HESSY WA KIGOGO-INI
Last weekend I joined my upcountry age mates in celebrating the life of a childhood friend. Whether it was a life well lived, it is the bearer who can tell, but we all acknowledged he lived his life the way he wanted to live it. For a young man who had managed to educate his younger siblings, buy his parents an old Chevrolet pick-up, buy himself few parcels of land along the foot of Nyandarua ridges and build a community sun shade at the junction, we can say it was a life worth living. We were celebrating a life of a friend who despite growing up together, we had suffered together. The friend that saw you strip in front of the class to receive thorough ass whipping. The kind of a friend who never laughed at you when your love letter to the deputy headmaster’s daughter was read in front of the assembly. They helped you dig a pit latrine when you were punished for placing a mirror beneath the dress of your desk mate who is currently working as the face of a multinational in Westlands. The kind of friend that covered for you when you stuck a chewed gum on mwalimu’s chair. They had proven themselves to be trustworthy. It’s only a friend you have suffered together that you can trust. These are people (in the words of the junior elder) who know you too well that they know which former girlfriend to make fun of because they know which ones you are likely to hook up with again. Perhaps more importantly, they never lure your ex-girlfriends to their beds when they (the ex) go seeking advice on how to win you back.
We sat on logs and pieces of timber off-cuts transfixed to create an arena around a Muiri tree. A small flameless fire unsuccessfully tried to keep us warm as the numbing breeze from weru wa Tetu mercilessly gnawed our skins. The harvest moon was slowly making its way to the center of the sky, it seemed so intimately bound with the land and broke the unwavering darkness that had enveloped the night until then. A flaring light from a homemade tobacco roll (kiraiku) was making hops around the arena as it changed hands round the shadowy circle of beings. A stifled cough would be occasionally heard from first timers to this cigar. A background of loud mugithi was playing with some off-the-beat drunks dancing behind a thick banana bush.
In this homestead we had played the same mugithi tunes to celebrate Ngundo's successful passing of the circumcision rite of passage. Almost a decade ago. Old men had gathered around dying amber of an overnight fire as they lubricated their ageing gullets with muratina. They engaged in long discourse on philosophy after which they made a toast; a toast to their ancestors. I remember seeing women dance their wigs off to handu hau tune as their thick breasts clapped and slapped their thoraxes. That night the demon of locked emotions let loose seemed to have been cast on women. Old and young moistened themselves in sweats, shook their heads, shoulders and hips as they raised clouds of thick dust. Ngundo told me that he collected a set of artificial teeth on the dusty ground the next day. Apparently a participant had danced her dentals off. But that was then, today we mourn.
Ngundo healed his cut on his way to Nairobi. An uncle of his who owned a rusty minibus plying Muthurwa-Maringo route, needed and urgent tout. In the history of matatus this route has the oldest locomotives. He was up to the task. He was of broad shoulders, wide chest, burly and with way too much hair. It’s for this reason that we shrunk when weren’t in good books with him back in primary school. His voice was always cold and calm. A voice that told you he would do you harm if you do not listen, so there was no need for him to shout. We therefore would befriend him with goodies. From avocados to guavas, chapatis to roasted maize. He is the kind of friend you would never want to mess with. There is this day a beautiful girl transferred to our school from mairwe primary. A meeting chaired by him was convened at the center of the football pitch. Main agenda: way forward. The next day a circular was made round the class that no one should talk to the new lady under any circumstances apart from himself. He later married the lady.
The next time I saw Ngundo was during his mother’s burial. A burial that was heavily guarded more than a consignment of new currencies being delivered at the central bank. A contingent of both plain clothed and uniformed police arrived in a way I had only seen in Vietnamese insurgence movie. It was a burial that was conversed only in murmurs. Ngundo who was grossly tattooed kept his face deeply hidden in his heavily tinted shades. He kept adjusting his loosely worn bling blings as his sister rolled in wails. He didn’t even get close to the casket. After the burial he threw some hush money to us as mean looking bouncers made way for him. Then he squeezed himself back into the vehicle, tapped the screen of an iPad attached to the dashboard, and rolled towards his driver to light his metal cigar, just like a gangster. We were all surprised at how rich he had become.The remaining part of the month was characterized with talks of how he had sacrificed his mother for riches. That’s what they say in my village when one climbs that ladder very fast. Reporters of unconfirmed reports alluded to his huge scorpion tattoo running below the ear to the nap of the neck. There were also eye witnesses who confirmed seeing him make a satanic sign when the family prayer was being made.
Weeks after the burial, I visited my brother in the city. One of the best moments in city was staying indoors whole day and watching a collection of kijeshi and kungfu movies. Almost all were DJ Afro movies, so I had to listen to his thinking instead of the words the actors speak. In these movies they don’t even talk much, they just say hiaaa-katchaaa then fight and fight until the movie is over. I wanted to fight like Jackie Chan one day. I also wanted to be like John Rambo, so that I can storm into Somalia one day and take all the Alshabaab by their balls, alone. Or maybe Vin Diesel, I would drive past the traffic police and their barriers, raise the middle finger on them then engage them in a chase along the superhighway.
It is while in the city that my brother informed me of a group of young lads-in their late teens to early 20s-flamboyant with heavy jewellery and sagging jeans usually armed with pistols or knives. The group, according to my brother, was ready to kill just to steal a phone or money and do not hesitate to shoot their victims at the slightest provocation. I shivered at the thought of living in an area under the control of a criminal gang of teenagers. The fear of encountering the boys who had been roaming the sprawling estates, terrorizing residents at will inspired me to stick indoors.
“They look like your average youngsters, so when they ask you to hand over your possessions, you might be tempted to slap them-until they whip out a pistol and threaten to blow out your brains.” I remember my brother telling me while narrating one of his encounters with them.
The next time I came back to the city I found stories of a mysterious Robin Hood cop who was determined to bring down the trigger-happy kids. Villages reportedly buried young lads and so did our village. I also learned of a lethal gang leader who had become the most feared in the Eastland’s of Nairobi. His followers had a characteristic tattoo at the nap of the ear, silver tooth and a pair of exaggerated rings. I imagined how deadly he could be. His stories especially when read in the papers or gossip blogs sounded nothing less than movies. The mysterious gang leader would engage the police in shootouts, car chases and grenades hurling. His disciples would plunge into invasions to rob, mutilate or even kill at his commands which they received from his makeshift operation bases along riversides and abandoned open fields.
Back into the village the story of Ngundo and his satanic riches was gaining rekindled momentum. Any time he came to village he would scout on one or two of the youngsters awed at his flashy lifestyle. They would come back to the village weeks later with bleary-eyes, dressed in silver and gold rings, neck chains, oversized hoods and tattooed bodies. It’s the flashy lives of the youngsters who since they started working for Ngundo that surprised the village. But in my Kigogoini village too much money, Masonic and free masonry are blood relatives. Its the only known source of too much wealth. There is also a group of enemies of prosperity. These are the kind that if they complement on the beauty of your kid, the next day the kid contracts measles. They give you a present for your graduation and you’ll tarmac for the rest of your life. In fact they are rumored to be a cartel of elderly women who monitor the progress of the seeds of the village. The story is that they are behind the continuous deaths of the youngsters who after a short lived exhibition of flamboyance were brought home for haphazard burials conducted by weed high and intoxicated teenagers. When word got to the village last week that the village rich kid Ngundo had been identified in a city morgue after days of being reported missing, Wa Maitai, the elderly woman who had thanked Ngundo with a sack of sweet potatoes for paying her grandson fees, was the prime suspect. Last year her husband had died of a mysterious ailment and her daughter had drowned in the Kiandongoro waterfall. She is reported to have been a first friend of Maritha whose house was torched on claims of witchcraft and sorcery.
As I was following the stories of my mates and their plan to torch Wa Maitai's house the next day I kept myself busy on my full-screen-glass-cracked x-tigi phone. Am reading a blog on how the city most feared gangster was found dead in an abandoned quarry. According to sources that spoke in anonymity (and the other crap bloggers write to that effect) the body had two bullet holes at the back of the head, handcuffs, torn polo t-shirt and little poop tucked in the tattered skinny jeans. Attached to the blog were other links : Kayole super cop guns down city gang commander, Hessy Wa kayole hits the gang boss, Is it the end of Eastlando killer gang? I was straggling with my phone, which had since hanged from overheating, to open the link Ngundo's date with Hessy, when a land cruiser rammed into the compound with Kalenjin-accent Swahili speaking afandes commanding everyone to lay down.
We sat on logs and pieces of timber off-cuts transfixed to create an arena around a Muiri tree. A small flameless fire unsuccessfully tried to keep us warm as the numbing breeze from weru wa Tetu mercilessly gnawed our skins. The harvest moon was slowly making its way to the center of the sky, it seemed so intimately bound with the land and broke the unwavering darkness that had enveloped the night until then. A flaring light from a homemade tobacco roll (kiraiku) was making hops around the arena as it changed hands round the shadowy circle of beings. A stifled cough would be occasionally heard from first timers to this cigar. A background of loud mugithi was playing with some off-the-beat drunks dancing behind a thick banana bush.
In this homestead we had played the same mugithi tunes to celebrate Ngundo's successful passing of the circumcision rite of passage. Almost a decade ago. Old men had gathered around dying amber of an overnight fire as they lubricated their ageing gullets with muratina. They engaged in long discourse on philosophy after which they made a toast; a toast to their ancestors. I remember seeing women dance their wigs off to handu hau tune as their thick breasts clapped and slapped their thoraxes. That night the demon of locked emotions let loose seemed to have been cast on women. Old and young moistened themselves in sweats, shook their heads, shoulders and hips as they raised clouds of thick dust. Ngundo told me that he collected a set of artificial teeth on the dusty ground the next day. Apparently a participant had danced her dentals off. But that was then, today we mourn.
Ngundo healed his cut on his way to Nairobi. An uncle of his who owned a rusty minibus plying Muthurwa-Maringo route, needed and urgent tout. In the history of matatus this route has the oldest locomotives. He was up to the task. He was of broad shoulders, wide chest, burly and with way too much hair. It’s for this reason that we shrunk when weren’t in good books with him back in primary school. His voice was always cold and calm. A voice that told you he would do you harm if you do not listen, so there was no need for him to shout. We therefore would befriend him with goodies. From avocados to guavas, chapatis to roasted maize. He is the kind of friend you would never want to mess with. There is this day a beautiful girl transferred to our school from mairwe primary. A meeting chaired by him was convened at the center of the football pitch. Main agenda: way forward. The next day a circular was made round the class that no one should talk to the new lady under any circumstances apart from himself. He later married the lady.
The next time I saw Ngundo was during his mother’s burial. A burial that was heavily guarded more than a consignment of new currencies being delivered at the central bank. A contingent of both plain clothed and uniformed police arrived in a way I had only seen in Vietnamese insurgence movie. It was a burial that was conversed only in murmurs. Ngundo who was grossly tattooed kept his face deeply hidden in his heavily tinted shades. He kept adjusting his loosely worn bling blings as his sister rolled in wails. He didn’t even get close to the casket. After the burial he threw some hush money to us as mean looking bouncers made way for him. Then he squeezed himself back into the vehicle, tapped the screen of an iPad attached to the dashboard, and rolled towards his driver to light his metal cigar, just like a gangster. We were all surprised at how rich he had become.The remaining part of the month was characterized with talks of how he had sacrificed his mother for riches. That’s what they say in my village when one climbs that ladder very fast. Reporters of unconfirmed reports alluded to his huge scorpion tattoo running below the ear to the nap of the neck. There were also eye witnesses who confirmed seeing him make a satanic sign when the family prayer was being made.
Weeks after the burial, I visited my brother in the city. One of the best moments in city was staying indoors whole day and watching a collection of kijeshi and kungfu movies. Almost all were DJ Afro movies, so I had to listen to his thinking instead of the words the actors speak. In these movies they don’t even talk much, they just say hiaaa-katchaaa then fight and fight until the movie is over. I wanted to fight like Jackie Chan one day. I also wanted to be like John Rambo, so that I can storm into Somalia one day and take all the Alshabaab by their balls, alone. Or maybe Vin Diesel, I would drive past the traffic police and their barriers, raise the middle finger on them then engage them in a chase along the superhighway.
It is while in the city that my brother informed me of a group of young lads-in their late teens to early 20s-flamboyant with heavy jewellery and sagging jeans usually armed with pistols or knives. The group, according to my brother, was ready to kill just to steal a phone or money and do not hesitate to shoot their victims at the slightest provocation. I shivered at the thought of living in an area under the control of a criminal gang of teenagers. The fear of encountering the boys who had been roaming the sprawling estates, terrorizing residents at will inspired me to stick indoors.
“They look like your average youngsters, so when they ask you to hand over your possessions, you might be tempted to slap them-until they whip out a pistol and threaten to blow out your brains.” I remember my brother telling me while narrating one of his encounters with them.
The next time I came back to the city I found stories of a mysterious Robin Hood cop who was determined to bring down the trigger-happy kids. Villages reportedly buried young lads and so did our village. I also learned of a lethal gang leader who had become the most feared in the Eastland’s of Nairobi. His followers had a characteristic tattoo at the nap of the ear, silver tooth and a pair of exaggerated rings. I imagined how deadly he could be. His stories especially when read in the papers or gossip blogs sounded nothing less than movies. The mysterious gang leader would engage the police in shootouts, car chases and grenades hurling. His disciples would plunge into invasions to rob, mutilate or even kill at his commands which they received from his makeshift operation bases along riversides and abandoned open fields.
Back into the village the story of Ngundo and his satanic riches was gaining rekindled momentum. Any time he came to village he would scout on one or two of the youngsters awed at his flashy lifestyle. They would come back to the village weeks later with bleary-eyes, dressed in silver and gold rings, neck chains, oversized hoods and tattooed bodies. It’s the flashy lives of the youngsters who since they started working for Ngundo that surprised the village. But in my Kigogoini village too much money, Masonic and free masonry are blood relatives. Its the only known source of too much wealth. There is also a group of enemies of prosperity. These are the kind that if they complement on the beauty of your kid, the next day the kid contracts measles. They give you a present for your graduation and you’ll tarmac for the rest of your life. In fact they are rumored to be a cartel of elderly women who monitor the progress of the seeds of the village. The story is that they are behind the continuous deaths of the youngsters who after a short lived exhibition of flamboyance were brought home for haphazard burials conducted by weed high and intoxicated teenagers. When word got to the village last week that the village rich kid Ngundo had been identified in a city morgue after days of being reported missing, Wa Maitai, the elderly woman who had thanked Ngundo with a sack of sweet potatoes for paying her grandson fees, was the prime suspect. Last year her husband had died of a mysterious ailment and her daughter had drowned in the Kiandongoro waterfall. She is reported to have been a first friend of Maritha whose house was torched on claims of witchcraft and sorcery.
As I was following the stories of my mates and their plan to torch Wa Maitai's house the next day I kept myself busy on my full-screen-glass-cracked x-tigi phone. Am reading a blog on how the city most feared gangster was found dead in an abandoned quarry. According to sources that spoke in anonymity (and the other crap bloggers write to that effect) the body had two bullet holes at the back of the head, handcuffs, torn polo t-shirt and little poop tucked in the tattered skinny jeans. Attached to the blog were other links : Kayole super cop guns down city gang commander, Hessy Wa kayole hits the gang boss, Is it the end of Eastlando killer gang? I was straggling with my phone, which had since hanged from overheating, to open the link Ngundo's date with Hessy, when a land cruiser rammed into the compound with Kalenjin-accent Swahili speaking afandes commanding everyone to lay down.
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