wesongarobert@yahoo.com
12th June, 2011 “Oh my body, make of me a man who always questions.” Frantz Fanon in the book: Black Skins White Masks.
He cleared his throat and continued, “Go on. You go on. Work very hard and turn yourself into punda wa serikali. After that, you will let me know if people will remember it is the work that will have killed you. Tell me that when you will be dead and buried.”
“And how do you suppose I will manage that?” Beni asked, successfully masking his incredulity.
Ignoring Beni’s question, he went on, “Many will come to your funeral and issue moving eulogies. They will say how hardworking a man you were and then wish God to rest your soul in eternal peace. And that will be that. And as they will send soil crashing onto your coffin, life will go on as if nothing will have happened. And each day, the shadows will shift from west, middle and east as the direction of the sun will dictate. It will be just as it is now. Young man, work but learn to live too. Learn to pick your moments when they come, for they are not many.”
Beni was seated with him inside the shanty. The owner had conceived the idea of naming it a shanty so a shanty it became. Its purpose and rudimentary outlook notwithstanding, nobody believed it was a shanty. But a shanty it was because Sharif, its owner, had said it. It was a humble construction. It stood about forty metres from the Nyahururu-Maralal Highway. This was one of the most notorious structures at Kisima Centre. Its notoriety partly stemmed from the fact that it always boasted of the biggest number of people around it regardless of the time of day (or night for the nocturnal type). On one side it bordered Village Connections Bar and on the other, Rangers Bar. Its door was directly opposite Kisima Airstrip. Above the door, a piece of wood suspended by two lazy rusted wires stayed hung. The wood had the writing: SHARRIF’S SHANTY: DEALER IN MIRAA AND ALLIED SUBSTANCES.
It measured about three by two metres. Its size meant that most of Sharif’s customers were served through a square window. A few privileged customers and friends like Beni enjoyed the favour of sitting inside. Whether or not he got a chance to get in, Beni liked going to Sharif’s any time he got a chance during the perennially idle weekends. From this unique haven of idleness and cheap entertainment, he would watch the shadows of worlds nature shift. On this particular day, he sat muted. Here he was, without choice, listening to a man compare his life to the shifting shadows he was watching.
Many a passer-by, be they in vehicles, on foot or on bikes saw it. They saw it whether they liked it or not. No one dared ignore it. If it was not its peculiar name that attracted onlookers, then it was the person of the man who owned and ran it: Sharif. Those who were travelling to Nyahururu, Wamba or Suguta saw Sharif’s Shanty when they looked out to the left through the car window. Even long distance truck drivers who ferried relief food into the district were sufficiently desirous to stop by Sharif’s place to buy miraa.
Most significant of all those who frequented to place were the miraa traders who went to and fro Meru in their daily engagements. Here they came to deposit the town’s daily supply of miraa. Sharif bought it and sold to the rest of the vendors. These other vendors appeared to be content with buying the miraa at a higher because they did not have the social standing to acquire the miraa directly for the Meru traders.
Beni came to regard Sharif as the most consistent man in Kisima. His consistency may not have been sufficient to be viewed in the serious things that human beings undertake, but it was consistency nevertheless. Of all the times that Beni was at his place, he did not see Sharif bargain. Besides, he was also always on miraa. As a consequence, his mouth had taken up a greening aspect that was only less green in the morning.
“Sharif,” called Beni, “how long have been in Kisima?”
“How long I have been here does not matter,” Sharif responded. Beni waited for him to go on but Sharif was not the man to predictably follow the stream of one’s expectations. He kept quiet and continued scratching rust off his ageing door using the blunt age of his penknife. At first Beni had found Sharif intriguing, even arrogant. However, he had learnt that Sharif was one of those people whose weaknesses you see first but spend the rest of your time with them seeing their strengths.
“What I have learnt here is what matters,” Sharif chose to complete his statement.
Beni regretted what he had said. It was not as if he had said something really regrettable but more because of the manner in which Sharif had interpreted and responded to his comment. He had come into the shanty and after greetings said how much he was tired. It was merely an afterthought. Certainly, Sharif did not think so. He had taken this chance to attack people he thought were driving themselves to old age and even death by voluntarily allowing themselves to be overworked.
Beni had seen few people who spoke with half such philosophic conviction. When Sharif said something, it not only showed the listener that he knew what he was saying but also demonstrated the idea that he believed in what he said. At such times, he would adjust his white skull cap so that one could clearly see his face. With his sheikh-like semi-grey beard gracefully trembling in the immediate air, he went on to deliver his statements with an optimistic wagging of his forefinger.
“Take care, the ground can shift before you know where you are,”
