The Soweto Affair

I actually didn’t want to go anywhere for the weekend, I preffered to stay in and do my writing instead. Mum wanted me to accompany Koi and her mum to some kids’ festival where Churchill was to be in attendance, but I refused flat out. Jones to a kids’ festival? Doesn’t sound so exciting.
But I wasn’t to stay at home all the same. I was to take my cousins Bobo and Nyambu back to my grandmother’s place in Soweto. I made a resolve that although how much my grandmother might beg me to stay over for a few days, I would only sleep at that place for one night. It wasn’t like my writing would do itself. To lend credence to my resolve, I didn’t carry with me any change of clothing. Heck! I even left behind my toothbrush!
So we arrived at Soweto at dusk and as usual, Shosh was excited to see her favourite grandchild. We chatted for like 30 minutes then she left for the kitchen to make me some tea. I used this chance to leave the house for a breath of fresh air and also to perambulate around the ghetto.
Soweto is sandwiched between Githurai 45 and Kahawa West. The residents of this place don’t like it when you decide to call a spade a spade and refer to the place as a slum. They’ll take it more kindly if you sugarcoat it and refer to is a ghetto. ‘Ghetto’ makes them feel bad-ass, while on the other hand ‘slum’ implies that they are veritably poor.
Soweto is where I grew up as a kid, though I’ve got no idea for how long. Most of the houses around this place are made of either tin or mud. It was really dark as trudged along the narrow corridors that separated the houses, but I had no worry about my security. You will be surprised that though the streets here look seedy, the levels of crime in this slum… err, ghetto are relatively low.
Some of the places smelled vile, but the ordour was within manageable levels. I stepped on a squishy paper bag, prayed that it didn’t contain human defecations, and hopped, jumped and skipped over various brooks that ferried sewage across the slum. I was taken aback by food vendors who were selling their githeri and fish just besides these pools of fetid sewage. But when my mind flashed back to the stuff we used to take in primary school, I suddenly put a moratorium to my disdain. In fact, I reached into my pocket and removed a pound, with which I bought mutura from the nearest vendor. The mutura might have contained enough salmonella to bring down a grown African bush elephant, but it was the sweetest thing I’ve tasted since Moody Awori ceased to be our VP.
I continued forth with my perambulation while wondering why so many sewage streams riddled my path, while none of the houses in Soweto were self contained. I finally found myself at a lagoon where all the sewer brooks poured in their contents. These lakes were surely a health hazard, as the place was open, unprotected and judging from the acrid stench that emanated from it, untreated. There were children playing football around that place without a care or worry about how dangerous the area is to their health. The way they carried on their business with reckless abandon, you’d think they were in the precincts of State House. I looked around and then the answer to my earlier query availed itself when I saw some lavishly built apartments in the upper horizon. Those people had self contained houses but the municipal council had not designed their drainage systems well. Instead, every time an affluent person flushed their toilet, their shit would trickle down to the Soweto, where it would be channeled to the lagoon. SMH!
Lost in thought, I forgot I was blocking way for other pedestrians, and was brought from my reverie by a kid pushing a wheelchair who asked me to give way. As the wheelchair was pushed past me, I got a chance to glance at its occupant. My heart sunk with empathy and remorse when I spotted the sprog who sat on it. The Kid had deformed limbs and neck, an observation that pointed to an erstwhile polio attack. It beat me why, fifty years after independence, our children are still being decimated by preventable diseases such as poliomyelitis. Judging from the sewer around that place, I concluded that the mortality rate in that place must be quite high, because if polio doesn’t deform them, Typhoid will most certainly send them to an early grave.
The proletariat of this place surely needed some help. The children especially needed a saviour. A true altruist who won’t help them just because they want to use their poverty to fleece cash out of NGOs. I resolved to myself that when I become rich (and that’s very soon) I’ll become a humanitarian and dedicate my energy, time and resources to the kids of Soweto and slums all over. Make sure they get good healthcare, decent clothing and quality education. This is a promise I’ve made to the kids of Soweto. I won’t renege.
Not surprisingly, I started making up scenarios in my head of how Soweto will be like when am finally a part of it. A swimming pool to keep the kids busy and away from mischief, a Jowal-sponsored football team, a hospital nearby… Like a bolt from the blue, it struck me that I couldn’t manage all this by myself, even if I had all the money. I needed someone by my side. Someone like a soul mate.
Most of the girls I knew back at the university were so ostentatious none of them would even last a day in the ghetto. I knew that my wife would probably go postal if I suggested we visit the ghetto, and would protest vehemently if I asked to tag the kid along. True, not many of the girls I’d met were humble and down to earth to take a walk in these debilitating slums. Most of them are used to a life of unadulterated bliss. To make them stay even a night in Soweto where toilet paper (even the toilet itself) is a rare luxury will truly be a Herculean task. It was when I started missing Del’s simplicity. Her favourite snack, Mutura, spoke volumes about her axiomatic minimalism. But she was my past, I wouldn’t want to go back there.
How about I got a girl from the ghetto? She could be my soul mate, who knows? The fact that she has been brought up in the ghetto will mean that she understands perfectly what the ghetto’s daily struggles are, and will be able to offer the best help based on first hand experience. But then again I had my doubts.
Most of the ghetto chicks don’t make it beyond high school when it comes to education. And when they do, they usually end up scoring D’s and that signs a death warrant to their academic dreams. But there ought to be one or two diamonds in the rough, don’t you think?
Again, most ghetto girls are sluts. HIV here in the ghetto is as common as common cold. You know, when you are a girl growing up in the ghetto, there isn’t much form of entertainment so you just engage in coitus as a favourite pastime. Abortions are the order of the day, and nearly everyone born around here is an unwanted child.. Also, with such high levels of poverty, very few girls would resist the temptation of having sex with a man for as little as two hundred shillings. I knew it would prove a very hard task to find a girl with closed legs around here. But I hoped there were one or two diamonds in the rough.
I aborted my long train of thought when I realized I’d made my way back to my grandmother’s gate. Outside the gate stood my cousin Nyambu, conversing with another short but incredibly cute girl. Had the gods heard my thoughts and decided to answer my prayers with this cute girl now standing in front of me? There was only one way to find out. I moved forward to say hi to the girls….
TO BE CONTINUED.

A NIGHT RUNNER AMIDST US?

This is a story that happened some few years back, when I was in class
seven about five years ago, and I know you will find it really
interesting.
I attended a boarding school that happens to be located deep in the
heart of Western Province. It is in one of those far off places where
one will have to take several vehicles and a bodaboda to get to the
school from the nearest town, Bungoma. As you travel to the school,
you will notice that in that area, police still use stones as
roadblocks. Yes, that is how remote the area is. The school was
bordered by dense sugarcane plantations on all sides. Such an
environment can really get spooky especially at night, and it
sometimes did.
Talks about imaginary night runners who ruled the place at night were
often told among the pupils, but none of us had actually seen a night
runner on the act. Most of us who had come from urban towns dismissed
such stories as pure myths. Attempts by students from that area to
convince us that such nocturnal human beings actually existed usually
proved futile. Little did we know that our opinion about ghosts, night
runners and wizards was about to change very soon.
One night, at around three in the morning when everyone was sleeping
like a baby, the irritating happened. A loud, harsh, grating sound was
heard coming from the iron roof that provided us shelter. It was
evident that someone had thrown a bucketful or so of gravel on the
iron sheets. Since our dormitory did not have a ceiling, the sound was
loud enough to jerk all of us from sleep. If you doubt that a
bucketful of gravel thrown on iron roofing can be that annoying, then
try it at home and wait for the good spanking that your dad will give
you afterwards.
We all cursed the person who was responsible for that, and our house
prefect, Sikuku, swore vehemently that whoever was responsible for the
act would face the music the following day. To strengthen his threat,
he took a roll call to find out if there was any student absent from
the house at that time. Surprisingly, all of us were in the house
apart from my bedmate, Walter, who had gone home on a sick leave a
week ago.
That morning, most of us found it difficult to concentrate in class
because we were heavy with sleep as a result of the 3am incident. So
come evening, we were all looking forward to experiencing a peaceful
night without any interruptions. In fact, peace for the night was what
Sikuku prayed for during the evening prayers.
What a rude shock it was for us when the same happened just as the
clock struck midnight! The pandemonium that followed in the house as
guys tried to catch the guy who had done the injustice was deafening!
We looked for the culprit everywhere, to no avail. We finally gave up
the hunt and slowly, one by one, we all went back to slumber land.
What is worse than being rudely woken up at midnight by the sound of
gravel coming to contact with your roof? Being woken up again at 3am
by the same sound from your roof! That is exactly what happened. Of
course you don’t expect any of us to be excited by such a galling
incident, but to say that Sikuku was furious would be an
understatement. The guy was literally breathing fire.
 “Whoever you are, I will make sure you regret the day you were
admitted to this school!” He shouted the following day during the
house assembly. “Utakiona cha mtema kuni!” He went on with the
ranting.
Trying to scare the person behind the incident with threats proved
absolutely futile as the same happened the following night too. This
was very infuriating especially to the candidates who needed a
goodnight’s sleep so as to revise efficiently for their KCPE. It was
when the incident occurred one more time that rumour started spreading
that Omulosi, a night runner that was said to be living nearby, was
visiting the school at night. At that point, none of us doubted that
night runners really existed, and only the bravest among us would get
out of bed when the incident occurred the following day.
  Finally, Sikuku had had enough of this madness. He decided to report
the matter to Mr. Mukhebi, our house master. However, Mr. Mukhebi
could hear none of our theories that a night runner was visiting the
school at night, and he insisted that the person responsible for the
act had to be one of the pupils. He asked Sikuku to put together a
team of boys that would be keeping vigil at turns so as to catch the
felon pants down.
For the next few days, we were able to enjoy our sleep as the gravel
incident did not happen for about a week. No sooner had we started
dispelling our fear for night runners than history began to repeat
itself. It seemed that the crook responsible for this was as stubborn
as a mule, and trying to stop him was akin to drawing blood from a
stone. Sikuku again reported the matter to Mr. Mukhebi, who promised
to get to the root of the issue and bring the culprit, night runner or
student, to book.
 One night, at around 10pm when most of the students were sound
asleep, I heard a noise coming from Walter’s bed. This stirred me from
sleep, and though it was dark, I could tell that someone was trying to
get onto Walter’s bed, which was next to mine. I was alarmed since my
friend Walter was yet to report back from his sick leave. So I walked
to Walter’s bed and shook the person, only to realize that it was Mr.
Mukhebi! I was flabbergasted! What was Mr. Mukhebi doing in Walter’s
bed? “Ssssh! Keep quiet!” He whispered. “Am here to find out who has
been throwing those stones on the roof. Now, quietly go back to sleep
and don’t tell anyone that I am here”
I meekly obeyed the teacher, but I was too excited to go to sleep. So,
I decided that I will keep vigil together with Mr. Mukhebi, so I can
witness the grand netting of ‘night runner’.
The ticking seconds gave way to minutes, and the minutes finally gave
birth to hours. Not a soul stirred. I nearly fell asleep, but I
decided to stay awake a little bit longer. Finally, patience paid at
exactly 3am. A short stocky person came into the dorm from the
ablution, and I watched as he made his way to a box where he removed a
can. The guy stealthily made his way to the window next to Walter’s
bed, and he opened it without making as much a sound as a creak.
Sneakily, he steeped on the base of the window and holding on to the
clutch; he heaved his stout body up until he was standing on the base
of the window with both feet. I watched with baited breath as he
prepared to empty the contents of his can onto the roof.
Poor him! No sooner had he stretched his hand than Mr. Mukhebi sprung
from Walter’s bed and pounced on him like a lion attacking a gazelle.
After a short scuffle, the stout person finally threw in the towel and
stopped resisting. The scuffle had awoken a few boys who slept nearby,
and we were all staring at the fracas from our beds. Like a bolt from
the blue, someone switched on the light and we were all astonished at
what we saw. In fact, I had to pinch myself just to make sure that I
wasn’t dreaming. There at the window, held captive in Mr. Mukhebi’s
hands, was Sikuku, our house prefect!!