The amount of time it takes you to hold your breath is exactly the time it takes Harold to forget everything he has been told. He has the memory of a warthog and looks that don’t stray far. Suffice to say, he is an excellent secret keeper.
I spent a week explaining to him why the late Prince Phillip was not called King Phillip despite being married to the Queen of England. As you might recall, unless you and Harold share his inability to retain information, Britain’s Prince Phillip passed on most recently at 99.
Something about a queen being such a prominent figure in a male-dominated leadership sphere rattled Harold.
On Mother Earth Day, marked on Thursday last week, Harold came and asked me; “You mean all along the world has been a woman?”
I explained to him that the earth gives rise to, and nurtures, a lot of organisms and therefore could never be male.
“I will be a feminist this Sunday,” Harold said; “Do you think that will work?”
I sat him down to feed his poor memory.
“I want to teach you some history…”
“Herstory!” He shouted. “Remember we are in support of femininity.”
“So, Elizabeth was born into royalty. Her father was King George VI. He died in 1952 and she assumed the throne,” I started. “She was in Kenya for holiday when it all happened.”
“Why didn’t the King’s wife become the new King?”
“Queen?”
“Yes, that.”
I explained that she became the Queen Mother, paving way for her daughter to rule the United Kingdom.
I also explained to him who became a prince and who a princess was, who a duke and a duchess was, and why Prince William’s son could ascend the throne before Prince Harry, William’s brother.
I did not know what I had created by telling Harold about duchesses, princesses and priestesses.
Suddenly, Sue was Haroldess, the chief’s wife was the chiefess, and my girlfriend Shukra became Petress.
“No wonder every time I care for Sue, she caresses me in return,” he said.
Harold added that in church, men should confer while women should confess. He said that as part of supporting women, he wanted to introduce the United Kingdom system in Gitegi, where he would make Sue the queen.
His plan was to make the rest of us his, and Sue’s, subjects. I asked him why he would make Sue the ruler and he said something about real men supporting their women, and about his newfound love for feminism.
But deep down, I knew all he wanted was free beer; remember that Harold preaches wine and drinks wine.
I asked Harold if I would be the prince and thus the heir apparent to the throne once Sue got bored of handing him beers on credit in exchange for fancy titles.
“No, but you will be a Sir.”
“Oh, a knight?” I asked.
“As many as you want, even days.”
If Harold succeeds with his plan, then I am afraid we will all be under the rule of a lady who, when upset, turns Harold’s loud baritone into a girlish squeak.
Harold will no longer have mandate to run affairs, instead, Sue has ‘womandate’ for the same, my fibbing uncle told me.
Harold then sent me around the village to tell everyone that he would be honouring the Queen, who had lost her husband, by making today a special Sunday for all the women.
The self-proclaimed village ruler also intended to give them a surprise that would make the village better. The surprise, I knew, was to impose on them a queen.
So yesterday, excited women, who were waiting to see what Harold had prepared them for the special Sunday, queued in front of our house with kiondos on their backs, corn, potatoes, tomatoes, pumpkin, onions and arrowroots peeping in dismay at their new owner.
Harold had told me to hint to them what he intended to do that would be a befitting tribute to the queen.
“Your pastor intends to have one of you as the ruler of the village,” I said, to which the women ululated excitedly.
“This,” I concluded, “will be your kingdom.”
“Queendom!” Harold shouted from behind me.
ptheuri@@standardmedia.co.ke
