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| Tuesday, March 07, 2006 |
| Between the Violence and the Whims of Small Men II |
Is a time when the bubble of self is broken by reality hitting you square on your face. The reality is as therapeutic as a kick to the groin. It sort of numbs you for a fraction, then the pain is so acute you are heft helpless, and you collapse.
This is the longest post i've written so far. Insert clap here[ ]
I was in all respects, Mugged
(There will be very strong sheng words, be warned.)
Long before this happened, i had formed my ideas of how to confront a mugger. Sort of like Milo's Drunken Master, Kung-Fu tactics, combined with ujanja wa mtaani(Street smarts). Its like you feel you are invincible, that no-one can touch you. Then you meet your nemesis, and all your ideas and plans seem to fly away, closely on the heels of confidence and courage.
Believe you me at the face of "the thing", hata kunyora utanyora ukiambiwa.
I forgot some key concepts of living in the ghetto: Primary among the forgotten rules is that:
When you dress up in the ghetto, people suddenly start to take notice.
a. The girls, who previously thought little or nothing of you as they passed you seated at the gate of your 'mbanyu' kama unauma Vako tu, now have the time to visit you and sh8t.
b. Their moms, who suddenly see a future of being called 'Mother-In-Law by you, since you are a rising star. No more of the "I have told you Wangari to stop idling with those good for nothing boys who smoke bangi all day". Nowadays its "Hi there [insert surname here].How's Mum?". Yup, all of a sudden, they are sharing cooking tips with your mum.
c. "Wasee wa Mtaa". These are the jamaas you usually bummed with at certain lean times when dough za ngale zilikosa(coins for cigarette were lacking). These are the jamaaz you grew up with, doing all the utoi together. Of course now that "umeangukia ganji kiasi", you have to part with some cash for "kenge-kenge"(street for Senator keg)or pass them ur pako of Embako (Embassy), notwithstanding that they have heavier stuff(lets not go there shall we?). You see the class system in our mtaas has never kwishad.
d. The yuppies. Referred to as "Ma-barbie" by the rest of the motely crew seated by the roadside, watching life pass by. These are the ones who get all the fly mamaz and leave you coughing and splattering in the dust raised by their zakes moti as they sped off with the lady of your dreams. All of a sudden you become a plotious guy, one of the "Crew", eti "is of how, this weekend?", and expect you to show up and stick with them as they clean their bling and give you updates on how last weekend rocked! Argh, i detest.
e. Lastly, by the part of society that we choose to ignore despite the constant reasssurances of their prescence. More commonly referred to as "wagondi", "magasidi" and others that i do not like to mention. Nowadays hata "mathegi" wana zao. Nini? "Michuma"(guns) and all of a sudden you are their ticket out of poverty. These are the retirees of the "wasee wa mtaa"........
I believe i have digressed enough.
The events that i am about to pen in here happened last evening.
This fateful day i had decided to give my recently acquired steep road suit a "Test-Run"(I agree with Milo on the smooth transition from Ngara to the CBD, admittedly am still at steep-Road). Managed to duck the evening rain and actually managed to get a mat to the last stop in the mtaa before nine pm.
On my way home, i patana with this "boy wa mtaa", a jamaa we'd played "Pa"(Blowing soda liners), gone "hunto", "swimo", "fisho" and stuff like that(Dunno what storos these kids of sikuhizi will chapa to their tois when they grow up. Camila?). Anyway, we saunter along the road together, gassing animatedly on curent affairs and sh8t. There's this fact that when walking alone in the night, all the sensory organs are fully alert, lakini when in a convesation, we fail to notice Instinct tugging at the back of our minds.
Last street to home, just before we part ways with "msee wetu", some tall-ass boyo passes us, then turns in font of us and holds the right side of his waist. He poliely introduces himself. Even under the fickle night light, it does not take rocket science to figure out that hata yeye ana yake.
More pleasantries are exchnded and we naturally kiss the grond. "Toa Pesa Zote!"
"Niko na finje tu." Yup, yours truly had a fifty bob in his pocket. Further investigation (tero) reveals another finje i'd tucked away in the dark musty corners of my wallet. I happen to have been holding on to some coins, change ya the last cigarette-of-the-day(I really should quit). Our pleasant host (is that where "hostage" was coined from? i wonder) dispenses with the rest of the contents in my pockets and wallet. Defiance is described by my holding onto, clutching on to the small change in my left hand. The phone is almost like an afterthought as he claims ownership.
A kick later, he's on the "boy wa mtaa", who only has a "ngale" and a "nare" on himself!
"Mbwa myinyi. Beste yako amengara hivo na ana mafinje tu na wewe huna any. @*## nyinyi" he drawls with the slowness of a bhang taker.
"Mi sina any" the boy wa ntaa manages to cough out as the oboho continues to expel more expletives, with his increasing rage, his well worn boots echoing his frustration at the modest collection, which by now has grown to include the ngale(cigarette) and the nare(matchbox).
Then the boyo walks away, nay, saunters off leaving specific directives threats on what we should not do after he leaves, all juiced up with some more expletives.
We are left to pick up after ourselves, all the courage, street-smarts and all returning. We stand and assess the situation(we Kenyans should get an award for perfecting the art!). Three things immediately dawn on us: (in no particular order)
1. Its a hell of a dark lane, there shoulda been kinda like a light or something
2. The fences are on both sides of the road, so there's no doing an "Exit stage Left" stunt.
3. Sisi hatuna zetu.
SO we survey the damage done, to our bodies and our confidence, while dusting for fingerprints(The mud sure takes to fingers very easily). My co-hostage victim remarks that the thug looked familiar to him. Alarm bells immediately ring. Before i can interrogate him further.......
Enter victim no. three. This guy has just been robbed of his 1/4 Kilo of mbachu(khat, miraa: a banned substance at the olympics) that he'd bakishad in the hopes of "ku-mbachuka hadi magizani"
He, obviously agitated, narrates his ordeal. Apparently, his encounter was of the whole gang. he then ostensibly reveals to us the name of one of the thugs.
His name is Wawech. Short for Waweru. A known thug, havin been arrested (and released?) multiple times, and who is known to carry a gun around. A former "Boy wa mtaa" no wonder my palo recognised him.
To Wawech. May my 3-yr old HelloMoto be a source of riches, and may you grow to head your own thug/drug syndicate GO TO HELL! You did not get everything, you dumb excuse of a human being. May u reincarnate into a bug so that i squish you! |
posted by Sammie @ 5:26 PM  |
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| 4 Comments: |
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What can i say? Everyone's hustlin' for a little cash here and there. Thanks a lot for stopping by.
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Aside: I suggest you put the word verification thingy to deter the spam you are attracting.
Wow that is a scary experience - the human psyche definitely knows when to put up a fight and when to let things roll - you made the right choice - imagine your life ending for something like a mobile phone.
Pole dude - glad you got out with (even) your humour intact.
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@guess: I've just done the verification thingie, Thanks.
BTW: Thanks a lot for visiting. Got a new phone, Called her Jasmine:
She jazzes me, and she's mine (at least if all factors remain constant).
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Name: Sammie
Home: Nairobi, Kenya
About Me: Definitely not your average Jack. Love God, music, challenges and fun. Not as young as i would wish but not as old as you'd expect. Ha!
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