How time flies amazes me. It was only the other day I was in Jamhuri, and am getting ready for the annual pilgrimage to the land of my forefathers. Even as I continue with preparations, a few issues come to light.

First, every time I travel home, I have to shop for a suitcase or two. The reason being that I must ferry a heavy cargo to offload on my significant others back home. I have realized that even as I heap gifts and niceties into my luggage, when I take a flight back to stateside; I have one half empty suitcase. This goes a long way to prove the skewed and great divide, in the balance of trade between my significant others and me.

I say this because, none of the people I will visit in the village, buy gifts for me to bring back to Obamaland. When my plane touches down on the land of Kibaki and Raila, most of the people I meet expect a treat from me, either in kind or cash.

And so I cough quiet a handsome amount in terms of matatu fares, lunches, kuku choma, and the ubiquitous mbuzi choma. And who am I to say no to my kith and kin? After all, I will one day depend on them for votes when I run for a political seat in my constituency, when the time comes. By the time I take my flight back, the Kenyan economy will have benefited a great deal in terms of school fees paid, land deals settled, a water tank bought, or a heifer herded towards my mother’s boma.

I will also visit the Maasai Market and get myself a Kamba carving, a kitenge shirt, a beaded belt, and a pair of akala shoes for the Kwanzaa festivals later in the year. These items will also remind me of my heritage as a sojourner in a foreign land. Did I tell you that they call me an alien when I am here? That makes me feel like a Martian with a blue face and green protruding eyes.

I will also try to look for signs of economic development in my village. I have read and heard that things are looking up, what with the expansion of Thika road to a super highway, with six lanes each side? I am told by my sources in Nairobi.

However, my expectations are not so high as far as the Kenyan culture is concerned. I still believe the killing machines in the name of matatus are still ruling our roads. Once upon a time, a no nonsense Minister of Transport tried to bring some sanity to the industry, but his grand idea came to naught when he was given another docket. His successor had one or two matatus on the road, and therefore was not in a hurry to implement the policies set forth.

I am sure that I will also encounter so many used and poorly maintained white Toyota Corolla sedans, driven by owners who bought their driving licenses without attending a driving school. Also included will be quite a number of high end SUVs, driven by the expanding middle class Kenyans, who have come across new money in the numerous NGOs, and foreign corporations operating in Nairobi.

The whole of Nairobi central business district has been turned into a huge bazaar. What were earlier large stores lining up Nairobi streets, have been partitioned into tiny outlets of fake clothing labels, fake DVD movies, and fake electronics. Every third store is a cell phone and accessories outlet, where one can also buy pirated software.

I will also be in Nairobi a few days after the referendum. The dice will have been cast and either Kenya will have a new constitution, or there will be so much noise and hullabaloo about what lead to failure to have one. For this, I know I will encounter all manner of political analysts; professional and pedestrian, who will pretend to have all the answers about everything.

As I drive across the country, I will make sure to have with me enough fifty shillings notes, in case I come across traffic policemen. Even though I am not anticipating driving under the influence, or operating a faulty white Toyota Corolla, those boys in blue will still find something wrong with my car. The fifty shillings note will therefore come in handy, to my being hulled into the traffic court on trumped up charges.

I will also not forget to stop at soko mjinga, if only to annoy those vegetable vendors that line the highway. I will intentionally stop the car right in the midst of the vendors, with all the car windows rolled up and doors tightly shut. Then I will reach my wallet and open it to reveal a few hundred shillings. After that I will return the wallet where it came from and zoom away, without saying a word to anyone.

I will go to all this lengths as revenge to what those vendors of soko mjinga did to me last time; and once beaten, twice shy. Can you believe that I bought a whole debe of minji, only to arrive home and find half of it was empty peels? Wataniona this time.

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I went to the supermarket the other day and bought what appeared to be a good bargain for beef patties. I was gearing for a nice one man cook out. And what a way to do it than grill my own hamburger? Also included were Italian sausages, to make me some hot dogs.

The business of the day ended without a hitch, and my innards were in celebration. As I was flossing out the pieces of meat stuck between my teeth, and enjoying a glass of red wine, I turned on the TV to catch up on the local news.

The first news item was that the Federal Drug Administration (FDA) had recalled so many pounds of a particular brand of beef patties, as it was suspected they had caused e coli bacteria and close to 10 deaths across the United States. I did not give the news the necessary weight, until I went to trash some banana peels. Staring at me was the empty beef patties packaging that I had enjoyed a few minutes before. And- you guessed right- they were the same brand as the ones recalled by the FDA.

I looked at the patties packaging, then my belly, and back at the packaging. I shouted the name of the son of Joseph and Mary; I heard my neighbors curse.

Tell me, you who know, what do you do when such an eventuality arises? Whatever had been recalled was sitting pretty in my belly, with bacteria busy mating inside me, increasing their population by the minute. Holy Molly!

Lucky for me, my stomach has lived to digest items that would make the FDA recall me, as a threat to the health of all those who come in contact with me. As a boy, I devoured wild fruits, and ate half cooked rabbit meat that had been partly eaten by my dog, Simba, and when a piece of Ugali fell on the ground, the five seconds rule applied.

This business of recalling things drives me crazy. In the few years I have been around, they have recalled several millions of pounds of beef, lettuce, spinach, toothpaste, toys, baby cribs, bicycles, and recently children’s Tylenol and some coffee cups from Mc Donald’s. I have intentionally omitted from the list, all the Toyotas, Hondas and Chevys, that have been recalled because of this or that reason.

Who do those manufacturers think they are? And what do they take me for? How dare they expose my wife, children, and myself to toxins and death machines? Why would anyone in his right mind make something that would kill babies? The next time I hear a company’s products being recalled, I will drive to its headquarters, and force the president to eat a hamburger made by me. Yes, you heard me right. Spend some money on R and D, whatever that means, MORONS.

And while still at it, how come for the three decades I was resident in the land of Kibaki and Raila, I never heard of one product recalled. Does it mean the manufacturers there are so perfect, or they went to bed long time ago, with the local FDA officials?

I remember many fake products lining up the streets of Nairobi, and no one in authority raises a voice. They range from fake drugs, food items, vehicle parts, clothes, and electronics. The whole city is fake. At one time, Limuru donkey owners would wake up to find their donkeys missing. A few day later, the skeletal remains of donkeys would be seen in Karura forest. Your guess is as good as mine as to where the meat ended.

Back to where I began. I read in last week’s issue of Time Magazine that, corporations spent more than $3.5 billion last year on lobbyists. As they did that, they continued churning our products laden with toxics, releasing them into the market while the watchman slept.

And so it has come to pass that you and I have been left to drive faulty cars, eat bacteria-infested hamburgers, drink from lead-filled cups, and when we get sick, the medicine we take will only quicken our way to the morgue.

It is for this reason that I am mad. Because I am left without a choice but depend on a farmer in Guatemala to grow my bananas, another one in Florida to grow my oranges, while the crankshaft of my car will be made by a deranged, suicidal, overworked and underpaid Chinese laborer.

Because I am angry, I will count until four; and when I become very angry, I will swear, if only to be in agreement with Mark Twain.

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Rev. Kiiru is a Godly man. He served as a priest in the African Inland Church-Kenya, for many years in various Parishes. In early 2000, he received a scholarship to further his theological training in Nashville, Tenn. Even though his children were still in school, he could not let the opportunity pass by. He therefore left the family in the hands of his very capable and dedicated wife, a primary school teacher.

America proved to be very sweet for Rev. Kiiru and before long; he realized that it was the place to bring up his young family. As he studied, he also tried his luck with the Diversity Lottery Visa. And because God is not Athumani; as they say in Pemba, lady luck smiled on him, and he was among the winners of the lottery that year.

“The whole family was elated by the prospects of relocating to these United States,” Alex told me when we met for a church cook-out at a local state park.

I remember asking him whether he would go back to his flock in Kenya. He smiled and rubbed his thumb against two fingers. I then realized that he had no plans of going back home.

Mrs. Kiiru continued teaching, with jubilation in her heart that eventually she would leave the poorly paying job, and board a plane to the states. Their three children were overcome with joy, and could not wait to join their father in Nashville.

The process of acquiring passports went without a hitch for the Kiiru family, after Mrs. Kiiru greased the hands of one immigration officer at Nyayo House. If you wanna slide, you gotta grease,” is the unwritten dictum in many government offices in Kenya.

The family disposed of some property to raise the relocation funds. First to go was the Toyota Corolla, that the church had given them as a gift some years back. Then the semi-developed plot of land in Ongata Rongai fetched some money. Last to go were their three cows and a calf, that had supplemented the family income through milk sales.

Finally, the family had to undergo a series of medical tests that the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Service requires of everyone who is planning to relocate stateside via the green card route. The US embassy in Nairobi has selected a list of civil surgeons and hospitals, where visa applicants such as the Kiirus go for the tests.

The Kiirus booked an appointment to visit one of the designated doctors to do a health fitness test for them. Among the many exams the doctor did included a DNA test, just in case an applicant decided to include his brother’s child and claim it to be his own.

“The Americans are not cockroaches,” I told Alex as we continued grilling the goat meat. “In the past, when the embassy denied you a visa, all you did was acquire a different passport with an alias as your new name. But technology has helped them go round these shenanigans of desperate third world citizens, who can sell a limb to cross the pond.”

“As I was saying, the blood samples took three weeks to be ready,” Alex continued.
Eventually the Kiiru family booked an appointment for the visa interview, one cold July morning. To avoid getting to the embassy late, Mrs. Kiiru had awoken the children at an ungodly hour and hired a taxi to ferry them to the interview, because she could not trust the Matatus for such an important occasion.

A consular officer at the embassy instructed the family to check back within a week, by which time, all the protocols would be ready.

“Visa denied!” read a stamp on the second born child’s application. Everyone else had their visa application accepted except the little girl.

When Rev. Kiiru lodged an appeal to have his daughter’s visa application revised, the embassy dropped the bombshell. Apparently, the DNA test showed he was not related by blood to the girl, even though she had a perfect match with her mother.

The puzzled family could not believe what they were hearing. Could it be true that the girl who was named after Rev. Kiiru’s mother, was fathered by someone else? Rev. Kiiru confronted his wife, who vehemently denied that fact.

For a second opinion, Rev. Kiiru went to Kenya Medical Research Institute (KEMRI) for another DNA test. The US embassy was vindicated.

“Being a man of God, Rev. Kiiru swallowed the bitter pill,” Alex told me. “He instituted an adoption process to have his wife’s daughter join the rest of the family in the US.”

I believe that Rev. Kiiru had read what Kahlil Gibran said about such matters:
“Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They came through you but not from you.
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.”

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I have a mea culpa to make; there are a few things about me, which I do not understand. Take my waist for example. I have no idea what my waist measures. Whenever I go shopping for a pant, I buy size 38, thinking it is my size. But when I reach home, lo, behold! The pant turns out to be a bit large. So the next time I need a pant, I buy a size 36, and-you guessed it right- it is so tight.

I do not know why tailors the world over, are against those of us whose waist is size 37. Should we eat to gain one more inch, or should we diet and lose one inch?

The same goes for my weight. Either all weighing machines are faulty, my weight changes by the day. The machines I used last year gave me between 172 and 180 pounds. So what is my weight? I think my weight is season, and time dependent. In winter, I am heaviest for dressing in layers and lightest in summer. Heavier after lunch, and lighter upon waking up.

Back to clothing, I have absolutely no idea the size of my shirts. At times I buy size L only to be disappointed after one wash. Either the shirt shrinks, or I increase in size. I have so many size L shirts that I do not wear; I can easily start a mitumba business in Gikomba.

So I buy size XL, hoping that would be my size. They also disappoint me, because they sag on my body, like I am a walking scare crow. I am left wondering who they use as a yard stick to determine the size of shirts in China, where all my clothes seem to come from.

If you looked at my shoe rack, you would be forgiven for thinking that the shoes belong to different people. The reason is that they range from size 10.5 to 12; and they all fit me. So tell me, whose feet do they use to determine shoe numbers?

* * *

When I was growing up, water used to be a free commodity. It was so free you would visit your neighbor, and help yourself to as much water as you desired. Drinking water was in galore; from the flowing river in the village, to the taps in all households; from wells dug in village shambas; to dams spread all over the landscape.

The same water sources are still there. But something else changed; I went to school and chewed some books. I was told by my biology teacher that, some bacteria, fungi and bad stuff lurk in what I thought was otherwise clean water. Those bacteria and fungi could cause diseases that could kill me. Little did I know that my biology teacher was in cahoots with multinational corporations, to start a slow process of making me hate my childhood sources of water.

In the village, nobody gets sick from drinking straight from the tap. But tell that to yours truly, and my fellow tap-water-phobic educated type. And so it has come to pass that unless I drink water from a bottle bought from a supermarket, I am committing slow suicide. The situation is so bad that I now make tea, and cook ugali using bottled water. But do not blame me; blame the slow indoctrination started with my biology teacher.

Water vendors followed me to these United States, and I am sure they are the richest guys on earth. I have a feeling that theirs is a multi-billion dollar industry. Occasionally, when water vendors discover that their bottom line is affected by consumers, forgetting and turning to tap water to brew their coffee, a water alert is made in the local media. Announcements are made to the effect that, municipal water has been contaminated by sewer lines. EEW!

The next day, we all line up at the supermarket and water vending outlets, to buy water to cook our dinner and take a shower. Who would want to take a shower with sewerage water? I can predict that the next quarterly profits for water vendors will go up by a wide margin.

I have a feeling that in my lifetime, the good old air will also be on sale. We came close to that during the H1N1 fever scare last year. Everyone was arming themselves with a surgical mask, lest the virus got into their system. Watch that space; next time a scare like that happens, it will be said that the masks are not sufficient to protect us from the virus.

And so the global pharmaceuticals line up for that eventuality. You have heard it from my sources, who would not want to be named, since they are not permitted to speak about such sensitive matters. Mea maxima culpa.

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Maina Mugwe is my paternal uncle’s eldest son, making him my ‘brother,’ according to the traditions of my people. He chewed a few books, and landed a laboratory technician job at a nearby government research station. His closest friend was his well maintained ‘Raja’ bicycle, and a cat he loved to a fault. However, he was challenged in one faculty that everyone in the village talked about; he lacked the ability to woo a skirt wearer, and was approaching middle age as a senior bachelor.

His bachelorhood did not go down well the female relatives of the vast Mbari ya Matuguta. In one of the family meetings, all females were summoned to a side meeting by my great Aunt Wamaitha. Word leaked later that, all the women of the clan were given the responsibility of looking around, to find a girl suitable for Maina Mugwe.

“I will not go to rest with the moles, before I see the fruits of Maina’s loins,” Aunt Wamaitha declared. “Whoever finds a suitable girl should inform me, and I will approach her myself.”

Before the end of the harvest season that year, Aunt Wamaitha had visited close to 10 prospective girls, but dismissed all of them for one reason or another. She would visit a house hold, and observe how a girl carried herself.

The yard stick she used to measure the qualities of the future Mrs. Maina, remained her secret. All we heard was that, none of them was good enough as a wife. That is until she met Filomena Waithera. Filomena was the first born girl, in the house of Mwangi Mweru, chairman of the local primary school, on whose land the village cattle dip was built. He was therefore a respected community elder.

Mwangi Mweru was also useful in the village for another reason; he was the owner of three Kaunda suits. Some wazee in the village would borrow one of the suits, to look smart on important visits. They suddenly however, stopped borrowing Mwangi Mweru’s suits.

At one well attended end year party, in the headman’s house, while everyone was busy munching on the succulent goat ribs; Mwangi Mweru shouted at Mzee Waigwa Kiama, “Wee usichafue suti yangu! [Do not soil my suit].” Waigwa was so embarrassed, he left the party prematurely.

And so it came to pass that Aunt Wamaitha made the plans with Mwangi Mweru’s wife, to convince Filomena to be Maina’s wife. Filomena’s mother accepted the deal, because her first born daughter had a 10-year-old son, and therefore no longer a girl. She was hard working and respected her parents. Being a single mother, many boys did not approach her, considering her a used tire.

After convincing Maina to accept Filomena for his wife, Aunt Wamaitha arranged to have Filomena move to his house one evening, while Mwangi Mweru attended a land case at a neighbouring ridge.

Filomena’s son remained in the care of his grandparents. When Mwangi Mweru returned, he was breathing fire and brimstone. He said that, as long as he received what was due to him as dowry, his daughter could marry whoever.

Many moons later, Maina and Filomena are proud parents of three boys and a girl. No one in the village remembers the saga surrounding the beginning of their matrimony.

Today’s bachelors and bachelorettes, have no Aunt Wamaitha to count on to find spouses. Numerous young men and women are approaching middle age as singles without a sign of ever settling in marriage. Either because of harsh economic times, or a trait similar to Maina in his youth, many parents are worried their children will never be launched into the world of matrimonial bliss.

For this reason, Aunt Wamaitha has been replaced by a cadre of online entrepreneurs. They come in the name of: Chemistry.com, match.com, perfectmatch.com, eharmony.com, adultfriendfinder.com and a horde others.

Should one want to meet those of their religion, there are; Muslima.com, Qiran.com, christiandatingservice.com, singlesoffaith.com, buddhistconnect.com among others, to cater for different religions.

But most of these sites do not offer freebies. In order to meet a potential soul mate, one is required to pay some amount as ‘dowry’, to the owners of the dating service.

As it were, love is like measles- all the worse when it comes late in life, so said Douglas Jerrold.

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This morning, I was staring at the white screen of my laptop, suffering from a writer’s mental block. Then an e-mail I received from Baba Mose, an old friend, awoke me from the daylight slumber.

In the e-mail, Baba Mose needed information on how America is like, since, as he put it, his son had been admitted to a university stateside. Before I answered him, I recalled a fable I once read about six blind men, who were handed an elephant, and told to describe what they thought it looked like.

The first blind man touched the side of the elephant and said, “How smooth! An elephant is like a wall.” The second one touched the trunk. “How round! An elephant is like a snake,” he said. The third person touched the tusk and said, “How sharp! An elephant is like a spear.” The fourth man touched the leg. “How tall! An elephant is like a tree,” he said. The fifth man touched the ear. He said, “How wide! An elephant is like a fan.” The sixth blind man touched the tail. “How thin! An elephant is like a rope,” he said.

America is like a wall. Some people come, and create a giant wall between them and their past, childhood friends, family members, and their country. Once in Uncle Sam’s place, whatever link they had back home is severed. No e-mails, calls, or any form of communication exists with people back home. Some forget that it took the whole village to raise them, and the same villagers gathered one Sunday afternoon, to raise funds for their air ticket to America.

Like a snake, America lures you with promises of heaven on earth. Before you came to America, you heard of wonderful dreams, and opportunities awaiting discovery. But lo and behold! After a while, you discover that the American dream, is a very bad nightmare. America is as cunning as the snake, not forgiving to idlers. Social life disappears, once you make the capital of capitalism your abode. Before you know it, bills pile up by their dozens, and living from pay check to pay check, becomes a reality. Look around, majority of the people are a pay check away from bankruptcy, and homelessness.

The snake quality of America is, scary and unbelievable. This past year, I have received over 10 offers from various credit card vendors, with a pre-qualification for amounts in dollars, that make my Kikuyu mind go gaga. Of course, I shred the letters, as soon as they land on my mailbox.

America is like a spear with which to fight ignorance, poverty and disease; the unholy trinity, bedeviling third world countries. The successful, used the spear to their benefit, and have a lot of good to say about America. But all weapons can also harm the bearer. The spear in America has penetrated some category of people, and cultural conflict thrust them in doldrums. They used the spear to kill their pasts, and are busy killing their future.

America is a giant tree. It is like the Tree of Souls in the movie “Avatar” where humanity from all corners of the globe, have merged and made it their home. From this giant tree are numerous branches, and succulent fruits for all to enjoy. There is an excellent health care system, wonderful communication system- corruption, if there,- is not as endemic, impunity is unheard of, and there is a system that works.

However, because of the intricate web of the branches and twigs, it is very easy to get confused and lost in the land of opportunities. With so many choices to select from, I have met with people who have chosen the way of the unrighteous. Finding freedom they did not have at home, young immigrants have immersed themselves in the dark world of drug use, and gang life, to find themselves on the wrong side of the law. The same tree that has brought joy and fulfillment to many, has been a source of agony and anguish, for parents and relatives back home.

The elephant uses its ears to cool off, in times of intense heat. The great uncle Sam is, used by the world over, to fan off troubled spots. With military bases from Okinawa to Germany, Afghanistan to Korea, America has come in aid of numerous global citizens, caught between conflicts and civil wars.

The philanthropic nature of Americans, has seen the growth and development of global NGOs such as the United Nations, The Red Cross, and Plan International, to name but a few. These organizations in developing world, ward off calamities, like an elephant using its ears as a fan.

One can use a rope either to climb a high place, or hang himself. America offers both a rope to climb to a higher place, or hang one’s dreams. Many people have used the hidden opportunities available to advance their careers, and climb the ladder of success.

The moral of the six blind men and the elephant, is that all the six were right and wrong. By viewing the elephant from a narrow point, they did not have the advantage of looking at the big picture, to see that the whole is larger than the parts that make it.

As it were, America is so vast, that almost everything said about it is likely to be true, and the opposite is probably equally true, so said James T. Farrell. I rest my case, Baba Mose.

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I used to cherish school vacations, because they meant a three-week break from waking up with the cock, walk barefoot in the chilly morning for two miles, carrying a can of water on one hand, and a can of ash on the other. The purpose of these two items, is a matter for another time. My tattered books would be neatly tucked inside my shirt at the back, giving me a temporary hunchback.

The holidays were also interesting for another reason; a horde of cousins from the city, flocked our homestead, to spend the vacation in the village. The three weeks were adventure, day in day out. Grazing the old man’s goats, sheep, and cows, in the plains of Lanet, was the best thing that ever happened.

Occasionally, while we were deeply engrossed in boy play, ngunu, our notorious cow, would stray into Paulo’s maize farm, and feed on the succulent crop. This earned me a few strokes of the mwiko, sandals, or whatever else my mother would lay her hands on. One day, as we played hide and seek, all the animals found their way home without our knowledge, and we shook to the bones, knowing what awaited.

But the vacation’s adventures, far outweighed any punishment meted by our parents. I say parents because, those days, all grown-ups in the village were our parents, and had a right to mete out a punishment, without seeking the consent of one’s parents. Talk of a child being raised by the whole village.

With the passage of days, I also had my own children. When they reached school going age, I realized the reason my cousins used to be shipped to the village, every vacation time. As a working parent, it is unthinkable to have idle kids in the house the whole day.

Children today, are addicted to the Internet, Mexican soap operas, Nigerian movies, and computer games. Unless parents want their children to grow up as couch potatoes, and armchair adventurers, the need to ship them to cucu’s place is all the more urgent.

What if you live an ocean away from cucu? “Then one of two things need to happen,” Baba Kui told me, when I asked him what he does with his children during school vacation. “Either cucu comes to live with us, or I ship these children to Africa altogether.”

“I am almost going crazy, about what to do with my children during summer vacation,” he continued. “My wife is in school, while I work two jobs to keep us afloat.”

“But why, pray, do they need a three-months vacation?” I ask.

“I tell you my brother, who needs to be around these kids the whole year?” Baba Kui asked. “Even their teachers can go crazy.”

“Then send them to summer camp,” I said.

“Are you serious? Where will I get the $1,800 fee?” He sounded so agitated.

And so it has come to pass that, the mountain has come to Mohammed. Grandmothers have been shipped from all over Africa, to come and stay with their grandchildren, and ease the burden of bringing up the kids in the Diaspora.

Even so, this phenomenon has raised serious family issues back home. While cucu is taking care of her grandchildren, guka has been left alone in the village. I remember when Ethiteri, a kind old lady in my village, went to stay with her rich sons in the city of many lights. Eduadi, her husband was left to fend for his own in the village.

Eduadi was another one. He requested his sons to employ a house girl to help him cook, do laundry, and take care of the house, while his wife enjoyed herself in the city. His wishes were met, and a not-so-young girl, got herself a job in Uduadi’s house.

A few months later, Mwende, the house girl, started boasting to her friends that she was not sleeping on her ears. She was living larger than her house girl wages could allow. Word leaked that she had moved from her servant bed to Eduadi’s.

When word reached Ethiteri in the city, she came home blazing for a fight. But Eduadi did not take it lying.

“How can you leave me alone in the village, as you enjoy chapati na karanga in Nairobi?” he shouted back at his wife.

A few weeks later, it was visible to all that, Mwende was in the mother’s way, courtesy of her romance with Eduadi. As we speak, Mwende is happy to be Eduadi’s second wife, and is the soul mate of the old man, even as the elder wife is away with her sons in the city.

And so many parents are scratching their heads, not knowing what to do now that summer vacation is nigh.

PS. The first child is made of glass, the second porcelain, and the rest of rubber, steel, and granite- Richard J. Needham.

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I have known Brother Omosh, since he was a comrade at the University with a Difference, in Eldoret. Nobody knows when and how he acquired the name, but everywhere he went, everyone called him Brother Omosh, even though he was born, and brought up in the slopes of the Aberdare Ranges, where the name Omondi does not exist.

At the university, he was an astute businessman. Brother Omosh was the only comrade, who was able to travel to the slums of Eldoret, and ship very potent chan’gaa for sale in his room, at the Soweto hostels. He operated a pub in his room, where people imbibed the frothy Ruaraka waters, and Embassy cigarettes, sourced from Moi Barracks. How he evaded university security guards, remains a mystery. He made a kill from his business, and he was also rumored to be a landlord in his rural town of Kangari, Muran’ga.

Brother Omosh eventually graduated with honors, and took up a position in St. Joseph’s High School, as a history and literature teacher. But it was never to be, because he managed to get  a Ford Foundation scholarship, for a master’s degree in education at a prestigious university, stateside.

Many moons later, the owner of ostriches, came knocking at my door, and I joined the long line of economic refugees to these United States. Thanks to Facebook, I reconnected with Brother Omosh, and we hooked up, to reminisce over the good old days.

During our first meeting, signs that Brother Omosh was living large, were there for all to see, what with the fully loaded 2011 Acura MDX? His anatomy had changed, since I last saw him a decade earlier. In place of the long afro hair he kept those days, was a small sahara. His frame was also a bit rotundous, making the five feet four inches Brother Omosh, appear more diminutive.

“Maisha si mabaya huku bwana, I feel as rich as Safaricom, and I can’t complain,” he had not lost his sense of humor.

“I could tell from five miles away, that you are wallowing in the miasma of good living,” I said, if only to massage his ego, which I remember, was bigger than the elephants of the Aberdares.

From what I gathered, Brother Omosh had abandoned the master’s degree program, for a bachelor of science in nursing.

“Fuata nyuki ule asali,” he told me. “Why should I bother with pursuing pedagogical skills, while there are tones of dollars to be made in nursing?”

Meanwhile, Brother Omosh did not sleep on his ears. He got ‘married’ to a 54-year-old native, to “get the papers” as he put it.

“I almost lost it, when the Justice of Peace asked me the color of our bed sheets. I said blue, while my ‘bride’ had said turquoise green,” Brother Omosh told me, amid pearls of laughter.

Apparently, the Justice of Peace can ask very embarrassing questions, to seek the authenticity of the couple before them. The questions range from the names of the in-laws-to-be, the spouse’s underwear color, and the brand of toilet paper preferred, and on and on.

What the Justice of Peace might not be aware of is that, the couple spends a whole two months researching each other’s background, the FBI would be put to shame. Eventually, when the couple is ready, a mock interview is done by an agent, to prepare them for the big day.

And so it came to pass, that Brother Omosh swore an oath before the Justice of Peace, that he would love, have and hold, the 54-year-old bimbo in health and in sickness, in plenty and in need, until death doth them part, so help him God.

“Maze kumethoka,” Brother Omosh told me when we met the other day. “My American wife has taken me to court. I am to appear before the Suffolk County judge in a week’s time.” He sounded a man defeated.

“For crying out loud, I have paid all that is due to her, and her agent; I have no idea why she took the action,” Brother Omosh was clearly exasperated.

“Pole bwana, I will take you to court for support,” I told him.

“You have been accused of denying your spouse conjugal rights due to her; do you plead guilty or not guilty,” intoned the judge.

I could see Brother Omosh cutting a cold sweat. No doubt this came as a shocker. He had been advised by his lawyer to accept the accusation, and move on, since the charge was a civil matter.

“Guilty as charged,” was what came from his mouth.

“The probation officer will follow up this matter, to ensure that you consummate your marriage. Case dismissed,” the judge passed the verdict.

“Yes! I am so elated,” I heard Ivy shout from the other side of the court room. From where I stood, Ivy looked shabbier, disheveled, and unkempt, than the last time I saw her. She appeared all the 54 years of hard life she had lived. She looked more or less like an overfed alley cat.

“Sasa nani alale na yule mama?” Brother Omosh asked aloud, when we were out of the court. “Our deal was simple, cough out $7,500, get married, I get the papers after two years, and initiate a divorce. Sasa amenitenda.”

It was Billy Connoly, who said that marriage is a wonderful invention, but, then again, so is a bicycle repair kit.

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Last week’s chama meeting was held at Alex’s place, punctuated by sumptuous chapattis, irio, Nyama choma, pilau, kachumbari, and vegetable soup.

“I had one of the girls, do all the cooking you are enjoying,” Alex said, after noticing how perplexed everyone was, by the well laid out table. “I only did the nyama choma. I know this reminds you of Jamhuri, especially the married bachelors.”

For those not in the know, a married bachelor is a man who is by all means married, and might even have children. The only problem is that, his wife and kids are back in Jamhuri, while the man lives an ocean away, and only visits his house via Skype.

While enjoying the dish, we continued with small talk, and chit chat, about this and that. Mr. Mwai then called the meeting to order, and we lent him our ears.

“You all read how Safaricom posted good returns this year,” he intoned. “I am sure we will get better dividends this year from our stock.”

“Before you proceed, you said that last year, and the year before that,” Jack interjected. “It is high time we thought of divesting from NSE [Nairobi Stock Exchange]. I have not seen the benefit of being shareholders, in those Kenyan companies.”

“If you care to read our minutes, you will see your signature empowering the chairman, to buy and sell shares at the NSE,” I answered Jack. “Tena lazima tujenge taifa bwana.”

“Let us not dwell so much on Jack’s shenanigans,” Mr. Mwai said. “In due course, tutavuna matunda from our portfolio.”

“Don’t preach to me, not after you poured our $10,000 on a plot of land, that turned up to be a road reserve in Ndumberi,” Jack was clearly agitated.

“Hiyo ni hali ya maisha bwana,” Mr. Mwai intoned. “We did all we could, but you all know the rot in Ardhi House. Those land officers, need to be castrated.”

After a period of arguing, and haranguing, Alex cleared his throat, to attract attention.

“Gentlemen, you all know my girlfriend Anastasia,” he paused to let it sink.

Anastasia Wanja, happens to be Alex’s heartbeat, the only girl the Son of Maili Nne, Nyahururu, talks about all the time, especially when he is high on Miller Light.

“Tunamjua sana, is she finally coming to join you?” I asked.

“No, the issue is that finally, my seed did not go to waste this time,” Alex can beat about the bush once in a while. “She has finally swallowed the female cassava.”

“Can you speak in mother tongue, some of us are not good at decoding poetry,” Jack said.

“Alex is saying that his girlfriend is in the family way, and soon, there will be another child, resulting from a busted condom,” Mr. Mwai said.

“Congratulations are in order, is it a bull or a heifer?” I asked.

“Unajua Nyahururu General Hospital is unlike Mass [Massachusetts] General, cameras that look inside the womb are non-existent,” Alex offered an answer.

“In that case, we need to organize for a baby shower,” Mr. Mwai said.

“But the mother-to-be is an ocean away,” Jack said. “How are we going to convince the Diaspora that Alex is serious?”

“That will not be a problem, I am sure she can send a picture, and we blow it up for all to see,” I said.

“I still see a major problem, no one has ever had a baby shower, while his wife is in Jamhuri,” Jack, ever skeptical, said.

“Bwana, let me tell you, Alex has been to so many baby showers around,” Mr. Mwai said, “and he is well known, at the Baby’s R Us store. It is only good for his friends, to come to his aid.”

After deliberating on the logistics of a baby shower, I was honored with the responsibility, of informing one or two, of our close female friends, about the upcoming event. It was also decided that, since Anastasia is miles away, gift cards will not be accepted. A register will also not be opened at any store.

Eventually, we agreed to compose an SMS, to read like this; “You have been invited to attend Alex and Anastasia’s baby shower on 7/20/2010 at Maggie’s house. Come with cash or check. Thank you.” The message plus an e mail, were sent to Alex’s friends all over New England, and beyond. Our only hope is that, people will attend without asking too many questions.

Even so, Andrea Dworkin (1945-2005), said that no phallic hero, no matter what he does to himself, or to another; to prove his courage, ever matches the solitary, existential courage of the woman who gives birth.

Congratulations to all new mothers, and mothers-to-be, this year of many births.

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Hi. My name is Jessica but my friends (who are very few) call me Jezzie while my enemies –a constituency of them – call me Jezebel. I am 25 years old and HIV-positive. I am a mother of 5 -year –old twins – David (Didi) and Terry (Titi). This is my continuing story.

Week 9

Monday

Mwikali has the key to Jonah’s house, so Jonah’s wife and kids cannot access it.

“I am sorry, I can’t help,” I told Jonah’s wife yesterday.

I feel bad about how I dismissed her, but enough is enough. This mother Christmas tag, just must be shed off.

“Who is our new ‘aunty’?” Titi asks me, in tears.

“Who told you about a new aunty?” I ask, cuddling her. Her giggles warm my heart.

“Mwikali said Aly will be jailed, for stabbing Baba Gadaffi,” she continues. Stupid housegirl! why discuss such matters with 5-year-olds?

“Both will be jailed for fighting,” Didi intones philosophically. At least he is protecting his hero.

“Remember mum too was jailed for fighting,” she adds. Bad memories, Didi.

Aly has gone underground. The OCPD says he must make a statement. Didi is more subdued. I know he misses a man in the house, and Aly had filled that void. I thought I was through, with the headaches of house helps. The kids, though older, still need some continuity in the house.

“We have to go,” I tell my twin angels.

The sight of a sad kid is heartbreaking. What a gloomy morning. No one is singing, so I try some nursery rhymes, but the mood is off.

“Mum, we don’t feel like singing!” Titi says, looking out of the car. I get the message, and shut up.
I drop the kids,and get down escorting them to their class.

“It’s okay mum, we will go on our own,” Didi dismisses me, holds his sister’s hand, and they walk away, head bowed.

“Anything wrong?” the sister asks me, though she smartly keeps away from the morning gloom.

“The houseboy left yesterday, and they are really attached to him,” I whimper.

“Life’s harsh lessons. Exit one, enter another!” she smiles. Well summarised, Sister. Well put.

Hussein calls as I drive out of the school. I pull on the side, to take the call.

“Hi baby!” he coos. I swallow hard as my muscles relax.

“Hi!” I croak back, my heart racing wildly. This Hussein is having some effect on me. I have started fantasizing with him. Well….

“I have a date with a herbalist from Dar es Salaam,” he jumps to the point.

“Let us meet in the office,” I tell him, as I get back to the road.

His sweet smile, stunning eyes and gentle voice, play continuously in my mind. It’s long time since I had a man. I think it is time. Juma. It’s long since he gave me enough drama.

“Good morning,” he says, somehow I am on my guard. Women’s instinct. A volcano is about to erupt.

“Good morning Juma,” I reply as I study his face for signs of mischief. So far there is none. “Is there a problem?”

“Yes,” he answers. The fellow looks distressed.

“My wife is in hospital,” His voice lowers in. Instinctively even his head bends.

“Wife? Which wife?” I ask, my antennae going up. My memory should remind me that, Juma has several wives.

“The youngest is in hospital, having delivered triplets!” he answers. The distress is real.

“Wow, congratulations!” I am excited, but the agony on his face, stops me dead on my tracks.

“Triplets means curses, boss!” he says before I intervene with a long lecture and, Kshs.5,000 from the office kitty.

He walks away somehow satisfied, but confused. He stops at the door unsure what to do. He comes back, his face a quizzical mask.

“What now?” I ask.

“My people throw triplets in the forest, to avoid curses,” he whimpers.

“You give them to me, and I will find someone who is craving for children,” I tell him off.

“And don’t you dare harm them, or the mother!” The threat sinks, and Juma lumbers away.

Mr. Kombo has not reported to work, for the third straight day. I call him, but he does not pick it. I will go to his house. The guy definitely needs help.

My grandfather’s funeral meeting is on today, and if all goes well, we should bury him this Saturday. Talking of grandpa, I call mum to find out how things are.

“You will not believe this,” she tells me. “Right here with me, is a court officer. He has delivered an injunction against the burial of dad. There is a hearing tomorrow, at the Law Courts.”

That depresses me. Come on, the grand old man is dead, let him rest in peace. What obsession is it, with pieces of land?

“Why don’t you surrender the title deed and bury the old man in peace?” I ask mum.

There is silence, before she sagely replies, “If my dad didn’t do it, why should I?” That makes sense.

“But we still must meet, right?”

“Yes!”

I need a houseboy because, I don’t see myself coping without Aly.

To be continued.

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“Your gum line seems to be receding,” my dentist passed the verdict, after examining the x-ray pictures of my teeth, and prodding my mouth with some sharp steel object, and a tiny mirror. “At this rate, you might develop some cavities, especially in your molars.”

“It is not only my gum receding,” I almost told him, but I did not. I know my gum has been receding for a while now, and I think I know why. What with the many years of chewing on hard food such as githeri, very tough sugar cane, kienyeji chicken, and goat ribs, long after the last morsel of flesh had gone? With all that punishment, what gum will not recede?

“Everything in me is receding at an alarming level,” I mumbled to myself. Take my waist, for example. Ever since I crossed to this side of 30, I have noticed that my waist has been receding, and in its place, has appeared something that resembles a tire wheel. At least I only have one tire around my waist; I know my age mates who have two, or three tires around their waists. Even as the waist is receding, so does my butts. It seems that what I gain in front, I lose in the back. So help me God.

My hairline is also suffering a recession. I started noticing this a decade ago. I wondered whether I was developing a wider face, but on closer look, I discovered that I was losing some hair. The evidence was in the pillow, and the hair brush every morning.

Even as I lost some hair on top of the head, the same hair would appear, in some other place within my anatomy. That is why today, I boast of some strands, inside the nose and ears. No wonder, my son calls me porcupine ears. I am yet to know why I lose hair on my head, and gain the same in those undesirable places.

My neck is another culprit. I very well remember my twenties, when I had a size 16 neck, and it was noticeable, especially from the back. But now, my son tells me that my back, and head, are not joined by a neck, but some flaps of flesh we call ngata, where I come from.

My appetite for rioting has also receded. Some years back, I used to venture out a lot. Call me itchy feet, but that is what I was. I filled the tank of my car, and drove all over, doing this and that. By the time the tank was empty, I would have painted various towns red. But now, all that has receded, and all that is left, is sit back and enjoy a Celtics basketball game, while imbibing from an orange juice glass. The bitterest drink I now take is ginger ale, while dancing to Kirk Franklin’s ‘Do you want a revolution?’

But the single most loser in the race of recession, is my wallet. I have tried all known methods to increase the size of my wallet, to no avail. Every time I come across what I think is the abracadabra, of crossing the valley of poverty, viola! It vanishes, and with it, some brain cells. I have scratched my head, built castles in the air, but it all are a chase of the wind. It is like a mirage.

And then I read in the newspapers,about a mhindi of my age,now a billionaire in Nairobi, after establishing a software company, only 10 years ago. I rethink my strategies of wealth creation, and imagine that maybe, I have been in the wrong career all along.

The worst thing is that, the more I earn, the less I get. It goes like this; I receive my pay stub today, pay all my bills, send some dollars to build Jamhuri, and by the next day, I am as broke as I was before payday. I have a mind that the Internal Revenue Service, is my enemy number one. Otherwise why do they get from me, almost 35 percent of my hard earned cash? But then again, I look at the smooth roads, and all those good services from Uncle Sam, and I keep quiet.

But when I compare myself to the universe, I recognize I might be lucky, to be earning more than a dollar a day. I read somewhere that, while I lament the recession within my system, the global eco system has suffered the worst recession. And I am not talking economics. The forest cover has been receding at an alarming rate. That is why my furniture is now made of compacted wheat, and rice husks from Thailand, and Indonesia.

The polar ice cover is also receding so quickly, that by the time my son is my age, Antarctica will be populated with humanity, and the Arctic Circle, a summer vacation destination. The last time I checked, Mt. Kilimanjaro had lost the ice cap. Talk of recession.

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Hi. My name is Jessica but my friends (who are very few) call me Jezzie while my enemies –a constituency of them – call me Jezebel. I am 25 years old and HIV-positive. I am a mother of 5 -year –old twins – David (Didi) and Terry (Titi). This is my continuing story.

Week 9

Sunday

Hurricane, screams, and banging of doors characterise another morning drama. Someone gotta tame this Victorian male chauvinist called Jonah.

“Where are my children?” he shouts.

The reply is another scream from, I guess, Mwikali. Aly is already out of the house.

“Come and fight, you uncircumcised piece of meat!” comes Aly’s voice. Two hot headed fools, squaring it out for a woman. History is definitely repeating itself. By the time I am out, the two men are rolling on the ground.

“Stop it!” Mwikali shouts, as she tries to get between the two men.

She is bleeding from the lips. Before I reach them, Aly flashes a knife, and swifter than a Samurai warlord, jabs into Jonah’s stomach. I cannot believe it, nor make a move. Mwikali, hand in mouth, cannot scream. Jonah stops the struggle. Only Aly, has the presence of mind to continue the madness. He extricates himself from the mangle of Jonah’s body, and raises the knife for a kill.

“No!” the simultaneous scream from Mwikali, and myself, stop him mid air.

Jonah recovers from the shock of the stabbing, but the gushing blood creates panic in him.

“You have killed me you Digo dog!” he whispers hoarsely. The blood is now a trickle. He is writhing in pain.

“Aly. No!” I tell him, the knife still over Jonah’s head.

Any moment, and Jonah is past tense. He looks at me with renewed anger. I can see the fire in his eyes, and it is a matter of the wrong trigger, before he does something foolish.I walk towards him, and motion him to give me the knife. Aly ignores me, bends down, and wipes the blood on Jonah’s orange T-shirt. Jonah flinches. Aly walks from the scene. Jonah slumps and passes out. Mwikali’s hysterical scream brings my children, running out of the house.

“Bring my phone, Didi,” I check Jonah’s pulse. It is not very weak.

“Where is Aly?” Titi shrills, holding on to my night dress.

I decide to call a cab. The watchman is already outside the door.

“Mwikali, stay with the kids,” I order her.

I watch as the watchman, and the cabman, struggle with Jonah. The neighbours are awake and a sizeable crowd has gathered out.

“The Klinik,” I instruct the driver. I call the OCPD about what has taken place.

“ Meet you at the hospital,” he tells me.

This is complicated. Aly has disappeared, and his phone is off. Mwikali is with my kids. Jonah is at my mercy. At the Klinik,I tell the OCPD, “My houseboy and my neighbour fought.” I notice his distant gaze.

“Your mind is not here,” I jolt him his dreaminess.

“Many things,” he whispers. We check on Jonah, who is conscious and keeps clicking, and muttering to himself. Sounds like “Ther meru!” He is wheeled into theatre.

“Finally, I think I have tracked down my kids, and their mother,” the OCPD whispers, as he sips water.

It is hardly 7 a.m. and the fury of the coastal humidity can be felt.

“And?”

“She is married to another man,” he replies dreamily. “A white man!”

“And the kids?”

“They are gorgeous little adults.”

“Where did you see them?”

“ It was accidental, at the Nyali Nakumatt.”

There is relief and pain, in the OCPDs voice. He seems glad to finally trace his family, but sad he cannot have them.

“Did you talk to the kids?”

His voice is nostalgic. “Yes. Lovely kids, or should I say, young adults. After a short silence.

“What next?”

“I really don’t know,” he replies as we move towards the doctor, who is just out of theatre.

Another doctor, Kyanda, is taking care of the stab.To my relief, no vital organs, seem to have been touched.

“Where is your Aly?” the OCPD asks.

“Most likely at his mother’s, but you never know with these Digo men,” I reply. We walk to the car park.

“I have a lunch date with my kids at WaterWorld,” he excitedly tells me.

That to him, is approval from them.

“Cell Five?”

That seems to make him tense. “A big mess. A story for another day,” he says.

Jonah will remain in hospital. I drive back home, to find another drama unfolding. Jonah’s wife is back with her kids, and her earthly belongings – a paper bag of shoes, and a mutilated bag of clothes. She is perched outside the house, conveniently locked by Mwikali. I don’t need this on a Sunday morning. I get into the house, and prepare for church. That is what Sunday was ordained for.

To be continued.

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