Posts Tagged ‘Luhya’

Being Kenyan

Posted: November 2, 2015 by ketihapa in Kenya
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Being Kenyan, who can complain?

“Tao ngapi?”

“Salasa!”

“Niko na mbao!”

“Hiyo mbao yako peleka choo ya kanjo labda utaendesha!”

“Ok, mbao ndio pesa loose nilikuwa nayo…”

“Huna pesa ndogo?”

You proceed to fold up the Ksh 1000 note into four…

“Haha! Kijana uko funny! Dere shukisha huyu hapo mbele!”

 

I have come to accept that being Kenyan is no longer about citizenship. And chances are, you would never trade being Kenyan for anything; not for a second. I have come to realize being Kenyan gives you an identity- a sense of being; a sense of purpose. It gives you the chance to be legally screwed up. Being Kenyan allows you to fuck up, get taken to court- perhaps even the ICC and still get away with it- trust me, my president has set an exceptional example. We can even ignore court orders. It allows you to set up a church and go about deflowering women because God told you to. And the said women will appreciate it. Hell, the news will find it funny and you will feature on headlines; especially if the said women paid you Ksh 310 to get deflowered. I foresee being Kenyan being a movement.

Case 1: Police

Being Kenyan affords you the right to walk in Nairobi. But also affords you the right to be stopped by armed policemen (who or may not be actual policemen) and being told you have to produce a receipt for the bag you are carrying- they won’t bother to check whether you’re carrying weapons. But even if you are, all you will need is a receipt. But that has to be accompanied by an ETR receipt intended for KRA. But let us assume you won’t have either of those; you will be forced to produce tea- chai, rather- and imagine being Luhya! We all know Luhya people would rather go to jail than give up chai. You will be faced with a host of atrocities against the country though. Staring at government buildings suspiciously, idling with the intention of bombing a government statue, impersonating a government officer, spitting harmful substances on a public pavement, disturbing the public with smelly sweat, soliciting for sex from unwilling members of the public… The list is endless. And so are the possible charges you will be charged with.

Case 2: Elections

Being Kenyan means you can basically vie for a leadership spot. And it doesn’t matter whether you lose; You will be the man. You will be accorded the title mheshimiwa. Even if ants will not stop for you when you come across them on the road- actually, you will stop and wait for them to pass- especially if you will be high on weed like most of our elected leaders. You will be a millionaire in six months after the said elections. And you will despise Tanzanian elections for being transparent. In the six months, you will instigate a construction worth Ksh 200 Million, even though the said building will have half a wall. You will also convince the people who voted you in that a wheel barrow is worth Ksh 109,000, even though the teacher with whom you trust your child will be paid Ksh peanuts. And you will somehow convince the people that voted you in, who have lost confidence in you already, that the devil told you to lie to them. You will invoke the spirit; even though your liver will have suffered more from the spirits than your citizens.

Case 3: Music

As a Kenyan, you will be entitled to hours of bad music; riddims they call it. You will dance and perhaps do bend overs if you’re lucky- to music you don’t even understand, whose lyrics probably mean you are an idiot. But you will love it. You will laugh at people that don’t listen to riddims. And for those that will find riddims distasteful, they will tune into Matatu FM each morning to report how they cannot get laid to someone who probably doesn’t even like women in the first place. You will ignore good music; people who try to come up with good music like Eric Wainanina and Elani will be ignored- unless they come up with a sex video like Sauti Sol. And every major TV or Radio station will endorse it. Your life will be reduced to music the lines of “Girl With The Biggest Behind’ or ‘Una jump, una ruka… shida zina shuka…”

Case 4: Food

Being Kenyan means you will get to taste the best variety of food. You will get to taste boiled animal intestines that you will later come to call mutura. You will do the math in your head and decide that mutura is worth more than airtime – which at this time is imperative we refer to as kadi za kujikunakuna as the Tanzanians say- to call the butcher and tell him to reserve some steak for you. And woe unto you if you end up marrying a Kikuyu woman; you will have pizza full of soup and potatoes.  And if boiled miraa if you’re Meru. Or worse, nothing if you’re from Kitui.

I just can’t understand why anyone would hate being Kenyan. We rock!!!!!

Don’t let the baby in them fool you.. Food thieves, or rather food bandits, we see you

I was on the internet the other day (don’t ask Googling what) when I came across this sex position called the Lap. I know what you’re thinking… It isn’t a sex position invented by the Kalenjins. But I did come across a sex position for you Luhyas out there tho called the Spoon, feel free to check it out. As for the Lap, apparently the lady sits on your lap and you hump away. It is – not my words- best carried out on a couch. I would suggest, if you’re going to try it, to do it with a laptop size lass, you know, the ones that won’t break your legs and couch in the process. And it isn’t anything I have against fat women, most of them are really amazing people, but they’re also full of themselves..

Anyway, some days back somebody tweeted about how he’d been robbed. Well, it was a pretty lame story, until he mentioned what he’d been robbed and the entire twitter community in Kenya was suddenly interested; the guy was robbed of his phone. And Chapatis he’d purchased for supper. Your guess is as good as mine. Either he’d carried the chapatis in his wallet- which is highly unlikely- or I want whatever weed those guys were on because that is a new level of munchies.

But the thing is, his story relates to mine, which I remember blogging about some years back. To refresh your memory, I’d bought myself half a kilo of beef- it’s something I often do when I want to congratulate myself- along with all the ingredients I needed for the meal from mama mboga downstairs; nyanya, vitunguu, dhania, hoho, pilipili… I’d even marinated the meat in garlic and ginger. Next, I made sure there was enough maize flour, nothing goes better with beef than ugali. Satisfied everything was in order, I set out to get beer. Sadly, as we all very well know, one for the road usually turns out to be six for the night in a ditch. I over stayed out, mixing Vodka and water like a Russian  like I wanted to re-incarnate the Holy Spirit. That day I was like a bee… I went to the pub and came back buzzing.

I came back to find my door open, the padlock missing and the lights on. Which at first didn’t occur to me as very odd considering I could barely stand on my feet leave alone string a few sentences together in my slurred speech, plus there was still a half bottle of beer in my hand. But then on entering the house something else struck me as out of place. There were dirty dishes on the table, which is very odd because I am usually a very tidy person (Bae has accused me of having mild OCD because when I start cleaning I don’t stop till everything is sparkling.) I somehow managed to ignore the dishes because at this point all I wanted to do was to jump into bed. It was the aroma of food that really shocked me because I honestly could not remember cooking. I assumed it was the neighbors that were cooking because it was not uncommon for them to cook at odd hours of the night.

Till I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

There was food alright, beef and ugali and more dirty dishes. At this point I was wondering just how high I was or if I’d had a concussion. But then, I realized my gas was missing, at which point I was suddenly very sober; Mututho would have been proud. Now fully alert, I proceeded to do a quick stock check. Everything was in place in the kitchen except the gas canister, in the living room everything was in place except my pair of leather shoes and my subwoofer (thankfully I’d left the laptop at a friend’s who wanted to copy stuff) and in the bedroom, my ironbox and my deo were missing, along with a few notes I’d left on the table and my red scarf.

I did what any normal man would do. I went back to the kitchen, served myself whatever was left of my beef, cut a chunk of ugali and sat down on the kitchen floor to eat. When I was full, I picked my bottle of beer and drank. I knew Alcohol was not the answer or solution, but I was fully aware it would make me forget the question- in this case, wtf had happened. When I was done with my alcohol I gracefully went back to bed and dozed off. I will not bother narrating to you the confusion I had in the morning when, not remembering my gas was missing, I bought eggs to make breakfast.

Perhaps I’ll never know wtf exactly happened that night, but I do know this, I hate food thieves. Bruh, stealing is okay, just don’t steal people’s food, it isn’t cool at all however or wherever you look at it, even in a freezer; in my book that makes you a terrorist. I think I was more upset about my food than all the other items. But hey, at least I wasn’t robbed at dick point like one Wateba, plus it was beef not pork because I’d literally have broken down in tears. Which makes me question how people survive in places like Githurai and Dandora, because, as I’ve said before, I imagine I’d feel like Alibaba knowing that I’m surrounded by 40 thieves all around me.

Leornado Dicaprio in the world he created in the 2010 sci-fi film Inception

“It all over, Chelsea are the new European Champions!”

That statement was what got me to church on Sunday. Chelsea had the last laugh. And oh my, was it sweet. I am not a Chelsea fan, but I had a lot banking on that game. For a start, Ksh. 3850 on bets was on the line. Yes, it was that serious; to me, the unexpected is expected, because I have come to expect the unexpected in football. And I had promised God that should the wife grabbers win the match, the very first thing I’d do on Sunday was to go to church. Ok, not really, I first had to sleep as the match ended way after Sunday started, then I had to wake up, shower, take breakfast and walk to church. It was the very first time I kept a promise to God.

I know, it sounds immoral; the fact that I needed financial motivation to go the House of God. It isn’t. We all have our reasons why we go to church; many to find potential spouses that are ‘born again.’ Or as a Luhya would say, “Porn Again”; God loves porn again people after all. Others go to church because they bought expensive new heels that only they can afford and do not want to miss a golden opportunity to show them off to multitudes of people that have gathered gladly for the show. Very few, I repeat, very few people, go to church to pray. Finally, there are the few like me, who believe God is the benefactor of everything including life and money.

So I found myself tagging alongside my mum, who frankly, was astounded that I was even awake at 9.00 am, leave alone accompanying her to church. Needless to say, we parted ways the moment we entered that gate- somehow I have never understood why churches have doors and gates, you’d think the House of God would be the most secure place on earth. I headed over to the corner, as far away from the watchful, painfully reproachful eye of my mother, just in case the need to post a tweet on twitter should arise. And it did.

The pastor started off the sermon with “I am just from Nigeria in case you are wondering why I am dressed like I am.” In my head it sounded something like “I have been to Nigeria. See my heels and my elegant skirt, you’re damn right they are not from your pathetic country so shut the hell up and listen to me.” I was willing to overlook the fact that I had just been stepped on by a woman I had never seen before, except she proceeded, “and I am here to cast out demons.”

Much to my bewilderment, people were applauding. Some people, the show offs, took this opportunity to throw money on her feet. I am not saying I thought it was pointless, I found it amusing actually as it looked similar to the same fashion the Catholic Church lost its money fighting lawsuits they couldn’t win; lawsuits of child molestation. Pointless on the other hand is why they sterilize needles for lethal injections.

All religion-related activity in my brain ceased. For the first time, I noticed the people I seated next to; I was more confused than an infant in a topless bar. I found myself looking around just in case I spotted a demon, or worse, Lucifer seated like a boss at one corner, laughing quietly, scheming his next move. Nothing. I looked back at her in frustration, willing every nerve in body to stop the mutiny that was going on in my head and which was about to conquer my mouth next. I took out my phone to prevent myself from shouting back,

“Excuse me little miss sunshine from Nigeria, I have looked around and I can see no demons. Please be kind enough to point them out for me.”

Instead, I tweeted my thoughts.

Not that I don’t believe demons exist; like the suicidal blonde that killed her twin sister by mistake, it is stupid to believe that God exists when you don’t believe there is a Devil. But the thing is all the demons I have come across are people. People with troubled minds who look to the church as validation that they are not insane; that they are in fact possessed.

I have a hard time trying to convince myself that the man who bombed a church some time back in Ngara was possessed. Or that the guy that raped a 6 year old girl was in cahoots with the devil. Or worse, that that the man who first his wife to death, then set his house ablaze so he and his entire family would burn to death, including the two young girls that were fast asleep in their bedroom, was led to do it by the little red devil perched on his shoulder.

I believe that there is a God and there is a Devil and likewise, that there is good and there is evil; two things each man must decide which to be. Like two sides of a coin, you cannot be both at the same time, but you can have both. It all boils down to which face is up but unlike the coin that needs to be tossed and cannot choose for itself, everyman has it in him to pick one and fight the other. Then there is the third side of the coin that nobody ever considers significant.

If you’ve watched the movie The Adjustment Bureau then you know how much power mere chance has in reality; chance is responsible for lots of things. Hitler got into the army by chance; but it was the decisions he made there after that would later prove the platform for his misguided politics and the cause of a six year war that would leave in its wake 60 million people dead including him.

My point being, we are our own worst enemies; we create the world we live in and likewise the demons that haunt us as portrayed in the thriller, Inception. A few misguided words of advice here and there, a few moments of weakness, a few moments of rage, hate and jealous glances; those are the downfalls of man. And the question is what type of person are you and what side of the coin are you on? Are you the good guy, the bad guy or do you leave it all to chance before you can decide. As far as I am concerned, everybody seems normal until you get to know them

***FACT: If you take the first letters of the first names of the main characters of Inception, you get the word DREAMS; Dom, Robert, Eames, Arthur, Mallorie, and Saito.***

Africa's beauty is best illustrated by this beautiful photo

Few of you know I am an avid reader, I love reading anything that doesn’t lead to exams. Anyway, one day I’m reading some journal and I stumble upon a piece on insecurity in the US. It went on to describe how three lads who were out in the city were attacked by a mugger, who demanded they give him all their valuables or he would inject them with AIDS. Two of the lads immediately gave up their money and everything else they had, but the third, man the third made my day. He refused to give up anything on him and told the mugger to fuck off. The mugger injected him and ran. So the first two lads look at him in dismay and ask, “Are you crazy? Now you have AIDS because you wouldn’t part with a few coins!” This third guy smiles confidently and says, “No, no, it’s alright, I’m wearing a condom.” PAUSE. I should leave you to guess whether or not I was banned from the library by the Librarian on grounds of gross disturbance of peace and violation of a million other rules I think he made up on the spot.

Now, my point was not to illustrate that some people only gargled from the fountain of knowledge. No, that story got me thinking, and I came to the conclusion that in Africa, that story wouldn’t have ended as it did. We all know how that script would have read had the same mugger attacked three black people. One of them would claim he already has AIDS and he isn’t scared, which would give the rest an opportunity to jump the mugger. They would proceed to beat him senseless then, to teach him a lesson, they would share among themselves what the mugger made that day. A crowd would have formed by now; someone would already have nicked a tyre from any car parked close by. Another would produce petrol while another from the same crowd would have a matchbox ready. The mugger would be dead before the police arrived at the scene while people would go home like nothing happened; after all, he wouldn’t be the first mob justice victim, right?

Wrong. The above is a white man’s perception of Africa.

Someone once mentioned to me that Africa will never reach any level of development minutely close to that of the first world countries; he was wrong. According to him, we strive hard to get to where the developed countries are, forgetting that by the time we are able to use nuclear energy, they will have discovered and started using another source of energy, perhaps sand? That by the time an African country manages to build a car, the West will have moved on to something more convenient, teleporting may be? He went as far as to say he was convinced the West would develop wings for mankind. Had it not been for non-existence of eye-hand coordination courtesy of my dear friend Alcohol, I would have given this fellow a beating. I opted instead to give him a piece of my mind, that he was wrong.

I know we may be the only place on earth where it is okay to rig elections, organize post-election skirmishes, then resolve the whole issue like it never happened through a power-sharing deal constituting 42 ministers in one ‘grand coalition.’ True, I still think African presidency is the biggest conspiracy since the ‘Americans landed on the moon conspiracy.’ I also acknowledge that my opinions do not matter to the Kenyan government because they would just form another of the 10 million named committees of experts to look into the matter. But hey, life gives you lemons. You make lemonade and if you don’t know how, you eat it. Either way it ends up in the stomach. That is the African spirit. I simply do not care that we will be rebuilding railways every five years after general elections because some idiot in Kibera thought the absence of the railway hurts Kenya more than the citizens of its landlocked neighbors, Uganda and Rongai. My point being, it is what makes us Kenyans and thus, Africans.

I am also fully aware, as you should, that Africa is the only place on the face of the earth where a 14-seater matatu will carry double that number of people and somehow everyone will find a place to sit. The Luhya people can bear me witness that 15 of them, including the driver will fit into a 5-seater Pro-pox (for the record I still don’t buy that they think Pro-pox is some variant of chicken pox or that Mascara is the plural of the Swahili word sigara.) In Africa, we have our own way of doing things. We will even act pornography in local dialects and we won’t be embarrassed when the star of the show decides halfway to tell her fellow actor “Mastyro perekea bibi yako“. In fact, we are so religious that the ratio of churches to available brethren is 20:1. Hell, it is illegal to take alcohol regardless that you are over 18 years of age or not thanks to one Mututho. And if you didn’t already know, everyone here is a businessman- we all know the quickest way to double your money is to fold it in half and put it back in your pocket; plus you can’t make good money if you sell SHAMpoo. In Africa we have REALpoo.

That same Anti-Africa friend of mine also thinks that the 2010 FIFA World Cup tournament held in South Africa was the worst football disaster ever witnessed, far more grave than Arsenal’s recent grass 8-ting competition. It is 2 sad my eyes had to witness it. Anyway, my friend was yet again wrong. I believe South Africa organized the best World Cup tournament ever witnessed, because they managed to creatively blend football with a colourful concert… the Vuvuzela Concert. Sure they have a clown for a president, who happens to think AIDS can be washed away with a cold shower, but I have to give credit where it is due. The event captured the true African spirit. In fact, the only reason an African country did not win the World Cup is because of our good hospitality. We let our guests pick the best food before we can pick some ourselves. Charity begins at home after all. I would say Africa and Liverpoop are solely to blame for the death of our trusted match-fixer, Paul the Octopus. Poor thing laughed so hard when he heard Africa actually hoped to win the tournament he died.

To the West we may be barbaric, backward, uneducated and primitive but truth is, most of them are so narrow minded they can see through a keyhole with both eyes. They came in the name of Christ, looted our land and our wives and all we got to show for it was a damn bible. That we couldn’t even read mind you because it was written in their damn language! As far as I’m concerned we have the best weed on earth and our women don’t need Silicone implants in their breasts to look beautiful. The scenery is simply exhilarating. Besides, money is not really an issue because if we need more we’ll just print it (ask Mugabe); and the people are great. The people man! Africa is best defined by its people, and I love them no homo. Long live Africa.

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