Meru men who chop others with little provocation

 BY BENSON RIUNGU

Last week we had a clan gathering that was attended by relatives from across the country and even the diaspora. It was one of those rare occasions when old salts like myself can show off the clan’s achievements in human development.
Professors jostled for recognition with engineers, doctors and sharp lawyers who threatened to make mincemeat of anyone who so much as touched a villager’s hair. Looking down upon the gathering, our ancestors must have shared a horn of traditional brew in celebration of the fact that the clan was protected by the modern-day version of warriors.
warrior
Standing out from this distinguished throng was a young warrior whose activities while growing up in the village not many had cause to be proud of. He is the type whose fame springs not from any wizardly with mathematics or command of the English language, but from his tendency to violent deeds.
biceps
As a boy he was either causing his parents sleepless nights after being expelled from school for beating up a teacher or from waylaying young girls in the evening on their way to fetch water at the river.
In short, he was a ne’er-do-well and we were all relieved when he finally ran away from home. He was making a comeback after many years.
His appearance was far from reassuring though. He was dressed in old military boots, dirty patched up jeans and a vest that exposed bulging biceps, obviously earned through many hours doing press-ups and perhaps a bit of criminal work besides, and a set of tatoos on either arm.
To complete the picture of menace, he spoke through one side of the mouth because the other was occupied by a huge lump of veve aka miraa, khat or mairungi. He looked like a cud-chewing goat that has been made dangerous by indigestion. His eyes were bloodshot like those of a man who had seen more than his share of the world’s evil.
thieves
Spitting out a pump of spent cud, he informed anyone who cared to listen that he had found the success the village had denied him in parts of Meru North that have been popularised by those wooden kiosks in Eastleigh with names such as Kangeta, Lare and Mutuati.
These are the places whose sole agricultural produce has been such a headache to Nacada and the British government.
He had found his true vocation, he said, as a sort of guard in miraa farms. His job largely involves taking measures to deter people from even thinking about stealing from other people’s farms. His favourite form of deterrence, he said, was chopping off the hands of thieves. He proudly informed us that so far he had chopped off 15 hands, a record even in Meru.
We were all awed, not to say intimidated, by a son of ours who could strike terror in an area where law enforcement officers are used to the sight of people marching into the police station with a bloody panga in one hand and a human head in the other, which they proceed to plonk down on the report desk with the statement, “Nkuraga nkamba” — I have killed the idiot. This is a place where people commit murder not just for pleasure — but even for no reason at all. The audacity of his exploits reminded some of us of an incident that has been told and retold in Meru County.  One day a man was minding his business cutting napier grass for his cattle by the roadside when two people came running down the road. One was chasing the other with a panga, and he requested the man cutting napier grass: “Cut that man for me!”
puzzled
Our friend obeyed without question, and chopped off the head of the running man. When the case came up at the Meru law courts, a puzzled judge sought to know from the accused why he had acted thus. What was the reason?
“Bwana judge,” the accused said from the dock, “you have directed that question to the wrong person. The man you should is the one who asked me to do it, and he is standing right there at the back of the court.”
After the clan gathering it was a sombre group that gathered at Undecided Leisure Lodge to soothe badly rattled nerves with alcohol. Not even the sight of Karembo’s generous endowments were sufficient to lift our spirits, and we were all agreed that the village would be better if the young clansman disappeared forever in Kangeta, Lare or Mutuati.