Crazy, Education, Features, Fiction, Inspire, Laugh

I’m Not Mad: I’m Proudly Different

You’re crazy. 

Totally mad. 

And life continues.  I’m used to such responses to my sentiments and statements. I used to be worried and could keep my opinions to myself. Why risk doubted sanity?  Not anymore.

The answers are a proof that the set expectations are violated. (Read lies.) How do you expect my answer to be on how was your night?  Just cool and fine? Details. Honest details are my weakness.

I had a dream,  a nightmare rather.  We were busy,  you and I making out in public and your dad was cheering the smooches! Your eyes were closed,  your soul and mine had an external merger. Oh,  yes! That was my night! 

And that earns me a series of insults and a demand for apology!  You shouldn’t ask for what you can hardly stomach. On top of the biggest crimes we commit,  is the mask of politeness. Politeness does not give you the ticket to lie,  truth as popularised,  should always set you free.

Lying is strongly founded in the spirit and practice of conformity. The refusal to be real,  the desire to be normal.

You owe no one an explanation by being different. We were all uniquely made. Just be you. Don’t conform. 

Imposition especially in careers is the root of mediocrity in our society. Just be a teacher or a doctor, jobs are guaranteed. Why strain to follow your passion?  How many artists do you see around? Why guess when you have a clear answer? Utazoea tu!  ( The mentioned professions are mere examples, no beef whatsoever,  unless you’re crazy,  like me! Haha.)

On that line, the dreams are suppressed for mere reality. Reality that no one ought to be spontaneous,  artistic, ambitious or out of the norm. It’s out of care,  love and ignorance that the best is killed on conception. And out of fear, intimidation and being normal,  there’s zero excitement in professional life.

Get out of the normal mentality. Dreams are exciting even though not always  smooth. Actually, it is the tough and rough experiences that make exciting stories! 

Do not expect your rebellion  to be welcomed with open hands. The challenging situation is to convince the rest against status quo. Have facts. Be determined to take risks.

It is the ambitious,  rebellious and not so normal people who bring change. Crazy and mad people run the world by popularising the unpopular ideas and practises. conformer are followers, crazy ones the leaders. 

Even in a simple elective contest,  it is those who promise change who are mostly elected. Change and normalcy are enemies. Normal people are basically followers, and never leaders. Why wait for a preacher to interpret the Bible for you while you can do it yourself?  Why wait for others until lunch while you are hungry?  Why hurt your urinary system till break yet you can walk out?

Rules and regulations are the steering wheels of most organisations. Culture and practices define a people. However,  beyond that,  let those rules and practises not to bar you from reaching your full potential.

If your family prides itself of great bankers and your passion is engineering or poetry,  you don’t owe them a degree in banking,  go pursue your passion. Make your own brand,  a poet in a banking family! 

I learned to accept the mad and crazy names when I learned that room for pretence and lies is diminished in my system. That does not mean I’m impolite, not at all. However,  if my answer is no,  no matter how desperate you are for yes,  I won’t change. There is so much pleasure in doing the right thing,  in this case,  the truth and following one’s heart and desires unapologetically. This is crucial in self realisation, fulfilling the dreams.

Nothing hurts like watching those who followed the desires of their hearts yet there you are,  glued to the family professions, kwetu ni familia ya walimu tangu jadi,  kama sio kina baba,  ningekuwa mwimbaji! 

As a crazy fellow,  my answer is simple,  rot in regrets or be bold, it’s never that late to do the right thing,  be mad and become that musician you were born to be.

Try to be who you were created to be,  and you will be before you realize it. The trick is simple dare! 

Elsewhere, mincing words like meat to hide the real issues is the biggest form of fear. I have a formula -crazy of course- get the words out on paper if your courage is still toddling , spill all and drop the words to the expected respondent. Otherwise, man up,  (even if you’re a lady!) spill the words,  carefully,  tactfully

Son you’re crazy oh! PHOTO/COURTESY

and make sure that your version is heard. Keeping all the feelings to yourself will burst your chest,  mine has done so twice,  the third time is not coming soon!

Family, Fiction, Uncategorized

A Letter To My Father


By now, I know you’re busy planning for my burial. News of my demise is the best thing that you’ve had in years. Don’t even attempt to deny it, how often have you wished me dead?

I can see momma smiling, she can’t leave her potatoes field unattended to mourn me. Whatever you made her, you are good at it. She’s your best sycophant, never questioned your wisdom even once, no wonder she hates me like you do!

Only strangers will wonder why I made the decision, to be hit by the train willingly. All the neighbours know what you were to me. I believe our family dog is steps ahead in value at least to you. It guards your stolen livestock, unlike me who questioned the acquisition method.

Well, for beginners, my father will argue that I am an addict, a marijuana user and even a possessed boy. This I can bet with my already lost life! Our conflict originated in my reluctance to be made a man in the modern ways, I preferred the traditional one, which was denied with utmost malice. This saw me become a man three years later, behind my age mates, a little more disappointed and hurt for I had to go as per your demands. You have no idea what I went through at school. I was jeered, beaten and branded a coward by ‘cut’ fellows who were much younger than me. The modern or church initiation was nothing but an additional dose to my bulging bag of contempt. I have never recovered, and my little head began getting concussions and odd ideas.

Top on the list, was the realisation that your vast piece of land and the skinny heads of cows was a life changing mistake you didn’t know that we knew, we your kids. Your mum, my favourite family member that you banished my tours to her compound had entrusted you to be your siblings trustee only for you to be unreliable. You denied your siblings their inheritance! And unlike the rest I had the guts to tell you that you were wrong, and the cause of our misery lives, we your descendants.

I recall my first outburst, it saw me hanged up on itara as you enjoyed beating me like a stray cat that has eaten a chicken, your fans, mother and my two brothers were busy putting on maize cobs smoke and bringing canes respectively. That was the first time you branded me ‘drug addict ‘ and a used vessel by your brothers to sabotage your command and inheritance by lies. My brothers called me a fool for not being realistic to see that the uncles, or is it junior dads, were on a mission to reduce our share of the land. I wasn’t swayed, which grew your hatred.

When my school opening season knocked, you refused to pay my fees until I bowed to your instructions, which I failed to. I became a lone buffalo, and your battles saw me out of the compound for search of better life, which fate denied me. My return home found you worse. My falling ill and subsequent medication to heavy duty stress drugs gave you a shortcut to send me to the grave. However, my resistance has shocked you for long. The doctor was particulate that I must be well fed before taking the drugs, a rule you violated blissfully. I tried to fight for what I thought right, yet you had the guts to force the drugs into my system while I had nothing in my belly. The effects of these was something closer to madness, a justification you have been riding on, to declare me a social delinquent.

Before taking my life, my grandma has been my motivation to live but since her death, three months ago, I have been surviving on mercy of friends and sympathisers some who have swallowed your tales of my drug use. Everyone has been handling me like an outsider, an outcast and a hopeless boy, something that has raised my doubts too. I have no reason to keep on fighting for a spoiled life. Mr. Chief and the members of Nyumba Kumi have listened to my rants and tried to convince you unsuccessfully. Your claim of my drug use is throwing doubts and when they look at my a times incoherent speeches, they question my sobriety too. At last you’ve won in convincing me to take my life, and rubber stamp your skewed theories.

I can imagine you and brothers drafting the eulogy, getting black suits to celebrate your special victory. Tell them your story, after all I’m doing good, listening to you tarnish my name while I rest peacefully, freed from your intimidation. I can see your rejoice in guilt, for you know I have always told the truth. I love the way you will split up the land to your loyal sons, hypocrites and enemies of justice. Now that your nemesis is gone, feast for your triumph.

A sad reminder is that until you practice fairness and equality, your daughters and sons will lead funny lifestyles, the cry of the oppressed is nothing to joke around with. You are aware that your darling first daughter’s whereabouts are unknown, your brightest son can’t stay in an organisation more than an year despite his First Class grade, your last daughter, a favourite of momma has had five miscarriages, your main sycophant, big brother has lost three wives to cancer or you still believe that it’s natural and normal to lose a son a wasp bite? Those are just but a few highlights to install sense to your Pharaoh headedness. My last wish is that you open your eyes and save your bloodline, all who suffer from your blindness. But you can’t listen to an addict, can you?

Yours In Justice,

Embattled Son.


Death, Education, Features, Fiction, Governance, Hypocricy, Knowledge, Laugh, Life, Love

MyPlotTales #16: Bulldozed

The year’s wrapping up,  how have you been?

My plot is like a fountain of youth,  always vibrant and full of circus. This week was a little more than expected. Can we delve into the details?

To begin with, the mother of the boy who suckles while standing is mourning and cursing the education system. Merit. Equity. Choice. Another phrase closer to affirmative action are concepts she can’t stomach nor comprehend.

“What’s merit they’re talking about in the selection of the form ones? Our little sister scored 403/500 marks and her dreams to join Kenya High School have been shattered. I can barely recall the name of that school, Kapsowar Girls in Marakwet in the Rift Valley region? How could they?” she laments so embittered.

As the undisputed academic advisor I spill the facts about the school and sadly, the history and performance are unwelcome.

” It’s nothing to her. She’ll be frustrated. Why make them choose only to embarrass the kids amid the tough system and the extreme hardworking culture inculcated in the kids?” her anger is valid.

“You think you are the only mourners? The pastor’s smart boy who scored 421/500 is headed to Lodwar Boys! You can imagine how pissed the pastor is after a wishful an almost sure sermon on ask and you shall be given. He was so positive that Mang’u High was the least he anticipated. I think running the education system is not easy.” says the lady who spills the secrets of the pastor’s family. Her tone is hard to predict. Knowing her history, she’s probably in a merriment!

Hata heri Matiang’i! ” the embittered big sister whines.

The landlady adds,

” It’s high time you let the kids know the truth, life is too messed up nowadays to bank on the notion of entitlement. Let them appreciate that at least they have a chance to school, where is not so important! ”


Imagine that pain after working so hard only to be disappointed? PHOTO/

She’s sneered. Seems age is catching up with her a little bit too fast.

Once she’s away, the loud mother of the boy who suckles while standing says,

” Her thoughts are dizzy, she needs a deep sleep.”

Too serious a start, right?

Secondly, or do we call it the heart of the tale? Did I tell you that the landlady added a new room and a new tenant? She did. There’s a new woman. Shes in her mid thirties and a weirdo of a kind,  not a bad addition to the plot. She moved in three weeks ago. Her impact is so conspicuous to miss. Her craziest idea is hanging her V attires in public linen! Not a small one in my plot, especially the number and the pool of colours and designs has hit the headlines far too long. A rare spectacle not only for men and kids, women too. Her job is still a mystery. The major concern however is the one I’m spilling details on the next paragraph…

The new tenant goes out,  every Friday evening, minding her own business. She’s brought home by the partner, a potbellied old man with a crescent like remnant hair. He has a great ride,  a guzzler.The machine has  fully tinted windows, an arrogant king of the road with a glorious glitter. His age is nothing below sixty. As usual,  his presence raises an eyebrow, several actually.  He’s popular amongst the kids for on Saturdays before his departure, he gives them loose change,  hundreds of shillings. Knowing the plot and it’s owner’s history, she’s an embittered dame.

Last Thursday,  she tried to sell her version of the sad ending with elderly men with the new tenant. She felt obliged to mentor and put sense to any member of the plot. To jog your memory,  she’s childless and though not so superstitious ,she believes that her barrenness was a curse passed on by a man she duped to get  her school fees. The new tenant sneered her. This was not taken lightly. She had to install discipline in a stylish manner.

As a habit, the big machine was parked at the far end of the plot on Friday night. The new tenant and her old man had no idea what awaited them.  No sooner had they entered the room than a tractor, owned by a friend of the landlady was parked next to the guzzler. The landlady can be messy when provoked. Blocking the path was the goal. The new tenant and her partner had no idea. They were shocked in the morning. They thought that it would take a while and the tractor would be gone. That never happened. 

By noon,  the man was begging like a tot, willing to part with any amount of money. His family was at stake. He was supposed to take his twin, a boy and a girl to a trip in Mombasa. The landlady was not interested. Her mission was to get the man away. The new tenant breathed fire like a dragon, that didn’t help. 

” Are you even paying attention to his statement?  He’s not concerned about you, his family is the ultimate goal. You are just another form of leisure for him, just like beer and football. Can’t you learn? (facing the man.) Now dear friend, you seem to be a senior officer,  why not get your side dish a plot and a house in a poshy estate?  Why enjoy her and she stays in an odd neighbourhood?” the landlady was a puritan, a moralist and an old lady who was so entitled to her opinion.

” You’re right. I  highly regret it. Kindly let me salvage my family and I promise to act like lightning  once I get back from Mombasa. ”

“It’s none of my business what you do after this. If you cared about your family as you purport, you would be spending time with them and not this… Let this be the last time I see you near my property spreading immorality,  I promise it would be a good scene. ”

By the time the tractor is driven out,  the big machine and its owner are in deep trouble. The other tenants are sympathising with the lady. They believe that the landlady has overstretched her scoop.

What was certain, several relationships were broken and the man had a lot of explanation to give the kids, and their mother. For the new tenant, she lost more than a face.


Not far away from here, a man lost a hand when he was busted in another man’s bed, feasting on his best friend’s wife. He lost so much blood and it’s a surprise he’s still alive. The busted wife took off to unknown destination. The one that was cheated on also packed to her mother’s house. She adamantly refused to deal with a cheat. The victim is taken care of by his mouthy sister. Depression and shame are his buddies now.
That verse about drinking from one’s own cistern is best illustrated here.


See you next week.

Betrayal, Crazy, Education, Fiction, Hypocricy, Love, Parenting

MyPlotTales #15 : Busting The Maniac

img_20180320_114321 The crook narrowly missed a flame. Photo/ NomysArts

Hello there?

The week has been void of activities save for one. You can’t imagine how far a pervert can go in pursuit of lust.

Remember that rider one who is a newcomer? Raising suspicion over his lifts was not  farfetched . He has left everyone mouth agape and in fury. His deed nearly cost him his valued life. In matters morality,  mob justice is the worst way to get handled. You better be ruffled up by the feared law enforcement force. What was done to him…

In an odd spectacle, Tunda’s uncle who is said to have married an even younger girl was hitting the young man hardest! He ensured that a broken rib was a good teaching to the youth in this era!

The plot gossip galore team has been speculating presence of a sudden change in the man. His morning glow, early return from job, reduced noise and a fruity budget. A conspicuous spectacle has been the unlocked door. All fears were confirmed yesterday when a newcomer, a youngster came out of the room. Funny enough, all the other days no one ever spotted her. Curiously, the founders were concerned about the perfection in touring the washroom or its absence. Too much delay, right? I’m spitting…

Four days ago, a case of a missing school leaver had reported in a police station three miles away. It was only yesterday in the evening that the search tales and team made it in our neighbourhood. Coincidence made our new neighbour’s house a target. Silence was kept until he got back from work, loaded with smiles and fruits.

The girl, a class eight leaver was spared. But her four days marriage was broken, just as the limbs of the opportunistic husband. No matter how much the girl claimed that she loved the guy, her statement was invalid, for she is a child, sixteen years old. Her claims saw to it that the thrashing was hastened. She was taken to a psychiatrist and her revelations are shocking, she’s the mastermind of the idea! Again, no one is taking her word, she’s a minor. Her runaway story that the father took her innocence is dismissed by the family as a conspiracy theory with the real pervert, the early marriage practitioner.

Mama Tunda, who came a little bit late couldn’t see how such a lad would be so foolish,

” Shameless. Why not find a woman who at least is of age and has an identity card? I thought that women outnumber men so any sober man is spoilt for choice? It’s a pity!”


Medics are yet to release the results of what may have happened in the four days. Odd enough, reports from the holding cell have it that our good neighbour didn’t touch the ‘wife’, he was to fatten her!


Have you heard of the donkey that feasted on a middle aged woman? That’s whispered across the streets….

See you next week !


Betrayal, Crazy, Death, Education, Family, Fiction, Governance, Laugh, Life, Parenting

MyPlotTales #14 : Jeopardised Engagement

Not even a stung buffalo,
Beats the mad fury,
Of a tout under siege,
His words are venomous,
His spit smelly,
And his stench suffocating,
Never cross a tout…

If there’s a profession that is suffering witch-hunt,  call it touting.  The wrath of the tough rules of the fallen hero,  Michuki is felt so deeply. Today’s version of MyPlotTales is a recount of what happened when our outspoken mother of the boy who suckles while standing up had a trip to the reserve.

“The touts are describing the sun, ‘ This mighty star must have tilted a bit. My eyes are suffering,  excess fats in my brain must be melting. My dark skin is suffering. And now the pockets,  the income zone and the feeding trough are endangered,  we’re hit by heat and policies. ‘ imagine the conning fellows have the guts to complain! ”

She describes how one of the touts was made to walk in toes by the ruthless officers. How his trousers compressed his tiny rear assets and asserted pressure plus the public humiliation was an enough punishment to keep him off the stage. His drunk colleagues ran to safety to avoid the scene having a number of tales to juice it up.

Her gist gets sweeter, for she’s a pro in description be it exaggeration or otherwise. She would have been an excellent emotional journalist or a PR  expert.

” Have you seen the popularised belts?  The safety in them is a joke in some of the of vehicles. They remind me of the first underpants (wonder wear) I ever had. The rubber loosened for the quality was poor and sometimes it was better without the pant than with it. For the little you ran, the pants would drop. Until we came up with the skills of putting a knot on one side of the pants! Sadly, the shape and the discomfort levels rose several stairs. Now I’m imagining how effective the belts will be if everyone puts a knot. In other words, the responsible fellows are still joking with our road safety! ” she takes a necessary break,  laughing louder than everyone else. Today her mood is jovial.

” So how was the trip? To the reserve away from the touts and the faulty safety belts? ” enquires the now silenced Faridah.

” The speed is moderated. There’s no crowding. There’s no sambaza. Plenty of breakdowns  and the traffic operators are also busy inspecting the driving licenses of the drivers. Yes,  driving licenses that have something from the conductors! There’s change but not in totality. ”


Do you remember the DDO’s daughter,  she the good neighbour who saw to it that my clothes and bedding got a share of the itchy creatures, the bedbugs?  She lost 358 marks of the possible 500! Now she’s busy sampling various schools to join! Her brother who’s debate on how to get circumcised is still at a standstill lost 298 marks and he is now speaking out, ready to become a man and join the high school!


Mama Tunda’s brother was buried in the public cemetery in a very cheap box unceremoniously.  Social  pundits are arguing that his spirits will haunt the living for amid his unpopular lifestyle, he deserved a better send off!

See you  next week.


Betrayal, Crazy, Death, Education, Family, Health, Love, Parenting

MyPlotTales #12 : The Secret Is In Public

“Hell no!  No way. You better be kidding. How is it even possible? ”

Faridah is  perplexed. She can’t stand the  joke. It is too farfetched to be true.  Janet,  the chief usher in the church has shifted to the plot. Having been hosted by the  pastor for three months,  she knows better than anyone else, what used to go around in the shepherd’s household.

She’s been sent away for leaking out the precious family drama to the public, obviously against the unwritten terms and conditions. The departure from the pastor’s compound instead of making her resentful and apologetic,  has made her hottest supplier for both real and distorted tales.  The pastor is sad. He is said to be remorseful and ready to reconcile with the young mother for the sake of the future of his family and flock.

” You think that the boy is a good shepherd?  He is desperate. He is dependent. He is a needy and stressful brat. Imagine he used to fake sickness once he was sure I was around. Every rejection I made clear to him always resulted to a paralysis!  It took my smart observation note the madness. I busted him  and he can’t stand the humiliation. ” she takes a  self-imposed break,  to ensure that the story is juicy enough for her listeners.

From the previous events, everyone is in agreement that Faridah has been victimised in the church. Despite her composure, she’s been contemplating on changing the denomination. Sadly, her choices are limited, more so because of her already messed up reputation. She may be poor in retaliation, but there’s no harm as far as she’s concerned listening to drama that she had no part in. After all, the pastor summoned her, dressing her down. He needs his share of the walk of shame! She seeks the details,

“How did you do that? ” a chorus of the grapevine mongers seeks a quench to their thirst.

” Back at home, my brother used to bring FBI movies, I picked up a few tips here and there. Besides that boy’s topic did I tell you why the daughter was dismissed from the national boarding school? ”

” Don’t even finish! She aborted? ”

” Worse than that. Unspeakable! I don’t see any simple word for it. She’s interested in other girls! ”

The audience is lost. She’s not ready to break the suspense but heightening it is her ultimate goal,

” There was evidence. She had the tools! And two girls, form ones reported the matter to the administrative offices. She wooed them with an enormous share of our sadaka! Just imagine! Mother Superior would hear none of the pastor’s wife pledges and promises. ”

” The beautiful, daughter of the church, in such a forbidden mess? Tell us no more. That’s too much! ” cuts in the landlady. No one thought she was paying attention. A stitch in time always. Shockingly, she’s not a fan of religious masquerades.


Mama Tunda’s mad brother is dead. She’s not mourning. No one is. He’s said to have gone mad after taking part in setting houses ablaze during the post election violence. Actually, it’s a neighbour’s house that had three tots. His death has been overdue is the statement in the streets.


See you next week.


Pastor’s daughter. Pretty good and irresistible. Photo/Mackenzie Blocker /Pinterest
Betrayal, Crazy, Education, Fiction, FINANCIAL MATTERS, Health, Laugh, Life, Parenting, RELIGION

MyPlotTales #11: Denied Praises

Happy New Month!

It’s been a while,  how are you holding up?  We’re still struggling to keep sane in this plot, and its neighbourhood. Would you mind if we spill over?

Well, Faridah is breathing fire like an angry dragon. She is so infuriated. Usually a composed mother of one, today she’s the opposite.

” I hate that chairman of the church. He’s so discriminatory and snobby. Actually,  I believe he is malicious!  How could he? ”

There is a habit of offering to the church as Faridah later explains. The habit is in public domain that the announcer mentions who are the seasonal contributors and how much their input is.  People,  worshippers rather always look forward to that moment. The entire church is usually at a standstill,  showering the giver with serialised claps and well earned blessings.

Lies we show..
Unlike the basic composure, she is so dissapointed and can’t hide it . PHOTO/COURTESY.

“May be he was so busy. ” teases the mother of the boy who suckles while standing.

“You find that funny? There’s barely any difference between you two! ” Faridah is foaming like a cheap detergent.

The discussion intensifies. The meaning of the offering is demystified. As much as she gets sympathetic looks and sentimental stuff,  it’s agreed that actually the giving should be private and the showy part is condemned. It is said to be the lead course and cause of misinterpretation,  social stratification , guilt amongst the poor and ultimate decline in the spread of the  gospel.

“I have an idea why the chairman did that to you. Your wardrobe has been a topic of discussion lately. The pastor summoned you once, remember? Youthful members have been eyeing you,  not as a mother but a temptation. Do you think that you  can fool the church administration with a generous contribution? I may be tolerant,  I doubt the rest are. Or they’re interested in changing the culture! ” spills the husband to nosy mother of a hybrid kid.

” You’re lucky I am not your wife’s type, the violent one. I would be seeping the sorry juices flowing from your eyeballs. My dressing is my business and if that’s the reason for my getting disregarded, so be it. If the goal is to change the way things are done, am I the sample specimen without notice? ”

The land lady is always timely, a voice of reason once in awhile.

“Let the young lady breath. The pastor and his flock have no right to despise her. Are you blind to see where his stock for wholesale business originate from? Is it not contraband? Isn’t his partner and personal assistant in the courts for packing tap water and selling it as mineral water? There is always more than meets the eye. Let Faridah have a life! Petty moral cops! ”


Did I tell you what happened last night? The DDO’s sister-in-law is around, she attempted to choke one of numerous kids over a ten shillings coin . She should have thought better, the fury of the plot saw her leave at night, beaten up and even
bitten by the other kids!


Mama Tunda has banned her kids from dancing to the music tune ‘Kwangwaru’ over the vague obscenities therein. It was a little bit odd as she explained to her audience (us) how she came to learn of the paka mate iteleze kama nyoka pangoni. She was eavesdropping on a phone call made by a girl. She couldn’t believe what an ending world we’re living in.

Wednesday is only seven days away, see you then!


Education, Family, Features, Fiction, FINANCIAL MATTERS, Health, Hypocricy, Inspire, Knowledge, Life, Love, Parenting

MyPlotTales #10 : Pastor’s Or Husband’s Way?

This edition was supposed to be posted on Sunday,  but I had to keep the rule,  1930hrs on Wednesday. On Sunday,  we turned two months!  Congratulations dear reader for making this happen! And it’s a great coincidence that the TENTH piece on the series is appearing on the last day of the TENTH month of the year.


KCPE ends tomorrow hopefully. If you entertain the idea of wishing  the best is the only thing to expect from the parents to the candidates,  you’re so wrong. I  mean,  my plot is a bit odd.  There’s a battle over the boy child’s fate, the next move after KCPE.



Circumcision. Getting cut. Shedding blood. Becoming a man. Changing status. Manning up both mentally and physically. It’s a simple statement. Very simple. Until where and how becomes a concern. And the parents have different opinions on the same. Who determines how one undergoes the process?

Mama Sudu and the reformed DDO have exchanged fireballs over the issue.

” My son is growing up so fast,  like a spinach planted in kitchen garden full of chicken manure. Did you hear his voice breaking?  He is taller than I yet he’s only thirteen!  I can’t wait to take him to the church for the next stage in life! ”

” I am the father. That is my responsibility. My culture is superior to yours. A child takes after the father and his ways of life. I take insult that you are undermining my authority and existence. Where did you get that madness that a woman can take the boy for the ritual? Actually, letting you discuss this is an excess of freedom. We can discuss all the topics but this. So woman, start packing,  we’re heading to the bush for the ritual!” The DDO decisively knocks out the wife with cruelty and facts. She’s not one to be silenced.

” Your dream is dead. I am not leaving for your archaic practice, neither is my son. Letting him to undergo the same is too much of a sacrifice for me. Having it done your way is unfathomable. The only option is one,  getting the boy to the church,  they’ll bring us a man. ”

He looks at her as if she’s on a trance. He wonders how much confidence she’s gathered since he stopped taking alcohol. He misses something,  taking just a glass of illicit local brew and then she would be a drum. If only…

” Tell me where you got this idea. It appears that your mind is all set. I’m granting you the airtime to drive home your thoughts. The podium is yours. ” he sneers,  expecting to poke holes and make some dents if necessary.

” For once,  you’re a pure genius. Such a great man ,the one I had fallen in love with before converting me to a delivery machine. How I wish I was bold enough to stop you impregnating me year in and out. ” she’s tripping,  poking a python,  she’s surprised how she’s missing a slap.

“Woman,can we dig one hole at a time? ” he snorts bitterly.

“Well. I  hear you my boo. Having listened to a man of reason, a spiritual figure and the greatest mentor, an epitome of inspiration and guidance, I made the decision. Furthermore,  I am a member of the organising committee of the grand function. I can’t preach goats and keep on feasting on the dirty pigs. Gospel begins from Jerusalem, my home is mine. Organisers are not paying a dime,  so that’s an economic relief for us.” she stresses the phrase,  not paying a dime. Looks into his eyes to spot a twitch,  he’s unimpressed. He’s a rock that stands sunshine and downpours.

” Go ahead.” he gives her more time to spit it out,her weird desire and aura of authority.

“The diet is well balanced. Sessions are well distributed between feeding, professional nurses(Health standards and safety are guaranteed.) and life counselors from across the globe. Reputation of the speakers speak for itself. Our sons are in the safe hands. Unlike the nonbelievers you want us to send our son to.” she takes a break,  assuming that her use of the phrases like nurses,  professionals,  counselors and reputation are sufficient insinuations to get him to buy her thoughts.

“Are you done yet?” he is playing along a bit too long.

” If you want me to jump into the specifics against your traditional ritual,  be my guest. Tell me, do you want our son to be infected with the contaminated unstrelised blades? My son will not be reduced to a commoner,  a valuer of illicit sex and drugs. Or you think that we are naive to the crazy teachings? My son is not about to get mentorship from your 19th century old folks. My son is too good to be made a chauvinist of your caliber with no regard to education. Our son  needs the best. Should I go on?” her voice is attracting attention of the curious onlookers. He’s not a simple punching bag.

” You’re right. Our son needs the best. The best will come from the well established system and not strangers who are out to make money in the name of counseling. The best will be found in a fountain of wisdom that oozes sayings,  proverbs, heroic tales from my elders. I am not so poor to let my son’s most precious rite of passage be handed to me like a beggar. That’s for those who are learning how to do it,  we are not beginners. I may not be a great example for a son,  but believe you me dear wife,  I know what is best for him. And as warning , his brothers will follow his footsteps. Call me archaic, traditional, ritualist, chauvinist and all that you desire. If we can not pass out traditions,  the good ones to our children,  we’re letting our culture to be washed away. Our languages are getting extinct,  so are our foods, wisdom and practices. Modernity is good but not good enough to replace everything. Remember that I too caring and sensitive to let my daughters free from the yoke of FGM.  Take them for the counseling sessions. My boys are mine. Tell that pastor,  your reasonable man to keep his mentorship to himself. Tell him that church should stick to evangelical duties as we stick to our ripped off culture. Tell him too that by any chance his eye looks at you or my daughters wrongly,  I’ll see to it that he’s well attended to. ”

The spectators laugh. The DDO stares at them wondering what the heck is wrong with them. He walks out of the compound thoughtfully. The wife is ready to defend the pastor and their Grand Crossover Event. She is aware that it’s a good deal for trading morals and making an extra coin. Shockingly,  today the husband has been so sober and his arguments well founded.

” Your boy is so smart,  may be you should let his opinion prevail. After all,  it is his life! ” suggests the landlady in amazing composure and neutrality.

” Maybe the boy should just finish his examinations. One step at a time. ” blurts out Mama Tunda. ”

DDO’s wife,  Mama Sudu ends the topic with finality,

” We know what is best for our son,  the decision is ours. ”

“Indeed! Who doesn’t see that?” snobs the landlady.


Crooks are growing horns.  An idiot has learned how to ‘steal’ my power and my units are running out faster than components of a stomach filled with freshly sprouted pigweed. How do I use twenty units in a week?  I’ll reuse my sword,  this time round it wouldn’t be a threat!


Did I mention that the landlady’s distant relative, a young lass is living in her compound now? Wait, necks have been getting longer,  faces turning until she’s become a laughing stock. Rumour has it that she applied the balm on her hindquarters. Application is a non-issue,  the difference in size is! She failed in the uniformity test terribly. One is all chubby, too large and saggy while the other twin is angry, tiny,  wrinkled.   Now, it’s said that she has gone a step further than anticipated,  she’s putting on additions,  sponges to balance the unbalanced! Oops!

Happy new month! Same time,  same plot,  different tales next Wednesday.

Betrayal, Crazy, Death, Features, Fiction, Governance, Hypocricy, Knowledge, Laugh, Life

MyPlotTales #9 :Sober Resolve

There’s a new appointment and we can’t stop thinking about it, aloud of course . Since the March Handshake or Hand Cheque as some of the embittered supporters term it,  there’s a new twist in the way politics are viewed even in the plot. We may be a simple collection of paupers but thanks to the vernacular media,  the political know-how has been devolved.  Now on Sunday morning as we queued for water,  the silent religious Mama Tunda celebrated the appointment of former premier as a top representative in the entire continent.

” I am happy that our own has got a placing in the international arena. ”

She ignites varied looks. The people have been emancipated and amidst the simplistic arguments, one can sense a rise in critical thinking. My neighbour, the embattled philanthropist who offers free motorbike rides to school girls is the first to respond,

” One of your own?  He’s a typical opportunist and I think the only thing you share with him is the free oxygen. Your own are us,  we who know what you eat and what you need. ”

The topic gets the unprecedented momentum. Everyone is impressed by the peace music that is sang,  but no one is blind enough to the new taxes imposed and how the citizens have accepted them grudgingly,  courtesy of the olive branch gesture.

” We can not afford to associate with the mighty,  lest we are all gullible,  blind to forget how we are shaken every election season. Was it not a year ago that I ran to my home village to allow water ripples to slow down?  Aren’t some of you who question my marriage to a person who is not from my community?  If not the politicians you’re celebrating who lead us to such stupidity? ”

That is the enormous mother of the little tot,  one who dressed down her husband over poor eating habits in public for the kid.

” We can not underestimate the power of the handshake,  there’s relative peace and a spread of the goodwill. The mission,  if successful will be a great historical occurrence and achievement for our land.  However,  before we limit our expectations to the top cream decisions,  we should make our own commitment as neighbours to coexist. If we can stick to our unity regardless of who is at the top, we are better than we were yesterday. ”

I spill all that shocking the rest. I am usually a silent listener. This does not stop the conversation. It invokes a flashback,a bitter one that leads to a firm resolve.

” You see the madman picking papers at the stage? It’s a wrath of the spirits of the neighbours he slaughtered. His wife died of a sudden unknown illness,  his only son succumbed to diarrhea. This is as a result of his sycophancy to a tribal bigot who was funding the uprising against neighbours. The number of shops and cars he set ablaze are uncountable. Politics, tribalism and moronic characters is a sad combination. We used to live in tension that time. We were suspicious of each other. We were scared when one of our own joined the market madman’s gang.  There was a man called Gideon who was shot dead to our ironical relief. He was the idiot behind the beheading of another neighbour at his workplace in the town,  Calistus Mwadilifu. ” Mama Kim pauses, and proceeds from her stop,

” We have been struggling to keep sane after the occurrences. Our class, paupers is our own tribe and what big people in big cars say is least of our concern, especially if it’s all about incitement.”


Did I tell you there’s a go slow on Mama Tunda’s avocados? Well, she’s changing the supplier after learning, through the customers, that the ripening process is hastened by boiling! Imagine such an evil, heartless, manipulative creature who messes with the only regular fruit.

Off that, the Hawking Dove, remember her? She came for supper last night in my tiny cube and after laughing for an hour, dancing for twenty minutes we got so close! Now this has not escaped the grapevine galore’s attention, someone asked me when we’re expecting the tot!

See you next Wednesday for the details…