IF THE POST ELECTION VIOLENCE HAPPENED 200yrz AGO. THIS WOULD HAPPEN

The two elders sat across from each other with the beer stuck between them. Straws dipped into the frothy brew and found their way to their lips. They sipped the froth with masked apprehension, eyeing each other suspiciously. If their history was anything to go by, then apprehension was warranted.

Though they seemed like best friends, matters republic at times seemed to drive them insane. Both were known to steal, lie and deceive, one more than the other. They had turned the republic into a giant chess board. Each playing from his village; rallying their pawns and knights towards the opposing king.

  The great man from the west, who had brokered the truce between the two, also sat besides the pot. His eyes kept darting between the two elders, perhaps trying to figure out what was going through each of their minds. He kept caressing his straw, changing it from hand to hand. Not once did his straw go to his lips, but this passed un-noticed.

The tension was high, so thick you could almost touch it. The air was stale from the odors of a multitude of unwashed bodies, but this also passed un-noticed. The republicans had already gotten used to the smell. Water had become a very rare commodity in the republic.

Not a word had been spoken since the meeting had convened. The silence around the giant baobab tree was almost solid. There was a sense of déjà vu. Only two seasons before, a similar gathering had been summoned, two weeks of madness had gripped the republic and the situation would only have worsened had a meeting not been called.

The problem had been control of the watering hole. You see, the system had been that, for every five years, one of the tribes would have its elders elected by popular vote to govern the water. At first, this was a fair system. Until someone got greedy.

The five year term had come to a close and the ruling elder was expected to vacate office. He had done quite a lot during his tenure: roads had been paved around the watering hole; he had ordered that troughs be constructed all around the water point and had devised a system that continuously pumped water into the troughs. Only one problem though, he was greedy. When he was first elected into office, he took over a smaller watering point and had run it dry. It had been customary for the tribe that was out of office to run the smaller water points and his actions had cooked up some hate.

When his time to leave came, he discovered a loop-hole. The counting of the votes was done by the leader who was in office. Who was to say that he could not declare himself winner and govern for another term? It seemed like a crazy idea at the time but he was not willing to let go of the perks that came with being Chief.

And so he devised a plan. He counted the votes and declared that: although it had never happened before, the same man had been elected into office again. He went on to say that: since it was a popular vote, the person with the most votes would be the winner. And the winner, he announced, was: Him! Anyone who felt the need to complain could go consult the oracle.

Mayhem seemed to engulf the republic like a dark storm. He swore himself in at night. The tribe that had been rigged out could have none of it. Only the swords could decide. War and chaos, rape and murder became the new order until the great man from the east came to republics rescue.

He made the two agree to share governance. The ruling elder would maintain control over the major watering point while his colleague would control a network of smaller water points with authority to expand and develop them. All were satisfied and peace was celebrated over a pot of beer similar to the one they were now sipping under the giant baobab.

‘Mmmh! Mmmh!’ the peace-broker cleared his throat breaking the silence. ‘I have come with orders from the oracle,’ he continued. ‘He sent me bearing this brew as a solution for eternal peace, drink from it and all your ills will be cured, all your evil banished forever.

The two elders nodded and sipped on in earnest. The great man ordered for more straws and distributed them to the remaining members of the council. The mood lightened at the gesture. Some chatter emerged; even the sun seemed to grow less cruel.

Suddenly the ruling elder from the east felt a sharp sting at the base of his rectum. It was accompanied by an uneasy ache at the pit of his stomach. He grabbed at his stomach and glanced at the surrounding crowd wondering where he could find a bush. Sweat streamed across his face as he struggled to hold it in. He had to go fast! He glanced at his counterpart sitting across from him; he was in a similar shape; grabbing at his stomach and glancing around like a scared mouse.

They could not hold it in any longer; they jumped to their feet tipping over the pot in their haste; running in search of a thicket. Their bottoms seemed to be on fire. No bush was in sight. The unforgiving sun had obliterated any sign of green from sight.

They ran straight through the bewildered crowd. Unable to control their bowels, they lifted the ship-skins bound around their waists and released their intestinal contents in smelly heaps. The crowd was ecstatic. The scene was being repeated all around the baobab. Every council member who had drunk from the pot was crouched close to the ground shitting themselves pale.

A roar of laughter erupted from the crowd. Every republican was rolling in laughter, holding their noses against the putrid stench. The great man from the west stood from his sit, he placed his unused straw against the tipped pot and took his walking stick. Smiling to himself, he walked towards the sunset. After some distance, he cocked his head backwards at the embarrassed elders and broke into laughter. He shook his head and walked on. ‘The elders will sort out their differences amidst hushed groans,’ he thought to himself and strutted on.

THE BROGGER TRILOGY (PART THREE)

 Monday’s CAT was very unforgiving to the likes of me. Sophie’s discussion group did not do much to help poor me. The problem is, whenever am with Sophie, all I can do is talk-talk-talk and more talk. Our hard-working selves managed to cover three pages of Calculus in four hours. That’s how effective we can be.

            CAT aside, I was very much determined to know whether Sophie was Becky’s secret informant. To this end, I tried as much as I could to guide our conversation towards relationships and meddling third-parties. If she is the informer then she is quite good because my four hours of secret interrogation drew a blank. I however let it slip that Becky and I were not together anymore.

“She wasn’t right for you.” Sophie answered as if she had been waiting for this line of conversation.

“What do you mean?” I was very curious.

“I’m a girl and Becky: mmmh!” Sophie smirked and went back to pretending that she was reading. “Now I know why she has been giving me this cursory look all weekend.” She said and laughed.

            Further probing didn’t reveal any more information as to why Sophie believed that Becky wasn’t right for me. I thus abandoned my investigation and decided to go back to calculus.

            By Friday, I had become quite obsessed with finding out who the informer was. Jones and I had even come up with a code name for her. We assumed it was a female. The name was ‘Pang’ang’a-1’. Against the advice of Jones the learned philosopher, I set-out to identify Pang’ang’a-1. First I drew up a list of all the likely suspects, I then narrowed it down to ten of the most meddling types and made a plan on how to catch her.

            Tina, Jones girlfriend, walked in as I was finalizing the draft suspect list. Her boyfriend was not in but she chose to stay and wait for him. She went to the computer and put some weird horror movie that wasn’t even scary at all.

            Jones and Tina have dated since the first week of first year. They actually met through me; a revelation of my awesome match-making abilities. Tina and I had met in one of those Church-Youth camps. We immediately clicked and we became good friend. Coincidentally, Becky and I started going out after that same Youth Camp. On joining campus, I ran into Tina at Klabu (our small market) and I invited her for supper. She met Jones and they immediately fell for each other.

            Being the gentleman I am, I decided to buy her a drink as she watched her unscary horror movie and waited for Jones. Our tuck-shop had no sodas so I rushed to Hall 4 (first year ladies hostel). The shopkeeper was giving me my change when she walked down the hostel steps.

            There was Becky, the love of my young life in all her beauty. She walked out of the door, barely glanced at me as moved on completely ignoring my presence. She walked to the parking lot and got into one of those sleek Mercedes Benz vehicles which immediately sped-off. I dropped the soda!

  

THE BROGGER TRILOGY (PART TWO)

Last Saturday was the day Man-u lost to Chelsea; my girlfriend, Becky, asked for some space which my room-mate, Jones, believes is a polite way of dumping me and Chalo, that is me, alias C.K, got very depressed.

            I spent part of Sunday morning trying to come up with a most convincing SMS to win Becky back but Jones made sure that none of the messages were sent except for one. Here is a sample of the unsent messages.

One: ‘Becky, we have dated for more than three years. Even before we joined campus my mom knew you. I have loved you since high-school and……………..’ No, too much feelings.

Two: ‘Baby why do you listen to other people and you don’t even believe me. It has hurt me soo……….’ No, too girly.

Three: ‘I feel so hurt. I hate you so much right now! You have just been wasting my time!...............” No, too vicious, I might get sued.

Four: ‘I know the main reason why you dumped me is because I‘m from the village, but then again, so is you……...

            This was the point at which Jones snatched the phone from me and gave me one of his philosophical lectures.

“When cornered you don’t play defense. You play offence!” he stated as he went through my phone.

            ‘Ping!’ my phone sounded off. I knew that sound: it was a delivery report. I jumped to my feet and grabbed the phone from him. The text was still there; he had not yet had time to delete it.

‘If you cannot trust me then there is no point in us dating. Go date your informers!! NKTEST!’ Delivered to Becky at 10.30…… Jones had just played offence. Now I really felt like hitting him.

            As if on cue, my phone vibrated hard against my palm. I couldn’t believe Becky was replying so soon. I glanced at the screen apprehensively. Surprisingly it wasn’t Becky; it was Sophie, the fictitious participant in my love triangle.

“Hey dear!” I said after picking up.

“Are you ready for Keshos CAT?” she asked after exchanging a few pleasantries.

“What CAT?” I had clearly forgotten.

“Calculus 2. Usiseme umesahau.” She mockingly laughed.

“Oh my God!” was all I could say.

 “Am also not ready.” She tried to console me. “Si we have a discussion group tonight then?”

“My place or your place? I asked.”

“Your place. Ten o’clock. See yah!” she hung up.

            This would be interesting. Now I really need to find out who has been feeding lies to Becky.

THE BROGGER TRILOGY (PART ONE)

 I have to admit to myself: this is the longest date I have ever been to. The thirty minutes that have elapsed seem like an eternity. She is rather beautiful; I especially appreciate the envious glances that I am getting from the other customers in the bakery. But am bored: terribly bored!

            Apart from the greetings outside her hostel, she has not said a word to me since. I got tired of my monologue somewhere between Jeevanjee Gardens and Moi Avenue. Finally the piece of Black-forest arrives, accompanied by two glasses of thick mango juice.

            The ambience of the bakery / pub is quite commendable given the low prices that they charge for food. They even have two flat-screen televisions for football fans. Being one, I decide to concentrate on the Man-u vs. Chelsea game that is going on behind her head. My team Man-u has just slipped a quick one past Peter Cech (Chelsea’s goalkeeper) and my moods are lightened up.

“Why have you been fooling around behind my back?” Becky asks.

“What?” I honestly didn’t hear her question. I shift all my attention to her and notice that she is attacking the cake rather viciously.

“You don’t seem to be in the best of moods.” I comment knowing full well that it is a stupid observation to make.

“Saa hii ndio unaona?” she retorts. “Who is Sophie?”

“Sophie is my classmate. You remember the birthday party I went to last week?” I don’t even get a chance to finish my sentence.

“I know all about your little affair with that Sophie Chic. You though that your tricks at her party would not get me? Well think again!” she lectures pointing her bead-knife at me. I am now getting scared.

“First of all……….” I start before she cuts me off.

“Now I know the reason why you didn’t want me coming to that party. You didn’t want your girlfriend and your Clande at the same place at once. Si ndio?” She keeps pointing the knife at me scaring the hell out of me. I slowly retreat.

“First of all, I invited you and you refused.” I counter her claims, “and secondly all I did with Sophie was dance and I helped her clean up after the party. Who told you all these lies?”

“You don’t even want to know what I know about you right now. You really think am stupid enough to believe your lies?” I make no attempt to answer. “Clean-up!” she contorts her face into a cynical smirk as she says this. “Honestly I can’t even stand you right now. I need space.” She smirks again, picks up her huge handbag and walks away.

            I stare at the TV screen dejectedly. The game is about to end and my team is two goals down. And I think I have just been dumped.

THE DRUG SITUATION IN KENYA

            I look around and think to myself, this would not be a bad place to live in. the lawn is exceptionally manicured to a carpet-like green that makes me want to just lie and roll around in the grass. A medium-sized swimming pool runs across the back of the huge mansion; the sun is up but no-one is swimming yet. Roses and trimmed hedges line the drive-way from the gate to where I’m seated like soldiers in a parade. Beyond the stone-wall is the dark-green of cypress and pine swaying in the light breeze.

            ‘I seriously wouldn’t mind living here,’ I think to myself once more. Upon closer scrutiny however, you realize that this is no ordinary rich-man’s compound. The guard at the gate seems to be clinging to the German-shepherd lying at his feet a bit too tightly. The stone-wall has electric fencing atop and razor-sharp wire crisscrosses the electricity lines.

            I am seated in the lounge of one of Nairobi’s most exclusive drug and alcohol rehabilitation centers. So exclusive that admission is only by referral and the fee is astronomical. For the patients in here none of the surrounding beauty matters. Most have hit the bottom more than once and many are still struggling through the tedious journey to recovery.

            I finally get to meet one of the patients. She is dressed in blue-jeans and a white t-shirt with Che-guevara’s portrait on the front. Looking quite good, I must admit. It’s hard to imagine her doing drugs.

            I let her into my thoughts and she sighs in reply. “You should have seen me two months ago.” I try to picture her two months before our conversation and I simply can’t. “Tell me more,” I prod on.

            Her name is Louisa, 24, and this is her second stint in a rehab. Hers is a story only similar to the lives of Hollywood celebrities. She tasted alcohol for the first time at the tender age of thirteen. She laughs as she recalls how she threw-up after downing a shot of whisky from her dad’s cabinet.

            “The stuff tasted so bad, I vowed never to let any past my lips again.” Little did she know that this was the first step into the darkest chapter of her young life? On joining high school, she got into a clique of city girls which she says was the coolest ‘Gang’ ever. Drinking became a norm for her. They would sneak alcohol into school, bribe watchmen to bring in drinks for them. “Some girls even had sex with the watchmen to get the alcohol,” she says.

            “I was always alone at home during the holidays. Mom and Dad were always working and Dad always had some hard-stuff in his study.” She says. Since she comes from a privileged back-ground and being an only kid, money was never an issue.

            “I really enjoyed the partying in high-school.” She admits with a far-away look. “It got worse when I went to college. “Alcohol was just not doing it anymore,” she continues. She moved to marijuana and it was all downhill from then on.

            Within a year, her drug-habit was so bad, she can’t remember a day she was sober. “I even had one of those alcohol flasks which I carried in my bag. She had managed to hide her habit from her parents thus far but it was no longer possible. She passed out on her doorstep one Sunday morning and got busted.

            “I got a lecture of the century. My mom telling me how useless I was. Dad saying how disappointed he was with me. They even resolved to cut-back on my allowance.” But there was no stopping her. She started stealing from the parents by lying about hiked fees and non-existent educational trips.

            Her wake-up call came when she woke up on an empty parking-lot in westlands, half-naked, used condoms dropped around her and no memory of how she ended up there. She had been drugged at a nearby club and raped by strangers. Her first rehab visit was inevitable after this. Three months and she was out, good as new.

            “I remained sober for almost one year until,” tears well up in her eyes, “until my dad died.” It wasn’t long before she went back to alcohol, bhang and even harder stuff which she hesitates to name. Her mom threw her out when she found out. She stopped schooling and was out on the street exchanging sexual favors for her next fix. She moved to Mombasa, still in the streets and got to her lowest.

            One day, two months ago, my mom came looking for me in Mombasa. “I was willing to do anything to change my life. I was desperate.” She says. “I ended up back here, I hope this is my last visit.” At this point a nurse comes over and says that counseling is about to start. Louisa bids her farewell and I wish all the best.

            “Most addicts are always running away from something. For some it is low self-esteem, abusive relationships, loneliness and for others it’s simply boredom” Says a doctor at the institution.

            “The journey of an addict always starts at the lowest level, alcohol. Most never leave this group. When alcohol can no longer satisfy them, they move on to marijuana, cocaine, heroin, crack and the whole range of hard-drugs,” he says. “This is the stage when they get: mental disorders; go to rehabs or die.” He continues.

            He tells me that the rates of drug-usage in Kenya have been alarming of late, with addicts from very young ages. Most are from very rich backgrounds and they eventually end up in rehabs. The ones from poor back-grounds only make news when some Chang’aa disaster happens and when women demonstrate.

            “What’s the solution?” I ask cynically. “We have to teach self-esteem to our kids and let them see the value of their lives. And then we need to get help for those who are already hooked.” He answers.

           

THE CHIPS-FUNGA ISSUE

Its 9p.m, the place is darkly-lit. A smoke machine at the back keeps making a whirling noise as it ejects its smoky contents into the air. Young girls are gyrating their bodies to the rhythm of the booming music in total abandon. The bulk of them are dressed in the shortest mini-skirts I have ever laid my eyes on, the rest are clad in clothes so tight I wonder how they fit them on. Welcome to the Nairobi party scene, where Thursday is the new Friday, rules, if any, are meant to be broken and no apologies are made.

At around ten o’clock into the night, a group of about seven girls, dressed in similar fashion make their way into the club and occupy a table by a corner. This group draws particular interest from me because they look so sophisticated. Much like the ladies men fear approaching. I decide to become the silent observer.

Drinks are ordered, they chat at an exceptionally high pitch drawing serious attention from the male patrons and envious glances from the women, the drinking graduates to harder stuff, tequila, sambuka. Soon the group turns into a rowdy bunch. They hit the dance floor with extreme zeal.    

I soon discover how wrong my initial assessment was; this is not a group of serious ladies out to have some girl time. After chatting up a less intimidating member of the crew I realize that they are college girls. “Its girl’s night out!” she declares. My curiosity is aroused,”exactly what happens in girl’s night out?”

It turns out that the typical girl’s night out has acquired new meaning. Ladies are dominating the club scene relegating men into observer mode. The funny bit is that these girls are not only out to have a few drinks, dance and go back home but there are also looking for someone to take home or some one to take them home. Hence the origin of ‘Take-away’. Kenyans being the creative lot we are, this has been modified to ‘Chips Funga’.

 For those unfamiliar with chips-funga, it is a person of the opposite sex, mostly met in a club, with whom you spend the night with after clubbing. For one to qualify as Chips-funga, sex has to be involved.

Initially the word was only used to describe girl’s  who went out looking for older men, fat-wallets and all, exchanging sexual favors for the wallet’s contents but now I’m made to realize that it describes anyone who spends the night at the residence of another met at a club; with the funny twist for men being Sausage-funga.

The group of girls I meet on this particular night are out for exactly that. I work some level of trust in them and they soon open up. The girl I talk to, her name is Mitchell, tells me that her friends do this every week and more often than not each of them ends up going home with a different guy. “Life has become extremely boring, with society placing the virginity burden on women while men get away Scot-free.” She intelligently defends the behavior.

“Who said that its only men who can make the first move, we make the moves and dictate the game.” She goes on when I ask her how they pick the potential partners. From my conversation with her, it suffices that, for most of these girls it’s the search for thrill and adventure that drives them to do this.

“Is there any money involved?” I ask. “No, we don’t need no-ones money,” her friend Janice answers. This baffles me and I seek to understand the motivation behind them. What follows is a life-story of almost each girl which sounds strangely similar.

Three of the seven girls have had bad relationships in the past. They each had a first boyfriend in their first-year of campus that they gave their all to. “I mean the guy took my virginity, what more do men want?” she asks me with a dejected look. At this point I am tempted to ask the same of women but I desist. They dated for over two years before she discovered that the guy had several side-dishes ( mipango wa kando), and she went over-board.

The stories seem to read from the same script. After the break-up the relationships became an on and off thing until they decided that enough was enough. That’s when the excessive partying began and eventually evolved to the strange stories I’m hearing.

  “Why should you guys let one guy define your lives?” I ask. “Exactly our point, no guy should peg any woman down.” Janice says. She philosophically explains that men have overly been at an advantage, “when a guy sleeps with many women, he is a hero among men, when a woman sleeps with many men, she is a slut,” she says. Her friends applaud her comment with loud boos. “You give a guy everything and he becomes a self-centered baby who thinks the world revolves around him,” Mitchell states. My attempts to object to this are futile as the ladies gang-up.

“By being Chips-fungwad, do you guys think that it in any way changes the way everyone thinks? Won’t you be putting yourself in the same spot that you are fighting?” I fight back. What follows is a string of accusations against men and our inability to be faithful and a whole charade that almost turns wild.

From what I gather, the chips-funga phenomenon is here to stay. Sex for fun has become the new way of life for the young men and women who all seem to believe that society needs to adapt to the young generation and not try to change it. Talking to some men they defend their case and declare that anyone, whether male or female, who is ‘taken-away’, wants to be ‘taken away’.

This lifestyle instills fear in every parent because of the apparent dangers involved, none of which the participants seem to appreciate. Sexually transmitted diseases, unwanted pregnancies, even physical harm are all dangers that lurk around.

Sophie (not her real name), a fourth year student in CUEA (Catholic University of East Africa) recalls going home with a man after meeting him in a club in Westlands. The man insisted on having unprotected sex with her in spite of her resistance and even threatened to beat her. His home being in Karen, he told her that her screams would be futile. “I was lucky to contract gonorrhea coz its curable.” She says vowing never to do it again.

A similar story resonates for, Mike, a second-year at University of Nairobi. He met an older woman, also in Westlands and accepted to spend the night at her place in Lavington. At around 4a.m, the lady became hostile and asked him to leave immediately. He did not know the place well and the night watchmen were not very helpful. He ended up spending the night at central police station after police officers arrested him in the area for loitering.

Despite all the dangers involved, the thrill seeking youth make no apology for their behavior and the risks are accepted contingencies. This is the Chips-funga generation and its here to stay.