1Jun |
If you did not know, I have been a huge Manu fan. It’s a relationship stretching back to the early 1990s when I move to the English Isles and has stayed with me even though I now float thousands of miles in the Mid West.
When the “gooners” bought Thierry Henry and giraffe “Vieira”, most of my friends switched allegiance. Then came Drogba and Essien and they switched again to Chelsea. But if Obama can be Irish, so can I be English, and as a true child of ‘WANGU”, my allegiance never wavered.
I watched last week’s Champion s league final with all the excitement those who follow the Red Devils have and expected a hard game and a familiar end of late goals. I had it in my head that the old man will lift the cup and as for me, I would have a good weekend.
I knew Barcelona were the better team but I still held the belief that anything is possible in football and with ‘Roonatic’ on the pitch, and old Gigsy and Rio on tow, the belief was real.
As the game took off, I settled on my familiar ignorance of the opposition’s threat and tried to identify what Manu were trying to do. It did not take long for me to realize we were in for a beating. We never had a sniff. Barcelona could well have turned-up in “wife-beaters-vest”. I comforted myself that Pedro is not as big a threat as Messi or Villa, and it seemed the Manu defense shared the same opinion, as Evra left him on his own and Xavi passed the ball to him for an easy goal.
I was still unconvinced and as I pushed myself back against the chair I was sitting on, Rooney equalized. I followed him as he got down on that slide down the Wembley turf, I felt like I was sliding too. It still amazes me how they do that and seems to go on forever. I used to slide on mud back in the village when I was a boy, but usually it was on my bottom, down hill and only for a few feet.
I surely believed we were going to win it after that. I don’t think United saw the ball again until half time.
I tried to stand up but I felt light-headed. I tried to take a sip of my ice coca cola but it felt warm and smelt. Everything I tried felt different.
When second half got underway, I felt my fist tighten. I did not know it but I kicked every united kick. I chased Xavi, I chased Iniesta, I put my chicken leg around Pique, I swore at Rio, I blocked the ball, I even tried to catch it when Leo Messi hit that second goal. I was even begging for an African magic. Sergio Busquets who associate with good taste for his name tasted bitter.
At 2-1, I was praying for an equalizer. Then I remembered the God I pray to is also the God of Catalonia, and right then all the people of Catalonia were already praising him. I wondered whether singing “glory, glory man united” had provoked God to release extra energy to the Catalans as a punishment to us and turned us to simply “manures”.
After the third one went it, I started shaking and I looked outside. It was still afternoon in the Midwest and I wondered how I was going to survive the rest of the day. I turned back to the TV and I saw Sir Alex Ferguson shaking too. At that moment, I knew it was all over. But I also knew that Fergie knew it too and the players knew it too.
I remembered Barcelona in 1999 and Moscow in 2009, and how happy I was when we won. I knew that there will be happy days and other great nights but still it hurt.
I was not going to watch the celebrations of ‘Barca’ and humiliation of United. I stood up and realized my knees hurt and all my muscles too. I guess I played more than everyone on that pitch except Victor Valdes even though it was only in my head.
Then it was Memorial Day and I remembered the lost cup.
Thanks Barcelona.
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6May |
Mother’s Day is this weekend. It’s that day when you don’t have a choice but be nice to your mother and everybody else wearing a skirt.
While I don’t like the marketing side of this day, with flowers, gifts and all the promotions that go with it, I do appreciate the idea of just one day in a year you get to recognise that somebody really delivered you to this beautiful earth.
The little thing makes all the difference for me.
So this Mother’s Day, I’d encourage you to appreciate your mothers little efforts. Someone had to wipe your little bottom for starters. She ignored the smell and got on with it like it smelt like bacon. Every single day for years she did it with song as she applied baby powder and cream.
She wiped the snort off your nose when you did not know it was running. She chewed the hard foods for you when you did not have teeth and laugh when you peed on her face as she changed your nappies.
She defended you when your dad got angry with you for kicking the neighbors’ dog and told you how smart you were when she knew you were just average.. She whipped the very bottom she used to wipe and told you it was for your own good just because she was frustrated.
She accepted the stretch marks and comforted you when you cried all night just because you felt like it. And she still loves you, even when you think she is just an old fashioned heffa. She thought you were the cutest baby even when you could pass for baby Shrek.
So this Mother’s Day forget what you have done for her and remember what little things she has already done for you.
Happy Mothers day all you mothers.
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5May |
Being one who is always in search of the funny side of every situation, I had that sense abruptly tested on the other night. Some years ago we formed a group of old friends just to keep-up with our African tradition of “kiama” with the hope that togetherness will bring us strength as we continue to live in the “land of the free”.
Usually we meet at a local restaurant for a couple of hours a few times a year. We normally order coffee and do our business and then leave in as a group and like old African men trying to catch the last few words from each other.
As we left the other day, Francis and I were walked out of the restaurant together and as we reach where he had parked his car, two young men in HYVee uniform approached us as we were about say goodbye. What one of them said to us almost melted my hard African knees. “We have been told that you guys are running around the store asking people for money”, he said. I did not want him to repeat what he said and I was lost for words for a few seconds. I looked over to see Francis’ response but since it was outside in the dark, I could not even see his teeth.
I know now you are thinking racism and all that you hear about America and but did not even cross my mind. It happens that I have worked in that store/restaurant sometime before and others in our group have too, including Francis. (His son actually works there and was even on duty inside). I don’t remember actually what was said as I was beginning to get angry but I remember we stated some facts and the guys actually apologized.
I also remember a sound telling me to forgive them for they do not know what they are doing, and a funny smile glowing out of my lips in the dark as like I actually knew what I was doing. I do not believe that anybody pointed at us as the culprits, but I believe someone actually reported to the store manager about some people actually running around asking for money.
My question was why the two guys thought it was us. Was it our Kenyan walk, accent, color or how we talked? I do not want to know why they picked on us and neither does Francis. The truth might hurt.
I don’t remember asking for anything from a stranger even when I lived in a mud house in the village and I do not think my friend Francis has either.
We may not look like it but we are blessed, and even if we wanted to, we cannot beg. We have come from too far for that. And worse still I think we are too old to learn that trade.
Later as I drove home I could not help myself thinking “if we could pass as would be beggers or hustlers, then we could also pass as Batman and Robin. And I could see us flying over the restaurant and over the highway and into the hills of Liberty Manor………. and we would be heroes to those two young men forever.
God bless American and the entire world.
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31Dec |
When I was a boy back in the village, I was the designated milk boy for my Grandmother. For my efforts, she always gave baby bananas (tungae), and occasionally, she’d pull out some sweet potatoes from under the ashes for a treat. At 5 pm daily, I’d pick up a bottle of Tree-top, put it in a small (kiondo) roll my ring (mubara) and head west for the 5 minutes run to Mwihia’s.
I don’t remember “cucu” having a cow then, apart from one with a hump which I think she sold to the butchers. Gatundu was not a desert so I don’t know why she had that humpy one. She only got milk from Mr. Samuel Mwihia.
At that age, I did not know why but now I do. When you are blessed, it rubs off everything around you even your cat. Needless to say, there were many others around our village she could have gotten milk from, but those daily trips gave me an insight of Mr. Mwihia’s home and I think I now know why.
Mr. Mwihia was one blessed old man. I don’t know what he did for a living because he was already old when I was born, but I think he worked for the government. He was a big man too, and spoke in a vivacious voice, that made you know he was blessed. He was light skinned and looked huge too. His wife Priscilla always spoke softly and was very kind.
His cows smelt different. He might have brushed and shampooed them and they always looked well gloomed like the California cows I see on TV commercials. His milk har thick cream and you needed less amount on the pot than milk from other cows for a good quality cup of tea.
His dogs were energetic and looked serious. They never wandered outside his fence. I never dared to take our good old dog “mubi” there because he would never survive an attack, leave alone going through the gate. He even employed legendary “shamba boys”.
His fence always looked neat and well trimmed. His coffee trees produced thick juicy beans and a lot of twin and triple beans. His mango trees over produced and broke the braches. People would stop and admire his maize, beans and potatoes crops. Even us boys never dared steal his “mbutha”.
When it rained, water from both sides of the dirt road would converge right in the middle of his farm and spread slowly inwards for weeks, irrigating his land.
His children would all come to his home during holidays in their Volkswagen Beetles and bring their ‘sheng’ speaking children, with their well ironed white shirts, and black leather shoes. They’d bring their soft goat meat from the city, trucks of soda, and soft strawberry jam toasts.
As for me, I’d pack my ring by the gate and the dogs would smell me, “for security reasons I guessed” but I smelled dirt every day except Sundays, I’d slowly walk to the Kitchen and give my Tree-top bottle to the “shamba boy ” for filling. Mrs. Mwihia would offer me pieces of meat and “njahi” and I’d help myself with a few jam toast from the tray” “I always knew where the tray was”. I’d then grab a bottle of Fanta, pop-out the top with my teeth and down it in one breathe.
Within 5 minutes, I’d pick-up the milk and head for the gate slowly as I came. I’d then pick a few leafs “makinduri” and wipe the fat from my mouth and just like that, I looked hungry again.
As I rolled the ring with half a pint of milk a tow, I never knew I had just visited a blessed man and was a young witness. Until 30 years later.
Note.
Have yourself a happy new year and many more
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23Dec |
Have you prayed lately? I know that’s dumb question because we all do in one way or another. Considering prayers mostly fall under 3 main forms: Petition, Thanksgiving, or Worship, I spent sometime the other day after Church thinking about the first form “Petition”
We ask God for all kinds of things and blessings all the time. We want good health, good jobs, good houses, cute kids, wonderful wives / husbands and even long eye lashes. I wondered whether God has already provided some of the things we pray for but yet we don’t know or see them.
I also know that there is never enough, because the desire is imprinted in our DNA. We never stop and take stock of our blessing or go up the hills and stand in awe of what we already have. In that sense we are constantly praying for more and miss the chance to acknowledge what we already have and when they arrive.
When God decides to deliver your blessings, he does not go to some Post Office in Acapulco or Nevada and mail it to you. He uses people. The person who is chosen to be the deliverer is unlikely to be your favorite Pastor, Auntie, mother, or friend. No. God does not operate the same way we do.
When you pray for something, God already knows what he has provide for and he also know the effect of what you are praying for. Before he makes the delivery, he checks to see if you can handle it. He sets you up for a test even before you thought you needed something. Then, he’d pass it through the most unlikely route for you to find.
You asked for a baby? Oh yes he will give you one, but one with colic and a weird cry that will keep you up night and day. Then when he or she grows up, he’d rude to you. And you will start saying you don’t know who they got it from.
You prayed for a wife? God sent you down her path but you met her when she was carrying manure back in the village and all you could smell is manure and it never occurred to you she was the one. You ignored that one and hooked up with Nyambura because she was cute and fanny. And now she is nothing but trouble.
You asked God to fix your immigration status? Guess what, that lady you was rude at Wal-Mart the other day, she works at the Home Office and as clerk and by your accent she knew you are foreign and you made her bitter and even if she does not know you, she puts a file under her desk instead of forwarding it. It turns-out to be your file.
Or it could be that God is holding your blessing for you to earn them. He watches you go past a homeless person holding your nose or us most of us assume, they could be dangerous. But all God want you do is acknowledging that homeless guy. But you run for your dear life and at the same time run away from God and your blessing.
Beware of what you pray for. You might be chasing away your blessings. If you already have a big house, let it be of blessing to other but not your own ego booster.
That person you say you hate. That coworker you can’t stand, that scary man at the end of the street, that kid you hate to see around your children, that sick person you are afraid to touch, or that squirrel you chase away from you beautiful home, they could be the difference between you feeling so messed up and living life abundantly.
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9Dec |
When I lived in “mother country” all those years ago, no one asked me for anything. I could have a “masai” 100 shillings, for a long time and no one ever wanted to have it.
Obviously I did not think of this back then, and I guess I would not have given a shilling when asked. Was meanness written on my face? Or did I look just like someone who could not afford to give.
When I went back there for the first time in the 90s, everyone wanted something from me. Suddenly I was everybody’s favorite friend.
I did not own a car then, but some friend had an idea that I could buy them a car and even had the guts to ask.
Honestly, I thought they all needed their heads examined as they had all gone bonkers.
Older women wanted “western soda”, men wanted beer and many wanted business help. Even Santa gets more reasonable request than I did. No wonder they did not know Santa Clause in Africa.
I used to feel bad everytime I went home
Now that I’m older and “wiser” as they say, I have had a completely different view of it.
What if I turn things around and be the one asking? Would I ask and beg? Most likely I would but I do not wish to be in that position.
There are many reasons why people give. I know it’s Christmas time and everyone gets into that giving mood but I’m not talking about “Jesus and the magi”. I’m more interested in everyday giving to those who ask for help. Those back home who would ask you for anything just because they think you have it or because you live in some foreign land.
Ok then, I do not know about those who have been privileged, but I know that I was once in the very asking side and I did not like it. Somehow by the grace of God whether perceived or real, I switched to the other side. I did not choose either side and neither do I know which side I will end up.
I could build up wealth but that does not mean I cannot loose it.
So I will stop complaining about ridiculous request and give what I can because I’d rather be asked than be the one asking.
You are blessed to be a blessing Genesis 12:1-3
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12Oct |
I was driving down the highway sometime ago when I got stuck in traffic. As I waited patiently for the jam to clear up, I wondered why I did not take a different route. Then, an argument started in my head reasoning out that I had no way of knowing what was ahead.
Then a voice from within my head asked “what are you doing here anyway”. When I recovered from my mini insanity, a real question entered my ever wondrous mind. Why are you really here stuck in traffic in a foreign land. It took several months of self-search to realize why I live in these United States, and when I did, it was a clear as day
In the early 1970s, a young John Kiguru went to High School in Western Kenya from Central Provence. There, he met a bunch of Pentecostal missionaries and got himself saved.
He brought a few of them back to Central and they preached. In that process, his young Nice Margaret and many others received the lord and become one great servants of God. Years down the road and hundreds of “Keshas”, She met another Servant from Githunguri and they married the day before the misguided coup of 1982
I had broken my right foot the day before but I wasn’t going to miss a feast of Coca Cola and jam spread breads (you only had had at weddings).
Little did I know that that union was going to be my gateway to “the land of the free” Several years later, I had gone through high school and was just hopelessly trying to live in a country where hope was the only career. In short, I was just trying to figure out how I was going to be just another useless young man. I could have become a chicken thief or a tomato farmer but there was no land to do that either.
I was not desperate because I did not expect much from myself and neither was much expected from me. But, that Union back in 1982 took us to the land of Alexander the Great, then to the Queen’s land, and finally to the” home of the brave
Why that happened I believe is part of the great design. When John Kiguru accepted the lord, he did not know little me was going to be included in his blessings. Likewise, when young Margaret accepted the lord she did not know where he was going to take her. I watched them sing and praise with those African drums and I as many did those days thought they were young people gone mad
By human design, I was not meant to be trotting the hills and streets of Missouri and Kansas. I was maybe set for stealing goats or picking coffee. But in Gods design, this is exactly where I was meant to be this day
It might appear to you that I’m taking too long or I’m being too casual. But this is my journey, my Wife Jane’s journey and my sons only. Do not try to travel for me. You travel yours and let me walk my steps. If you think I should do this or that, or I should be here or there, ask yourself what is your place in the great design?
John Kiguru died along time ago, Margaret’s union ended long time ago too, but without them and many others including my wife Jane, I would not be stuck in traffic heading North on Interstate 35.
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13May |
This being graduation season, we all seems to be attending to one every weekend. Last Friday was at the Mbono’s and on Saturday we hypothetically crossed the African borders to Cameroon. Usually we go to these parties to celebrate the achievement of those we know, and share those joyous times with them, while we listen to how hard it was, and at the same time maybe convince ourselves that we can do it too.
Melvis, a friend from the Cameroon was graduating as a pharmacist doctor. The occasion left me and may be my friends hoping that all people from Yaoundé, Douala, Mokolo, or Kousseri would graduate and invite us to the party.Before you beg your Cameroonian friend for that invitation, I should warn you that they keep African time plus 2, which makes it 3 hrs behind schedule and that they leave their children at home. Other than that the party is a blast as per my observation.
Everybody seemed close to my age or older. I do not know what they do with their youth. If you turn up on time, expect to find one or 2 people, one of which is the D.J. They make the tables splendidly and place bottles of nice looking wine on the pure white table cloth, and just like in those high end restaurants, they wrap the forks and spoons with a white towel and black strings. This is not a particularly good thing for me because I prefer to have instant access to the fork soon as the food arrives.
Just in case you arrive early as we did, they find a very good DJ. The man played as if he was trying to wipe the party dust off me. He was to provoking every wild in me. He played the 80’s as we waited for everyone else to arrive, and moved on to the 90’s as the hall filled halfway. I found myself reaching for one the one of the water bottles on the table as I tried to calm down my moving feet and shaking head. Some kids delivered dry nuts as he pumped up the volume.
I could not help myself when he switched to all those popular Lingala hits and only strong will stopped me from grabbing the wine bottle and ripping off the cork. The only reason I did not jump off my chair and to the dance floor was the thought that they might play ‘Who let the dog out” next because my dog was just holding on a thin leash.
Soon, the hall was full of people from Shrimp country. I have never been so close to so many people from that place except on TV when Roger Miller led the goal celebrations in the Italia 90. I loved then, and I loved these lot too.
Then came time for food I was a little apprehensive because I was not sure what they had. Usually I would expect Choma, Mukimo, Chapo, Stew, Ngima, Greens etc. I’m not saying Kenyan food is bad, but I have had these stuff for 40 years. So here in front of us was fried Plantation bananas, snake fish, sweet potatoes, meat wrapped with some green stuff, giant Tilapia, Mahuu and best of all, they cooked the lamb with the skin on.
Everything they had was hot. Not mild but hot, no wonder they aren’t as loud as we are. They seem to deliberately go for bitterness whereas we go for sweet and salty. My stomach was starting to send some withdrawal signals but I was not having it. Water, water, and water everyone was asking.
As for the drinks, they had an open policy, you needed a drink, you just went to the bar and get whatever you wanted. Paul commented if it were a Kenya Party, they’d put a huge guy there and sell the drinks. That is what we Kenyans do best. We milk our own.
After the food they made very short speeches and the hosts opened the dance floor with one of those songs only they can understand. I could only hear the three beat African drum but the rhythm was very much in my bones. Basically, I’m still hanging. So next time, I will arrive at midnight for the other half of the party.
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7Nov |
They say a good friend is a mirror of you. I have been blessed over the years to have some wonderful friends. I also consider you reading this blog a friend even if I might not know you personally. We are all descendant of big old Noah and whether you like it or not, we are commanded to love one another. I do not believe in accidental meetings, so I’d say I meet all my friends as planned.
I know it is not nice to separate your friends because everyone contributes to your life different attributes, but I beg to be forgiven for this one time. Francis Githaiga stands out. He made me a best man. I don’t know if he made a best man out of me or he made a man best. Confusing isn’t. That said how did that happen?
We meet in the City of London back in the mid 90s. Apart from the normal Kikuyu signs written on all of us, he seemed to have some patience on him. He hails from the west of the Rift in Molo. Having seen a few of them from that area now, I’m starting to wonder if the patience comes from the fact that they only have one farming season, which means they have to wait a whole year to harvest. You have to be patient! We from Central? We always seem to be in hurry.
We hit it off very quickly and soon we were patrolling the streets of the Queens City like natives of Peckham. I always like to think we were like Batman and Robin….lol.. He introduced me to Chinese food. I first hated the smell of Teriyaki in the rice. He’d order some take-away as we headed to his flat somewhere behind Walworth Road. The first time I ate mushrooms, it felt like I was chewing pieces of rubber. A dip down the sauce and they started to taste like chicken liver. I also took him to a Greek restaurant where we broke some plates. Our friendship was cemented after numerous house parties at his sister Regina’s high-rise flat .
Then he decided to get married to Mary Ann. He did not ask me to be his best man. He told me during one of many walks down the streets of South East London, as if I did not have a right to say no. If you have never been a best man, they say it’s like being asked to kiss the Queen mother. But to me, it felt like being asked to serve the King. I was so honored I’d do it again even for pretense.
We did a small wending just as we had planned. Batman and Robin could do anything. We had black suits and I have to admit I felt really good. Then we went for pictures at Greenwich Park, right on the Meridian Line. At the reception, I was free to say and do whatever I wanted, being best man. A did the toast thing and met another young friend of mine Njoroge Mwaniki who had just arrive from Kenya.
I have been honored many times in life, like when I myself got hitched, or when my son was born and I had to cut the umbilical cord (I’d have eaten it if the offered it to me like they do now), but being best man stands right next to them. Two beautiful daughters down the road, I think of the Githaigas and feel proud and honored to have been the Best man when the two became one and then three and then four. You can have many friends in life but best man? You are lucky to have been one.
PS
Some of my friends down the years includes: my friend John Kihiu from early childhood who used to roll me down the hill in a huge tire, my high school buddy John Gicharu who we used to sneak out to the market with, Nelson Maina with whom Kajiando Town at night was like Hollywood, John Kimani who made me hate Nairobi for my own good, Tyson Kimani who taught me in Greece that you can struggle to live to people’s expectations and still have a good heart and a wonderful group of friends here, from Francis Mwai with his delicious barbecue,( Did I tell you he is back from that procedure? He came out a vegetarian: talking of high and low cholesterol and eating green raw stuff and vengeance for gear boxes) Paul Mbugua, Peter Mbono , George Kahacho who thinks I’m too thrifty, Gikanga, Githongo, Mwaura, Paul Kiiru the teacher, Mahinda and many others.
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31Oct |
It’s been on the news for over a year now. Every time you press on the remote, there is some news update about this Swine flu. Oh dear. The world drives shivers down my spine. It seems like we have been taken over by it.
My son complained of feeling a little light headed. We could not take any chances and had to rush him to the doctors. Soon as we got to the reception desk, he sneezed. They drew out a mask so fast you’d have thought Mohamed Atta had come back from the dead and hijacked another plane. You should have seen my joy on my big African lips when the Doc said it was just a stomach bug.
I’m just tired of the worry, the compulsive hand washing, I even don’t enjoy touch the greens anymore. I hate ATM’s and don’t want to go shopping to stay away from the carts. But that’s just the flu side of the swine. I hated the word long before they attached flu to it.
In 4th grade, (we called it standard 4), my Math teacher was Mr. “O”. I’m calling him Mr.”O” to protect his identity since I don’t know if he is still alive. I’m African and we have a thing about respecting the old and the dead. Anyway, Mr. “O” did not care what you knew or who you were, so long as you knew your multiplication table. He would walk into the classroom with the math text book which he rarely opened, and a huge stick in his right hand.
You could hear your desk mate’s heart pounding against his or her rib cage as fear set in our small and fragile hearts. We usually had double math 40 minute lessons on Mondays followed by English before break or recess as they call it over here. Ironically my English teacher was Mr.”O’s” sister in law. I will call her Mrs. B.
This Monday morning, you could tell, Mr. “O” was in an extra sensitive mood. At least that’s what I thought. My desk mate Njenga, always tried to make himself invisible even though there was only one desk in front of ours on right side of the classroom. So Mr. “O” shouted something like 8X12 and pointed the stick towards us. I did not want to waste Mr. “O”s time, and even though I was not sure the question was directed to me, I shouted something in the region of 90s.
I do not know to this day if what happened next of because of the wrong answer or the answer to a question which was not directed to me. Both were fatal and as a result of over eagerness. I saw the stick come. And it whistled sharply as it made the short flight from Mr. “O”s hand heading to the top of my head. I have to say I was kind of expecting it. You had to ready for anything in his class. It was like a war zone. So I ducked and got under the desk. Luckily, the stick hit the wall and broke into pieces.
You had to be on the alert even when under attack. So I pulled my scissor cut head slowly from under the desk like a MIA Cat coming out of an Ant-hill hole, checking his legs movement at the same time. But I did not see the duster. He threw it aiming to get me while I was under the desk, so my forehead and the duster met while on the move. Call it kinetic hit or what you may.
It hit me right between and slightly above the eyes. I still had big eyebrows then, and the chalk dust stuck on them as it spread all over my head and green sweater. As if that was not enough to suppress his anger, he started on a verbal tirade which started with “nginini” total fool I guess, and ended with SWINE.
I was a young kihii “boy” but a proud one. Like all African young men,I hated being called anything feminine. I’m not saying it would have been better if he called me a pig, but it would have felt different. Why a SWINE. I felt so small and hurt but I could not cry. I could not even wipe the chalk but continue with class. Later we found out that the girl who sat behind us Wairimu” had wet her self in fear. I guess she had a weak bladder.
As Mr. “O” walked out after the bell, Mrs. “B” walked in for the English lesson. What a contrast it was. Mrs. “B” always asked us to read the English text book. (I forgot its name). We read about Simon Makonde. How he was born, died and was buried the same week. I really wished I was poor old Simon. That way I would be dead before the next Monday and would not have to suffer double lessons with Mr. “O”.
I never liked Math, and I’m too old to like them now. But if Mr. “O”s intention was to fear the Math into my head, I guess he failed miserably.
But the “SWINE”; I eat pork with gusto and attitude as if to eat the Mr. “O” out it. My uncle once worked at Uplands Bacon Factory I never liked anything he brought but the sausages. Flu or not, I just do not want to hear about it anymore, even if they dress it into H1N1. There is still a SWINE in it
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