THE 1st LAW OF KARMA
For
the sake of story telling, assume you are a young graduate who has just
secured an internship with some audit firm along Waiyaki way. Despite
having several D's in your academic portal, you had managed a 2nd Hons
and a friend had helped you with the aptitude test. Its your third week
here. You are in a hurry to leave office before the receptionist notices
your departure. You have been flirting with her and even promised to
take her on a date this weekend. She even mentioned it to you earlier
today when you had gone to collect some foolscap from her desk. You
blushed her off since the voices in your pocket were more louder than
her. You hadn’t finished ironing your only suit in the morning before
the power tokens went out. You therefore were forced to be in your usual
hideous shirt made of material that looks like contraband silk. That
one that shines viciously and burns the eyes with ribbons and chiffon
details at the chest. You look like you are from choir practice . In
your pocket is a hundred shillings a coworker had tipped you for filing
their tax returns. Being an intern it had been a tiresome and draining
day. More draining than sex. With a lazy woman. You therefore don’t have
more energy remaining to walk to your Thiong'o road house.
You decide to board an old Matatu that belong to a certain Sacco that has a record of overloading, overlapping and over speeding . And since you didn’t board at the stage you are an excess passager. You are the 20th passager in the 14 seater. You are sitting between the taut and a lady donning a green and blue tie-and-dye robe commonly known as Dera with one edge tucked into the elastic of her underwear. She has a big body, bust and weave occasionally caressing the nap of her head. One of her buttocks is resting on the seat, the other closing the pathway. You share the remaining space with the taut who is occasionally opening his unattended armpits nearly sending you into a comma. When he speaks to ask for fare remittances, his breath, a thick plume of Khat, cigarette and evidence of dental hygiene lapse blocks your respiratory system. He will ones in a while open the window either to call in other passagers, command the driver to drop a passager or spit a green cud of semi chewed khat. As you position yourself to get your wallet off your pocket to pay, a different smell hits you. By now you can differentiate smells in this locomotive. From the sweaty taut, the smell of chips eating lady, the smelly shoes – the owner must have either stepped on sewer, to the smell of the backseat guy who has applied the tiny Somali perfume. These perfumes seem to last forever. I ones had one in primary school while chasing on a lady from our class. I used it from class six and it was three quarters full by the time I was finishing class eight. I gave It to her on the farewell date. Am sure she is still using it to date.
It is a smell of a fart. Its not the explosive one, its the slow farts. The ones that creep their way out of the exhaust like secret service agents in a highly confidential espionage mission and then clog the whole atmosphere with the effect similar to atomic bomb. Everyone is affected with some opening the windows to at least gasp for little fresh air. There is an elderly woman who has just vomited as result of the massive pollution. You know who did it. It is the lady in a Dera. Despite that you saw her raise one of her buttocks and then relax, you don’t want expose her. She doesn’t look even guilty. In fact you are ashamed on her behalf. How does someone attempt to poison a full Public service vehicle and act as if she has done nothing. It surprises you even more when she asks you in some coastal Swahili who could be that who seems to have had taken the uterus of kangaroo for lunch. She even tells you how she hates people who deliberately spoil the air. The taut is looking at you suspiciously.
“Ama ni wewe?” The lady who has been poking your buttocks with her knees behind you along the pathway asks you.
You are too ashamed to answer. Even if you were the one, there is no way you would admit to attempted homicide. You all of a sudden turn into a suspect. Everyone thinks its you. The old lady who has just vomited on your shirt accuses you of disrespecting the elderly. The taut who has continuously fed you with odour since you became neighbours, is threatening to kick you out and refund your coins. The health of ‘his' passagers , according to him, is greater than your coins. The calls to have you kicked out are charging. You are done with embarrassment. You therefore request to be dropped at the next pick up point. How can be people be so irrational? You are asking yourself. You don’t know whether its the lady who put you in this or the people that you should hate. The lady whose gas-inflated bowels had gone loose, raises the part of the buttock resting on your thighs to let you get off. The taut whistles the “Twende” sign immediately your right foot touches the tarmac. He has gone with your change. You seat on the roadside to take a breath as you think of your next move.
Back in high school, just like myself, you had the privilege of farting in a fully packed classroom. I did it ones while taking a nap during morning preps. My desk mate George was willing to cover it up for me unlike Machohi who laughed while pointing at me until he cried. Having both the girlfriend and a crush in the same class I was embarrassed. He even insinuated that I had caused the cracking on the wall at the corner where I sat. You, unlike myself, you managed to cover up your moment of fame by laughing and cursing. "Fuuuuuuu fuuuuu...sasa nani huyo ". And since you always took a special meal of potatoes and cabbages while the rest of the school were attacking weevils infected beans and monocotyledon grains, the class believes it can’t be you. They actually think its Githiaka who never exited the dining hall before the warning bell. And that way you managed to get away with it. Talk of the 1st great law of karma. You stifle a small laughter knowing that your action back then has come after you.
“Kwani nimekuweka sana?” You are interrupted by the receptionist.
You realize she actually resides next to where you have been dropped. She has been calling you about the date but you haven’t answered. She thinks you are angry with her that she kept you waiting. With zero amount in your pocket you are now bracing yourself for the next embarrassment.
You decide to board an old Matatu that belong to a certain Sacco that has a record of overloading, overlapping and over speeding . And since you didn’t board at the stage you are an excess passager. You are the 20th passager in the 14 seater. You are sitting between the taut and a lady donning a green and blue tie-and-dye robe commonly known as Dera with one edge tucked into the elastic of her underwear. She has a big body, bust and weave occasionally caressing the nap of her head. One of her buttocks is resting on the seat, the other closing the pathway. You share the remaining space with the taut who is occasionally opening his unattended armpits nearly sending you into a comma. When he speaks to ask for fare remittances, his breath, a thick plume of Khat, cigarette and evidence of dental hygiene lapse blocks your respiratory system. He will ones in a while open the window either to call in other passagers, command the driver to drop a passager or spit a green cud of semi chewed khat. As you position yourself to get your wallet off your pocket to pay, a different smell hits you. By now you can differentiate smells in this locomotive. From the sweaty taut, the smell of chips eating lady, the smelly shoes – the owner must have either stepped on sewer, to the smell of the backseat guy who has applied the tiny Somali perfume. These perfumes seem to last forever. I ones had one in primary school while chasing on a lady from our class. I used it from class six and it was three quarters full by the time I was finishing class eight. I gave It to her on the farewell date. Am sure she is still using it to date.
It is a smell of a fart. Its not the explosive one, its the slow farts. The ones that creep their way out of the exhaust like secret service agents in a highly confidential espionage mission and then clog the whole atmosphere with the effect similar to atomic bomb. Everyone is affected with some opening the windows to at least gasp for little fresh air. There is an elderly woman who has just vomited as result of the massive pollution. You know who did it. It is the lady in a Dera. Despite that you saw her raise one of her buttocks and then relax, you don’t want expose her. She doesn’t look even guilty. In fact you are ashamed on her behalf. How does someone attempt to poison a full Public service vehicle and act as if she has done nothing. It surprises you even more when she asks you in some coastal Swahili who could be that who seems to have had taken the uterus of kangaroo for lunch. She even tells you how she hates people who deliberately spoil the air. The taut is looking at you suspiciously.
“Ama ni wewe?” The lady who has been poking your buttocks with her knees behind you along the pathway asks you.
You are too ashamed to answer. Even if you were the one, there is no way you would admit to attempted homicide. You all of a sudden turn into a suspect. Everyone thinks its you. The old lady who has just vomited on your shirt accuses you of disrespecting the elderly. The taut who has continuously fed you with odour since you became neighbours, is threatening to kick you out and refund your coins. The health of ‘his' passagers , according to him, is greater than your coins. The calls to have you kicked out are charging. You are done with embarrassment. You therefore request to be dropped at the next pick up point. How can be people be so irrational? You are asking yourself. You don’t know whether its the lady who put you in this or the people that you should hate. The lady whose gas-inflated bowels had gone loose, raises the part of the buttock resting on your thighs to let you get off. The taut whistles the “Twende” sign immediately your right foot touches the tarmac. He has gone with your change. You seat on the roadside to take a breath as you think of your next move.
Back in high school, just like myself, you had the privilege of farting in a fully packed classroom. I did it ones while taking a nap during morning preps. My desk mate George was willing to cover it up for me unlike Machohi who laughed while pointing at me until he cried. Having both the girlfriend and a crush in the same class I was embarrassed. He even insinuated that I had caused the cracking on the wall at the corner where I sat. You, unlike myself, you managed to cover up your moment of fame by laughing and cursing. "Fuuuuuuu fuuuuu...sasa nani huyo ". And since you always took a special meal of potatoes and cabbages while the rest of the school were attacking weevils infected beans and monocotyledon grains, the class believes it can’t be you. They actually think its Githiaka who never exited the dining hall before the warning bell. And that way you managed to get away with it. Talk of the 1st great law of karma. You stifle a small laughter knowing that your action back then has come after you.
“Kwani nimekuweka sana?” You are interrupted by the receptionist.
You realize she actually resides next to where you have been dropped. She has been calling you about the date but you haven’t answered. She thinks you are angry with her that she kept you waiting. With zero amount in your pocket you are now bracing yourself for the next embarrassment.
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