the window. I never
looked back. I guess it’s a taboo to look back in such decadence of manners
emanating from an adult, a grown man.
I got to the house and headed
straight to where I was supposed to be at that crucial moment, the toilet. I
hardly shut the door, my pants already down and there I was. It was sweet sorrow.
Sweet that I felt delivered from a rioting stomach but sorrowful because my golden
Jubilee was ruined, not forgetting that pockets were not fully satisfied. I
celebrated the golden Jubilee in a toilet.
Compiled by The tickler
Son of 'the unquenched’
Kevin Murungi
murungikevin@yahoo.com
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