The flying pig might not have wings but he has the gall to display virility

When the flying pig arrived at the doorstep of Parliament early this week, during the ‘Occupy Parliament’ protest by civil societies, I instantly thought the piglets that we encountered weeks earlier had grown in size and returned to their natural habitat.

Parliament, after all, has won reputation for housing men and women with ravenous appetites for public funds, and whose girths keep widening, even in worst of times.

But the flying pig did not have wings; only its modest feet were hoisted on the shoulders of the protesters, much the same way MPigs have been weighing heavily on Kenyans.

The flying pig looked well fed; it even had the gall to display its healthy-looking balls, by themselves symbols of its well-rounded lifestyle.

 Its excessive eating had not emasculated its sexuality, especially if we are to believe tales about certain organs shrinking if one puts on weight.

The flying pig was well fed and had some respectable sex organs. I’m unsure what may have prompted the protesters to direct their ire towards the puppet’s balls, which they tore up with a scary glee.

We know from the steady flow of paternity rows or child support claims in our courtrooms that our parliamentarians are a sexualised lot. But the artistic appendage reflecting virility on the puppet deserves a deeper contemplation than our politicians ordinarily allow.

Our fixation with MPigs’ eating habits, I suspect, have thrown us off the poor.

To understand why they need so much money when they arrive in Parliament, we need to pay more attention to their social life.

For starters, most constituencies are scattered around mashinani (rural outposts), so some of our MPs arrive in Nairobi for the first time to attend Parliament.

I have in mind academic dwarves who did not proceed beyond their village polytechnics.

The idea of being alone in the city can be very daunting, so they immediately surround themselves with hangers-on who have to be taken care of consistently.

CITY GROOMING

That translates a simple matter like a meal to a communal affair. Then there is the question of clothing. Here, the MP who never had to think of grooming all his life is suddenly thrust in a world he barely understands.

 A city lass who is availed to show the MP around and fit apparels, soon becomes something of a personal assistant.

Before long, her rent will be paid and children taken to school by the new MP because his wife is still in the village waiting to harvest wimbi and maize.

The PA becomes something of a second wife. In fact, her children are registered under the MP’s insurance policy because his children with his village wife are all grown. But that does not mean the man is satisfied with the side-kick.

Since he is slow to make new friends, he gets to know there are city streets where people can enjoy momentary thrills without having to pay rent for a month.

The outings soon lead him to a few regular girls. He is delighted about his growing harem. The villager who was initially terrified about the city now becomes mwenyeji.

The years pass quickly, and he only returns to the constituency to secure fuel receipts to falsify mileage claims to meet his growing bills.

I now believe the oft-repeated assertion by MPs that social costs account for a huge chunk of their expenses. But the flying pig helped refine our understanding of the root cause of MPigs’ tribulations.

Enjoy your cup at Cappuccino, but save time for a little walk

Cappuccino Café is a petite eatery right next to the home of kanjoras at City Hall.

I have always been struck by the originality of the name. Why, in keeping with Kenyans’ visions of prosperity, we name businesses after the names of the villages from whence we came, but rarely after the merchandise on offer.

So, Cappuccino Café is among the few exceptions, so I was glad to be invited there by a friend. But it also turned out to be his first time there; a colleague too had invited him.

I ordered a cup of brewed Kenyan tea, and it was refreshing as expected. Everything progressed well, the conversations were interesting, and so were the patrons.

 You can tell if you are in the right place from the way other patrons enquire if they can use a free seat near you, or even join your table. No one offered to join our table though; we conversed, settled the bills before we decided to make our way out.

That’s when I decided to use the bathroom. I was given a key and a name-tag, and directed where to find it.

NEXT FLOOR

 “You will find a guard next door,” the waiter said helpfully. “He will show you the way once you show him this tag.”

I did as instructed, and the guard pointed yet another guard, who directed me to take the stairs to the first floor of the nearby building.

I tried to open the door but it was boarded.

“Looking for gents?” another guard asked. “It’s a floor up,” he said.

A farewell to Zuku, but  I’m not shedding tears

I’m writing with a heavy heart because I have been forced to bid farewell to Zuku TV.

It’s a reflection of my declining influence on the domestic sphere.

Tumaini and his mother voted to restore a rival service provider on account of its alleged richer programming.

I’m not sure if Big Brother Africa was one of the considerations – I would be surprised if it wasn’t – although I doubt if it were because BBA often verges on pornography.

So I flipped through the channels to look for my old favourites on the new service: Crime and History channels were not on offer. Tumaini, on the other hand, was spoilt for choice: Disney Junior, Boom, Cartoon Network and KidCo.

I’m yet to monitor his mother’s favourites, but I suspect she is pleased with what’s on offer since she hasn’t been complaining.That’s not to say I enjoyed Zuku programming any better, particularly because the images have been freezing of late; a person’s voice is heard moments after they appear on the screen.

 What I am likely to miss is their fast Internet. I wanted to know if that can be supplied independent of the TV package, but I dread wasting time on their Customer Care numbers that are permanently engaged.