I love those stories that are set in a quaint little
village somewhere beyond the forest and the hills. You know, those villages
where everyone knows everyone and the latest news in town, or should I say in
village, is baba boyi’s (not real name) goat giving birth.
In this village everyone looks forward to the market
day because it comes once a week. There’s always a village dance at the end of
the month or perhaps at the end of the harvest where Kinoti, the village black
sheep (again not real name), is sure to cause a scandal that involves one of
Kibonge’s 9 daughters (he also has 15 sons. I’m sure the name gave him away)
In this village, girls don’t know about their
marriage day until it arrives and everyone else knows about it when they see
her carried off shoulder high and screaming by a group of burly young men,
straight from the river where she was fetching water to her new matrimonial
home. The only person who knows about the impending nuptials is the girl’s aunt,
who was sent ahead of time as a scout to see what kind of family the boy hails
from.
These are just subtle pointers of the literary
brilliance that we were exposed to at an early age growing up. The things that
pass for literature in this day and age makes me wonder what ever happened to
the great minds that used to pen down great stories that inspired most of us to
even dare to dream to become writers.
In an age where Kindle, Apple and Barnes & Noble
eBook readers are the norm, I must say I am still a sucker for good old
paperback. The smell of a new book is just divine, only rivaled by the smell of
the first drops of rain kissing the dry earth. I don’t know what it is but
there’s something about flipping through the pages that just causes my heart
(and mind) to leap in joy like a calf that just saw its mother at the end of a
long day.
I digress,
back to my story. These kinds of tales make me ponder over my current
situation. You see, we recently moved from my childhood hood, easich, (and not
the one that is frequented by unruly no. 9 matatus and characterized by rivers
of sewage in the middle of the road, but the saner Sec. 3 complete with street
names and all). We now live in the more relaxed Mwiki area of Kasarani. Nothing
ever happens here. Needless to say I have been the object of jokes from my
friends with taglines such as “unaenda diaspora” “usisahau kununua yoghurt na
maindi choma njiani” “I hope umeshabook ticket ya kuenda home” and my personal
favorite “umepita ile board imeandikwa ‘you are now leaving Nairobi’” which I
used to pull on my boy Kafera who live in Juja. (It had a better effect when it
was him).
Well, funny thing is I have come to appreciate my
current residence with its serene ambience. I like to think of it as a leafy
suburb by virtue of all the evergreen banana stalks (did I mention I love
bananas) and poorly but existent manicured hedges. However, the one thing that
gets about this place is how everyone knows everyone (reminiscent of our
village tale, eeh) and is privy to the goings on of other people’s lives. This
is courtesy of the numerous housewives that are left behind as their dutiful
husbands go off to make a living. I heard it said sometime back that Umoja is
the estate of single mothers and divorcees (not my words), that must make Mwiki
the estate of housewives; you can quote me on this.
Despite all the excitement that is clearly Mwiki
(yes, that was sarcasm, for all the simpletons), one has to find ways of
amusing himself. That’s why after this I will find myself engaged in a
philosophical debate with my gold fish on the possibility of him drowning in a
bathtub full of water. (We just finished the one on the sound of the left hand
clapping)
