I cannot do so many things like my younger brother. I do not know how he does it, like tying shoes. For me, it looks so difficult. Every time I promise myself I will do the first knot, but when I bend to start, I see the [...]]]> Pgaitho.blogspot.com, Peter Gaitho
Published Dec. 20, 2010

I cannot do so many things like my younger brother. I do not know how he does it, like tying shoes. For me, it looks so difficult. Every time I promise myself I will do the first knot, but when I bend to start, I see the ground so near my eyes, I sometimes think I will hit it as I tie my shoe. So I look the other way, not my shoe. I can hear mom shouting, “Pete, focus.” I try to tell her I am doing my best, but only tears flow down my heart. For you see, I learnt long time ago not to shed tears with my eyes. Now I cry with my heart.

I know everyone expects me to have learnt how to tie my shoe laces. I am a big boy now, as everyone keeps telling me. My best moment is when I play the piano. Last evening at the party, everyone was so happy when I played a difficult song. I was so happy. I almost cried real tears. But I remembered I am a big boy, so I cried with my heart, tears of joy.

It is in moments like this, when I say, “This little light of mine, am gonna let it shine,” even though I cannot tie my shoes laces.

To be continued.

Today I had time to think. I looked all over the shopping mall. Everyone seemed excited by the displays on the windows. The products looked enticing. I wanted to buy the little dalmatian toy, but my mother said I could not have it. She said I am [...]]]> Pgaitho.blogspot.com, Peter Gaitho
Published Dec. 17, 2010

Today I had time to think. I looked all over the shopping mall. Everyone seemed excited by the displays on the windows. The products looked enticing. I wanted to buy the little dalmatian toy, but my mother said I could not have it. She said I am a big boy now, and that big boys don’t play with small boys’ toys. I cannot talk back to my mother, or to anyone for that matter; at least not using their language. My language cannot easily be understood by anyone, because I speak silently. My mind forms words, but my mouth refuses to utter them. I try shouting, but nothing comes out of my mouth.

I can see other people conversing loudly. They seem so happy, so I join in the laughter, only for my mom to tell me to be quiet because I should not laugh without a reason. “But everyone seems happy mom,” I try to tell her, but she has gone back to her world. She is talking on her phone, with her boyfriend. And I am so frustrated. I do not know why in moments like this I start twirling my hair. Before my mom turns my way, I am holding some strands of hair, and some blood is on my finger. It is painful, but I would rather feel pain than be ignored by everyone. And why is everyone looking at me that way?

Why are they all looking at me? Why me? What is so different about me?

To be continued.

After another week at the hospital with Jioni, Dr. Kio finally remembered where she had met the young patient. It was three years back that they had met at the same hospital, Jioni a case of excess bleeding and infection resulting from female circumcision. The doctor had been incensed [...]]]> By CLIFFORD OLUOCH
Published Dec. 16, 2010

After another week at the hospital with Jioni, Dr. Kio finally remembered where she had met the young patient. It was three years back that they had met at the same hospital, Jioni a case of excess bleeding and infection resulting from female circumcision. The doctor had been incensed by the action and had promised to follow the case up to the highest authorities, but it had not happened as she had had to leave for further studies outside the country, hence pushing the case to the back of her mind.

Three years later, and she had met the girl again. This time she was determined to follow up the case to the end and use it to fight female circumcision in the community.

A public rally on HIV/AIDS awareness was coming up in a week’s time and many of the country’s musicians and entertainers and NGOs were going to talk about HIV/AIDS and it effects on the society. Dr. Kio, one of the convenors of the rally, was going to get Jioni to talk about her life.

Jioni and the doctor had a lengthy discussion about the rally. “Do I have to read anything?” Jioni asked, well aware that reading was one of her biggest weaknesses.

“Not really,” replied the doctor. “You will just have to be yourself and tell the rally your story, just the way you are talking to me. You are a brave girl and nothing can scare you.”

Jioni was still very nervous about the whole idea of speaking in front of others, especially adults. “Where is this rally going to be held?” she inquired.

The answer was not what she was exactly expecting. “At your last school, Rural Urban Primary School,” replied the doctor. “And thousands and thousands of people are expected to attend it.”

Jioni stiffened at the mention of her former school. The memories she had of the school were not fond ones. And the memories were still fresh in her mind, especially her last day there with all the chanting of “Kill her!” What if they decided to really kill her?

The doctor sensed Jioni’s discomfort and went ahead to reassure her. “You won’t be the only speaker, the MP, the councillors will all be there, and there will be other people who are HIV positive who will also talk. This is your chance.”

Jioni relaxed and became excited when she heard about the entertainers and musicians who were lined up for the big day. It was really going to be a big day.

A day before the event, Jioni asked the doctor to take her to the venue. She needed to rehearse her speech. The two went to the venue and they practiced over and over again. The doctor seemed excited as Jioni talked naturally about her life. It was amazing how at the age of 12, this young girl had gone through all the hardships of life.

The big day was finally here with Jioni. It was a Saturday morning and she found it hard to take breakfast. For the last one week she had been staying at Dr.Kio’s quarters, and she loved every bit of it, someone to talk to, confide in, emulate, joke with. Dr. Kio sometimes took her on hospital rounds, explaining to her some of the ailments and how to treat them. Jioni vowed to be a doctor when she grew up.

Jioni was restless and so was the doctor. They decided to leave early and be at the venue an hour before the others. They arrived at the venue and already there were people setting up the public address system. The crowd was building up slowly. Jioni and Dr.Kio made it to the VIP dais where their seats were reserved. Jioni felt important.

The entertainers and some of the VIPs started arriving and Dr.Kio went ahead to introduce each of them to Jioni personally. They were very polite to her some explaining to her what the whole rally was going to be about. She even had a chance to ask some musicians about their music. This was real life!

Time was up and all the dignitaries had arrived. The local MP was the last one to arrive and with him was the Minister for Health, a lady. A real minister! Jioni was thrilled when the MP and the minister came to the dais and shook hands with all of them. The minister had a few words to say to Jioni.

“What would you like to be when you grow up?” the minister asked Jioni, who seemed to know too well what she wanted to be.

“A doctor, and discover the cure for AIDS,” she replied confidently admiring the Minister’s smart attire, especially the headgear.

The programme began and speaker after speaker talked about the evils of HIV/AIDS, ways of transmission. Musicians sang and actors performed, all on the theme. The crowd responded with appreciation, screaming their heads off when the musicians danced to their liking.

The last speaker before the MP was Dr. Kio. She stood and went to the microphone, and hers was very brief, “All my effort in combating the spread HIV/AIDS and FGM in this community will be summarized in a real life story of one my youngest ever patients, Jioni!”

Jioni stiffened! This was the moment of truth to tell the world about her life once and for all. She remained seated until the applause brought her to her senses and feet. She moved to the microphone, a smart young girl twelve years old, HIV positive and victim of FGM.

“Go for it girl,” Dr. Kio said, as she held Jioni’s left hand and squeezed it gently to reassure her that all would be well.

To be continued.

(c) oluochcliff@yahoo.co.uk

President Zuma is not the first man to loose his ‘bed’ to another man.

Who doesnt know a neighbour whose wife has begotten a child or two with another man? Which grown up–man or woman–has not seen men bringing up children they know in their hearts of hearts that they [...]]]> BY PHILIP KENNEDY
Published June 10, 2010

President Zuma is not the first man to loose his ‘bed’ to another man.

Who doesnt know a neighbour whose wife has begotten a child or two with another man? Which grown up–man or woman–has not seen men bringing up children they know in their hearts of hearts that they are not theirs?

It is only a fool who will go around lamenting that this child number three or four is not mine. They will taunt him. Where was he when his wife was ovulating and needed a baby? Why should a man complain when the children are a blessing and not a curse. Not unless the man’s family who sired with his wife has serious genetic disabilities!

And Zuma is not the first man to let his bed, his voono away. We have had great men whose wives digressed. Great literature books have been build on what they regard as a woman’s perfidy. What triggered the famous Arabian Knight’s story if I may ask? A woman’s perfidy and the unreasoning jelousy of the man.

And the famed Anne Karenin story by Tolstoy!

Part I: Home bound

When I booked a Lufthansa plane to Kenya via Ethiopia for the December 2009 holidays, it never occurred to me that the discount voucher I held in my hands could also have contained its own angels of luck. Or didn’t it? The 777 Boeing from Houston to Frankfurt is comfortable [...]]]> BY LEONNARD OJWANG

Part I: Home bound

When I booked a Lufthansa plane to Kenya via Ethiopia for the December 2009 holidays, it never occurred to me that the discount voucher I held in my hands could also have contained its own angels of luck. Or didn’t it? The 777 Boeing from Houston to Frankfurt is comfortable in every aspect, my seat faces the right wing where I can see the stratosphere, and my neighbor is kind enough to wake me up every time food is served. We land in Germany in the morning, and I learn that my connecting flight from Frankfurt to Addis Ababa has been cancelled due to heavy snow during the wee hours of the night. I feel so bitter. I switch on my phone and it responds like a happy toddler: ‘Welcome. Your time is being updated. Do you want to accept daylight savings?’ I tap ‘Yes.’ It connects to Germany’s O2 mobile network. I send in a quick text message informing my cousin in Nairobi about the changes: ‘Please don’t wait for me tonight. I will not land at 11.45 pm as originally planned. Still being rebooked. Snow problem here in Germany. I will let you know of the changes.’

Frankfurt is abuzz with activity. Almost half the day’s flights have been cancelled. Long queues characterize every ticket booking offices available. People are scrambling to know when they will get a flight out of here. I get a feeling that with that kind of population in this airport, it will take probably a week to get things back to normal. I push myself in between two queues, my laptop tucked under my arm. Quickly, I scan the overhead monitors for planes departing towards any airport in Africa or Asia. I see a flight to Doha, Qatar, and another to Istanbul, Turkey. All these will be leaving in less than 2 hours time. I figure to get onto any of these flights, I must act fast. I have been on the queue for 1 hour now, and it takes the officials an average of 15 minutes to rebook one passenger. I push myself further ahead, pretending to be headed for the queue that was for those who would accept to spend a night in Frankfurt. I stop behind an elderly woman at the end of the queue, pretending to offer respect before I move further. I stand very close to her, trying to give an impression to the other passengers that we are together. She gives me a simple look, and I shift my laptop from my left arm to the right. I try to smile at her and mumble some words, desperately trying to cool off my frustrations. She just looks back at me. That is just good enough.

I get rebooked on a Lufthansa airline to Istanbul, from where I fly with Turkish airline to Nairobi, Kenya. We land in Turkey at 11.30 pm. Quickly, I realize that Istanbul’s airport is another nightmare, with no proper system of handling those on transit and those wanting to be rebooked. I spend 30 minutes waiting in line, my mind quizzical. Already, I know my flight is on time so I’m not worried. I switch my phone on to send a quick message to my cousin. Happily, it connects to Turkcell mobile network. ‘Will be landing after 3.30 am. Come to the airport at 3.50am though.’

Two days after I departed Houston, we land in Nairobi; the time is 3.37 am. I pick my luggage and head out through the customs. I find my cousin, Alfred, and his friend, Kimani, waiting for me.

“Happy birthday!” my cousin shouts. Then I temporary feel how terrible it is to be nineteen – just being on the verge of exiting the teen life. “Thank you,” I reply. Suddenly, a mixture of profound awareness of how fast life cruises away and my inability to be independent seizes me! I run my fingers through my young goatee, convincing myself that I will soon be independent enough to have a wife meet me at the airport next time. How does it feel, I wonder!

The drive to Umoja – Innercore estate is no less a drama. The dimly lit winding streets, the poorly maintained roads and the morning deluge almost cost us a tire. It’s one of those few instances that I have broken a sweat when it’s damn cold. And to add more flavors to the twist, between 3.00 and 4.00 am is usually the prime time for hijackers to pounce on lone motorists. Well, we had a safe trip to my Alfred’s two bed-roomed rented house in Umoja. I quickly take a shower to welcome myself in Kenya. The water is cold and I feel as if I am reinventing myself. Before I retire to bed, I quickly record the events of the day in my diary – these will be my last entries as a teenager; time 4.50am; date 24th Dec 2009; day Wednesday; place Umoja, Nairobi, Kenya. But little did I know that I was just beginning.

Sleep eludes me. I am overwhelmed with the prospects of seeing my other cousins in Eldoret. I wake up early in the morning to meet with my former high school friends in town. I take “Double M” bus to town and spend approximately 3 hours on the road. The snaking traffic jam on Jogoo Road, beginning from the Dohnholm roundabout is terrible. Both stretches of the entire road looks like a parking lot – as if cars, buses and lorries have been parallel-parked. It feels weird. Only motorcyclists are able to snake their way through the stitched traffic. Outside, I can see hordes of Nairobians trekking to town. In my mind I wonder – is it worth it? Maybe it was. The weather is gloomy, the air is cold, the ground is soggy and pockets of dirty flood water dot the trenches along the roads. The previous night had had its own story. The storm had brought down one of the Safaricom’s billboards next to Machakos bus terminus, which hit the nearby power line and rendered the nearby estates powerless. It is the same billboard that Kenya Power workers were struggling to remove from the road which was causing the traffic snarl-up.

I reach the city center and go to the Nation Building. Tom Mboya Street is already a beehive. Mfangano Street is just becoming busy. My friend who was working with the Nation Media Group had apparently quit his job. I decide to go to the Safaricom building one block away to buy a local line. I get surprised at how expensive “Supa Ongea” line is – Kshs 100. When I left Kenya 2 years ago, the lines (which had different names then) were only Kshs 30. I decline to buy. I call my friend using my AT&T line, and tell him to meet me in front of Hilton Hotel. He refuses to believe that I am actually in Nairobi. I get into a pharmacy next to the hotel and ask the lady inside to call his number with her phone. She agrees after I promise to pay her Kshs 50 for doing so. She talks to him, and after 1 hour, he comes to town. He is really my best friend. I give him some presents – a tie, a pair of jeans and sweatshirt. We then go to Kosewe hotel and ravage ‘matumbo’ and ‘ugali,’ wash it down with some cold Picana, as we listen to the band playing some swahili oldies. Then I begin complaining about the traffic, the noise in Nairobi, the weather and the high prices of things. My friend laughs – outrightly suggesting that maybe I behave differently from the person he used to know. I change the story and begin talking about Facebook and our high school life together.

Together, we go to Umoja, and he helps me carry my luggage to town. I board a North Rift shuttle to Eldoret at 3.30 pm, well aware that it was the Christmas eve and so many people were expecting me to give them Christmas presents when I get to Eldoret. I am not worried – I know I have enough for everyone. Even before reaching Westlands I am asleep already. It is because the traffic here is tight and slow, and I haven’t had enough sleep since I just landed in this morning. I wake up after a couple of hours and find that we are passing through Nakuru town. I can see Section 58 Estate signpost on our left, and after little while, I see Langa-Langa signpost, just before we head toward Njoro. It is almost 6.00 pm now. Night is falling fast. I fall asleep and wake up to find we are just crossing through Burnt Forest area. We arrive in Eldoret just after 10.00 pm, and met by one of my cousins, Otieno. We hire a taxi and go to his place in West Indies, take a shower and head back to the town – that is the trip that defines my teen life.

I refrain from letting my friends know that I’m in town. We walk toward the White Castle motel, cross the Eldoret bus stage and slump onto Oloo Street. Next, we pass by 64 Arcade, my mind trying to remember if it had been repainted since the last time I was there. Opposite is the municipal market – it was pretty empty at that time of the night. Close by is the Opera club emitting tormenting reggae sounds, an indication of a pretty hot night for the revelers. Then, we come into a sorry sight. The verandas of two clubs – The Spree and The Signature – are completely full of drunken youths hulling insults at each other. I stop to take a picture of the scene with my phone. Further down, at the corner of Ukwala C Supermarket we meet with my high school mate, Ben, and his friend, Ken. Ben actually was on his way to church when he got distracted. Together, we walk to the church – AIC – near Eldoret Referral Hospital. The time now is 11.50 pm. We are just in time to prepare for the 10 second countdown into Christmas.

I get in and switch off my phone. The preacher is pounding away the good old anecdotes into the ears of his faithfuls. I close my eyes and surrender in prayer: “Thank you God for bringing me home safely.” I listen to the preacher pensively, and even in that state of mind, I can hear kids playing about outside along the corridors. Their shouts reverberate with angelic passion into the Church. I push my body forward, clutch my belly and let out a wide yawn. I wipe my wet eyes with the palm of my right hand, just in time to recognize the girl seated two rows to my right. I mentally summarize her features, like boys usually do, as I close my eyes as if in prayers.

With my eyes closed her image begins to play in my mind. The fluorescent bulb hanging above her head magnify the rainbow curls of her beautiful long black hair. I begin to yearn, wish, hope and long for her. How incredible? The choir begins singing a hymn and my heart palpitates loudly now. As a mixture of croaking voices take over from the soloist, I burry my mind in happy thoughts of how beautiful this girl is. She is a rich coffee, a fine piece of God’s art and undeniable. Wishes quickly fill my heart. The biggest wish is to have her as my girlfriend.

As the chorus eases to a soft finish, people begin to shift glances at each other. I can see a few women wiping tears, some men wiping sweat from their foreheads, while some girls just shaking their bodies into the rhythm of the pianists. I grin, feeling my mouth drying up. I lick my lips to wet them. Then the guitarist begins the 15 seconds countdown to Christmas with soft plucking on his strings. The congregation stands up. The choir hums some Christmas tunes, and a spasmodic applause breaks around the Church as the faithfuls welcome Christmas Day.

I take out my handkerchief and wipe my face. Jesus has been born! The preacher hit the climax of his sermon with a resounding Biblical quote from Saint John: “Children, these are the last days!” I sigh. “Really? I don’t think so!” I mumble to myself. “Until no more beautiful girls are born will we see the last days!” I convince myself. “I hope not in my lifetime.”

The time is few minutes after midnight. I move to the door, trying to search for the beautiful girl with my eyes. Quickly, I locate her. I can see her near the pulpit talking to some of the girls who had been with the choir; twisting her brown lips as if in desperate bid to shape words that would encourage even a dunderhead. I wish she was talking to me – telling me how she loves me. I feel so happy looking at her from that distance. At least, I can now see her full height – could be 5 feet 6 inches!

My cousin comes and tells me we have to go. I tell him I need to talk to the preacher first. I pull Otieno aside, away from Ken and Ben, and in a whisper ask him if he knows anything about the beautiful girl. “Do you know if she has a boyfriend?” I look worried. Otieno assures me, “Not at the moment.” I grin and slowly move to the door, wading my way through the crowd, looking for an advantageous position from where I will have to at least meet with this girl. In that instant, I throw my eyes back and see her coming. Otieno and I greet her with timid primitiveness. She accepts my trembling hands into hers with genuine Christmas joy. I heave myself against the steel door, impatiently trying to start a quick conversation with her. “How should I begin?” I wonder. Beads of cold sweat find their way out of my sweat glands. Quickly, I rub my forehead with my palm. Then the truth dawns on me. This girl is actually my former neighbor where we lived in Kapsoya Estate. I am happy she hasn’t recognized me yet. I can see she has grown into a full young girl within the last 5 years – her chocolaty cheeks have the angelic passion of a beauty queen’s.

Together, we swung down the stairs and make our way onto the Church compound. She stops and calls to inform her friends where she is. “You sacred people are always mystical,” I begin to engage her. “To me, there is always something phoney about salvation, isn’t it?” I ask her.

She twitches her face in shock reaction from my statement. Ken joins us. I feel obliged to introduce them. Then she answers me, “No, it’s a reality,” she explains, “are you a believer?”

Otieno and Ben are standing near the gate, their faces turned toward us. My mind is preoccupied with why Ken is intruding into our privacy, but even so, I answer her back. “Yes, I bet I am,” he said, “or else I could not have come for the service.”

“That’s not enough,” she interjects. “There’s one more important thing that you need,” she goes on. “That’s faith.”

“Yeah,” Ken joins thoughtfully, nodding his head. I watch him with bored eyes. My watch indicates few minutes to 1.00 am. The other girls join us now. I adjust my leather belt and we head for the street toward town. I still want to speak to this girl, and know her full names. In such a group, my shy voice sounds muffled and hollow, like a series of continuously dying echoes. I learn she is called Teresa. I can recall we used to call her Resi. A fresh surge of feelings seizes me. I feel Teresa has filled my vacant ventricles with some glaucoma type of dreams, with immortal hope and aspiration’s that now exalts my flesh to ethereal passion and love of life. My impulse turns into a deep desire to meet with her somewhere private and test her smile and love against mine. Even though we are all engaged in teen stories, I still want to talk to Teresa alone – about Christian fellowships, repentance and Christian literature.

The journey to town doesn’t take us more than half an hour. The Christmas walk through the cold night isn’t a threat to us. The night’s mood is right, the day is perfect and the group I get to share my first night in Eldoret is just what I need. Teresa gives me her number.

**** To be continued ******

By Clifford Oluoch

The flame-red feather twirled against the raging winds, a unique and conspicuous colour dancing wildly and erratically to the furious and uncontrolled raging winds of change.

“Auuuuuuuuuuuuui!” a scream shattered the stillness and tranquillity of the starry African night. From their wooden coops, hens stirred, cows twitched from their round fenced [...]]]> THE LOST FEATHER.

By Clifford Oluoch

The flame-red feather twirled against the raging winds, a unique and conspicuous colour dancing wildly and erratically to the furious and uncontrolled raging winds of change.

“Auuuuuuuuuuuuui!” a scream shattered the stillness and tranquillity of the starry African night. From their wooden coops, hens stirred, cows twitched from their round fenced bomas and from the various mud-walled, grass-thatched houses around, children fidgeted nervously while women shuddered in great fear.

The scream came again, louder, sharper and clearer this time. From a nearby grass-thatched hut another scream answered it, the uneasy and uncoordinated symphony sending an eerie message across the settling Lotok village.

Tonight, however, one of the women being disciplined was Kolo, the chief’s eldest wife. She was a matronly woman who had over the years learnt how to avoid the wrath of her aggressive and imposing husband, Chief Adera. But tonight luck had eluded her, and she had, after many dodging, landed on the wrong hands of the Chief.

After placing the food at the feet of her husband, Kolo retreated a few steps back. She remained on her knees, bowed, awaiting her husband to complete his meal. Only then would she move. A woman’s role during meal times ended when the husband finished his meal.

Chief Adera twitched his nose trying to smell something. He stood up abruptly, his stature hardly imposing but his anger scaring. He exploded with emotions and kicked the clay bowl that was at his feet. He watched gleefully as the bowl and its contents flew across the room, missing Kolo by inches. The bowl smashed onto the nut-brown walls of the house, smearing the wall and making an uneven map on it.

“How can you bring me burnt food?” the chief roared. He moved towards his wife, his eyes blazing with fury and his fists clenched ready for a fight.

Kolo, who had been kneeling down serving her husband the evening meal, ducked as the bowl came hurtling towards her. Having missed his target, the Chief responded by landing on his wife with venom and violence. Kolo shortly found herself on the floor, kicks, blows and insults being rained mercilessly and endlessly on her. The damage would have been far more extensive, if not fatal, had some elders not interrupted the early evening debacle. The chief heard the knock on the oak door and reluctantly stopped his ritual to attend to the intruders.

“Some donkey had the audacity of bringing me burnt and smelly food,” Chief Adera was heard saying, as he opened the door, excused himself from his first wife’s abode and went out to join his fellow elders in traditional beer drinking at the Elders’ Courtyard. He was still seething in anger.

Kolo was left lying down breathing slowly and unevenly, her left side aching greatly. Each breath she took was painful and reminded her of death. With each intake ruddy flames and thick black smoke flashed through her mind. She heard the distinctive crackling sound of the firewood, the flying sparks and the dancing flames. The medicine-man’s out of tune prayers and intonation came back freshly loud and intimidating. Finally, unable to bear the pain any longer, she passed out.

Kolo was awakened by something extremely cold and wet. It was water being poured on her. “Get up, lazy goat and go to sleep. You are neither decorating the doorway nor doing any one any good by lying there,” said the rough and unsympathetic voice of her husband. Kolo dragged her bruised body and very slowly went and coiled herself on the mat at the corner of her one-bedroom hut. She tried to coax sleep but none came, and she just lay on the mat listening to the chirping of the crickets at night. Her husband did not spend the night in her hut; he must have gone to one of his two younger wives.

Eluded by sleep and peace at night, Kolo found herself playing games with her imagination. She let it run wild and loose, moving from one corner of the expansive sixteen-boma Lotok village to the extreme end of the Oroma forest, the dwelling place of Otia, the god of hunters. Otia seemed to protect and favour men who hunted in the forest, yet the women who stayed home to wait for the meat from the forests always seemed to get a raw deal.

“Tell me Otia, when all the women in the village are dead, who shall bear children?” Kolo found herself in conversation with a god she could not see but only feel his effects. The forest leaves rustled violently a sudden wind tore through the trees. A wild laughter escaped Otia’s lips. Kolo looked hard trying to make out the form of the god, but she was unsuccessful.

Kolo’s images and visions took her to Wuate, the god and protector of the waters, rivers and lakes. She heard the roaring sounds of waves buffeting against the riverbanks and smashing into wayward logs. River Yando made its presence known. Kolo swam with Wuate. She journeyed to the sacred and forbidden mountains, Got Agulu, where the gods of life and death dwelt. Kolo found herself holding conversations with these gods, her argument with them taking a turn she had not expected.

“What place is this?” she asked Wuate, a cloudy form in the mountains making the image of the god. Kolo did not hear the reply, but she thought she understood what the god meant.

“Your new dwelling place! Follow the bird.” This was repeated severally, the sound getting fainter and fainter by the minute. Kolo’s dream did not reveal any bird and she frantically turned round to look for the bird to follow.

Then she saw the bird. The image was clear. The features were unmistakable. Otenga!

Impeccable white with the easily recognisable red tail, the big furry bird was perched majestically on a low branch on the bank of River Yando. It looked around, a glint of fear and concern in its eyes. It rose quickly and urgently and flew away, its wings flapping loudly and gracefully against the furiously blowing wind.

As fast as it had come, the vision disappeared. But Kolo was positive that it was Otenga, the legendary bird that only those with the gift of ‘The Eye’ could see. This time the features were clear. No mistaken identity.

The escapades took Kolo till early morning when she heard the first cockcrow. A strong wind blew outside against the trees outside the village. Kolo knew it was time to get ready for another eventful day in the village. Strangely enough, she felt no trace of fatigue due to any lack of sleep.

The morning saw nearly half the married women with swollen eyes, battered limbs and bruised bodies. They looked miserable, talked minimally and walked disproportionately as they carried pots on their way to the river to fetch water for the day. The river was quite far, so the women had to wake up early, normally before the second cockcrow. They had to be back early enough to prepare porridge for their husbands and sons, who also woke up early to go and till the land or take the animals for grazing. The younger girls, who knew about the prevailing situation, walked glumly, accompanying their mothers and aunts to the river.

The early morning silence tormented the women as they dragged their limbs slowly to the Yando river. They were too hurt to sing, the energy in them clear lacking. The uneven plodding of their feet and the early morning silence served to churn their thoughts towards the battering most of them had received the previous night. They lived in mortal fear.

When they reached the river and settled to start drawing water, someone at last broke the long and tormenting silence. It was Kolo, the one who always led them in songs and dances. She was not her usual cheerful self. She looked smaller, darker, and her left eye was completely shut. Her characteristic beauty was evidently absent; instead an ugly mask of scars covered her otherwise black smooth skin. She was ghastly.

“Women of Lotok village, open your eyes and see the light of the world,” she started in a whisper, choosing one of the resting stones to make herself seen to the thirty or so women and girls who had accompanied her to the river.

“Open your ears and hear what the ancestors have to say. Open your hands and feel the warmth of the sun. Allow your minds to wander freely, and mingle with roaring yet sometimes quiet waves of the rivers, the gushing yet aloof winds of the north, the rustling yet sometimes still leaves of the trees. Think my fellow women. Think women. Think!” she almost screamed, the pain in her head searing again, as the Otenga bird flashed by. Kolo could not make out where the bird was heading to, but its journey fascinated her.

All the women, except Nyangi, the widow, stirred and suddenly felt like talking and screaming at the same time. All the silence and patience that had been bottled up in them for so long suddenly found an avenue of being channelled. They felt like they had to strike back then, or hit at something to get back at the people who had made life one continuous nightmare. The dam had finally been broken. Decades of accumulated silence and frustration had finally been let out by one word from one person. They murmured loudly amongst themselves about a subject that had never been broached before. Kolo’s voice drew their attention once more.

Nyangi, the widow, stood stoically gazing directly at Kolo. “What do you want us to think about, Kolo?” Nyangi asked cheekily.

Kolo ignored the question and continued with her rhetoric. “For years our men have declared war on our humble beings and they have never shown any signs of stopping. Beatings have been the order of the day and even the deaths of our beloved sisters have not deterred them.”

Kolo smiled and as she did so her eyes seemed smaller, thus reminding the women of the beating she had received the previous night. “Even animals are better than our men. Cocks do not fight hens, bulls do not fight cows and even the wild male animals do not fight their females. This barbaric behaviour is only observed in men. In the animal kingdom, the strong and dominant males do not fight the weak and docile females. They do not!”

Otenga flew higher and higher to a vaguely familiar place that Kolo struggled to identify. Its wings flapped smoothly and impeccably against the gushing winds. There were a few scattered and unevenly spaced hills around, a forested area with no dwellings. The fear in the bird’s eyes seemed to have gone. The bird seemed to be looking for something, maybe company. Maybe. Maybe not.

I have always been of the mindset that all human beings are inherently good. Yes, the tenets of the idealists do hold firm with me, even if only in a utopian world. In Utopia, people love one another for who they are, flaws and all. In Utopia, friendships are made easily, and enmity [...]]]> By Mercy Ojwang’

I have always been of the mindset that all human beings are inherently good. Yes, the tenets of the idealists do hold firm with me, even if only in a utopian world. In Utopia, people love one another for who they are, flaws and all. In Utopia, friendships are made easily, and enmity is rare. In Utopia… only in Utopia.

Living in the city all my life has made me a robust and fast-paced individual. This allows me to make friends easily. At a party i’m the girl who’s mingling and talking with everyone.

Because of the many friends, no, acquaintances that i have made, I’ve always been invited to parties or events that require that ultimate party girl because that is who i was. I’m not that person anymore. But wait, I get ahead of myself.

It was the month of June two or three years ago when I met him. Tall and willowy, boasting a crew cut that would put a soldier’s to shame. I met him quite by accident at a party. Ideally we would never have talked, but the fact that he was standing all alone near the radio sipping his drink caught my attention.

“Hi,” I said to him.

“Hi,” he replied.

“Forgive me for being so direct but what is a fine brotha like you doing standing all alone in a room full of beautiful, mostly single women?”

He laughed out loud. Let me take a moment to describe his laugh. It was a hearty one; one of those that come from the bowels of the stomach. And he had really white teeth one could almost think that he had them professionally cleaned. He also had a dimple on his right cheek that made him seem really young.
He said, “Well this is not my kind of scene. I’m only here because my cousin dragged me out because she said i’m too much of a recluse.”

“Hold that thought. Let me get a refill of my drink. Would you like one?”

“Yeah sure, please I’d like a Coke.”

“Just a Coke?”

“Yes please. I don’t drink.”

If his shyness had caught my attention, his apparent lack of interest in women and the fact that he did not drink definitely captivated me.

“So far, so good. You are interesting,” I said when I returned, a Coke in one hand, a beer in the other. “So what is your kind of scene?”

“Definitely not this one,” he replied, a slight smile playing on his lips.

“Evasive, aren’t we?” I shot back.

“No, I’m not being evasive. I just think you’d probably find it a bit strange.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“What’s your first impression of me?”

“Well… You are definitely outgoing and you seem like someone who loves fun.”

I giggled. “Well that’s very true. But on the flip side, I’m introverted in some ways.”

He snickered. “Yeah right. How?”

“I love having alone time. Many times I just like to sit and listen to music and write or read a book.”

“That sounds cool, but how often do you do it?”

“Four out of every five opportunities I have to go out,” I replied, smiling slightly.

He looked taken aback. “Wow,” he began, and took a sip of his Coke. “I would never have figured. I mean, I know we’ve just met, but really, I wouldn’t have imagined that.”

“Well, there you are. So what is your kind of scene?”

“I like the arts. I’m into plays and cultural things and I like to go for such events.”

“Really? That’s so cool! I love plays as well! My favorite theater group is Festival of Creative Arts. What’s yours?”

“I love FCA as well. I think they are awesome and really funny. But I also like Phoenix and Heartstrings as well.”

“I love this! I rarely have someone who I can talk to about that aspect of my life.”

“I won’t lie, right now I’m impressed. I would never have figured you for an arts person.”

“Ha, I’ve even subscribed to an arts news letter that tells me what’s happening every week in the arts world.”

“That’s really cool.”

“Again, forgive the boldness, but may I have your number?”

Shyly smiling, he said, “Sure thing. You really are forthright.”

I smiled back. “Not all the time. But I like you. I definitely will look you up sometime.”

“Yeah, that would be lovely. Maybe we could go for a play or something.”

“I would love that.”

It has been a year and a half of pure bliss. Moses and I kicked it off instantly that day we met at my friend’s party. I guess it was inevitable that we would indeed date. I mean, we had become inseparable. Moses. My Moses.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to celebrate life. Life indeed is beautiful. What blessing and honor it is that the good Lord, in His infinite wisdom, chose us to be here today. Even so, still with love and in love, He called Moses to His bosom…”

I closed my eyes. A sharp pain, like a stab, kept torturing me beneath my breast. I concentrated on the pain and the erratic beating of my heart.

“… And so it is not our place to question why the Lord chose to call Moses so young, and leave behind a grieving family and a fiancee. The Lord…”

Again, I switched off and tuned off the pastor’s voice. I was not ready to confront the good Lord on this issue. For now, He had won.

Moses and I had been planning to start a family soon. For me, I was enthralled with the idea. I had discovered this maternal and caring side of me that I never knew existed. Moses, in his own gentle and caring way, had weaned me off partying and clubs. Some of my friends were green with envy; others thought I had just become plain boring. My ideal night out was watching movies with him and sipping wine. I was content.

“One should strive to live his life in a worthy manner. Worthy before the eyes of the Lord, and an example to all men. When you were born, you cried and the world rejoiced. Live your life in such a way that when you die, the world cries and you rejoice at the sight of your Maker.

Moses was one of those who we truly can say his life was nipped in the bud. He loved his family so much and was always dedicated to them. His friends always knew they had a true friend in him. Cindy, his girl friend, knew she had a rock in her man.”

I jumped at the mention of my name. I barely was paying attention to the sermon; so lost was I in the pain of my memories. My cheeks were wet with tears that I did not know I had shed. I wiped them off furiously and tried to focus on the pastor.

“And so we pray for comfort for the family and friends. We pray that the Lord may abide with them and carry them through this difficult period. You are the Father to the fatherless; a Brother to the brotherless; a Son to the sonless…”

He proposed to me in Coast. Retrospectively, I realized that he must have gone through so much trouble; simple man that he is. Was. I will never get used to talking about him in the past tense. We had gone with a group of friends for a short holiday. Everyone, except me, knew the agenda of the trip. So on that Saturday, we all went sky diving save for him. He claimed not to be feeling too well, and refused to hear any reasons I put up to stay with him.

Three and a half hours later we returned to the hotel, exhilarated and excited. I went straight to Moses’ room, only to find he was not there. A few minutes later, he sent me a message saying that he was feeling better, he had taken a walk and that he would see me in a short while at the hotel.

I went to the pool for a luxurious swim to while the time away. At around five, Moses came to the pool side and found me asleep on a beach bed, book in hand. He gently woke me up and told me that he had reserved a table for us for dinner at a floating restaurant in Malindi. He requested for me to go to my room and change into “something pretty” as he put it, so that we could leave as soon as possible.

The drive down to Malindi was scenic. Watching the sunset from the highway, I felt so blessed and lucky to have such a man in my life. My friends were cracking jokes and having a really good time. Wow.
We finally reached the restaurant. It was a sight to behold. The restaurant was actually a ship.

Tiny lanterns hang lit at regular intervals casting a soft glow in the fading day light. At the bow ran tubes of light illuminating tables of food, many of which were delicacies. At the stern was a disco ball hanging from the roof over what was presumably the dance floor. There was a band playing soft jazz music right next to the dance floor. The furnishings gave the whole place a somewhat rustic ambience. In a nutshell, it was beautiful.

We sat down to a three course meal that was sinfully delicious. A bottle of white wine. Prawns served with lemon wedges, chicken served with pepper sauce, and a tossed mixed salad. And for dessert, chocolate cake with whipped cream and strawberries.

At the end of the meal we sat back and relaxed, enjoying each other’s company. At one point, I turned to Moses in excitement, exclaiming, “They are playing our song!” This was Brian McKnight’s The Love of my Life.

I was jolted out of my reverie when I noticed people walking out of the chapel. I had not even noticed that the service was over. I wearily got up and joined Moses’ family behind his coffin. Simple mahogany. A tribute to him.

Outside the chapel, we all got into the hearse car and made our way to his final resting place. I looked around me. Before me sat his mother, stoic now as she had always been. His sister, her eyes swollen with crying. His brother, his features so taut from fighting back tears. They all expressed all I felt, yet they seemed to be completely alienated from the on-goings…

Moses got up and shyly asked me to dance, to which I demurely accepted. On the dance floor it was as if no one else existed or mattered. It was just the two of us. Looking into his eyes I could see his love for me shine through.

Suddenly, he pulled away from me and fumbled in his pocket for something. I looked on at him quizzically. My expression quickly changed from that of puzzlement, then curiosity, then disbelief. He went down on one knee and uttered words that would forever change my life as I knew it.

“Cindy, will you marry me?”

Tears running down my face, I could only smile and nod vigorously; so overwhelmed was I. Cheers went round the room as he got up and slipped a beautiful ring on my finger and then gently kissed me.

We got out of the car and walked a short distance to the grave. The pall bearers had already arrived and had set up everything for the burial. The pastor began with a prayer, then his body was slowly lowered into the grave. I felt as if I too was being buried with him…

I burst through the doors of the hospital, having received a call from one of Moses’ friends that there had been a bad accident. Moses had been workin late and as he was driving home, a drunk driver had hit him. He lost control of the car and had rolled several times. Good Samaritans had rushed him to the emergency room where he was taken to the intensive care unit.

I took one look at him and almost fainted. Swathed in bandages, he looked so lifeless. Tubes ran in and out of his body trying to feed him vital liquids and pain killers. He was scheduled for an operation to ease the pressure on his brain as a result of the accident. I sat there and prayed to God, pleading for his life and telling the Lord about all the plans we had.

At one point I must have been talking out loud, because I felt Moses’ hand twitch then his eyes opened. I called for the nurses for I thought that this was a good sign, but it was not to be. He looked at me straight in the eyes and mouthed the words, “I love you.” With that, he took his last breath.

The mourners were called to throw clods of earth into the grave. Each time the soil hit his coffin was a nail into my own coffin. The wails and moans of those around me made me feel his absence even more acutely. The pastor intoned, “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.” The ceremony was over and I turned and walked away, devoid of any emotion.

http://cocomalaika.blogspot.com

© 2009 Mercy Ojwang’

It was while waiting for his car to be washed that Dr. Kioko called. “Give me ten minutes and I will be there?” Felix told the doctor who wanted Felix to be there when the news was being broken.

Felix decided to walk to the Doctor’s plaza. He gave the car wash man shs.500 and [...]]]> By CLIFFORD OLUOCH

It was while waiting for his car to be washed that Dr. Kioko called.
“Give me ten minutes and I will be there?” Felix told the doctor who wanted Felix to be there when the news was being broken.

Felix decided to walk to the Doctor’s plaza. He gave the car wash man shs.500 and told him to keep an eye on the car. In less than ten minutes he was in the doctor’s office. The receptionist, who knew Felix quite well, quickly ushered him in. The moment he walked in, his mother knew.

“Tell me it is not true,” she started, her breathing becoming raspier and more uneven. Her distorted face, courtesy of a severe stroke she suffered during the 2007 election violence, looked more horrific as the mouth tried hard enough to stay straight. There was little success. Felix’s dad, on the contrary, remained seated in total disbelief. The grief was too much for Felix who broke down in wails that he had suppressed for the last three hours or so.

It is the doctor who noticed the stiffening old man. He quickly called for ambulance services and by the time the vehicle came from Nairobi Hospital, both old man and woman had collapsed, relegating a frantic doctor to a first aider. Felix could not believe his eyes. The paramedics were quite fast but came with only one stretcher thus forcing the doctor and Felix to use the clinic’s stretcher to transport the old man who looked gone.

“Please don’t go,” Felix kept on shouting at the old man as the paramedics rushed the old couple to the ICU room. Felix made to follow but he was stopped by the guards. He tried fighting but he was not match for the three guards.

“Please don’t go,” he kept on repeating as he sat down against the corridor doors, both his hands placed on his bowed head which was resting on his knees. He does not know how long he stayed there but the moment Doctor Kioko came out, Felix knew it.

“Tell me the truth doctor,” Felix whispered standing up, the energy suddenly coming back to his legs.
“We lost both of them,” the doctor said as he put his hands on Felix’s shoulders. This time Felix did not cry because the same coldness that had hit him when he received news of Wicky’s death, spread throughout his whole body, leaving every part of his body numb. And at that moment, something in Felix died, the piercing pain in his heart almost proving unbearable.

“They will pay for this,” Felix said as he demanded to go and see his parents for the last time. This time the guards allowed him and Dr. Kioko accompanied him.

They looked too peaceful to be dead. Felix moved to the dad he had known for the last twenty years. Felix knotted his fingers into his father’s cold hand and did the same with his left hand to his mom’s hand. He stayed like that for almost five minutes before Dr. Kioko told him that it was time to let go. The coldness in his heart seemed permanent. He swallowed hard and moved out of the room without looking back.

It was a frantic week for Felix as he rushed up and down organizing the burial of the only family he had ever known. Chepchumba and Omari played a major role in offering the emotional and logistical support that funerals demanded. Wicky’s numerous friends also played a big role. Within that week, Felix came to know of the policeman who had gunned down Wicky, apparently over a disagreement on delivery of drug consignment money. Felix marked him. He would pay.

The burial and grave side service of the three was held on a Saturday afternoon at Langata Cemetery, exactly a week after their death. It was an emotional send off but Felix, dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and a black and red checked tie, did not break down. He kept his head high and when it came to the eulogy, Felix made it clear that family was all about who you grew up with and not who gave birth to you. He talked about his parents who came from a different tribe but found no problem taking care of two orphans from another part of the country.

The cop was there, maybe to make sure that Wicky was really dead and buried. Felix already had some background information on him and his family.

At the end of the ceremony when almost everyone had left, Felix remained behind to supervise the cementing of the graves. Chepchumba was in the car waiting for him. It was while arranging the last bits of flowers that the cop came to talk to Felix.

“Do you know me?” he asked Felix.

Felix looked at him expressionlessly. “No,” he simply said.

“I am the one who shot your brother and I will also shoot you too if you cross my path,” he whispered.

“Or vice versa,” Felix told him without any trace of fear and without lifting his eyes to look up.

“Watch your back,” he said as he was leaving.

“I am not gay,” Felix shouted without losing a beat. “I shoot from the front!” This time he turned and looked at the gigantic figure of the cop disappearing towards the gate. Felix spat.

That evening when all was quiet, and the gravity of being left alone was slowly sinking, Felix went to Wicky’s inner room. It was a very neat room, his bed not slept on for more than a week on one corner of the room. Felix knew where to check – under the bed. He moved the bed and found a trap door whose padlock he had to break. Felix found an assorted catchment suitcases that housed guns and had no problem choosing the black suitcase that had the handy AK-47. He remembered the rudimentary tutorials that Wicky had given him during the 2007 elections chaos. “You never know when you will be called upon to use fire arms,” Wicky had told him. The time was now.

As Felix was returning the other guns, something else caught his attention. Beneath the case that housed the guns were some canvases. Felix pulled them out. Some were dusty.

Felix unrolled the canvases. The first painting that Felix saw simply swept him off his feet. He knew that Wicky was an artist. What he did not know was where Wicky found the time to paint that well. Suddenly he understood the reasons Wicky used to retreat into his room and stay for long, or the late nights and early mornings where the lights in his room would remain on the whole night.

The first painting was a family portrait of two boys, two girls and their parents, especially their Father who had passed on before the land clashes. His father resembled Wicky. It was a portrait of happiness, the girls’ smile bringing some tears in Felix’s eyes. So this is how his late sisters looked like. They were cute. The signature also grabbed Felix’s attention: FUCK POLITICIANS (FP) was engraved in dripping red paint to bring out a bleeding effect!

The next painting was horrific. Two machete wielding men were hacking at the mother, the girls trying to stop him. The boys were under the bed peeping. A closer look revealed the older boys hand on the younger boy’s eyes. Horrific! Again the same signature tune: FP.

Felix spent the next hour poring through the paintings that gave him a journey through his early life, their road trips, night outs, rain drenched shanties, turf wars with other victims, hunger, pain, death of friends, and worst of all, rejection and lack of acceptance from the main perpetrators – the politicians. After ten such detailed pictures, Felix was drained emotionally. He had to do something.

He called Nijo. “I need the cop’s house number now!”

Nijo was more admonishing. “Don’t be foolish Felix. You won’t make it out alive.”

“I died last week Nijo. Only my burial remains. Are you giving me the house number or not?” the coldness in Felix’s voice told it all. Nijo obliged and gave the cop’s house number and location but not without having the final parting words.

“Wicky thought highly of you. Please don’t let him down by following his path!” Felix was beyond caring. The paintings had shown him another side of his life that he did not know existed. He had nothing to live for.
It was 7.40pm when Felix made his way to the police residential place at the Kasuku Police Station. It was dark and completely devoid of street lights.

Felix, dressed in a combat jacket and heavy boots, parked his car outside the police canteen, went and bought cellphone credit, loaded it into his phone and took to the stairs of the first block on his left. Block G. He knocked gently. Nijo had told him that the cop was never home on Friday and Saturday evenings, the two major days for goods deliveries.

The old wooden brown door was opened by a middle aged woman who smiled warmly. She was dressed in a green apron. The smell of chapatti wafted to Felix’s nose. Felix forced his way in. The four children, two boys and two girls were watching Spelling Safari. They did not turn to look at the intruder. The room was cramped with old furniture. The walls were adorned with small portraits of all the past presidents of Kenya and one big portrait of the current president.

“Switch off the TV,” Felix coldly gave the order. The oldest girl, who must have been fourteen, used the remote to switch off the TV. She was dressed in black jeans and a red top. Felix saw fear in her eyes.
It is then that all the other kids turned to check who the visitor was.

“Who are you?” asked the youngest boy, who must have been three years old. He looked at Felix and was about to move towards him but his older brother held him back.

Felix ignored him. “Move there all of you,” he motioned to the three seater maroon sofa that was adjacent the TV set. They now knew that something was seriously wrong.

Felix looked at the five of them. The mother and the girls were terrified and literally shaking. The older boy, who looked about eight years old, was composed, studying Felix intently. The youngest one did not seem to understand the gravity of the situation.

Felix removed the gun from the inside of his jacket and then started his lecture. “My name is Felix. Your father killed my older brother last week. As a result both my parents passed away due to shock. I buried them today. And today I will also kill all of you!” Felix spoke through clenched teeth while circling them like an eagle ready to swoop on its prey. It was now time for action.

“Say your last prayers,” Felix ordered as he looked at the gun, looking for ways to trigger off what he considered the last holocaust. It was a rhetorical question but the youngest boy seemed to have taken it literally. He knelt down and put his hands together for prayer.

“Good God, please do not let this man Felix kill us before we have eaten chapatti. Amen!” His angelic voice seemed to boom in the room that was totally engulfed in silence and tension. The boy then went back to his place.

It is a prayer that hit Felix right in his solar plexus. Suddenly he saw the Wicky collection of paintings afresh. Something pierced his heart as he saw the older boy, blocking the younger brother’s mouth from continuing to talk. Felix swallowed hard.

Felix looked at the small boy and saw himself. He looked at the boy’s older brother and he saw Wicky. He looked at the two sisters and he saw the two sisters that he never got to know. He looked at the policeman’s wife and he saw the two mothers who had been by his side all along – the one whose face he could not remember and the other whose face he could not forget.

Felix put the gun on the table. “Someone has to stop this madness,” Felix had told Wicky during the 2007 general elections when virtually the whole of Kibera, and Kenya, went up in flames and Kenyans were consumed in demonic fires of fermented hatred and unimaginable animosity of self destruction that defied, and still continues to defy, all manners of human logic.

“You will be the one to stop it,” Wicky had said ignoring his brother’s pleas of ceasefire during the tribal confrontations.

“Human beings are at the bottom of the animal kingdom,” one of Felix’s friends had mentioned during one of their heated debates about political parties and tribal affiliations. The words ‘FUCK POLITICIANS’ kept on flashing through his mind, the bleeding effect in the writing growing more and more ominous. Felix knew that something had to be done.

The time to start stopping was now. Felix looked at the five pairs of eyes that were fixed on him. He gently placed the gun on the dining table and then walked towards the door. At the door, he turned, removed his black cap, placed it against his chest and faced the still shell shocked family. “God is good,” he croaked as he opened the door to leave. Instinctively they all chorused. “All the time.”

(c) 2009 Clifford Oluoch. oluochcliff@yahoo.co.uk