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.

LAST SUNDAY

         

The man in white robes, a white cap and black shades-the four eyes- is vigorously jumping up and down the pulpit in the name of dancing and praising the most high. Whenever I have looked at this man my thoughts have always reflected on one man whom, am quite sure would not share the same breathing space with the son of man who died for our sins at Calvary. This man might be the real Mzee Usinijaribu if not, his incarnation. Mzee Usinijaribu is a frequent visitor to Kando Kando junction, a legendary meeting point for hustlers who can’t afford bottled stuff. He has a standing posture that rivals no one. His left leg has always looked shorter than his right and the spaces created between those legs cannot allow him reside among the western Kenya community well known for chicken rearing. For how will he be able to catch a young hen with the mammoth gap between his legs? But how could he be the man at the pulpit? Could someone have an idea? Anyway he seems to have mastered the art of capturing audience attention. He utters some words that my medulla oblongata cannot encord and the jubilant brothers and sisters respond with a string of AMENS.

The church singing is appalling today. My fellow brother in Christ Mr. Mzalendo-the leading soloist-whom we share the same father in law is not in attendance today. He has an amazing talent in singing that makes women and weak men break into tears and fall down in convulsions. The chemistry behind this is something I wish to get to heaven and ask David the great king about. It’s just amazing!

I and Mzalendo ‘wedded’ on the same day. Kanyende, my despondent wife, was forcefully allowed to spend some of her miserable life with me. She had been dragged to my house with her fiery looking father and a few mean looking uncles who squeezed the last goat out of my compound as a token for having found cheap favours in their household. On a normal day, I would have inflicted injuries and resisted this act of impunity with my blood but the sight of a panga sticking out of Usinijaribu’s torn dirty grey coat made me think otherwise. I am usually petrified of this crude weapon especially from this area where sharpening isn’t in their language dictionary. A repetition of this scene occurred the same day at the compound of Mzalendo with Siriku replacing Kanyende on the cast list.  Ever since, I have regarded Mzalendo to be my closest defense and secret to taming my wife. That is what marriage is all about.

His absence is causing me trouble. Some reason is always behind his absence, a quarrel with his wife, being picked up in a ditch somewhere on a Sunday noon or a link to Mama Pima's missing kuku. Before I recollect my mind and bring it to ‘hope mode’ a commotion is heard from the outside. “Wewe ni manaume ya aina gani? Eh! Eh! leo matanieleza vizuri mbele ya umati, unaniskia! Jinga hii” screams of a man can then be heard.  My plump wife has blocked my way, despite the struggles I cannot find a way past her. The hunger burning inside me to watch these unfolding events is getting out of control. I don’t like being told since humans have a way of altering the initial picture. Women and children start wailing and scampering for safety, I cannot tell why. Am trying to engage my immediate neighbour Mr. Juma, who seems to have some height advantage over me to give me a clue but he seems to be struggling with the fear inside him and before I know it he is also out of sight. Men in this area are so ‘women’. The sight of blood erases the courage in me. Lying down is my friend Mzalendo covered in blood with his wife Sirika stepping on his stomach domineeringly.

“Ludini muone huyu mume mrevi! watoto hawezi rea! nyumba imebomoka! kazi yake ni kulandalanda tu! ludini mumuone, sasa mnakibiria wapi!.....nini inawafukuza”, shouts Sirika amid tears  to the empty church. We are only four of us left. My pity is to this lady for she can justify her pain. My wife, I mean the sister to Sirika is looking confused as ever, am ain’t in a better position either. My eyes are roaming to the priest who maybe can give some divine intervention  and am surprised, he is actually Mzee Usinijaribu. It dawns to me we have a family matter to solve.

KU student centre annex