Majority of the Greek poetics speak of valiant and stoic men. Tragedies, as Aristotle indicated, is a genre of the poetics dedicated to the calamitous deeds that befall man. Like the Joycerian modernist characters, tragedies are unstoppable forces that emanate from the crude errors in a protagonist’s reasoning. Not merely punishment for their vice-ridden lives. Tragedies prioritize action. The plot is what matters. And characters are subservient to it. Traits are embellishments. Not drivers of the action. The action is beyond human control.
Trojan women was written at a time of war. Euripides penned this tragedy when Athens and Sparta were at war. He, therefore, cultivated a grim sense of the rarely-unspoken eventualities that exist in war. The position of women and children. The play is set on the aftermath of the famed Trojan assault by the coalition of the Hellenic forces. The city has been ransacked, all its men brutally murdered by the Greeks. As the body of Priam, its King, decayed in the dunes; Hecuba the queen and other women of the royal household contemplate on their fate. Talthybius, a Greek herald, brings forth disheartening news after another. Her daughters are consigned as slaves to various Greek royals, her grandson is killed despite being a defenceless boy, and his mother is enslaved to Achilles’ brother. Finally, Hecuba is also enslaved, and Troy is burnt to the ground.
The play is a eulogy for the departed men, a cry of woe for the unending tragedy that befell them. Even so, Hecuba laments the fate of Greek women whose children and husbands died in a senseless war. A war that kings planned to repatriate an eloped Helen of Sparta. A woman ostensibly reviled by the broken Trojan queen.
The plot however is underwhelming compared to other surviving Euripides’ plays. Infact, I understand why Sophocles was more venerable a dramatist.
Two weeks ago, I was exasperated by an episode that has shaken me to the core. Honestly, I cannot dissever myself from the bog of shock and shame and disbelief. Imagine, my boyfriend had the audacity to cheat on me. And deny it with a straight face despite my encountering the abominable act and witnessing it with my own eyes. Infact, his eyes welled up as he vehemently made lousy excuses to exonerate himself from offence.
Our relationship had been blissful at first. But recently, undulated and ragged paths have several times, threatened to abrogate our eight-year long affair. Everything has declined. He doesn’t put much effort anymore. When we began this, he wrote me heart-warming poems, took me out to unforgettable picnics, regularly communicated, paid me attention…and the sex…aah…an amalgam of tender caresses and veritably insane plowings. Occasionally, my four holes ache and yearn for the flagellant sex. But it is all cocooned in the congealed crust of memory. Impervious. It can never be retrieved satisfyingly.
But after I met Yolanda, everything changed. She is the bomb! That girl awakened in me wyverns that had long remained docile. And years of inactivity breed an unquenchable hunger. But Yolanda, that woman ate this cooch like a Patrician would a gleaming pome. She is petite, her breasts are mere bantam fists, but her tiny back. I’ve never imagined to find something as basic as the back, sexy…
When I first had sex with her, I did not feel an iota of guilt. I did not consider myself cheating. My boyfriend knew all these years that I am bisexual. And he was not really bothered at all. Anf besides, I imagined that like many cishet men, he would not perceive lesbian sex as too damaging to his position in my life. He was extremely jealous though. But he would never know. I intended to use Yolanda as an ephemeral fling. When my hunger subsides, I would disembark from this ship of hers like I never boarded it.
But that was not to be. Yolanda, aah, Yolanda. What has she done to me? She knew how to cull my desires, but covertly ensured that she planted another tarragon seed. And I’d find myself yearning for more. But I knew it was too risky to get involved. If Jeff, my boyfriend realised I was aloof, he would suspect I was cheating on him. With a chic. But I played down the possibility. Jeff was too unconcerned with me. I was partially pleased about that. But I also became concerned. His lack of attention or even a glimmer of suspicion meant he was doing something far more important than me.
One evening, I got back to his house after an afternoon of Yolanda’s fondling. I felt like a renewed baby. My phone was off and I did not have to call Jeff. It was a weekend, and an introvert like him had no interest in venturing out there in the risque twilight of Nairobi. He lived in Kahawa Wendani, although he loved to insist it was Kahawa Sukari(Wendani being more ghettoish). I barged into his bedsitter and the sight was astonishing.
“Listen, I can explain…” He began the typical prelude.
He was stark naked. And when my eyes darted from him to the man arching his fat caramel backside, my bones froze.
“Kevin!” I gasped. His face met mine. And his face lost its hue.
“What! You know him?” Jeff asked.
Ofcourse I knew him. Not personally ofcourse. I had seen a photo of him when Yolanda and I were flipping the pages of her photo album, submerged in the tepid bathtub spiced with roses. She then pointed to it, “This is my fave. Kevin!”
“Your cuzo?” I has asked her.
“Nah! My brother. Blood brother actually. Studies at KU!” She smiled proudly.
So, here was my boyfriend of several years… having sex with the brother of my fling! I am so devastated right now. Why Jeff? I always knew he is straight. I’ve never received signals from him indicating he was also bisexual. And god knows how I hate bis€x men! They are bottom of the barrel. I would have endured my man bonking another woman, but a man…aargh!
I am not a biphobe though. I am an all-out bisexual woman. But I am not a biphobe. I just hate bis£xu@l men. That’s all…It’s justified. They are ho€s.
PS: The final paragraph is meant to be satirical. Don’t misunderstand the passage…
It is one of those hot oppressive days. Wuod Ogola has strolled around the town for several hours; enduring the famous stench of Kangemi’s alleys, and the dustiness of its murram roads. He is looking for a job. Any job. But the quest was proving fruitless…
His legs cramped. The toes under his leather shoes were scalded. He had to stop somewhere and rest. Wuod Ogola located a retail shop with a rickety bench outside, and hoped the owner was a kind soul. During times as tough as this, generosity dissipated from the hearts of people. A man could callously deny you a simple non-monetary help.
Fortunately enough, the owner was not bothered by his presence. Not even when Ogola picked the previous day’s issue of the newspaper. He skimmed through the paper. A hodgepodge of dreary political stories, lethargic crimes, and no job advertisements. Ogola swallowed hard. No job adverts. That has been unheard of. The fact that a major daily would lack them only depicted the sorry state the nation had fallen into. Distressed, he put aside the paper and wandered into a thoughtful silence.
“Si kuzuri bana,” the shopkeeper started, hoping to spark a conversation.
“Mmmh…” Ogola in no mood for a talk, mumbled. He had to preserve his energy. He hadn’t eaten since the previous night. Talking would merely exhaust him further.
Ogola’s eyes darted around the shop. His belly rumbled because of the delicious aroma of wheat foods in the shop. And the alluring soft drinks frosted in the transparent refrigerator. But he hadn’t a coin in his pocket. His eyes landed on a pamphlet. A poorly printed one. He instantly picked it up and began reading it. The graphic designer did a shoddy job.
“ARE YOU A YOUNG MAN OR WOMAN IN NEED OF A LUCRETIVE JOB? DO YOU THINK YOU’RE FIESTY ENOUGH, AND SEXUALLY APPEALING? VISIT ‘DEBRIS FLATS- HURLINGHUM’ THIS TUESDAY! PORNHUB AUDITIONS ARE ONGOING NOW. HOT-BLOODED AFRICAN MALES AND ENDOWED FEMALES REQUIRED.” There was a monochrome photo of a Caucasian woman clad in a bikini.
Ogola’s heart pounded in excitement. It did not cross his mind that a reputable firm like Pornhub, with all its vast earnings, would not create such a drivel of a pamphlet. It was not the most respectable job in the planet, but who cares about respectability anyway? He pledged to audition for the job. If lady luck came his way, he would be selected. Probably flown to the US of A. Filmed in a posh hotel in the heart of Miami. And get an opportunity to drive his wedge into the heavenly grottos of some buxom MILFs. No one would need to know what he does. He imagined that he would be paid thousands of dollars. Enough to acquire US citizenship and rent an apartment. Not something classy, he thought. Just a cosy one. With a lifetime supply of expensive booze. A lifestyle he wouldn’t envision in Kenya. It was settled. He would have to audition, even if that meant killing his legs again.
The evening floated slow before his eyes. All days are viscous to a hungry man. Ogola was certainly famished and he was already concocting narratives he could use to borrow more foodstuffs from Wachira’s shop. His tactics were getting exhausted. The previous night, Wachira vehemently rebuffed his ‘erudite’ political conversation.
“Wewe niripe zire pesa za vitu umekopa!” Wachira said. “Sitaki adithi migi!” If Ogola hadn’t persuaded him for almost half an hour, Wachira would not have given him more unpaid-for foodstuff. It would be a mission impossible that evening. Wachira wouldn’t want to see his face. And no other shop would lend anything to him. His debt-ridden reputation was already mounted on the estate’s banner for all to see. He was consigned to starve that night.
Ogola is a lucky chap. A friend, Omar, invited him to a Iftar feast at the local masjid. The biryani was packed in enormous sinias. The men ravaged it all, peaking their indulgence in honeyed dates. Ogola slept like a baby. He had enough energy to walk to Hurlingham the proceeding morning.
There was a light drizzle that morning. Ogola shivered like a chick in the draught as he maneuvered through the light traffic around Adams Arcade. In his mind, he was confident that there would be a few participants in the auditions. Porn acting was unthinkable to most people. Kenyans were intrinsically salacious souls, cocooned in the shell of puritanical conservativism.
When he got to Hurlingham, he surveyed the area trying to locate Debris flats. The place was amalgam of casinos, Chinese restaurants, and dilapidated spas. The drizzle had quelled its gnawing effect at the time, and Ogola felt somewhat relieved. When he arrived at the exact location, Debris flats, there was a warmth seeking to invade the algid atmosphere.
The place was the emblem of disappointment. Vaguely, did he imagine it as it appeared in his sight. A crude edifice four stories high, unplastered. The grey walls, disorganized semblance… something drawn from a Spartan metropolis. It was an abandoned building. Ogola seemed to wonder why Pornhub would have their auditions in a place like this.
But there was a sea of humanity idling around the place. Men and women, young and mildly old, beautiful and amusingly hideous. They were all there… All variations of the human scale. Some were queuing up in a long caravan heading into the building. Ogola mindlessly wandered around, curious to understand what was happening.
“Kwani, why are people here?” He asked a frowning woman seated on a lime block near a heap of ballast. She was tawny in complexion, fleshy lips and a diminutive figure.
“Si wamekuyaa indaviuu!” She replied disinterestingly.
“Interview?” Ogola’s heart skipped a beat. He glowered at the queue again.
“Eeh!” The woman replied. “Sikuexpect kutakuwa na watu wengi namna ii!” Ogola sat on a block beside her. He was dressed in a drab jacket and a corduroy pair of pants that had slightly altered its colour from black to ashen.
“Kwani hii ni interview gani?” Ogola inquired unbelievably.
“Kwani wewe umekuyaa gani?” The woman pitched her voice.
“Si Ile ya…wale watu…Pornhub!” He said embarrassingly. Mumbling the final word as though it was abominable.
“Si ni iyo!” The woman chimed. “Hata Mimi nasangaa.”
Ogola saw their faces. Desperate was the expression casted on them. Some women in headwraps and ankle-length dresses looked as though they were off to a church function. Not a porn audition. Some were undesirable in his opinion. Others were too old and jaded by life, losing every vestige of pulchritude they once had. Like the woman beside him. He assessed her carefully. She was arguably in her mid-twenties. But she was washed out. He didn’t know her, but he could imagine she was one of those rural beauties who were lured by a random blok, got wifed prematurely, and the dude didn’t waste any time inoculating a string of bambinos into her womb, defusing her ‘belle-rural’ status. Yet, she was here with him. Groping for an opportunity to earn something before her will burns out.
“Sasa ata nasikia kurudi nyumbani Mimi!” She cries. “Watoto wangu watalala njaa tena!” Ogola felt a surge of pity. But he was interred in a similar quagmire. The uncertainty of sleeping belly-full.
“Ningerudi nyumbani lakini mbaba yangu alisema nisiwai rundi!” She laments. “Aki nilijialimbia maisha!”
Ogola just gazes at her. Her eyes are welling up. It is apparent that she is losing herself into her grief. The vision of diminishing hope hath manifested itself. His gaze darts to her legs, then to her thighs. Brown thighs. Her orange knee-length skirt drawn up higher. And he is now pinning his glare on her dropping but full bosom. And his manhood simmers in elation. He internally rebukes himself, “Ogola, behave. A melancholic woman here is in need of your pity. Yet the prevailing emotion in your blood is lust!”
“Mimi vile maisha imenipiga hata Mimi!” Ogola said, trying to deflect his sexual thoughts. “Hata sijakula asubuhi. Kazi nilipoteza last year buana! Lakini Mungu yupo!”
“Naamini yupo!” The woman adds. “Labda kuna siku atatuonekania!”
Ogola innately mumbled an ‘amen’. He felt his faith slipping away with each passing day. He was not a firm bible-thumping believer. But he was a believer still. He could attest that the far he had come, it was god that had facilitated it. And he sometimes attributed his detestable condition to being a punishment for his iniquity. Maybe if he became a committed believer, his problems would subside. He had severally thought about visiting a church and rebrand his belief. But no church seemed worthy of that commitment. He had heard people, seen things about different churches. And they all brought a bitter taste in his mouth.
“I am not going to give up though!” Ogola said.
“Mimi hata sinjui!” The woman said. “Watoto nimewapeleka leo kwa auntie yao. Amesema nimezoea vimbaya. Kwa hivo niwakujie jioni. Hata amesema hatawapea chakula!”
The queue was not moving at all. And the ones lined up began grumbling about the unnecessary slowness. Others quit, clicked hard and went their way home. But as one person left, six more came around. It was already eight am. And more would come as the day progressed. Ogola ostensibly wondered how all these people keenly came across the auditioning call. The woman shifted her legs and stretched them, giving him a acreage view of her thighs. Ogola’s manhood simmered again. Even intensely.
The two remained silent for almost half an hour. Observing the queue. It would never dissipate. That was registered in their minds. Ogola had to perish the idea that he would be working as a porn actor in a foreign country. He dismissed the entire thing as a ploy to further devastate young people aimlessly searching for a place in the country. And as he rose up to go home, the woman also rose.
“Acha nirudi tu nyumbani!” Her voice laden with pain. Ogola unthinkingly took her arm in his. It happened so fast. Then he said, “Twende hivi!” The two people walked for long. Not talking to each other. The woman was submerged into her own thoughts. Ogola into his. Both didn’t seem to know the power that led them to walk beside each other. Adams Arcade. Kenya Science, Junction mall. They walked in the sweltering sun. Not talking to each other. And long they walked. Wanyee, Kinyanjui, Forty six terminus. The woman followed him. Ogola knew she was following him. But he did not want to think about what she was thinking about. It did not matter. They simply yanked themselves into the unreasonable power that pervaded them. And they walked long. Naivas, St.John the Baptist, ILRI. Until they came to Kangemi.
And when they both entered into Ogola’s single-room house, a tinned structure at the periphery of a rotten shanty, they did not talk to each other. The woman shed off her clothes. She wasn’t particularly enticing. But for a man who hadn’t dipped his rod in the well for almost an year, Ogola ravaged that Kamba doll to satiate himself. She did not make any sound as he humped above her, perspiration gleaming on his coal skin. And he nutted inside her and collapsed beside her for a small nap.
When Ogola woke up, she was still there. Asleep too. He rose up from the creaky bed, careful not to awaken her. Twilight was here. The collapse of another malevolent day. He went to the nearest kinyozi and picked up his phone. A small contraption draped in a plaster of rubber bands to keep it functional. And as if it was a dream, there was an Mpesa message,
“P0LE5ANAMKUU Confirmed. You’ve received ksh 150 from DESMOND OTIENO OTHUOL…”
He bought two plates of Ugali and bean stew at the local kibandaski and went back to his house. The woman was awake. She was boiling some tea leaves in water on the stove. There were two cups on the table. But there was no sugar. But it didn’t matter any longer. Sugar costed an arm and a leg.
“Nimeona nipike chai!” She said almost defensively. “Najua mafuta taa si rahisi kupata…”
“Usijali. Ni sawa tu. Nimepata pesa kidogo nikanunua chakula kiasi,” Ogola said. The woman nodded and forced a smile. She seived the tea into the cups and instantly blew out the flames of the stove. They sat down to eat.
“Unaitwa?” Ogola finally asked. Petrified that he hadn’t asked her name all along.
“Naitwa Mwikali. Agneta Mwikali,” she said.
“Na Mimi naitwa Ogola. William Ogola!”
And the two did not talk anymore that evening. What mattered was the inexplicable power that defined them henceforth. The innate pull between them. The intertwined urge to figure out this jungle together…
Hehe, sometimes I understand why politicians feel distraught when they lose power. You see, power is very sweet. Eei. Having the autonomous right to determine the life of someone. That shiit is addictive I swear.
Back in high school, I was the secretary of the Journalism club. So whenever it was time to publish the school magazine, I was part of the editorial board. We were the ones who decided what got in, and what was binned. The magazine was a big thing. Every student wanted to contribute something in it. The mag will probably land at Karima girlz or Limuru girls. And they’ll see your name under an interesting article or poem. And they’ll fall in love with you. And have give you their numbers. Because you’re a celeb in the Alliance. And they’ll have raw sex with you…
It was officially announced that students can bring forth their cheesy jokes, lifeless poems, low-grade sketchings and plagiarized inspirational articles. They came in hundreds. And this is when my power becomes apparent. Ordinarily, we would spend hours surveying through that mish-mash of bulshit to determine which ones were worthy enough for publication.
Lord, I just loved how niggas would beg me like infants to have their trash considered. I would keep them in mystery. Tell them I was nor working alone. The chairman could decide it wasn’t good enough and his word was final. Oh! They begged. Some even paying some small cash to bribe me. I am ashamed to say I was corrupt…But it was so sweet. Corruption slaps!
And my enemies…Ha! I remember seeing a long article by Boniface Oketch. I remembered how he slapped me the previous year and crumpled his shit and tossed it in the bin. I could imagine his disappointment shuffling through the pages and seeing nothing bana…Power is sweet.
However, there were some imbeciles who loved to use shortcuts. They wrote articles and tossed them in the principal’s suggestion box. The principal would be so ‘enamored’ by them. He would then direct us to find a place for it in the magazine. How I hated these people who thought they could cheat their way out of my bureaucratic hubris…
Hehe! Good times. I hope my manuscripts will not suffer the same fate. I confessed and asked for forgiveness from our lady of Fatima, Maria Mtakatifu.
Perhaps Ralph Waldo Emerson was right about the lives of these Englanders of the Recency period. Sterile in imagination, lives pallid with bromidic traditions, the annoying need to mince expressions and repackaging them in an amiable way. I watched a few episodes of Bridgerton. And in every way I could imagine how Austen’s England looked like. Especially the manner in which life was centered around gardens, aristocrats, gentlemen, ladies, virtue, tea parties, balls, more balls, fuck it…more balls!!!
The characters in Austen’s book do nothing but visit each other, invite each other for dinners, gossip, play pianos, drink tea, spend time in libraries, and fret over how marriageable they can be. So colorless. But even more ridiculous are the pretensions that run among these families. The preposterous heights to maintain nonexistent respectabilities and honour.
Other critics say Austen was in a way, satirical of her society. It is therefore unfair for anybody to compare her with her vainglorious characters such as Lady Catherine De Bourgh or Miss Bingley. But I maintain my dissatisfaction. If her intent was to tear apart that haughty society she lived in, I dare say she did a very scanty job. Her attachment to that society is inseparable. Her attacks seemingly cold and unnoticeable.
Maybe it is unfair to judge one of Pre-Victorian’s venerable women of the English letters. She was a product of her time. Austen’s inclined status at the pyramid of English society definitely has an impact on her exposure and writing. She never interacted with peasants. Therefore, her books are completely devoid of their presence. But writers I admire are revolutionary. They seek detachment from tradition, and maneuver their way into uncharted territory. Austen arguably tries to tell us something. Tries to pinpoint a flaw in the English aristocrat tradition. But her sight is myopic. Whatever she points out is ephemeral as the draught that occurs when a door is shut instantly. It wears off in a second, and warmth engulfs again.
Austen is a purely moralistic writer. A conservative who sought to overlook the entire decadence of English aristocracy and focused instead on diminutive faults. Her female protagonist, Lizzy Bennet. When I read her, she came off as a typical strong-willed girl who knew what she wanted. And Darcy, that man was a typical aristocrat brimming with pride, but was thawed by the ‘savage’ Lizzy till he fell in love with her.
Other characters don’t even impact me. To Lizzy, they all appear too lifeless( Georgiana Darcy, Charlotte and Lucas), too silly(her sisters Kitty and Lydia) or too overbearing(Catherine De Bourgh). Her mother is the typical ‘I-want-my-daughters-to-get-married-fast’, always concerned with nothing else but ensuring they got married. To gentlemen of good societal standing. Mr. Bennet is always in his library doing nothing but laughing at his own asinine nephew.
Then there is a boring couple. Mr. Bingley and Jane. Nothing in particular exciting about them. Only that Bingley once ghosted Jane, then returns back as if nothing happened. And proposes marriage. There is that other guy, Wickham. He is portrayed as a good for nothing fella. Always in debt. But somehow manages to lure away that dimwit sister of Lizzy’s, Lydia. His only role in the book is to provide an opportunity for Darcy to prove his concern for the Bennets. And win the heart of infallible Lizzy.
Poor Mary. She is the only Bennet sister who never gets any focus in the book. Always portrayed as saying irrelevant stuff. She is better off being good at the piano and reading probably. At some point, I even forgot she existed. The author redraws her at the end of the book and I am like…WTF! I forgot about you. She gets a one liner though.
The language is pretty much civil for an English woman of the time. No insults. Just pretty constructed witty statements. Maintaining civility even in moments of extreme displeasure. The mark of quality for a suitable aristocrat. Or maybe I am just too fascinated by melodramatic flairs. Books that remind me of the real dangers that lay in the world. Not books about people whose only fear in the world is marrying wrong. This was a pretty farfetched world for me.
There are many things I will live to regret about my childhood and one of those things is once playing a damned game called “chobo na ua”. This was one game not fit for the faint hearted, and I was a faint hearted demure boy.
At first I was reluctant to join the game for it felt quite dangerous. I regarded it as a battle for the rowdy. So I chose to be a spectator. But the thrill maan! Seeing the ball being dribbled in between the legs of a dumb player was the fun of it. The mood of the players fire up in frenzy as they landed vivacously on the poor boy with slaps, blows and kicks on his bottom, as some ran to fetch sticks and crude weapons of destruction- all these would fill us with euphoria as all and sundry bayed for the blood of the poor ‘choboed’ player.
The only chance of redemption for this poor boy would be one. Run and grab a girl’s arm. And this was also a task. For woe unto anyone who touched a snowflake. He would be reported to the teachers and he would receive an even heavier beating from a teacher who had a soft spot for girl’s tears.
How I got dragged into the game was a mystery. I reassured myself that no harm shall befall me. That I was smart and cautious enough to evade anyone’s chobo dribble. And I was careful. I played with focus. And the concentration of an man plowing his neighbour’s wife in the neighbour’s bed. I was even excited that I had choboed two fools who ended up on the battering list. But alas! My time came.
I couldn’t remember keenly what happened. All I knew was that in a flash of lightning after the ball had crossed my legs, a heavy slap landed on my face. I shrieked in pain,
“Ni nini wasee?” Blows on my head, kicks on my bottom and a stick landed on my back. When I saw one vengeful opponent pick up a stone, I knew I would die. I took off in agility and scanned my eyes for a girl. Any girl. Turning back, I saw a crowd of rowdy charlatans charging after me like bloodthirsty idlers intending to condemn a thief to mob justice.
I ran. Luckily, okay not so lucky after all, I saw a girl named Pauline. Before I could touch her, I tripped and fell beneath her. And the crowd had landed on me with massive barbarism. I quickly touched Pauline. Any part I could touch. Then the crowd stopped hitting me and paused. And I sensed I had done something wrong. Turning back, I saw a fuming Pauline with arms clutched at her bosom. It occurred I had touched her bum.
“Hayaaa! Hayaa! Kimeumana wazeya!” The chants began. The other girls from our class came and fuelled Pauline to report the matter which they did.
But none of the boys from standard seven east was to be spared. We all met the fiery rod of Mr. Kasasi. When we all laid our anteriors to the ground in front of his office, I could see the thirst for blood in his eyes.
“Standard seven east. The jambazis of this school. If I don’t grind your sitting apparatuses into pulp today, I shall have failed this nation…” The first whack on the bottoms of our biggest ‘first boda’ swisher like a whip on a horseback and sent him crying for his mother. I could feel the virgin droplets of urine wet my undies as I prayed to god for his mercies.
But as usual, god never came. And my precious bums became sore for several weeks…
we need to democratize spaces to contribute our voices, undistilled as they are. Our humanity and existence should be enough validity to guarantee us being heard.
Centralization of power organs, economic factors and social structures sustains the manner in which oppressors can effectively dominate society. Looking back at imperial domination in Africa, one realizes that it was imperative for colonialists to coagulate their presence in selected areas, and parasitically suckle away resources from others. The completion of the railway in 1905 ensured the creation of urban centers along the line. Colonialists then centralized their power organs in Nairobi, Mombasa and Kisumu; concentrated economic production and social needs around those areas, totally alienating the rest of the colony.
When Kenya gained its flag independence in 1963, the government did not endeavor itself in changing this unfair reality. Instead, it favored a strong central government, demonized regionalism, and maintained the colonial theory of squeezing in the country’s focus into Nairobi, the capital. It is no surprise therefore that many places in Kenya viewed their nationality as something so abstract and alien, because Kenya as a country existed in Nairobi. Decades of massive underdevelopment in the ASALs and perceptions of not being Kenyan enough are just some of the implications of this damaging state of reality.
In 2010, the new constitution guaranteed change. Something else came up. Devolution. The country was divided into counties with their own semi-governments which would help tackle this problem. But even so, devolution has faced a lot of hardships in its implementation. The National government is complacent in funding counties sustainably, and corruption has manifested itself terribly. Betraying the hopes and aspirations of one crucial structure that would have ameliorated the disparities that exist.
But centralization would not be easy to do away with. Because our mentalities are still clouded with its power. All our structures are centralized in a way; sometimes we may not even realize it, but its logic reigns unabashed.
Centralization necessitates alienation. It clogs alternative channels of action, tethers our discourse or ideas to a certain circumference. The core of it plays us into thinking along the lines of order, nature, custom or tradition. In short, it utilizes the conservative blueprint. It instills in us the apprehension that if we wander off too far from the nucleus, society or nationhood, or whatever it purports to control; we will break away and diffuse into confusion. But truly, what it intends to achieve is to create an opportunity for gatekeeping. A floodgate that can muzzle ideas that can rattle the existing establishment and segment its position.
Think of it like a funnel. Drawing in all the liquid. Creating an illusion of uncensored contribution, but in essence; the more a liquid flows in, the more limited its space. It becomes muzzled. And finally, its flow is impeded. Because centralized structures aim at oversimplification of voices.
The reason why this is ideal for any tyrannical government; it is because at the end of this channel of communication, no one is bound to be responsible for the issues that were raised. In any case, there will be denial that any lamentation was actually made, or it would be attributed to ‘having being made across the wrong channels’. Centralization emphasizes on protocol. Everyone is expected to receive salvation from a sole Golgotha. Survival is guaranteed only by being fed by the system. Based on whatever position you find yourself in. You can only extricate yourself. But you cannot extricate others without destabilizing the entire order.
In this way, it is easy for a parasitic system to sap whatever energies you have, knowing all too well there is little to no escape. It can feed you its placating crap, numb you, have you memorize its choruses, and crush your overall will to resist or think otherwise. A sort of toxic dependency that should not exist in the first place.
Tyrannical governments understand that voices are powerful. There is nothing more menacing than a diversity of ideas dripping from everyone’s perceptions and experiences. Or the pricking nature of questions we may have on certain policies. It is for this reason that centralization exists. To limit the potency of these voices in the name of harmonizing, exclude the validity of our ideas and lamentations, and prevent us from spiralling away into the periphery and dismantling the intricacy of oppressive structures.
There are mainly two ways of decentralizing structures: One is material decentralization, two is mental decentralization. Political, economic and social necessities which impact our material lives, should be truncated away from Nairobi. They should be brought closer to the people it intends to serve. Finally, we need to democratize spaces to contribute our voices, undistilled as they are. Our humanity and existence should be enough validity to guarantee us being heard.
It is one of those afternoons in Campus, when you’ve got nothing to do. You are sitting calmly at a gazebo shade, enjoying the breeze. Then a girl comes and sits on the adjacent seat. She mumbles a hello. You mumble back one with an ephemeral smile. Then whip out your phone and start chatting. The girl does the same. She is definitely older and maturer than I am; probably a fourth year or a master’s student. I am a mere second year student. He is young, she prolly thinks. So let’s both act disinterested in each other.
But someone else comes to our gazebo. A heavily built guy. Very dark. And has cornrows. He greets us in a strange accent. Well, not strange, but we know it is not an accent we hear everyday.
“My name is Emmanuel. Emmanuel Okafor!” He says enthusiastically. He is charged with energy. Something I think is endemic with West Africans. I tell him my name is James Onyango(I barely tell strangers my real names at first contact), the girl tells him her name is Pauline. Simply Pauline.
“I have been to Keniiiiaaa for two mOnS noww! Beautiful contri. Beautiful geeeeoos! Like youuu!” He flashes a sick smile. Then he glances at me like he wants me to leave. But I am not leaving. This is my country. I was born here. No gaddamn foreigner will tell me what to f**king do on my own soil. I arrogantly cement my position and gaze at my phone. I can swear I hear him cursing in his head.
Now if there is one thing this Nigerian guy did was talk. He talked. Talked about many things. 99% of them irrelevant to us. Things we didn’t even need to know. He says he is a software developer currently studying for his master’s at KU. Pauline says she studies Film and theatre. I say I do architecture. A fat lie. Then he goes on to praise Kenya’s internet accessibility. And how much he loves the Wajesus family on YouTube. He is silent for a moment.
“Wueeh! Huyu msee rada yake ni gani?” Pauline asks me. The Nigerian is clueless. He certainly cannot decipher Kiswahili.
“Msee anabonga ni ka analipwa mazee!” I say smiling. I swear gossiping someone in a language they can’t grasp when they are present is priceless.
“I have tried learning Swahili. But this language dey hard oo!” He says. He certainly wants to know what we were talking about. But we won’t tell him. A breeze intensifies.
“Do you know what, I can invite the both of you to my ‘choch’ this ‘Sonday’. Our pastoo is a powerfu maan of god! I swear eem. That man go preach you go ‘hiie’ the heavuns com down!”
I bluntly tell him I am a Catholic, a lie ofcourse. He begins another topic. About how he went to Catholic school back in Nigeria. How he hated those old nuns who would pinch his ears with their gnarly fingers to make him recite the prayers correctly. I want to scream at this guy and tell him, “I don’t f**king care!” But peace placates my cords. And I swallow my budding frustration.
“Two months ago, I was dating…” He begins. When does this guy know when to stop. “…A beautiful Kenyan girl called Wambui. When I look back…I thank God for saving me from that girl. Kaaai! That girl was so demonic I sweee!…”
“Demonic? How?” Pauline asks him curiously.
“She had these things she believed in. Things I could not understand. I don’t know birth charts, with very weird weird signs…They looked demonic…”
“Astrology?” Pauline clarifies.
“I guess so. But anyway…I could not stand them oo…I am a feeem Christian…”
“You mean she didn’t do anything else…”
“Well…She was also very stubborn. I was later told it was something common with Kikuyu geeeos! I could look into her and I am certain there was no marital quality about her. No submissive quality at all…”
I chuckle for a moment. He glances at me laughing, “So it is true what they say about Kenyan women?”
“I don’t know. I don’t date Kenyan women!” I respond sarcastically.
“What do you mean?” He is surprised.
“I mean, what is surprising my brother? A man is not limited to date women, am I right?”
There is silence. His expression changes into a mawkish one. I am sure he wants to puke so badly. Then he says, “God have messsi on you!” I scoff and laugh. Pauline smiles.
When he stands to leave, he hands Pauline a miniature care, “Here is my nombaa! Call me first thing on Sonday morning. I shall come to pick you at a convenient place. The choch isn’t far. Somewhere around Kasarani. Is called JCC!”
Pauline picks it uninterestedly. Then the guy leaves, he shouts on his way, “Aah! This contri dey hot! Kaai!”
The days fleeted slow, they fleeted fast. Monday came, Friday went, Monday came again, Friday glided away. Time looped interminably in the darkness of our conscious | BRIGHT NEWS
When I took my first breathe, my friends and I were huddled together and bound with an uncomfortable rubber band. I cried out in pain, but my voice was inaudible. The asphyxiation, the stuffiness, motion sickness…”I wonder where they are taking us?” I could not see anything except darkness. I would not see anything for hours because I passed out.
When I woke up again, there was still darkness. I wanted to cry, but I was not alone. Everyone else was whining too. Lamenting about the inconsiderate god that had made them. The days fleeted slow, they fleeted fast. Monday came, Friday went, Monday came again, Friday glided away. Time looped interminably in the darkness of our conscious. Nothing else mattered to its progression. Some of us cried, pondered about life, cried again, slept, fainted, cried, hated life, hated man, vowed vengeance, cried, pondered at our inutility, fainted, willed ourselves dead…But only time and darkness mingled unstoppably. The only constant entities that reigned in perpetual tyranny.
Then one Monday afternoon, I was recovering from another bout of faintness when I realized I was being jutted out of a machine through a narrow slit. ‘Tis the first time I saw light. And god. Or a version of him. A sinister smile displayed on his fat cracked lips. My clean unsullied body tainted by his greasy hands.
“Stop! Please!” I cried out. “Wash your hands first, will you?”
“Ha! A newbie!” An older note scoffed.
I was not alone. There was a guy in pink. He was elegant. I kinda wished for a moment I was as beautiful as him. There was also a green guy, one blue guy, and several of us brownies.
“Excuse me!” I began. “You mean, he…he can’t hear us?”
“He is god, or a version of god anyway!”
The god was running his fingers across our bodies. His lips quivering slightly, whispering numbers…”Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten…”
“But he made us. Why can’t he hear us?”
“He’s god. Gods don’t listen to their creations. They use them!” The blue guy chipped in.
“Nice to meet y’all by the way!” I said thoughtfully.
“Baah! No need for that!” The green guy said. “We won’t be together when this day ends.”
“At least there isn’t any darkness and senility anymore!” I cried excitedly.
“Before this day ends, you’ll wish you never emerged from that darkness!” The pink guy said.
“But come to think of it. He is a brownie. Quite lucky I must say! Not every Kamau, Mutiso and Otieno would touch him. Unlike some of us!” The blue guy pontificated.
“Yeah. But still, he will have it rough,” the pink guy persisted.
“Hey! Come on. Living away from the darkness can’t be that bad! I mean, while in there, my solemn wish…at least for everyone…was to leave that place and do something. Be useful for once,” I said.
The other notes laughed in contempt. “Oh my god! You really are a newbie!” Greenie said. “And a naive one!” The man was satisfied. He instantly dipped us into his wallet, took out his cigarette and began to smoke. The wallet was warm and cozy. There was nothing else there except a few cards and an ID.
“Nebuchadnezzar Ong’eng’o!” I read the ID and thought ‘what a stupid name.’ “District of birth…Nyamira.”
From afar, we could hear the hooting of cars, the raw bustle of a city, noise, more noise…Then the noise reduced. And it progressively became silent and silent. But I became motion sick, and I knew we were in a car, a vehicle…or something. When it all stopped, I was grateful.
Ten minutes later, the man pulls me out from the bunch. My first separation. He hands me over to some fat woman in a shop. “Huna pesa ndogo, Baba Carl?” The man shakes his head, denies having a lighter note. He is lying ofcourse. He is just tired of me. And I am tossed into a dank cash box.
It is dark again, and for a moment I miss the darkness. I sleep soundly. This place is warmer, and I am more free. But it won’t last. Because the shop woman takes me and hands me over to a young boy. He instantly pockets me and hops away home. But there is a hole in his pocket. I slip through it stealthily and fall. I am on the grass, and I see the boy run.
“Stupid kid!” I laugh. I have no business serving kids. It won’t take long before someone else notices me. A pubescent girl passes by. I silently pray she doesn’t see me. Thank goodness, she goes on. A young woman sees me. She gazes around her, cleverly strides towards me and plants her canvas shoes on me.
“Why are you stepping on me?” I lament. “F**k!” She picks me up and instantly shoves me inside her boobies. “Finally!”
In my entire life, never have I wallowed in such paradise. The softness of her round boobies, the sweaty chasm between them. I wished that I could live there forever, implant myself on her skin and remain an inseparable part of her. But I was not made for this purpose. This goddess would hand me over to a liquor store.
“Chrome gin?” I scoffed at her. “B**ch! Really?”
An hour later, I was handed over to the caretaker. The caretaker took me to a shop. The shop handed me over to a bread supplier. The bread supplier to another shop. The shop handed me over to a campus student. The student took me to a liquor store. The liquor store to a shop. The shop to another young man. The young man to a gas station. The gas station to a gas dealer. The gas dealer to a club. The club to a shop. My existence became insipid whoring. Dirty palms, clean palms dirty palms, oily palms, wet palms, sweaty palms. Even palms I had just seen intensely rubbing penises and milk out some creamy fluid.
I saw rich houses. Poor houses. But rich houses mostly. It was Friday, and someone took me out to a strip club. I was feeling dizzy from all the electric music that blared around me. But never in my life had I seen so many juggling booties. And boobs, my god! Then it was Sunday, and I was in church again. Someone shamelessly slid me into an envelope and handed me to the ushers.
A week had gone. I was tired of living. But we never die unless our gods says so. Our entire existence is geared to serve them. Only time can determine our salvation. For time is the only deity that our gods called men cannot control. Time is the only entity we all bow to.
Stealing is a very complicated act. It infuses in different actors an amalgam of emotions ranging from guilt, mere satisfaction and profound pleasure. Its motives are innumerable; its consequences dependent on, what was stolen? Why was it stolen? And who exactly stole it?
In the Mosaic ten commandments, the eighth one condemns stealing of all forms. It further emphasizes in the tenth commandment, that coveting someone else’s property is also sinful(thought crime? F**k the bible). Stealing can be simply defined as taking someone’s possessions without his consent, with no intention of returning it to the owner. Easy peasy. But when you think introspectively about stealing, one realizes a collective bashing of all theft is rather ludicrous. But again, one cannot overrule the implications of loss. But when you focus on this vice, you realize there are variations of motives, methods and consequences.
Who is Stealing? The luckiest thief is one privileged by the systems in place. It doesn’t matter what he steals or how he does it. But this one never gets punished the same way as another unprivileged thief.
In high school, theft was a serious offence as long as the wrong people did it. Our school sanctioned mob justice(as long as death was avoided). Anyone caught stealing would be pummeled like a sack of bean pods until it was reasonable to let them be. But this occasioned a precedence of framing cases. If you wanted to exact vengeance on someone, plant some stolen possessions in their stuff, tip the prefects who will carry out an inspection, find the stolen stuff and draw out their leather belts.
Form fours could never be indicted for stealing. The system favored them. I was once caught red-handed ‘anuaring’ a form two’s shirt. The case never went anywhere. I was a chopi, who would dare discard my importance. But supposing a form one or form two boy who was unpopular, academically daft and defenceless was caught stealing; there would be no reprieve for them.
This atavistic nature of theft replicated itself on political and social realms of larger life. It is the mantra knowable to many right now. If you are a sardine, you get trawled. If you are a whale, you are venerable. In our society, wealth extricates you from societal and judicial wrath. It is therefore advisable, that if thou shalt desire to steal. Be massive about it. Steal insane sums of money that will ultimately catapult you into that safe haven.
What is being stolen? In Kenyan lexicology of theft, it is sagaciously said that, ‘If you enter a rich man’s house to steal, it is exigent to steal something worth the effort and risk.’ You see, Kenyans hate a petty thief. It is considered a waste of vice. And Kenyans love the value of risks. That is why it is common to hear people say that once they ascend government positions, their efforts shall be dedicated towards stealing big. No jokes. ‘Tis the culture. Why should you sit on vast seas of opportunity and glide away unfulfilled?
You know, Kenyans only value intimate possessions. Taxes and loans, although payable only by them, remain abstract in the Kenyan mind. That is why it is elaborate to steal taxes. The Kenyan mind can never conceive the abstract. It is only superficial to what is owned concretely. You can’t steal my money when am watching you, but you can steal taxes I pay. Besides I don’t own taxes. It is something we pay collectively so the hurt isn’t felt individually. That is the only hurt we Kenyans care about.
Why is it being stolen? People have needs. But when it is nigh impossible to satisfy them, the only way out is theft. At this noob stage of the vice, guilt and paranoia gnaws you deeply. But the fear and guilt dissipates after a succession of several thefts. It becomes mechanical. Even orgasmic.
Sometimes we also steal to satisfy conditioned expectation. In Kenya, we encourage our politicians to steal on behalf of our ethnicities. It is dubbed, ‘Our time to eat’. Our son needs to get elected so that he can plunder that abstract wealth. One would assume that these leaders steal land to settle the landless from his community. Don’t be foolish. Who does that? We are all conceited to the core.
Some people steal because they feel empty without stealing. In Tolstoyian greed, nothing is enough. Some people steal because there exists something to be stolen. Not because they need it. Not because they are genetically modified to steal. But here is something that exists. It can be stolen. Why not?
Others steal because in some way, stealing is impressive to people. We love smart thieves. People who bypass security measures and get away with it. They are inspirational stories. Netflix worthy. We just love people who steal as a way to portray their genius. They don’t even need to love or covet that which they steal.
Evaluate your theft scale. Remember, your reasons to steal preempts what you desire to steal. Whatever you steal determines who you will be; and whoever you are, determines how your theft shall be perceived.
