Ted Malanda
When a man acquires a doctorate, he grows a beard, stops combing his hair and develops affection for old, checkered coats. The women, on the other hand, shave their heads clean and foreswear soft creature comforts like lipstick.
Because of permanent head damage, they go to great lengths to look more ordinary than the man or woman on the street. Thus, unlike ordinary folk who expose their underwear to be noticed, Prof Ali Mazrui would sit cross-legged on the veranda of a shop in Mombasa sipping coffee without drawing any attention.
Likewise, Prof Ngugi wa Thiong’o would merrily push a handcart in Limuru while Mabel Imbuga would casually sell vegetables at a roadside market without passersby being any wiser.
But when they talk, hands clasped together, eyes staring sagely into the distance, their words, though measured and spoken with finality, never make sense to mortals who have not chewed books thoroughly.
A certain acquaintance of mine is no different. The chap resembles a herdsman. He is always dressed in shorts and akala sandals while his hands always sport a beaded bracelet.
Pastoralist
A globetrotting scientist he may be, but the man remains pastoralist to the core. Like his forefathers, he is the proud owner of many goats and is husband to several wives spread across his numerous homes in Nairobi and Samburu. Looking at him, one would never guess that his akala-clad feet have taken him to most of the world’s major capital cities.
He loves wearing those sandals to public meetings. Then he leans on a walking stick and listens to a know-it-all government official or politician lecturing his people. Thereafter, he begins to ask very tough questions in halting Kiswahili and proceeds to enjoy himself thoroughly as the said official makes a complete fool of himself.
One such occasion found him by the roadside clad in traditional regalia and chatting up a group of young morans. Shortly, a big dusty car pulled over. Two young city lads stepped out — their trousers fashionably sagged to reveal multi-coloured underwear. Without as much as hello, they flung the car’s bonnet open eager to get on their safari in the boondocks.
Motor trouble
When their fiddling with the engine didn’t bear fruit, their impatient girlfriends piled out of the car, too, their feeble attempts to hitch up their trousers doing little to conceal their equally colourful sets of underwear. They, too, didn’t bother to greet the morans and their elder.
Being a true scholar, my friend had already diagnosed the problem, even as he leant blank-faced on his walking stick. "Ero," he stepped forward to assist. But to his embarrassment, he was swatted away by one of the boys who, with a chuckle, said, "Go and graze your goats — you know nothing about cars!"
In the next hour, the boys kept tinkering and letting off snide remarks about "those morons," assuming, stupidly as it turned out, that the chaps leaning on spears and walking sticks didn’t understand a word of English.
But as nightfall crept upon them, they turned to the morans: ‘Ero, iko hoteli hapa? (Is there a hotel here?)’ Then, the tables turned.
Morons
"Did you expect to find a hotel in this place, you morons?’ the scholar-cum-moran spat back in impeccable English. ‘If you had the decency to say hello and not insult us, I would have fixed your car ages ago, my wife would have prepared you a hot meal and you would now be long on your way!"
