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It Started with Sharon. Then what followed was a series of gruesome murders. Women lives stopped abruptly. Coldy. And in horror movies fashion. The cause of this macabreness is still mystery. Prejudiced souls have already chosen to blame it all on men. This is for the simple reason that a man was involved in some if not most of these murders.

The country is currently blanketed by a ghastly atmosphere. It stinks of death. And reeks of injustice. The souls of the departed still seem to be larking around. Completely in objection of the fact that there journey here on earth was rudely interrupted by a soul gone rogue. Is there any hope of justice for their dear departed souls?

It is sad that we have reduced this quest of justice to gender stratification. In the middle of such serious circumstances we have resorted to blame games. Women are blaming men and men blaming women. We have deliberately cut objectivity loose. And we are actively pursuing delusions that won’t help out. Let’s just face the Elephant in the room. If this is a tussle between men and women, how do we go about it?

The first word a child learns is “Mama”. That is no coincidence. It is because a woman is a progenitor. A co-creator. That is such a divine and noble position. Every woman is an object that brings life into fruition. Women of antiquity understood this. They knew there position in society. So they behaved like the goddesses they are. They did it willingly and without any coercion from men. They didn’t find it necessary to compare themselves to men simply because they understood there natural position in the universe.

In the contemporary context, things have changed. The woman is materially powerful. She has been given an education and a voice. She has been granted authoritative positions in government. Feminist groups and personalities are on the rise. Advocating for the rights of women. And at the center of it all is women empowerment. This has given rise to what is fancifully referred to as “gender equality”. Yet the bottom line of this equality is simply women wanting to be man like. Women emasculating themselves.

It is by no mistake that our generation has produced some of the most ratchet and morally misconfigured women. When I talk morality, it is not only in reference to feminine sexuality. There more important things in life than a woman’s genitallia. Our caliber of women is the type that spends nights in bars. Smoke cigarettes the entire night. Our women have no problem keeping multiple sex partners. Our women have slowly over time picked up the lowlife, unkempt and cryptic behaviours of men. All in the name of gender equality.

Is this constant tussle for gender supremacy necessary? Is it adding any value to humankind? A man’s phonetic structure asserts his authoritative stand. Men are territorial by nature. They are assertive and firm because they have to protect the family. However within men, you will find gentleness and great care for which they need to nurture the offsprings. Yet these are characters that are more prone to women. A woman’s soft but not weakened position is important for progression of a family. In every woman is an assertive and authoritative stand. Again, characters more prone to men.

This is nature’s way of showing us that in every man there is a woman. And in every woman there is a man. Men fighting women is synonymous to men fighting themselves. The contrary is also true. From a man came a woman. We are one. We are opposite sides of the same coin. A man’s boxed and mascular body is reciprocated by a woman’s shapely and soft body. A man’s husky and deep voice is reciprocated by a woman’s softened and sweet voice. We are not different. We are simply the music of an orchestra. We need each other to achieve the harmony.  



There are a lot of common men out here.I am not part of them.Call me weird if you must but not average.A weird fact about me is my small circle of friends. Inimages (1).jpeg fact, the entirety of my friends may not be sufficient to form a circle.Let’s just call it my dot of friends.
Quality over quantity.That metaphor employed by the aggressive marketing machinery of society creeps to mind.So don’t be quick to judge.Its the quality that shrinks that circle of friends to a dot.
Recently,a new guy became part of the dot.Well,am not really sure if I should call him friend yet.But whats  the fuss about?Its just a name right?Full disclosure though,the kind of quality I look for in people may be a bit skewed.Call it unconventional if you like.And when you do,recall that I begun this piece by purposefully pointing out that I am an unconventional soul.
Misfits.Those are people I prefer being around.The individuals society points a finger at when giving an explanation of failure.Don’t be like so and so he dropped out of school…..Don’t be like her she resigned from her job for no apparent reason…..don’t be like fulani Wa Fulani they smoke this,they drink that,they eat this….and society goes on and on and on about what is wrong with these people.
Misfits are my darlings. I am in love with them.I admire there crazy.I wanna be around them.I wanna tell there stories because there tales are unique and different.There existence is distinct. They are no copy pastes.They are originals.Authentic. They do what they wanna do,how they wanna do it and however they feel like doing it.
They got no boundaries.They don’t conform.They got no limitations. They dare do that which is not commonly acceptable. That is what makes them beautiful.That is what makes them red striped Zebras. Me,I want to tell stories of red striped Zebras,black and white Zebras are boring and common.They all got the same narration.Oooh I go to school,I find a job,I buy a house,marry the wife and live forever happily….those are not the kind of stories I want to tell.
I want to tell the stories of broken men.People society deems irredeemable. People with a spark of madness.A tinge of crazy.And with a flair of indifference. Different is good.Different presents uncommon lessons and extraordinary findings.
One such red striped individual is John Alex.He may not look as exotic as his name sounds. But I must admit he is more unique than his name.John is a perfect misfit.Whether misfits are born or made is a question I haven’t found an answer to.His story is thrilling. Its inspires both cold chills and hope.These are the ingredients of any beautiful tale.
I knew John Alex long before I met him.Knowing him might be the wrong term to use,let’s say, I heard of his tales before I ever got a glimpse of his face.From the tales,John came across as a drunkard,character.All narrations I ever got about him oscillated around the bottle and his glass full of liquor.
The ones who seemed to dislike him most would paint a grim picture of how stale his breath was.How he reaked of drink.Tales,would be told about the cheap attires he dawns.Everyone seemed to know and judge John Alex exclusively from his demeanor and the fact that he literally cohabited with the bottle.No one found it necessary to think that there could be more to John Alex than the fact that he is a drunkard with no sense or love for fashion.Why judge a man in such mediaeval way?
I come from the land of Ugali lovers.We consume mountains of the delicacy. Yet In my lifetime,no one has ever judged me by the amount of ugali I take.So I wasn’t about to also make a sweeping judgement about John Alex.I choose not to judge people by what they consume,or what kind of trouser they put on.In fact,I don’t judge people at all.I believe we all got reasons as to why we do what we do.And God gave us freewill and choice to do what we wanna do.Its in God’s place to judge.So  judging people is fundamentally none of my damn business.
Apparently, after receiving the monthly pay cheque, John Alex would skip work for a week or two.He would be busy seducing the bottle, his temptress,his Delilah that steals the Strength out of him like she did to Samson.People would be stranded.Not everyone can fix computers.Not every soul can route internet traffic or configure computer networks.It is not in everyone’s knowledge to fire up the task manager and kill unresponsive application programs and services.Just like it is not your business to try understanding what the hell am talking about,unless you got a computer science degree of course.John was a gem.A valuable asset to the company.So despite all his drama,he was so much valuable to the company.
Suffice all that to mean,John’s drinking disorder got me a job as his assistant.I got the job not so much because I also understand the language of computers but mostly because there were days when John was definately not going to show up for work. Who said nothing good comes out of drinking again?

I was employed hastily.The company urgently needed IT services.John was resigned to his drinking vocations. He had not shown up for an entire week.So I had to take care of business in his absense.I still am doing that today.Backing up the mighty John Alex.
In his absense,people volunteered to hint out Johns character to me.That‘s my polite way of describing gossipers.But I dislike those sonsofbitches.So I just listened because I wanted to know the hyenas in sheep skin. But as fate had it,I would have my opportunity to meet and know John Alex.
A Wednesday midmorning,its chilly than an Eskimo’s breath,John makes his debut into the office.I know who he is  by his breath as he stretches out to greet his new found assistant.He reaks of drink.Fresh drink.Like he had just been summoned from the brewing dens at that precise moment.Sometimes,gossipers tell the truth,but nevertheless, it should be none of their damn business.
Of all the people I had met in the company,John was the most welcoming to me.I could tell  that he was happy to have me around.He introduced me to everyone with a cheek to cheek smile.Proudly proclaiming that finally he got an assistant.He bought me lunch that day.Albeit in the vibandas of industrial areas.He was and still is the only one who has been generous enough to buy me 50 shillings worth of lunch. Such true nobility.Yet he is the one they think of as insane.
That John has drinking problem is a fact am not disputing.He loves his bottle but not as much as he loves his job.That‘s the spectre of this man John Alex.The side of him that the gossipers either don’t know of or they if they do,they carefully tack that bit of information away.Just to make the gossip juicier.
I’ve learnt a tone of sh*t from John.He has made me a better professional.Because truth be told,he is more in love with computers than I have ever been.He not only limits himself to computers. He is a mechanical protoje.Anything man made with movable parts and an electrical electrical circuit is John’s haven.He loves the wires.He admires the voltages and amperes of devices.He loves unscrewing and screwing back things.He reaps machines of there decent plastic coverings.Exposing the tricks behind the scenes.Exposing  machine’s nakedness.Exposing there brains and hearts of machine.Like a surgeon,he patches them back together perfectly after he has solved its ailments.
Sometimes the machines stresses him out.When he can’t breath life into them,it wears him down.All he can talk about is that stubborn machine.And when he finally decodes it and sort out the issue,he jolts with excitement.More like a lottery winner.He has taught me an invaluable lesson about machines,one that I will take with me to the grave.”Emmanuel” he says,” a machine has been by humans,there is no way its going to eff with me.”
John’s mother went to be with the lord some time last year.He talks so highly of her.He wishes she was still here.Living him on earth for the heavens is something John hasn’t made peace with.Infact, its her departure that seems to be epicenter of the tornado that is John Alex’s life.
Her death broke his father,who in turn decided to resign himself to  a hilly village in Kisii,perhaps to mourn her dear departed wife in the  silence,tranquillity and solace that the beautiful countryside offers. All his responsibilities as the supreme head of the family was gracefully handed down to John Alex.
Suffice all that to mean,John Alex became the father,mother and brother to his three siblings. Two of whom are hardcore alcoholics.Her sister is married off to a wealthy guy who never trusts her with any cash.Apparently,any coin that finds its way to her palms almost immediately finds its place on the counter top of a bar.Her marriage is shaky.
Johns younger brother is the real pain is the a*s.At 24,he is a lazy big baby who spends most of his time on the couch mindlessly watching television.Smoking weed and knocking off bottles after bottles of liquor with his pile of so called friends.He can’t keep a job because he likes it easy.He can’t be responsible because that’s John’s roles.
At work,John Alex doesnt have an easy time either.The bosses are on his ass.The machines are always breaking down.All these are John Alex’s responsibilities. Overwhelmed by these do’s and the crap he has has to face daily,both at work and his home,I must admit that John Alex finds himself in a hard place.
Alcohol seems to be the only remedy to his tribulations. A dose a day keeps the thoughts away from his overwhelmed mind.So he can’t stay away from it.He has made it his friend.His companion.His courage.His comfort.His mistress.John Alex’s story cannot be summed up in a blog post.In essence this is just but a synopsis his storybook if you may.
When I had a sitdown with Lilian,a luminous soul shining with intelligence  and downright sexiness,I asked her what was the best way to help out John Alex.From her deep reservoir of wisdom,she said there is nothing I could personaly do.

This sage of a woman says,most at times alcoholism is just but a symptom of a deeper ailment.It‘s just but a tip of the iceberg.Its just but a mask that covers a deeper problem.True to it,I was wrong.John Alex’s problem ain’t alcoholism.
I was lucky to meet up with him over the weekend.I had a glimpse into his miserable existence. Details of which I am not consented by him to make public.But a stubborn question keeps dancing in my mind,it keeps poking my soul for disclosure. What was John Alex’s life like two years ago?When his mum still graced the face of the earth.When his father was a strong unbroken family man.When he didn’t have to worry about his siblings?Was alcohol still stinging his existence then?
Maybe,just maybe,what we see now is just but an apparition of this man John Alex.He may be a leftover of his former glory.A shell of cocoon of his former self.Maybe,the John Alex we know today is just but a product of a man life has knocked down and stumbled hard on.Maybe John Alex is more stronger than the rest of us who talk behind his back.But just like John Alex,all of us have stories.Some are amusing while others heartbreaking.And this is the story of John Alex the man and John Alex the spectre.



I am on the fourth floor of a towering flat overlooking industrial area.I am Peeping from the humongous glass window at an angle of elevation.I stare at  the vast industrial space,my eyes exactly above rugged,rusted roofs that cover the uncountable warehouses down below
My center of attraction though,is a lonely distant hill in the horizon.A hill I have never known exists.A hill I can only guess could be kyulu hills. A hill I have set my eyes upons for the very first time all thanks to the advantage of this towering industrial complex.The hill rivals the building.Even at a distance it is  jealously guarding its position as the conqueror of the skies.
Before your eyes meet the hill,you have a glimpse of the ghetto.You also can see a stratification of residential buildings.The residences form a weird pattern.A pattern you can not see with your bare eyes.A pattern you can only realise with with your third eye.
Industrial area is surrounded by a smogersboard of rusty tin roofed structures.These are the shanty towns and ghettos that house the industrial labourers.They are the dwellings of the low income earners of the industrial space.The ghettos present an opportunity for affordable living for folks whose remuneration does not provide for extravagant living.And extravagant in this context could also mean paying fair back home.
Beyond the ghettos are high rise residential flats and estates.Those are the spaces dotted with luxury shopping malls,night clubs and taverns to buttress the egos of people who have deeper pockets.The opposite window overlooks the city.A view of the skyscrapers in the distance are a marvel to the eye balls. But the most spectacular of views is the green space dotted with modest  dwellings in the westside.This is the playing ground of the well endowed.The moneyed.The owners of the industries step on the gas pedals of  there expensive cars and jet off to this beautiful homesteads when the industrial gates shut.
But wherever you head off after a a hard day of labour in industrial area,be it in the ghettos,the high rise or the westside,we all need things.We all need wares.We might grab a biscuit on the way back.We may buy a shoe for a loved one.Or beautiful blue jean for your husband.All these things are made in the warehouses of industrial area.
Its mystical how we attach a lot of importance to things.Its like modern man cannot live without his magical contrivances. We behave as though our lives are tied to our things.So we make things our top most priority in life.We work to buy things.We kill to have things and we get schooled and educated in order to have things.
So we have morphed life.We robbed life of its purity. We have stolen life’s innocence and made it void.We are in the process of missing out on life’s true essence.And this is all because what we care most about in life is things.We care about our houses,our cars,our furniture,our clothing,our offices,our electronics,the list of things is endless.What we ignore is that this things are made by mans hands.These things are fabrications of a being with blood and borns like either one of us.So why worship things?
There is one critical lesson I have learnt from the industrial  space,that is,to look at things for what they are,just things.To not attach so much feelings and emotions to this that will be by passed by time.To not be defined by objects fabricated and made by fellow humans.As I look at machines gobbling copious amounts of electricity to produce things,this critical lesson becomes rooted and grounded inside of me even more.

English “The Alien Tongue”

imagesSteward is a Nyanja speaking grade one student in Zambia. He reminds me of a kid called Mzungu back in the days when we were first graders.Mzungu like Steward would sneak biscuits and an assortment of other snacks into class.His action would completely paralyse our concentration.As the beautiful Mrs.Chazima would be leading us in reciting the letters of the alphabet,most of us would be arrogantly stretching our hands out borrowing a biscuit from Mzungu.
Unlike Mzungu though,Steward at grade one can barely speak a complete sentence in English.However,he is well acquainted with his mother tongue. He speaks fluent Nyanja.And he speaks it beautifully. He owns the language.You can see the pride in his face when those Nyanja words come tumbling out of his tongue.
The Kids in Steward’s class speak vernacular too.They either talk in Nyanja or Soni.This language disconnect makes there teachers work hectic.The kids have a hard time comprehending what there madam is trying to teach.English being the official language in Zambia,they have no option but master the alien language.It also happens to be the language of instruction while teaching.And examinations are also set in the English language.
The documentary COLOURS OF THE ALPHABET by DOCUBOX,is a real life depiction that disclosed to me the serious language barrier that is a major obstacle for learning in early childhood development.In retrospect, I am thankful to my folks for raising me in an urban environment.Had I been raised in Ocha like my  cousins, I would be fluent in Luhya but an assassin of the English language.I would have  strangled that language and suffocated it with my luhya accent.
In a dark hall at the alliance francaise Nairobi,the curtains were raised at 6:30 P.M and the screen set rolling.The hall was jampacked by folks from all walks of life. They were all here to witness the dillema of innocent Zambian first graders who are having a really hard time learning.English being an alien language to them,they have serious troubles understanding the classes.The irony in the film being,the teacher has to teach them English in Vernacular.Which in my view contributed to more confusion on the side of the learners.
The directors of the film deserve a thumbs up.With a smile accompanying it of course.They created a simplistic film,that was easy to comprehend.It was precisely thematic and on point.The film begins in the onslaught of the maize season.They run us through the daily classroom account of a Zambian government employed teacher and her class of full countryside pupils.
The setting is entirely rural.A beautiful Zambian countryside
Like all African countryside pupils,it goes without saying that most of them are barefooted. Kind of a trademark for countryside learners.They are a bit rusty and with torn perched up uniforms.In class, they seem effed up and bored to the borns.Outside of class,they activate.They literally switch on.They are all jumpy and noisy.Like they were not the same pupils dozing off in class a while back.They chant beautiful traditional songs.The girls jump ropes,the boys kick a football as they speak to each other in high toned Nyanja and Soni languages.They are rebels.They are trying to say something during break time.They are painting a picture of who they truly are.
Its like they are affirming there authenticity and originality.They seem to profess that they are are Soni and Nyanja.And that’s all they want to be.That’s all they can be.Robing them of that belonging is resigning them to a worthless existence.An existence they don’t want to be part of.
Yes they want to learn.Yes they have dreams.They wanna be doctors. They wanna be pilots and journourlists.They know that education is the only key that can make there dreams reality.They have always been told that.By the parent,the teacher and the preacher.
But they wanna be Nyanja and Soni professionals.They want to be Soni and Nyanja nurses.They wanna be Sonni and Nyanja Doctors and pilots and teachers.Yet that is not there reality.If they wanna be doctors they better be English speaking doctors.They better learn and comprehend English for them to be worthwhile professionals. If they wanna be anything useful in life then English is the only boat licenced to take them to that destination..
Such is the dillema of this young souls.Taught to unlearn what you know in order to learn what you don’t.Education for them becomes greasely and messy.They find themselves in a frenzy. In a deep state of confusion.It is a burdensome task for them.A load they can’t bare.So they are straight out bored in class.They nap throughout the lesson.They fight over petty staff.You can’t blame them.They are first graders.Kids.
But when they nap they do so in a Nyanja or Soni kind of way.They converse in Nyanja and Soni in the middle of an English class.The English teacher has no option but teach them English using Nyanja or Soni.Which confuses them even more.
And so when its time to harvest the maize,its third term in Zambia.They have to hit the long holidays.An assessment is done.They are still as empty and confused.Probably more confused now than in first term.The ones who couldn’t bare all that sh*t dropped out.The class has fewer pupils.But nature had a way of balancing it out.Like all stories there is always a hero.There is always hope.There is always a star.The story is even more interesting if instead of a hero we have a heroine.And so in third term,a young girl whose name  I can’t quiet remember was able to construct a beautiful English statement. She was the exception.She had reached out into herself and found the crown of genius..



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We all like stories.We are all amused by tales.Because come to think of it life is one humongous story.Let’s tell a tale.A story of life.
This blog is the fireplace and I am the grey haired grandmother full of stories from ancestors who came,lived and saw it all before us.
It is told,by the great ones who once lived on this earth before us, that once, man and animals lived in harmony side by side deep in the jungles of the earth. The earth back then was undisturbed.The land was virgin and full of splendorous beauty.Mother earth was still exactly the same way God intended it be.Life was pure. Love was the code. The surface was full of majestic rivers, royal lakes,seas and vast oceans. The big herbivores roamed the jungles in large herds.Guns and spears were an alien technology.Rhinos and Elephants would exist without the fear of being gunned down for their tusks.The antelopes would only worry about the Lion and the Jaguar but not man’s spear.  This was the period when predators enjoyed life because food was in plenty.
All the animals of the jungle owed allegiance to man.Man was supreme  leader of them all.He was superior over the Lion  even with his mighty fearful roar.He was supreme over the Elephant even with his colloquial size and shear unimaginable strength.The leopard in his speed and tenacity paid respect to man.The frightening jaguar bowed before him.
On one fateful day,the animals realised that man was low in spirit.He was not as lively and cheerful as he used to be.The animals sought to find out how they could be of help to man.
The gazelle in her generosity said,I know what we should do,we should share some of our strengths with man,maybe, that will cheer him up.All animals agreed to each contribute a portion of there natural endowments and giftings to man.
The Lion went first, he gave man his kingly attitude so that man would feel confident in himself once more.The leopard followed and shared his superfast speed with man.The Elephant handed over  of his sheer strength to man and all the animals of the jungles donated part of there gifting  to man. The peackock shared its dazzling beauty.The snake his wisdom,the owl its secrets,the hyena its laughter.All the other animals followed suit. And when they were done,the gazelle said to the rest of the animals,”now, man has everything he needs to make him cheerful and happy once more.But the owl in his wisdom opposed and interjected saying, “Nooo,I have  looked into mans eyes and peeped into his soul and I have seen a deep dark hole in him. Nothing he ever gets will fully satisfy him.” All the animals were confused,asking themselves the question “what does man really need for him to be fully satisfied?”


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One day,the man you call boss will report to work in high spirits.You won’t know the cause of his excellent moods.Maybe,after a series of quarrels and gruesome arguments  with his wife she might have put the right ratio of water to sugar in his tea.Or maybe she might have laced his breakfast with cocaine or weed she got from Ethiopia you never know this things.
Me thinks a smiling boss is the most dangerous animal in the planet.More dangerous than a hyena that laughs while biting your ass.So one has to be weary of a smiling boss.What is there to smile about when your the boss?A mischevious employee?A Delayed consignment?Maybe a bounced cheque right?No.The boss always has a bunch of staff to worry about and when he is seen smiling then a hot potatoe is definitely cooking somewhere.
He came to the office early today .By teabreak he bought a cake for everyone in the office.Christmas came early for us this year,huh.After we had staffed our bellies full with the boss’ cake,then came the bang!!
Boss asked whether we got some some cake,he proceeds to ask us to shift a dude’s computer from his spacious private,corner office to our open office where we don’t get to Facebook all day long like the dude does.
We are the official agents of doom.Messengers of Lucifer himself sent to breath fire into the mans existence.I am not mentioning names here because the dude is an ass.You don’t get to play around with his precious name and survive.He might make sure that I sink down with him,or better yet he might drag me into Maraga’s under budgeted court rooms for a trial.He might possibly sue me for defamation.And I don’t wanna find myself before an aggrevated judge whose salary might have been slashed due to the recent judicial budgetary tranculation.You get the gist as to why I am not mentioning names here right??
As I am busy disconnecting the mans computer,he stands in front of his former desk as he tells some dudes who pretend to care that he has been fired.I know they don’t give a damn from there facial expressions.In any case,I feel for the man more because a soul might have whispered to me somewhere that the mans journey with the company was almost over.Suffice that statement to mean that I had already glimpsed into the mans future and I knew what was awaiting him today.
So as he walked into the office with his usual pumped up ignorance,arrogance and pride that superceeds that of a white peacock, I knew a termination letter was hanging somewhere in the hallways of the office eargerly awaiting to be handed over to him.Poor proud soul.
They say pride comes before a downfall.This was the story of the fired man.25 years ago,when I had not yet seen the light of day nor the darkness of night this man was employed into the company.At the time,my boss was still a small boy.Jumping up and down in the factory’s yard probably playing hide and seek with his brothers. The fired man saw them as young boys.He watched them grow,he watched them learn,he watched them fly into Europe to get an education. In all his watching he never learnt that children grow into adults .Or maybe he learnt but he simply chose to ignore the lesson.After all ignorance seems to be his trademark.
While they boys were away,the fired man got promoted by the boys’ father.He was a trustee in the company.To top it all he was given a beautiful,spacious corner office that he graciously lost today.In his arrogance,he thought he had earned blood rights and an inheritance in the company.He would become a bully.He trashed and disrespected other employees.He had climbed to the top and anyone beneath him was deemed a nobody.
The boys he had seen while young would later come back to the company.This time they were men.But the arrogant man still thought they were boys.They had received an exotic education and there English was flawless. Still,this was not a sign enough for the fired man that the boys he had once seen had earned an equal right and space in the table of men.
He choose to disrespect them even when they had assumed critical positions in the company from there fathers.He wouldnt do a thing they said.He even dared raise his African voice against them. His arrogant self still thought of them as harmless,stupid kids.Well,he was damn wrong.
He had just messed with the wrong pack of wolves.They would punch back mercilessly.Merciless because he never got wind of what was coming for him.He still floated around the company with a deep sense of false pride.He thought himself a god.Invincible. The only black skin that could dare raise his voice against the owners sons without consequences.
On 30th July,a chilly Monday morning in Nairobi,he would report to work bouncing in pride as usual.He checked into his office,took the sugarless tea as usual and started facebooking because this is the only company that gives wages to a fulltime facebooker. Coincidentally, this same day was the boss’ birthday,as the rest of us would be receiving a piece of cake the fired man would be receiving a terminination letter. I ain’t no sadist but humility goes a long way in creating amicable relationships with others.Stay humble.Stay foolish.Its the perfect state of learning.



Jose is a beautiful boy. That is if beautiful is an acceptable adjective to use when describing a boy. He has a scalp full of baby locks on his baby head.  Jose is full of life and healthier than the healthiest mule there is.
Today, he is putting on a green sweatshirt and pyjama pants. But unlike many young boys in his age,Jose finds himself surrounded by circumstances that his young brain is not mature enough to comprehend. You see,Jose’s mother is not sane.Suffice that statement to mean, the young innocent boy was born of a mad woman.I didn’t mean to come across as being insensitive or arrogant but for lack of better words to describe her,allow me if you may,to call her insane.But that is purely for purposes of clarity and for your own better understanding of the story I am trying to cook here.
Right next to VI Agroforesty,by the highway that connects the sleepy town of Kitale to Eldoret,you will will find him comfortably cuddled by her loving mother.Nature is so self sufficient,even a mad woman knows she is responsible for her child.
On this lucky day,as fate would have it,I finally glimpsed deeper into Jose’s existence and realised that his future looks oblique. I found him playing around as is his norm.The clouds were dark and pregnant,they had robbed humanity of precious sunshine. It was lunchtime,most offices had been abandoned for the safety of hotels.
But here, Jose seemed unaware of what was up. He seems not to be aware of anything in his life called lunch. By extension,it could also mean breakfast and supper are alien terms to him.He spots a vendor carrying a bucket full of pineapples. He quickly dashes off towards the lady. A fat luhya woman. I know she is luhya by the sheer size of her legs.In luhya land we call it Chindumbu.An embodiment of a perfect luhya woman.OK,back to Jose.
The vendor stares at him wearily, as though she had been confronted by a snake.He talks to her while pointing at the pineapples.But he had no money on him.The vendor sneered and left him standing there.Jose’s mother calls him and hands him a coin.He then proceeds to persue the pineapple woman with big legs and earned himself a piece of  delicacy he had been craving about.
At   this point,my heart was nudging me to dig into my pockets and buy this innocent kid lunch.At least some real lunch,a luhya one,with Ugali as the main course.When you are the child of a mad woman,guardian angels seem to be in plenty. As I was still processing what I could do for him,a tall guy,with skin darker than darkness,called him.That is how I knew his name.
The dark skinned guy had a backpack full of goodies for the kid.He reached into that bag and pulled out a bottle of orange juice, two queen cakes and then handed it to Jose.He then proceeded to pull out a clothbag full of a boys clothes.
He had a pair of gumboots in there too.He hands them to Jose.All this while, the mother is seated quietly,eating one of the queencakes that was gifted to Jose while critically analysing this situation. At least from the look of things.He then asks him to try on the  gumboots. That is where the drama ensues.
The mama grabs the clothbag and tosses it back to the dark skinned guy.She removes the pair of gumboots from Jose’s feet.The boy’s little feet kiss the bare ground once more after a nutshell of what may seem to have been liberation for him.She pulls off the jacket Jose had tried on from his body and threw them back to the stranger.

I am perplexed by her action.This woman just accepted a bottle of juice and queencakes gleefully from this perfect stranger, but she cannot allow her kid to be helped out with clothes? I wonder whether that is the threshold between sanity and insanity.Maybe food is the only common denominator between the sane and the mad,who knows?She says she will personally buy Jose clothes. And she didn’t need any help in clothing her baby.

However,it is not like she was doing a great job dressing the kid. As it happens,the clouds were about to deliver rain. And the rains in Kitale are a special kind of rain,the kind you never want to cross paths with,unless you are farmer of course.The kid only had on him a sweatshirt.The dark guy says he had brought the kid those clothes because the previous week,he found him shivering in the rain by the  side of his mother who seemed to care less about the situation.
The lady stood her ground.The only sort of help she seemed to need was food.But we can’t blame her,who doesn’t need food and besides, she is not in her right state of mind.We tried to come in to the rescue and put in a word to persuade her to accept the cloth offering.That is some sane people against an insane one,it seems the insane one won the battle.Our plea fell on deaf ears.
The poor dark skinned guy,now,he had to carry this clothbag full of baby clothes back to where he found them.He left cursing out on the mad one,at one point,he hinted of hijacking Jose and taking him to Kisumu or something. I could feel for the man.No one wants his generous charity to be turned down especially by the mother of a needy kid.But at least he is evidence of the beautiful side of humanity,he is an epicentre of selflessness and goodness.Truly,a good man he was.
It is that revelation that made me see the danger Jose is in.It is fun to be the son of a mad woman.But that its only magical when you are a kid, because you don’t get spanked for wetting your pants or dirtying your clothes.You don’t get to go to school and get whipped by those tough teachers on duty for reporting late.You get to play however,wherever and whenever you want.You play with anyone and anything you like.You are at liberty to do whatever your childish heart desires.The perfect dream for any child.
But I am staring 10 years into the future and asking myself what the fate of this innocent kid will be.Will he still be by the side of his Insane mother, still being cuddled like a baby?Will he have gone to school and maybe get to meet a girl there or something?Will he kick a football with the rest of the boys like we did?Will he end up making a home in the streets?What is to become of your future my dear Jose?What are we to do in order to get you out of this obscurity my beautiful boy?God what are we to do about him?We are only human,we can only do what is humanly possible,but meanwhile send your angels to watch over him Lord.