By Joseph Maina
Tuesday evening caught me cooling my heels on the couch after a donkey’s day at work. I was watching some political talk show that was airing on the tube, featuring a bunch of ‘kangaroo’ analysts, busy blathering their two cents away.
With the General Election around the corner, politics has become the staple of most TV shows, and everyone is turning into an armchair political expert, with a plethora of jua kali opinion pollsters and jua kali political analysts on the loose. Halfway into the show, I turned to my comptroller and inquired on her preferred candidates for the senate and gubernatorial seats.
“Ah, mimi sipendi siasa,” she shrugged, adding that no politician “will ever put ugali on my table”. Throughout our marriage, she has succumbed to a debilitating loathing for politics. In her opinionated opinion, politics is nothing but nyef nyef, and politicians are just but “leaders unto darkness and gloom”. She watches political talk shows with one hand covering the face.
“Ati gubena-what?” she asked, her eyes widening with confusion. Apparently, this sounded like lyrics from a Khoikhoi folk song to her, so I turned to our house help Maggy, and posed the same question. This time, I avoided big words and rephrased the question in laywoman’s terms.
“Who will you elect governor?” I asked Miss Mboch, only to be met with a blank look that seemed to scream, “the governorship is none of my business!” Like my comptroller, Maggy has no room in her heart for the ham-fisted shenanigans of our political class. At this rate, our house might slowly degenerate into a siasa-free zone.
Just then, Jimmy addressed his mother: “Mum, which parties do you like?” he asked.
“Ai, mimi sipendi party zozote,” she snapped back, but this was a lie. Of course, she loves parties — to death. However, by ‘parties’, I don’t mean political parties. Her idea of parties is different. To her, we’re looking at birthday parties, wedding parties, office parties, pre-wedding parties...
“Mum, will you vote?” Jimmy pressed, but this time he was dismissed with a wave of the hand. Understandably, the boy was colossally saddened, but all he could do was boo her with his eyes and clamp his mouth shut. Tiffany posed the next question:
“Mum uchaguzi ni nini?”
“Uliza daddy hizo maswali,” Mama Jimmy responded, transferring the headache to me. So, I sat back and calmly stroked the porcupine on my chin while googling a kindergarten-friendly answer for my princess. Moments later, I relayed that uchaguzi would translate to a new political dispensation. Now this fuelled her curiosity even more.
“What is political dispenalation?” the little one pressed, her eyes wide as saucers.
“It means a new government,” I professed.
“Sasa hatutakuwa na leaders?” she interrogated. I declared that after the elections, the current herd of politicians must go home to look after their goats. In their place would be new councilors, MPs, women’s representatives, senators, governors and a brand new Baba Jimmy, aka commander-in-chief. The minute I said “a new Baba Jimmy,” Jimmy’s eyes almost popped off their sockets.
“Daddy ati Ubako ataishia?” he gasped. By Ubako he meant good old Mzee Emilio. That’s Baba Jimmy’s honorific in Bonoko-speak, although I’m yet to hear such Bonoko-esque monikers for other political heavyweights such as Uhush, Raish, Mudavako or Kalonzoko.
“Yep, we’ll have a new president,” I hammed it up.
“Na Ubako akiishia ataenda wapi?” he asked.
“He will go home to look after his... er, affairs,” I replied calmly, adding that the new Baba Jimmy will be the Kahuna of State, among other things. What’s more, he will assume tenancy of the house on the hill, and he’ll ride a Mercedes-Benz-infested motorcade that will be flanked by tough bodyguards and police boda bodas. Just then, the comptroller chipped in:
“Wacha kufunza watoto siasa!” she rasped, bringing our bouncy discourse to a halt. In my defense, I proffered that I was only touching on current affairs, as opposed to the archetypal, hardboiled politics of the “so and so tosha”, or “this or that politician hawesmake” type.
“This is general knowledge, dear,” I defended, earning myself a scowl. Sadly, she wouldn’t listen, and in an effort to kill our debate, she bribed us with ugali.
“Kuleni sembe mkalale,” she joked, effectively bringing our kangaroo conference to a halt. So there you have it, fellow taxpayers. Mama Jimmy has elected to keep a healthy distance from politics, and she wants our heirs to follow suit. Trying to engage her in political debates is becoming harder than cutting a Mugumo tree with your teeth, and this leaves me thinking: are all Kenyan women as politically detached as the lady of my house, or am I alone in this?
