After 40, most men will have discovered their true purpose in life. You have settled in your marriage and career. The girls who refused you when you were single have started to look for your number, hoping that you can help them to correct their 20-year mistakes. You have finally discovered where your waist is supposed to be, so you no longer wear sagging trousers that imitate landslides. No more wild T-shirts. You own suits of all colours. You have overcome the big problems that your forefathers identified after independence, such as missing socks, smelling shoes, ancient belts, yellow ties and boxer shorts that compete for beauty with fishing nets. Every day, you dress as if you might meet your mother-in-law in her worst mood. You no longer shave in instalments, like manyunyu ya hapa na pale. You have returned to school and got another certificate. You have become an important man in society, and your bald head and pot belly are added advantages. You have joined the league of Kenyans who get bottled water at funerals, promise to support female orphans to finish college, make endless speeches at school Parent’s Meetings, get invited to greet the congregation on Sundays, and attend important dowry negotiations. You no longer laugh with all teeth out, eyes closed, tongue misbehaving in public and tears irrigating the face. You walk with dignified steps. Your single car key can no longer fit in your pocket. Your gestures are polished like Patrick Lumumba’s. You are an employer- of a farmboy, pikipiki rider and housegirl. You suspect that soon, the government might appoint you to a parastatal board. You have reached a great stage in life. All is going well until one Corona morning, as you step out of the house, you hear a voice loud enough for neighbours’ ears, “usisahau kukuja na dawa ya panya.”
Posted by Mark M. Chetambe on Tuesday, 28 April 2020
Staying at home gives you time to read. But reading brings great hunger. High school kids know this. So on some odd day, after hitting page 69 of “No Longer at Ease,” hunger hits you like a Kidero slap. (The hunger that hits men is of a higher grade than that which hits women.) So you get up. The house is quiet. Children playing outside. It’s only 3PM, but according to your belly, you last ate lunch before the Raila-Uhuru Handshake. Should you go to the kitchen? Kitchens are not always friendly to potbellied and bald headed men. You might trip on a broom and fall in the sufuria that cooked ugali last night. But hunger can drive a man through an electric fence. So you embark on a great voyage into the kitchen in search of food. You check all the shelves. Nothing. No fruits, no leftover chapatti. No juice. Life is hard! How can a whole breadwinner find no slice of bread in the house when his hunger is at its peak? Just when you are about to give up on this country, your eyes land on a flask. Wau! A big brown flask, like the one women reserve for sons-in-law that have cleared dowry. Your patriotism returns. Freedom at last! Matunda ya Uhuru! But a little doubt still lingers. You remember the last time a flask embarrased you. You had visited an important relative. When you stood to serve the second cup of tea, the stupid flask produced only three annoying drops. People struggled to hide their laughter. But this is your own house. No shame. You stretch an ambitious hand, grab the flask and pick the biggest mug on the shelf. You walk back to the living room like a national hero. You even manage to laugh the way Ghost Mulei laughs during Patanisho. God Himself has planned this Patanisho between you and the curvacious flask. The poridge doesn’t fill the mug, but heri nusu shari kuliko shari kamili. You start the war against hunger pangs, and in between the sips, you whistle, ‘Mungu akileta mwanamme, anakuja na flask yake.’ After you finish, you lie on the couch like Andy Capp, your belly pointing at the ceiling. You doze off. Later, you are half-woken by certain familiar noises. Mama Watoto is back. Like all men, you have learned to hear everything even when you are half asleep. “Mtoto alikunywa uji ya saa nane?” she is asking the housegirl. Fellow Kenyans, it is at this point that sleep overwhelms you completely, such that you are completely unable to hear the housegirl’s answer.
Posted by Mark M. Chetambe on Tuesday, 21 April 2020
Somebody speaks rudely to you. Calls you foolish. Walks to the car with incurable pride. While getting into the car, knocks the head terribly hard. Releases a very animalish cry. Do you laugh and walk away, or do you sympathize and apply first aid?
Posted by Mark M. Chetambe on Sunday, 19 April 2020
Stay home. But if you must go out, dress very well. The country no longer admires people on the basis of facial looks.
Posted by Mark M. Chetambe on Saturday, 18 April 2020
Has Corona closed shaving places, or are men still going to have their heads and faces shaved, their backs boxed, their shoulders massaged, their necks twisted, their arms stretched, their nails humanized, their nostrils deforested and their nerves sanitized? I just checked in the mirror, and did not recognize the fellow I saw.
Posted by Mark M. Chetambe on Monday, 13 April 2020
Rural kitchens have many untold stories. They usually stand a few metres away from the main house, so that the sins and secrets that happen there are kept out of the limelight. Food is imported from there into the main house. Long ago, before most of your parents discovered each other, I visited my aunt. As I waited for lunch, seven things happened: 1. My little cousins chased and caught an unlucky chicken. 2. The sounds of a dying chicken were heard. 3. Later, my aunt called Joseline very loudly. 4. Somebody fell very violently, and it appeared as if she had fallen on a heap of plates. 5. My aunt shouted an unrepeatable word. 6. My aunt served me ugali and chicken. Half of her face was happy, but the other half looked like a threat. 7. As I ate, I noticed lots of sand in the soup. I only cleared the meal because in my clan, it is believed that if you don’t finish a meal of chicken, you will not go to heaven.
It has taken me all these years to discover that the seven events were related.Posted by Mark M. Chetambe on Sunday, 12 April 2020
Staying indoors presents many little challenges. Kwa mfano: I am in the bedroom, little kid has been sent to call me to go and eat. How long should I take before I go, if I want to maintain some dignity? I don’t want to be like some men who literally put an unmasked nose through the kitchen door and howl, ‘Kwani leo hatukuli?’
Posted by Mark M. Chetambe on Monday, 6 April 2020
Lies that aren’t working any more: 1. I am working late. 2. I am at the barbershop, will be late. 3. I am waiting for traffic to clear. 4. I am meeting Brian for a drink. 5. I am working this weekend. 6. Nabomolewa nywele salon. 7. I am eating out, usiniwekee supper. 8. Sikuona news aki. 9. Nangoja deal fulani iive nikulipe. 10. Nikifika Nai nitakupigia. 11. Nangoja mum na dad watoke kwanza.
A lie that can work: Sorry I didn’t pick your call. Nilikuwa nanawa mikono.Posted by Mark M. Chetambe on Saturday, 4 April 2020