By Joseph Maina
On Sunday evening, I was heading home with my sub-clan from a friend’s party. The weather was great, the air fresh and the mood jovial as we cruised along in Baba Jimmy’s one-car motorcade, which consists of a prehistoric contraption that calls itself a Starlet.
Alas! Disaster struck a few blocks away from our hacienda when, without warning, my jalopy ground to a halt.
“This will be thy destination,” the car seemed to say, and with those few remarks, it coughed and went to sleep.
Armed with nothing but my poor mechanical skills mixed with blind hope, I opened the bonnet, and found that things had fallen apart. Though I am no mechanic, I could tell that the battery’s power had fallen below sea level, the carburettor was in shambles, and several thingamajigs had gone on strike. Worse, we were running out of fuel.
Luckily, a herd of lads passed by, led by Kevo, who lives two gates away.
“Gentlemen,” I saluted with a smile, eager to snare them over. “Kindly lend us a hand here.”
In true harambee spirit, the youths immediately took positions around my contraption and went to work.
“Haya, twende!” screeched Kevo as he pushed from the rear.
Encouraged by this clarion, the lads started chanting “Hep hep, twende!” in unison. After lots of pushing, my rattletrap coughed back to life, and my joy knew no bounds.
“Thank you, gentlemen. Mbarikiwe sana,” I pontificated, eager to go home and join my fellow couch potato, Tyson the cat.
I wish I could end this story by saying we shook hands and left the scene, but not so fast, honey! The youths had other ideas in mind.
“Chota kitu mbuyu,” they demanded, while throwing me the kind of look normally reserved for hospital food.
Thus, I quarried my shirt pocket and produced several Sh20 coins.
“Ai, hii dough ni kidogo,” Kevo barked, while wiping imaginary beads of sweat from his brow. “Mbao hainanunui kitu siku hizi Baba Jim.”
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The comptroller and I were aghast. Ironically, Mama Jimmy had prayed for our journey that morning.
“Bwana, bariki safari yetu,” she had chanted before leaving the hacienda. “Ukuwe dereva na ukuwe mafuta!”
Just who did these boys think I was? Did I look like I was carrying an ATM machine in my pocket? Why do Kenyans assume that people who drive cars have oil wells in their homes?
Anyway, as I had run out of options, I decided to beat around the bush. Like my friend Odhiambo says, if you cannot convince them, confuse them.
“Gentlemen, didn’t I just invoke blessings on you?” I pleaded, hoping to touch base with their spiritual nerves.
Once again, the youths stood back and stared at my car like it had metarmophosised from egg to larva to pupa to Starlet to sewage truck.
“Baraka ni muhimu mbuyu, lakini lazima utuchotee kitu,” one of them riposted, his voice devoid of emotion.
NOTHING BUT LOOT
In other words, what they wanted was the loot, the whole loot and nothing but the loot. The only question ringing in my mind right then was “Who are your mothers?”
But before I could voice this question, Mama Jimmy pleaded, with all the desperation of a Third World country: “Gentlemen, please remember we are you neighbours.”
Unmoved, the lads gawked at Mama Jimmy like she had suddenly grown a pair of horns. Like my friend, Odhiambo, says, you can pick your seat in a bus, pick your nose at will and even pick your friends without anyone’s permission, but you cannot pick your neighbours.
The conversation droned to a frustrating conclusion. After lots of haggling, I coughed Sh200 and the youths let us go. I then hopped into the Starlet and headed home with one thought ringing in my mind: I wouldn’t want my mboys to become like those young men who treat neighbours like cash cows.
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