Special One seeks special favours

Peter Kimani

There was the realistic expectation that soccer ace Jose Murinho, better known as the Special One, would use his three-week holiday at the Coast to visit Fort Jesus.

The reasons are obvious; this was the haunt that his Portuguese forebears put up some 500 years ago to solidify their military presence in the region.

It may have been much easier in those pre-al-Qaeda days although their tactics were not dissimilar. Abductions were rife as were demands for ransom, although the Portuguese did it with such great perfection many thought slave trade was legal.

But let’s return to the Special One and his special trip to the Coast. Suffice to say he had no time to pay homage to those historical tombs; neither did he call the Press to ensure he was photographed bare-chested, beating his chest to declare: we were here before any other Europeans.

He could even have been swayed to predict, in that famous smattering English, which team would the clinch the World Cup.

Accurate prediction

But, alas! Paul the Octopus beat him to it. I am talking about that "psychic" sea creature that accurately predicted how his "native" Germany would fare at the tournament, even picking of the ultimate winner, Spain.

The Special One did not despair. Somebody must have whispered to him Paul’s potency was nothing compared to the abilities of the occult masters at the Coast.

In that exaggerated fashion that only Coastals can render, the Special One may have been told to wait until he met the real sorcerers of soccer!

Soon, he was chanting the name "Makthub!" with religious zeal.

Initially, he may have been in trouble pronouncing the name, mistaking it for "Na-Thub!" which he was warned means "repentance" in Kiswahili.

The rest of the narrative is a bit jumbled, although it is understood the Special One went to Makthub with his wife and beseeched him to intercede on his behalf and secure victory in his soccer quest at Real Madrid, where he is taking up coaching assignment this season.

Makthub’s ignorance of Madrid did not put him at a disadvantage. All he needed to say to the Special One was. "I knew you from when you were born, and I knew you would come here accompanied by a beautiful woman who would turn out to be your wife..."

Then Makthub would issue some incantation, dip a flywhisk in some mysterious fluid and swish it in the air before touching the Special One’s forehead.

The ritual would not be complete without Makthub tossing of pebbles in a gourd before hurling them to the ground, chanting intelligibly.

Tall tales of turbaned gents in need of ‘nini’

There was this big talk about sex abstinence to prop some scientific theory that some scientists are propagating in some place called Vienna.

It called to mind another campaign launched some time last year by women who decided they had identified a weak point that would force men to buckle at the knee – not unbuckling their waists.

The only difficulty, as with such innovative social activism is that monitoring is exceedingly difficult, if not altogether impossible.

Anyhow, this week, Kenyans responded with muted grief, wondering why the call for abstinence couldn’t have been made at any other time of the year.

July, after all, is the famous for its biting chill, and demographers appear convinced more babies are conceived in this, not any other month.

Anyway, some turbaned fellow was interviewed on local TV and gave a response that’s memorably fresh.

Looking coyly at the camera, he said he had not done nini (something) the previous day, and couldn’t go through another day without nini.

It’s euphemism at its very best, only as Kenyans can.

So how come local activists have not echoed this call and rallied Kenyans to the cause? It’s probably because it’s July, and they, too, need a bit of nini.

　

Licensed to thrill, day and night

Some bloke arrived last week armed to the teeth, then decided to catch a bit of the action before the city went to bed.

A favourite haunt somewhere on Tom Mboya Street beckoned (veteran scribe PO swears he cannot dare venture East of that street, day or night, whatever the reason), and he soon earned good company – the sort that spring to you with the wink (or blink) of an eye.

Most civilians licensed to carry firearms feel more comfortable drinking with their guns in full view, preferably sitting inside a glass, the same way Kenyans did when mobiles phones first arrived on our shores. This makes perfect sense.

As the night progresses, the bloke develops confidence in his new friend (the one he beckoned with the blink of an eye) enough to ask her to keep an eye on his gun as he goes to pass water (after drinking to his fill).

There is panic when he returns, for his gun is nowhere to be found, as well as the winky damsel. And all the patrons are dumb. They say they are not his damsel’s keeper.