Years ago a child was born in the hilly fertile slopes of Mt. Kenya.
His parents named him Dickson Kabugu Mutegi.
I called him dad.
He must have been diligent from his early days since, I believe, some traits are innate and cannot be learnt on the job. He was studious in school and responsible at home – as was clearly evidenced in his later years.
Back in Chuka, he herded my granny’s goats and cattle as was the duty of all the young lads. Kicking away at stones on his path, cracking jokes with his “crew” while keeping one eye fixed on the grazing beasts must have been the perfect routine for him.
(My mom once owned a single goat, tugging on its rope, milking it and feeding it wasn’t a stroll in the park for the modernized chaps we felt we were. I would have suffered a slow death had the animal dared give birth! I made sure it was not “chotwad” by roaming males because its pregnancy would be my end).
But the Lord above had special plans for this particular young man.
Fate too was in a good mood as his older sister, on realizing that their parents couldn’t afford to spend too much on fees, let her schooling chance go to her sibling.
Talk about self sacrifice.
Probably buoyed by the need to qualify his sister’s sacrifice, he did pretty well in school – studying with the likes of Justice Muga Apondi and Dr John Khaminwa.
Ikuu Boys High, Alliance High and lastly University of Nairobi were the institutions that ‘sharpened’ him.
He studied Law.
He went on to become a respected lawyer (at home we jokingly compare him to Danny Crane of that time) as his brilliance saw him ascend ranks in the so called “corridors of justice”.
He was promoted to a Senior Resident Magistrate in the Nyeri Law courts after serving under the likes of Justice Ang’awa (believe me, you don’t want her for a neighbour) and with Judges Hatari Waweru and Samuel Mukunya.
I still remember running around the offices at the courts – occasionally pausing my play to pity the handcuffed and heavily-guarded suspects arriving for trial. To me, the maze of offices at the courts was just another playground which was to be properly utilized.
He was a wonderful father, a man full of love for family, friends and strangers too. While travelling upcountry, we had an extra vehicle tag along packed with food to be distributed randomly to villagers who had grown to recognize the blue Peugeot that every once in a while left the comfort of the city roads, to tackle the earth roads in Kirege and Iramba villages.
A man of the people perhaps?
He would cook for his wife on random occasions with Labour Day being the only appointed “Dad’s kitchen” day. However, most of the cooking happened outdoors with goat meat grilling over an open fire.
Friday’s was boys night out as me and my bro @kirigalll spent them at the golf club watching him swat away his snooker opponents and win several prizes. The “that’s my old man look” becoming somewhat permanent.
I don’t remember what the girls of the house used to get. I lived for Fridays.
Though gifted with love and the ability to show it, dad was never one to shy away from disciplining an errant child. My bullying ways that saw the house help wash me for longer years than my dad had directed were brought to a spanking stop.
The one incident that makes mom brighten up is when he stood up for her at the all-male golf clubs back in the day. Hanging out in the golf course bars was a no-no for the ladies until my dad told the men off that he had come to enjoy himself and his wife was a big part of that. The status quo was rattled.
I also once missed out on a 1 week trip to the Maasai Mara for throwing a plateful of githeri to the floor. The house help snitched out again – I had lost my rule over her.
Home was one busy place.
Too many animals met their death at his hands – to our enjoyment.
Dad, you left behind a great family with an awesome lady at the helm. Mom is one of a kind and yes, she still looks 16.
Grace Kaari is now Mrs Gitau. Faith and I managed impressive grades at campus. Paul (@Kirigalll) too is fine; he took your name to some madmen site called Twitter.
He has since cleared campus and starts his first big job next week.
James (@wa_mutegi) too is waiting to join campus after scoring an A-. another lawyer in the making like his elder bro I reckon.
Its 18 years since you left you and thought the pain wanes with time, memories and ‘I wish’ do not.
Though we don’t question God’s actions, we are allowed an occasional we wish you were here to see how grown up we have all become.
Your beard genes haunt me on a weekly basis while the other boys walk around sporting 3 hairs in the name of a goatee. The family parrot – Faith – can charm herself out of a terrorist hijacking.
The Nairobi courts were closed on his burial day as the men of the corridors of power were shifted to his rural home.
A befitting tribute to a man destined to be great, if he had not achieved it already!
I meant to start this post by “blistering barnacles, its been months since i last posted”, but after consulting I was informed that it was not so mature. (God, i loved TinTin)
After almost a decade of not writing, I just had to test if i remember how to blog – I still do.
A lot of things important things have happened since i did my last post, top on the list being my unpleasant discovery that i am allergic to sea food. (yes, it took me this long)
Secondly was that members of our community are being targeted. haki ya nani Muthaura is not ha mandara, he has never mandad anyone.
Are merus the only nguys whose voice can mbe reconded?
Why is it that (said fast and with a with a tonne of accent) some people are only interestend in hinding tape recondaz when meru poiltical fingaz are speaking.
I am afraind this is an issue that must mbe referred to the highest office in the land – Njuri ncheke.
Note : pinches of salt are important for your health.
If you have read this far, i highly sympathize. I was just passing time and remembered i once ran a blog.
darn, i have wasted 35 minutes of my alloted drinking window.
“There’s something very wrong with civilization, and it isn’t the destruction of the Mau forest or the ozone layer, the death of pandas, cigarettes carcinogenic foodstuffs or prison conditions…” Paulo Coelho.
Editors Note: replace the Mau with Amazon rainforest.
In his book 11 minutes, the author wrote in reference to the act of sex. through Maria, the prostitute, he wonders why the world revolves around an activity that if you strip off the time spent on taking off clothes, making fake gestures of affection, banal conversations, the after-shower and dressing up ; coitus (I have always wanted to use this word – ok, spare me the stares. I get enough judging elsewhere) only last eleven minutes.
I’m no Chris Hart so I pick up the baton from the point”…very wrong with civilization” and go off on a different tangent.
So Mr Ruto was greeted like a warrior back from battle, he was our present day Leonidas after he slay the Persian god Xerxes and was returning to his Spartan home. Furiously shaking my head!!
Apparently its snitch season in Kenya so if you hold any grudge against anybody, spill the beans now or forever hold your peace. Ruto and Kiunjuri have gone ahead.
The latter makes for good comedy – mind you he was a teacher before landing in the MPig-sty. My heart goes out to those students. If at all the queens language came by ship, Mr Honourable picked the wrong container.
Editors Note: Focus, don’t be subjective. Stick to the plot and stop skipping scenes.
Enter Mama Rainbow and her godfather Raila Amolo Odinga.
Humanity is indeed defined by hypocrisy, double-standards and selfishness. Yes, something is wrong with our peoples; and it’s not sex-related.
But who died and made thecoloseum the morality policeman? Nobody did. I am stacked together with the rest of mankind; looking out for themselves, seeking to get the most by giving the least.
All the people who went to meet Ruto should be rounded up and checked in for mental check-ups. I guess they were there to show support for their hero who was being “persecuted” by the media and tried in the public court.
Enough literature has been written and words uttered to try demystify the reason for his trip to meet the world’s representation of justice; Ocampo.
After all the noise had died down, it became apparent that Ruto may not have met face to face with Mr Justice but met his kada-ya-moko’s as he went off to London.
But one thing is clear; Ruto is shaking in his boots. At some point he seemed at the verge of tears. (Don’t cry for me Argentinaaaaa). The spear-shaking warrior’s foundation was rocked by whatever he was told at The Hague.
I won’t delve into the allegations that Ruto has made against the KNCHR commissioner. This is just one of those games where a new development will tip the scale this way and that way in a vicious cycle. I will sit this one out.
My nozzle then shifts to RAO. Dude, I have immense admiration for you (new found, in fact it’s still in its infant stage – do not kill it) but who appointed you Ngilu’s godfather?
This full-throttle support and your discovery that some of the allegations against politicians may be malice-driven come a bit too late. Why did you not do the same with Ruto and Wetangula.
C’mon sir, hypocrisy at all times should be kept well concealed. It’s an ugly ogre!
The energy with which you have come to Mama Rainbow’s defence stinks of double standards.
WACHA MAMA ABEBE SHIDA ZAKE!!
Go and oversee other ministries; hers is in the mud already; literally!
I don’t care much for politicians and in the event that I end up as one, do not waste too much empathy on me. Believe me that is wasted emotion!
No politician has your interests at heart. It’s just how they are wired and that is the system we found ourselves in.
Some individuals, who are long dead, somewhere sat down, looked at the rest of their community and decided that they (the hopeless and uninformed) needed a “single body” to lead them and make decisions for them. Governments were born and we were forever cursed with politicians.
Something is indeed wrong with humanity, but we are stuck with it.
- Kenyan minister Ruto in The Hague (bbc.co.uk)
- Kenyan politician flies to The Hague to deny involvement in ethnic violence (guardian.co.uk)
- Ex-Kenyan minister defended himself at the ICC (seattletimes.nwsource.com)
- Kenyan Politics and Social Media (socialightmediakenya.com)
Riley Freeman, we need you. We have a snitch amongst us. The name of the transgressor is Stepped Aside Minister William Ruto (MP).
I have friends who had sworn they would grow horns before Ruto steps on Ocampo’s hallowed ground. Others swore that it would only happen in the distant future – 300 years at the least. Well, the unthinkable happened; dude is in Netherlands.
Cue Shaggy’s song…..It wasn’t me. For those of you on Twirra, check out the hash tag #rutoplaylist. It’s been trending worldwide since morning. I think Kenya is the cradle of (crazy) mankind. Check it out.
There is this pungent smell of revolution, national cleansing and a renewed fight against corruption that has filled our airspace. This is me NOT COMPLAINING. Our president Kibaki believes those who “eat” the taxpayers’ money are wasting oxygen. He thinks death is the most generous punishment they can get…hmmmm. (Random thoughts of opening a coffin business)
I totally love this “new Kenya” – except the retarded women who performed an equally retarded, possessed dance for PLO in Mombasa. No, Lumumba does not do crazy. He prefers letters and emails. Get ua sane on women…you make the rest of your kind look bad.
It was an open secret that Waki’s envelope had Williams name as the stamp and seal. He was going to see the big man even if Rooney actually left Manchester and joined some nondescript team like chelsea. But everybody was caught flat with his latest move.
He just up and left.
Mr Ruto, who does that, weren’t you taught better? People don’t just shift countries like thieves. Ata kwaheri jameni!! There is a huge chance this is a one way trip!
When interrogating suspects, policemen usually assume two opposing roles; good cop and bad cop.
Bad cop does all the chest-thumping and dishing out threats in their hundreds. An occasional slap and kick here and there is also not strange. If this doesn’t work, the Good cop enters the room, tells off Mr I will-blend-your-balls–if-you-don’t-tell-me-where-you-hid-the-gun and then in a calm, saner tone reassures the shaken fellow that all will be ok.
This is the guy William Ruto is talking to. The good cop still cuffs the bloke after he confesses. The only difference is that he is more humane in his tactics.
What in Ocampo’s face resembles good intention, honestly? Especially that picture that’s used repeatedly in the dailies with him staring (at some distant image of Ruto in cuffs) away seemingly in deep thought.
The hidden hand has cuffs with your name engraved in them)
I have met snitches in my life. I have been accused of being one, that was way back in high school. Silly young men!
But you Sir, not once did not come across as a tello-teller (that’s not a real word), ever! But as they say, nothing on the face can reveal the fullness of the heart.
Here is free advice from a man who has not been to Hague and holds not aspirations of occupying the white house on the hill. Ocampo is your enemy! Moreno is your nemesis! He will smoke you! He will take you to the cleaners and back! Take the next flight home and say that you were recalled for CIVIC DUTY! (it always works)
Hold up, I don’t like you. So I should be happy that in your twisted way of defining danger, you skipped Moreno. SMH.
Secondly, the PEV affected many innocent Kenyans whose only crime was having voters’ cards. I should be happy.
Ok, engage happy face , cue star jumps, cat wheels next. Woooohoo. (I should go back to work, hii leave itaniharibu)
Reason and the left side of my brain dictate that everybody is presumed/assumed to be innocent until proven guilty – unless you’re Onyancha of course.
So, go ahead and have your secret meeting with the wolf in sheep’s clothing (Sheep wear clothes?), just make sure you don’t stay too far away from the door.
In case he make sudden moves forward, RUN and don’t look back, you might turn into a pillar headed straight for lockdown. If this happens, DON’T DROP THE SOAP, Charles Taylor is on block D; BEFRIEND HIM, but don’t accept his diamonds. In case you do, DO NOT DROP THE SOAP!!!
Also, tap the floor before taking steps forward. I hear Ocampo is a tech-junkie; I wouldn’t put trap doors and underground chambers beyond him.
That’s all for now, Mister Snitch, sorry Minister Stepped Aside William Ruto.
Signed, the fan you do not have!
Back to the #rutoplaylist
For I am the first and the last
I am the venerated and the despised
I am the prostitute and the saint
I am the wife and the virgin
I am the mother and the daughter
I am the arms of my mother
I am barren and my children are many
I am the married woman and the spinster
I am the woman who gives birth and she who never procreated
I am the consolation for the pain of birth
I am the wife and the husband
And it was my man who created me
I am the mother of my father
I am the sister of my husband
And he is my rejected son
Always respect me
For I am the shameful and the magnificent one…….
It’s 2 am and the 6 beers I had earlier demand to be expelled. I wake up and get out of bed carefully to avoid waking my girlfriend then I blindly stumble my way to the bathroom. With the bedroom door safely closed, I can now switch on a light to ease my navigation.
The illumination reveals a bizarre sight. It’s like a party, an insectile orgy, tens of cockroaches scampering around with impunity and making half hearted attempts to hide. They obviously consider themselves members of this household but unlike the human occupants are unperturbed by the myriad shortages in Kenya and their girth declares “what food shortage?”
These little bastards are thriving like a Kenyan politician yet I keep all my food stored properly and I’m meticulously clean. Despite food shortages, power shortage, water shortage and an increasingly inhospitable environment they thrive and reproduce like mad.
I have fought many battles at these ungodly hours and I have claimed my fair share of victims but I despair now for they seem to carry powerful juju. Some have been crushed under slippers while others have been ruthlessly gassed to death with doom but they just keep increasing.
Despite turning my house into a Nazi death chamber every week, they increase. For every roach I kill, two appear to take its place.
At one point they got so brave that occasionally one of them would take a nonchalant stroll around my living room unfazed by the presence of guests. Any move to approach it would just inspire a short dash to a hiding place that hardly looked like it could accommodate anything. The irony was that winning was losing but losing was still losing.
As we discussed war stories with my butcher, I lamented about my unending battle. As the cleaver landed on the pork ribs with a meaty ‘thunk’ he said,”Iko dawa.” With a conspiratorial smile on his face, he proceeded to extol the virtues of his remedy. Being kikuyu, he sounded like he wanted to sell me the stuff and the born salesman he was spoke to me,”Hii DIAZINONE inaua yote. Ata kupe na mbu. Hakuna kitu inabakisha.”
I needed to add this wonder chemical to my chemical warfare arsenal. These little sons of bi@#$ had taken over my home and made a mockery of my stringent domestic sterilization regime and it sounded like the end was nigh. As I went home I stopped at an agrovet store and picked up a canister of the lethal stuff and a sprayer. The label carried a large skull and crossbones and warned the user to dress in appropriate protective equipment.
It’s 2 p.m and here I am with a sprayer full of the poisonous concoction. My ‘appropriate protective equipment’ is an old lab coat, the face mask and goggles. The battle lines are drawn and I spare a moment to let any sensible roach escape after all, I’m not Hitler. Then the war begins, I spray every inch of the house then I lock up the house and leave for school. The label said that no living organism (me or a pet) should enter the house for 12 hours so I’ll be away for the night.
It’s 2 p.m and I descend the stairs to my house. Already a smile is forming on my face as I view the first casualties. Two roaches lie upside down right outside my door and I gleefully rub my hands together before I open the door. It’s a holocaust. This must be what genocide looks like. Tens upon tens of roaches lie on the floor in various stages of death. Some are upside down and unmoving while others twitch spastically in corners obviously dying an agonizing death. I put in a notorious BIG cd and begin the clean up. The few survivors walk around in a daze before the poison paralyzes them for my broom. The cd plays on.
It’s 2 am and I’m awake taking advantage of the last few hours I have electricity before they turn it off for rationing. Not a roach in sight.
It’s 2 am and here I am again. This time it’s not a bathroom break or a midnight oil burning session. My nose is blocked and I sneeze every few minutes. My head feels like it’s filled with crushed glass and my throat is parched. Any attempt to swallow anything results in a painful protest by my tonsils and any movement aggravates the little men with sledgehammers in my head. My joints ache like I got malaria from a herd of mosquitoes and I feel so weak that I can barely lift off the blankets from my sweating body. The lady at the agrovet had told me that the mild illness I’d been experiencing during the day would heal as soon as my body metabolized and excreted the residue of the chemical but my slight discomfort has progressively worsened to this. I resign myself to the discomfort consoling myself with thoughts of victory but wait a minute, what’s that? No! How? I weakly watch a juvenile roach crawl out the light fixture. Aluta continua.
Senior sergent….Simple Simon Macharia (AUTHOR)