The lost mzungu and other short stories- the alchol revolution

pg 2 n 3

In my humble opinion, the first line used by the battalions of subversion is the council askaris. This is not new, and these lowly police unit has a knack for interfering with the ritual of imbibing alcohol.  I do not totally understand their reason for doing so, but I highly suspect that their main motivation is greed and to a lesser level envy. Back in the days when enjoying that huge mag of beer, under the watchful eye of the mighty sun, these cronies of the evil powers that be used to emerge from the underground with huge contraptions to trap the soldiers of good as they communed with each other facilitated by their medium; alcohol. These contraptions henceforth to be referred to as lorries were used to block the alley on both ends, leaving us trapped like a rat in a trap.

But make no mistake, there was nothing remotely rat like about us and these fools soon realized the folly of their ways. For as soon as they descended on us expecting fear and panic to reign supreme, instinct gave way to reason and the only avenue open to us was to make a stand and fight for it. And so the hapless and sometimes helpless askaris would face the wrath of hundreds of students, most of them trained in strikology (the art of engaging armed police in prolonged combat with stones and all manner of crude hurl-able objects). And they would quickly jump into their mean machines and race away seeking the dark nooks through which they can be transported back to their hell holes and bear punishment from their evil masters for failing to conquer the knights of the order of the great keg.

Yet, with a single paper Kimondo the evil brought to their knees these great knights, no longer to wage war against the brown froth served chilled by the willy bar bar tenders across the nation. What good is drinking if we can’t drink at will, what pleasure is intoxication if it is governed by oppression, suppression and fear. That we shall drink from 5pm weekday till 11pm and 2pm weekends till 11 pm. That we can no longer assemble with our friends at our favorite joints simply because of the whims of one man, a man wrought by jealousy and handicapped by internal and external ugliness. For that is what one has to be to be so ruthless, for though he claims good intentions, it is but a smoke screen to garner support from fellow demons in the chamber at the bowels of hell.

Such a law have several implications above the obvious denial of the utilitarian purpose of life which allows all human beings the freedom to seek and pursue happiness without obstruction or denial. It means reduced sales in bars which cater to people who have adequate times at their disposal to pursue alcoholic intoxication at all times. It means loss of friendships which have been strengthened in the now forbidden times of drinking, when the only company apart from the broth is the constant chatter among friends. It means loss of great ideas which are shared in meetings in various pubs and brainstorming becomes possible under the guidance of a cold bottle. It is the subjugation of patriotism when friends can no longer feel free in a country that they call theirs,and such a loss must never go unchallenged.


The lost mzungu and other short stories- The alcohol revolutiono

pg 1

This story will be told in bars across the country, both by drunks and sober a like. It is a tale of courage and pain, of attempts to subvert the wheels of democracy. Moreover some can justly say that a conspiracy to infringe on our freedoms was a foot, but it did not succeed., but just barely. yes, they were going to take the drinks from our hands, to kill our rights to assemble and partake of the blessed brew. But there are things in this world which are greater than any one person, and the attempt by any person to take them away is recipe for rebellion. And in this land, a cold beer at the end of the day is a right we truly hold dear. In fact, Kenyans have a culture of taking a drink anytime of the day, a reflection of the democracy Kenyans have always held dear. yes, this story is about a man who tried to take this fundamental right from us, subjecting us to thirst and general oppression.

I remember the good old days when i was in college, in a small pub in the back alleys of the capital city. There was this revolutionary pub, very small interior aided by several tables and seats outside the pub. It was during this period when the countries premier brewer, Kenya brewery introduced the cost friendly senator keg. Before people used to take strong spirits among the favorite brands being Kenya King, napoleon, razz, sapphire, Merry Cane among others. But senator keg allowed those with shallow pockets, especially students like ourselves to have a cold beer at the end of the day. Now you have to understand that for students, a typical day ends at 1 pm and hence the only logical thing to do is to head to a favorite joint and have a beer. So any law that bans drinking before 5 is draconian and barbaric, and denies this class of Kenyans a rightly earned session with both friends and beer.

The lost mzungu and other short stories- The tale of catherine

pg 5

My second born was born not so long after my first. Another boy, a blessing to be the mother of two beautiful boys. For one so young, the child could drive you mad with his talent for wailing. The months of his infancy were long, and the nights deprived of any peace or joy. For my child, as if possessed by a demon of torment could not stop crying; be it day or night. My efforts to silence him came to naught, and no offer of milk or lullaby could quiet this bundle of joy. But the years soon passed away, and the inevitable changes soon came and with them joy as plenty as the waters of seas.

I remember a time, when my boy was in elementary school and a bicycle ran him down. I remember he worry that invaded my gut, so strong and nauseating with a sense of dread. I still feel the anger, deep and unrelenting, at the rider who dares to harm my innocent angel. the love we feel for our children, the knowledge that no sacrifice is too big to make for their survival. And I go to my grave, still perturbed by the failure to comprehend why this feelings are not given to a few of the female kindred. A few who would lay down the lives of the innocent at the hands of surgical butchers or in the waste buckets of the street; to be devoured by all manner of unholy creatures. But perhaps such is the way of the world, for the bible prophesied it best, that both wheat and weed must coexist till the day of judgment.

He grew up tall and strong, and his devotion to hard work matched only by my own. Though rebellious in every way to authority, his attraction to work is like a dew that washes over the grass; while the sun still shies away from the sight of mere mortals. But our insistence saw him finish schooling and now pursues a vocational skill to prepare him for a future of responsibility; to family, nation and God.


Today i feel that the blog boy, Peter Evans, is becoming a man. I can hear the circumcision drums booming in the horizon, and the warriors are sharpening their spears and preparing to herald this youth into their literal battalions. Why is this auspicious ceremony, and what leads this great warriors into celebration. Well today my blog traffic has hit over 200 mark, and that as weighed against my average traffic is monumental. The last highest figure stood at 72, and i hope that this milestone will act as a booster to my morale to keep churning out more inspired pieces that will keep you glued to the computer. And though I lament the health implications this might hold for you dear reader, I feel elated knowing that someone out there is appreciating the humble effort that I exercise in a bid to combat boredom when idleness becomes the norm in those offices.  In addition today i got a recognition by my writing mentor and one of the most brilliant writer this country have been given the privilege to call citizen. And this recognition, meted out in flowery language and bestowed with kingly honor, means a lot that the benefactor will ever know. And so I have to say thank you, dear reader, for every thing you have done and that which you’ll keep doing. And I promise you, that the journey towards literal prominence has just began. And though I lead this infantry into literal battle, its you readers who’ll claim victory once we’ve slaughtered the dragon of ignorance and restored the beacon of hope at the throne of bloggosphere.

The lost mzungu and other short stories- The tale of catherine

pg 4

“Don’t cry, little one,” I whispered to my first born.

“But its so unfair,” quipped the little boy, trying hard to suppress the sobs which threatened to wreck his delicate frame.

“The  world is never fair, but the year will go by first.”

The boy had paused to consider those words, and his cry subsided; having chose to trust my comforting words. As I watched him jump up and down, happy that though he was denied admission due to size and tenderness of age, he had beaten them all in the admission exam. He was always a brilliant child, eager to learn, curious than the proverbial cat.

As my first born, i couldn’t have asked for a better child. he was the anchor through which my pride took root, and the role model his other siblings will need to spur them on in the journey to adult hood. i showered him with love, watched him as he took his first step into a world full of hardships and bitterness. And from the onset it was apparent that he was a lazy child, but only selectively and I had no fear that he would not make it in life.

He grew up way too first, or perhaps it was I who was too preoccupied with bringing up his 3 siblings. Before i knew it he was done with elementary schooling, past primary and in high school. i was immensely proud when he passed primary school with flying colors and got admittance in a high ranking provincial school. i was even happier when he later got admitted into one of the leading universities and i knew that i had succeeded in molding my son, and hopefully ensured a successful future for him.

I had tried to impress on him that life is complex, and people are not always so good. i have failed on that aspect, for my son is too trusting, believing that all people have good in them. he once quoted some words by Abraham Lincoln,” That the only way to make men trustable is to trust them.” He has always been so ambitious, bent on finding ways to make this world a better place. I can only hope that my passing would not break his spirit, for he has endured too much pain and sorrow. And as a mother, i know that even the strongest people sometimes break under the weight of immense sorrow.


The Kaleidoscope man

pg 3, 4 n 5

“Elizabeth, hand me my briefcase,” Joseph shouts lightly at the butler.

“Here you go sir,” the butler, looking regal and ironic, hands the leather case to his master.

This morning, Joseph was dresses conservatively in a Hugo Boss suit, the kind usually tailored to the like of rich conservative men. The suit was navy blue, worn with a stripped shirt and no tie. The suit was completed with some black moccasins, and a gold Rolex on his sizable arms. The picture this man gave was that of a rich conservative aristocrat, comfortable to remain in the anonymity of quiet wealth. And to call him wealthy would be the understatement of the year, for the man possessed riches beyond the imagination of many men. His property, both commercial and residential could fill up a small novel, from the shops of Capetown to the luxury of Paris. From the chateaus of Bordeaux to the palaces of old England, his real estate empire was vast and expansive. His ships pried the seven seas transporting goods from one end of the world to the other, numerous as the creatures that swam under them. His planes, some of them private, flew proudly under all skies proclaiming to the world the rich heritage of this noble family. And his investments, made secretly under the guise of several shell companies could easily dwarf those of several members of the Forbes top 100, combined.

“When Jason comes back, tell him i left for him the cheque he needed.” And with that the master steps out, adopting the languid steps he always preffered as he goes to pursue various important tasks.

“How I wish that he could just take the cheque and never come back here,” lamented the bachelor slowly as he remembers the events of the previous night.

The sound of the young ladies as Jason pounded them in the pool room, uncaring of whether his escapades caused discomfort to the other occupants. He chuckles quietly to himself in his ingenious use of pound, for that was the right word for the angry love making that Jason preferred. Sometimes, he can’t help but wonder whether the screams were the product of pain or pleasure; knowing fully well the physical power of this controversial man. But everything about the occupants of this house are controversial, and just like them, he had made peace with that fact. And why wouldn’t he, when the salary he draws makes some senior executives in the master’s companies look like pea nuts. The master and his brothers could go about their businesses, he would aid them, and let those affairs remain within the confines of this grand mansion.

Outside, on the marble steps of the grand house, Joseph waits patiently for the driver to bring the rolls from the under ground parking. Being a Wednesday he prefers to ride in the elegant white rolls, disliking the Mercedes which would be lost among the sea of similar cars as he plays chess with his friends at a popular hotel. He could take the limo, but he has never liked the immense length of the car, preferring the detailed beauty of the smaller vehicles. But he could afford the choice of any car currently sitting idle in the vast garage, but he frowned heavily on some of the many cars taking space of his beloved garage. He sneers at the jaguars and Maybachs, wondering what his brother Jason sees in such small cars. He worries that the speed would be the end of his erratic brother, and the sight of them never ceases to arouse this impending doom. He makes a mental note to talk to him about it, something he never seems to get the opportunity to do. But what mollifies him is the cheap unassuming vehicles preferred by his other bother Walter. In his bedroom, he has a gold and diamond watch more costly than the most expensive car driven bv Walter. Not that Walter had many cars, he always felt that two vehicles were more than any man deserves. His brother always felt that humility was a prerequisite for any man of God, and usually went several days without food to pray for those without.

The driver opens the door for him, and makes way to the drivers seat after making sure the master was comfortable.

“To the bookshop George, I need to pick another thriller.”

“Right away sir,” Replies George as he eases the vehicle down the long drive way.

“Hows the children”

“Fine sir, the youngest is feeling well now”

“That’s good,” Joseph replies absentmindedly as his  mind wonders about the children he never had.

At 40, he had resigned himself to the fact that children were not for him, and has dedicated his life to knowledge and taking care of his brothers. Sometimes the fact that all three of them chose a life of bachelorhood bothers him, but dismisses the thought with carefully chosen theories and attitudes. Every one deserves to chose the kind of life they live, and it was not his business to query the coincidence that is their enjoined life. A river must follow its own course, as it makes its way to the ocean of life; without hindrance or distraction.

“I heard your brother Jason mention something about heading to Europe for a month.”

“So he called you to fetch him from ehhh?”

“Some big club, I don’t remember the name”

“How was he?”

“Very drunk, with two ladies in his arms. But if I might say tso, boss, he looked very happy.”

“Happy, I think every one would look happy with so much alcohol in his body and the prospect of laying two beautiful women looming in the near future,” replied Joseph as he wondered, silently when was the last time he felt the warm body of a woman in his bed.

“Perhaps you are right sir,” replied the driver honestly, having learnt long a go that there was no likelihood of being fired from this job. He knew too much, and this knowledge forever a security of tenure, and a basis for which his adequate remuneration was anchored.

A new Friend is like a drizzle to a thirsty flower

This post is dedicated to Monica Wamuha, for always believing in my creativity. (Standing up, and making a salute to you.)

I have been writing this blog for close to an year now, and it is only lately that I feel the attention due me for the effort i make so often to please you, my dear reader. i have almost given up on numerous occasions, terrified and cowed by the great monstrosity that is the dragon of despair fueled by the wrath of unappreciation. Sometimes, it takes so much internal gumption to marshal the intellect, witticism and creativity needed to make a post deserving of attention; in a world where time is limited and a culture of reading no longer exists. And yet all is not gloom, for in the darkness of intellectual ignorance, a ray of light shines through splitting the darkness and watering the seed of hope so that it grows; anchored not in self interest but for the satiety of readers like Monica.

But it would be wrong, in fact a grave violation of human decency to assign all glory to her alone. New readers, of note being Lucy, wayward foe, Esta, and sometimes great pips like Abby, Kagwe and ken; guys whose attention showers the forest in which my creativity wonders unhindered and unchallenged. When my mind is locked in the slammer, and those guys in D block have sent their threats to intimidate the gray matter from functioning properly, the encouragement of these friends comparable to a presidential pardon freeing my intellect to ran amok in the challenging universe of bloggosphere.

And yes, “A new friend both in life and blog is like a drizzle to a thirsty flower.” Ravaged by sun, and choked by drought, it withers and lie forlorn waiting for the eventful slow and agonizing death. Outside my crib, planted so long ago stands several flowers and plants that aid in appeasing the eyes to the few visitors paying homage to my humble abode. In the dry season, this majestic plants wither and curl up and are devoid of life and majesty. They fail in their duty, for they cheer me not while my moods beaten by the waves of a difficult life plummets. But the dark clouds gather over head, looming over mortals like great roman battalions. And the heavens open, letting forth the purity that must be the cries of the grieving angels. grieving for what is about to be lost, to give a new leash of life to these plants and the owners so close to despair.