Monday morning saw the children of 7P arrive at the school some with their parents others with their guardians. They wanted to make sure that Jioni was not in school, and if she was, they were going to take matters into their hands and kick her out of school [...]]]> By CLIFFORD OLUOCH
Published Aug. 17, 2010

Monday morning saw the children of 7P arrive at the school some with their parents others with their guardians. They wanted to make sure that Jioni was not in school, and if she was, they were going to take matters into their hands and kick her out of school if necessary.

Jioni had not yet come, that is if she was going to, and for the first time in a week the students looked settled and peaceful. But, there were still some worries, especially from the parents and guardians. More and more children were coming down with the red spots accompanied by high fevers and sweating nights. Parents were still convinced that it was Jioni’s AIDS that was haunting the class.

One of the parents, a lay preacher at the local church, offered prayers and cleansing session for the class. The rest readily agreed and this took a whole hour to complete. By this time most of the whole class had reported, some looking very sick, feverish and shivering throughout the prayer session.

After the prayers, the sick were still looking sicker than before and it was at this juncture that another parent offered to bring in a traditional healer to cleanse the class further and dispel the evil spirits that were still aboard the class. This ignited a heated debate in the class and there were sharp divisions amongst the parents with most of them favouring prayers

The arguments went back and forth, the children watching as their parents wondered what to do with them. It was at this point that the headteacher came up to the class and talked to the parents about some pre-arranged visits to schools by Ministry of Health officials.

The District Medical Officer was in the school compound with a team of doctors and nurses to give assistance in health related cases.

The doctors and nurses split up and went to different classes to talk to the children and their teachers. Dr. Kio, the District Medical Officer, was the one assigned to 7P. She seemed delighted that there were a few parents and guardians, thus making her work easier.

Dr. Kio was tall, and unlike what many believed about doctors, she did not wear spectacles. She had a stethoscope slung round her neck and wore a white lab coat. The students could not believe that it was possible for a woman to be a doctor. They looked at her admiringly, most of them aspiring to be doctors just because of her.

She had a strong powerful voice that carried the audience as she spoke. “There is an outbreak of chicken pox in the district and from the few spots that I can see in this class, it means that it has reached this class and school.” The doctor then went on to explain at great length the signs and symptoms of the disease, the management and drugs to be taken.

Some parents were not totally convinced that it was only chicken pox afflicting their children. Menjo’s mum was one of them. “How do we know that it is not AIDS?” she asked the doctor.

The doctor then went to explain the symptoms of AIDS and how it was transmitted. It was while explaining the differences between AIDS and chicken pox that it occurred to the doctor that may be there was more to it than just plain chicken pox.

“Who has AIDS?” the good humoured doctor asked the group. People looked at each other before the acting class teacher, Miss Mutura, volunteered all the available information on the Jioni saga. The doctor was sad to hear the story and in her heart promised to visit the girl at her house.

After a lengthier question and answer session that never seemed to end, the children were given a thorough physical check by the doctor and a few other nurses and then referred to the District Hospital for laboratory tests and medication.

The parents went home a happier lot, some taking their children to the hospital. Everyone in the room was happy that it was not AIDS that the children had contracted. The only person who looked lost in thought was Dr. Kio. She had to get that girl Jioni.

(c) oluochcliff@yahoo.co.uk

Friday afternoon belonged to the headteacher. It was after lunch that some of the students, like Jioni, who did not go home for lunch, noticed a mob of angry looking adults move towards the school. Jioni strained her eyes to have a closer look at the gathering mob, something she had never seen in a [...]]]> Jioni...

Friday afternoon belonged to the headteacher. It was after lunch that some of the students, like Jioni, who did not go home for lunch, noticed a mob of angry looking adults move towards the school.
Jioni strained her eyes to have a closer look at the gathering mob, something she had never seen in a long time.
As the school bell rang and Jioni made it to class for the afternoon classes, she suddenly became aware of the loneliness in the class. Where were all the others? The answer lay in the heavy murmuring and loud drumming that came from the direction of the staff room. It must have been the mob that she had seen coming. Why were they here?
Curiosity got the better of her, and she ventured out to see for herself. She saw them from a distance, a group of men, women and some children whom she recognized as coming from her class.
The mob was getting rowdier and rowdier, demanding some immediate action about std. 5P. The headmaster was having a hard time controlling the mob.
“I can’t even hear what you are saying,” he told the crowd. After some heckling and jeering and satisfied that they had shown their power, the mob settled down and started airing their grievances.
“Our children are being infected in school with strange diseases,” wailed one parent, “ and you are doing nothing about it, just collecting school fees!” The mob thundered as the point was made.
“Look at all these children,” added another parent pointing at his son, “they are full of ugly red spots and sores all over their bodies and it seems to be spreading very fast.”
Another parent joined in eager to make a point. “It is that Jioni girl who is behind all the misery in the class. Ever since she joined this school, there has been misfortune after misfortune. Now our children will catch AIDS and die very soon. We cannot have this in our school!”
The frenzy was starting to build up, the mob getting more and more excited as the word AIDS was mentioned. There was murmuring before one loud voice rose above the rest, “KILL HER!”
The others joined in the chorus and their voices rose higher and higher. It seemed like they were going to surge forward and get the headteacher, who raised both his hands in a desperate effort to get their attention, which he got after a long struggle.
“One at a time, please,” pleaded the headteacher. There was relative calm and the headteacher pressed on his point. “How do we know that she has AIDS? Only doctors can confirm whether or not one has AIDS.”
This did not go down well with the mob. A woman who worked as a cleaner at the district hospital was screaming her head off, “I work at the hospital and I have seen enough people die of AIDS. They have rushes all over their bodies and their hair look funny. Look at our children. What spots are these? Beauty spots?”
The clamour grew louder and more parents expressed their anger. “She’s even bewitched the teacher, who almost died in an accident yesterday! We have a witch with AIDS in the class and you are here telling us about doctors!” screamed another parent.
“We want that girl out of this school or we shall all pull our children from the school,” declared Menjo’s mum.
“Out! Out!” the chanting started slowly, gathering momentum before reaching a deafening screaming contest. The headteacher raised both his hand once again to signal for silence. He got it.
“Okay!” the headteacher responded calmly. “Jioni will leave the school today, she will not be here when you bring your children on Monday. Go back home and relax, for she will leave this school.”
There was thundering applause as the mob acknowledged their victory over the ‘evil eyed’ AIDS girl. They had won the war. As they left the compound with their children, the headteacher had no alternative but to dismiss the rest of the school. He had had enough for the day.
All this time, Jioni was in class, fearing to venture out. She knew that they were talking about her and could hear bits and pieces of what was being said, or rather shouted.
She looked on as the crowd dispersed and knew that her school life was over after just five horrible days.
No, she was not going to cry. She had exhausted her tears on the day of circumcision. Now she had no more tears to shed for this unsympathetic world
She silently slipped out of school, vowing not to come back.

oluochcliff@yahoo.co.uk

“Muuuum!”

The scream from Pope, my 5-year-old son jolted me. Fear etched at the end of his squeaky voice and I knew that he was not injured. Nor was he in pain.

“Coming,” I shouted as I quickly put on my robe, slipped into my green antique slippers that Dad had [...]]]> BY CLIFFORD OLUOCH
Published May 10, 2010

“Muuuum!”

The scream from Pope, my 5-year-old son jolted me. Fear etched at the end of his squeaky voice and I knew that he was not injured. Nor was he in pain.

“Coming,” I shouted as I quickly put on my robe, slipped into my green antique slippers that Dad had bought for me a long time ago. Talking of Dad, or The Honourable David Mavita as he was formally known, the International Criminal Court (ICC) was scheduled to give a press conference on the perpetrators of the 2007 Kenyan election violence.

Pope’s scream came again. Louder and sharper, almost a screech. Impatience. A 5 year old knows only ‘now’.
Then my cellphone rang. Nuisance. I decided to ignore it as I walked out of my bedroom to see what my son was up to so early on a bright Sunday morning.

The third scream coincided with the ringing of my second cellphone.
“What is it darling?” I asked tenderly. My son’s stooped back greeted me, Spiderman’s web and face taking the shape of a map at the back of his blue pyjamas.

“Look mum,” he said softly pointing at something on the wooden tiled balcony floor. Pope’s head blocked my view so I had to go round him. He, however, did not turn.

It was a bird lying still on its side. It must have fallen from the gigantic mugumo tree that proudly occupied the centre of the sixteen flat compound, one of Dad’s vast investments. The incessant dirge-filled chirping, from the other concerned ‘family’ of birds hanging on the branches, formed a mournful mood.

A Chestnut Belly Starling. It’s the closest I had ever come to one and its deep purple almost bluish colour felt like God’s paintbrush had been too perfect. Its eyes were shut.
From the background I could still hear the persistent ringing of my phones. Who could it be on such an early Sunday morning?

“Is he dead?” my son asked, making me wonder how he had determined the gender of the bird. Pope’s eyes bulged and his lips trembled to complement his quavering voice.

I energetically rubbed my hands for warmth, and then gently lifted the delicate bird, the twittering from his comrades in the stooping branches increasing in intensity. The bird was light and its velvety feathers tickled my hands like warm water running down my hands on a cold day. It was no bigger than my fore-finger.

“No, he is not dead!” I affirmed. Pope stood up, his head just above my hip, and held on dotingly to my robe. Together we transferred the bird to his room. I drew the purple Harry Potter curtains and sunlight flooded the room.

“Get me a cereal box from the kitchen store,” I told Pope. He dashed out. I took one of Pope’s old brown face towels and gently wrapped the delicate bundle in it. Both the phones were either beeping or blaring by now.

Pope came back with three boxes of differing sizes. We chose the biggest, a box that I had promised to make a car with.

“Hold him.” He cupped his hands to receive the bird like a devout Christian taking holy communion.
I took another, bigger towel, folded it twice and then spread it inside the box. It fitted perfectly – a cozy nest by human standards.

Pope looked at me. I smiled and nodded. He cautiously placed the bird in the box and then turned again to me. There were many question marks in his teary eyes.

“Let’s turn on the heater,” I told Pope.

“Mum?” Cracking voice. Insecurity. His bulging eyes blinked continuously.

“No, darling, he won’t die! There is a reason God sent him to you.” I emphasized the last word as I gently patted the top of his head.

“Can I stay with him today?” he asked. Mary, the housegirl, was the key to that question. She would have to forfeit her day off.

“Yes,” I replied absent mindedly as I moved to my room to attend to the two phones that were still generously soaking in message after message. Like most of my urban Kenyan friends, I owned more than one handset, courtesy of turf wars between the mobile phone companies.

There were record breaking number of missed calls and messages. I decided to start with the messages.
“Check the brking news on TV.”

“ICC released the names of politicians. “

“Yr dad on TV. “

“ Whats the latest?”

“Yr dad deserves 2 die.”

“May he rot in Hel.”

“ICC Prsecuta comng 4 yr dad.”

“ Ol Poltshans nvr dai – thei rot.”

None of the messages, most of them from numbers I did not recognize, were from Tim, my husband, stuck in Australia for his Phd studies. I was sure he would call.

So it had finally come to this. The list of those involved in the election violence had at last been released by the ICC thus bringing to climax weeks and weeks of debates on every medium in the country.

My dad’s name was on the list. My heart sunk at the vitriol that some of those phone messages conveyed. My mind turned to Dad and his vast amount of wealth, some of which I was not only a beneficiary of but also an administrator. Majority of his property was in my name.

Another call came. It was Wangu, Dad’s housegirl of more than twenty five years. She was sobbing.
“Dad was found collapsed in his room and has been rushed to hospital!” Wangu was almost family and I could feel her distress. Dad, diabetic and hypertensive, had been in and out of hospital regularly since losing in the 2007 general elections – the first time in his twenty year political career.

“I am sorry I have to rush to hospital to see my dad,” I told Mary who was missing her day off for the third week in a row. She frowned but she knew that I would pay her overtime.

Before leaving the house, I decided to switch on the TV to get the latest news.
“Breaking news: ICC releases twenty names of perpetrators of 2007 election violence” flashed on the screen. Dad’s name was the first one: David ‘the monster’ Mavita – ex-Minister without Portfolio. Thao Matek, Mbaya Mbofu amongst others. There was no woman on the list.

“More than 1,500 people died and 500 000 displaced,” the scroll bar rolled on. Footages of displaced persons carrying their belongings were relayed.

“The ICC has vowed to use Kenyan as an example to the rest of the world on how to combat impunity.”
Then they showed some of the political rallies that Dad had held to incite crowds. I flipped channels and found the same stories. I switched off the TV.

“Pope, do not feed the bird,” I said as I walked past his room. He turned and waved.

……to be continued.

By Clifford Oluoch.

After almost six years on the same Jogoo Road route, Macharia knew how treacherous that highway could be. Already there was a queue of cars that had stopped at the cross over where the railway crossed Jogoo Road, thus separating the west from the east. If Macharia did not make [...]]]> Destiny (3)

By Clifford Oluoch.

After almost six years on the same Jogoo Road route, Macharia knew how treacherous that highway could be. Already there was a queue of cars that had stopped at the cross over where the railway crossed Jogoo Road, thus separating the west from the east. If Macharia did not make it to the other side of the railway, he would lose valuable time and miss almost half the trip’s amount.
“Okay, time for offerings,” Mutinda sang a church hymn to signal his intentions. The amused group of passengers responded in kind as everyone dug into their pockets or handbags for money.
Otieno pulled the hooting lever again. Louder and longer the hooting sent a loud message to all those who were still asleep. From his position he could already see a long queue of vehicles on either side of the railway lines. He felt good that the drivers were living by the book. Once upon a time there used to be a barrier on either side of the railway. These used to be manned by personnel from the Railways and their work was to physically block the roads the moment the first hooting was heard. This action stopped the moment the company started experiencing financial problems and a big number of staff were retrenched. The barriers were burglarized and what was left now was the hut that personnel used.
The opposite lane was clear and Macharia, a seasoned driver on the Jogoo road route decided to take the risk and take the opposite lane so as to beat the morning rush and reach town before the more than fifteen matatus that were ahead of him. That meant an extra trip of earning. He heard done it many times before.
“Don’t do it,” Mutinda jokingly warned the driver. Mutinda knew how reckless and daring matatu drivers could be. In more than 99% of the cases they managed to pull off the stunts. But there always was that lingering 1%.
“What is the hurry for?” Andrea Senior asked too loudly. “These children of nowadays. No wonder you have so many funny illnesses like baldness at thirty years of age!” he remarked in reference to Macharia’s clean shaven head.
Esther’s baby kicked and her hand quickly went to the side of her stomach. A proud smile spread across her face as she wished that her husband was there to feel the baby’s movement. Tears welled in her eyes. Two more months.
Kinoti fiddled with the gun in his jacket. It was just a confirmation that it was still there. He needed to change his areas of attack as he was too well known on Jogoo Road. It was time to have an exchange programme with some of the car jackers from the other areas like Ngong Road, Kileleshwa or Kawangware.
Macharia stepped harder on the accelerator, the speedometer moving from 80kmh to 90kmh in such a short span of time.
Otieno looked and saw the lone matatu zooming on the wrong side of the road. He was used to them, these crazy drivers who cheated death on a daily basis. He cursed under his breath and the train was now at full speed and there was no way of stopping it. The long hooting sent another message to the motorists.
Macharia was fifty metres away from the crossing line and he knew that he would make it. Mercy and Rono were still locked in each others embrace, completely shutting out the rest of others from their cozy world. Mercy’s head was comfortably rested on Rono’s chest.
Forty metres. Peter received a call on his blackberry. “Hi honey!” he cooed as he took the call. “We are on Jogoo Road near Makadara. Some mad matatu driver is trying to pull some crazy stunts over here!”
The train was now at ‘The Bridge’, that notorious dirty and dark club that old men frequented against the wishes of their wives. Groups of women, known as chamas, often organized impromptu raids at the place engaging bar maids and young girls in endless fights all in the name to save their husbands. The club had suffered various infernos but each time the same men who were meant to be saved from the club are the ones who ended saving the club.
Thirty metres. Macharia hit 110km/hr well aware that he had made it. Wangui Wamae changed her facebook to “Good Moaning”. She smiled to herself as she read all the other crazy status that had been put up. Facebook was just the bomb.
“Fuck!” Macharia shouted loudly as the red light on his speedometer flashed. The van’s engine went dead.
“What?” asked Mutinda rather too calmly. The loud incessant hooting of the train was blaring in everyone’s ears.
“I think the timing belt has snapped,” Macharia shouted, his voice heavily loaded with panic. He looked to his left and saw the train was just twenty metres away from the crossline. Macharia tried applying emergency brakes but the van, which had been cruising at almost 120kmh just skidded right into the path of the train.
Otieno knew that there was no way he was going to stop the train at such a high speed.
“Oh my God, I thought he was going to stop!” Otieno shouted is despair as he covered his eyes with both his hands.
Then he heard the piercing screams first. They seemed to come from everywhere and Otieno did not dare uncover his eyes. Then the smashing and sickening sound of colliding metal to iron hit the air. It is a sound that Otieno had never heard and as the startling sound made him open his eyes to check what had happened, what Otieno saw permanently became etched in his mind. He saw the mangled wreck of the matatu flying along the railway line. This was followed by a crunching sound as the train continued dragging the matatu along the railway line. Otieno’s mouth remained agape and he decided not to stop the train. He drove the train all the way to Dandora where he alighted and took off never to be seen again.
The accident caused a massive traffic jam on Jogoo Road as wananchi came out in numbers to rescue any survivors. Unfortunately there were none. The police arrived in less than thirty minutes and took almost three hours to clear the accident scene. Most of the bodies were smashed beyond recognition. All the leading TV stations sent their crew to cover the horrific accident.
By mid day, news of the accident had spread across the country but in all news bulletins, the accident did not feature as a leading item. By evening, the news had been relegated to a footnote: 15 people perish in a road accident.
The following day, none of the dailies had the news on their front pages. The accident featured somewhere hidden on the inside pages (page 15) with a picture of a policeman trying to control the crowds. All newspapers had their headlines screaming about politicians and the new constitution.

END.

oluochcliff@yahoo.co.uk

**Who is Jioni?**

Meanwhile Jioni walked away from the scene of the accident and made it slowly to the Ngoma hills, some kilometres from the school. Painfully she climbed to the top of the mountain, each step reminding her of the painful past. She needed to be alone and revisit the cause [...]]]> FGM – The Aftermath (4)

**Who is Jioni?**

Meanwhile Jioni walked away from the scene of the accident and made it slowly to the Ngoma hills, some kilometres from the school.
Painfully she climbed to the top of the mountain, each step reminding her of the painful past. She needed to be alone and revisit the cause of all her troubles.
She reached the top of the mountain but the cool breeze could not calm her troubled spirit. The voices in her head grew louder and louder making her want to run away from the same place that she had been a victim of female circumcision three years back.
She found a rock and sat down remembering every single detail about the forced circumcision. How her aunt, her mother’s sister, had dragged her to the forest to join the initiates so that she, Jioni, could become a decent woman and not shamelessly sleep around with men. Her mum would not have done that to her and Jioni knew it. But where was mum?
She remembered the circumciser, an old woman wearing a mask and using the same blade on all the fifty or so girls who had been there. She remembered asking for her mother over and over again but the circumciser s had gone ahead and performed the ritual, calling her a big coward.
It was the last time that Jioni had really cried. No pain would make her cry again, none whatsoever.
The nights had been terrible, waking up in the middle, seeing the circumciser coming for her, the blade coming to slit her throat.
Jioni sat for a very long time and she did not realize that it was getting dark. She walked down from the mountain and slowly made her way home only to find her furious aunt waiting for her. Jioni had the keys to the house, but she did not know that her aunt was coming back so soon. She never announced when she was coming or leaving.
“Which men have you been sleeping with?” she asked as she raised her hand to strike Jioni. The slap landed on Jioni’s face as she replied softly.
“No man, aunty!” Jioni replied respectfully, knowing the line of questioning employed by the aunt each time she came back.
“Where are you from this time of the evening?” she asked again as she opened the door and went straight to sit on the bed, which Jioni was never permitted to sit on or sleep in.
“I had gone for a walk in the mountains. I have been having problems at school with some of the children. They call me a witch and laugh at me because I have AIDS,” Jioni replied.
The unsympathetic aunt just coldly replied, “But you have AIDS, so why should it bother you at all?” Jioni kept quiet, she never argued or talked back at adults. She had long learnt that it was important to hide your feelings.
The aunt snorted at Jioni’s silence and then the lecture began. “You are just like your mother who abandoned you when you were hardly two years old. She ran away to the big cities to look for big money but we all know what she is doing there. Works at night in the streets.”
Ironically, it was through these lectures that Jioni had been able to piece together her past.
Jioni’s mother had delivered her only child at the age of 15, while still a schoolgirl. After dropping out of school, she had gone to live with her much older sister, a businesswoman in Kitale town.
Jioni sometimes wondered about her father. Who was he and why did he desert Jioni and her mother? Was he a handsome and caring man or was he like some of the drunkards she occasionally met at the shopping centre? Would he recognize her if he saw her? Was he thinking about her wherever he was? Too many questions she really wanted to ask him.
Once Jioni had asked her aunt who her father was. The reply was a rude, “Go ask your mother, she was there when you were being conceived!”
One day Jioni’s mum had just disappeared leaving Jioni with the neighbours. She had just gone, no goodbye, no note.
Jioni’s aunt had come from her businesses only to find Jioni playing outside the house with other children. The aunt had known that this would happen one day, but she had thought that Jioni would accompany her mother when the time came.
So Jioni grew up staying with the aunt and going through the turmoil of daily life, shifting centres and schools until now that she was twelve and was at Rural Urban Primary School.

*********

It was Friday and the school had assembly and flag-raising day. Jioni still had no school uniform; though she tried to look her decent best by wearing the cleanest dress she could get hold of. She settled for her brown khaki.
Jioni walked to school, other children passing her and not having the time or heart to talk to her, the evil one-eyed girl.
Going to school had become a routine for Jioni, no fun, or enjoyment, just there to pass time. She could not remember the last time she had a close friend. Life had become lonely, but she had become used to it.
Jioni walked to the assembly point, waiting for the school bell to ring and signal the start of her first ever assembly at the new school. She noticed groups of children huddled together talking in hushed tones. Even the teachers seemed to be engrossed in some talk, which Jioni guessed was all about Mr. Kuria’s accident.
The bell rang and all students and teachers moved to their respective positions. Jioni was lost, so she moved closest to where some of her classmates were. There were very few children from her class and as expected the moment she moved towards them, they moved away, leaving her alone.
The school settled down and the head teacher took charge of the assembly. There was the hoisting of the flag, followed by the singing of the national anthem and the pledge. Then came the announcements.
The head teacher cleared his throat, “We have some disturbing news about one of our teachers and his relative. Mr. Kuria, the class teacher of 7P, was involved in a serious bicycle accident yesterday. He fractured his left shoulder and had a few bruises on his body. His cousin who was riding at the back of the bike, is still unconscious at the District Hospital.”
Most students already knew about the accident but hearing it afresh from the headteacher made it look twice as bad and serious. They gasped.
The headteacher continued, “In Mr. Kuria’s absence, Miss Mutura will take charge of the class.” The few members of the class who were at the assembly did not look pleased at this news, especially the girls who thought Miss Mutura disliked girls.
Further announcements were made but the school hardly paid any attention to them, their minds preoccupied with the accident. The assembly ended.
Jioni joined the students streaming towards class making sure that she also kept her distance from them. They reached the classroom and that is when Jioni realized that nearly all the boys in the class were absent. The class was half full.
Miss Mutura was not sure what to do, but she managed to convince the few girls to enter class. They all sat in front, leaving Jioni to remain at the back. They also wanted to maintain their distance.

……to be continued.

oluochcliff@yahoo.co.uk

By Clifford Oluoch

It was the Harvest Season, a time when all the gardens are deep, penetratingly green, full of life and beckoning any farmer to come and enjoy the fruits of the earth. Mayira, the Chief’s eldest daughter, was in charge of organising the girls’ dance troupe. The fifteen young unmarried girls [...]]]> SPLIT THE EYE (4)

By Clifford Oluoch

It was the Harvest Season, a time when all the gardens are deep, penetratingly green, full of life and beckoning any farmer to come and enjoy the fruits of the earth.
Mayira, the Chief’s eldest daughter, was in charge of organising the girls’ dance troupe. The fifteen young unmarried girls were extremely busy rehearsing the songs, trying their best to synchronise the moves and high-pitched voices. Three of the girls were Mayira’s half-sisters, belonging to her two step mothers. They were age mates.
The excited girls were busy gyrating and ululating to the beating of the drums, when they heard the sharp beatings of the bul, the traditional village drum that transmitted news by simply generating the required number of beats.
They all knew the sounds: five slow beats followed by screams always meant that a man had passed away and the burial arrangements would start straight away. Three slow beats, no screaming meant that a woman had passed away. Two beats showed that a young unmarried man had died. One beat was reserved for a child or unmarried girl. This would be repeated after some interval.
The three beats sounded, slow and heavy almost like a gong against a metallic plate. The girls, who were in an open space just outside the imposing village walls, stopped their dancing mid-step, all of them aware of the ominous beats of the drum.
“Ok, all of you gather around,” Mayira called her troupe quickly. She went ahead to disperse them to their houses to prepare for the death rites. The death of a female had different rites from that of a male. All the dead were cremated in the pyre found next to the village’s holy shrine, just outside the main village walls. Family members and the rest of the villagers were expected to sprinkle their foreheads with ashes from their cooking areas. This was to signify that fire, humans and ashes had a common destiny.
Mayira walked gloomily towards her mother’s house. She met her mother rushing frantically towards the cooking area. “Who is it mom?” Mayira asked her visibly shaken and confused looking mom.
Mayira’s mom, Kolo, stood, looked at her daughter and almost broke down but managed to control her tears. “It is Pala’s mother, the daughter of the seas and oceans,” she said sadly, her eyes looking over her daughter’s head. Pala was one of Mayira’s age-mates and close friends.
“How did she die…..,” Mayira started before realising that she knew the answer to the question even long she completed it. Pala’s father, just like the rest of the men in the village, was a known hot-tempered man known for unleashing untold terror to his household. Unlike other men, Pala’s father did not spare children or livestock. His anger was known beyond his household and his name often brought untold fear amongst his children. Livestock often made disappearing acts at his sight.
Mayira let her mother move on to the cooking area where she scooped ash and brought it back to the house. The death of Pala’s mother seemed to have rattled mother and daughter alike. They were both agitated, edgy and fear seemed to take control of them. Mayira strained to hear what her mother was constantly muttering to herself in great annoyance and agitation. It was a sight that Mayira had never
seen in the household.
“This cannot go on,” Mayira finally managed to hear a sensible sentence from her restless and disturbed mother. The sentence was repeated almost ten more times as mother and daughter scooped the ashes and sprinkled their foreheads first, followed by their feet.
“What cannot go on?” Mayira asked her mother, just in time as her three other siblings, all girls, joined in the ritual.
For the first time Kolo realised that she had been talking to herself. She looked knowingly at the daughter Mayira, her eyes a reflection of a pained soul that had just lost a dear friend. Kolo did not reply to the question, whose answer she was sure her daughter knew. Instead she busied herself with her three other daughters, who were younger than Mayira.
Kolo, the eldest wife of Chief Adera was a mother of four beautiful girls. She had no son and this had strained her relationship with the Chief. Kolo had watched as her husband had gone ahead to marry a second and even a third wife. The results were all the same: girls and more girls. Now there were nine girls in Chief Adera’s homestead, making him a laughing stock in the village. He had gone ahead to unleash his frustrations on his three wives. Chief Adera was desperate to get a baby boy, so desperate that he had nicknamed Mayira ‘Wuoyi’ meaning ‘The Boy’, a name that both mother and daughter resented greatly.
The second set of drumbeats rang out bringing the household to rapt attention. They were meant to move to the pyre and start the final rites of the dead. Customarily a dead person was cremated on the same day of the death. This had to take place before sunset.
Kolo gave instructions to Mayira to stay with the girls as she moved to the pyre where she had to be with the married women. The children stood on one side of the pyre, the men took the centre circle within the pyre.
Mayira spoke to her three siblings who understood the full impact of what had taken place. They had all taken part in village rituals relating to death. There was no villager who was not exposed to these rituals. Birth, initiation, marriage, death, harvests, sacrifices, were all rituals that all villagers were accustomed to.
The men strolled in lazily, took their place at the forefront of the pyre. The medicine-man was already there, all set for what he did best: preserve the traditions of the tribe.
Mayira stood with her siblings and the children of the deceased. Quietly they watched and followed the rites, joining in the chanting and humming wherever required. After the ritual, the children of the deceased would be required to undergo other rituals: complete shaving of the hair; bathing three times a day in the revered section of the Yando River for three days, a belief that the gods of the waters would cleanse the unclean; complete isolation from the rest of the village.
Soon the ceremony was over and Mayira watched as her friends slowly walked away towards their houses, ready to start the rituals.
“What will happen to them?” Mayira’s younger sister asked, referring to her friends. She looked concerned about the family of the deceased.
“They will be fine,” Mayira replied, trying hard to convince herself that nothing would happen to her friends. All she had to do was to wait for three days and then the harvest songs would start again.

***********

Several days later and numerous beatings afterwards, Mayira woke up to the stillness of the morning. She heard the second cock-crow and as a girl she knew her duty very well: wake up and fetch water the first thing in the morning; come back and make morning porridge for the boys and the men; join the men in tilling the land; make afternoon meal for the men and the boys. It was engrained in her.
It was a morning like any other: cool without any wind blowing. Mayira woke up, nudged her three sisters to rise and, possibly, shine. She then went to the kitchen where all the water pots were kept. Her three younger sisters dutifully followed her, a perfect example of an older sister.
The four girls made it to the outside of the still sleepy village: all the women and young girls were up, while the boys and the men enjoyed prolonged sleep, awaiting the troupe of women to come back from the river with water.
“Make sure you do not break another pot,” Mayira warned one of her younger sisters who was still learning how to balance a pot on her head.
“Yes, Mayira,” she replied dutifully, striving her best to make sure she did not disappoint her elder sister. The other two laughed at her, well aware that initiation into water carrying could be a stressful affair.
The four made it to the outside; the cold reminding them that the day had truly began. They walked to the village’s gate, unbolted it and joined the long trek of women who were on their way to the mighty River Yando. The mood was not there and the customary singing that accompanied the snaking was absent.
Mayira joined her agemates.

…..to be continued.

oluochcliff@yahoo.co.uk

By Clifford Oluoch.

“Is there a problem with him?” Sr. Mary asked Esther the moment John Paul had left the room. Sr. Mary knew the youngsters love for each other. These two were kids who had grown up in Church, graduating from the Sunday School programme to the [...]]]> In The Name Of The Father (2)

By Clifford Oluoch.

“Is there a problem with him?” Sr. Mary asked Esther the moment John Paul had left the room. Sr. Mary knew the youngsters love for each other. These two were kids who had grown up in Church, graduating from the Sunday School programme to the teens and finally the Youth. Sr. Mary knew them too well.
Esther did not reply.
“You have been crying,” Sr. Mary commented more than asked the girl whose eyes were puffy and red. The question had hardly left her lips than Esther started sobbing again.
“Yes,” she whispered as she fished out a white handkerchief from her black skirt. She wiped her tears and noisily blew her nose.
“Why?” asked Sr.Mary, though she could already guess what the problem was.
“He has gone and I guess I will never have him. I have lost him forever,” the chocking sobs came out hard again. Sr. Mary felt the pain that she could easily identify with. This happened to her almost twenty years back when she decided to join the Order.
Esther listened to part of a story that she knew. It is a story that Sr. Mary never tired of telling, especially to the youth.
“I was born and brought up at the doorsteps of the convent because my mother – a single parent – worked as a gardener at the Convent for many years.
“I was a constant companion to the nuns’ right from the moment I learnt how to walk and talk. I would accompany my mother to the convent where the nuns immediately fell in love with me and me with them. The nuns’ angelic singing, immaculate robes made a lifelong impression on me.
“I want to be a nun when I grow up,” was a constant song in the house.
“I grew up in a strict Catholic upbringing, attended Catholic schools, spent my holidays and free time working in the Convent. When I completed my secondary schooling, I shunned a college offer to join the Order as a novitiate. My mother and the nuns were ecstatic. My boyfriend was not.”

THE SECOND READING:
A READING FROM THE BOOK OF ONE CORINTHIANS 13 VERSES 4 TO 13.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, and always perseveres. Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.

Thanks be to God.

There was silence as Sr. Mary tried her best to console the heartbroken girl.
“I am pregnant,” Esther whispered, the burden finally thrusting itself at the door steps of the Church that had taught her the virtue of chastity.
Sr. Mary heard her right and her outward shock was a mask to her inner happiness. “Who is the father?” Sr. Mary asked, well aware of the obvious answer.
“It is not John Paul,” Esther whispered, her emphasis being on the word not, all the disappointment being shown by the continuous crying.
Sr. Mary gasped and Esther looked up to see the Sister masking her disappointment with a quick removal of her hand from her mouth.
“I thought that I would trap him with this pregnancy and hence stop him from joining the Seminary but it did not work.
He refused to touch me.” Again the disappointment followed by tears.
“You mean he has never touched you?”
“No. Not even a kiss. Just holding of hands and brief hugs.”
There was a brief stint of silence before Esther resumed. “That is why he was late for Mass today. I wanted him to sleep with me but he refused.” She gazed at the glazed Church windows that depicted some of the early history of the Church. At a different time, she would have marveled at the pure ingenuity of passing down the history of the church through window paintings. But not today.

GOSPEL READING.
A READING FROM THE BOOK OF JOHN 15 VERSES 12 TO 15

Praise to you Lord Jesus Christ.

Fr. Joseph wanted to preach about the gospel but he decided instead to tell his story. Today was his last day and he wanted to leave having told his real story. A sort of justification to his disappearance. But before that, he had the small issue of John Paul to deal with.
“Today we bid goodbye to one of our very own, a real son of the Church. Today, John Paul ‘Pope’ makes his first step towards priesthood. I call upon him to share his feelings with us.
John Paul walked to the pulpit. He was in the glowing white robe, interlaced with a purple covering. He looked at the congregation and his heart swelled out for them. They had seen him grow from a young boy of three years old who used to be a nuisance in Church, driving everyone around crazy with his running around and demands. They had seen him become an altar boy at the age of 7 and the rich spiritualism in him grow in leaps and bounds. The congregation loved him because he was their own.
John Paul looked at them and smiled, his eyes welling with tears. “You all are my family and I am extremely proud to be a product of this parish,” he started. Fr. Joseph smiled.
“I understand that it is a tough road ahead but with your prayers I know that I will not falter on the way nor will I abandon my vocation as many others have done.” Fr. Joseph flinched.
“The number of priests is decreasing by the day because fewer and fewer men are joining the seminary while more and more are leaving the priesthood.” Fr. Joseph’s heart skipped a bit. Did this boy know about him leaving the priesthood? Was he personally talking to him?
John Paul’s voice lowered a bit and he went ahead to tell the congregation about his struggles in life ever since his parents’ demise some ten years back. He numerated the Church’s help in bringing up his family and taking care of his daily needs. He particularly thanked Fr. Joseph, Sr. Mary and the Young Christian Community of Muthurwa for their endless help. Fr. Joseph was now a broken a man. This kid was cracking him up.
“Finally, there is always a sacrifice to pay when man leaves his family and belongings to join the Lord’s army. Where is Esther?” John Paul asked.
Esther and Sr. Mary appeared from the choir side. John Paul motioned her to come next to him which she did. “Esther here, just like in the old testament, has been a fortress of strength to me. But as our Lord says in the good book, man shall leave his family and follow me. Esther has been my family and it is painful that where I am going, she cannot come.” Esther was literally in tears. Fr. Joseph removed a white handkerchief and wiped his tears. Sr. Mary stood stoically waiting for John Paul to complete his ‘homily’
“Mary, mother of God, is our guide through these difficult times. Please join me in saying three hail Marys, one for the clergy, another for the laity, and a final one for all the vocations.” With that, John Paul led the congregation in fervently reciting the prayer. Fr. Joseph felt the boy’s presence as John Paul stepped down from the pulpit. He went ahead to join his altar team.
Ten year old Chichi, the only girl in the altar, could not contain herself. She ran towards John Paul and gave him a long hug while crying uncontrollably. Fr. Joseph waited for the girl to recover before proceeding with the rest of the mass. He was shaken. That boy had awakened some fire in him.

…….to be continued.

By Clifford Oluoch

“I am a musician,” Serah replied proudly and then went into the long story of the challenges of producing her debut album. She removed a CD from her bag and gave it to the driver to sample it. Macharia removed the DVD that was playing and inserted Serah’s CD. The thumping [...]]]> Destiny

By Clifford Oluoch

“I am a musician,” Serah replied proudly and then went into the long story of the challenges of producing her debut album. She removed a CD from her bag and gave it to the driver to sample it. Macharia removed the DVD that was playing and inserted Serah’s CD. The thumping beats send Serah into delirium as she started a rhythmic slow motion of her hands and body. Rono and Serah joined in the swaying of heads and hips.
The matatu stopped to pick the next two passengers. “Karibuni,” Mutinda told the old man and his companion.
“Thank you very much my grandson,” Andrea Otoyo, a studious 78 year old veteran of Nairobi city, addressed Mutinda. The smile on his face was genuine. He then turned to address his 15 year old grandson and namesake. “I will be fine,” he told the young boy as he boarded the matatu.
“Dad gave me specific instructions to make sure that I take you up to the country bus terminus and not to leave until the bus has departed,” Andrea Junior repeated his father’s instructions. He followed his grandfather in.
The two Andreas took the back seat, next to Ntutu. “Your father is very stubborn,” the old man thundered and he went ahead to give his grandson anecdotal episodes of how life was some 50 years back. “These were bushes and forests,” he pointed towards the water tower that was on Outer Ring Road. “We used to come all this way for our hunting expeditions. There was no problem with water at all. All these unsightly extensions and tall structures have made Nairobi very ugly,” Andrea Junior smiled, believing his grandfather a more reliable source of information than the history books they used in school.
“Please lower the volume,” the old man told the conductor, who shouted at the driver to decrease the decibel levels. Serah snorted and the driver decided that it was time to try his luck with another girl. He banished the memories of four of his known scattered seeds wandering the face of the earth.
“How many more?” the driver asked the conductor in reference to filling up the matatu with passengers.
“Four more and we are set,” the conductor replied.
Otieno started the heavy train engine. It smoked and like a dragon that has just come from deep hibernation, it made its way out of the station slowly gathering momentum towards Eastlands to destination Dandora. It is a route that Otieno had taken for the last five or so years, knowing it like the back of his hands. The mass of people who woke up early to walk to work was already on its way. In less than an hour, the sun would be up and Nairobi would be lit and finally awake and alive to challenge the very meaning of existence. The happiness on these pedestrians faces always gave Otieno the extra energy to see it to the end of the day. Daily he noticed groups of people in animated discussion and laughing heartily as they trekked to work, most of them in industrial area.
At the Donhoolm roundabout the number of passengers was swelling. Already there were about ten passengers and the number was increasing. An old ramshackled matatu, what one columnist called a distant relative of a vehicle, rambled to the bus stop. The passengers rushed to board it but the vehicle stalled and the five passengers who had boarded it from Fedha estate and Pipeline estate were forced to alight.
“Return the full amount that you took from us!” thundered David Kisia, a 55 year old bank worker who had a month to the end of his 35 years service to the same employer. He had risen through the ranks and his pension was a staggering Kshs.7 million. He had just completed paying his 15 year old mortgage, making feel free and extremely proud of himself. David was really looking forward to his retirement. He needed to spoil himself during his retirement.
The conductor stood his ground and told the passengers that he would talk to the next matatu to carry them at a subsidized fare.
“Matatu are just con,” shouted Mama Ndavi also popularly known as ‘Sukuma Wiki’ because of the vegetables she sold at the junction of Pipeline estate and Mukuru kwa Njenga, the populous slum that had just refused to disappear. “Today I am late and I will get all the bad vegetables,” Mama Ndavi lamented as she glanced at her watch. 5.58 am.
They saw the ‘DESTINY’ matatu coming and all the fifteen or so people started angling themselves to rush to the matatu.
“Town fifty bob,” shouted Mutinda as Macharia increased the volume of the music, making Serah a happy girl and feeling like telling everyone about her CD.
“Mannerless young men,” Andrea Snr muttered as he tried hard to cover his ears. Much to his annoyance, his grandson seemed to be really enjoying himself, shaking his body to the heavy beats. “We used to pay five shillings to town, now it is a whooping fifty shillings. This Nairobi, people will die of hunger!” the old man’s lamentations continued.
A man wearing shades forced his way to the front to join Serah who moved more towards the driver. The driver took one look at the man and immediately recognized him.
“Please alight,” the driver politely told the man, Kinoti Kinywa, one of the known hustlers and car jackers of Eastlands. Most of the matatu drivers and touts knew him and whenever he struck they all knew how devastating he could be. Macharia was shocked to see Kinoti so early in the morning.
“I am not working. Just meeting some friends at City Stadium,” Kinoti replied. “I never work in the morning.”
The shoving aside, Mutinda had to shout at the top of his voice. “Please let the expectant lady board first. Shame on all of you!” There was muttering of discontent amongst the passengers as they let the heavily expectant Esther Wakesho board the vehicle. This was her first pregnancy in 10 years of marriage, childlessness and heartbreaks, endless tests and pressure from her in laws. Her husband, Muturi, a real gentleman, had stood by her and told her that he was not going to marry another woman and neither would he walk out of their marriage. Esther was 7 months expectant.
As Esther made herself comfortable, Wangui Wamae, a 14 year old std.8 pupil squeezed herself and made the last of the passengers. Wangui’s school was going for a trip to Mombasa, an 8 hour road trip. She had to be in school by 7am. She was sad as she boarded the matatu, still debating whether the shs.7000 trip was worth the dent it had made on her widowed mother who had insisted on Wangui’s attending the trip.
“The vehicle is packed!” Mutinda shouted at some passengers who were still trying to make their way to make the excess number that the touts were commonly known to favour.
“I am sorry, traffic rules have to be followed,” Mutinda said as he gently shut the matatu door. There were 14 passengers inside. They all heard the distant hooting of the train. It was 6.03am and the train was three minutes late.
The train gathered enough momentum, Otieno admiring the view of Kaloleni estate. From some distance he could see early morning risers rushing to cross the railway line before the train. One thing that still shocked him was the utmost recklessness with which most people carried on with aspects of their lives. Otieno pulled the lever again, letting another prolonged hooting that sent a message more than a kilometer radius away. From Kaloleni the train snaked its way to Makongeni where many of the Kenya Railway staff lived.

……to be continued.

By Clifford Oluoch

6 am. Monday morning. November 16th .

14 passengers. Route 35/60 Komarock. Kayole.

At 42 years of age, Otieno Kich had been employed with the Kenya Railways Corporation since he left school 22 years back – the last 12 years as a train driver. He had risen through the ranks and was [...]]]> DESTINY.

By Clifford Oluoch

6 am. Monday morning. November 16th .

14 passengers. Route 35/60 Komarock. Kayole.

At 42 years of age, Otieno Kich had been employed with the Kenya Railways Corporation since he left school 22 years back – the last 12 years as a train driver. He had risen through the ranks and was a living proof that hard did indeed pay. Otieno woke up at 5 am sharp, his reliable alarm in the name of body clock never letting him down even once. His one roomed house was a far cry from the palatial apartments that the company had built for senior managers proving his point about the pathetic condition that unionasiable members had to live through. Otieno’s family of 4 children – 15year old son, a 12 year old daughter, a 10 year old daughter and another daughter – a 1 year old – all lived in Siaya town with Peres, his wife of 17 years. Otieno took a quick shower, dressed hurriedly and then left his room and walked by Nyar Kiambu’s kiosk where he took his daily breakfast. A few colleagues, who lived alone and found cooking a hustle, joined him. At 5.45 am sharp Otieno was at the Nairobi Railway Station. He clocked in and made his way to the train. His assistant was already there. Together they climbed the stairs to the engine of the train.
“Today is my last day as a matatu driver,” Macharia ‘Live’ muttered to himself. At 30 and having been in the matatu industry since he was 18, Macharia felt that it was now time to move on and purchase his own matatu. He was tired of being employed.
“It’s a bright new day!” he sung as he moved out of his one bedroomed flat in Umoja estate just adjacent to Mutindwa, the place where the footpath crosses the railway line. On the staircase, Macharia met Mweni, the neighbour’s housegirl ferrying water for her early morning chores. Almost fifty years after independence, running water was still a mirage in most estates of Nairobi City. Mweni smiled at Macharia and he in turn playfully and sensuously slapped her bottoms which, from the sound produced, led Macharia to conclude that Mweni was not wearing any underwear. She giggled knowingly. They had a serialised soap opera between them. Macharia ambled his way to the Kobil petrol station, the meeting point of all Umoja matatu drivers and touts. It was bee hive of activities as drivers identified their vehicles and drove off to start their day. Macharia met with his tout Mutinda Muli, a 24 year old young man who was too polished to be a tout.
“Praise the Lord,” Mutinda told Macharia who just grunted a reply.
“When are you going to get a decent job and stop touting?” Macharia asked, not understanding how a religiously ‘saved’ man could work in the rowdy and ungodly matatu industry.
“All jobs come from the Lord. So none is superior to the other,” Mutinda replied as he boarded the passenger side of the 14 seater Nissan van. Macharia took to the driver’s seat and started the vehicle, christened DESTINY.
“How was your wedding?” Macharia asked softly.
Mutinda went ahead to give a monologue of his village wedding to 22 year old Mwikali. The function, held at the hall of Machakos TTC, had attracted the entire village bringing life to standstill. Such weddings were rare.
“How much did you spend?” Macharia asked as he negotiated the bend to join the main Outer Ring road and drive down towards Doonholm. It was 5.50 am and the estate was already alive.
“Carry those two passengers,” Mutinda told Macharia who pulled by the roadside for the young couple to board the matatu.
Mercy Nerea had just completed her last ‘O’ level exam and she had decided to graduate from school into real life in style. After all, she was 18 years old and a fully grown adult, though she had not acquired a national identity card. But that was not a problem as her 21 year old boyfriend, John Rono, a graphic design student at Nairobi’s Polytechnic, had promised to help her with the formalities.
“Was it painful?” Rono whispered amorously to Mercy, their hands romantically interlocked and they made a grand entry into the matatu. The driver smiled.
Mercy giggled. “Yes! In fact it’s still hurting,” she replied as she rested her head on Rono’s shoulders.
“I know my parents will wonder why I left without taking any breakfast,” Rono chipped in smiling at the freedom his parents had granted him by gifting him the whole of the one bedroomed servant quarters whose entry was through the back gate of the main house, hence making sure that contact was minimal between Rono and his parents. No one was allowed to enter that room and only Rono was privy to the mischief that took place right under his parent’s nose.
“Where is your wife right now?” Macharia asked Mutinda as they spotted another passenger.
“She is still with my mother as I sort out my accommodation problems,” Mutinda replied as the matatu came to a stop and he opened the door to a well dressed tall man. “Welcome aboard,” Mutinda opened for the man who just went in without acknowledging his greetings.
Mutinda spotted another potential client slowly walking towards the bus stop. They decided to wait for her. It was still too early to rush for the passengers at the ever busy Donhoolm roundabout.
Peter Ntutu boarded the matatu and went and sat right behind. He was a troubled man. Just when his car import business was picking up, he had to go and get involved in a freak accident that left his wife slightly injured and admitted in Nairobi Hospital for observations. He, luckily, had escaped unhurt.
Peter removed his two phones – a blackberry and an iphone. He chose the blackberry and dialed a number. Two rings later, he was through. “Good morning angel,” he purred.
His wife croaked on the other side before Peter took over. “The car is a right off, so I will need to sort it out with the insurance company first thing in the morning. The second car refused to start, so imagine I have to board a matatu.”
Another pause before he continued. “And by the way, I should be signing the mortgage papers today!”
Mercy and Rono giggled as their hands playfully explored each others body. The passenger who was being waited boarded the matatu. “Welcome aboard sister. How are you this morning?” cooed Mutinda respectfully. The passenger ignored him.
Serah Muhato had not slept the whole night, but she did not mind the sacrifice. Just one more song to go and her debut album “Inabamba” would be over. She could not wait to get it over with. She was grateful that so far the music producer had been very helpful guiding her in every step of the way. Serah sat next to the driver, her hair a mangling mess of a lion’s mane. The driver stole furtive glances wondering about her shaggy and knotted nut brown weave, puffy red eyes and stale breath.
“Say it!” Serah challenged the driver who smiled, his daily encounter with different people would make a colourful collection of who is who in the estates . This one was different. Beautifully different.
“Where are you from so early in the morning because from your dressing you are not going to the office?” the driver replied as he engaged the lower gear to slow the vehicle and pick another two passengers.

…..to be continued.