Mathiokora edition.

At times I cast my eyes westward, towards my ancestral home and wish that my mother comes down from the land of ugali, chicken and bullfighting and swing her iron hand at all these delinquents.

She is no Margaret Thatcher, but I swear upon my grand father’s walking stick that she can discipline any and all of these manner less people walking around in Nairobi.

I am actually tired of the people who dot alleys with mosaics from their insides. What kind of man or woman squats in the middle of a dark alley in the city and lets rip what he ate for supper!

I swear, if this was in my village, such a social misfit would have lost one of his buttocks, preferably his left one, to a wild T9, which is in effect a starving rabid dog! That would have been the better option, the other being that the owner of the piece of land on which you desecrate, casts a spell on a sample of whatever you have deposited. The rest as they say is history. You will be forced to proclaim your sin to the whole village at a special public baraza, or else your ears will forever remain deaf to the long calls of nature.

And this children of god who are in the business of preserving their livers in flammable liquids. The official pass time for Nairobians is no longer binge drinking, it is more of beat drinking. You consume your drink until it beats you or someone beats you to a pulp. My mother would never let them escape with this.

Simply, she would refer you to my grand mother who would in very few acts of subtle aggression make you regret your actions.

One day, according to my uncles, my dad wobbled into the homestead, drunk from some funny ceremony that he had not been granted permission to attend. Seeing that he was very bubbly and the function was yet to end, my grand mother actually gave him express permission to attend the rest of it.

My father, in a drunken stupor, hurried to the river, washed his shoeless feet, changed into his special white calico shirt and shot off into the dusk towards the drum beats and vibrations from the feet of dancing village girls.

He returned at dawn. A few minutes later, he was dispatched to the village market, 17kms away, to sell three cockerels and take the money to his aunt, several kilometers further. All this distance was covered on foot and under the hot sun.

He never drunk again…till he moved into the city. This is the kind of hard-line discipline required in today’s world.

Often, I meet very beautiful women, dragging along old wrinkled white men who look like they have forgotten their IV tubes in Kamau’s Taxi(he obviously sells them to a doctor in Kayole) onto dance floors.

I am not sorry to say that I find this in bad taste. It can not be justified. I do not however blame them for this drastic action. Desperate times call for strange measures. Maybe we are letting our women down. For a long time, the average Nairobi man has thought a night out spent grinding against your date on a sweat covered dance floor, is romance enough to warrant submission on all other fronts from her.

When I was growing up, any acts of disrespect towards my sisters was looked upon as a personal affront towards all the women of the world. After which a harsh lecture followed, then the thrashing, delivered to a soft bottom by a stiff hand via a Sandak sandal. Ever since, I have learnt to respect women.

defend us madam

The skirt wills to defend the trousers. And why not…the skirt wearer has much more room between her legs that she can use to out- manoeuvre the enemy.

So naturally, I am happy that she has come up to defend our sovereignty in the face of arrogance from those who think they can play god to us black Africans.

I smiled when she said that the envoys are lowest in the order of Peking in their countries. I felt proud when she told off the man with a malleable sur- name.

But I am concerned.

Madam Minister

Loyalty is an admirable trait in anyone who purports to serve others. But when it is pursued blindly without any individual thought or in put, it may end up offending the very people to whom the allegiance is meant to be pledged.

I am a respecter of personal space. So I was quite elated when the honourable, most just and most constitutional citizen of our republic, went head to head with foreign overseers, who play the role of international watchmen whose only difference to our shirandula’s is their claim to a stamped passport and a healthier allowance. More politely, envoys.

Naturally, I am offended whenever they behave like the villager whose path to fulfilling his lifelong ambition of becoming village chief, is by poking his fat sweaty nose in everyone’s business. Whether invited or not. Their manner at times reminds me of a village elder who takes offense after he learns that your daughter went to Form One and you forgot to inform him.

I am neither Mugabe nor Fidel. But I am Kenyan. As much as I appreciate the fact that you became our nights in shining armour in our time of need, bear in mind that although you plotted and charted our map, we still determine what goes on within the borders.

No man has the right to play god over others. Your sins are not lesser than ours.

We are the wind. The most you can do to us is harness us for power to drive your capitalist economies, but you can’t possibly decide the direction in which we ought to blow. Even when you give your travel advisories to your citizens while comfortably issuing visas for Iraq without question, know that respect is mutually earned.

Our feet may not be big enough to step on your toes, but one day, we might just grow big enough to crush them.

That aside. The theatre of the absurd has come into town. And no. they are not dressed in funny baggy pants. They do not have orange hair or red noses. They dress in designer suits, drive customised cars, and dine at expensive restaurants, but they certainly do laugh loudly at their own jokes. How on earth do they vote on taking a break!

After working for around seven hours, our honourable MPs, decided to go for a break after the strains of saying ‘nay’ or ‘aye’ to a bill! And they are now proposing a ministry for Nairobi Metropolitan! Isn’t our dear president borrowing too much from Mu7?

What a wonderful world.