It was in 1957. The beberu had herded us Kikuyus, icluding me and my parents, into concentration camps which he euphemistically called 'protective villages". They were in reality little Auschiwitzs. Death camps. Everything was scarce except sex - the women used it as currency.
Anyway, at the little matope shack that passed for my nursery school, kids remained kids. Because I was the smallest, most sharpest bare-assed brat, the other older kids always picked on me. Over time I developed a stock-in-trade verbal defence; āI will not do bla bla for you because you have been mean to meā.
So if a bigger boy refused me to play football on the old rag ball and told me to go drying, my retort would be ātomorrow I will not bring you a piece of my sweet potatoā. Unperturbed, the big boys would play their game, and I would go home sulking and cursing.
And so it went, as time always does. Jomo came and went, and even the evil kleptomaniac Moi.
Even you came along.
Today, I see many of you saying that you will not vote, or even bother to register to vote. You are allegedly mad with the ābig boysā.
You remind me of my concentration camp playground all those many years ago. You are petulant, juvenile and helpless little shits - like I was - who cannot influence a darn thing. You think that a vote has given you significance, and you want to tell us how you will exercise - or not exercise - your new-found power.
Who gives a shit?
On voting day, millions of us will awake and queue for hours on end to elect our tribal lords. I personally will vote for Uhuru Muigai Kenyatta and William Samoei arap Ruto. I will join the nighty river that will flow from the mountain of God, sweeping every riffraff in its path. Water - and leadership - will always find its level.
Now, whether you pee in the river or not is your business. A grain of sand maketh not a beach. When you think about it, it doesnāt matter; the river will still flow.
So, little helpless and hopeless twats, keep your delusions of grandeur to yourselves. Walk queitly into the oblivion of your lives without kusumbua sana. Go back to your slum homes, or the hovels where you work na muugue pole pole. Ferk the same diseased hoes that you do - at the end of day, you will still remain what you are; nothing.
The sad bitter truth is, you are really not that important.