Kirundiro shocked, ashamed to share league with amateur sinners (Part III of IV)
- February 28, 2018
Know what? Stare all you want. I don’t give a rat’s fart. Really, I don’t. Not right now. May be three minutes ago. I might even have delighted your ears with a few x-rated vocabularies. Perhaps I still will.
Right now, my yappers are preoccupied with duties much more critical than manufacturing curses. Besides, this mutura-ugali before me is a combination made by the Creator Himself. No mortal being can possibly think up this much delight. It’s in the right ratio too; 1 to 1. Throw in the chilli kachumbari and gosh…!
Thirsty, angry and very hungry, is what I was a while back. Lousy combination, they are. Messes up your mood big time, that’s what they do. But their syringe was boiling in this kiondo clasped under my arm pit. A quick peep in the container confirmed the sizeable quantity of the monetary content. Gave me a spring in my step, is what it did. That and the fact that I had lost one shoe earlier. I would also have preferred to empty the chums into my pockets but as you can see, I barely have any clothes left.
Should have seen the faces of everyone around when I shouted my mutura order from across the road earlier. “Mogaka, Ndunyu mzima moto,” I shouted “Zifinyanishwe na Nafula senior hawa…” I added holding two fingers up.
Thirdly and probably most significant, I must have looked like a mad man, a very ambitious mad man.
The curious looks I got are understandable. First, ‘Ndunyu’ is a size of mutura ordered only during campaigns. Most requests are placed in shillings, with 15 bob, which has about 10 cuttings, the most popular. Ndunyu mzima costs 110 bob.
Secondly, Nafula, the biggest scoop of ugali, is usually ordered by groups of at least four. I wanted two Nafulas.
Thirdly and probably most significant, I must have looked like a mad man, a very ambitious mad man. Even Mogaka’s fearsome knife was raised, ready to send me racing back across the road, but he recognised me just in time. He started to say something then stopped and hurried to load my order on a fresh board. Must have been my eyes. Terrifying glare, is what many say they emit, when I’m suffering from a serious case of unhappiness.
Anyways, this teamwork of Ndunyu and Nafula should banish hunger from the equation. Then I’ll turn my attention to thirst. And its syringe is equally boiling, or rather frothing, nearby. Just across the road, to be precise.
You see that line of mabati shacks sitting over the drain? That fifth one is my destination. No, not the salon. Fifth, from the charcoal deport. Yep, the one with the filthy pinkish curtain net on the door. It’s Mama Muhia’s keg bar and a huge mug of the frothy bitterness is beckoning me like a giant carrot to a hungry rabbit.
The first mug will be a sweeper, clearing the way for the second, which will wash off the dust covering my tattered clothes. The third will heal the aches throbbing in various parts of my harassed body as the fourth dries the blood leaking from my burst lip. The fifth onward may enable me forgive Pastor John and his congregation. However, alcohol is unpredictable. It may say forgiveness is for Jesus and decide to seek revenge instead. I’ll leave that decision entirely to it.
You are thoroughly confused, that I see. I possibly would be if I were you. But I’m not you. You should thank your parents that you are not me. You wouldn’t like it one bit. I am Kirundiro wa Mwobithania or Sufferer or KM and being me is mighty exhausting.
As a matter of fact, I need to make a point of correction. I hear you are referring to this Kimathi Mutegi fellow as Sufferer. Let’s get one thing clear, there is and can only be one Sufferer and that’s me, Kirundiro the son of my father. This Mutegi is just a bloke who receives my very nicely done story, throws it away and writes it afresh. I have met him. He wouldn’t last two hours as me. He is way too soft. I am the Sufferer. He is just some editor. Got it?
What about Nebuchadnezzar? Bugger couldn’t hack it too. Vanished 25 minutes ago. Took with him the new Kirundiro you met earlier. Nearly got this Kirundiro, the old one, as well. My legs refused with me, once again, God bless them.
Since then, I have made a resolution not to trust any friggin preacher man again, ever. You too shouldn’t. Even if they promise you a lifetime of free tumbukiza, mutura and goats head soup to confess your sins, scram. Nearly killed me, is all it did. You, my friend, will die. And that’s because you don’t have my pair of racers.
But perhaps you are like my fellow confessers in the church earlier. Their sins left me immensely shocked, and sad. Like there is this young college girl. She was begging for forgiveness because she almost kissed a boy the week before.
That’s exactly what I asked my friend, whether such stuff is not what colleges are for! I know… the number of times I have ferried these youngsters in a matatu are more than this one’s age. Not once did I spot any of them hurdled over a book or reciting a Bible verse. Instead, they are always going beyond kissing at the back, way beyond if you know what I mean.
Then there was a middle-aged man who said he found a lost wallet at a street corner and bought kerosene for his stove with the Sh220 in it. Hear this my friend. This fellow rescued a wallet whose owner had abandoned, intentionally or not. And instead of doing what any sane person would do –run to the nearest joint, then crawl home later –he bought kerosene. Who drinks kerosene?
I stared at the bloke and presently began wondering if I enrolled in a vastly inferior league of sinners. Amateurs, is what these were.
“Last weekend,” said one newly-saved dude that reminded me of this thin cartoon character that hunts for ghosts in the company of a speaking dog. Very funny cartoon. You should watch it.
“My wife asked if I could get her milk for the baby from the shop but I told her I had rushed to town. It was a lie,” he said in a trembling voice, then went on. “I was in the bar near our home watching Chelsea nearly beating Manchester United. Please forgive me…”
“Ha!” was my involuntary, very loud reaction. Everyone glared at me. I don’t think they liked me much. I don’t think I liked them much either. But I am the son of Mwobithania. Don’t give a fig about affection.
Besides, I was getting distracted by a scenery from the devil’s private collection itself. The woman seated two people from Kaunda suit was the diversion. She was sitting like a boy. You know, that style where each leg is answerable to a different governor? And she was not exactly bad looking. I could see beyond the darkness of her black petticoat to the white pantie. I could also sense a movement in my own pants.
Some software in my system was transmuting into a hardware. That’s never a popular idea when you are standing in front of a multitude. So I thrust my hand in my left pocket. It had a massive hole and my hand slipped right through. My fingers quickly dealt with the rising embarrassment, deftly strangling it under the maasai belt keeping my extravagant trouser up. The woman noticed my stare and clamped her walkers shut. I wanted to tell her to be more careful next time but my silly talkers rerouted the conversion to cartoon-boy’s confession.
“Excuse me sir,” my yappers began. “And you madam can sit down a little,” I continued waving back a burly woman approaching cartoon-boy with teary eyes. Must have been his wife. She momentarily froze, looking from me to the pastor, to her hubby before retracing her steps. She looked pretty daft.
“Relax my man,” I continued facing cartoon-boy. “You do not need to confess anything because you did not do wrong in the first place!” He looked confused, and pretty dumb too, so I explained.
“What you did, it is the only way to deal with the situation you were in. Everyone knows this,” I said turning to the congregation for backup. They gave me that silly look you get when you are peeping round the corner, trying to sneak into your crib, then the landlord you are trying to evade for the fifth month clears his stupid throat behind you. Really dumb congregation this, I concluded and went on.
“First, it is a bar, you don’t leave your drink half-way to go milking cows for hungry toddlers. Children are always hungry. And they are pretty hardy too. They can wait,” I paused for effect.
“Second, you don’t abandon a match midway unless the bar is burning down. But third and most important, it is wise to lie to your wife at certain times.” The church gasped. Must be approval, I thought.
A stinky disagreement…
“Just go ahead and claim your eternally full tummy because you have not sinned…” I managed before Pastor John rudely interrupted by shouting “pararara pa pa para pa paraaa…” through the speakers. Very crazy sound that, I thought, quite amazed by my brilliance having predicted the bugger’s mental status earlier. I was beginning to wonder if I might be a real genius but Pastor John was speaking. He said sin is sin in the eyes of God, no matter how tiny we think it is.
I shook my head and stretched my hand for his microphone because I was in total disagreement. I cleared my throat and raised the perforated gadget to my mouth. I was instantly assaulted by a stench so horrible Kirungustu’s feet would hide in shame. My nose instantly launched three quick-fire protest sneezes. I shoved the offending gadget back to the pastor, squeezing my nose shut to rub out the itchiness.
“No sir,” I told him rubbing my palm furiously on my shirt because the microphone stem felt sticky. “Stinks like rotten eggs,” I added reaching for a different mic from the choir.
“You should try sugar cane mister. Even me, I rarely brush my teeth. In fact, I used my toothbrush to polish my shoes one afternoon many months ago after smoking a joint Masengele had dipped in petrol. But sugar cane cleans the stench like magic. You should try it,” I said helpfully as I gingerly raised the new mic to my sniffers. It was well. Pastor John didn’t look so.
“You can sit down pastor,” I started, “My confessions will show you the difference between sin and a Sunday School verse,” I said feeling quite clever. Part IV…