2008

The wise say, you can run up and down but never run from the wit of life. So, it is and now it makes the
sense better than it was first invented. All the same, meant for a good show rather than the true
purpose of life. “A good intention does not justify an irrelevant act,” I thought. If only the living knew
what the dead know, maybe, the world would be different. A clean air would be blowing to refresh
everyone’s mind. Or let’s think of it this way, each man would work towards utilization of a moments
breathe. No pretext, prevarication, slur, insolence. The quizzical inhumane fanatics would run battery
low. Rancid in silence. Then, of course the quorum wins when the eyes have it. “No,” I bit my lower
mouth. I really did not like such a mind dawdle. Stop it! Maybe something else.

The song from the duo that confused our life pattern went on and on. Broods sung it all over.
Until the great hit came. Everyone swallowed in their own pride.

If I were born in Zimbabwe, maybe they would be alive. Or…..if I were from Congo, we would
be whole as a family. Then our home would be home. Papa would come home with parcels
rapped in newspapers, boxy, our dog, would sniff and jubilate of the forthcoming bones, pussy
cat would meow….meow, as we all celebrate the return of the home pillar. Mama would sing her
morning songs inviting us all for breakfast. She would then wash my face and remove the
remaining dirt with a lick of saliva on her finger. Not that there was no water, a sign of love you
know. I would directly look in her eyes and smile hugging her knees. Brother would lift me to
my seat… “If you don’t eat all your food, you won’t be man enough to join my football team!”
You better eat all of this.” Then he would touch my chubby cheeks. Of course, I would resist but
knowing he loved me too. At night, I would watch football with him till late. He would then
carry me to bed.

I held the hoe firmly in my palm.

By now, brother would be married. I would be at Kenyatta University pursuing Law. Looking
back, as if to get those missed moments, mucus ran from my nose, I rubbed it with my hand and
cleared my eyes to see. See right behind me. A big hill stood with many stones. Not aware of
where to start. Depending on small scale farming is not easy. I didn’t want to see it anymore, so I
turned my neck quickly to face the front. There, stood another hill. ‘So, I am in a valley? All
these days gone, today, light comes to make me know the valley I am in. Not helpful at all.” The
struggle stood, I had to begin from where I was….

Kweya ha… kweya ha….kweya mlima wamawe

Kama ni kukweya..kweya mlima wa mawe

Mama kafa …baba kafa..nikweye mlima wa mawe

Ninaukweya…kweya mlima wa mawe…..

If it is climbing, climb a stony mountain

Mum and dad died so that I can climb a stony mountain

I am climbing climbing a stony mountain}

This song gave me another energy. An imaginable energy inherited by utopic carriers. It worked
well on me. Life is only bearable when you imagine a better situation than the current one. At
least, for an all-round dying man, a man being slaughtered silently by controllable nurtured
nature. If I can remember, Mama and Papa were teachers but I have to work to pay their debts.
As times come and go, am growing to be a dreamer. A lone dreamer. A dreamer of things that
would have happened, but they can’t come to pass. My life history has changed by the changing
times. An unfortunate young mind sings requiems. In rue scuttled are we vagrants. The yoke still
choking, no culpable paradigm. No pan. A tale that comes with silence is the most painful. A
Masochist, I stand, telling of a tale, a martial tale gone silent.

That night’s shiorelo was hot. The fire burnt. It really burnt. Bad air with awkward blows
penetrated our noses. As the fire bloomed, sparks disturbed the peace of the men round the fire.
The air smelled like an apple about to rot. Having not sold his downtown plot, we all gathered to
lay him to rest. As the Amalemba wind blew, so did the good times. Castigated in life coronation,
I will live to tell the gruesome malevolent malfeasance times I saw. To the maverick, them, I will
say, be it not an obdurate desire of pomposity. That it be seized of the precarious a world be
made proxy. Speaking of the foul nights of 2007, the bell had rung and uneasy fears filmed with
isolation, dilemmas and queasy quench.

The rancor got to the harbor. Without definite purpose, rankles harmonized. The rare wheel took
wings, flying in an unauthorized land. Then all were swallowed, pushed in the quarry as dirty
water filled their tummies. Here, no savior was born. Dispersal happened after burial. The talk on
Orange and Banana squashed. We sailed Kakamega town trying to locate Kenol petrol station for
a ride home. Stories of bloody Nairobi roamed the town. Every elder feared for their children in
the city. My father feared for my elder brother too. It was said the tribal kill was on. I could feel
what brother was going through. Not an exempt, regretting the nature that gave him a being,
cursing the tribe in him and the political position taken by his leaders. He must have spat his
tongue out. Just for being of his kind.

Orange started it all, a massacre for banana. Just as a turn to a complainer. A man born of one
tribe killing his mother of another tribe. As chaos happened in Nairobi and Nakuru, Kakamega
was silent despite the tension of terror existing. People in the villages called to save their loved
ones in town. But all this was a mouthy action that ever goes by mouth. A tongue’s step.
Papa had assured us that brother would be home soon. He said that via a sewage tunnel, he
would get to Rongai, then walk through Oloollua forest to Kajiado. In Kajiado he would figure
his way home. Seems it was going to take him days, or maybe years. Well, I am still waiting. At
dawn, maybe, he will arrive. Whoops! The black ghost passed by, the angel of death, bloodshed,
loud was put an audio of cries. I can’t tell by who. It was so loud that I believe it could be heard
by all in town. The voices bled for mercy. Then another voice cracked all our hearts, ‘My son, I
am pregnant of my only child, if you can’t pity this poor woman, pity the life she carries. The
blessedness of God.”

After a while, voices celebrated. “The fire is well spread, no one apart from our own is safe.”

Then came voices, of both men and women, children and adults. It hurt. They cried and cried.
Chills went all over my body, and another fire started in my stomach. My heart grew a wound,
my fingers trembled, my knees went weak. I can’t tell what transpired after that. To an unknown
group, I was- the language I did not understand. We were now walking, matching in unison. I
looked around and could not see a face I knew. No child was among us. Eleven years old, I kept
matching, rising my empty hand up. I can’t tell why. Everyone had armor. We walked and
walked. The leader suddenly turned to my direction. He arrogantly demanded the woman next to
me to speak her language. Then I knew I was next. For a second time I lost my inner being, I
wanted to deny my own sense of belonging. I pretended to have fainted only to wake up in a
struggle to remove a mass that lay on me.

Before I could get my way, another group arrived. Not sure of the outcome, I hid. Everyone
carried whatever could help them in the fight. They all had to be ready, for ready were their
opponents and ready were the soldiers. The violence architects were silent, unseen and unheard.
Revenge mission gone wild. Then someone passed something sharp close to my head in the den.
A loud life cry I gave.

“Come out, we have seen you,” a terrible voice ordered. Peeping through the narrow hall, a
protestor, equipped with anger. Revenge with a machete acting in delay measure. Behind him,
more protestors stood in wait. A man pulled himself to whisper. In his words, a son would never
miss a father’s feel. He pulled out of the culvert, we all followed. Seemed an organized violence,
all the protestors were equipped. Ethnic tension arose. Neither of us could tell if they belonged to
us or the other group. The thicket managed to hide us. Then wrong went something, father’s
kadude phone rang. It was mama. “Prosecuted! Harassed! This regime! We are robbed. Burnt is
our shop and tied I am at a forest I know not.” These were her last words. Since then, I have
never seen her nor her body.

Kwa, kwa,kwa….Boots of a strong man came closer, they held one of us by the shirt and lifted
him up. “Who are you?” The man retorted. “ Mukhisa is my name,” the fearful man answered.
Silence prevailed for some time then he went to his group. “They are ours, armor them, blood
must shed.” They fished us all out. To each, a panga was given. The run began. Puzzled, sacked
of my innocence, and allied to bloody purge. We matched, all with one purpose. End the land
grabbers exploit, end corruption, end unwanted patterns, orange my color. The ideal of loyalty
stood either under or within blood. You either lose or be the one dying. ‘Sleeping giants are
never legends.’ A voice shouted from among the rioters. Three days went, the journey still on. A
challenge arose, reporters describing status of brothers on border. They were in an attempt to
seek refuge. Into three groups we were divided. One to the north, another to the east and a few of
us to safeguard home. The route to violence outlined.

First December Two thousand and eight, Ethnic division laid bare, the blink leaped blood
concoction. There was no leg to step back. Unfold of suffering siblings. The world shut down.
Eating was by chance, sleeping inevitable. By now, we had all lowered our guards, thrown all
caution. We slammed into doors suspected to belong to Banana. A revenge mission. Gruesome
violence exacted on our own siblings. Chased from houses, Thrown on cold streets. Some killed,
their bodies laid bare like Ahab’s for no good course. Gruesome sexual violence, perpetrators
fearlessly broke down the dignity of our own sisters. This was not a nice pill to swallow. The
edematous, bruised indurated wounds margin exited the expected normal wound scale. No
palpable healing ridge existed. No tunneled areas, no use of moistened cotton, tipped applicator,
no examination, no proper therapy nor healing process determination.

- It itched, cut deep into one’s body and heart, raging unmeasurable rage. One swelled with
anger and bitterness. I could feel the pain. My cheeks grew thin. I bit my teeth together almost
crushing them against each other. One of my hands fisted. Veins pronounced all over, tears
dropped. Eyes turned with rage, I could feel my heart seek bursting. I too wanted to game, I was
in the game if not gaming already. Father had been taken to another group. I took
‘responsibility’. We did a thorough search, none was found. Intimidated by the situation at hand,
we resolved to loot food. On this protective mission life mattered but death seemed safer. It was
war.

Time to rest, “This food has been taken from one of our own, maybe it’s all she had,” one
member shared his thought.

Another responded, “ Who cares, my mother been caught in the same mess, who knows if she is
still alive.”

“On which ground was she?” another asked. “At Nakuru, teaching in a school there,” he
answered.

“Poor boy!” another exclaimed. “Count her dead.” Indeed he had to, I too thought.

“Hey!” A call came from the back.” Help me my son.” It was pastor Kamau swarmed by a group
with Orange t-shirts. My members joined the group. I could hear the hard beats that fled on him.
I looked, just about to run from his sight. Then my eyes met his. I thought of helping. Wa! Risky.
A paranoia spread all over my body like a fluid. My feet lost balance. I felt the innocence in him
and the vengeful terror that haunted in my group. The worst happened.

He called my name.

It sounded like eternal sentence to hell that I could not take. Bells of choices rang in my head.
Heaven or hell. Courage stood me up, just to help. I threw my body on his head that was about to
be hit by a stone.

“Foolish boy, get up,” someone shouted. Boom, gunshots took stage, they all ran. Thanking
God, I stood him up, shared my food for energy and wished to take him home with me. Armed
officers were all over. We felt safe. Limping, we walked past the main stage, there were no
vehicles. Not too long, officers had taken siege of the town. My human heart returned. I wanted
home. “Go down. Go down,” a voice sounded. Not a language I understood. We moved. Saviors
turned to killers. As I said, in such, no savior is born.

A heavy body pulled my leg causing me to fall. The shot caught my pastor. “Father, so you
came back?” I said smiling at the man who saved me from the gunshot, my father.

“Remember this son, write about it one day, I can’t make it.” My happiness robbed by senior
councils. I can’t forget the post- election violence, the leaders that striped me. The officers that
killed my father, the neighbors that hung my mother, and the aggressive nature that took my
home. Given to me is a lonely path, with memories of vengeful ethnicity. Every lone path I take
every look at the rising sun frosts anger and bitterness of the home stolen from me. But above all,
fear, fear that they are coming for me, fear that everyone has forgotten the rob, fear that I can’t
forget the rob. Like the rising sun, so are the memories of my land, like the sun sets, so is the
setting of hope of a robbed man. Please help me, return my home. I want to be home again.