Jenerali seemed to pause in his tracks. He tilted his head to
the left and to the right. He was checking if his shoes had the glitter he
desired. Beni had found him under a roadside tree trying the best he could to
achieve that glitter. He had stood by, appearing to be uninterested, but in
real sense he was looking at the man brush his shoes from the corner of his
eye. There was something extremely careful, even meticulous about the way the
man handled his brush, and in the way he made well-thought strokes on the
leather surface. To a keen eye, this was an act communication between a man and
his shoes. The man, realizing Beni was cagily looking at him, had said in what
sounded like flamboyant Kiswahili, albeit strained by a hint of Samburu accent:
“Don’t
be surprised. I was once a soldier. A General. You can call me Jenerali in
Kiswahili.”
“Good. I am Beni.”
“That is a curios name. Short for Benson or Bernard?”
“Just Beni.”
“Sounds
like a name of a small boy. I will call you Benard. So Bernard, you also going
to the rally?
“Yes.”
“You
will hear me tell them,” he said rising and beginning to follow Beni.
That last statement, Beni chose to ignore as common sense had
taught him. For all he cared, the man was free to call himself Jenerali, or any
other fancier title, but he was not going to take him for a ride and turn him
into an audience for his hallucinations. He nevertheless did not mind walking
with his new found companion towards the gate of Kenyatta Stadium-Maralal. As
such, Beni did not bother what he was going to tell, and who was ‘them’.
People were streaming into the stadium in their numbers – at
least by the standards of Maralal. Women Groups donned in the traditional Samburu
attire were no doubt the greatest attraction. The clean-shaven women had their
blue shukas going under their arms
and tied by a knot at the back of their necks. On their shoulders was draped a
yellow shuka. On the front part of
their shukas, below their waists,
were patterns of beads sewn into the blue fabric. And the hem of this attire reached
just above their ankles to reveal metallic anklets they were wearing. Around
their necks was layer upon layer of beads, prominent among the layers was the
upper one, which beautifully relayed the colours of the national flag. Slightly
up, above the layers of beads, on the neck could be seen freshly applied red
ochre. Beni made a mental note of the shiny application of ochre and decided to
treat it as an unnecessary exaggeration.
As they were walking on, Jenerali unbuttoned his military-coloured
jacket. Whoever had designed and made the fake jacket had done a good job at
it. Beni glanced and noticed that beneath the jacket was a white T-shirt with
three words: TREE IS LIFE.
“Let
us go and stand somewhere in front, just below the podium,” said Jenerali
putting on sunglasses and a khaki hat.
“I
don’t like that place,” Beni replied, “I will get somewhere to stand within the
crowd.”
With that statement, Beni got his relief. The man strutted
off after patting Beni on the shoulder. It was good he was going his way, Beni
thought. The man was starting to be so comfortable with him. It was not within
his whims to entertain strangers who got off to a start to be too sure he would
listen to them. He stood and looked at the man disappear in the maze of an
excited crowd.
He took a detour and headed for the side of the stadium that
had goalposts. He weaved his way through the crowd, all through getting
fascinated by the love for chewing especially among females: if one was not
chewing something, she was observing the next person do it, or was playing with
the gum in her mouth by blowing it into a big transparent ball before willfully
bursting it with an irritating sound.
Beni put his arm around the goalpost and stared at the sky.
Clouds were hurrying up above from the gorgeous greenness of the Kirisia Forest
westwards, perhaps to the abandon dryness of the Laikipia plains and beyond.
They were clouds varying of sizes and varying pregnancy of texture. And Beni
seemed to notice that once they detached themselves from the safety of the
forest, they appeared to hasten their movement. Maybe they wanted to get to
accommodating atmosphere. Perhaps above Marmanet Forest or the Mau Complex or
Kakamega Forest; or maybe anywhere else human beings had been desirous enough
the spare trees. Beni wished that in their travels, these clouds would reach
his home somewhere in Busia. This made him miss home. At this moment too,
albeit briefly, Beni thought about the three words on Jenerali’s T-shirt. The
gentleman, if ever he was gentle, had a point.
** ** ** **
Time
had passed and people had done what they do at political rallies before the
arrival of main guests. All this while, Beni had been lost in his thoughts.
Thoughts about home and the genuine generosity of his people; memories of
childhood games in the grazing fields; reminiscences of their boyhood escapades
with the village girls who came to collect firewood in the grazing fields. He
had been occupied thus until the announcement was heard that a college student
was going to do a poem. The student called it: Letter to the Blessed: Till Death Do Us Part. He was suddenly
jolted to attention and listened.
Letter to the Blessed: Till Death Do Us
Part.
And
those days –
Shared
space and circumstance
Sometimes
fortune and fame would pop in
I
mean, dreams of fortune and fame.
Our
mothers went to the market
And
fathers talked land, football and politics
While
ours language stayed with the ordinary:
Homework,
punishment, boyfriends and girlfriends
And
the stopping of “maziwa ya watoto wa Nyayo”
Such
was our bliss in ignorance
The
bliss of ignorance; well-meaning ignorance,
Shut
out sheer shoving and shifting of worldviews
Held
in the adult world.
In
church on a Sunday School day
The
white-robed pastor held sway
“Thou
shalt not covet”
While
I admired the very pastor’s daughter
She
was beautiful and smiled gaily
At
our clandestine evening meetings daily
Till
one such evening,
Pastor
found us at a dark corner.
That
was innocence.
Nay,
ignorance.
Or
both innocence and ignorance
Both
without a plea in mitigation.
That
was long before Anglo-leasing arrived
After
Goldenberg the way had paved
Now
here as adults:
We
commune with Taxation and Inflation
Bills,
rent, water, fees must now be paid
Hunger,
Lack and Desperation have built at home
And
the shrewd hand of the Political Cunningster,
Decides
who dies last.
Hunger,
Lack and Desperation are my new partners
Forever
we shall dwell here,
Till
death, do us part.
…………………………..
TO BE CONTINUED.
