From my high spending during the Dithemba holidays, the earliest am expected to recover from financial sege-mnege-ness is somewhere between Valentines and Easter. Meanwhile, am surviving in this Nyairofi due to my renewed relationship with Mshwari and also the signing of a new CBA with WaJothefu of Kibandanski which says that I will accumulate my debt and pay at the end of the month. The CBA has a clause called ‘M’ which states that the closest I will get to eating meat is by eating foods starting with the letter ‘M’ including Matumbo, Mathagiro, Mutura ama Madodo. But we’ll survive.
So yesterday, I was at WaJothefu’s with other hasoras sipping my favourite drink-Thufu of knees. When you people of uptown Nyairofi are taking thodas and other carbonated drinks which bring hydrogenosis and photosynthesis of the duodenum and oesophagus, I usually assign myself a hot cup of thufu of knees every evening. When you add firifiri to it, it signals to you that it has reached the stomach by triggering the nasal pores to produce a thin sweat. The same thin sweat is felt at the end of the backbone where the tail that became vestigial used to be. This thufu cures current and future colds, and doctors say…ok let me lecture you about this some other time.
So after finishing my thufu, I passed by mutura section and from the way I looked at the mutura, Jakufu the seller was beaten by mercy and told me “onja mutura mjinga usimwage mate hapa” as he cut for me two pieces for free. I thanked him and promised him that if I get a son, I will name him Jakufu-something I can only do under the influence of fangi. Now because the mutura was too hot, I took a toothpick, nikazidunga and went out. Just a few meters from where I was, I saw this persons I have been cutting for since late last year-infact she is a big beneficiary of my big spending in dithemba, but am yet to redeem even a single bonga point from the investment. She says she still doesn’t know me well enough, despite the countless paragraphs I have written her defining myself from 3 generations ago, even explaining to her about my rich history which includes my great grandfather; CGH, EBS CB&D (Chief Brewer and Drinker)-Kihara Murefi, the renowned founder of Wakihara special vodka. But she still claims she doesn’t know me.
Now when I saw her, I got allilobit confused especially with the steaming hot mutura in my hands. I had to think quickly. I contemplated throwing it away but thought of the drought situation in the country, and also of the cow that had to die for this mutura to come into existence. I had one choice, which I took. I threw the two pieces in the mouth and said bad is bad (kama mbaya mbaya). By this time, she was very near but still hadn’t noticed me. I moved the pieces from one side of the mouth to the other, even helping the now burning tongue to move the pieces by swinging my head from side to side. When she got very close, I swallowed them rife rife. I felt them go all the way to the stomach, wondering if the journey from the mouth to the stomach is usually that long. I think it’s approximately 2km. I felt tears in my eyes.
When we greeted each other, she asked why my eyes were wet, to which I responded that my eyes are allergic to dust. She was quick to say “really?..i never knew that…that’s why I keep telling you sikujui”…A topic which I quickly ignored. She told me she was going to get her younger brother at the bus-stage, who was coming from gicagi. She requested or rather asked me to accompany her and I did not even blink or ask any questions. My stomach was however already asking questions as to why i had to punish its linings in such a crude way.
When we got to the stage, we found the young man waiting there with a ki-paper (the yellow one) which looked like it had waru, cabbages, carrots or a mix of all. She pretended to want to hold one side as the brother held the other, but I intervened and told the young man to hold one side as I held the other. After a few meters, the guy said he was tired and wanted to change hands. I told him to worry no more, as I lifted it and placed the ki-paper on my shoulder.
We walked to the house, with me majorly secluded from their conversations which dwelt on how their cows and chicken were doing back home,bla bra bla. When we got to the house, I placed the mzigo at the door, and as I turned, I saw the brother dip his hand in his sudus pocket and remove a hundred shillings. He was handing it to me when the persons told him “aai stop, I’ll sort it out with him.” For a minute I was confused. The brother proceeded to drag the mzigo into the house, and I was left there asking the persons angrily…”yani bro yako anaona mimi nakaa jamaa wa kubeba mizigo ama?” She laughed it off but deep inside my auricles and ventricles, especially near the aorta, I was really hurt. She did not even tempt me with “si uingie ukunywe chai”, but instead promised to catch up with me some other time. I went away wiping dust from my shoulder, wondering how that young man had carried me, but at the same time thinking I could have taken the hundred shillings and live with the consequences. Lakini haki that kijamaa did not carry me well. Ama mimi hukaa jamaa wa beba beba na sijui?
There is a Greek song that says “Ni kuri kwendwo na kuhuthirwo uru” (There is a difference between being loved and being used badly). I think am neither. Am just a hunter who sometimes gets hunted.,and when I get hunted I mostly get caught.