Fools’ Express

Charles O. Okoth

Fools’ Express

Published in 2019 by Queenex Publishers Ltd

P.O. Box 56049-00200 Nairobi.

Phone: 0727 794 498, 0715 808 200

Email: info@queenexpublishers.co.ke

queenexbooks@gmail.com

Web: www.queenexpublishers.co.ke

transit in any form or by any means: graphic, electronic, mechanical,

photocopy, recording or otherwise any part and or this enre book

without the prior wrien permission of Queenex Publishers Limited.

ISBN: 978-9966-140-04-3

1. The English Bulldog!

It was a warm morning. Wanga sat outside his

house, his chin on his palms. His arms rested on

his knees. His face showed a mixture of anger

and worry as he stared into space, as if begging

for some sympathy and understanding from the

molecules of air in front of him.

He was burning, seething, sizzling, dry broke!

Now, getting broke is a natural ‘curse’ that

befalls any man, even the stinking rich. But there

was an edge to his situation. He had just received

information that his mother-in-law, Tina

Namwaya, would be visiting the following day.

His wife, Khatienje, had just had a baby boy, their

second-born, and as was the custom, his mother-

in-law was coming over to congratulate them, to

see and bless the new-born, and assign it a name

from among those of their forefathers and mothers.

When visiting a son-in-law, a mother-in-law

normally travels in style. She has to dress in a

special way. Even the style of walking changes

when she reaches her daughter’s home. And

there has to be a near-royal escort of equally

extravagantly and brightly dressed women, of an

acceptable build and beauty; sometimes a team

of over twenty!

Wanga could thus not take the visit lightly.

Special meals had to be prepared; and that in

huge quantities. He, the host, had to get lots of

meat, maize our, spices, sugar, baking our,

and lots of other things needed to make a meal

for a visitor of that status.

Wanga knew he could not send word to his

mother-in-law to ask her to postpone her coming.

That would be like announcing to one’s in-laws

that one did not have what it takes; that one was

too poor to have visitors. He knew well that his

mother-in-law would not postpone her coming

just because of his poverty of the moment.

She would insist on coming, for, as she would

doubtless say, she was only coming to see her

grandchild. All she would need, she would argue,

would be probably a cup of water after the long

journey.

Yet Wanga knew that that was not the case. If

she came and went away without the expected

entertainment, he, Wanga, would be terribly

ashamed. He would be the talk of the whole

village and beyond; the man who fed his mother-

in-law on a cup of pure, cold water! Songs would

be composed, and riddles invented, about him.

Sayings of the wise would be quoted to explain

something about him. Proverbs would be coined,

warning men against behaviour such as Wanga’s.

At the next circumcision season, many newly

initiated and their attendants, the notorious

bafulu and matsengetse, would compose songs

about him. They would ridicule him as one of the

most useless men in Shibale, the village where he

resided. He would be ruined for life.

This was not something he could bear.

But think as he would, he could not come up

with a way of escaping the shame. Borrowing,

whether money or goods, was out of the question.

He was known in the whole village for failure to

repay debts. In fact Matsekhe Mbwoli, the local

butcher, had threatened to scrape off some meat

from Wanga’s ‘dry’ calves to make up for what

he had borrowed from his butchery.

He also owed most shopkeepers quite a lot of

money. Nobody from the local shops would think

of dealing with such a crafty, unreliable customer,

unless it was strictly on cash terms. And he knew

he could not get much from his friends and

relatives, either. They had also suffered enough

from his craftiness and unreliability.

Thus in whichever direction his mind took him,

he only found darkness at the end of the tunnel.

He was like a man lost in a thick forest, trying to

nd his way back home, but only succeeding in

going about in circles. He became more and more

worried and confused. He even started sweating,

though it was not hot. The worry and the effort

were enough to raise the temperature!

It was in that condition that his cousin, Odongo,

found him.

Odongo was a very special cousin indeed. What

he seemed to lack in looks, he more than made up

for in native wit. It seemed his big eyes could see

points that others could not. He was the one man

who seemed to understand Wanga perfectly. He

was also the only man willing to help him, any

time, even if it involved doing a few things that

were not generally seen as acceptable in the eyes

of the public. In fact, they had done quite a few of

such things together, and this had brought them

very close.

But Odongo had a few problems.

First, he had very little that he could call his

own. He was far poorer than Wanga. Any time he

got money, it disappeared almost immediately.

His debts were far more and bigger than Wanga’s.

Secondly, he liked joking. The man could joke

about anything, including himself. He took life

far too easily and was everlastingly laughing. He

could make the most serious of situations look

like a theatre of the absurd.

That included funerals. Whenever he went to

a place of mourning, he would start by laughing

at the corpse.

“How silly of you, fellow!” he would remark.

“How could you leave such delicious food and

drinks, just to die? Kwenda uko! You don’t like

busaa and good chang’aa?”

(Busaa and chang’aa were the two most popular

drinks in those parts.)

He would then laugh at the bereaved family,

asking them why they were mourning when

they had more to eat now that one glutton was

gone. They now had the opportunity to share the

deceased’s land, clothes, and wives.

“Don’t pretend!” he would mock amidst

roaring laughter. “Some of you are in celebration

mode.”

Nobody ever dreamt of answering him back,

or even getting annoyed. Indeed mourners, and

even members of a bereaved family, waited for

his arrival at a funeral with a lot of longing. They

would welcome and crowd around him to listen

to his jokes, and have a hearty laugh. They called

him ‘Merry, mad Odongola’.

Wanga would normally accompany Odongo

to these funerals and parties, and partake of the

food and drink his friend was offered. He would

also be guaranteed a seat, even though they were

rarely enough for the many mourners.

But he was not spared embarrassment, for

when it came to joking about Wanga, Odongo

made the jokes as juicy and as extravagant as he

could push them.

Thus telling him about a situation like the one he

was in would surely bring some embarrassment.

But Wanga knew Odongo would joke about it

and reduce the tension.

“Welcome, Kuuka,” Wanga invited him.

They normally called each other ‘Kuuka’,

which meant ‘grandfather’, as a way of showing

their fondness for each other, and to underline

They normally called each other ‘Kuuka’

the fact that they had ‘faced the knife’, or been

circumcised, together.

“Thank you, Kuuka,” Odongo replied. “I was just

passing by on my way to the market. I thought I

could come to greet you, and have a good look at

your wife. How is she? And how is her baby?”

(By so saying, Odongo was simply trying to

pass the message that he doubted the parentage

of the kid, on the father’s side. That was as cruel

as his jokes could get.)

But this time, the joke simply bounced off

target. “All is well, Kuuka,” Wanga replied

disinterestedly.

Odongo eyed him suspiciously. He normally

designed his jokes to provoke somebody into

threatening him with assorted harm; even death.

And they rarely missed their target; least of all

when that target was Wanga, his cousin, for

whom he seemed to have a special stock of lousy

jokes. “I don’t think you are telling the truth,

Cousin,” he now said. “I know you well enough.

You may be a well-known liar, yes; but you are

very poor at it. You sound sad. Cheer up, man.

You have just proved for the second time that

you are a real man. Such a beautiful baby boy!

You are lucky he does not resemble his father.

A thin face is not good for a boy who hopes to

marry one day. When are you brewing us some

beer to celebrate?”

Wanga decided to open up, only hoping

Odongo would not laugh at him and invent

tasteless jokes.

“Kuuka,” he said, his voice cheerless. “I know

I have got a son and all that. But that is the main

reason I am sad.” He held up his hand as Odongo

started to protest. “Let me tell you about it. I

know you don’t understand, but listen. All along

I have been praying that my wife gives birth a bit

later, after our cane has been harvested. Money

would then be available. But alas, it was not to

be. The cane will probably be harvested next

month. Now my mother-in-law is coming, yet I

don’t have a cent. What do I do?”

Odongo started laughing; loudly, annoyingly,

and at length. He opened his big mouth wide,

showing almost all his bad teeth.

“What is funny, Kuuka?” Wanga asked,

annoyed. “I never knew you could laugh at me

like this. I am sorry I revealed my problem to

you.”

“Now, now, relax, broke man!” Odongo said,

still laughing. “You know I never laugh at you.

But what you have said is so funny that I could

die of laughter!”

“But what is funny about it, Kuuka?” Wanga

asked. “Don’t you see the hole I am in? What do

I do to get the money?”

“I don’t know, old fellow,” Odongo answered.

“But I think I can help you on the other issue. The

next time you want your wife to postpone giving

birth, don’t just pray about it. At the smallest

sign that she may already be thinking of it, warn

her that she will know who you are if she dares

to give birth before a certain date. And let her

know that you are serious. Shout very harshly

and look erce. Snarl. Even the little fellow will

clearly understand that conditions are not good

out there, and hence the need to postpone his

journey. That is a sure method!”

Even Wanga could not help laughing.

“I think you should be killed, Kuuka!” he

said, trying hard to look angry. “You are such a

mongoose! Can’t you see I am in a problem?”

It was at that moment that he noticed Odongo

looking at him with shining eyes. Wanga knew

that look. He had seen it many times. He knew

that Odongo had something on his mind; some

bright idea that he wanted to give him. And as

he knew, Odongo’s ideas could prove quite

workable. Indeed, as Odongo normally said, they

were somewhere between a signed blank cheque

and a box of lost treasure.

“I can tell you how to escape from the hole you

have talked of,” he said, still laughing merrily.

“But you will not get it for free. You must pay for

it. What will you give me? Let me see,” he seemed

to be thinking deeply, “I will have a full debe of

busaa and two bottles of pure chang’aa. Take it or

leave it,” he added, referring to a twenty-litre tin

of the local brew.

“Tell me rst. I will do something about

it, denitely,” Wanga said, leaning forward

expectantly.

“Well,” Odongo said, knowing his friend was

desperate, “had you known that Wanyonyi, your

friend, has been paid for his cane? He got his

cheque yesterday, and today he went to town. I

saw him go. I know he went to cash it.”

Now Wanyonyi was a neighbour of Wanga’s.

He also had a lot in common with Wanga. They

did many things together, including hunting

wild animals in the forests around Shibale, next

to the River Nzoia.

“How much money was it?” Wanga asked.

“About a hundred thou.” Odongo’s big eyes

shone with greed. “He got about twenty stacks,

remember? They have paid him well.”

“Sure? Good for him. But I can’t pay you

anything for your information. You know

Wanyonyi can’t lend me any money.”

“I thought you needed some rather badly?”

Odongo asked. “Are you saying you can’t nd

a way of getting money from Wanyonyi? You of

all people?”

“Look, Kuuka. You know I owe Wanyonyi a lot

of money. He can’t give me anything.”

“I am not saying you go to him, kneel, and ask

for money,” Odongo said, grinning evilly. “I am

not even expecting you to go and tell him a story

about how you will denitely pay him this time.

He will never believe you. But you can think of

something. Unless,” he closed one eye in a big

wink, “you have lost your touch.” He rose up to

go. “Just remember my drinks.”

Alone again, Wanga sat very still, thinking of a

way of getting money from Wanyonyi. Somehow,

he knew that Wanyonyi was his only hope. It

would be hard, but he would have to give it a try.

He could remember the many occasions on

which he had done it successfully. Some of the

ways were tricky, some wicked, but somehow

they had succeeded. Would he think of a way

this time? Some new way that he had not tried

before?

Suddenly, an idea struck him. He remembered

that Wanyonyi was a part-time hunter, just like

him. And he recalled that recently Wanyonyi had

lost Shisia, his big hunting bulldog, to a scheming

leopard.

He would get something that Wanyonyi really

needed for his hunting. He would get him a new

hunting dog. Wanyonyi could be trusted to buy

it.

Off he set for the forest. The dog he had in

mind would need trapping. And he knew where

he would set the trap.

The trap needed was quite simple; just a few

sticks and special bait. Armed with these, he

went to a section of the forest where he knew

foxes could be found. If he was lucky, he would

trap one in about thirty minutes.

And that is exactly what happened. Before

long, he heard the cry of a trapped fox. He rushed

to it, and ‘released’ the trapped animal into a

huge sisal sack. Being a hunter, he did not have a

problem carrying his wriggling, protesting prize

back, to ‘time’ his ‘customer’, Wanyonyi.

It took some time, his walking back and forth

with his luggage. But at last, he saw Wanyonyi

coming up the road. There was no doubting the

man had money. He was struggling under the

weight of several green paper-bags, which all

seemed swollen with whatever they contained.

Wanga could imagine it all: wheat our, sifted

maize meal, baking powder, cooking oil, loaves

of bread, fruit jam, Bumutiru honey, biscuits,

cakes, them all! He swallowed noisily. Just what

he needed to gain the respect of his mother-in-

law, and her people! (Bumutiru honey is a special

type of honey, made underground by special

bees. There is nothing like it for sweetness and

purity).

Wanga started walking towards him quite fast,

intent on giving the impression that he was in a

big hurry. It was thus no surprise that he almost

passed without noticing Wanyonyi.

“Hey, old boy, Wanga. What hurry are you

in?” Wanyonyi wondered.

“Oh,” Wanga pretended great surprise,

looking over his shoulder. “It is you, my friend,

Kunyonyi Kukali?”

That was the nickname Wanyonyi had earned

around here. It meant ‘huge bird’.

“Ah, Wanga my friend, you mean you can

forget me?” Wanyonyi complained. “You can

even pass me by without a greeting?”

“I am sorry, Wanyonyi,” Wanga replied,

looking at him admiringly. “You are from town, I

see. Why, you are carrying a whole supermarket

in your hands! Are you having visitors? And why

couldn’t you get a bodaboda?” he asked, referring

to the handy bicycle and motorcycle taxis.

Wanga could not help envying the man. He

looked so happy. He was smiling widely, though

the heavy load had made him sweat quite a lot.

He wished he were that man, carrying all that

money and shopping back home. But well, if his

plan went through…

When Wanyonyi started to explain why he

was carrying so much luggage, Wanga cut him

short.

“I am sorry I must leave. I am in a hurry to get

to the market.”

“Why, Wanga?” Wanyonyi complained. “You

mean you can’t spare even a few minutes for

me?”

“That is not the case,” Wanga assured him.

“I am just in a hurry because I have something I

must deliver to the market as quickly as possible.

Someone is waiting for it.”

As expected, Wanyonyi was curious.

“What is it you are going to sell?” he asked

eagerly. “Let me see, please.”

Wanga smiled and started walking off.

“No, my friend,” he said, over his shoulder.

“Not now. I am sorry, but I can’t lose time. Let

me rush to the market, then I can come over to

your house so that we can talk at leisure. From

the look of things, your house will be a good

place to be this evening.”

Wanyonyi looked at him, hardly able to hide

his anxiety. “It is good for you to promise to pay

me a visit,” he said, looking keenly at the bag.

Anyone could detect movements in it which

were not entirely ordinary. “Just show me what

you are going to sell. I just want to know. Or is it

so secret?”

“It is not secret,” Wanga replied, looking over

his shoulder, as if very eager to go away. “You

know I don’t deal in drugs. The idea is, it is

something you may not be interested in. At least,

it is something you cannot possibly buy. So, let

me take it to those who can buy it.”

He then made as if to go away.

“Just a minute, please!” Wanyonyi started

following his friend. “What do you mean it is

something I can’t afford? Why then won’t you let

me see it? Just a peep, please.”

Wanga looked back at his friend. It was time to

press further.

“Look, Kunyonyi,” he said, as if trying to

control his impatience. “I have a special order to

deliver this to someone in town. You are actually

delaying me. If you must know, this is a special

dog. It is an English bulldog, imbwa isungu.”

“Hey,Wanga!” Wanyonyi said anxiously.

“You mean you have such a dog, and you refuse

to let me see it? Don’t you know I lost my great

hunting bulldog, Shisia? I have not caught so

much as a rabbit these last few days!”

“This is what I was fearing,” Wanga spoke

as if talking to himself. “Why did I have to run

into…?” Then he ‘remembered’ his friend.

“Really, Wanyonyi, why can’t you let me go?

This dog has been specially ordered for by an

Arab in town. I can show it to you, yes, but of

course you cannot buy it. It is imbwa isungu, very

rare, and very expensive. I had to go to a dealer

in a neighbouring country to get it.”

Wanyonyi started behaving as if he had been

abused, or called a coward.

“Expensive?” he asked, almost swelling visibly.

“You mean it is too expensive for people like me,

ha? Don’t you know that we are the Englishmen

who remained when Vasco da Gama and John

Rebmann left this country, after independence?

Why shouldn’t we own English dogs? Tell me:

can this one be used for hunting?”

Wanga looked at him as if he was joking. Then

he looked reverently at the bag.

“This dog,” he said, nodding approvingly,

“once almost killed a leopard. It was a erce

ght, I am told. By the time the hunters arrived,

the leopard was as good as dead. You are a

hunter, and you know that when a leopard bites

a hunting dog, it becomes greatly erce. Why else

am I taking all this trouble to carry it in a sack,

instead of pulling it along on a leash! Well, that is

what I am taking to the Arab. It will surely keep

thieves and robbers away from his house.”

As he spoke, he could see Wanyonyi’s eyes

popping out, almost as if he was hearing a great

piece of music. The man was describing exactly

what he needed – a great hunting dog.

Finally he said, “My friend, please hold it. We

can talk.”

“What about? I told you I am in a hurry.”

“Wanga,” Wanyonyi pleaded, putting his

green paper bags down. “I want to talk about

your dog. I want to buy it.”

“Buy it? You cannot, Wanyonyi. I told you the

dog has been specially ordered for!”

“I heard you,” Wanyonyi said as he looked

at the bag lovingly. “I am also ordering for it

specially. From a great friend. A hunter like me,

and a neighbour.”

He pulled at Wanga’s hand, indicating that he

should sit beside him.

“Do you realize what you are doing?” Wanga

asked. “You know the Arab is going to give me

ve thousand shillings, and a refund of the fare

to the neighbouring country and back? Not to

mention the food and drinks on the way.”

“I know what you are saying,” Wanyonyi

said, waving his hand in the air as Wanga tried to

protest. “I am not telling you that I will have your

dog for free. Just let me see it. If it is what you say

it is, I will pay for it. In cash!”

Wanga looked at him, then laughed.

“I know you want to see the dog. Let me show

it to you. Only, note that it is a very erce dog.

It must not be let out of the bag until it is tied

on a strong chain. Otherwise it will ran off, and

probably cause a lot of havoc, biting people, and

the like. That is why I can’t let it out. I hope you

can see the claws through the bag, can’t you?

Red, strong and sharp! See the way it is grabbing

that sack? I pray it doesn’t succeed in tearing its

way out!”

Wanyonyi looked at the sharp claws lovingly,

then nodded approvingly. “Great!” he said. “You

are right. They are strong, sharp claws. Wonderful

weapons for hunting.”

“Now I will open this part a bit,” Wanga said,

indicating the upper part of the sack that was

secured using a sisal string. “The dog will thrust

its head out, and you can have a look at its teeth

as it snarls in protest. The teeth that sank into the

neck of that doomed leopard.”

Wanyonyi could not believe his eyes. The

‘dog’ had a strong mouth, and very sharp teeth!

He was looking at the very dog that he needed!

With this, he would surely be the best hunter in

these parts.

“Wanga Mukhwasi,” he said, using the title they

normally used to refer to each other, meaning

‘brother- in-law’. “I will have the dog. Please. I

will pay the ve thousand, plus the money you

used for travelling. Tell that Arab you will get

him another dog.”

Wanyonyi waited anxiously as the seller

pretended to think deeply. At last, he nodded

and said, in a tone almost of sorrow, “It is okay.

You are my friend. I will try to get another dog

for the Arab. After all, we will both use this

particular dog. I would personally have kept it

if I had not promised that Arab to get him one at

this particular time. Just give me the money, but

please double the fare refund so that I can go for

another dog.”

Wanyonyi counted out seven thousand

shillings, and gave it to Wanga.

“The extra money is for fare to the neighbouring

country and back, plus your meals. Get the

man another dog. This one is a Godsend for us,

Mukhwasi. I will not deny you the opportunity of

using it. Why, we may even breed more of these

and sell! I am grateful, my friend.”

Wanga looked at the money rather scornfully,

almost sneering at it. Wanyonyi looked at him,

horried. Could the man be changing his mind?

“I think you should add ve hundred shillings,”

Wanga said after a one-minute silence. “It has

been a hard decision to make. I am stressed. Don’t

you think I deserve a drink?”

Wanyonyi anxiously gave him the money.

This deal, he thought, was too sweet to play with.

It needed immediate sealing.

After he had lovingly taken his dog, he set off

for home, his luggage now bearing down on both

his shoulders. Wanga pocketed the money and

started off for town.

A few paces away, he turned around to shout

after Wanyonyi: “Hey! Remember to handle

him properly. Don’t let him run away. You

understand these things: you are a hunter!”

“I will handle him well,” Wanyonyi replied. “I

am an expert, remember? Oh, my sweet bulldog.

Fierce tigerlet. My prince! Klukluklukluklu!” (This

is the common way of calling a dog in those

parts).

Dear reader, you may now close your eyes

and imagine what happened. Some of it should

not tax your imagination. The mother-in-law

and her entourage of twenty-ve overdressed

women must have been very well entertained,

ha? What with the bags of wheat our, kilos of

meat, cooking fat, various brands of fruit juices,

sodas, rice, and the like!

“My daughter,” Tina told her girl when

they had time to whisper together. “You have a

husband and a half. This is a real man. Wa! All

that food! He will look after you well. And he

is giving you sons all the time! That is the way

things should be. I am a happy, proud mother!”

The daughter could not help smiling shyly,

but lovingly. Her husband was proving himself a

real man. She was very happy, and lucky.

And how about our hunter friend?

On reaching home, he hurried to get a rope.

He wanted to give his family a pleasant surprise.

They would, he told himself, just see a wonderful

English bulldog tied onto the tree at the exact

centre of the homestead. They would marvel at

how clever and enterprising he was. An English

bulldog for his family! Wooow!

Slowly and carefully, he held the rope in

place, right at the mouth of the sack. Then, more

slowly and carefully, he started removing the

string that secured the outlet.. slowly…loop by

loop…inch by inch…Careful now, he advised

himself. There now…the head...and…there…!

He could not clearly understand what was

happening. It was like a dream, like he was

seeing things, some of which were not there. But

a part of him responded.

“Woooooi!” he howled in great pain.

The beast had dug its fangs deep into his

hand!

For the next three or so minutes he was running

all over his compound, seemingly engaging in a

confused dance that completely lacked in style.

It involved jumping high into the air at irregular

intervals, clenching his teeth tightly between

howls, and running several steps in various

“Woooooi!” he howled in great pain.

directions! All that time he was tightly holding

onto the stricken hand. His howling was also very

unmusical to the experienced ear. It involved

invoking the names of several dead clansmen,

and giving the title of each, with the word ‘My

mama!’ making the main chorus. It was, in short,

a wonderful lesson in his clan’s oral history.

As the show progressed towards, then past, the

crescendo, the audience grew in number, until it

was quite sizeable. They were all bemused, and

kept wondering loudly why the names of the

living dead were being so loudly remembered,

and recited. They wondered why Khapere, the

great womanizer, who was the great-grandfather

of the clan, was repeatedly mentioned, as if he

was right there, in attendance. His numerous

women were also being mentioned, and their

clans invoked.

They shouted questions at him, but the star

performer was not in a position to talk – yet. The

reasons for this are not hard to calculate, for the

bitterness of the bite was sharp indeed.

It is said by those who were near the arena of

that show from the beginning that something

resembling a dog was seen taking off at a very

high speed. They did not have a reliably good

look at it; but they all agreed that it resembled no

dog they had ever seen at Shibale, and ran even

faster! In fact, it was gone before they could blink

a few times in both surprise and admiration.

“It was an English bulldog. That it denitely

was,” Wanyonyi said, tenderly nursing his

wounds. They were now seated under a tree,

consoling him after his star performance, glad

that he had not seen ghosts. “I have lost greatly.”

And in answer to an amused observer’s

enquiry about whether he was not bitter with the

bad beast for its lack of loyalty, he said cynically,

“A good hunting dog should have teeth as sharp

and strong as those that dug into my hand. I am

a hunter – I can’t complain. It should also have

that speed. Fiaaaf! like a ash, and it was gone.

It really was an English bulldog – imbwa isungu.”

Then he added, after an appealing look around

the group of sympathizers, “My brothers, please

help me. If someone sees a majestic- looking dog

around here, help me get it. It will be the dog we

are talking of. Kingly it was, brown coat, smooth

fur – English in every way. I will richly reward

the one who nds it.”

Wanga, who had been called over to accept an

apology over the careless handling of his English

dog, could not agree more. He duly forgave

Wanyonyi, and also accepted a few bottles of

good, strong chang’aa and a leg of mutton, both

of which he carried home. He needed to thank

and entertain his friend, Odongo, and also feed

his wife well.

Little did he know that one day he would

be found out, and Wanyonyi would have his

revenge…

2. ‘Urea Suger’

As they say, whatever goes round comes

round.

Wanga, after the above exploit, wondered

how easy it was to cheat people, and get what

one needed from them. He told himself that this

could easily be the easiest way to earn a living

instead of overworking oneself. All one had to do

was sweeten one’s tongue and money would be

pressed into one’s hand. This world, he exulted,

was packed to the brim with people he rated

fools, who could not tell a lie from the truth.

So it came to pass that after entertaining his

special guests, and receiving a resounding vote

of thanks from the village orator, Kasikoni-Lolo,

Wanga again felt the weight of being cashless.

****

It was that time of the year when all the sugar

factories in the country close down for routine

maintenance.

During that time, the factories are checked

thoroughly. Worn-out parts are replaced, boilers

cleaned, cracks identied and sealed, conveyer

belts reinforced, and all such procedures as

would improve the efciency of the factories

undertaken.

Needless to say, that is the time when there is

an acute shortage of sugar in the country. People

desperately look for the commodity, and evil

traders hoard it so as to make quick, but dirty,

prots.

It was at such a time that the events in this

brief history occurred. And it was in the vicinity

of such a factory that our friend, Wanga, found

himself. And as has already been hinted, true to

his nature, he was as broke as a stone is decient

of water. Indeed, he sat alone on a stone at the

back of his village, appropriately named Shibale,

meaning ‘small stones’.

From where he sat, he could see the great

river, Nzoia, snaking its way through the bright-

green sugarcane bushes that stretched across

the landscape. It roared mightily, living up to

its reputation of being ‘the Angry Damsel’. Far

beyond, one could almost espy the great lake,

Sango, where Nzoia nally ended her tiresome

journey.

But the man named above was not admiring

the damsel. He was wondering how he was going

to get money to feed his family. And it was not

mere food that he needed. His wife, Khatienje,

loved nice, soft things - mandazis, chapatis, cakes,

and the like. She also liked beef, especially the

softer portions. Liver and kidney and llet were

her favourites.

In fact, she had demanded for just that this

morning. If he missed that, she would have some

chicken, she had said, yawning as if chicken was

a bore, or too cheap a dish for her type.

“And I haven’t eaten deep-fried tilapia for

some time now,” she had said, looking at him

accusingly. “Aromatic Pakistani rice is also

becoming rare in this house. What is life coming

to? Can’t you remember even simple things like

in those these days? Must I think of everything?

You will need to pull up your socks, Baba Stonie.”

(‘Stonie’ was the name she had given their rst-

born boy.)

Her husband had duly promised to try and get

her what she had asked for. As they said, she was

still ‘not strong’ after her second birth, and so

needed to eat a lot of good food. A good, grateful

husband had to provide all the good food that a

wife needed, especially one who had given birth

to a second son in only two years!

Yet when he made that promise, he did not

have the slightest idea how he would get the

items requested for. The fact was simply that he

did not have money. If he were to get all that his

wife needed, he would have to get a loan from

somewhere. Yet, as has already been seen, he was

not credit-worthy.

Perhaps it would not have been so bad if

Khatienje had known a thing or two about her

husband.

When Wanga went to her place to talk to

her parents, he had introduced himself as a

senior supervisor at the sugar factory. He was

thus worthy of such a wife, a girl who had just

completed high school. He told them that he

would ensure she was trained as an accountant,

after which he would get her a job at the factory.

His sister, who was the go-between, afrmed

what her brother had said. As she was married in

that village, Khatienje’s parents believed the story

Wanga told them. Bwibo, Wanga’s sister, could

not possibly lie to them, since it would greatly

damage her reputation if the lie was found out.

And what was the truth? Save for petty hunting,

it was simply this: that Wanga was jobless. He

had had a job as a casual worker at the factory,

but that did not last. He was not reliable. One day

he was caught with ten kilogrammes of sugar

which he was trying to sneak out of the factory.

That was the last straw.

Up to now, neither his in-laws nor his wife

knew this truth. After all, he always managed to

con someone and from ‘the fruits of his labours’,

he could feed his family.

But today, he seemed to have bitten the dust.

He could not think of anything he could do. He

could not borrow, and there was no one to con.

So, what was he going to do? Surely, his wife

could not go hungry? If that happened, she could

decide to go back to her parents, and would no

doubt tell them that her husband was unable to

feed her and the children. It would be the most

shameful thing ever to happen to him.

As he stared at the water racing along its wet

path, he heard an ugly, throaty roaring sound

just behind him. Hurrrr-ng’oooaw! it went.

It sounded like the triumphant, joyful

exclamation of a crocodile that had at last found

its prey after a long, hungry search.

He cried out loudly and jumped into the air,

hoping to create as big a distance between him

and death as possible. At the same time he

struggled to look back - fearing he would see the

inside of the open mouth of the charging, deadly

reptile.

But, much to his relief and anger, he found

himself staring into the unseemly face of Odongo,

his cousin and friend.

“You scared me!” he shouted at the smiling

face. “Kuuka, when will you grow up? How can

you sneak behind me and roar like that?”

The man addressed was laughing like an open

culvert. His lips seemed to have repelled each

other with great force; so great was the distance

between them! And it was as if he was airing his

teeth in the sun to dry, or at least baring them for

inspection. In his effort to satisfy his lust for laughter,

He cried out loudly and jumped into the air

his big eyes seemed to close completely; the small

opening remaining being blocked by a tiny, shining

tear-drop of merriment.

“How are you, Kuuka?” he asked as soon as he

could control his roaring mirth. “You know, you can

make a normal person die of laughter. How can you

jump out of your skin and then crawl back so fast,

just because someone has come near you? Were you

circumcised in a hospital, or at the River?”

(Among Wanga’s people, it was customary to

undergo the rite of passage along the banks of the

great river, Nzoia. But some preferred to go to

hospital, where one was cut without pain due to

anesthesia. These were generally seen as cowards.)

“It is not something to joke about,” Wanga

said, trying to smile. “You know there are hippos

and crocodiles in this river, and they can kill one

in no time. And you sure look like a handsome

hippo; at least in the face.”

“Hey,” Odongo said, still vibrating with

laughter, “what has come over you, Kuuka? Why

are you so touchy today? Cheer up, man. You

were born once, and you will die once. There is

no need to worry. Life is sweet, wewe! After all,

I was only repaying you for what you did to me

the other time at my house.”

(He was referring to an incident when Wanga

went to see him at his house. As soon as he opened

the door, Wanga barked powerfully. Odongo let

out a loud howl of horror, then hurriedly shut

and bolted the door. Wanga found it extremely

funny, and howled with laughter.)

“Well,” answered Wanga. “Life is sweet for

the likes of you, who have no families and wives

to disturb them. You can afford to roam around

doing nothing and worrying about nothing. All

you need to do is watch out for a house from

which smoke is rising, enter and start scattering

your useless jokes. When the food is brought, you

descend upon it as if you have worked for it.”

“And why not?” Odongo said, laughing.

“After all, my work is to joke. Why shouldn’t I

be paid for doing my job? Of course,” he winked

wickedly at the air above, “I fully expect some

jealousy from the jobless…but that is normal.”

“I would actually recommend payment if the

jokes were not so stale and tasteless,” Wanga

answered, still unhappy. The man was adding

insult to injury, trying to remind him that he,

Wanga, was jobless. “I still suggest you try to

grow up. For how long do you intend to remain

a baby?”

Perhaps it should be mentioned here that

Odongo did not have a wife, or children. And,

as he normally said, it was not in his immediate

plans to have a family. Whenever any suggestion

was made in that direction, he simply joked that

he did not need a wife. He could not, he said, trust

someone who was not his relative to make his

meals, and hung about his house in his absence.

He could not give the keys to all locks in his

house to a total stranger. He usually wondered

how people could make such mistakes. He even

pointed out some of the people who had done so

and were busy regretting; one of them being his

own friend and cousin, Wanga.

“You want me to grow up into what, Kuuka?”

he asked, in answer to Wanga’s suggestion. “Do

you want me to become sad and miserable just

so that you can say I am grown up? I say that

because you are indeed miserable. Tell me why

you look so sad.”

“None of your business,” Wanga replied. “I

am just thinking. You know I like thinking, just

for the sake of it. I am a thinker.”

Again, Odongo set off laughing loudly. He

had also gone to school, in fact up to Form Two.

He thus knew people like Socrates.

“My God!” he hooted. “Are you likening

yourself to serious people like Socrates? Surely,

you are less mad than that? Be serious, man! I

know you have a problem. Just tell me about it.

Have I not helped you in the past?”

Wanga smiled. The man was right. This cousin

of his had helped him a great deal in the past.

He seemed to have great ideas when it came to

tricking people, and in more cases than not, they

did work! Like the idea of Wanyonyi and his

English bulldog.

“Okay, Kuuka. I need money. Can you help

me?”

This again set the man roaring with laughter.

“You want me to lend you money?” he howled.

“Where from? Would you suck beer through a

blocked straw dipped in dry sand?”

This was true. Odongo was famous for being

almost permanently broke. He had so many

debts that if he was to be forced to work to repay,

he would have to live for another three centuries.

But then, when Wanga asked for help from

him, it was not money he was thinking of. It was

ideas. All he needed to do was point out an idea,

and leave Wanga to do the rest. And Wanga

could be trusted not to goof.

So when he fell quiet suddenly, Wanga

knew he had an idea; one that could translate

into money, hopefully. He could almost see his

nancial problems being solved. So he also kept

quiet, waiting for this genius of conmanship to

utter his thieving oracle.

After about a minute, Odongo smiled widely,

and shook Wanga roughly.

“You bastard!” he roared. “Tell me what you

will give me if I give you a bright idea.”

“Tell me what it is rst.”

“It is right here, on my tongue!” And he stuck

out his strange-coloured tongue. Wanga wanted

to look away, but desperation forced him to be

polite. “I know the idea will work,” he said, with

a lot of condence. “You can take it or leave it.”

“Kuuka,” Wanga begged, “just tell me. You

know if something comes out of it, you will

be handsomely rewarded. Have I ever let you

down?”

He waited with anxiety. He knew that his

cousin would not refuse to give him ideas. After

all, he always beneted. “You thieving bugger!”

Odongo said at long last. “I don’t know exactly

what you will do, but I have information that

Wanyonyi wants to sell some urea. He was given

too much for his farm. He has ve extra bags. I

know you will think of something, you conman.”

With that information, Odongo rose to leave.

“Just remember,” he said, as he walked off.

“Better think of something. I expect some drinks

from you in the evening.”

After Odongo had left, Wanga sat still, deeply

in thought. How was he to get some urea from

Wanyonyi? He still owed him money. True, he

had got some from him over the English bulldog,

but would he willingly offer his urea to him so

that he could sell it?

Then some idea struck him, just like a verse

recalled from the revelations of the Patron Demon

of conmen. And he practically ran to Wanyonyi’s!

After polite greetings he sat down, pretending

to be very bored. It would not do to let Wanyonyi

think that he wanted fertilizer from him. He knew

that by and by, the man himself would start the

topic. Wanga was known as a man who could x

and seal deals.

“It is very hard to sell urea now,” Wanyonyi

complained. They had discussed the weather,

delays in payment for sugarcane delivered to

the factory, the impending elections of company

directors, and the like. “Those fellows brought

me ve extra bags. I have to pay for it, and with

interest. I wish I could get somewhere to sell it.

But it is past top-dressing season, alas!”

“Oh boy,” Wanga sympathized. “You poor

man. And those fellows will charge you a lot of

money, since they have actually loaned you the

fertilizer. Exploiters all. So, what do you intend

to do?”

“I don’t know, Mukhwasi,” Wanyonyi said.

“But the luggage is occupying a lot of space. I

have a good mind to pour it into River Nzoia.”

“Oh no!” Wanga said sympathetically. “But

now, what is there to do? You have to keep it safely

till planting time next year, or sell it cheaply now.

And I hope you know how to keep it – away from

people and livestock. And water, of course. But I

expect you have enough room, Kunyonyi Kukali.”

“Don’t joke, Mukhwasi. I have no room. With

three wives, each giving birth competently, you

don’t expect me to have room. I keep it in that

corner,” he said, pointing.

“What!” Wanga almost shouted. He stood up,

slowly, unfolding himself inch by inch.

Wanyonyi also did the same, almost as if he

was trying to match his friend’s actions. He

was alarmed as he stared at Wanga, wondering

what could be the matter. He looked around his

house carefully, just in case there was a snake, or

some strange animal which would need caution

to handle. Seeing none, he again looked at his

friend, and asked, almost in a whisper, “What is

it, Mukhwasi? Where is it? Tell me what you have

seen.”

The now shaking man looked at him as if he

was a creature from outer space; so surprised

was he. His friend became even more alarmed.

Wanga signaled to him to accompany him

outside. He held his nose as he went, making his

friend do the same.

“You mean,” Wanga started as soon as they

were a safe distance from the house, “that

you have not heard? You have not read in the

magazine that urea causes cancer, the type called

deep-rooted? It cannot be cured even using the

Wanga signaled to him to accompany him

radioactive method. Oh dear!” He breathed out

the last words, as if in extreme horror.

Wanyonyi was shocked. “Are you serious? It

actually causes cancer?”

“Well, I read it in an American medical

magazine,” Wanga said, sounding like a

university professor. “It causes cancer of the

heart. The heart gets eaten away and develops

big holes. It can also cause cancer of the eyes

and the brain. The article says that this type of

cancer cannot be treated. The parts it affects are

too delicate to treat using any of the known,

tough methods, like x-rays and something called

infruret. But don’t look so worried. I hope you

have not kept it here for very long? The article

says breathing in urea for two weeks is almost an

overdose.”

“Lord!” Wanyonyi exclaimed, his eyes popping

out. “My good Lord in heaven! I am dead! I have

had this junk here for almost eight days now!”

“Are you serious?” Wanga showed genuine

surprise and concern. “My friend, surely – but

haven’t you read the article? It was in the New

York Terms.”

“I rarely read magazines,” Wanyonyi replied.

“But my concern now is my condition, and that

of my family. What does the article recommend?”

“Well,” Wanga looked as knowledgeable as

possible. “I remember the recommendations.

Further dosage is denitely to be avoided. The

body develops resistance for small doses, even if

some damage has already been done. Then the

body repairs itself. I suggest you ensure you don’t

subject yourself to further dosage. You say you are

selling the fertilizer? Have you already got a buyer?

You are very lucky…”

“I haven’t,” replied Wanyonyi hurriedly. “I don’t

know what to do. Honestly, I may throw away the

stuff.”

“Hey, don’t!” Wanga exclaimed. “That is

expensive stuff. You can’t throw it away. Can’t you

keep it somewhere far, in a store, for example? But it

must be outside the house, remember.”

“I have no room for it,” Wanyonyi replied. “Do

you have somewhere to keep it for me? Or can you

get me someone who can have it?”

Wanga pretended to think deeply. At last he

seemed to have hit upon an idea.

“Look, I can try to convince someone to buy it. But

the price may not be much.” He mentioned a gure

which was just a quarter of the market price.

“No problem,” Wanyonyi replied hurriedly.

An arrangement was thus quickly made for

Wanga to collect the dangerous stuff and go convince

some kind-hearted soul to buy it – at a give-away

price, of course. He was to bring the money, and

earn a commission.

The next step was even easier.

As we have seen, there was a sugar famine around

that time. Shibale, being a place close to a giant

factory, had many people milling around, hoping

for some stray sugar, as it was known that there was

a chance of getting some there. This is something

Wanga knew very well.

Some of these people came from places which had

no sugar factories, and were thus desperate to get

sugar to sell in their shops, or for domestic use. The

situation was desperate, and many an enterprising

businessman would make a killing each year at a

time such as this.

Thus Wanga knew exactly how to get a customer.

All he had to do was walk around the various groups

and have his pick. A wink, and his man was in the

bag.

The man turned out to be a Mr. Abukusi, a retail

and wholesale businessman in the small town of

Kilimimi, almost fty kilometers away.

Apart from distance, Wanga knew that in

Kilimimi, the fertilizer called urea was unknown, for

residents were mainly keepers of cattle. So dealing

with Abukusi ensured him of double protection.

Wanga assured him he could get him ve fty-

kilogram bags of a very special, imported sugar.

It was delicious, and more costly than the normal

white sugar.

The man, eager to seal the deal, agreed, and they

decided to meet in a small hotel room in town.

“The police are on high alert,” he informed

Abukusi. “We can be arrested, and that will cost

you more money. Come with the cash, ready, and

bodabodas to help you carry your sugar.”

The man nodded vigorously, and went off to raid

his mobile money account.

****

“Here you are,” Wanga told Abukusi, when

they met again, two hours later, in the small hotel

room. “I am sure the people in Kilimimi have

never seen such pure, white sugar. They should

love it.”

He scooped a bit of the ‘sugar’. It was glucose,

and tasted wonderful to the inexperienced

Abukusi.

“Mmmmph!” he uttered in delight, staring

gleefully at the imported miracle. “Wa,-wa! This

is the thing! This is sugar made from pure honey!”

Wanga had already collected the special sugar

from Wanyonyi, and brought it to the customer.

Of course, he had had the presence of mind to

repack it in special bags with the label, ‘Pure White

Suger. Produse of Afriganistand’. Five bags in all.

In a small container, he had put a few grams of

glucose as the ‘sample’; a little of which he had

offered the delighted Abukusi.

He modestly protested about the honey idea,

but agreed that it tasted like no sugar that even he,

Wanga, had tasted. And, he added, two spoonfuls

could sweeten a whole kettle that could serve ten

people. So, since it was special imported white

‘suger’, he was charging two hundred shillings a

kilo. Abukusi could sell for three hundred, and it

would be over in the twinkling of an eye. Sugar

was scarce, Wanga emphasized unnecessarily.

Abukusi was free to come back for more, but with

more money. There were thirty bags somewhere,

Wanga assured him.

The total cost came to fty thousand shillings.

Wanga decided to give a discount of two

thousand.

“Actually it is not prot I am interested in,”

he informed his client. “I like helping people.

Someone as honest as you should be promoted in

business. Eat that two thou.”

“You are very kind,” Abukusi said, smiling

widely. “What would the world be like without

people like you? I am very grateful, Mukhwasi,

and may God bless you.”

(He called him ‘Mukhwasi’, ‘brother-in-law’, to

show the level of trust he had in his new friend.

What a good passenger in Wanga’s train, Fools’

Express!)

****

It would not be fair for a learned mind to

wonder what could have happened next.

Various clans of food obviously appeared

on Khatienje’s table, to her absolute delight

and satisfaction. Her man, she noted to herself,

was showing he was a man, yet again. He was

showing his love and dedication. But, as she had

“I like helping people...”

been advised by her mother, she should not show

openly that she was satised. A man, she had

been advised, must be kept under pressure. If a

woman showed she was satised, the man would

start thinking he was some miracle-worker, who

could satisfy women. He would thus go for

others, if only to satisfy them in their different

ways. That was the nature of men, she was told.

And at Kilimimi?

If you have a strong enough imagination,

obviously you have seen thunder in your mind.

The fellow Abukusi, after selling the suger,

soon got into trouble. His customers discovered

that they had been cheated out of their money by

someone they had trusted all this time. They came

back breathing ames, scorpions, crossbones and

bare skulls. They demanded for a refund of their

money, and compensation for the damage the

‘salt’ had done to their cooking equipment. The

man Abukusi had to oblige, since what he had sold

was not imported white sugar, but suger! Thus,

as Wanga was enjoying with his family, another

family was suffering. And the chief sufferer was

the man who had been cheated of his hard-earned

cash; the man Abukusi, businessman at Kilimimi.

Probably Wanga would not have enjoyed his

meal as he did, and drank all those bottles of beer,

if he had known what a determined man Abukusi

was. Even as he, Abukusi, counted his losses, he

swore vengeance. And those who knew him also

knew that he never rested till he had got his man.

In this case, his man was a certain Wanga.

3. Company Sugarcane!

It was one of Wanga’s bad days, yet again. He

really did not know what to do, for he was again

stone broke. The money he had got from selling

the strange product called suger had just zzled

out, like a small lump of ice hurled into a furnace.

Indeed, thinking backwards, he could not

pinpoint what he had spent the money on. He

could only remember a few trips to the various

supermarkets in Kakamega, clothe shops, and

some ‘hopelessly’ expensive bars. Of course, he

could not shop or drink at Shibale for obvious

reasons: Abukusi could easily surface and do

assorted havoc!

And then, just when the money was getting

nished, his in-laws arrived!

What one may not know, since not all readers of

this history may be familiar with the requirements

of Wanga’s community, is that one’s in-laws are

very special relatives indeed. One must struggle

to ‘build a name’ with such people. One must

talk to them well, feed them like they are porkers

being readied for a very competitive market,

entertain them like they are paying for it, and

generally indulge them in every way. Woe unto

any in-law who ignores these ground rules! He

will be laughed at as a man who does not deserve

a wife; one who can lose his wife very easily!

When his brother-in-law came, accompanied

by a seventeen-year-old, bright-eyed sister-in-

law, Wanga had ve thousand shillings left.

It was April holidays, the worst time of the

year. For at that time, there was always a famine

in that part of the country. Thus supporting two

extra mouths arriving unexpectedly, and from

amongst people one was supposed to revere, was

something. And as he was supposed to be some

stinking rich fellow, working for a successful

company, it was expected that he would not feel

a strain, even if all his in-laws came and camped

right in his house at Shibale.

Perhaps it would not have been too strenuous

if his wife, Khatienje, was not so wasteful.

She wanted to show her relatives that she had

‘arrived’, as they say in those parts. A woman

who has ‘arrived’ is one who has married a man

who knows how to look after a woman – in all

ways. Such a man is able to provide his wife with

any food she demands, dress her like a queen,

entertain her relatives till they heap praises

on her, and, of course, give her many sons and

daughters! According to Khatienje’s people, their

daughter had indeed arrived, for her man himself

had told his in-laws who and what he was.

So Khatienje did everything she could to show

that she was the wife of a boss – that indeed, she

‘had arrived’!

As Wanga walked about Shibale market, he

could not help recalling with bitterness what

Khatienje had done the previous day. He had

bought four huge, fresh tilapia for supper. As

there were four grown-ups, he had felt that the

sh would last two days.

Khatienje, true to her calling of being a woman

who had arrived where she was going, gave one

huge sh, on a huge, tray-like platter, to each of

them. Wanga would have burst, but there was

very little he could do. He nibbled at his sh,

trying to give the others a cue that they should

save for tomorrow. But it was ignored. The boy,

Makox, (it was actually Makokha, but he had to

inject it with Sheng’) wolfed down everything!

You should have seen him, heaping stful after

stful of sh into his mouth as if it was an ogre’s

mince-meat dispenser, and chewing like a hyena.

He had to utilize both sides of the mouth, for his

huge cheeks would swell like two medium-sized

tennis balls!

The girl shyly nibbled bits from her share, and

Wanga was pleased to note that she left three-

quarters untouched. ‘Good girl,’ he thought.

‘They can share that for tomorrow’s lunch. With

mine, and the half that Khatienje will leave, the

meal will be taken care of.’

But he was in for a shock. Khatienje, yawning

in a bored manner, told her sister, Feyi, to pour it

in the rubbish bin outside.

“We don’t keep left-overs here,” she said

casually. “I don’t want rats and cockroaches in

my house.”

Makox decided to sympathize with her sister

Feyi, and dutifully nished her share, all the

time assuring her that one day, her teeth would

become strong. The rest, three-quarters of his

and a half of Khatienje’s, was thrown into the

bin. Wanga regretted why he had not massacred

that sh – so fresh, soft and delicious! He went to

sleep very angry and, of course, hungry.

So today he was walking about, tying to gure

out how he was going to survive, especially now

that he had such important visitors – one of who

had a wonderful appetite, of a very respectable

size; the other a delicious, unnerving, bright-

eyed thing.

And it was urgent. He had to come up

with something, otherwise he would lose his

reputation. He could not bear the idea of seeing

those bright eyes looking at him questioningly

when he arrived home without supper. And

the fuss Khatienje would throw up! She would

accuse him of purposely refusing to buy food,

just because her relatives had come to see her for

a few days. It would not be pleasant.

Wanga did not want to give the impression

that he had a huge problem. That morning he

had dressed nicely, in his only serviceable suit,

and set off. His in-laws had to be given the feeling

that he was working.

In a way, he was going off to work; to engage

in the only work he knew. True, it was crooked;

but it was his only job.

And he was not alone. He was in it with

Odongo, whom he had fully briefed. He was sure

Odongo would do it, for the original idea had

again come from him.

At Shibale shopping centre, he started behaving

as if he was the local administrator. He tried

to give the impression that he was a satised,

carefree fellow, with very few problems, if any.

One hand was placed lightly in his pocket, and

a soft tune issued from his lips, as he whistled

away joyously. The tune of the day was Akisema

Atakubariki, Hakuna Atakaezuia, meaning: When

He Says He will Bless You, None will Prevent it.

Somehow he was telling anyone who would care

to listen that he was a blessed man, and there was

nothing they could do about it, however hard

they tried.

And it was not just the music. As he walked

about, he tried to give the impression that he

was not some idler doing the rounds. Reaching

the local electricity transformer, he stopped and

gave it a thorough scrutiny, moving around the

supporting poles, and even giving one support a

hearty thump. Anyone watching had to see a top

man at the Power Company; probably the over-

all in charge of transformers, a key gure. If one

wanted power connected to their premises, this

would be the man to see.

A short distance away he stood and gave an

assessing stare at a bump in the road. It would

require an expert’s searching interview to

determine if this man was not the local roads

engineer. As Shibale had many bad roads, this

man could inuence the repair of the road to

one of the plots, making it more marketable and

attractive…

When that did not yield results, he decided to

survey the company sugarcane.

Let it be said, at the very start, that this

sugarcane farm, in the famous so-called Nucleus

Estate, is a spectacle.

For one, the canes are all the same height, as

if they have been trimmed by some celestial

expert. And the space between the lines of cane

is so straight that a lordly hand must have used a

mighty ruler and pen to plot the perfection.

And how could plants surviving on soil

nutrients strike so healthy a pose? Indeed, it was

rumoured that these plants were fed articially

on some expensive balanced plant diet which

the company did not reveal to their contracted

farmers. That nucleus cane is, in effect, a wonder;

a major attraction to anyone who passes those

sides. So much awe is attached to it that anyone

that appears to have anything to do with the cane

is regarded very highly indeed.

All these thoughts were in the mind of the

broke man as he passed an expert eye across the

cane. Those looking could only whisper in awe:

There is the owner, the owner! And they sighed in

awe and respect.

The object of all that attention was obviously

enjoying his day in the sun when an ugly, throaty

laugh interrupted his reverie. If a cruel, old

mongrel dog had growled near him, his reaction

wouldn’t have been very different.

He turned sharply, to meet the leering eyes

of Odongo. And, as if he hadn’t done enough

damage by coming near him in public, the man

rushed at him and gave him a huge bear hug!

Probably you see nothing wrong with a cousin

showing such compassion for another. After all,

hadn’t they done enough damage together, and

greatly benetted from mutual sin? So, was it not

natural that they should, as co-conspirators, have

such compassion for each other, even in public,

as they mocked their joint victims?

Well, Wanga did not think so.

Today, he wanted to give the impression that he

was some boss doing the rounds in his territory;

his area of jurisdiction. He wanted to be followed

by admiring stares as he swaggered around his

realm, hoping that some fellow would fall for his

trick and come to him with a proposal that would

result in money in his pocket.

What is more, he was wearing his best suit, and

washing it in a laundry would be a tough thing to

do, broke as he was! He didn’t envisage arriving

at his house looking like he had been cutting

sugarcane or driving a cane tractor. And as a

super salesman, it was not expected that he could

have anything to do with the likes of Odongo; a

man who seemed to be water-repellant, and, as

has already been described, one who was not

very pretty.

“What are you doing, you goof!” Wanga said

through clenched teeth. “Get your dirty hands off

me, and walk off without looking behind. Stay

at your post. We agreed you would keep your

distance.”

But the goof resisted his attempt to push him

off, stuck tighter still, and hissed, “Hug me back,

you goong con man! And don’t look towards

the road. They are there. Smile as you hug me

back, you fool!”

Wanga did as he was told. Obviously, this was

not for nothing. His accomplice must be up to

something.

He slapped his cousin fondly on the back,

gratefully disengaged himself and held a dirty

hand in his. He was grateful the suit was black; a

white one would have had a chimpanzee’s logo

imprinted on it after that hug.

“So, what are up to, you evil big baby?” Wanga

was almost ready to punch him. “And when did

you bathe last? I know tooth brushes and paste

have not reached your county, but can’t you use

sand and shrubs for scrubbing your big teeth?”

Wanga got even more annoyed, as each

statement from him brought a mighty gale of

laughter from the short, squat man. He resisted

the urge to tell him to shut his mouth, for he

knew he would open it a few more inches! And

as he looked at the pathetic gure, he could not

help breaking into laughter himself.

“Good!” the man said, stopping briey to gasp

for air. “A good con man must keep laughing. No

warthog ever conned anybody.”

“That is funny,” Wanga said, good-naturedly.

“If that is true, how come you have conned so

many? If you had a mirror, you would know how

a handsome warthog looks like – face, teeth and

all.”

Again Odongo bared his teeth ercely in glee.

Wanga gave up; it was impossible to annoy this

man.

“Okay, talk!” he said, when the fellow paused

a bit. “Why did I have to hug you? You better

have a good reason, or else I will…I will…” he

clenched his teeth again.

“Hey man, relax!” Odongo started laughing

again. “Cheer up, my boy, and start guessing.

Why do you think I had to leave my post and hug

a fellow who doesn’t know how to hug back? If

you get it right, I will pay you.”

Wanga did not need to guess. From the man’s

behaviour, he had got someone who could be

stupid enough to be conned. He remembered

what the bible said: ‘A fool and his money are

soon parted.’

“Where is he, and what is the deal?” Wanga

whispered through his teeth again.

“Not ‘he’, you fool. ‘They’. Across the road,

brown suits – which seems to be the normal

uniform of fools. Black is the uniform of con

men.”

He laughed till people stopped to watch.

Wanga had to laugh, too, to diffuse the tension.

At last the man came to the point.

“Connie,” he said, bubbling with mirth. “The

two men you have just looked at from the corner

of your eye have some business to do with you.

They are from Sichwelele; do you know where

that is?”

Wanga nodded and signaled him to continue.

“Well, they want sugarcane to hire. They got

paid for some cane recently and wish to invest

some of the money.”

“They told you all that?” Wanga expressed

doubt. This was incredible. Even though people

from Sichwelele were known to be gullible to

the extreme, they always shocked him. How else

could one go all over the place announcing that

he had got payment for cane, and was carrying

the money to invest? Talk about a hen going

alone deep into mongoose territory, to make an

announcement about her weaned chicks!

“Well,” Odongo said, baring his teeth again, “I

have ways of making people tell me things I want

to know. I am not like some amateur conmen. I

am a pro. I saw them look keenly at you, and I

put fool and idiot together. The sum total was

obvious.”

“What did you tell them? And what did they

say?”

“That you are a crook, and that they should

never talk to you. But being who they are, they

insisted, so I told them you are my relative, and

that they should negotiate with you if they need

to hire this cane. They have sent me over, sir, to

request you to lease to them some of your cane!”

Wanga swallowed quietly. He almost saw

more fresh sh, meat, wheat our, and lots of nice

things already bought and packed for his family.

But probably the joker was simply doing what

he was good at – joking!

“Kuuka, are you serious?” he asked harshly.

“These are not things to joke about. Do those

punks really want sugarcane?”

The man winked at him. You should have seen

that wink: a moderately erce lioness would

have hesitated in its chase after prey if it had

encountered such a creasing of one whole side of

the face into something resembling a crocodile’s

back.

“I will call them. You can ask them yourself.

Only remember, fty: fty.”

As Odongo crossed to call the men, Wanga

started walking off deliberately, like someone

who had no time to waste. The men hurried to

cross over, and came to him at a small trot.

“How are you, Mheshimiwa,” they greeted

respectfully. (‘Mheshimiwa’ is the title members

of parliament, and county assemblies, assigned

themselves, meaning they were absolutely,

verily, really honourable.)

“Yes, habari wananchi?” (‘How are you,

countrymen?’) he asked, looking away as if

disinterested.

“We are ne, sir,” they chorused. Wanga was

only giving them a perfunctory attention, as if

he wanted to clear with them and do something

else. They hesitantly gave their names: Wamalwa

As Odongo crossed to call the men, Wanga started ...

Nabukhamba, and Kwatukha Siminyu.

“And what can I do for you, wananchi?” he

asked, as if out of politeness.

They looked at each other, as if they were not

sure who could put their case best. Nabukhamba,

who seemed to be the elder, cleared his throat and

said appealingly: “Sir, we know you are a busy

man. Your cousin here has told us so. But please,

help us. We have money we wish to invest. We

want to hire your sugarcane…”

He did not nish. Wanga held up a forbidding

hand and told him that he didn’t engage in such

petty businesses.

“I am a large scale farmer, and I can’t do things

of that nature. That is for broke people, or small

timers who don’t know what they are doing.”

He took out a notebook and started writing

something. Then, as the men looked at each

other sadly, he seemed to remember that they

were there, and asked, “Is there anything else?

Wesonga,” he turned to Odongo, “the weeding

of this particular section is going on very slowly.

Tell Ongidi that I am not happy with the Mama

Mulayi group. They are very slow.” (They had

found out the advantage of using pseudonyms;

and they had very many such names to pick

from.)

The younger man, almost desperate, hesitantly

tried to get his attention, coughing slowly and

unnecessarily.

“Mheshimiwa, please, just give us a bit of your

time. We have come from very far. Please help

us. We will pay a good price; your cane looks so

healthy!”

Wanga gave them a blank, measuring stare.

He then turned to Odongo.

“What exactly did you tell these people? You

know I don’t lease out my sugarcane, Wesonga.”

“But Shisia, my brother, you have a lot of

sugarcane! This is just some small plot. Give these

people something. They are my friends. Cousin,

do it for me, please!” Odongo begged.

Wanga appeared to think for almost a minute,

and then started suddenly.

“I have to attend a council meeting. I am a local

representative for my ward, by the way. I don’t

have much time. Come with me to my hotel.”

The rest is not really a story that cannot be left

to the imagination. The eager men of Sichwelele

readily gave fty thousand shillings for two

acres, to be harvested once.

“The cane is in Zone Zero, remember,” Wanga

reminded them. “It is very protable. You will

get ten stacks, at almost fteen thousand for

each. One hundred and fty thousand, after six

months. That is denitely a good investment. I

am only giving it to you because my cousin and

I were circumcised together, and I respect his

opinion.”

He looked across at Odongo, who was eating

ugali and roasted goat meat. Seeing him thus, one

would imagine he had not eaten for a long, long

time. Even as his cheeks bulged out threateningly,

he still found enough space to pour huge glasses

of Pilsner in his mouth! He was known to do

justice to anything he got free. And as he was the

broker in the whole transaction, the grateful men

gave him a cool ve thousand shillings.

It was great for Wanga when he took his in-laws

out that evening. The girl, Feyi, was wearing one

of her sister’s nice dresses and shoes, and looked

as pretty as a toffee drop. Makox tted quite well

in Wanga’s blue jeans and T-shirt.

He took them to Golf Hotel, a tourist joint,

and bought them a very expensive meal. But as

usual, the girl wasted most of hers. She did not

He took them to Golf Hotel, a tourist joint...

touch the mushroom soup, claiming she had

eaten enough of that at home. And when chicken

sandwiches arrived, she removed the toast, and

nibbled at a bit of the chicken, then pushed it

aside. Wanga was actually smiling murder at her

– wasting his money like that! These village girls,

he thought bitterly; must they expose their village

ways everywhere?

Only the boy had a wonderful time. He ate and

ate and ate. He used the mushroom soup with his

ugali, shaping out a ‘cup’ of ugali to scoop soup

with. He them ate the chicken in two mouthfuls,

wondering where they got such soft things. As he

was a student, Wanga had bought him soda, but

he decided to take liberties with Wanga’s beer,

adding generous amounts to his soda.

By the time they were leaving he was tipsy,

and was declaring that he would give Wanga the

girl Feyi, in addition to Khatienje.

“You are a man and a half, Mukhwasi,” he

declared. “You need two women. This one is

yours from today! Apende, asipende!”

****

And Nabukhamba and Siminyu, the men from

Sichwelele?

Like Ahab going to Naboth’s vineyard, to take

possession, they came to their cane farm the very

next day. Beaming over with condence and joy,

they had recruited several relatives and friends as

cane weeders. Nabukhamba wanted to vie for the

seat of County Representative in their ward, and

this was to be a major boost: a man who cared for

his people, and who owned property far and wide.

Omusecha we bandu!

So it was worthwhile hiring a lorry for the

workers, and a branded pickup for the local

music wizard, Khalonyere Baraza, with his whole

band and dancers, to belt out the praises of this

wonderful man of men, Nabukhamba Kutalanyi,

(big lion), Omusolili! (strong young man!)

I doubt that even Ahab arrived at Naboth’s

vineyard with such pomp, attended by praise

singers and men armed with jembes, ready to dig

it up. I doubt that Ahab could master even a half

of the condence of this man Nabukhamba, as he

stepped out of the lorry and hit the ground dancing;

slowly, gently, like a conqueror coming home from

wasting his enemies, and loaded with loot!

Siminyu, irresistibly like a bantam cock,

I doubt that Ahab could master even half of the condence

ushered the men out, and told them to escort his

brother to the farm.

They danced to the place, followed by the

owner, who was smiling broadly and contentedly,

leaning lightly on his ornamental walking stick

as betted an aspiring politician. It was good

to own cane right in the middle of the Nucleus

Estate, he was thinking. And this…surely this….

would earn him the coveted seat of Ward Rep,

Sichwelele ward?

As was to be expected, all that commotion

attracted attention. A lot of it.

People around and about Shibale came to

watch, for Khalonyere was an accomplished

musician, whose music was well-known in those

parts. The dancers were also trying to outdo

themselves by their vigorous Kiganda dance.

They reached the cane Odongo had apportioned

them. He was not there, as he had promised. That

did not prevent Khalonyere from belting out the

song of Nabukhamba Kutalanyi; Musolili, who

had come home to possess his own for his people;

Nabukhamba, the conqueror of Bookers! (The

cane factory was built by the British company,

Booker International, and hence the owners of

the nucleus estate sugarcane.)

Also attracted were some company eld

ofcers and askaris. They were wondering what

was going on; but they did not see the essence

of interfering, or even making enquiries at this

stage. Perhaps it was a lm crew making a

movie, who knew? There was actually a man

taking photos busily, using what looked like an

expensive camera.

And well, who can blame the company

employees? Everyone likes a free movie. Rarely

does one get to see such a spectacle, and listen

to such an accomplished singer. Thus, in their

largesse, they let them use company facilities and

grounds.

Nabukhamba, after striking the pose of a

leader, made a short speech, thanking his people

for accompanying him to this new adventure

– investing money in foreign places. “But it

is the spirit of our people. We have always

been men who rule far– and wide! My people,

ifwe sekhwilekanga tawe! Lusiani wewa omwene!

Omumasaba Aruke, bukwe nende mumbo! ”

“Yeeeeeeeyi!” the people applauded, and the

women ululated.

He then requested his kinsmen to help him

weed his cane. “Remember, I am not hiring you.

One does not work for one’s own brother for

money. One works for love; to strengthen the

ties between brethren; clansmen. That is why we

are called Baluyia Bamasaba. But as our people

say, even the one who works for his own mother

must wash his hands afterwards. I promise you,

brethren; after working, you will denitely wash

your hands, and wash them clean!”

All those who were gathered, including the

eld ofcers and askaris, clapped as the man

concluded this oration. Cries of ‘Onyala! Onyala

bwami!’ lled the air, as the man beamed at the

company, wondering at his good luck. Buying

this cane was one of the best investment, and

political, decisions he had ever made.

“Haya!” he said, waving at the waiting, swaying

cane. As his kinsmen applauded, they picked up

the jembes and started attacking Nabukhamba’s

cane with vigour, removing what little weeds

were still there.

That is when the eld ofcers acted.

For they could not believe what was happening.

That a private individual could volunteer to hire

people to weed company sugarcane was beyond

their understanding.

They decided to be as polite about it as

possible. They went over to Nabukhamba and,

after thanking him, informed him that he did

not need to trouble himself hiring labour for the

sugar company. It would be a waste of money,

since the company could afford to pay its own

bills, like those for weeding its own cane in the

Nucleus Estate.

Nabukhamba stood up, slowly, until he faced

the eld supervisor squarely in the face. The

smile the ofcer had had died, leaving no trace.

“What are you talking about?” Nabukhamba

asked, shaking with fury. “I bought this cane

yesterday! You must be mistaken…”

“Bought?!” the supervisor looked bewildered.

“But this is company sugarcane! The company

never sells its cane. It is harvested and used in

the factory over there. And I am the supervisor of

the whole Nucleus Estate.”

He searched in his pockets and produced a

card. Nabukhamba looked at it, shocked beyond

measure. “Please tell your people to stop what

they are doing. They can be arrested.”

Nabukhamba just stared at his supporters

furiously weeding the cane. Some had already

cut some cane for chewing. Sichwelele had no

cane; they had to take full advantage of this

chance. Nabukhamba could not stop them. He

was beyond acting.

It was a bitter blow. His thirty-ve thousand

shillings, and the twenty he had borrowed from

his brother, was gone. Then the ve thousand

shillings for hiring the lorry, and six thousand for

the musician and pick-up! He had lost heavily.

And this information would doubtless reach his

rivals for the seat of Ward Rep. He would become

the laughing stock of Sichwelele!

Before he knew it, tears were owing down

his cheeks. The voters, who had come to nd out

what was happening after being ordered away

by company askaris, could not help wondering.

It was strange indeed for a grown man, a man

circumcised at the river, to cry in public. And

some of the weeders were women!

After much negotiation and consultation,

the police were brought in. And that was when

something surfaced: from the description of the

two culprits, it was clear that one of them was

the fellow who had sold urea to the unsuspecting

Abukusi.

A erce search for Wesonga and Shisia, the two

thieves, was launched. Would they be caught?

Make a good guess, but do not bet. Do not be like

Nabukhamba and Abukusi, passengers on the

train christened Fools Express!

4. Wanga Sells Cane Telifaris

By now, you should not be wondering what

sort of merchandise our mutual friend is going to

sell. But may the chairman demon of good history-

telling assail this one with assorted plagues if by

the end of this session, he will not have proved

that this sort of merchandise will have the beauty

and substance of a dream.

When the Sugar Company at Shibale cuts

your cane, they give you receipts for the cane

delivered. Over time they have come to be called

‘Deliveries’. But to the less schooled, Wanga

included, the tongue has not been exercised

enough to pronounce some hard words correctly,

especially words in foreign languages. Some

people also run out of steam when they have to

utter some words which apparently make one to

sound like a prophet uttering an oracle in tongues.

That is why it was necessary to save tongues

and lungs by calling the pieces of paper by a name

that rolled off easily from the tongue: telifaris.

May it be mentioned here also that when the

company gives you cane deliveries, - o.k, telifaris

- it feels as if they are holding a candle at your

nose, whose smoke smells sweetly of money. You

know that sooner or later, you will be literally

stinking rich. That is why deliveries are valued

indeed, and the less patient farmers sell them too

soon, for why stay with the smell of money right

in your nose when you may be stone broke?

That was the situation of Wanga.

Perhaps it is the fates controlling the fortunes

of thieves which see to it that the trade is not

forsaken. Such fates ensure that what one steals

gains wings and ees from the crooks at a speed

slightly less than that of light. This ensures that

the crook leaves his abode and goes a-searching

for what has ed. So it is that when one starts

this line of business, one is bound to continue in

it for as long as time and chance allow; till the

same cheating demons lead one into a noose they

prepare themselves.

Wanga had had a grand time after selling

company sugarcane. Food and beer had owed

for almost a whole week.

Then, as if making good his promise, Makox

had gone away, leaving the bright-eyed Feyi.

Wanga was on cloud nine!

But his extravagance had fully opened his

bulging pockets, and he could not fully understand

how forty thousand shillings had vanished in a

week. The only thing he had to show for it was

a set of crystal glasses he had bought at Fomat

Supermarket. And only part of the set, for as Feyi

was unpacking, she accidentally dropped them,

breaking seven of the dozen, together with the

beautiful glass jug!

Yet all in all, it had been a good week, generally

speaking. Indeed, he would have been in very

high spirits if he still had some money to talk

of. But as of now, he only had two thousand

shillings, and that was supposed to last him till

he came across some more money, somehow.

And today, the girl comes and condentially

tells him that she wanted to go out – with him!

Just the two of them.

She had told her sister that she wanted to go

to see her aunt who lived at Ekero, not far from

Shibale. A small quarrel had resulted, the basis

of which was not clear. Then she comes and tells

him to organize himself. “Unda deal, Mlamwa.

Wachana na yiyi fala. Twende Kach.” (Organize

yourself, in-law, let’s go to Kakamega. Leave this

useless fellow (Khatienje) alone.)

It was a challenge which, if he took up, would

cost him almost all the money he had. Although

he would have wanted to go, he could not, since

the risk was too high.

As he walked towards River Nzoia, he could

not help cursing his cashless state. How would he

survive after he spent the two thousand shillings?

And what would his sister-in-law think of him

if he couldn’t take her out? The girl had indeed

been very nice; only the previous day, when her

sister was not looking, she had come to him and

said admiringly, “Hey mlamwa, wewe si ni sonko!

Haki unashinda wanaume wote!” (Hey, in-law, you

are very rich! You are better than all men!)

For those wondering how the girl could do

some of the things mentioned here, it is good

to be told that in those parts, a sister-in-law is

almost like a wife. There are many men who have

ended up marrying two sisters. So irting with

one was not really a serious thing. If one thing led

to another, Wanga would not have committed a

social crime. He would not be the rst, as they

say. And seriously, Wanga was thinking along

those lines. If only he had the money to prop him!

He was wondering if Odongo still had some

of the money he had given him as his share

of their latest loot. Wanga had given him ten

thousand shillings, to add to the ve the grateful

Nabukhamba had given. Without a family to

disturb him, that was supposed to last. He had

no bright-eyed sister-in-law to stare at him

lovingly, or a voracious brother-in-law ready to

sell his school-going sister for booze and food. So

probably he, Odongo, still had something?

He was going to nd out.

Odongo lived like a bird. His shack was so

small that two people sitting inside it stood a

good chance of suffocating. It was partly mud

walled, the other part covered conveniently with

plastic papers. The roof was also part rusted iron

sheets and part polythene paper and cardboard.

There was no chair. Any visitor who felt like

sitting in the ‘keja’, as Odongo termed it, had to sit

on the small bed, uncomfortably near the owner

Odongo lived like a bird. His shack was so small...

of the house. And if one had to take something,

like water, or even a meal, it had to be placed on

the oor. So when Wanga entered the keja, he

knew what to expect.

The owner was lying in his bed, obviously

after taking one too many. In fact, he was not in

his normal mood; he did not have ready-made

jokes at his lip tips, as was normally the case.

“Hey, old man, what has got into you?” Wanga

asked. His usual jokes had hit a wall.

“I am a serious man these days, if you must

know,” Odongo told him, yawning. “You have

always told me to grow up. I have decided to

take your advice.”

Wanga laughed happily. That was a joke.

This meant he, Wanga, had not lost him to

common sense.

“Well,” he said, good-humouredly, “that is

good news. I have a beautiful sister-in-law who

I want you to meet. If you have really decided

to grow up, you will need to marry. Get up and

have your rst bath.”

“I can never marry from the same family as

you,” Odongo said, laughing. “A family that can

tolerate such a con man must be queer, to start

with. And if your sister-in-law is like Khatienje,

then I refuse her. She must be troublesome, just

like her sister. I am going to marry, but it will be

somebody else, not such a ki-thing.”

Wanga knew the fellow was only joking.

Odongo knew fully well he was not marketable.

Yet he had his uses. For now, Wanga wanted

Odongo to help him with the problem at hand. If

he still had the money, Wanga knew he wouldn’t

deny him some. If not, he, Odongo, was bound

to have some very useful suggestions, which

could result in something for their pockets and

stomachs.

He put the suggestion to him, and got a roaring

laughter in return.

“Don’t tell me you have exhausted the last

amount, you beast!” Odongo howled, when he

could come up for air. “You must be having a

crocodile in your pocket, which lives on money

alone. Wuuuwi! You really mean to say forty thou

is gone?”

“Kuuka, don’t laugh,” Wanga said appealingly.

“You know I have a family, and my in-laws came

visiting. You cannot compare me with fellows

who have no worries in the world.”

“Worries?” Odongo asked, bubbling with

laughter. “Why should you complain when

you inicted this plague on yourself?” Then

he became cunning, “Look, I spent only ve-

hundred shilings of my money. I have the rest. I

will give it to you – all of it – if you will…”

Wanga’s heart was in his mouth. Ptuu! Ptuu! It

went. If this man was serious, he would take Feyi

out, after all…

But the man was given to torturing Wanga. He

wanted him to sweat a bit before he dropped the

bombshell.

“Odongo, please,” Wanga begged, almost

breathlessly. “Tell me what condition I must

fulll. I will do whatever you ask, I promise you.

Only, lend me the money. I will repay – with

interest.”

At the mention of repaying, Odongo laughed

loudly.

“Repay! Listen to who is talking. Do you even

know the spelling of the word? You great con

man, would you attempt to con a professional?

Be assured that you will not succeed. Anyway,

I will give you the money, if only…you will

promise your blood. Are you willing to promise

your blood?”

“Yes! Anything you say! I promise my blood.”

Already, he could see himself with Feyi,

walking side by side on the streets of Kakamega.

And he was loaded up to the neck – with cash!

He could see both of them having another great,

expensive meal at the Golf or Ambwere Complex.

He would then take her to Bukhungu stadium,

the university, poolside bar, the Crying Stone at

Khayega… yes! For all that, he could promise his

blood. After all, Odongo could do him no harm.

“Alright,” said Odongo, a sly smile on his face.

“I accept. I am going to give you the money, now,

if you will go and pack off that bunch of parasites

you call your family and in-laws, and…”

Wanga could not allow him to nish.

“Can you shut up, you useless joker?”

“Hey, what’s up, man?” Odongo asked,

pretending great shock. “What are you quarreling

for? Remember, you willingly promised your

own blood. Now give it if you would change

your mind.”

He folded his dirty sleeves and grubbed a

broken plastic pail and a cruel-looking, crooked

knife.

“I said stop joking. What I am up to is serious.

Kuuka, would you laugh at me like that in a time

of trouble? Please, if you can, just give me the

money. Unless you have any idea what we can

do just now. Do you still have anything left in

your bag of con tricks?”

“Even if I had,” the sly man said, yawning and

putting away the pail, “I wouldn’t tell you. I do

all the work, and you end up taking everything.

Please yourself today. I will assist you in no way.

Close the door when you leave.” He then lay back

on his creaking bed and closed his eyes.

But Wanga could see he was smiling, a familiar

smile. It meant he really had something in mind.

Something connish; what would denitely result

in a solution to his problem.

When he did not talk, Wanga decided to push

it. “Kuuka, say it! I know you have something to

say. Why are you torturing me?”

Odongo smiled wickedly, then informed him

that he had managed to get Nabukhamba’s

deliveries when they came trying to get cane

for leasing. Siminyu had also given ve of his,

making a total of twenty. Their contracts, and

even ‘statements’ (which detailed the tonnage of

the stacks of cane delivered and value of each in

cash,) were also there.

“They are in that bag, Con man,” Odongo said,

pointing at the bag of treasure. “I know you will

think of something. Your mind is so crooked that

you will denitely know what to do with the

pieces of paper. To a man with any religion and

civilization, they are just useless pieces of paper,

but to a con man, they are a treasure. Take them

and go, you crook.”

Wanga, after thinking for some time, hit

upon an idea. He rose and reached for the bag.

Opening it, he looked at the promised treasure,

and counted the already cashed receipts. He

then scrutinized the statement. Two hundred

thousand in total.

“Well,” he said, his face showing no happiness.

“What about them? They can’t help. If you insist,

I can go away with them, and throw away the

evidence of the theft, but I am still begging you

for at least two ngiris.” (a ngiri is a warthog, but in

Sheng’ it means one thousand shillings.)

Odongo could not be cheated so easily. He

knew that Wanga could manage to turn those

papers into money.

He decided to be equally cunning.

“I am sorry to be of no help,” he pretended

great disappointment. “Just put the papers back.

And I have a headache. Please, close the door

behind you, as I said, and kindly greet your wife

– and her sister.”

He lay back and closed his eyes.

“Okay,” Wanga said, and rose quietly, as if

not to disturb him. But as his hand touched the

creaking door, Odongo shot up.

“Caught you, you crook!” he growled as he

grabbed the small bag. “Trying to con me, aren’t

you? I said leave that useless bag with me. I will

use the papers for lighting the jiko. Unless you

want to do something tangible with them.” They

looked at each other and smiled; knowing smiles.

These two respected each other. None could

steal from the other, and that was the essence

of their association. They knew neither could

survive without the other, as long as they had

conning as their career.

“Let me try,” Wanga whispered. “If I succeed,

I will see you in the evening.”

Let it be known that as Wanga left his friend, he

only had the beginnings of an idea how to turn the

expired documents into money. But by the time

he hit the road, the beginnings had developed

into a workable idea on his fertile, conning mind.

And so it was that when he reached Shibale bus

stop, he knew exactly what to do.

As a rule, Wanga never conned someone he

knew, unless he was sure the con-trick would

never be discovered. That was the case with the

English bulldog. So he walked around Shibale

market, listening to the people who had come to

transact business at the cane factory.

Needless to say, he had to keep a sharp eye

for three people: Abukusi, Nabukhamba, and

Kwatukha. But from his experience, most people

did not follow up on such losses. A few days of

angry searches and curses and things would get

quiet.

Any time he would hear a strange Luhyia

accent, he would stop and weigh his options.

And that is how he met Fwamba Wamukota, the

man from Namang’ong’ofolu.

Fwamba had come all that way to buy shares

of the local cane factory. He had been told that

they would translate into a huge prot for the

buyer come the following year. So, soon after

selling his maize, he had rushed over to cash in

on the shares market.

Wanga got the gist from Fwamba himself. The

man was talking to a group of people with whom

he seemed to be very familiar. He was quite loud

about what he intended to do with his money. He

was announcing how a friend had given him the

tip; a man who knew how to invest.

“That cousin of mine is not like some people I

know,” he was saying. “It is better for someone

to deny you food, than to do the same with

information. Some people cannot tell you

something that can result into a prot. My cousin

is a great man…”

Wanga did not want to appear to be listening.

He stood some distance away, and pretended to

be busy on his mobile phone. He got the right

picture of Fwamba, and decided that this would

be it. This was the man to part with his money,

like the proverbial Biblical fool.

“Hallo Okumu,” he shouted into the phone.

“Imagine they are not paying today. They say

they are paying tomorrow. I tell you I will stop

growing cane. I have the telifaris and statement,

but I can’t get the money till tomorrow. Yes…

yes…imagine!”

After pretending to listen for some time, he

started raving, “I tell you I don’t have time

tomorrow. I want to leave for Nairobi today.

Look, Okumu, I am ready to leave these telifaris

with you, even for a half the amount. I have no

time to lose.”

He then listened some more, throwing in a

good dose of ‘Yes, yes’ at appropriate intervals.

Finally he said, “Oh yes. I can look for somebody

these sides who can buy them and make a quick

kill. Payment is tomorrow. Are you sure you

don’t want this deal? It is sweet, and I know it is

you who needs money, not me…yes…oh yes…

okay. Bye. I am calling Makokha at Butula to

make him the offer. I gave you rst priority. I

didn’t want you to blame me later. You are my

Mukhwasi, see? I had to call you rst over a deal

like this one. Bye, Mukhwasi.”

He fumbled with the phone a bit, seemingly

calling Makokha to offer him the lucrative deal.

And was he making a headway with the

intended victim?

Fwamba Wamukota had listened to the whole

conversation with a keen interest. He was a man

of deals and liked making a quick buck. So shrewd

was he that he could go to a livestock market with

ten thousand shillings, buy a bullock for nine

thousand, and sell it for twelve. On a good day,

he could double his money by evening.

So when he heard that there was that sort of

deal, he did not hesitate.

He decided to leave the group that was

discussing the share prices of various companies,

and went over to Wanga.

“How are you, Mukhwasi?” he greeted.

Wanga did not look at him at rst. He was too

busy dialing Makokha. But as he put the phone

to his ear, he said hastily, “I am ne, Mukhwasi,

and how are you?”

“Fine!” Fwamba said. But he could see his

deal going under. The man had already dialed

Makokha’s number! It seemed likely that he

would get nothing, losing money he could have

secured if he had acted fast enough.

He held up his hand, a signal for the man to

take it easy with the call, so that they could talk.

But the connection had apparently already been

made.

“Yes, hallo! Orie Makokha,” the man with the

telifaris was talking carelessly, as if the issue at

hand was not very important. Fwamba became

almost desperate. He signaled him that he should

cut the phone and talk to him instead.

Wanga had to oblige!

“Hey Mwalimu,” he said somewhat urgently,

“please let me call you in ve minutes. Let me do

something small here rst…” then to Fwamba,

he said rather sharply, “What is it? How can you

interrupt a phone call?”

The way he looked at Fwamba made the latter

look away shyly, apologizing profusely for what

he had done.

“Mukhwasi, forgive me, I beg you,” he said,

bowing. “But I had to talk to you before you

talked to the man you call Makokha. I have come

a long way, and I think we can do some business

together.”

“What business? I don’t do petty deals. Tell

me exactly how I can help you. I have a plane to

catch, if you must know.”

Fwamba was almost shaking. He had

interfered with a big man. After all, how many

people had seen the inside of an aeroplane? Here

was a man who seemed to hop onto aeroplanes

100

the way he, Fwamba, hopped into Nissan matatus

at Namang’ong’ofolu market. He hoped the man

would not be too offended to strike a deal.

Wanga stared at the poor man, who was

struggling to explain himself but ending up

showing how incompetent he was in the whole

thing.

“Look,” he suggested, some warmth creeping

into the voice, “why can’t we get out of this place

so you can tell me? I am a scout, and part of my

lot is to help people. Two good deeds a day; that

is what I have to fulll. I will buy you a soda over

there.”

He pointed at a kiosk not far from where they

were standing.

Fwamba eagerly accepted a coke, and,

somewhat relaxed, explained himself.

He could not, he said, help overhearing what

his host was talking about over the phone. He had

some money to buy shares, and could denitely

spare some of it to buy cane deliveries if payment

was due so soon.

“Sorry,” Wanga said dismissively. “I was

offering them to my brother-in-law, but the man

has no nose for money. I am now giving them to

101

my cousin. I can’t do you that sort of favour. I

would be in trouble with the family.”

He sipped at his soda, anxiously waiting for

the man’s reaction. He knew he could not over-

act. The man must not be pushed over the edge.

The reaction was more than he had hoped for.

“Owase,” Fwamba said, resorting to an even

more polite way of addressing a friend, “help me.

I must invest some money in this deal. Give me at

least some of the deliveries.”

Wanga looked at him, knowing that this was

the time to go for the kill. After thinking a bit, and

looking at his watch, he asked the man how much

money he had. “The cane is worth two hundred

thousand. My cousin will take all of it at one

hundred and eighty. A prot of twenty thousand

in twenty hours. Not bad. And I wouldn’t give it

away if I had not booked the plane.”

Fwamba was rubbing his nose and lips as if he

needed snuff. Obviously, the deal was very appetizing.

And he seemed to be on the verge of clinching it.

“Owase,” he hastened to say, “I will take a half for

eighty thousand.”

“You are joking,” Wanga said. “I could take that if

my cousin was buying. After all, he is a blood relative.”

102

Then, looking at his watch, he declared he wasn’t

interested in bargaining. He would take eighty-ve,

and spare his cousin the rest. Ten telifaris.

Fwamba grinned happily. He had xed this one.

This would add to his nancial stability. He had a

son doing Law at the university, under the ‘Parallel’

programme. This would help him pay the fees. He

wondered what good luck had crossed his path this

morning.

They went to a small hotel, and out came the telifaris.

Fwamba, only half literate, could not doubt

that they were genuine. The statement conrmed

the amount for each delivery. He eagerly grabbed

them. His phone calculator was giving him very

sweet information. Some of the deliveries had

thirteen thousand shillings on them. What was

due to him, just this tomorrow, was in the region

of one hundred and twenty thousand.

Smiling widely, he counted out eighty-ve

thousand shillings, and the two men shook hands

warmly as they parted. Each man felt rich; one

eighty-ve thousand shillings richer, while the

other had ten delivery receipts worth a hundred

and twenty thousand shillings as by the previous

week, when they had been cashed; a fact he

would not know until...

103

****

In relating history, it is bad manners to say

obvious things. After all, when somebody gets

such free money, what do you expect? It has to

nd outlets, like water carried in a bird’s cage

instead of a water pot. So it is not worthy talking

about the man who stole; how he took the girl

Feyi to Kakamega, took her to Masinde Muliro

University, where he claimed to have studied,

and to some other places, doing things which are

none of my or your business. But if you try to

gure them out, you are at liberty, for you will

not get a muscle pull of the brain.

Better by far it is to talk about the victim. These

tales are not meant to laugh at the poor fellows

who fall prey; but what is wrong if a good laugh

wizens the slight at mind? For really, by now you

should be fully aware that it takes two to tango in

foolishness - a con man and a fool.

So, what became of the shrewd man who

hoped to make a killing just the next day?

Fwamba went home, and told his son to

prepare to leave for college. He would pay his

fees in full, so that he could think of other things.

So it was that the next morning, Fwamba

104

packed his son and his wife into a matatu and

they set off for Shibale. His son had a huge

suitcase carrying all his university things, while

the mother carried a huge empty bag, for she had

been promised several goodies.

When they reached the bus stop at Shibale,

they hired bodabodas to take them to the factory.

At the gate, they found several people gathered.

Most were farmers who were to be paid that day.

The Fwambas were stopped and, after

stating their purpose, asked for the contract

and deliveries. Proudly, Fwamba produced the

documents.

And that was when he got the shock of his

life. “Mzee,” the askari asked, “how many times

do you want to be paid for these deliveries? You

were here last week, and you were paid. How can

you bring the same papers for more payment?”

Then his voice fell conspiratorially, and he said

almost in a whisper, “Or you are trying to trick

your wife and son? Women and their sons can be

a nuisance. A man must know how to survive…”

But the enraged, shocked Fwamba cut him

short. “Don’t tell me these deliveries have

been cashed!” he shouted, loud enough for the

managing director to hear. “I bought these from a

105

gentleman yesterday, and they are supposed to be

cashed today. The man told me that much. I have

to get my money!”

Quite a number of people came over and gathered

around the shouting man. The security ofcer tried

to explain, but Fwamba could not hear of it.

“I must talk to the manager!” he shouted. “You

are a crook! You are trying to cheat me. I want to

know if the man Wamalwa Nabukhamba has been

paid!”

At the mention of that name, a man in the crowd

shouted loudly: “What! What is happening here?”

All eyes turned to the new man. The gate-keeper

held up his hand, and asked him to explain himself.

“I gave my documents to a certain crook down

at Shibale last week,” he roared. “The crook lied

to me that he owned that cane there,” he pointed

at the Nucleus Estate sugarcane, “and told me he

could lease it to me!”

All present roared with laughter, apparently

wondering how anybody could be so foolhardy

as to imagine the company cane belonged to an

individual. “Yes! He cheated me. How was I to

know that the cane was not his? I am new here.

And I come searching for the crook, and this man

surfaces with my documents. Are you the man who

106

“The crook lied to me that he owned that cane...”

107

stole my money, and documents? You thief, you

thought I would never get you?”

He made a grab for the documents. Fwamba,

equally enraged, snatched them away.

“My friend,” he shouted, his anger knowing

no limit. “Just you be careful what you say or

do. Do you know how much I paid for these

documents you are calling yours? I gave out

eighty-ve thousand shillings. And you dare call

them yours?”

“You paid for my documents!” Nabukhamba

was beside himself with rage. “Look…” he

fumbled in his pockets, and pulled out a

document. “Do you see this?” His breathing was

laboured.

The other man stared, unbelieving, at

Nabukhamba’s identication card.

Yes; the documents belonged to Nabukhamba.

That is when the shock registered. Both of

them were victims. They had been cheated by the

same man.

Several people gathered around them to listen

to their story. A policeman who happened to be

around also came to listen to this latest case.

They had received several reports from

complainants about a man who specialized in

108

cheating people, making them part with their

money. He was an exceedingly clever thief; so

clever that the victims never suspected anything

until days later.

As the story unfolded, Fwamba’s wife became

hysterical, and started shouting like a mad

woman. She heaped abuse on her husband for

being such a fool; throwing money away, when

her children were sitting at home, having been

chased away from school due to huge fees

balances.

The women present agreed with her. No

woman, they swore, could be cheated as easily

as that. Trust a man to think like a baby, they

moarned.

Fwamba was in no position to react. He was

crying like a child. He could not believe that he

had lost almost one hundred thousand shillings!

And that was the money he had spared to pay

school fees for his children, including the boy

at university, now clutching his suitcase and

looking lost. He had decided to speculate with it,

hoping to make a prot as he bought time. Now,

he had lost it!

He now knew why people committed suicide.

109

5. Nabbed!

The policeman waited for the two men to cool

down, and then made some inquiries.

Could they describe the man?

Both were sure they could. Nabukhamba did

so rst, and Fwamba conrmed that that was the

same man he had dealt with. “I can’t add anything

onto that description. He is the man who sold me

these telifaries. I can only say I did not meet the

other man being referred to,” he said. “I met only

one crook.”

As the crook was being described, it was

noticed that one of the men in the crowd was

becoming increasingly agitated. The police ofcer

also noticed him, and asked him what the matter

was.

“Ofcer,” the man said, trembling with rage,

“I also lost a lot of money to a man of that same

description. He sold me ve bags of urea, claiming

110

it was imported sugar. I only discovered that

when I got back home at Kilimimi!”

Those present laughed loudly. Even the

policeman could not help laughing! The picture

of a shopkeeper selling urea as sugar was as

funny as it was unfortunate.

And that was not all. What the Kilimimi man

had said had induced a shock in yet another man!

“What!” the other man shouted. “You mean he

sold you urea? And how much money did you

pay him?”

“Forty-eight thousand shillings.”

“Wuuuuuwi!” the agitated man shouted. “And

he gave me only ve thousand!”

At that admission of complicity, the Kilimimi

man turned to face the self-confessed ‘crook’.

“Oh, only ve thousand, ha?” he demanded.

“Only? And how much of my stolen money did

you expect from your brother thief? Fifty-fty?”

Abukusi tried to grab the man but the

policeman, assisted by some of the men present,

prevented him. All eyes turned to the assumed

crook. Everybody seemed to be talking at the

same time. Suggestions of petrol and old tractor

tyres were made, for anybody who shared loot

111

with a thief was fair game for lynching. The

policeman had a rough time trying to calm the

crowd.

The offending man was also shouting to be

allowed to explain, and some of the crowd were

urging for calm. “Give him time! Let him explain

himself,” they said.

When sufcient calm had been restored, the

man, greatly shaken, told his story.

He was called Wanyonyi Tietie, and stayed

in Shibale. He was a farmer, hunter and

businessman.

One wit shouted, “Say it all! Complete the

sentence. Say what else you are, you thief!”

A erce look from the policeman silenced the

fellow.

“I am not a thief,” the man retorted. “Let me

explain, bana befwe!” (He was appealing to his

people to be allowed to explain.) “The man came

to my house…

“Wa! To your house? You must be really close.

Go ahead!” the witty one encouraged. “He-he?

And then?”

In spite of the anger he felt for the wit,

Wanyonyi Tietie decided to explain on. He was

112

“I am not a thief,” the man retorted.

113

as much a victim as the others, he said. The urea

that had been sold to the other man had been

his. The crook obtained it by trickery, lying to

him that urea caused cancer; that he had read

that in a medical magazine. The crook had then

volunteered to help him get a buyer, and that is

how he had lost his ve bags of urea.

The policeman raised his hand to stem the

ood of questions being shot at the man.

“I know,” he said, “that you all wish to know

the relationship between this man and the crook.”

“Yes!” they chorused.

“But that is beside the point. The important

question is: can he lead us to him?”

Again it was a resounding ‘Yeees!’ Then the

wit added, “Go before us! Lead us to this crook’s

den! Your den!”

The ofcer held up his hand for silence.

“People,” he said, “we must not take the law

into our own hands. Let us put this crook, and

his accomplice, under the law, and let them be

charged for their crime. We have the witnesses.

I will take all these victims of theft with me to

the station. We will arrest the man, and his

accomplice. From there the law will take its

114

Let us put this crook, and his accomplice, under the law...

115

course, I assure you.”

There were shouts of both agreement and

disagreement. Some still wanted to teach

Wanyonyi a lesson there and then. But they could

do nothing more than shout; the policeman stood

his ground.

So it was that the policeman went off with

Wanga’s victims. They took a vehicle from the

police station. Three armed ofcers accompanied

them.

The vehicle was left about a hundred metres

from Wanga’s house, and they walked the rest of

the way. They were lucky, for they found Wanga

and his friend in the house.

The man was shocked, as he beheld all his

victims of the last four weeks.

“Here you are, seller of British bulldogs!”

Wanyonyi mocked.

“Yes; and how are you, importer of suger?”

Abukusi put in, his sts folded into huge bunches.

“You people should talk respectfully to the

owner of the whole of the Nucleus sugarcane,

who also represents his people as a Member of the

County Assembly! Sema maneno, Mheshimiwa!”

Nabukhamba mocked, shaking with anger.

116

“He has all those jobs, and yet he has to act as a

museum? All the ancient documents of the sugar

company are kept by this one man!”

“Not one but two!” put in Nabukhamba. “I

gave my documents to this short fellow here.”

He indicated Odongo. “He said he needed them

so as to change the contract to my name. Foolish

me, believing such a fellow! Give me my bag and

documents, you!”

Odongo was shaking like a leaf in the wind,

just like his friend.

“Him!” Odongo said, indicating Wanga. “I

gave them to him. I am innocent. I have never

conned anybody. It is always Wanga who does it.

I only do what he tells me!”

Wanga looked too shocked to say anything.

But he had one huge fear: that Khatienje, who

had gone with Feyi to the market, would surface

when he was being so humiliated.

It was then that the police made their move.

“Alright, everybody,” the young ofcer said,

all ofcious now. “I am arresting you, Mr. Wanga

and Mr. Odongo, for stealing other people’s

property. Hold out your hands…”

They were handcuffed together. “And let me

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“I am arresting you, Mr. Wanga and Mr. Odongo...”

118

warn you that whatever you say from now on

may be used as evidence against you. To the

station!”

***END***

119

Vocabulary/phrases

anesthesia:

medication which makes someone

feel no pain

bereaved family: a family that has lost a member

of the family due to death

celestial: perfect

crafty: tricky

damsel: girl

deceased: a person who has died

fates: creatures which control what happens

in the life of people

zzle: (in this case) disappear

forsake: leave, ignore

havoc: damage

hiss: (in this case) talk in a erce whisper

look down upon: despise

marketable: good enough

molecule:

small particles composing matter

native wit: natural ability to do something

nibble: take small bites

noose: a rope with which someone can

hang themselves

nucleus: found at the centre; central

ogre: a dangerous, huge animal in african

tales

120

oracle: a religious declaration

orator: a good speaker in any language

plague: a bad disease

radioactive:

a substance that gives off dangerous

particles and waves when it breaks up

scarce: not easily available

seal: x

seething:

boiling

sizzling: burning

snaking: moving like a snake

socrates: a famous greek thinker of many

centuries ago

spectacle: wonderful to look at

stinking rich: very rich, especially after having

used crooked means

theatre of the absurd: something that looks like

a stupid act or drama

121

Questions

1. Mention two things that could happen if

Wanga failed to give Namwaya the expected

entertainment.

2. Why was it easy for Wanga to trap a fox?

3. Why did Wanyonyi greatly need the English

bull dog, Shisia?

4. What reason does Wanga give for the dog’s

harshness?

5. Wanyonyi did not discover that he had

bought a fox instead of a dog. What led to this

failure?

6. Why did Wanga become broke so soon after

getting the money for the ‘English bull dog’?

7. Why was sugar scarce at the time in the story?

8. Mention some things done to machines during

routine maintenance at a sugar factory.

9. What reason did Odongo give for not being

married?

10. How did Wanga trick Wanyonyi into offering

him his urea to sell?

11. After the last adventure of conning, why

couldn’t Wanga drink in bars around Shibale?

12. Why are in-laws regarded very highly in

Wanga’s part of the world?

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13. According to the story, what is referred to as

‘a woman who has arrived’?

14. Give a reason that explains why Wanga was

such a successful thief.

15. Give the names of the two men who wanted

to buy Wanga’s ‘sugarcane’.

16. What is being called ‘telifaries’?

17. How did Wanga spend the money he earned

from cheating people?

18. What reason does Odongo give for not

wanting to marry Feyi?

19. Why was Wanga willing to promise anything

to secure some money from Odongo?

20. Why did the women at the gate start looking

down upon men generally?