BY Edward Indakwa
My people are being finished. This matter transcends community. Men are getting finished – finished!
As you read this, many members of our community have cases pending before the Children’s Court.
Two senior members of our species, to mention only those who cases have been widely publicised, are wanted for crimes against humanity by their former spouses. And we are talking millions here, my brother – millions.
Our people have been clobbered, scolded and scalded. Just the other day, the opposition held a political rally on the streets of Nairobi saying sex is a right and that they wanted it – now.
I fear that if the Government does not step in, they will soon get that right by hook or crook, which, as recent history has proven, is through clobbering, scolding and scalding. Sulking? Hello no. That sissy stuff ended with my grandmother. These days it is total war: Mundu khu mundu, or man-to-man if you may.
The odd bit is we are guilty; guilty of walking into this problem with our eyes wide open. It is us who stop the reluctant opposition at bus stops and village paths and seduce them to bits.
We buy them sweets, chips and chicken, tea and alcohol and even cheat them that we neither eat nor sleep when we think of them. Twixt us, that is the fattest lie peddled since Adam came up with that snake story as an excuse to wolf down the forbidden fruit.
We even nag them till they say ‘yes’ and convince an entire clan to gather livestock and drive them from Ndiwa to Voi to pay dowry.
Thereafter, we walk into a bank and mortgage ourselves to the neck to finance a wedding. We mobilise colleagues and ‘friends’ we have not spoken to for years to chip in for the wedding.
After lying, “Till death do us part”, we fly out for honeymoon. Could be Zanzibar or even a tiny shack in Namanga, but these days, no woman sleeps in a man’s house on her wedding night.
Come morning, when the whisky clears, we kick ourselves and stupidly wonder, “What the hell did I get myself into?” Sorry, brother. Too late.
I guess the realisation comes when it hits us that kissing isn’t as delightful as it appears on TV or that when ‘she wakes up in your arms’; they hurt (in the movies, the cameras zoom out the moment the newly wed couple drive off...).
In no time, the quarrels, fights and visits to the bar begin. In three years, we are empty shells with bloodshot eyes and zero libidos. The frustrated opposition, now a little chubby, is meanwhile demanding certain rights we can’t or wont fulfill. Next thing you know, policemen are hunting us all over town. Or a murder is reported.
You know, Kisumu is an interesting town. It has the highest number of single mothers and the highest numbers of eligible bachelors.
We should be afraid, very afraid.
No Kenyan blood, Gration
Before he reported to Kenya, a rumour doing the rounds had it that Mr Scott Gration, until yesterday His Excellency, spent years fooling around Karen as toddler.
Other rumours suggested that as a US airman, he came back Kenya to teach our boys how to fly jets and drop bombs on our political enemies. He even speaks fluent Kiswahili, it was whispered.
I call them rumours because his conduct suggests he couldn’t have grown up here. And if he did, he learnt absolutely nothing from the house girl. He resigned, you said? What sort of reckless nonsense is that? Didn’t he even have the good sense to step aside or dare his boss to fire him if he was man enough?
In the event that he had issues with the son of Kogelo, he should have spoken to intermediaries – say Mark Too, aka Bwana Dawa or Mr Fix it. Alternatively, he should have armed himself with a kilo of sugar and boarded a bus to Kogelo for fruitful discussions with Mama Sarah Obama.
That boy at the White House could be growing horns, but we all know if grandma threatened to withdraw eggs from the menu the next time POTAS comes down here, that would have snapped young Barack back to his senses.
Running mate
Whichever way you look at it, it was extremely cowardly for Mr Gration to resign, unless of course he is defecting to the Republican Party where the position of running mate so far as I know remains vacant.
Mr Gration, an ambassador in Kenya lives like a king, is crowned an elder by every tribe and senior politicians pass by daily to kowtow and share gossip. You probably couldn’t play loud music in Muthaiga, but that surely is no reason to resign, sir.
