Bloody Dogs

The dog licked the thick blood. Everyone stared. Who had the the guts to dare stop it? Wasn't the 'dog' that stabbed the lady worse than the real one?

A knife can and did more than peeling potatoes.PHOTO/COURTESY.

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Nights were meant for sleep while for others, they were meant for slip. Save for internet sprawls,no more motions for me at night. Liquid consumption is always checked to control dream distraction and injuries(last time I stumbled on a stool on my way to drop another one, I fell with a thud, bled like a cornered mosquito, and forced to open eyes and let go my Beast and White House dream. A sad explanation to a fake birthmark on my right cheek) of course cowardice is not part of the equation! So as I stick to sleep, an idiot specialises in slipping. And this night wasn't the best, it was a test that saw someone rest.

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A cock can't be cocked or cock in a single territory or as the adage goes, no cock serves a single hen. This is a battle ground for Guthu and Tuthu, neighbours who are happily married. Their partner in crime Metho has ensured that the two have a competition, his wife. You see, this madness of building a house in the Muchene village,leaving your wife there and working in the city only to appear on well-known dates, is the mother of all differently mannered kids under one roof.

So Metho is working hard in the city and heavily investing in Muchene. His latest acquisition, the high density Bobmil mattress and a king sized bed have ensured that the guest frequency is a notch higher, the bed is too big, too cold for his wife. Company is necessary. The fact that the lass is well endowed, shy and generous, makes conflict paramount. Guthu and Tuthu have their shares but as usual, battle for dominance is up. Guthu argues that he deserves a larger share since it was he that the lady wanted but Metho had the cash and speed, he spewed too fast and claimed ownership. Tuthu on the other hand believes in survival for the fittest. Above all, the lady called him more often than Guthu. This is the birth of death.

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Grapevine doesn't sleep. Whispers crawl. Doubts and allegations against the two rivals reach Metho. His wife doesn't deny anything, but confirms nothing. She pesters him to either choose her or the job. He chooses both. Wife at home, job at the city. The wife, Nyarari warns that if anything happens, she's not to blame. Their children, Jill and Job have joined boarding schools, now the wife is the sole occupant of the mansion. Rumours haven't spared the ears of Guthu's and Tuthu's wives. They've heard and issued threats to the accused.

Guthu, in a desperate mission to revenge his loss in the competition, confides to and confesses to his wife,Nyakairu. She's happy but also ready to punish the husband snatching neighbour. She's an embittered soul for as much as her husband has come back, she's certain he wouldn't mind dropping his finger in her (Nyarari's) honey jar one or more times. Nyarari, like her name is a pretty petite doll whose glow only a fool would ignore. They conspire. And the conspiracy falls in the right place.

Tuthu,free of competition now rules Nyarari's body. She's all his in the absence of the hardworking husband. To his surprise, instead of Guthu getting annoyed, they become even better friends. Like a hungry hyena, he falls in the trap of trusting and confiding his moves to the former rival. Tuthu's wife, Mso, is a giant both in body size and anger management. She has a record of husband battering and her siblings hate her too. She is the reason behind the dents on their faces and stomach linings. Her husband reveres her but the charm and wells of a meek prettier woman have made him a warthog.

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This evening from a spree with Guthu,Tuthu tells him how he'll enjoy the night,in the best loins of Muchene. They laugh. Guthu sends a text message to his wife who forwards the same to the enraged giant who's more than willing to enjoy the catch.

#

"She's killing her, help! Help!" Guthu's wife calls for the fake help. She's happy of the outcome. The scheme was excellent. She's however worried, the giant is too aggressive and emotional, she'll cause damage beyond the plan. It was supposed to be a lesson,not a murder.

Nyarari's death is in everyone's mouth. Perhaps, this is my version of the same, various versions are flying. We're helplessly watching the dog lick the blood. She was stabbed several times before anyone came to save her. The scene is sorry. The architects out of fear have confessed, the culprit is on the run. A siren is heard, the remains and the architects are flown to their various cells.

#Nomys_Madness

And we crowded. Telling the various

versions. PHOTO/COURTESY

A Replay Of A Sorry Tale.

 It has been long. Yes, so long a silence that the memory of my last chat is blurred. So long that the young birds have developed crushing teeth!

Sigh. Here's my balderdash...

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Listening to an orator is an exciting experience, listening to an exaggerated experience by an orator is even better. My neighbour, the young man whose paternity is linked to a veteran politician is such a fellow. His mother sang so well and the politician got impressed to the extent of singing for her too, only that his was a lull that saw the melodious bird silenced by the bulging tummy. The father of the girl, grandfather to our orator was silenced too. A nylon paper bag full of cash for total silence over the daughter's 'little mess'. This led the man astray, drinking dens that saw the grandson inherit nothing but the laudable prowess in both lovable and laughable oratory skills.

Too much narration? Here we are! We are around the three-stoned kitchen, (its ages since we met here, thanks to cold and KPLC) Janie, my shy teeny sister, Andre and Dan, the cheeky twins we faced the knife the same day but I'm their senior, I got the cut first. Also in attendance is Grace, the queen cousin whom the naysayers and gossips claim we share more than blood. And how do I forget the man of the day? Jack, the politician's bastard, who also deserves the b name for his unapologetic crude utterances.

Of course this is not our kitchen.PHOTO/COURTESY

It's a bit smoky and sooty too. Jane is whining over low battery and the constant power outages. She's wishful, a little nostalgic of the good old days.

“You dunderheads worked so hard to make me scream on my way to the river. Only cowardly boys of your caliber had fun in making a girl shriek then, sadly none of you is hooked yet, so it appears you're still cowards."

That sounds fun. We laughingly tell her off. And the captain gets the topic of the day out of it.

“Wow and you are too scared and reserved for us. Otherwise, all girls of your age are mothers of not less than three tots. Keep a year longer and depreciation will be sipping coffee, enjoying the scene of your 'baby less' at forty. You'll have to beg me for just one." He rants, like a chant, apologist to none. We love the sadistic jeer.

He twists the story, making fun of my sister's low battery and the power outage in relation to the 'technological revolution' in our village. That sends shivers across the smoky kitchen especially to us, boys in the house. The twins revolt. They can't stand the torture the memories harbour. Sadly, the politician's son is in control, like his father, he's a real piece of work. He thrives in negativity, probably that makes him feel so happy that he forgets his weather struck den, a symbol of political neglect and personal negligence to duty.

He takes the little podium in style, like a well exposed traveller,

“Not so long ago, the village of Muchene only heard of the radio, TV and solar through the old newspapers that the shopkeeper wrapped the precious items such as half bread with. The great news of having such town's treasures in the village were received with open arms ,and a series of thanksgiving prayers in the church the following weeks. Thanks to the first man to sire twins, despite their loose nuts and shared height, he was outstanding not only for ownership of notoriety, but also in having the privilege of having the possession of the first ever radio, TV and solar panel !" We listen keenly, sheepishly rather like townsfolk listening to an ancient tale from a historian.

Jack enjoys the attention and the occasional blast, correction and 'nonsense' from his all-knowing audience.

The shape was funny but then,sounds mattered more. PHOTO/COURTESY.

His recollections on how we stole the radio on adventurous mission to find out where the singers and the anchors hid. That calls for a moment of silence. Not that the discovery was such important, never. The aftermath was. We were beaten and bitten too. Our action was more than a modern day treason. We were a disgrace to the whole village. The elders meeting was immediately convened and our parents had to pay and apologise profusely for our lack of manners. Were we cut by then, we would have been ostracised, thanks to our age and delayed studies.

The tale continues as Grace, my precious controversial cousin serves us tea. She takes charge for a while, retelling how I almost cried as she strained to explain to me how a piece of black striped glass 'brought power' to the battery through some wires. She enjoys my stare to the blackened roof, aware that she's got me, not off guard though. It had took the Thomas in me to see, so that I believed.

Jack has taken three big sips, his big lips are already dancing, re-energised.

"The way we filled your sitting room on Sundays made you feel like demigods. Your dad's instructions were clear, 'no lights while watching the TV', otherwise we were bound to get blind."

He gives us time, to let the village tycoon's wisdom.

If the greatwall was this size maybe we would be in the Guinness book.PHOTO/COURTESY

Nothing excites than the memory of the black TV promotion to a coloured TV, a in the name of a funny transparent rainbow like plastic piece that made eyes feel some funny itchiness.

"You were admired by girls oh stupid twins, but you were too naive to take the advantage. Now that everyone owns a flat screen, coloured and classic gadgets, you're doomed. We'll have fun scrubbing ashes into your ridges now that we have GMO maize cobs." That's deep, and cruel too.

Lights 'return', our story ends.

#Nomys_Madness.

Careful

Enjoy,

Toy,

Have fun,

It is worth,

But,

Let caution cushion you,

For surprises rest not,

And the heart hides a lot,

Be ready.

 

 

SHADES OF SIN

 Listening to the anointed man of the service, he's an exciting fellow full of comic utterances. Watching him enjoying the pulpit like a stage makes everyone envious of his position. I'm following him dramatise the hidden light of Mathew chapter five and sadly, it arouses the demons of a questioning Thomas in my pumpkin head.

The Anointed One:He makes everyone envious of his position. PHOTO COURTESY.

“You can't light a lamp and put it under a bowl." He quotes the verse fifteen. What if the bowl gets on fire? Why didn't the speaker explore that possibility? Still on the same logic, salt is used that we should be the salt of the world. Why didn't he talk of the effects of excess salt?

My line of thought makes me miss the next joke as the congregation bursts out. I ask for forgiveness immediately, not that I have sinned but because the devil's deviation led me to miss the message of the Anointed. He insists that he's not the one speaking, he's a mere loudspeaker, a magnifier of the Good News. To some extent, that's believable, until he touches on the concept of becoming a real light to the lazy neighbour.

“Do not be mean to the lazy neighbour. If his children knock your gate hungrily, feed them. Pray that the neighbour who refuses to till his land gets the urge and reason to. "

All faces get busy elsewhere. Guilt is painful than itchy skin rashes. No one is ready to tolerate laziness as a temptation to test discipleship. Contradicting the teaching on ' the lazy should not eat' subjects queries to the good man's motives. Is he paid? Is he a lazy bloody neighbour?

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It's offertory hour. Toa ndugu toa dada hits the air. I can't find my sadaka, a fifty bob note. The line is moving faster as people hum the common song. 'Bwana anakuona mpaka moyoni mwako.' That line stings as I give up on the small note. The only other note in the pocket is four times the other, two hundred! My Sunday budget is altered. No movies, no soda madiaba, no samosa and no mutura. Why did I or how did I misplace sadaka?

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I forgot to mention my placement. I mean, my sitting position is betwixt two ladies. I am literally sandwiched in temptations. On my left, probably the hand of the Sin one since the Son is said to be on the right hand, sits a restless lass likely to be suffering from a hormonal imbalance. She’s scratching her thigh that’s barely covered, the one on my side. She lifts her hand unnecessarily, probably to confirm to me that she shares my cologne brand, Nivea for Men. She’s in her late teens likely a form four leaver. It's an injustice to fail recognising her endowment, especially the external region of the heart. Her top must be a remnant of another clothe. The furrow between the ridges is narrow telling much about the semi-nude twins. The luscious lips, all juicy and glossy in the company of the black and white big begging eyes, drives one's urge to look at the crucifix and promise to rush to the confession box once the service is done. 

Shades of sin:i am am betwixt two ladies. PHOTO COURTESY.

The one on the right hand is a right one. The missal is open, following all the prayers and readings. Her voice while reciting the prayers sends shivers in the blood vessels. The imagination of an ideal mother of well-bred tots can't leave the thoughts. Unlike her left hand Madonna whose impact between my legs is checked by the tight khaki pants, hers is a great deal that I harbour even after the service.

Peace. Shaking hands, sending and selling peace to each other is a noble opportunity to steal glances. I hold each of them, the lasses slightly longer than permitted, to send signals of 'interested'.

As we listen to the announcements, the cheeky, pretty and bold left hand Madonna hands me a piece of paper and a pen. She carelessly whispers,

"Your digits please."

The one on the right stares, smiles and focuses on the husky announcer, my spiritual dad.

A quick thought runs, I hands her the paper, the pen and the message,

"Your digits please." She obliges. A great handwriting and a name that befits her stature, Purity.

Tearing the paper into two, I retain the Right One's number, writes mine and hands it over to the Left One, coconut and mango all at my disposal. Naturally, mango ripens faster and only available for a season. For the coconut, Purity will  tell the story to our bouncing babies. (Dreaming hurts no one, does it?)

No one gets hurt by dreaming. PHOTO : COURTESY

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