Kenyan voters graze politicians like cows, then they eat them

The African is a very deceptive creature. His eyes are blank and his black face is as inscrutable as black Africa. So, while the white man dreams that the African loves livestock, the truth is that he loves meat!

It is easy to understand how this myth congealed into fact. That Africans are hopeless at expressing feelings, especially those related to romance and love, is utter rubbish.

Have you met an African man who eats supper alone, without inviting his kid’s to take a bite?

In reality, the fellow could be full, having munched mandazi, chapati and toast mayai at the village kiosk. It is also likely that he is making sure his wife doesn’t poison him. But by merely calling his wife by her clan name, he expresses his love more eloquently than a teary Spaniard on Telemundo ever will.

So, when an African man is standing gruffly, keeping watch protectively over the cows he knows by name with a rungu in one hand and a machete in the other, a foreign tourist would never discern that the man is expressing his undying love for tumbukiza.

If you want to prove that Africans love meat and not livestock, wait till a tuk tuk kills an elephant in a head-on collision on the highway. Before you can say Dr Richard Leakey, a mammoth crowd of drooling villagers descend on that carcass with sharp machetes. In 10 minutes flat, even the elephant’s tail and hooves would be boiling in a sooty sufuria.The glee with which an African runs off with the pirated buttock of a wild animal, the excitement with which an African tears into free boiled meat at a funeral, the suppressed joy with which an urban Kenyan piles chunks of beef on his plate during an NGO-funded seminar, the sniveling manner in which the city man watches the butcher slicing roast meat into small fatty pieces... How could he love livestock when we loves chewing meat this much?

Studying carcasses

You should see an African man buying meat. He arrives at the butchery and stands in the shadows for 10 minutes, studying the carcass. He looks at each section of the carcass and pictures it sizzling in a pan. He imagines himself chomping on the chunkiest of pieces, cholesterol-rich juices flowing into his tough African stomach.

“Cut there... No, not there. That one is too fatty. Nooo! Not there. Does your head work properly? You think I am so stupid that I can take bones to my wife? Yes, there! Cut there!” Now that is a proper African man.

You should watch him stride into his homestead, half a kilo of meat dangling in one hand and a newspaper autographed with his signature tucked beneath his armpit. The kids see him and immediately sniff meat: “Baba ichololo! Baba ichololo!” they bubble with indescribable excitement as they race like the wind to meet him.

By the time he reaches his favourite spot beneath the old mango tree, his special seat is in place. By the time he takes off his shoes, sandals have materialised at his feet. By the time he is done taking off his shoes, two stools are at his elbow, one bearing his favourite transistor radio and the other a humongous bowl of fermented porridge.

His wife, Nakhumicha, who was a in a sullen mood, is magically transformed. Her face lights up. The years melt from her weather-beaten face. She walks with a spring and her voice, when she addresses Baba Nafikhokho, drips with love. The kids? What excitement! They frolic around the homestead like antelopes, but take care to run to the kitchen, fold their legs on the earthen floor and just gaze at the boiling pot with love.

Love is flowing in that homestead, I tell you, and without anyone mentioning the word. Another baby could be conceived that night, and all because of meat.

That is what the Kenyan politician never understands. When the campaign period heats up and one rises to the podium and insults the foreskin or broken teeth of an opponent, the crowd cheers like crazy. They know mheshimawa is talking rubbish, but because an African is a deceptive creature, the media assumes they support what the idiot on the podium is saying.

In reality, those villagers cheering and guarding the politician with rungus and machetes are merely grazing the politician like a cow.

They are fattening him. They sing songs for him. They dance for him. They pave way for him. They escort him to bullfights. And when he is ripe, when he has fattened enough, they slaughter him at an election and eat him. Everything, even the hooves. If in doubt, ask a former politician.