This Man Samoei

So, those conversations i have with mother, had one recently about the Kenyatta days. No, not this Kenyatta we have today. The late Mzee, the tough talking no nonsense founding father of this great nation that is Kenya. The guy who once attended an opening ceremony of I think a hospital in Nairobi in a perfectly trimmed pinstriped suit, his animal skin hat, fly-whisk in one hand, and on his feet, open shoes. He had socks on though. And this was the seventies, the open shoes were nothing like what we have today, no, a fat sole and laces that go round the foot from one side to the other. But he was Jomo! He could get away with anything, and everything. I mean, he was like a god in a world of men, feared and loved in equal measure, perhaps even worshiped. The kind of person whose stern look into the eyes of someone was enough to suck the life out of that person, literally. (sorry, I have read too much about Jomo, ha). Mother told me about this time that Idi Amin Dada, the Ugandan dictator tried to take Kenyan land up to Naivasha. First of all, its one thing to be a dictator, it's another thing to be foolish, but to be a foolish dictator, I've got to give it up to Amin, he was a special case, one in a million, quite literally. When you let ignorance govern knowledge, you get Amin. I would compare Amin to the big bully in school who always picks a fight with everyone because of his size, but is brought to his knees by the smallest boy in class. So mother tells me, that Jomo, in his cavalier way of doing things, told Amin to try taking even a drop of Kenyan water, and face his wrath! Kenyatta had even ordered tanks to proceed to the Kenyan-Ugandan border. Jomo was serious in his threat, a threat he probably issued while at a statehouse barbecue, young Muigai running a round in shorts pretending to drive some imaginary car, with a bucket lid as his steering, or perhaps pushing his 'mufara', you know, that car tyre boys push with two big sticks with water lubrication, perhaps a tyre from his father's state limousine. I digress.

I cant shake this feeling, that I see this character in The son of Samoei. Ruto has this no nonsense look about him. The son of Jomo is very diplomatic, never wants confrontation, a great schemer I would say, but not confrontational. He is the guy you see in movies who retreats, not to be heard from for so some time, then when he comes back, he owns everything his enemy had, everything. A great schemer. But Ruto, he looks like the guy you cross, and after a long day in the office, you find him preparing dinner for your wife and children, with this eerie look. That would scare the shit out of me. He looks like the kind of guy who would go to Migingo, put an army base there and make Uganda pay for its cost, go to the Kenyan-Ethiopian border, get those Merile brutes and force them to man the border.

Masai Money.

My mother once told me a story about her experience in a bank when Masai's walked in. My mother used to bank with KCB, now she takes her money to 'Mwagi wa ekwiti'! That was a while ago, I think around the time when I was learning that the ka dream you have of you in the toilet taking a piss only to be woken up by a warm, wet sensation is really a trap sent by the devil that I fell for every time...I digress. Back to the Masai story, this was when banks didn't have those machines that count money faster than you can blink. From the story I gathered that the Masai's had a liking for KCB, perhaps the lion logo was that alluring, who knows. Again, I digress. She told me that if a Masai was in front of you in the queue, you'd be better off taking a seat and getting a bottle of water because you were going to be there for a while, worse if they were two of them or more, then perhaps you come the following day and hope not to find a Masai ahead of you. You see, they came in with a lot of money, and I mean a lot. Not in fancy briefcases or bags or even large envelopes, no. You remember those large plastic bags with some picture of a cowboy on a horse? Yes, those paper bags, full of bundles of money, no doubt from selling cows or wheat or something.
They guy would not even be in fancy clothes or something of the sort. He would graciously make his way into the bank in those Masai shukas, akala shoes, you know, those made from tyres, they'd probably have to leave the njora with the guard but the club would most definitely be hanging on the guy's waist, without a care in the world that he looks dirty, and with his discoloured teeth and heavy accent he gives the cashier the bag and the count begins. Why would he care about holding up the line for probably several hours, why would he bother himself with trivial matters of mortal men, when he, the unbothered Masai, someone you would other wise sneer at if he greated you, is here depositing perhaps millions. You are there probably to enquire whether the 30k salary has been deposited. These guys have money, just because they don't look like it doesn't mean they don't. Be careful how you treat people, they might be capable of buying you and your entire lineage.

The Old Man to My Ten O'clock.

Recently I was in this matatu, headed to the city for some business. If you must know I was headed to AON, the insurer to sort out some issues, see, I am Manchester United blood and flesh, ha! The safari was okay, sane driver, sane passengers save for this guy that was behind me, to my 4 o’clock exactly. I blame him for my tribulations today, this cold is killing me. His cough would reverberate through the matatu, I mean, it’s as if he would search deep into his chest and find a bulky hulk of a cough, you know, the “jitu la miraba mine lenye umbo wa jirim jirim” kind of cough and set it free in the matatu, to devour us, now I’m at home, blowing my nose every few mitutes and coughing in a way that is causing me pain. It seemed quite histrionic how he coughed, like he knew what he was doing. Damn you stranger who caused me all this, hell has a special place for people like you. I digress. This matatu I was in, at my ten o’clock was this old mzee, probably in his 60’s, who seemed quite respectable, you know, those innocuous old mzees who are sought after for their wisdom. Those old mzees you have a chat with and you suddenly have an epiphany as their words sink into the depth of your soul.
 By the way, don’t you just hate it when total strangers in a matatu strike up a conversation with you as though they know you? And especially women, ya’ll like doing that shit, baiting men with your perfectly white teeth and a face, eyes and smiles that would make angels themselves sin. Huh, come to think of it you lot actually made angels, from heaven, I mean goddamn angels leave their heavenly comfort to this despicable piece of crap called earth to lay with you guys. How are we, mortal men of flesh and bone supposed to resist your charms. And you reprimand us when you find that you are one among a few…please!
 I digress, so this old mzee to my ten o’clock, I saw him look out his window quite intently, like he had seen some once in a life time thing. He had. Have you ever seen a woman with a behind so fine, that common sense evades you completely for a few minutes. A behind you can bounce a forty bob coin off of. Those behinds that tease you as the lady passes by, that disorients you completely, that is what this old mzee was staring at, so keenly and so intently, as if studying the behind, taking notes in his mind, admiring maybe, or perhaps it was reminiscent of his youth, the fountain of youth in his soul, not visible to the naked eye though.
The mzee, with what seemed like complete satisfaction, then sank back into his seat, into those seats that can be sank into, those that seem curved in a way as though to hug you, and he suddenly became quite self-conscious and did a quick sweep with his eyes to see who was looking at him and then he met my eyes. I was holding in a smile and he quickly looked forward, but he knew. He knew that I knew what he had done, and without a care in the world, the crossed his arms and drifted off to sleep.