For DP Ruto, the going gets tougher

I’d never come face-to-face with one of those humongous, red-bummed male monkeys until early this year when I found one eating an onion in my living room. Just casually sitting on the carpet, munching on layer after layer – tearlessly I might add - while watching some cartoon that my kid had left running on the telly.

For 30 seconds or thereabouts, I was rooted to the spot, unable to think coherently or act instinctively. I just stood there stupidly, watching the gargantuan ape slurping at the onion like it was a savoury ball of candy, just as cool as can be. Meanwhile, my dog was outside the house howling like a wolf at a full moon, yanking on his leash, trying to free himself from the post he had been tied to. Looking back, he’d been barking at high volume from the time I walked through the front door, and I should have twigged that something was off.

But you know what January’s like, your brain evolves from a basic thought-processor into a complex calculating machine with the ability to pull up every record of your dwindling bank balance at a moment’s notice. I had probably been thinking about the school socks I forgot to buy, and the labels I forgot to attach to my daughter’s tunic. The thought that there was a monkey leaning back on my couch, with a paw on his knee, and a mouth full of onion, could not have been further from my weary mind.

Eventually, my fight or flight instinct kicked in, and I heard my gut whisper, “Negotiate …” So, I lifted my head, raised my voice by about 10 decibels and yelled, “Hey!” using some of those core muscles that I haven’t activated in years. Don’t ask me how shouting at an animal seemed like the most viable avenue for diplomatic relations.

As soon as the sound waves hit the creature’s ears, he dipped onto all fours and leapt onto the coffee table, a low-key, but supremely menacing growl emitting from his clenched monkey jaws. He looked me dead in the face with eyes that matched his red behind. At that point, my heartbeat was thumping faster than the batons of 18 policemen on a rudderless political operative. The neurons in my head began to misfire rapidly, and my gut was missing in action. I felt like David facing off with Goliath, except that this was so unexpected that I hadn’t had a chance to hear from God.

So, left with no alternative as the beast prepared to pounce, I decided to give Sebastian room to escape, hoping that he wouldn’t maul me in the process. Miraculously, I remembered my training on how to deescalate potentially violent encounters with wild animals. I looked away from the red-eyed monster, bowed my head, and pushed myself as close to the wall as I could. Then I slowed my breathing, let my hands hang loosely by my sides, and waited.

The red-bum began to growl and hiss as if to test the limits of my apparent surrender, but I stood my ground with my blood racing and my face contorted into what I hoped was composure. Shortly thereafter the monkey leapt of the table, landing a few feet from me. He looked me up, down, and around like a president’s bodyguard.

Squezed shut

Then he came real close, the sound of thunder reverberating from his hairy chest, before making a mad dash for the door, his crimson posterior swaying eerily in the wind. I made my own dash to the loo before my bladder emptied right where I stood. When I finally opened eyes that had been squeezed shut, the stench of onion forced them closed again. Or at least it would have, had this story been true. But I made the whole thing up. Because that’s what writers do to make a point.

I would hate to call anyone a red-bum, least of all Deputy President Dr Hon William S Ruto, but I’m willing to bet that he is feeling pushed to the wall by the BBI and its foot soldiers.

The idea should be to negotiate, with the ultimate aim being to let the man beat a self-respecting retreat, but what we’re seeing instead is a bunch of men yelling “hey!” from their chests, leaving their adversary with no role to fill other than that of a man provoked; with no option other than to respond with disproportionate action. I’m not a prophetess, but if I was, you wouldn’t have to pay me to tell you that this will not end well. May clearer heads prevail.

 

Ms Masiga is Peace and Security editor, The Conversation Africa