Congest-Inered

Man Njoro staggered around the compound probably inebriated by the ritual he had underwent that past hour. The Kosovo pub, probably for its unwelcoming panorama, was his host that morning. He did his things to detail and during his drinking escapades he ensured that the last drop of the liquor made its way to his mouth. He followed his drinking manual like religion. He was known in the village for his big mouth for illicit brew guzzling than for his conjugal duties. This was a stark contrast from the expected. It was still very early, the sun was still an adolescent. It was approaching eleven o`clock, the sun fiercely piercing the terrestrial endowments of Rinye area perhaps in vengeance for the previous days mistakes. The village was now abuzz with sounds of women clattering this and that utensils while children were beckoned to do the errands.

That day Hitler, as the village distiller or chemical engineer was known among his customer had a magic touch. Kill me quick as the brew was known was a masterpiece of sort. It had cocktail of ingredients formalin included. The revelers had even contemplated forwarding his name to the multinational beer makers for his expertise was unmatched anywhere in the country. Man Njoro treated him to some quick ten shots before he left for home.

He made for the kitchen where his wife, Conjestina was preparing some food for the children. `` Where is that stupid woman who calls herself my wife? `` He shouted these with some air of defiance wafting as his legs made peace with the ground. There was no response. He shouted again amidst expletives that my conscious cannot allow me to jot down, ` what have you made for me?’ The wife had now made for the door to talk to him from outside the kitchen. The tirades did not stop there. Conjestina was now losing her patience. Her wells of patience were running dry as she was now red with anger like a randy he-goat on heat. And like a coiled python, she threw her huge frame on him with pinpoint accuracy that Man Njoro could not withstand. His knees made way and soon he was on the ground. His resistance seemed to be the last kicks of a dying mosquito.

Blows, kicks and sometimes bites rain on him in a methodical rhythm that left the children astounded, to say the least. He was left with a cocktail of bruises and conglomerate of wounds as he could not master any resistance. Were it not for the children who after seeing their father not turning things around made noise that attracted the neighbours, Man Njoro would have kissed the world goodbye.