A Walk into Death

          ''The day I met him was the genesis of my woes,'' the note begun. ''I didn't sleep that night. Something kept gnawing at my patience. I couldn't wait to meet him. He said he's from Los Angeles, US. But he lives like a nomad as he's constantly travelling for business. He has been in Kenya for a couple of times, the last being to attend the Global Summit in July. An event that saw Kenya attain a major historical milestone when a sitting US president-- Barrack Obama, for the first time visited. So every day saw me waiting, eager, for his next coming. Three months were centuries away. Anxiety and desperation added weight to the longing eating me inside...''. There was much said in the note which were hard to bear. According to police reports, the note was found beside the body of Ade in her room. With the note were: Ksh 4000, a Samsung Galaxy mobile phone and a photo of some plumb bloke with a chubby face who would later be identified as Macurious Takataka. The devil that had driven the poor damsel into the grave.

           Ade was a second year undergraduate student, barely 20. A model and an ideal candidate who could win the Miss Kenya title any time of the day. No one could say that she wasn't beautiful for thousands of men lost teeth in brawls over her. Her voice, whenever she talked, compelled everyone to switch off phones and radios to listen to her. And wherever she passed, man stopped to gaze at her in awe-- marveling at one of God's few masterpieces. But despite of these, Ade hardly gave attention to them. She walked with eyes glued to the skies as though her types of men are found there. '' I've no use for a poor black nigga,'' she said. '' Love transcends internationally. If many a woman have married abroad and are damn rich, why not me? I must go out.''

***

          Somewhere on the Venice Beach, a man sits quietly to enjoy a glass wine. He whistles G.I's classic: Private Beach Party' as he stares into the open sea. With him is a True Love magazine and a laptop. He is online, writing and replying to couples of texts streaming in from all over the globe. But of all the conversations, none interests him like that with this woman from Kenya. She seems full of enthusiasm. He ignores the rest and concentrates on her most.
          Macurious had met Ade a fortnight ago on Facebook. She had sent him a friend request. So after chatting constantly and knowing the basics about each other, they hooked up. On his part, Macurious saw it as another chance to eat an African woman. He had had many already, but a man doesn't leave his stomach home after a meal so as not to eat again.

          He was handsome and well-built, with crystal-clear eyes. Ade saw this in the photo he had sent her. They called each other once in a while. And the mere fact that she was now dating a mzungu ignited a disturbing fire of pride in her. She turned away stalkers disgustingly.
           There was nothing substantial that could bring Macurious to Kenya too soon. Not after somebitches had helped themselves to his money on his last visit. Not after the media was awash with news of how grenades are thrown anyhow like potatoes and people die due to the Al Shabaab terror menace. But his new catch made him think otherwise. He would risk. They agreed to meet in three-month time.

                                                                      ***

Ade woke up at dawn to catch the first flight to Mombasa. She had booked a ticket the previous day with part of the £100 that Macurious had sent her. The plane was scheduled to take off at 8 am. It was going to be her first time ever to travel by air. She could not get over with her excitement. It was history in the making.
           The whole night had seen her prepare for the flight. ''Preparing to meet a stranger is mind-boggling,'' she thought. '' You can't tell how someone will react, or how to please them.'' Ade had talked with her friends about Macurious and the flight. But although a few envied and wished her well, many advised her against it. ''... but si una chali hapa campo? Ama ushamboot?'' They wondered. But Ade couldn't hear any bit of their nonsense. She had become an ear that is doomed to die; it doesn't respond to drugs. To her, such friends are the kind who gets irritated when they see you blessed and prosper. She ignored them as a politician does to their electorate after being sworn into office. But what nearly spoiled her day was her sister's call. She had been updated by Ade's friend a day before. ''What makes you trust a man you know nothing about?''

       ''But at least I know his nationality. I'll get to know him better when
we meet...''
       ‘‘No. I don't approve of that. Just forget about him. There are thousands of handsome men around. Why go that far?''
       ''But nothing bad gonna happen siz.... I'm a grown up.''
       ''Ade please, don't go...''
         They nearly quarreled. Ade hanged up. It was spoiling her moods. And it is no good fly for the first time with mood swings.

         Macurious had jetted in two days before. He had booked a room in his favourite hotel. It would be confirmed later when the police are in dire need of him that he was a regular customer. Ade was picked by a taxi from the airport immediately she landed. She ceased not be amazed
by this kind of treatment; every moment made her feel like a queen of an unknown kingdom. ''These men are really romantic geniuses,'' she whispered to herself. Then the taxi stopped outside a five-star hotel and heart pounded. A little fear gripped her, but she brushed it off. What is there to fear when one meets face to face with their fortune?
        The long awaited moment had come. She was meeting the man of her life now now.

           A minute had not elapsed when a middle-aged man in a three-piece suit emerged with a bunch of roses. There were many white men around as the season of tourists was at its peak. Ade therefore recognized him when he called her name.
          ”Oh, babe it's you!' It was neither a question nor exclamation. But she stood still. Macurious embraced her, quickly kissed her and gave her the flowers. ''It’s nice meeting you at last babe,'' he said. Taking her by the hand. ''Thank you,'' she responded, almost in a whisper. The magnificent hotel swallowed them thence. It was 3 pm. The day was still young.
          That evening they went to Watamu to spent time on the beach. The weather was still and the beach quiet. Like any other private beach, Watamu Beach had very few people. Therefore there was little or no fear if one wanted to quench their conjugal thirst. An old couple was busy making love in sand when Ade and Macurious arrived. They passed them quietly as the woman moaned to glory.
         '’You like here?'’ Macurious asked, to cut the dense silence. ’’Yeah, so much dear. It's cool,'' she answered. Her face was brightened.
          They stripped naked and dived into the warm, salty water. To Ade, this was a lifetime experience. She could not help but to enjoy it. After swimming for a while, Macurious pulled her close. He could feel her nipples pricking his thorny chest. She had small, firm and ripe breast. They showed no sign of sagging even if she mothered six generations! Macurious held one and sucked it, whilst fondling the other. She let out a soft moan. He smiled. ''I want you inside please,'' she whispered. '' Relax darling... Here I come.''
          They retired back to the hotel whilst dead tired. Ade had never had such a harrowing experience. It had ceased to be blissful when she became dry and begged him to stop. He was deaf. She cried out of pain. It was 11pm and the whole night was before them. She could not imagine what they would do with it. In Mombasa, people don't sleep.

          Macurious always carried a camera wherever he went. He had taken a couple of pictures at the beach. Most of them in awkward positions. Such enchanting moments are too good to be lived once and forgotten. They need to be kept for remembrance.

          Ade did not eat that night. The pain that was eating her could not allow her to do so. She just gulped a glass of juice and went to rest. But Macurious could not let her.
'' Please leave me alone. I'm hurt and tired.''
''But I haven't had enough of you. You are the reason I came. You think I came to waste time watching you as if you were a monkey or elephant in Tsavo?''
 ''After screwing me for ages on the beach? You want to kill me? I'll scream, I swear! Go away you beast...''
‘‘Try that and you won't like the consequences. I'll put all your naked photos on social media for the world to see. I'll damage your image beyond repair.''
''Oh my God!'' Ade knew she is finished. She was now his sex prisoner, not a lover at all. She broke into tears.
          He ordered her to strip and face the camera as he took a video of her. Then, by show of hand, signaled her to fondle and suck his rod. The 12-inch shaft filled her mouth, nearly choking her. She had been watching this in porn movies. But imagining that she was the one doing
it, forcefully, alarmed her. Something told her to bite the thing, but she decided against. He could kill her. She sucked him dry. He moaned and smiled with satisfaction as he deposited a whole litre of semen into the poor girl's mouth. The camera in his hand was recording still. Then he forced her to stand on fours and rammed into her. Gently then hard. Fast and furious. She screamed. '' Shut up, you bitch'' he barked. Threatening to slit open her throat. The encounter was painful, traumatizing and horrible. Dawn seemed far away. She passed out.

It was close to midday when she finally regained consciousness. Someone was knocking on the door. It was the hotel attendant, asking if they were not interested in their meals that day. She was too tired to answer or even move. So she ignored. It was when she sat up that she realized  something was amiss. Macurious was not in the room. Not even his luggage. She attempted to call him in vain. She was alarmed. She felt sick.

That night she slept at her sister's place in Nairobi. The same sister who had warned her against meeting a stranger. But there was no time to hurl stones of blame to the ailing sister. She rushed her to the hospital that evening after listening to her story. It was confirmed that she had been sexually assaulted. The doctor wrote a medical report which would be given to the police the following day; to facilitate the hunting of the culprit.

However, Ade never saw the sun the next day. She could not stand the pain. She could not stand the shame and guilt of betraying her sister. She could not stand living with the ugly scars of that horrible experience. She was found dead the following morning. A bottle of poison was beside her body. She had also written a suicide note, accounting for her action. It was intriguing. The sister broke down.

The police sprang into action. They, for once, endeavored to prove that they are useful, not mere state pets and thieves. They issued orders to everyone to be on the watch-out for the White Beast—as they called Macurious. They had all the details about him from the note and from the US Security Intelligence-- it confirmed Macurious was a regular guest of the prison. All airports and departing planes as well as the country's boarders were checked. But all their futile efforts bore nothing. Nothing fruitful came out. Macurious Takataka had long gone, never to
be found.

 (c) waful p'khisa

The Gizzard

Papa had never been that angry. The last time, I vividly remember, the worm in his head turned, Mother trekked for six miles to her birthplace at twilight. We slept on empty stomachs till her eternal return. She had made a grave mistake: giving out Papa's Christmas suit to uncle Nyaranga earlier that day.

Uncle Nyaranga is a chicken seller. He combs villages robbing ignorant farmers without violence and then takes the fortune to Kamukuywa, on the market day. What a good kill the brother of my mother makes! But what baffles us is what he does with the money. The bloke spends nothing on himself, leave alone his family. So that day he came home looking sorry and thoroughly beaten by rain. I reckon he only visits us when in dire need. He wanted warm things. Clothes, tea, food and fire. There was no way Mother could deny him. Generosity is a treasure she is well endowed with. Moreover, didn't she always say that she wouldn't have seen the sun had Nyaranga killed their mother at birth? So she gave him all-- including Papa's most treasured cloak. When the owner returned, he swore by the rags he was wearing not to eat or sleep till the suit is returned. This too meant that there would be no food or sleep for us.

''What the hell's wrong with Nyaranga's head? I paid them dowry. Why can't he stop salivating at the little I've remained with?'' He lamented. Mother had to go. The suit had to be returned. I sympathized with her. I cursed her brother.


I smelt trouble. It was written all over Papa's wide face. It had started to wrinkle. Whenever anger overwhelmed him, his face acquired thousands of undesirable wrinkles. He looked ugly. The wrinkles seemed to increase as Pastor Machasio bit the piece of meat on his plate. Papa was not eating. Real appetite had deserted him. Someone was savouring what was supposedly his-- by virtue of being the head of the house. Fear gripped me. Soup went the wrong way, choking me; I coughed uncontrollably. This helped to smother the loud silence that had been reigning for ages.

''You know, brethrens, God's full of grace,'' the man of God said.
''Yeah, really,'' Mother emphasized.
''I left my abode a fortnight ago, with nothing in my little stomach; but only memories of the meals I ate at Nambafu's wedding last month...''
''Oh sweet Jesus! Why?'' Papa cut in. '' You should have swallowed something, man. You know, we can't build our bodies with timber or bricks. We too, like vehicles, need fuel badly. Man must eat to live. See?''

The man of God raised his head, stole a glance at Papa and continued doing justice to his gizzard. But he ceased not to vomit spiritual wisdom. Mother had been pinched by Papa's outburst. She had stopped eating and was apparently studying dust on the floor. Embarrassed. Perhaps.

''Duty first, son, others come last.'' I don't know how young Pastor Machasio is. No one in the Sacred Strength of Samson Tabernacle ever knows. However, what I am sure of as hell is that Papa was looking after cattle in the field at the time when the man of God was still hiding under his mother's skirt. He still cried for the breast when Papa was facing the knife and eating chimbetete. Then what the hell or heaven gives him guts to call the age-mate of his father as his son? Isn't this abomination enough to make a sheep lose life?

''Mmmmmh---eee---eeh...'' Mother tried to mumble something. But her tongue, apparently heavy, failed her.

'' When Jesus commissioned his disciples to spread the gospel to lands yonder,'' the pastor commenced, '' nothing could stop them. Mission was king. Thus, for me, I couldn't let my stomach affairs worry me. How could I? Only a foolish servant disobeys his master.''

Papa, apparently annoyed by being belittled by a toddler, gulped his soup and left hastily. Mother sighed. The pastor sighed. Relieved. I stood up, washed my hands and left.


Whenever a chicken was cooked in our home-- a rare occurrence though-- everyone had their specific pieces. Eating them confirmed the joy of eating a chicken. Missing it was worse than an insult. This is what Papa experienced when Mother turned the world on its head and served Pastor Machasio a whole chicken. The gizzard and the back are vital (if not sacred) in a chicken. They are eaten by the owner of the homestead-- the man. The value attached to them spans for ages and needs not to be disputed or overlooked. Most women in this age do not know this. Some just ignore this traditional bullshit. But they dearly pay for their thickness. They are thrashed. They are send back to their mothers for re-education. They are divorced.

Mother is a devout christian. A notorious believer of the gospel of the second coming of Christ. So she represents us in The Sacred Strength of Samson Tabernacle (TSSST). Papa says that in a land where everyone is a heathen, the presence of a single saint saves them from eternal condemnation. But religion has intoxicated her, like bhang. Its effects are evident in the way she breaches traditions that have guided us since time immemorial. For example, her giving pastor Machasio Papa's gizzard. Today, indeed, women have ragged manners. Their engagement with the church has uprooted them from cultural values and ideals. No wonder her cohorts go about laughing, shaking hands and hugging fathers-in-law.

The tension eased at Papa's departure. Pastor Machasio chewed enthusiastically. His wide smile-- it ran from ear to ear-- returned. He enjoyed every bit of the rare meal with renewed appetite. Indeed you would think that he had been starving for forty days in the wilderness.

Papa loathed him passionately. I liked him neither. How could a man be at peace with eaters of his fortune? Were it not for his coming and doing-- he strongly condemns whoever doesn't give and whoever gives a meagre harvest-- Papa wouldn't be upset and I wouldn't be bathing in soup. A cloud of doom would not be hovering above us. When the owner of the homestead is wronged, he does not tell who is responsible; everyone pays. Perhaps for sitting back and watching him humiliated.

It was close to midnight when I returned from dreamland. Nope, I was dragged from it. There was commotion in the big house. We have two houses. An iron-roofed stone house and a grass-thatched small hole. The former is the main house whilst the latter is the kitchen. I sleep here, with goats, chickens, cockroaches and rats. For ages, the roof has been threatening to fall on me. The poor thing leaks like hell. At night, I always count the stars and trace the path of the moon on its ever endless journeys. I hardly sleep. How can one sleep with the sky smiling and the roof precariously hanging above them? However, the small house boasts of only one treasure: a picture of some palatial villa. Probably one of the likes found in the US, Europe or nowhere. With it in my midst, I am content that I own two houses. A magnificent bungalow and a tiny hole. All in one!


It was as if people were exchanging blows. Mother burst into loud sobs. Could it be thugs? Nope. We had nothing worth the world's envy except dreams. And dreams are hardly welcomed anywhere on the globe. I listened keenly. Then got Papa's drunken voice.

''... Stupid woman. You'll reckon that I'm the king here. Where the hell's my chicken?'' The gizzard is equivalent to a whole chicken. He would not be convinced to have tasted a chicken if he fails to see the gizzard. ''... How dare you entertain that swine and starve me? Why? Whose wife are you? Leo utanitambua...'' Papa swore.

Mother was now mum. She was used to this, whenever Papa's throat is thoroughly irrigated. Moreover, she was damn sure that some loose-tongued neighbours were listening. And she did not like the idea of being aired in Gossip FM the following day.

Thrashing began again. Hard and deadening. I had thought that it was over and was desperately trying to woo my sleep back. Mother could not hold on any more. She wailed, calling my name.

I shot out of my bed like a bullet and literally flew to the big house. I had grabbed a rungu in the process. Nobody walks into danger with bare hands. I knocked at the door angrily.

''Who the hell's there?'' Papa inquired. He, apparently, disengaged his muscles.
''It's me...''
''Who the hell is me?''
''Sindikha.''
''What the hell brings you here at this ungodly hour? Don't you know that we're sleeping?''
''Yes. But Mother call...''
''Mother what? Get lost before I find you there!''

I heard him making for the door. My body started freezing. What would the devil in his head incite him to do? I wondered. In a similar episode, two years before, he had mercilessly rained blows on me. I nearly joined our ancestors. It took me two weeks in the ICU to recover, during which the law was teaching him some manners. It was hell.

''Leave the boy alone,'' Mother shouted. Defiant. She had been quiet for a while. Papa wasn't listening. He could not even if he wanted to. I held my rungu firmly and remained standing, like a the president's bodyguard.

The door flung open. There was him--the bull that was terrorizing Mother. I moved back, to a safe distance. His eyes darted, from the sky, my head and then settled on the stuff in my hand. He shook his head and laughed. A scary, annoying dry laughter. Then Mother, who had been trailing him, fell at his feet. Crying.

''Dare not touch my son. Kill me first, if that is what you've planned
tonight...'' She cried and cried and cried. I started crying too. I
cried for her. I cried for everything. There was nothing to smile
about.

Papa was quiet. Just busy starring. It was if he had lost his network.
Then he did what we least expected. He bend and helped mother up.

''No one wants to kill anyone here.'' He said as he walked back.

In the morning, next day, two chickens lost lives. Papa talked and
talked, with two gizzards on the plate. Everyone was too excited to
remember the last night's episode. But what I secretly prayed for was
not a repetition of the same. Pastor Machasio to keep off till we meet
in church, heaven or hell.


(c) wafula p'khisa

''Dare not touch my son. Kill me first, if that is what you've planned
tonight...'' She cried and cried and cried. I started crying too. I
cried for her. I cried for everything. There was nothing to smile
about.

Papa was quiet. Just busy starring. It was if he had lost his network.
Then he did what we least expected. He bend and helped mother up.

''No one wants to kill anyone here.'' He said as he walked back.

In the morning, next day, two chickens lost lives. Papa talked and
talked, with two gizzards on the plate. Everyone was too excited to
remember the last night's episode. But what I secretly prayed for was
not a repetition of the same. Pastor Machasio to keep off till we meet
in church, heaven or hell.

The Price of My Love

 It was just a text message. A mere how-do-you-do kind of stuff.
Wanjala tried hard to make himself clear; he could use diagrams if
necessary. But October was hot. She was breathing fire. How could she
understand him? There was some woman somewhere milking her husband: of
semen and money. She had heard it whispered severally by Gossip Fm.
But she had kept quiet, perhaps to unearth the truth by herself. Now
she knew. She knew what her friends said about men. Men are just but
tails in trousers. Men are beasts. Men are champions in lying. Men
can't be trusted. Men are devils. Men are.... Hell!

Nelima starred her patients and sight. She was the only ward attendant
that evening. The rest had retired home to fulfill marital
obligations. Twenty human forms lay lifeless in the huge iron beds.
These suffered from every disease ever diagnosed on earth. She grabbed
her clipboard and went round, checking beds and scribbling somethings
down. She did with a lot of ease. She had done it for decades. It had
evolved into a ritual.

That morning, they had received two more patients. These needed urgent
admission, but owing to the fact that the big hospital suffered from
inadequate facilities; two patients had to be discharged. They had not
fully recovered; they could do that at the comfort of their homes. The
new arrivals were in a critical condition. One on the verge of sliding
into the bottomless pit of death. The other was steadily heading there
too. It was dangerous for the management to  overlook the urgency of
this.


The patients were a young couple. Probably in their mid thirties. They
had been rescued from their burning house. The woman, who appeared to
have been the fire's darling, was burned beyond recognition. She had
been rushed to the ICU on arrival. The young man looked kai kai.
Nobody could fathom what the hell happened really. Their good
samaritans-- two odd looking neighbours-- blankly starred at each
other and at doctors whenever the latter hurled endless questions at
them. ''Doc, we saw flames. We heard people scream. They were being
roasted. We got them out and brought them...''. They chorused.

''What do you think could have set the house ablaze?''
''Only two people have the answers need Doc''.
''Who?''
''The police and your patients...''
''The police?! Where are they?''
''We no not the answer. We told one of us to call them...''
''And you're sure he did that...''
''We will when they show up.''
The doctor felt like blowing off. He was getting nowhere with the
arrogant Samaritans. They seemed to like being questioned. He wondered
how they had survived in school. He wondered how they will survive
come judgement day. He left alone. They appeared to have slept not for
decades. They dozed off and left him to mind his business.

Wanjala was a teacher at High Tech Boys. The only school in the
country known to be most developed than many public universities. It
was the kind of schools in which presidential debates are held.
Moreover, acquiring education here was extremely expensive as compared
to university education on parallel degree programme. See? And like in
most big schools, the head is arrogant and bigheaded. He thinks that
he is God. And teachers are like school boys and girls. They question
nothing, it amounts to disrespect. They move by running. They respond
when the principal sneezes. One wonders what their students think of
them. Apart from teaching, Wanjala was also the Senior Head of
Department of Furniture, Construction and Aesthetics (FCA). His
efficiency were better seen here. He was a strict man as far as the
school outlook was concerned. No man or woman of sound mind was to
step on grass. No man or woman of sound mind was to carry acres of mud
from farm-like roads around into the school. No man or woman of sound
mind was allowed to spit anywhere, anyhow like a pregnant woman. These
worked. Violating them invited unbearable consequences. However, in
class, Wanjala most often hid behind a textbook, gave students
century-old notes and thoroughly caned those asking too many
questions.

In the week before the fire incident, Wanjala and his colleagues had
gone to Busia to mark a joint exam. Such academic-oriented missions
were a common phenomenon. They came with something juicy to bite. Who
ever fathomed missing this?

'' you know,'' Wanjala started, '' there's nothing sweet like money in
the world.
''True. Naked truth.'' Chorused his drink-mates.
''some people dwell on some dubious ideology that there's plenty of
wealth in heaven for the poor. What I ask myself is: Are there banks
to manufacture money?''
''Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha...''
''I stopped listening to such nonsense when my pastor, Chomoka,
threatened me with hell fire if I keep slimming my offerings,''
Fagilia said. The liquid was now taking control of him.
They laughed. Swore and cursed.

It was 8pm. The night was in its infancy still. Patrons-- more and
more-- were streaming in. Thus the Sweet & Bitter Waters Joint was
growing livelier. The DJ proved to know his job very well. His magic
with the discs got everyone dancing, howling or snapping. Wanjala
offered him two swallows.

Money in itself is magic. It keeps one restless and attracts its
eaters. Many a girl hovered around Wanjala's gang like locusts. The
latter had money, and everyone knew it. Ugandan women see men from
this sides as damn rich. So they were determined to make a good
harvest of their share. Who said what you earn is yours alone? The
government is there, stretching its wide hand of taxation. The police
are there, with bulging stomachs, threatening to charge you with
anything if you shorten your hand or starve them. Children are there
demanding fees,
clothing and eating. Some unimportant relatives can't stop visiting;
and can't leave till you have released them! The landlord is always
looking awkwardly at you. And the electricity and water bills ring in
your mind all day long. On pay-day, you smile all the way to the bank;
and frown all the way back to your inadequate  house. Money will never
accept to stay in your pocket. It leaves as soon as it enters.

October tried to reach Wanjala in vain. Fifty times! Wanjala was off.
Whenever he was with 'elders' irrigating throats, he switched
everything off to serve  only one master. This kept her thinking.
Worried and thinking. She knew where he had gone. Why he was off was
what she couldn't understand.

That night was very distasteful to Wanjala and his cohort. It was as
if the devil had chosen to pay them a visit. Very unexpected and
  unwelcome though. There was a bloke seated around a table next to
Wanjala's. He was so full of himself yet he had nothing; except guts
and two dames. Very beautiful somethings. Nothing admirable could be
seen on his table. He had emptied six bottles and was now trying hard
to compete with the music system in singing. His was a very irritating
gruff voice. It was as if it was coming out of a cement mixer. Every
patron disliked this. They shot him with their drunken eyes. But they
couldn't tell him anything offensive. The dude was a giant. Damn
scary.

Trouble had started when one of his dames ditched him to join
Wanjala's table. She was sure as hell that the climate of his pockets
was hot and dry. She could tell, from a distance, that the patrons
there were seated right in the middle of a stream of kilulu. It flowed
and overflowed. One could drink and bathe in it. She could not afford
to deny her beautiful self the pleasure of being one of them by
confining herself to a broke dude. No. Ignorance could not take her
that far.

  Wanjala welcomed her with his wide eyes. They popped out dangerously
as if they would fall the next minute. He shoved two bottles of
whisky into her hands, extending his hand to feel her exposed full breasts. They were
firm, round and attractive. This sparked a wave in his blood. He noted
that he had been missing something.

''you look beautiful woman,'' He whispered. ''thank you,'' she whispered back.
''can I dance with you?''
''I've problem with that. But niharibu kwanza.''
''oh, that's no big deal to me. What drink on Earth do you wanna
irrigate your throat with. Ask and all shall be given to you...''
''Thanks, that's very good of you. Lemmie have a cold pilsner please.''

The waiter came running. Here and there, taking orders. Wanjala had
drank to his fill. But he still could maintain his upright gait. It
was strange. What was happening? Were these also ill-mannered as to
sell water instead of kilulu like some bastard Kenyans? He could not
understand. But what he was sure of was that he wasn't going to sleep
alone like omusumba that night. A blissful night-out on a foreign with
its daughter was something he was warming up to. The girl, after
downing three pilsners, thrilled him with her talkativeness. She was
the kind that could keep you entertained and you will never waste your
money on a radio. Such angelic gems are rare on Earth like rain in the
Sahara. What we have in plenty are the women who take lectures. They
will let you talk and talk and talk till you get multiple headaches.
And their's is just nodding. Wanjala requested for her contact. A one
night stand with her won't be enough.

Each received a fat night-out allowance. Upon arrival, they quickly performed the ritual: opening ceremony, moderating the marking scheme and marking a few scripts; and leaving the rest for the following day. They had money. It was itching. So they needed to relieve themselves of it to be comfortable. You can't think with idle money in your pockets. They crossed to Uganda to swallow a few bottles of kilulu and some cheap women.

  ''Still wanna dance?'' Marita asked.
''Oh, not now. We can do it later.'' Wanjala had completely lost
interest in the dance. He wanted to forget it. It was of no use now.
His mind was on the other kind of dance, the bedroon dance. He stood
to take her to the special rooms. He had hardly moved a step when a
strong hand gripped his neck.
''This is my woman. Where the hell do you think you're taking her
fool?'' The bloke-- the lady had ditched-- blurted.
''To your mother's bed. You wanna escort us...?'
A hot slap cut him short. He saw a million stars. He couldn't tell
when he latter came back to his senses. Hell had broken loose. Fagilia
who loved fighting than anything else was there engaging the giant.
Other patrons busied themselves too. Fists were thrown. Missiles of
abuses were hurled. Bottles were broken. Everyone just wanted to take
part in anything. And that night, Wanjala and his cohort slept in a
police cell. They would be bailed out late the following day.

 Back home, October was wild. Anger had incited her to break every breakable thing. What remained was to bring down the whole house. Why Wanjala had gone off-line for that long was unfathomable. What was he upto? Who was keeping him? Where? Only men with discrete motives are fond of such habits. Today, men are increasingly becoming untrustworthy. He is only yours while in your bed, working under you. He is a public property once he slips out. Every bitch's plaything. Lockable, metallic underwears should be fashioned for them, and let passwords be kept by women-- their wives.

She wore a cold look when Wanjala walked in. She neither hugged nor took his bag. He did not mind. It was just one of the thousands of episodes he'd seen under his roof. He went to take a shower, to freshen up, perhaps. It had been long since water touched his bronze skin. Who on this soil said man should be a darling to water? Men are not fish.

''Where have you been?'' She asked. Wanjala was not going to talk. She knew that. He remained mum. Perhaps he didn't hear her. Only the violent sounds of a stone eating his cracked sole could be heard. She reached for his phone and sneaked into the message inbox. It was then that she saw it. Marita's sext.

Marita and Wanjala had been in touch for quiet sometime. Since he left that goddam cell. Some unusual intimacy had sprouted between them. High Tech Boys had promised to take teachers to Kampala this year. So Wanjala was sure they would meet and pertake of the sweet, forbidden fruit. People meet, unlike mountains.

He was damn sure he had deleted all messages. How this remained puzzled him. He stared into his wife's fiery eyes blankly, mouth agape. '' I'm finished'', he told himself. He regretted why he had not installed a password in his phone like Fagilia. For Fagilia, his newest Sumsung Galaxy even asked for a password to be charged and switched on.

''... I asked who the hell's Patapata? Stop staring at me as if I'm made of wood!'' She shouted. Wanjala laughed. He laughed at his ingenious wit. Patapata was Marita, the Ugandan Vixen. But how could he say that?
'' Oh, mmmmh... Cool honey. You see...''
''Stop honeying me! Who the hell is that bitch?''

He could not say anything. After all, what was there to say? The nightmare in some cold cell? His swollen cheek, from the giant's blinding slap? The lost opportunity with the Ugandan Vixen? His principal's roaring rage at what was termed as ''indiscipline''... No. Some things are not said. Better that way.

She was hurling abuses at him already. She threw things, then herself at him. Tearing him apart. She was seriously murdering him! He struggled to free himself. He punched her. She bit him. Then, overpowered, retreated. She ran and imprisoned herself in the kitchen.

There had been food on a stove cooking. She switched on the gas; it flowed and colonised the little air in the room. Then she struck a match stick. She wanted them dead. She could not afford sharing her man with whores.

The fire that ate the house was hard to quench. Hell! They would have perished were it not for their night-marathon neighbour. He saw it early and alerted others to come to their rescue. 

(c) wafula p'khisa

We need more literary prizes

by Wafula p'Khisa.

Kenya is a rich literary hub. This is enhanced by the ever-swelling
number of writers, each with exceptionally amazing talents. However,
the development and exploitation of these talents to realize full
potential is usually marred by inadequate motivation, recognition and
starvation. A writer  cannot sit down to eat their work! To overcome
these, more literary prizes are needed badly.

I congratulate Spotlight Publishers East Africa Ltd, Nation Media
Group and the French Embassy-- sponsors of the newly established
literary award: Ubunifu Prize for Kiswahili Literature (launched on 13th
July, 2015). This award will not only propel Kiswahili writers
(whoever will win) to greater heights, increase production of more
literature in Kiswahili but also boost the development and advancement
of Kiswahili, our national language. Indeed, with the award, the
organizers will kill many a bird with a single stone. It is worth
smiling at this great milestone in the development of literature in
general and Kiswahili in particular.

However, although Ubunifu Prize offers a fat amount of money (1M Ksh)
to the winner, publishes his manuscript and those of the first and
second runners up, it is disheartening to note that it is only the third
  indigenous prize, after Jomo Kenyatta Prize for Literature
(established in 1974) and Wahome Mutahi Literary Award (established in
2006). Only three literary awards since independence, more than five
decades ago. Hell!

At our age, we should be boasting of more than ten grand literary
prizes. For example, we could have some specifically for poetry,
fiction and drama. Writers would be so much dedicated in their
literary endeavours. But, with the meager prizes (which come with
equally meager amounts of money) and the nightmare of getting
published, writers herein starve, forever starve. Moreover, in my
view, failing to recognize our writers influences foreigners' views
about them whenever they are nominated for international awards like
the Nobel. They cannot recognize people whose nation see nothing in
them. So literature suffers from such blows.

To develop, advance and enrich our art-- beyond unimaginable
horizons-- we need more literary prizes please!

The writer is a poet, writer and teacher of English & Literature at
St. Monica's Girls High School-- Kitale.

A Review of Rodgers Ogada's Poem: ''Kites for Diapers'' http://t.co/KmnQvlEth8.

INTRODUCTION:

Rodgers Ogada is a gifted poet. His approach to societal issues and craftmanship are worthwhile. A feat seen only in artists who are serious with and know how best to do what they do. His poetry is primarily immersed in the societal systems, structures and classes; and their effects on entities operating under them. Moreover, his command of language and vast understanding of human experiences-- which is the main concern of poetry-- offers his poetry relevance, clarity and easy access.

REVIEW:

The poem 'Kites from Diapers' is an account of a prisoner's experience in prison. He shares a cell with two friends, Ayienga and Mutua (stanza1 &7). Of the two, Ayienga is the most troublesome.
In stanza1, the speaker says that Ayienga plans to make a kite from the roll of diapers in their cell (line 1). He has extracted strings from the edges of his blankets for the purpose (line 3&4). After making the kite, the speaker says, Ayienga is going to squeeze it through the window (to fly outside perhaps), line 6.
Breaching prison regularities and virtues (solecism) is the order of the day in prison cells. (stanza2, line1). This is evident in Ayienga's activities. The speaker fears this; due to askaris' (wardens') brutality. He is scared, should Ayienga's activities be discovered, they would be in trouble. Moreover, he does not want to be an excuse (alibi), line 4-- to be blamed on Ayienga's behalf. He says he only wants to finish his term. (line 6).

Further, Ayienga draws caricatures on walls of the cell. (stanza3, line2&3) with the metal he has twisted off his bed-mesh. And his carictures taunt restraints in the cell (fetters) (line 3). Sometimes, late in the day, the speaker says that Ayienga narrates how his (or their) comrade was shot at the Freedom Square when he was arrested and his gun disassembled (line 3, 4&5). This tells us that Ayienga could probably be a freedom fighter or activist. Thence he is a political prisoner.

In stanza4, we are told that he had received a letter from his girlfriend threatening to end (squelch) their relationship. (line 1&2). He weeps (line 3). He had been confused, thus disposing it off (inebriation) (line 5) and cursed her orgasms-- she exihibited while with him before (line 6).

For the time they have been together (they were separated yesterday), the speaker says Ayienga complains alot while asleep. This is a nuisance to other inmates (stanza5, line2). He laments how rehabs (institutions or people) mishandle him (line3). He is not joining them at the workshop (line4); for the seats they make (he opines) would only cushion stench of users and enrich constables (by selling) as well (line5&6).

In stanza6, the speaker is disturbed by bugs (line1). A gesture of filthy prison conditions. Ayienga was taken away (yesterday) because of making the kite (line2).

In stanza7, the speaker talks about his cellmate, Mutua. He had been a dedicated practitioner at Nyayo (hospital perhaps) (line1). But working with scapels is scary; he has refused to go back, saying things are better in the cell (line2,3,4). When his friends are asleep, there is solitude. Radios and Tvs outside have dissected throats-- there is little or no noise (line6).

MY STANDPOINTS:

In this poem, Ogada captures the reality of what transpires in prison cells. Wardens are brutal (stanza2, line2) and inmates are worked up (exploited) to enrich the authorities in the pretext of rehabilitation. Moreover, he successfully presents the contrast between the life in chains and being free, as for the case of Mutua.

However, the title of the poem seems not to encompass the whole experience. It seems odd, miserly and therefore, irrelevant. A kite is a light frame covered with some thin material to be flown in the wind; Diapers are simply pieces of cloth or absorbent material folded and worn as underpants by a baby not yet toilet-trained.

So relating 'kites from diapers' to what the speaker and other inmates experience is very limiting. Perhaps a different title would do.

Signed:
Lirango Lienjofu
[Thigh of an Elephant]

The Age of Loving is Passed

... We loved when and those we could. When and those we couldn't, we often let them go. What defeats you falls off your mouth. And because our forebears did not inject wisdom into our craniums for nothing, we could not afford to be like the gecko that spat a caterpillar-- when it couldn't swallow.

Girls were in plenty. Unlike today, women really bore women. No self-respecting man could afford to fuck a chicken, sheep or cow. We to them wrote thousands of letters. Though our rudimentary education at the time could not enable us write intelligent ones, we successfully managed to pass the message across. Once I wrote:
''... Nanjala, darling of men: when I think of you, I don't eat. When I think of you, I don't sleep. Snatcher of my appetite and sleep, release me... ''.

And girls loved us. They tore and bit each other over us. We exchanged fists and rendered ourselves toothless over them. No self-respecting woman with two breasts would open thighs for a dog. There was love. We loved with great hate.

It would take ages to see a girl's underwear. Where would you get her? They were watched. But today they walk swinging buttocks outside some belt-cum-skirts! Oh man, you see the real thing! Then, it only took a real man to go for his girl at night-- khuatula. She would tie a string on her toe then leave it hanging outside... You would pull it, then get her out for some hours in your simba. This is when and how boys-- those who could erect and ejaculate-- became fathers. They were thrashed. They were fined. Village headmen and chiefs really worked and earned handsomely.They (boys) married immediately. If I didn't marry at that time, man, I will never!

I had no simba. So I once invited myself to my girl's home. She slept in the kitchen with her sister. All would have gone well had her sister not complained of hunger. I served her too; generosity is a virtue God gave me in abundance. It seemed the honey was getting sweeter and fewer. They scrambled for it. And the lion of the home sensed that there was another lion in the compound. He took a matchet. He would have send me to hell or heaven had I not worn a stool as a cap. I used my sixth sense. The matchet ate the stool fiercely once he knocked the door open. I don't know what happened to Nafuna and her hungry sister. The running I did was enough to break a record Usain Bolt has and will never break.

Seasons then came and passed. Ages came and passed.

We shed off innocence as time plunged us into the unfathomable future. Civilization, with its madness, came to stay. We stopped waiting for girls on village paths, at the wells or posho mills. We stopped hovering near their compounds, whistling familiar tunes, and asking for water to drink when it was too cold. We stopped writing stupid letters. We stopped praising our lovers. Griots and poets no longer married easily by climbing on trees to sing poems to women they admired and adored-- on their return from wells or farms. Women stopped bearing women and men. Man, there are no wives today. Woman, there are no husbands today. We matured. See?

Haven't Facebook and Twitter done us good? You get a woman today, meet her tomorrow and wed the following day. Then realize that you are unfit for each other's consumption the day after. You fight, busy fight; and before you could divorce, you have killed her already or she has killed you.

Who dies to have sex? Who is dying to taste this forbidden fruit in marriage? It used to be damn expensive once upon a time. Today, sex is for free; love is expensive. Very expensive. Damn! Who likes expensive things anyway? The era of inadequacy forbids that. Even men of God are eating it with big spoons. Whoever has no penis or Eden, let them come out and stop them. Me, I can't. I swear by the last coin in my pocket!
Who has time to beg a woman? Rules of Seduction have undergone massive changes. Some women refuse to be confined to the societal ethics and ethos. They seduce men. This is really sweet. Isn't it, friend? If you see nothing in it, then I have no doubt your head is not well wired. See a psychiatrist. I think a psychologist can also do.

And not all relationships lead into marriage. We only want to cool our gnawing thirst. What is marriage if not a thing the society imposes on us? Once you are in, you can't look outside.

Love is saturated. Its ghost exists where money is. We have decolonized our hearts, no more deep engagements. No more honeying, baibing and darling. No more hide and seek.

''... So Nekesa, I have no sweet words
Left to soften your heart rigid
All got poisoned
Whilst singing dirges for my fallen compatriots
and my ailing nation...
Take me in
or let me try next door
The age of loving is passed... ''

(c) wafula p'khisa
--Thigh of an Elephant--