The One Planet Literature series: Prose
Hustlers’ Chains
The One Planet Literature series
1. Flee, Mama Flee – David Mulwa
2. Seven Shades of Dusk – Kwamboka Oyaro
3. Angels of the Wild – Ng’ang’a Mbugua
4. The Daredevil Rider – Henry Munene
5. The Ridges Across River Kaiti – Wambua wa Kawive
6. From the Heart of my Mother – Ken Wasudi
7. The High Road – Jennie Marima
8. Just this Once – Jennie Marima
9. Little Heroes – Ian McKenzie-Vincent
10. A Spider’s Web – Samuel Wachira
11. The Climate of Change – Ian McKenzie-Vincent
12. Leading Light – Kithusi Mulonzya
13. A Journey to Becoming – Igara Kabaji
14. Hustler’s Chains – Samuel Wachira
Play
15. Dawn at Sunset – Salama Menza
Hustlers’ Chains
Samuel Wachira
OnePLANET
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© Samuel Wachira 2021
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
First published 2021
Reprinted 2022
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ISBN 978 9914 41 002 0
Cover illustraon by Vincent Nyalik
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…For they are gods, we are mortals and as boys kill grasshoppers
wantonly, they kill us for their sport.
1
It all started at Pondamali Bar and Restaurant in
Majengo. Here you will find the rich and the poor, the joyful
and the sorrowful, the haves and the have-nots, all in their
own element. When folks are rolling in money, this is where
they come to flash it around and to celebrate; and when they
are penniless and life is weighing heavily on them, this is
where they come to drown their sorrows. This explains why
the sun never sets at Pondamali. The place seems to have a
licence to operate twenty-four seven, until the human race
self-destructs. If you want to know who is who in Majengo,
book yourself an evening at Pondamali. You will come face-
to-face with those who have real money, those who pretend
to have it, those who dream of having it and those who have
no idea how real money looks like. The glue that holds all
these people together is beer, a frothy liquid that seems to
make the happy happier, and the sad sadder. The partakers
swear to the liquid’s potency in drowning the sorrows of
those who are struggling. I have known many types of liquids
but none has had a bigger impact on me than beer. If a man
Chapter One
2
is not telling the truth, bring him to Pondamali and buy him
a couple of rounds. He will not just tell you the truth; he
will sing it! A liquid that alters the functioning of the brain
in such a manner is to be revered. Otherwise, how do you
explain that a man calls you bure kabisa in one instance and
five minutes later, he’s singing your praises as he drowns
the few bottles you have bought for him? Nicknamed
‘Headquarters’, Pondamali is a symbol of class for the bar
revellers in Majengo. At Pondamali, we are served using real
glasses unlike in other bars where liquor is served in metal
or plastic cups.
In the whole of Majengo, secret meetings, especially
political ones, are normally held at Pondamali. There are
some special rooms at the back which are reserved for
‘high-level consultative meetings’. Even though I hardly get
invited to such meetings, I have learnt a few valuable lessons
about them, the main one being that it is your financial
worth that determines whether you will be invited to such
meetings or not. Meetings and Majengo are like Siamese
twins; you cannot separate them. Every week there are tens
of meetings; a meeting to discuss security, a meeting because
someone is getting married, a meeting because someone has
to get buried, a meeting to plan how to eradicate poverty, a
meeting because a drunken man beat up his wife, a meeting
because some man was caught with another man’s wife while
the husband had purportedly travelled upcountry. Every
3
day seems to come with its own plate of meetings. There are
meetings all the time and for all manner of reasons!
I have a love-hate relationship with secrets. I love them
when I want to conceal my problems, such as the perennial
famine in my pockets, or the story of my dirty past. I wouldn’t
want all and sundry to know that I am broke. When your
pockets are suffering from malnourishment or what my
wife calls financial kwashiorkor or marasmus, you keep it a
secret. Otherwise, the Pharisees in Majengo will ensure your
name appears in the list of shame. Now you can see why I
am mostly never invited to the secret meetings because at
some point I have to call my own mini secret meeting within
the main secret meeting to plead or lie in order to be bailed
out from what my friend, Domo, calls ‘ugonjwa wa mfuko’.
My hate for secrets intensifies when my pockets are
loaded. At that time, I want everyone to know that I have
joined the real men’s club. I drink, sing at the top of my voice
and shout for all, including the dead, to know that there is
a new ‘millionaire’ in town. All the secrets in my heart pour
out from my well-oiled tongue as I sing of the day when I
went down to the river for the cut, to warn everyone that I
fear no one! My acquired bravado is a source of amusement
to those who know the otherwise subdued man in sobriety.
In my singing I remind any willing listeners that I am not a
pauper and that I don’t eat or sleep in anybody’s house.
******
4
One Saturday morning, I was comfortably minding my own
business at the ‘men’s corner’ when I was informed by a
passing messenger that I was required at Pondamali for a
secret meeting. I was in no mood for a meeting as my pockets
were empty. What baffled me was that a secret meeting was
being held during the day. In Majengo, secret meetings were
always held at night, usually in the witching hour when even
the devil was in slumberland. All the same, I hurriedly left
for Pondamali. When I got there, Kadogo informed me the
meeting was being held in one of the special rooms at the
back of the bar. The special rooms were in an area that was
mostly reserved for special customers. When you wanted to
enjoy the fruits of your sweat with your closest friends, away
from the prowling eyes of scavengers and nose-pokers, you
whispered to Kadogo to reserve a special room for you at the
back. Kadogo would then place a notice on the door which
clearly read: Reserved: Trespassers will be prosecuted.
When I entered the special room, the first guest who caught
my eye was Professor, a man I considered to be an enigma.
In Majengo, such ostentatious titles like Professor, Daktari,
Pilot and so on are used with reckless abandon. We call the
man who transports vegetables from Wakulima Market
using a handcart ‘Pilot’ while the local welder is called
‘Engineer’. The oldest cobbler here is known as ‘Governor’
while the mkokoteni man who sells water is called ‘General’.
The permanent drunk who walks around with a half-full
5
bottle of makali, the drink of choice in Majengo, is referred
to as ‘John Walker’.
Professor’s appearance in Majengo for the first time
is a story that is akin to a fable. Although he is a popular
customer at Pondamali, nobody knows exactly where
he comes from. All we know is that he is a foreigner who
teaches Political Science at one of the universities in the city.
Most people in Majengo have a success or failure story, and
that’s why the slum is a hub of stories. More often than not,
you will find people just sitting down telling and listening
to stories. It is an indispensable pastime activity. Professor’s
story is synonymous with his description. Those who know
him better say that he sought asylum in Kenya after running
away from a neighbouring country. The story has it that he
was a radical lecturer of Political Science who had got into
the crosshairs with the political leadership in his country.
He had found refuge in our country and secured a good job
for himself at a local university as a lecturer. According to
the grapevine, he was writing some thesis on the political
organization inside the slum areas of sub-Saharan Africa.
He was a tall, dark man who sported shaggy, long hair. His
thick lips and long scruffy beard gave him a severe look. His
big shifty eyes were always hidden behind a pair of reading
glasses. He had a baritone but his voice was gentle at the
same time. Though he was a man of books, he always looked
dishevelled and clumsy. He was always dressed in a kitenge
shirt, faded blue jeans and old open sandals that matched
6
colour with his shirts. When asked why he was always
shaggy in his dressing, he would gruffly retort that he was
too busy thinking about solving the equations of life that
he had no time to obsess about neatness. In Majengo, we
referred to him as ‘a day scholar’; a phrase we used to refer
to the people who always visited Majengo during the day but
never actually lived there. We did not know where Professor
lived but every day, he would appear at Pondamali carrying
a bundle of papers and files. There was one document that
he liked to show everyone he talked to and which he called
a thesis. He always sat alone at his favourite corner table,
sipping a beer and scribbling things in his notebook. He
would order one beer and sip it for hours. He appeared to
be very observant of what was going on around the bar. On
the table would sit his three mobile phones. Almost all of
his phone conversations were about money. However, his
most animated conversations revolved around life in the
poor neighbourhoods. He was sharp and articulate in his
arguments and seemed to have divine power of convincing
others to agree with him. I did not see this as odd since he was
a teacher and speaking was his trade. Professor developed
friendships with all people and, although he was a visitor, he
seemed to have known all the key persons in Majengo.
Seated next to Professor was Chairman.
“Welcome to the meeting. You were the only one who
was missing but that’s expected; hustlers rarely keep time,”
7
Chairman teased. He was a medium-sized man with a bald
head and a pot belly. He was famous for his trademark suits
which gave him a name and stature.
There are more chairmen in Majengo than there are
chairs! This particular chairman was an icon; chairmanship
seemed to run in his blood. He was chairman of almost every
committee related to administration in Majengo! He chaired
the development committee, security committee, burial
welfare committee, disaster management fund and others.
Chairman was the principal shareholder of Pondamali,
which essentially meant he was the owner. His family owned
only 2 shares in the business with Chairman holding the
other 98 shares. The man was a key political player in city
politics. He therefore ‘knew’ people. The area Member of
Parliament and the Police Chief were on speed dial in his
phone. He claimed to be the ear and eye of the government
in Majengo. One had to think twice before rattling such a
man for he wielded immense power. The good thing about
Chairman was that he was open-handed, open-minded and
open-hearted. He never shied away from giving and since
people in Majengo love free things, he was a household
name. Whenever there was a fundraising event in the area,
Chairman was always at the centre of it as the chief donor. He
even funded communal celebrations from his own pocket. I
remember one such celebration when the whole of Majengo
found a justified cause to make merry with their feet pointing
to the skies. The residents of Majengo love feasts but no feast
8
could dwarf this particular one. It will go down in history
as the greatest feast south of the Sahara. It all started when
the BBC ran a week-long documentary on Majengo, which
they said was the second largest slum in sub-Saharan Africa!
The documentary threw Majengo into a frenzy, triggering
various celebrations across the vast settlement. Free alcohol
flowed; music ruled the airwaves and grand promises were
made by politicians. Everyone agreed that they had to work
hard to beat the largest slum in Africa to position one. “We
have to be number one in Africa!” they sang in their drunken
states. The celebration was coordinated by Chairman and
for the whole of that week, he was referred to as the Greatest
Chairman south of the Sahara.
“Hustler, you should learn from the dead, they are always
on time,” Boychild joked.
Everyone laughed. I ignored the laughter and took my
seat next to him.
I have always considered Boychild to be more of a
comedian than an activist. Everything about him was
comical, including his life story. Before he shot to the
limelight, he had been married to an iron lady who gave him
no breathing space. It was him who toiled in the kitchen,
washed the baby, did the laundry and cleaned the floor;
much to the chagrin of other men. He had to follow a code
of strict rules set by his wife. One of the rules was that he
had to get home before the chickens retired to their coop
for the night. Nobody understood why Boychild would put
9
up with such oppressive behaviour. What the people didn’t
know was that Boychild was not circumcised. Being from a
community that revered circumcision, his condition would
have been a source of both ridicule and pity to him and to
those who were close to him. His cunning wife guarded
this secret very well. However, she used it as a weapon to
blackmail Boychild. Every time Boychild attempted to raise
his voice, his wife would threaten to let the cat out of the bag.
It is said that when Boychild got tired of the blackmail from
his wife, he decided to do something about his condition.
One afternoon, he went to his wife and told her that a friend
of his had discovered a secret location where mercury was
being mined. He requested for her permission to accompany
his friend on a secret mission which could finally give them
their long awaited economic breakthrough, permanently
releasing them from the yoke of poverty which had chained
them to Majengo forever. His wife was very excited. That
evening, she prepared for him the best dinner and treated
him like a king. She spent the evening reminiscing about
their younger days and how much in love they had been. She
remembered the big dreams they had talked about regarding
their family and the future. Boychild had not seen his wife so
happy in over ten years. Deep down his heart, he felt guilty
about lying to his wife but the evening was too perfect to be
spoilt by his admission of guilt. The following morning, she
hugged and kissed him as she bid him goodbye. She wished
10
him the best of luck in his journey. She was smiling from
ear to ear! He knew he had to carry on with his plans or he
would be oppressed by his wife for the rest of his miserable
life. Boychild and his best friend travelled to a clinic in
another town and made plans for accommodation in a
modest guest house. Once he had accomplished his mission,
the two friends returned to Majengo. He had to make up a
story about not bringing back the mercury but he now felt
like a real man. He would never accept to be blackmailed by
his wife ever again. When he got home, his wife was not in.
He patiently waited for her to return in the evening. His wife
was very excited to see her husband back.
“Did it go well?” she asked excitedly.
Boychild creased his brow and in feigned toughness, he
asked her where she had been the whole day. The wife was
taken aback. She was not used to such kind of questions
from her husband. She responded to him rudely. Boychild
grabbed her by the hand and asked her again, “Where were
you the whole day?”
Boychild’s wife was not amused. She decided to make
good her threat to expose his secret. She dashed outside,
screaming, “I have been beaten by a married boy! I have
been beaten by a grown-up boy! I have been beaten by a
bearded boy!”
The drama-loving residents of Majengo gathered to listen
to Boychild’s wife. The crowd calmed her down and asked
11
her what the problem was. She explained to them that her
husband was not circumcised.
As is the norm in Majengo, the elders decided to verify
what the woman was saying. They entered Boychild’s house
and closed the door behind them. The crowd outside waited
expectantly for the elders to emerge from the house. All the
while, Boychild’s wife tried in vain to hide her evil smile
behind a leso. After a few minutes, the elders came out
shaking their heads in disbelief. One of the elders calmly
said, “This woman does not know what she’s talking about.
She is lying!”
The wife was shocked. What were the elders saying?
Wasn’t this her husband whom she had lived with for more
than ten years? However, in Majengo everyone respects
the verdict of the elders. The wife, very embarrassed,
dashed into her house and closed the door behind her. The
crowd outside could be heard booing her and calling her a
shameless woman who was bringing ridicule to her family.
The men were very angry. How could she say such things
about her husband? Early the next morning, Boychild’s wife
left Majengo before the sun was out. She was never seen
in Majengo again. After about one year, Boychild married
another wife.
This experience forced Boychild to form a lobby group
for oppressed men. The group came to be known as
Maendeleo ya Wanaume. The objective of the group was to
liberate men who had been groaning under the yoke of their
12
tyrant wives. His stories always elicited laughter wherever
he went. He told of men who were forced to sleep under the
bed whenever they came back home drunk. Others had to
hide under the tables or chairs when their wives got angry.
He usually visited Pondamali to solicit followers and always
left us in stitches.
“Brothers, join me in this war and let us liberate our
own. The other day I went to visit a pal of mine and I found
him under the table. I asked him whether he had become a
mechanic of tables and he told me that it was his house and
he could stay wherever he chose to, even if it was up on the
roof!”
We all burst out laughing and he took that opportunity to
talk about the rights of the boy-child and how he had been
neglected by the society.
“Society has concentrated too much on the rights of the
girl-child and neglected the boy-child. We have forgotten
that you cannot have a responsible society without having
strong men. Where are the strong men going to come from
if we do not take care of the boy-child?”
That sobered us up and we realized that much as we had
been laughing at Boychild and his comical stories, there was
a lot of truth in what he was saying. There was a big problem
in the society – the neglect of the boy-child. That is how
Boychild earned his name because he was always talking
about the boy-child.
13
My throat was itching for a drink. I did not understand
how we could have a meeting with nothing on the table.
Before I could voice my concern, Mzito spoke, “Professor,
you are the owner of the meeting. What do you have for us?”
Mzito was normally fondly called ‘Sir Mzito’ by his friends
due to his deep pockets. He was tall, with a round face and
big eyes which gave him a somewhat severe look. He was a
frequent reveller at Pondamali. He was one of the ‘owners’
of Majengo because, unlike most of us, he had something to
lose. His CV read like a page in the Nairobi Stock Exchange
market. He was the chief procurement officer and the official
broker in Majengo. His motto was: ‘You name it; I’ve got
it’. His success or failure story read like a script in a movie.
The veterans in Majengo say he came to the slum in a coffin
and here he resurrected to become the titan that he was. The
storytellers have it that he used to live in a town near the
coast. He involved himself in clandestine activities and the
police authorities gave the ‘shoot to kill’ orders. His friends
didn’t know how to sneak him out because of the roadblocks
that had been mounted by the police, so they bought a coffin,
put him inside it and loaded the coffin into a car. That is how
they beat the roadblocks and smuggled him out of hell. The
same storytellers have it that Mzito’s final destination was
supposed to be mashinani but the car broke down when they
got to Majengo. His best friend went to look for a mechanic
14
but he never returned. That is how Mzito became a resident
of Majengo.
Professor caressed his unkempt beard, a gesture that
meant he was looking for the right words to start the meeting.
However, my mind was highly distracted by the smell of
beer that hung in the atmosphere, triggering a strong urge
for a drink. I looked at Kadogo standing in the periphery
and trying hard to appear invisible and my face hardened.
Why is she standing there doing nothing?
Contrary to her size and name, Kadogo was as tough as
nails. Dealing with drunkards is no joke and anyone with a
soft heart would not make it in this job. Kadogo had come
to Pondamali when she was very young. She had become
pregnant and dropped out of school in primary school. She
had no choice but to look for a job to fend for her child.
Years of dealing with drunkards had hardened her beyond
her years. She could be your best friend or your worst
enemy; it all depended on how you behaved while in her
sphere of influence. She never hesitated to give you the
marching orders if you became unruly, but she kept your
money safe if she noticed that you were too drunk. She
was the timekeeper at Pondamali – she made you leave the
bar for home when she felt it was getting too late. She also
determined when you had had enough of the drink. She
never liked unaccompanied women in the establishment
and when one came in, she would point to a placard on the
wall that read: If you have nothing to do, don’t do it here.
15
The men used endearing names for Kadogo, with the most
popular being Sweetie or Honey. But we all kept our hands to
ourselves as she had a nasty temper that could explode like a
nuclear bomb if the wrong buttons were pushed. What most
people didn’t know was that Kadogo was a serious spy in
Majengo. She kept many deep secrets in her heart. She knew
who was rolling in money and who was broke; she knew
who had taken a loan and who had cut a deal with the devil.
She heard every little gossip that circulated and knew which
men were unknowingly bringing up children that were not
their own.
Someone gave a prolonged yawn, the kind that betrays a
bored man. It was Rasta. Rasta was a permanent feature at
Pondamali. Nobody knew where he had come from. Some
thought he was a remnant of the Mau Mau war since he
wore long dreadlocks and spoke with a guttural voice. Rasta
loved his guitar. He performed one-man guitar shows at the
bar every evening. His standard response when he was asked
about his music was, “The best things in life come in threes,
like a cold beer, warm meat and cool music. You don’t know
the real taste of life until you have eaten it with some beautiful
music.” His long dreadlocks, fiery red eyes and brown teeth
reminded me of a lion and, indeed, when he was at his
best, he called himself the ‘Lion of Judah’. His songs were
customized depending on the condition of your pocket. If
you were rolling in cash, he would sing praises about you.
What he called a dedication. Drunks would shower him with
16
alcohol after every song. Rasta lived at Pondamali, literally.
He had no house, bed or stove. He ate, drank and slept at
the bar. Rasta was not married and when people asked him
about it, he always replied that he was married to his guitar.
But Rasta hated politics. If you wanted to remain his friend,
you had to keep off political talk when you interacted with
him. He was a man who saw and heard nothing, but he knew
a lot. If you ever saw Rasta in a meeting, you knew he was
not there as an actor; he was there as an innocent observer.
Professor cleared his voice and shed off the smile he wore
on his face, and assumed a serious academic look. He must
have realized that he was stretching our anxiety to breaking
point.
“I know you are all anxious but the real meeting has not
yet started. There is another group of leaders that is waiting
for us somewhere else. Once we get there, the meeting will
start,” he explained.
For some reason I could not explain, my heart skipped
a beat and then started racing. What I thought was a small
meeting was turning out to be an important matter. Professor
had mentioned something about leaders and that meant that
there was a serious issue in the offing.
“Where is the meeting then?” Chairman asked.
Professor stood up, rubbed his hands together and picked
up his files. “Just follow me,” he said as he led the way out of
Pondamali.
17
******
The short walk led us to a big workshop building, usually
referred to as the school of women. Mama Chama welcomed
us with open hands. The inside walls of the building were
covered with different charts. The room was also full of
different machines, equipment and various materials. Along
the sides of the room were long tables covered with rolls of
batik and tie-and-dye cloth, beads, woven baskets and mats,
bangles and necklaces made of beautiful beads. In the middle
of the room, there was an empty table and chairs all around
it. Headmaster, Mama Chama and Apostle Jonah were
sitting at the table. We exchanged greetings and sat down.
“Welcome to our school,” Mama Chama said with a wide
smile.
Mama Chama was the undisputed leader of all the
women in Majengo and that made her the most powerful
woman in the area. Out of earshot, the men referred to her
as Wangu wa Makeri, a legendary harsh woman chief in
traditional times who ruled the people who lived around
Mount Kenya. This was before the emergence of what came
to be known as the ‘trouser government’. The legendary
woman chief had a vice-grip on the minds of all the women
to the point that she could successfully call for a women’s
strike against their normal duties at home. The men revolted
and decided to start beating their wives in order to break
the strike. Wangu wa Makeri was then overthrown by
the men after she became pregnant, thus the birth of the
18
‘trouser government’ in her community. Mama Chama
never ceased to remind the women of Majengo that they
were not punching bags. She always encouraged them to be
economically active so that they could help their husbands
to provide for their families. Her philosophy was that a
family that was financially stable was a happy family. Mama
Chama was a no-nonsense woman especially where the
rights of women were concerned. She was a graduate from
the school of hard knocks and that is what enabled her to
hold her own against what she called male chauvinism. Her
diehard female supporters fondly called her Chairlady. She
chaired an umbrella body for women’s self-help groups in
Majengo and was the Chairlady of Maendeleo ya Wanawake
in the county. Through the self-help groups, she had helped
to empower women economically. She was also the patron
of the Anti-Abuse Forum for Women, an NGO that dealt
with matters such as rape and domestic violence. The NGO’s
clarion call was ‘Toa sauti’, which encouraged women to
speak out about abuse in their homes. The organization
provided pro bono legal services and support to women
who had experienced domestic violence. Mama Chama also
coordinated the affairs of two other women support groups
called Single Mothers’ Union and Majengo Widows Power.
The two support groups helped women who were facing
life without husbands and yet they had families to take
care of. With so many feathers in her hat, Mama Chama
was a power to reckon with. No politician could afford to
19
ignore her influence on the women. Her favourite phrase
was: “When women come together, great things happen!”
Like Headmaster, Mama Chama was a teacher but an
informal one for women. She empowered women, both
economically and socially. A widow herself, Mama Chama
hated Pondamali for she felt that men were drinking their
lives away and leaving the burden of taking care of families
to women. Her late husband, Kalulu, had been a life member
and an honorary shareholder at Pondamali. Kalulu was a
short man whose main hobby was pulling stunts. He had
the most interesting stories and always told jokes in order
to get free beers from those he was entertaining. He became
a household name when he ‘starred’ in one of the most
hilarious shows that had been witnessed at Pondamali.
One fateful day, Kalulu had raided his wife’s ‘secret bank’
in the mattress and sought refuge at the bar where he started
buying alcohol for his friends. Someone whispered to his
wife that he had a lot of money and was buying beer to all and
sundry. Mama Chama was very suspicious how Kalulu had
got money and so she decided to check whether her money
was still safe in the mattress. When she discovered that her
savings were missing, she knew where to find the thief. Mama
Chama is a big and bullish woman. When word reached
Pondamali that she was on the way and was breathing fire
and brimstones, Kalulu swallowed hard. All the alcohol he
had drunk by then seemed to evaporate from his head. He
was well aware that his wife would turn Pondamali upside
20
down but he had nowhere to run to. The only safe place he
could think of hiding was under Kadogo’s long skirt. That
is where Kalulu stayed until his wife had left the bar. After
the wife had left, he recounted to everyone the experience
under the skirt and we were all falling down with laughter.
That day, Kalulu’s name was scribbled on the wall of fame at
Pondamali as the GOAT – greatest of all time. That meant
that every day, he was entitled to one free beer courtesy of
the bar! Kalulu died of a strange disease. The doctor said he
had ‘drunk his liver’ and thus suffered from a disease called
liver cirrhosis. We, his fellow revellers at Pondamali, just
dismissed his death by saying, “Alishindwa na safari”. Like
any other faithful reveller at Pondamali, Kalulu was buried
with the full honours of the bar. This meant that on the day
of his funeral, Pondamali remained shut to enable us escort
him to the land beyond the skies. It also meant that the whole
army of drunks from Pondamali travelled to his mashinani
donning our Sunday best clothes and looking quite sober.
On the day of the funeral, the tailor had not finished
making Kalulu’s coat as the material we had provided had
got finished after making the trouser and half of the coat. We
were at the morgue wondering what to do when Chairman
removed his own coat and gave it to the morgue attendant to
dress Kalulu. “Time is running out and we still have to get to
mashinani. He can use this one of mine for now.”
Kalulu was buried by a priest; not because he was a
faithful member of the church but because his wife, Mama
21
Chama, never missed church service. Just before the coffin
was lowered to the grave, one of our friends from Pondamali
walked to the priest and whispered something. He asked
the priest to allow him to open the coffin for a few seconds.
Thinking that he wanted to show his last respects to the dead,
the priest accepted. When the coffin was opened, the man
dipped his hand into one of the coat pockets and removed
a bunch of keys. People started murmuring. Then the man,
looking at Chairman and lifting up the bunch of keys, asked,
“Ni hizi?”.
Chairman nodded. Everyone was confused. They
wondered what was going on. Why were there keys in
the dead man’s pocket? Kalulu’s best friend was heard
mumbling, “If the keys are buried with him, where will we be
drinking? Why should he be buried with keys and there are
no bars in heaven?” Everyone, including the priest, laughed.
The widow was not amused.
The truth was that when Chairman was surrendering
his coat, he had forgot to remove his keys from one of
the pockets. Mama Chama was not just a sworn enemy
of Pondamali, she was a crusader against all places where
alcohol was sold or consumed. She called such places the
workshops of the devil and the breeding places of evil.
******
I had been invited to the meeting as the leader of the ‘Hustler
Kingdom’, an informal group that was supposed to fight for
22
the rights of the ordinary citizens. We were demanding for
the right to be heard, to be seen and to be tolerated. This
is enough to tell you that I am not a very small man in
Majengo for I control a sizeable population of young people.
My reason for bringing this group together had been purely
selfish. After observing many people who had risen from
obscurity to fame in the country, I had come to the realization
that the gateway to riches was to have a significant group
of followers. You could always negotiate for deals based on
the number of people following you. The bigger and more
menacing the group appeared, the higher your bargaining
power rose. I looked around Majengo and realized that
the most profitable investment in the area was the people.
Some people had grown rich overnight after starting their
own churches. During elections, a lot of money flowed from
politicians and most of the money ended up in the pockets
of groups through their leaders.
With no money but having been blessed with a good
mouth, I decided this was going to be my jackpot. Leadership
was never my strong point but desperate times called for
desperate strategies. I remembered leading a protest by
young men in the village after being fed with half-cooked
ugali after a full day of digging the grave of a neighbour who
had died. In my village we had a group of men who were
always called to dig graves. After that protest, the villagers
agreed that from then on, the young men who were helping
the community to dig graves would be well fed and the food
23
would be well cooked. Any villager who did not abide by
the resolution would be fined one he-goat which would be
slaughtered for the young men to eat. This strengthened
my conviction that I could actually lead a group of people
to achieve some goal. Even though my wife never stopped
reminding me that I only seemed to use half of the brain
that my great grandfather had bequeathed to me, and which
was shrinking quite fast, I never lost confidence in my
abilities and potential. I managed to bring together a group
of disgruntled young men in Majengo into a group which
I christened ‘Hustler Kingdom’. Initially, I had preferred
the name ‘Hustler International’ since I had grand plans
of extending my activities beyond Kenya. However, I knew
that most of the people in Majengo love it when you talk
about the future and its promises. So, I settled for ‘Hustler
Kingdom’.
Even though my wife believed I had no brain of my own,
God had blessed me with the gift of the gab. I could charm
a snake out of a hole with my sweet words! Popularizing
the movement was therefore a piece of cake for me. All I
needed was to focus on what the govenment had failed to
do, such as lack of employment opportunities, and any
unemployed young person would readily become a member
of my movement. My intention was to bring all the young
people, especially the men, into a herd, then become their
voice. Any serious leader would not ignore such a potentially
24
destructive group. However, most of the unemployed youths
had little education and so understanding my manifesto was
a big problem to them.
“This movement you have formed, what exactly is it? Is it
a political party, a merry-go-round, a human rights group,
a self-help group, an NGO or just a club?” Rasta once asked
me.
“This is a movement whose aim is to make the world
know that we the ordinary people exist, and that we deserve
respect. If we join hands and heads, we can make an impact
and even attract donor funding,” I explained.
This made most of the young people in the group
excited. Any mention of money was good news in Majengo,
irrespective of where it was coming from. They were all in
agreement with my ideas. However, after a few meetings, and
there being no sign of money or jobs, they stopped attending
my meetings and my movement remained on paper.
Like most people in Majengo, I too have a success or
failure story. I was born and brought up in mashinani, in
a forgotten constituency in some corner of Kenya. Nobody
seems to know where my home area is located. But this does
not worry me too much because in Majengo, we only become
interested with where one came from after they die, as we
have to go and pay our last respects. That is why we mostly
use titles such as engineer, doctor, professor and so on to
refer to people as we hardly bother with anyone’s origin as
25
long as they are alive. I dropped out of school in Form Four.
Even though my father was a firm believer in education as
the key that opens all the doors of a bright future, I found
school dreary and tiring. Maturity came to me too early,
creating trouble right outside my door. I was in my final year
in secondary school and by then I was feeling I had become
a man. My muscles had enlarged, making me believe I was
tough enough to face an army. My voice had also grown
deep, a sign that I too could command a household. Some
beard was starting to sprout on my chin, making me look
like a he-goat. My mouth had grown sweeter and my words
sounded like music. Our village was famous for night dances
and I was a very good singer and dancer. This earned me a
few admirers from among the girls. My fame as a singer and
a dancer spread quickly across the ridges and before I knew
it, I had become a village celebrity. My chest was bursting
with pride. My singing and dancing prowess earned me lots
of fame and soon, I had girls waiting on me everywhere I
went. My head swelled with ego. Everything was spinning
fast out of control and before I could say my mother’s name,
trouble was staring me right in the face. I will never forget
that day when my mother knocked at the door of my simba
very early in the morning.
“Your father is calling you,” she said without explaining
anything.
I was taken aback. In my culture, when you are called
by your father at such an early hour of the morning, it is a
26
sign that real trouble awaits you. I peeked out of the cracks
of my wooden door towards my father’s house. I could see
him sitting on his chair and talking to a group of elders. My
heart almost stopped. A cold sweat trickled down my back.
To see elders in our homestead that early and knowing what
shenanigans I had been up to for the past one year meant
only one thing – someone’s daughter was pregnant! I peered
again through the cracks on the door. I counted nine elders
but I could only recognize two of them. The two were at
the top of my mind as I had been steadily going out with
their daughters. When you are going out with a girl behind
her father’s back, you always have to be careful not to cross
boundaries while you are playing hanky-panky. But having
nine elders at our home meant there was more trouble than I
could figure out at that moment. In normal circumstances, if
you ‘broke the leg of one goat’, only two or three elders would
come to your parents’ home early in the morning. For nine
elders to come to our home, it meant I had broken the legs
of more than one goat! The trouble I was in was bigger than
an elephant. I quickly counted all the girls I had been going
out with for the past few months. I counted six. I started
imagining all sorts of things in my mind. Had I impregnated
all of them? Why was the elders’ delegation so big? In our
culture, if you impregnate one girl out of wedlock, you pay a
fine equal to her dowry. Most men struggle to finish paying
dowry for even one wife with old age and even death catching
up with them before they can finish. Their sons have to take
27
up the responsibility of paying their mother’s dowry if the
man dies before doing so. This realization made me curse
the day I learnt how to dance and play the guitar. If all the
six girls I had been dating were pregnant, how would I pay
all their dowries? I did not own even a chicken, leave alone a
goat! I pressed my ear against the door to listen to what the
elders were saying. I heard my father talking like someone
who was ready to commit murder. He was cursing the day I
was born and swearing that he would castrate me like a bull.
I knew my goose was cooked. I did some quick calculations
in my head and realized that I would never get out of the
mess I had created for myself. The only option was to run
away. I was not just running away from responsibility; I was
running away from my father’s wrath. Not even my sweet
mouth could save me this time. I had to seek refuge in my
weak legs, hoping they would carry me as far as possible
from my village, which was my scene of crime. Out of the
window at the back of my simba, I jumped and ran as fast
as I could.
Many days later, and after begging uncountable times
for lifts, I arrived at the ‘city of many lights’ with only the
clothes on my back. I was tired, hungry and thirsty. I knew
no one and had nowhere to sleep. After sleeping in the
streets for days while looking for a job, the hunger pangs
were unbearable. I entered into one of the restaurants and
ordered chicken, chips and soda. I had no money to pay
for the food but I decided that if I had to die, then it was
28
better to die when my stomach was full. After devouring my
meal, I made as if to go to the toilet, then attempted to sneak
out through a side door but the askari at the main door
was hawk-eyed. Before I knew it, I was on the ground and
blows and kicks were being rained on me. After a thorough
harambee beating which seemed to last forever, I heard a
commanding voice ordering the people to stop beating me.
The policeman who had saved me felt sorry for me after
hearing my story. He requested the restaurant to give me
some work to do to compensate for the food I had eaten. He
also warned me against exporting my primitive ways from
the village to the city.
“Young man, we know that in the village you first eat
then you work but here you first work then you eat. You are
lucky I was passing by, otherwise you would now be filling
the admission forms at the gates of hell.”
I was taken to the restaurant’s kitchen and given two sacks
of potatoes to peel. It is here that I met my friend, Domo.
He sympathized with my situation and when evening came,
he took me to his house in Majengo. It was baptism by fire
but I learnt first-hand what being a hustler in the city really
meant. Nevertheless, I had earned my joining rights into the
hustlers’ club in the city.
***
When I looked at the second guest in the room, I realized
why the meeting could not have been held at Pondamali.
29
Headmaster, the self-proclaimed philosopher, was a man
who doubled up as a teacher and a ‘prophet’. He never
ceased to prophesy that the saviour of Majengo would be a
man or a woman who had eaten enough chalk and books.
Headmaster headed the only school in the entire Majengo
area and that was enough to qualify him as a public figure.
To him, the ills of Majengo were caused by such drinking
places as Pondamali where people wasted their time drinking
useless liquids only to urinate them a few hours later. In one
of the community meetings, he had suggested that since
Pondamali was built on public land, it should be demolished
and a nursery school built there instead. His suggestion had
triggered a flurry of grumbling amongst the men, especially
after some journalists misreported that Headmaster had
said that alcohol reduced the mental abilities of grown
men to those of nursery school kids. Religious groups had
come to the defence of Headmaster by openly and strongly
supporting him. Headmaster was a teetotaller and the only
alcohol that had ever gone into his mouth was the church
wine served during his wedding. One time he had led a
brigade of women to Pondamali and what ensued was total
chaos. The women were breathing fire and brimstones.
They poured all the drinks they found on the tables and
threw anything they could lay their hands on at the revellers.
The men had scampered to safety faster than one could say
Kipchoge! Those who could not run had hidden under the
tables. The bone of contention was a stolen billboard.
30
It was during the anti-corruption crusade when the Ethics
and Anti-Corruption officers had visited Majengo to create
awareness about corruption which they claimed was a deadly
disease in the country. They brought some billboards with
a message that read: This is a corruption free zone. They
erected them at strategic places. The message was supposed
to work magic; they were the weapons that would eradicate
the scourge of corruption from the face of Kenya forever.
The billboards in Majengo were erected at the entrances of
the city council dispensary, the police station, the school
and the Chief’s Camp. The drunks complained that the only
public space that did not get a billboard was Pondamali. One
night, someone stole the billboard at the school gate and
planted it right outside Pondamali but not before making
an alteration to the message. The person painted over the
word ‘corruption’, such that the message now read: This is
a
corruption corruption free zone. Headmaster was not amused. He
led the women to give us a lesson we would never forget and
concluded by giving us a lecture that was worth an Oscar
Award. He cursed all drunkards and called them enemies
progress. When he had emptied all his vitriol, he took back
the billboard and reinstalled it at the school entrance after
rewriting the word ‘corruption’ in white paint. The next
morning when Headmaster came to work, he found that the
word ‘free’ had been blacked out and the message now read:
This is a corruption
free free zone.
31
Apostle Jonah must have been invited to the meeting
in his capacity as God’s representative in Majengo. I have
always believed that God has his headquarters in Majengo
and if you are looking for God, come to Majengo and you
will find Him there. In Majengo, we have prophets who will
tell you about your tomorrow, apostles who are chosen by
men, seers who will interpret the future for you, pastors
who will repair your torn soul, evangelists who will feed you
with the ‘food of life’, bishops who will bless whatever you
want blessed, for example, your family, job, career and so
on, healers who will cure your financial illness and miracle
workers who will triple your fortunes. When it comes to God
and Godly matters, Majengo is number one. All these people
claim to work for God by fighting the devil. Although they
talk more than they act, they are a powerful lot. Most women
in Majengo obey them more than they do to their husbands.
Apostle Jonah is one man who never forgets to pray against
the devils in Pondamali in his daily prayers.
32
Professor called the meeting to order. Everyone was eager
to know why we had been invited to the meeting. The only
indication we all had was that the meeting was supposed to
be secret though I inwardly doubted how one could hold a
secret meeting in Majengo where walls seemed to have eyes
and ears. The only thing I was sure of was that whatever
Professor wanted to achieve, he had already made a good
start. He had succeeded in bringing foes and friends to the
same table.
Professor adjusted his reading glasses and welcomed us
to the meeting. There was only one agenda for the meeting,
the future of Majengo. I thought that was a vague agenda but
I decided to wait and hear if Professor would provide more
information. When you are a secondary school dropout like
me and a man who has ‘chewed’ books up to the level of
being a professor is talking, you fear to interrupt him.
The name Majengo elicited different emotions among
different people. The elite in our society called it an informal
settlement or slum. To the residents of Majengo, the word
Chapter Two
33
‘slum’ was considered offensive. To the media, Majengo was
a sprawling low income settlement where people lived in
shacks made of iron sheets, a big blemish on the face of the
‘City in the Sun’ and a representation of the social inequality
that existed in the country. To the ‘owners’ of the city and the
ecologists, it was an eyesore and an environmental disaster
while to the politicians, it was a voting machine. To real
estate magnates, Majengo was a waste of valuable city land
and a hindrance to civilization while to the government, it
was simply a perennial headache and a hub for hardened
criminals. But to the thousands of people who lived there,
Majengo was home.
There existed many narratives that tried to explain the
origin of Majengo. The first was that in the beginning, there
was a big factory in the area. When the factory closed, the
workers turned the place into their home. Another narrative
had it that when the colonialists were building the city,
they needed lots of building stones and ballast. They dug a
big quarry at Majengo to get the materials and when they
were done, the huge gaping hole was transformed into a
settlement by the workers who used to work in the quarries.
This narrative sounded more credible since there was an
existing quarry in the area that was probably a remnant of
the activities that used to take place in the area during the
colonial era.
The people of Majengo are extremely hard-working. The
day never seems to end and each day seems to morph onto
34
the next one until something political happens in the area.
At such times, everything stops and the people are fully
engrossed in politics until it is over and then they go back
to their humdrum existence. It is interesting that Majengo
has a 24-hour economy yet the biggest problem in the slum
is joblessness.
Amidst the challenges in the slum, we never stop
laughing at our comical existence. That helps us to remain
sane. Comedy happens every minute. If it is not a drunk
shouting and singing at the top of his voice, it is Baba
Shida fighting with his wife over the children’s porridge or
Matatizo recounting for the umpteenth time his tribulations
and exploits while in prison. At another corner is a slum
preacher shouting about the goodness of God to anyone
who cares to listen. On another day you will find a politician
promising development in Majengo if we elect him. We are
the land of promises, rather than the Promised Land. All
politicians, from presidential candidates, aspiring MPs to
MCAs keep promising the best to the residents of Majengo
but the situation on the ground gets worse after every
election. Nothing ever changes. After listening to all these
promises, we end up at Pondamali or Mama Boi’s kibanda
for tea and mandazi as we analyse the events of the day and
the promises from the politicians are forgotten until the
next election when they are dusted and dangled before our
hungry eyes again.
Like all slums in the city, Majengo neighbours an affluent
neighbourhood called Majuu. Unlike Majengo which lies
35
on a plain, Majuu, like the name indicates, is built on a
hill, further accentuating its position of superiority. Even
nature seems to favour this paradise. Majuu receives the first
droplets of rain, the first rays of the sun and the best quality
of air. Unlike Majengo, Majuu is not a land of promises. It
is the Promised Land, the Garden of Eden which flows with
milk and honey. The residents live in castles and palaces
and you would be excused for thinking that the place is the
cradle of happiness on Earth. We usually refer to Majuu as
the Paradise of Africa. Even public transport is prohibited
from passing through the area or going there. Residents
of Majengo who work as servants in Majuu have to walk
to their places of work. The ruling class, foreign diplomats
and business magnates live in that paradise. One would be
excused for thinking this is where the country’s money is
printed from and stored and that the residents get a free
hand to pick whatever amounts they need. If Majengo is
God’s headquarters, then Majuu must be where God goes
to rest after a hard day’s work. After Rasta has taken a few
drinks, he usually starts to lament, saying, “It is true that God
does not eat ugali but I am sure God sleeps in that paradise.
The people in Majuu are too blessed.” And because of the
tension between the residents of Majuu and Majengo, there
is no love lost between them.
Every Majengo dweller, young or old, will tell you
why Majuu is their enemy. The complaints never cease:
they are rich and we are poor; they have everything and
36
we have nothing; they live in real houses yet we live in
mabati structures; the government only cares for them and
never cares about us, and so on. The list of complaints is
endless. Even though Majengo and Majuu are in the same
neighbourhood, the lives of their residents are worlds apart.
The only thing that loosely links the two worlds are the
workers who trek daily from Majengo to Majuu. They work
as drivers, cooks, watchmen, gardeners, housekeepers, house
girls, dog walkers and so on. They are the lucky few who
earn a living by serving the high and mighty and eating the
crumbs from their high tables. The rest of us are persona non
grata in that paradise and one could actually be shot dead
for trespassing. Armed guards patrol the walls and grounds
of Majuu with big guard dogs. A big gate and a small office
ushers visitors into the estate. It is like going through an
‘immigration’ office as one must have identification details
and must have been invited by one of the residents of the
estate to be allowed to go through that gate. Those who
work there talk of paved roads, clean air devoid of the usual
nauseating smells of Majengo and melodious sounds from
birds chirping in the many trees that dot the gated area.
The only sounds we hear in Majengo are the shouts of the
mali mali man as he moves all over trying to sell his plastic
wares, the out-of-key songs blaring from loud speakers
mounted on top of bars, competing with the lamentations
from their revellers who have spent their last dime in the
establishments.
37
To the residents of Majengo, all their problems emanate
from Majuu. They claim that the money used to build and
sustain Majuu was looted from Majengo’s allocations. It is
a never-ending chorus that the people who live in Majuu
take all the jobs and are mean, for they never share their loot
with the poor around them. Interestingly, even though the
residents of Majengo hate the residents of Majuu, they all
dream of one day becoming rich and going to live there! To
motivate their learners, the teachers in Majengo will say, “If
you study hard, you will pass your exams and then one day
you will leave Majengo and go to live in Majuu and drive
big cars.” Majuu is the paradise that every child in Majengo
dreams about.
The yawning gap between Majengo and Majuu is filled by
a mental hospital called Mapendo. There is no way one can
get to Majuu without passing near the hospital. Mapendo
is like a stopover. I was always convinced that anyone who
dreamt of working his way up from Majengo to Majuu was
a fitting candidate for admission at Mapendo. In the battle
between Majengo and Majuu, Mapendo was the sobering
factor. The residents of Majengo hated Mapendo just as
they hated those of Majuu. They believed that during the
always hotly contested elections, the patients from Mapendo
usually voted secretly for the candidates from Majuu. The
relationship between the three very distinct neighbours
came to be known as the syndrome of the three Ms. The three
38
coexisted in a love-hate relationship, yet they all needed one
another to exist.
Professor stroked his unkempt beard as he slowly moved
his eyes around. Then, in his usual academic voice, he
boomed, “I have called you here today because I want us to
talk about the survival of Majengo.”
Everyone was now alert. Even the cockroaches below
the table were attentive. Everything went dead silent. When
you mention ‘survival’ and ‘Majengo’ in the same sentence,
everyone pays attention.
“For the few years I have been coming here, you have
welcomed me as one of your own and although I am a
foreigner, I consider Majengo to be my second home. My
thesis is coming to its completion and I have learnt a lot
about you as the residents of Majengo. I feel that it is only
fair for me to pay you back for your hospitality by sharing
the findings of my study. That is why I have called you here.”
“That is wonderful news, Professor,” Chairman said after
loudly clearing his throat. “That kind of information would
be very helpful in moving Majengo to the next level.”
“Thank you, Chairman,” Professor replied and continued,
“Majengo is your home. It encapsulates the history of the
residents – their past and present, and also projects their
future. When the existence of Majengo is threatened, the
people’s lives are also in danger.”
The academic talk was starting to bore me. I knew
Professor would revert to the usual rhetoric about the
39
dysfunctional water systems, the ailing healthcare services,
the surging crime rate and the dimmed hopes of finally
having a fully lighted Majengo. My mind wandered to
familiar subjects – I could hear the music from Mamboleo
Bar booming loudly, the sounds from the usual activities in
Majengo, and the humming sound from Pondamali.
“When we talk about the survival of Majengo, we cannot
fail to talk about the enemies of Majengo. Time has come for
us to talk about the real enemy of Majengo.”
The emphasis on Majengo brought my mind back to the
meeting.
“I know that for years, Majengo has wrestled with her
main external enemy, Majuu, but we have given very little
attention to the real enemy of Majengo; the enemy within.
Time is ripe for us to ask ourselves, who is the real enemy of
Majengo.”
Professor sounded very persuasive.
Many things went through my mind in quick succession.
Could he be talking about the HIV scourge that is threatening
to wipe out the population of Majengo in a few years? Is there
another epidemic that Professor has discovered during his
research? Has he managed to fimd a new donor to supply us
with condoms and mosquito nets?
“In the past, Majengo has fought and lost but this time
round, things are different. This is our biggest battle so far
and this time we cannot lose. We must up our game if we
40
hope to survive. Do you know what madness is? It is doing
the same thing over and over again and expecting different
results. Time has come for us to do things differently.”
Professor was now very animated. To me, however, Professor
was now talking Greek.
What is he driving at? I asked myself.
“In the philosophy of life, there is something we call ‘a
last chance’. Everyone gets this basic human right according
to the book of the gods of fate. If you squander it, woe
unto you! You get no other similar chance in your life
and you better die because your life from then on will be
very miserable. The looming battle, according to me, is the
mother of all battles; it is our do-or-die moment. It is the last
chance for the residents of Majengo to pull themselves from
this squalor they call life. If we do not win this war, Majengo
is doomed forever.”
The room was very quiet. One could hear a pin drop.
Our eyes and ears were all open. Some of us had our mouths
open.
What is this Armageddon that Professor is preparing us
for? I wondered silently.
I could not hold my mouth any more. Professor had
mixed up so many issues that I was now drunk with
confusion. First, he had talked about the future, then he had
talked about the enemy from within and now he was talking
about war. It takes guts to take on a person of Professor’s
41
status especially when you are a school drop-out like me, but
I had to do it.
“Professor, which war are you talking about?” I asked
confidently.
To my surprise, Professor burst out in laughter; a lengthy,
irritating laughter that left me irked to the bones. His
laughter took me back to my days in school. My teacher
constantly laughed at me when I asked questions. My
classmates too teased me endlessly. I was the black sheep
of our class. When Professor was done with his irritating
laughter, he turned to me and said, “This title, ‘hustler’, did
you earn it or did you buy it or did they give it to you for
free?”
“They gave it to me for free,” I replied frankly.
He emptied the last drops of his laughter and quipped,
“Don’t you understand that there is a looming election?” To
my surprise, the entire group burst into laughter.
Am I missing something here? I asked myself. Have these
people discussed something before inviting me to join them?
This was turning out to be quite embarrassing. However,
I was the king of comebacks and I knew that I needed to say
something clever to cover for my ignorance.
“Ahaaa! I see, Professor! Elections in Majengo are a
normal occurrence. For those of us who have lived in this
place for decades now, we do not consider elections to be
war. We are experts in these things,” I said with a smirk on
my face.
42
I should have known why this secret meeting had been
called. When it is elections time, there are many secret
meetings as different camps strategize.
“That is why I started by saying, madness is doing the
same thing over and over again and expecting different
results,” Professor quickly interjected.
The rest of the people at the table nodded their heads in
agreement.
“We need to strategize differently this time round to
ensure Majengo reaps the most benefits from this coming
election.”
Professor’s words made sense. I agreed with him. I
could already see myself being nominated to the National
Assembly as a representative for hustlers across the country.
This was getting quite interesting for me.
Although Majengo is a multi-cultural settlement, we
are united by the similar circumstances that we live in.
We all come together to help one another during tragedies
and we also make merry together irrespective of our tribal
backgrounds. We intermarry and coexist in peace and unity
until elections time. During elections, our politicians love
to remind us of our tribal roots and why we should vote
for one of our own. Leaflets mysteriously appear at night
and in a matter of days, friends of many years become
enemies, neighbour turns against neighbour and everyone
starts associating with those from their own community.
The memories and the wounds of the last election were
43
especially very painful. They were still fresh in my mind.
It was an election where all the demons had left hell and
descended upon Majengo. As usual, each of the four
dominant communities in Majengo had a candidate in the
parliamentary race. Tensions were very high in the area as
imaginary battle lines were drawn. Majengo turned against
itself. Like in Sodom and Gomorrah, fire rained from
heaven and houses were razed down. People were killed
and livelihoods destroyed. Families broke up and children
became extremely traumatised as they tried to understand
what was happening between their parents. They did not
know whether to side with their mothers or their fathers.
It was ugly. Majengo had never witnessed such madness
and unnecessary pain since the first mabati structure was
put up in the area. When peace was finally restored and the
residents of Majengo came back to their senses, they realized
that there had been no winner, they were all bitter losers.
Thus, when Professor spoke about elections and war, I
started regretting why I had agreed to come for the meeting.
Professor stood up and walked to the wall. He pinned a
large paper on the mud wall. He then proceeded to switch off
the room light and shine light on the paper from a projector.
A sketch of a pyramid appeared on the paper. Boychild, who
had never been inside a classroom, asked, “Huo ni mlima
gani?”
“It’s not a mountain, it’s a pyramid,” Professor answered
and then continued, “I want to talk about the paradox of the
44
three Ms. For many years, one M, which stands for Majuu,
has remained at the apex of this pyramid while another M,
which stands for Majengo, has remained at the bottom. In
the larger scheme of things, the bottom M is much wider
than the top M. In the middle there is what is considered by
both the top and bottom Ms to be a nonentity, Mapendo.
The idea is to overturn this pyramid such that the base
becomes the apex and vice versa.”
At this juncture, Professor pinned another paper on the
wall. It had a pyramid that was upside down with Majengo at
the top and Majuu at the bottom. We all smiled in the dark.
It was a sweet moment seeing Majengo at the top and our
enemy, Majuu, at the bottom.
Everything inside me, including the beans I had taken
for breakfast, swelled with pride. Professor might have been
talking rocket science since I could not fathom how we could
achieve what he was demonstrating, but I was in love with
what he was talking about; it had to be something good.
Anyway, he is a very educated fellow, I reasoned, and he
has done a lot of research. Surely he must know how we are
going to achieve what he is proposing.
“The process of overturning this situation may seem hard
but it can be done through a political process. We must come
up with a perfect political formula that will help to balance
the social equation. We will never balance this equation
unless we capture the citadel of power, which is what many
people call government.”
45
I could not care less what ‘citadel’ meant! The fact that
he had mentioned ‘capture’ and ‘government’ in the same
sentence was sweet music to my ears. This must be our
moment, I told myself. For a very long time, politicians
had lied to us. We had elected them based on their mouth-
watering promises and a few hundred-shilling notes dished
here and there as they made promises of better things to
come, but as soon as they won and were sworn in, they
changed their mobile numbers and put askaris at their gates
so that no one could see them unless they themselves, the
politicians, wanted to see us. Professor had to be our saviour.
“How will this be done?” Mzee Kobe asked.
Mzee Kobe was the chairman of the Council of Elders. In
Majengo there were many self-proclaimed elders. There were
senior elders and junior elders and sometimes emergency
elders. Their work was to arbitrate, to advise and to guide.
Mama Chama and Mzee Kobe were sworn enemies. The
former always attacked the latter, accusing him of running
a kangaroo court where women were always left with the
short end of the stick. Whenever there was a case of the rape
of a minor, domestic violence and other evils perpetrated
against women, the informal court always preferred an out-
of-court settlement while Mama Chama always advocated
for a judicial process so that justice could take its course. For
example, when a school girl was impregnated by a grown
up man, Mzee Kobe and his court advised that the girl in
question be married off to the concerned man, while to
46
Mama Chama, this was a criminal offence that was supposed
to be punished by a severe jail term. Mzee Kobe, on the other
hand, accused Mama Chama of lacking respect to the elders.
Professor did not respond immediately. He requested
Mama Chama to serve everyone with the soda or juice of
their choice. I would have preferred a beer because it makes
things move faster but I had to accept what was being
offered. I remembered my teacher of English in high school
had a favourite phrase which said ‘beggars are not choosers’.
I requested to be served with a big bottle of Bitter Lemon.
“I have studied and analysed your history,” Professor
started talking again after the soda and juice had been
served. “Many politicians have come and promised you
many great things using the same tactics but I am coming
with something different. I have the perfect formula to make
sure that Majengo finally overthrows Majuu politically. You
must have one of your own in Parliament.”
There it was! Finally, our saviour had arrived. At the
beginning, I wouldn’t have guessed that this is where he was
heading to and neither could I have imagined that he wanted
us to climb mountains. Although he was an academic titan, I
couldn’t imagine him climbing more than a hill. The political
antagonism between Majengo and Majuu was as old as the
sun. Since the two shared the same constituency, they had
to elect one person to the National Assembly and he had
always come from Majuu. It was as intriguing as it was
confusing because Majengo had five times the population
47
of Majuu. How the candidate from Majuu always won was
something that required a thorough academic research. It
was also interesting to note that the MPs who had represented
Majengo and Majuu had all come from one family. The first
one after independence was the founder of the Big Daddy
Family Empire, Big Daddy I. After the founder passed on,
his son, Big Daddy II, succeeded him but he died in office
after a long illness. In the ensuing by-election, the brother,
Big Daddy III, clinched the seat and was the current member
of the National Assembly. Many children in Majengo grew
up thinking that the seat was hereditary and the leadership
of the Big Daddy’s family was a birthright. Many people kept
wondering how the minority in Majuu kept defeating the
majority in Majengo.
One day, a serious thinker thought he had cracked the
conundrum. “It’s simple,” he said philosophically, “Majengo
may have the numbers, but the people of Majuu have the
money. Thus, they can buy and influence anyone and
everything.”
The ‘philosopher’ predicted that this trend would
continue until the day the residents of Majengo would
free themselves from the economic stranglehold they were
in. The status quo prevailed until the people of Majengo
resigned to their fate. They called it the curse of Majengo.
Some said it was destiny while the religious ones said it was
divine ordinance.
Professor continued with his presentation.
48
“The residents of Majengo have given up because they
think that money is more powerful than an idea whose time
has come. The formula that I am proposing will change the
mindset of the residents of Majengo completely.”
“What is the formula?” interrupted Mzito with an
impatient tone.
Like everyone else at the table, he was starting to get
impatient. Everyone wanted to know what the formula
for defeating the Big Daddy Family Empire was. Professor
looked at each one of us as if he was weighing what he was
about to tell us, before saying it. He cleared his throat and
looking intently at each one of us in turns, he dropped the
bombshell.
“Majengo has tried elections and failed. It is now time to
try something different. What you need is a revolution.”
As if on cue, everyone stopped what they were doing
and we all looked in the direction of the door in fear. It is
like we expected some imaginary people to storm the room
and quickly bundle us into waiting police vehicles. After
what seemed like eternity, and with his eyes and mouth still
wide open, Mzito asked in a low, hoarse voice, “How is a
revolution done?”
Professor dug inside his coat pocket and fished out a
wallet. My eyes were excited. I could not control this reaction
whenever I set my eyes on anything that looked like money.
Using his right hand’s thumb and forefinger, Professor
fished out a voting card. My spirits fell in disappointment.
49
I hate cards because that is all I have in my wallet – identity
card, vaccination card, voting card and business cards from
people that I cannot even remember. There is only one card
that has never seen the inside of my wallet, an ATM card.
I was surprised to see that a lecturer had a wallet similar to
mine. Professor flashed the voting card and said, “This is the
weapon that we will use in our revolution. This is what we
shall use to cure the ailing political system in this area.”
A general sigh of relief escaped our lips at the same time.
Chairman and Headmaster took a sip of their soda at the
same time. I could see the muscles on their faces relax.
“For many years, the residents of Majengo have been
under a spell or the curse of a united minority versus a divided
majority. The residents of Majengo have concentrated on the
external enemies and ignored the enemy within. The biggest
enemy of Majengo are the residents of Majengo themselves.
If Majengo wants to succeed, she must uproot this enemy
from within. But only a revolution can do this. This is what
we call thinking outside the box.”
Everyone sat up. The discourse was getting juicy.
“We have the numbers to put one of our own in
parliament without much fanfare. We also have qualified
people who can lead this area to ensure we take our rightful
place at the eating table.”
Professor was now using ‘we’ as if he was a resident of
Majengo!
50
“We have the numbers and there are people with money
who are willing to sponsor one of our own. You know
what...,” Professor paused for effect before adding, “Majengo
is a lion with a full mane, teeth and claws but Majengo
doesn’t use them. We behave like a lion that has been rained
on, always pandering to the whims of those from Majuu just
because they have money and we do not have it. It is time
that we stopped this nonsense. We do not need money to
vote for one of our own. All we need are our voting cards
and a decisive mind. We just need to look in the mirror
and tell ourselves that we can do this. We are lions and not
rained on cats!” Professor was now talking animatedly while
flashing a voting card.
Professor’s last sentence took me down memory lane
and I found myself laughing out loud. Everyone turned to
me, confused. They could not understand how someone
could laugh amidst such a serious discussion. What they
didn’t know was that I had remembered a funny incident
that had happened between two men, Joe and Mlachake. Joe
earned a living through making furniture in one of the busy
streets of Majengo while Mlachake owned a sheep that kept
wandering in the streets of Majengo. One day, Joe had just
finished putting a coat of varnish on a wardrobe and had
then placed it outside his workshop to dry when Mlachake’s
sheep happened to pass by. Seeing another sheep inside the
mirror on the wardrobe, the sheep had become interested
and moved closer to the mirror. The sheep noticed that
51
every time it took a step forward, the sheep in the mirror
also took a step forward. This angered Mlachake’s sheep and
it decided to challenge the sheep in the mirror to a duel. The
sheep took a few steps backwards and set off at high speed
towards the sheep in the mirror. By the time Joe noticed
what was happening and tried to intervene, it was too late.
The mirror was on the ground, broken into pieces. Joe was
very angry with the sheep and in one big swoop, he hit the
sheep very hard on the head with a club. The sheep dropped
dead next to the wardrobe. Joe wanted to be paid for the
broken mirror and Mlachake wanted to be paid for the dead
sheep. The case could not be resolved and was still pending
before the elders. Joe became even more angry that Mlachake
slaughtered the dead sheep and sold the meat to residents
of Majengo. He felt he was the only one who had suffered
a loss but Mlachake complained that he had no intention
of slaughtering the sheep were it not for Joe’s action which
resulted in its death.
I sheepishly covered my smile with the palm of my hand
as I tried to pat my imaginary moustache and beard. The
group ignored my suspect behaviour and resumed their talk
on cats.
“Once Majengo realizes she is a real lion, she will roar
and everyone in the country will notice us. They will also
start listening to our grievances and bring development to
our area. We will also be an example to other marginalized
groups and areas to stand up and take their destiny in
52
their own hands. We shall slay the demons of ethnicity,
nepotism, division and pride. We shall maul down the
giants of ignorance, poverty and fear. After tearing down
these enemies of development, Majengo will shine and even
exceed what Majuu has managed to achieve over the years.
We shall no longer eat the crumbs from their tables. We shall
bake our own big cake and share it fairly among our people.”
The talk was getting very exciting and I started to get
carried away. In my mind I could see a new Majengo. Clean
walking paths, good roads, quiet environment, houses
that were made of concrete, which had piped water and
electricity, more schools and jobs for our young people.
Everyone would have a job and there would be peace and
security in Majengo. Just then, I heard Professor say in a low
voice, as if he was only speaking to me, “When we succeed
to unite Majengo to speak with one voice, the external forces
will fall before the day of battle comes. Do you think we can
succeed?”
Something strange happened. As if in a trance, everyone
at the table answered, “We shall succeed.” That sent shivers
down my spine. Professor smiled like someone who had
struck gold. “Good!” he boomed. “That is why I called this
meeting. The people across the valley call you noisemakers
and that’s what all activists are. I want you to go out there
and make the biggest noise but we must do it quietly and
with tact. We cannot let our external enemies know what
53
we are up to. You must go out there and knit the different
ethnic factions into one fabric, if we are to win this war.
What unites us is more than what separates us. We have
a common destiny as Majengo residents. Once we have
united our people, we will have crossed the Rubicon. At that
juncture, we shall embark on the process of identifying our
Joshua, who will lead us to Canaan.”
That last sentence bothered me a little. It struck a familiar
cord in my heart as I had heard this narrative of Canaan
before. The talk about unity tasted like honey but when
it came to choosing the leader, unity became bitter herbs.
I noted that just like myself, everyone else seemed to have
similar thoughts. What Professor was proposing had been
tried before but the results had been disastrous.
Being a vast slum, Majengo was divided into five major
areas and four of them were occupied and claimed by
different ethnic groups. We all coexisted in peace but the
minute the political whistle was blown, everyone forgot
the poverty that united us and retreated into their tribal
cocoons. In ordinary times, we worshipped together in
the same churches or mosques, our children went to the
same schools and we hustled for the same vibarua. But
politics awakened our demons and we remembered that
we belonged to different ethnic groups. When it came to
leadership positions, every area or ethnic group wanted to
be incharge. The situation worsened during the season of
54
elections when ethnic jingoism was the song on everyone’s
lips. Professor’s suggestion that Majengo residents choose
a ‘Joshua’ opened an old wound. It reminded us of one of
the past elections when a popular upcoming leader called
Kiongozi had suffered a humiliating defeat in the hands of
Big Daddy II. Kiongozi was the first person to tell the people
that Canaan was a utopian city.
“Canaan is right here in Majengo,” he had said.
At the beginning of the campaigns, everything was going
on smoothly for Kiongozi but the ending was quite tragic.
Kiongozi was a leader who was true to his promises and so
he had managed to get a good following in the vast slum. He
spoke of liberating Majengo not from the tyrannical hold
of the residents of Majuu but from herself. He had coined
a very simple message which he kept repeating at every
meeting and rally. He posed, “Instead of forever dreaming of
how we can overthrow Majuu, why don’t we just transform
our own Majengo and turn it into our own paradise?”
The people bought the idea and the rallying call was
well received. The strategy was simple. We, the residents
of Majengo, would force the government to listen to our
demands by holding demonstrations every Monday until
money was released for the development of our area, since
we had been ignored by the area MP who came from Majuu.
Everything was moving on well and the government had
started to listen to our complaints. Kiongozi and some of his
followers were invited to State House to go and discuss our
55
grievances with the president who had then promised that
a good amount of money would be released to build toilets
and empower the youths of Majengo by providing manual
work for them. The residents of Majengo were very hopeful
that Kiongozi would finally turn Majengo into a Canaan, the
land of milk and honey. They vowed to elect him as their MP
in the forthcoming general elections.
Everything went on well until a strange illness hit
Majengo. Even though the residents of the slum were used
to sporadic outbreaks of diseases every now and then, this
particular illness proved scary. It was highly contagious
and was spreading like bush fire in the dry season. Initially,
nobody knew if the illness was spreading through the air or
water. People started dying and others got hospitalized. They
were having difficulties in breathing. This created a lot of
fear among the residents. The government forced everyone
in the slum to stay at home. This created more problems
as the residents of Majengo lived from hand to mouth and
so, within no time, hunger started to bite. Landlords started
evicting those with rent arrears. Mothers with small children
were thrown out of the makeshift houses and had to spend
nights in the cold. There was outcry in the country when
such pictures started circulating on social media platforms.
Citizens of goodwill started fundraising to help the affected
families. Poverty and desperation exposed Majengo’s soft
underbelly and Big Daddy II, seizing the chance, drove in
the dagger. On realizing that there was so much noise being
56
made on social media platforms, Big Daddy II mobilized
resources and brought truckloads of relief food and other
critical supplies such as medicine. He moved from door to
door distributing food and other basic necessities and giving
everyone encouragement that he would ensure the disease
was brought under control in no time. The strange illness
was brought under control two weeks before the polling day.
When voting day came, all the votes went to Big Daddy II
and Kiongozi lost badly. He was devastated. Nobody heard
about him ever again. Rumours started circulating in the
slum that he had taken his family and retreated to his rural
area to try his hand in farming as he was very heartbroken
after running an unsuccessful election campaign. Professor’s
idea of a leader from within Majengo itself was therefore
received with scepticism.
Mama Chama mustered courage and spoke. She
reminded the people at the table about Kiongozi and the
pain the residents of Majengo underwent from the effects of
the strange illness.
“How sure are we that this revolution will not meet the
same tragic end?” she posed.
Professor rubbed his hands together, drew in a deep
breath and said, “You cannot stop an idea whose time has
come. Kiongozi had a good idea but the time was not ripe
then. Now, the time has come. Believe me, this time we shall
succeed. As for choosing who the captain will be, we will
cross that bridge when we get there.”
57
Professor’s words were like a magic tonic. They soothed
our hearts and energized us at the same time. I was beginning
to believe that it was possible to have one of our own as an
MP.
“Without your cooperation and hard work, this revolution
cannot succeed. The power is in your hands. You can either
change the destiny of Majengo now or forever agree to be
ruled by others as you continue to beg for crumbs from their
tables. The choice is really yours as the leaders of Majengo.
You have to start planting the seed of revolution from now.”
Professor opened his bag and removed some airtime
cards which he distributed to all of us.
“This is to enable you reach out to all your contacts and
make them understand what we have talked about today.
We shall meet again in two weeks to review your progress
and discuss any challenges you might be having. One of
our sponsors might also attend that meeting where he will
discuss the small allowance you will be receiving for your
work.”
That last statement really lifted my spirits. I vowed to
work extra hard to convince my group why we needed to
take this exercise seriously. My mind was already working
out the words I would use to convince them to support the
cause.
We all grabbed the airtime cards. Free things were always
welcome in Majengo. As we were walking out of the women’s
centre, Professor called me aside and told me in a low tone,
58
“Hustler, your mouth is an asset. If you can make good use
of it, it can bring you good things.”
We laughed, and he patted my back in a friendly gesture.
He then continued, “I want you to use this mouth to sell this
idea to the people.”
When he talked about my mouth being an asset, I believed
he was a true professor. He had hit the nail on the head. It
was true that my mouth was an asset as it enabled me to
feed and shelter my family in this harsh city. And thanks
to it, I had got myself a beautiful and hard-working wife.
When I met my wife for the first time, I stood no chance of
marrying anyone and she never tires to remind me about it.
Whenever she asks me for money and I say I don’t have it,
she reminds me that she had a queue of men who wanted to
marry her and that I was at the tail end of it. She laments that
she has never understood how I ended up being the first.
My rejoinder is always in jest, “The good book says that the
last shall be the first and the first shall be the last.” However,
deep within me, I know she wouldn’t be under my roof if it
had not been for my sweet tongue. To convince her, I had
pretended that I was a senior accountant in one of the main
banks in Nairobi. I always made sure we met in the evenings,
‘after work’ in town, and I was always clad in a suit and tie
and would be carrying a newspaper. As we sipped tea and ate
sausages, I talked to her about my grandiose strategic plan
for the next ten years, which included the mansion I was
building for my family, the houses and flats I was planning
59
to put up for rental, which she would manage as my wife, and
the Mercedes Benz that I had imported and which was still
at the Port of Mombasa awaiting clearance. You should have
seen how her eyes would grow big as she hung onto every
word I said. Her face radiated such admiration that I felt like
I actually owned the things I was telling her about! I spoke
of the holidays we would take, both locally and abroad, and
the high-end schools our children would attend. I took her
through my ‘Vision 2050’ and she believed me since I was
an ‘accountant’.
My talent in singing came in handy as I would compose
beautiful songs and sing them to her every night on phone
before she slept. She was eating out of my hands. Little did
she know that I was singing the songs for her as I lay on
my threadbare mattress on the floor in Majengo! When I
told her that her birthday would always be a holiday to me,
she fell right into my trap and before she knew it, she was
expecting our first born. The rest, as they say, is history, and
before she could say ‘holiday’, she was living in my shack in
Majengo. She has never forgiven me for the lies I told her.
When she gets angry with me after I have had a few beers,
she shouts at me, telling me that I have no brains. At such
times, I know better than to answer her. I pretend I am too
drunk to hold a conversation and go to bed hungry.
60
Domo, the man who brought me to Majengo, was also
a herbalist. He was referred to as ‘Doctor’ in Majengo.
Containers full of dawa ya miti shamba littered his house.
He claimed to cure many diseases but his speciality was
impotence and aching joints. The man lived alone in his
shack for he had no wife or family. Domo introduced me to
life in Majengo and taught me how to survive in the harsh
environment. Having come from the village where life was
easy and food was in plenty, everything in Majengo seemed
insurmountable. For the first few days, I was not sure I could
survive in the city. Even accessing basic things like a toilet
was a major challenge. Domo recognized early on in our
relationship that I had the gift of the gab. He suggested that
I could actually use my mouth to make a decent living in the
city. That is how I ended up at the matatu stage as a tout.
I spent my days yelling at customers to board the various
public service vehicles plying the Majengo route and for my
trouble, I was paid ten shillings for every vehicle I filled up
with customers. It was not an easy job and one needed real
Chapter Three
61
talent to convince customers to board a particular vehicle
even though there was nobody inside. City dwellers are
always in a hurry. They do not want to keep waiting for
a vehicle to fill up and so will always opt for the one that
already has passengers inside. By the end of the day my
jaws would be aching from the yelling and my arm and leg
muscles would be sore from the constant movement. By
evening, I always felt like I had run a full marathon.
The stage was controlled by a ruthless gang called
Kamjeshi. Every public service vehicle had to pay protection
money to the gang. Any driver or conductor who defied the
Kamjeshi ended up badly hurt. After two years of life at the
matatu stage, I decided to quit. I got a job of selling second-
hand clothes, commonly known as mtumba, for commission.
Dealing in second-hand clothes was easier than harassing
passengers to board a matatu and permanently being under
the vice-like grip of Kamjeshi.
The second-hand clothes business had its own thrills and
disappointments. My worst experiences were mostly with
ladies. Sometimes I would spend almost an hour helping
a lady to fit some clothes and then after all that effort
and time, she would casually walk away without buying
anything, promising she would be back to buy when the
economy improves. That would leave me grinding my teeth
in anger. At such times, I wished we had our own Kamjeshi
in the second-hand clothes business to force customers to
purchase our wares what. The good side of the business was
62
that I was earning good commissions and so, I was able to
make ends meet. I was also meeting new people and getting
connected. By then I had moved out of Domo’s house and
was living in my own shack. By Majengo’s standards, I was
doing quite well. To my credit, I have to confess that I had
big dreams. I could see myself owning my own second-hand
clothes import business. I could see myself living large and
driving the latest cars just like the mtumba lords who had
employed us. They were millionaires and yet most of them
had minimal education. To me, they were a testimony that
lack of education could not hinder one from becoming rich.
However, an unfortunate experience with a lady customer
brought all my dreams crumbling down. A smartly dressed,
soft spoken lady who was carrying a Bible in her hands
approached me one afternoon.
“Bwana asifiwe, praise Jesus,” she greeted me.
“Amen,” I replied.
“I have come to buy a dress for an important church
function I will be attending next week. I therefore want a
very beautiful dress; one that will bring out my figure but
still be presentable as I am a good Christian.”
I told her we had a wide variety of dresses and went ahead
to show her what we called ‘camera’ clothes. In every bale of
second-hand clothes, there were some very good pieces that
one could launder and sell at a much higher price. These are
what we called ‘camera pieces’. The lady selected one dress
and said she wanted to try it on to see if it fitted well. As we
63
had no fitting rooms, she had to put on the dress on top of
what she was wearing. I held out a mirror for her so that she
could see if the dress fitted her well.
“It looks really nice, though some dresses can really
change the way you look,” she continued talking sweetly.
“Do you know the story of Jacob and Esau, and how Jacob
stole Esau’s blessing by dressing in a sheep’s skin?” she asked
me.
I was not aware of many things in the Bible and the story
of Jacob and Esau was one of them. The lady started to
narrate the story of how Jacob had tricked his blind father.
In the meantime, she had selected another dress and was
trying it on. Again I held out the mirror for her. “Brother in
Christ, are you saved?” she asked me.
I shook my head to mean I was not but told her I was
seriously thinking about it.
“Are you married?” she continued.
I said I wasn’t but I did not tell her that I had a steady
girlfriend and we had been talking about marriage for some
time. I was ashamed to tell her that my heart was longing to
get a wife but my pockets betrayed me.
“When time comes for you to get married, don’t judge a
woman by her clothes or her looks. Some women are wolves
but they dress up in sheep’s skin,” she advised me.
She was now trying on a third dress. Something told
me she was looking fatter than she was when she arrived
64
at the stall but her constant chatter and beautiful face kept
my brain engaged on other thoughts. She was now talking
about salvation and explaining that on the last day, all the
saved people would be dressed in white clothes, waiting for
the saviour. Before I could respond, she quickly asked me
whether I would want to get saved. I told her my time had
not yet come but I would think about it. She then paid for a
dress and promised to come back the next day with three of
her friends to buy more dresses. I thanked her and started
re-arranging the dresses. I did not notice that she had left
her Bible behind. When evening came, I counted my stock
and to my shock, I realized that three dresses were missing. I
got very confused as I tried to recollect what I had sold that
day. An ugly thought crossed my mind. Could the ‘preaching
lady’ have stolen the dresses? But how could she have done that
yet she sounded like a serious Christian? Besides, I was by her
side all through. How did she steal the dresses? I wondered.
I had heard people at the market talk about a type of
magic that made the eyes not to see even though one was not
blind or asleep. The magic was called kifumba macho. I had
always dismissed the stories as myths. It then dawned on me
that the supposedly Christian woman had actually played
tricks on my mind using her preaching. I realized that the
woman had walked away wearing four of my best dresses
but only paid for the one that was on top. No wonder she
looked quite fat after spending some time in my stall! I know
it might sound pitiful but my boss was not amused by the
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story of kifumba macho. He accused me of selling the dresses
and keeping the money to myself.
“I know how you young men behave! You want women
but your pockets are malnourished. You sell my stock and
steal my money or give away my dresses to your girlfriends
then you invent a cock and bull story about how your eyes
were closed with a Bible!”
He demanded that I pay for the three dresses and since
I did not have the money, I found myself inside a police
cell. The OCS told me I had to get the money to pay my
boss, otherwise I would be taken to court and be jailed for
stealing. I was taken to the cell with the Bible that the lady
had left behind. While in the cell, I had the chance to read it
since there was nothing else to do the whole day. It is then
that I had my first serious encounter with the word of God.
On the fourth day, I was called to the reporting desk. Domo,
together with my former friends at the matatu stage, had
raised the money I needed to pay my employer and so I was
set free.
I left the police station a changed man. I had seen the
light, thanks to the Bible that the con-woman had left behind.
That is how I ended up becoming a street preacher. Armed
with my sweet mouth and a rudimentary understanding
of the Bible, I became Brother Hustler and headed back to
the matatu stage in Majengo. I decided I would be blessing
passengers in public service vehicles before they started their
trip from Majengo to town. I would read the Bible and do a
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short sermon as the passengers waited for the vehicle to fill
up. I would then say a quick prayer to bless their trip to town
once the vehicle had filled up. Some passengers would give
me coins to support the work of God and by the end of the
day, I would have enough money to buy food for myself. On
some days, the passengers were quite generous and I would
get a few hundred shillings which would help me pay my
rent and buy other necessities. After about two weeks, I was
properly in business.
After a few months praying at the matatu stage, I relocated
to the city centre. I graduated to holding small prayer
meetings in open spaces within the city, mainly during lunch
breaks, when many city workers would go to the open parks
to relax before resuming work in the afternoon. I started
drawing a sizeable crowd and business picked. I would keep
my crowd entertained by telling them interesting testimonies
of God’s grace as I quoted related verses from the Bible. My
numbers grew and the money I was collecting increased. My
dream was to grow my preaching into a prophetic ministry
as that always attracted more people. I had realized that
most human beings wanted to become rich and they loved
being told good things about their future. I wanted to start
foretelling the future and praying over people’s prosperity
but I needed to proceed gradually to this new level with
caution. I had witnessed some ministries collapse very fast
when the pastors moved too quickly through the ranks. One
of them started claiming to have powers to make barren
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women conceive. Five women actually conceived but when
the babies were born and people started whispering that the
babies looked like the pastor, the man ran out of town. I
wanted to be cautious in my mission.
They say every dog has its day and my day surely came.
On this particular day, fortune knocked on my door and I hit
the jackpot unexpectedly. I had not yet decided to venture
into the miracle arena but had been thinking and praying
about it seriously. Prophesying required higher anointing
and an excellent understanding of the Bible, which I was
still learning. But it appears that the saying, ‘Be careful what
you wish for’, actually rings true. That day, I was preaching
around Majengo as it was a Saturday. After feeding the crowd
with enough spiritual food, I said a passionate prayer to God
to feed the hungry. I had read from the Bible how Jesus had
fed a multitude of people using only two loaves of bread and
five fish. After the Bible reading and prayer, I assured the
crowd that God would take care of their stomachs.
I have never understood whether it was just coincidence
or God actually heard my prayer, but on that day, my
prophecy came to pass. Late in the evening, a big truck
carrying bread overturned right in the middle of Majengo.
As if from nowhere, people appeared with empty bags
and sacks. To them, manna had fallen from heaven. That
evening, the menu in every home in Majengo had bread as
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the main dish and the rest as dessert. Word spread like bush
fire in the slum that I was a real prophet of God. The next
day, a big crowd appeared at the open space where I normally
preached from. I had become famous overnight. Everyone
was calling me Mtumishi wa Mungu. Some people said I was
performing miracles. One man even made a suggestion for
my sermon of the day: “Yesterday you preached about bread
and manna fell from heaven. Today, we want you to preach
to us about how Jesus turned water into wine.”
I gave my sermon and when I passed my hat around for
the offertory, miracles continued to happen. So many people
wanted to give, such that I had to request for two more hats
from some men in the crowd. That night, I was the richest
pastor in Majengo.
In the Hustler Kingdom, there are some unwritten rules
that bind us together. One of the rules is that when fortune
comes your way, you must thank God by celebrating with
friends. So, after I had finished counting the offertory, I
decided to give to Caesar what belonged to Caesar. It was the
first time in my life that I was holding such a large amount
of money that was mine. As they say, the devil does not
sleep and he decided to set his home in my head. I called
my closest friends, including Domo, and we all headed to
Pondamali. And just to be clear, I was not going there to
turn water into wine. There is a saying among drunks that
beer is the best medicine for those afflicted by poverty. They
say that it helps one to forget all their troubles. Honestly, I
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had been preaching water and taking wine under the cover
of darkness but on this day, the devil had given me courage
to do it openly. I now truly believe money is the root of all
evil. Kadogo was eagerly waiting to take our orders. We
drank beer with abandon while singing songs of praise and
worship. Bwana asifiwe, halleluia and amen were the words
that dominated Pondamali that night. Fortune had gone to
my head and I was no longer the respected man of God. Like
a good hustler, I only left Pondamali after Kadogo had taken
my last coin and that was in the wee hours of the morning.
I was woken up by the first rays of the sun which were
penetrating through the holes on the iron sheets of my
shack. Inside my head, there was drumming as if some Rock
and Roll Band was having a big show. Instead of counting
my blessings, I was counting the spoils. First, I noticed that
my pockets were completely empty. Then I realized that I
had left my Bible at Pondamali. Finally, I remembered that
I had rented the suit I had been wearing yesterday and I had
not paid for it. No sooner had that thought left my mind
than I heard a knock at the door. The owner of the suit had
come. He wanted the payment for a whole week for I was
in arrears. Since I had nothing to give him, he repossessed
his suit and stormed out of my house. I could not harness
the courage to go and retrieve my Bible from Pondamali in
broad daylight. Without a Bible and decent clothing, my
wheel of fortune hit a screeching halt. I cursed the devil for
misleading me. Even though I still had my sweet tongue, I
70
had lost the moral authority to preach. That is how I lost my
nascent ministry.
I spent days in my shack making new plans and building
castles in the air. I was even talking to myself. The demon
in my head had not vacated. It was having a field day,
convincing me that suicide was the best option for me. As
I was contemplating how to get a strong rope, someone
knocked at my door. It was Domo.
“Are you still alive?” he asked.
“Yes, and kicking, but I guess not for long.”
“Hustler, are you afraid of death?”
I shivered like a sick man. “Yes and no. Why?”
“I have a good proposal. Some friends of mine need
someone who can help take care of the dead when the bodies
are being transported from the mortuary to the grave. They
have bought a new hearse; they have a driver but they do not
have an assistant who would take care of the bodies at the
back of the van. Would you be interested?”
For someone who had lost everything, and who a
few minutes earlier was contemplating suicide, I saw no
problem keeping the dead company in a van. Majengo has
some of the most innovative people on Earth. The residents
believe in home-grown solutions to their problems. They
also believe that there is power in numbers. Men United
SACCO was made up of such people. This was a group
of men who had formed a SACCO and put their savings
71
together to start a business for handling funerals for those
who could afford. They dug graves, provided transportation
means and performed the actual burial. Investing in such a
business sounded like a viable idea since business was always
assured. As I mentioned earlier, in Majengo we only get to
know where people come from when they die. All the people
who die in Majengo are transported to their rural areas for
burial. Even if the person is very poor, we all come together
and fundraise for the funeral. Most of the Majengo residents
believe that if your body is not taken back to your ancestral
land for burial, then your spirit would remain restless and
may continue to haunt your people forever. Due to the
mortal fear we all have about the unknown afterlife, we
all ensure that anyone who dies is taken to their village for
burial as we do not want restless spirits hovering all over
Majengo. Spirits do not have ethnic affiliations so they must
be kept at bay at all costs.
I accepted to take up the job of an assistant undertaker
and I do not regret it. I learnt more things from the world
of the dead than I had ever learnt in the world of the living.
I came to discover that in Majengo, you were more valuable
when you were dead than when you were alive. When you
were alive, no one could give you money to feed yourself but
when you died of hunger, people would fall over themselves
to contribute and write their names in the condolence book.
Working with the dead enabled me to visit many rural areas
which led me to wonder why we do not invest in our villages.
72
There was enough land, clean rivers and lots of fresh air.
Why were we so obsessed with moving to the towns to live
in slum areas whereas the rural areas were cleaner, had
enough land for growing food crops and enough spaces
for children to grow up properly? The answers eluded me.
Instead of people developing their rural areas, they were
living in Majengo in congested and deplorable conditions!
Access to basic services such as toilets and clean water was
a major problem in the slums. In my job as an undertaker, I
discovered that people in the villages had better hearts than
those in the towns as they had no problem burying those who
were considered failures. Whoever was brought back from
the city in a coffin was given a decent burial. No questions
were asked and the relatives even contributed towards the
funeral even though the person may never have helped them
much.
Dealing with mourners also made me learn that there is
more drama in death than in life. I witnessed ‘dead people’
come back to life. There was a case where a widow wanted
her husband to be buried in a suit and new shoes even though
he had never worn a suit all his life. She held a fundraiser
and collected enough money for her wish to come true. Isn’t
it intriguing that one can live poor all his life but he gets
buried like a prince? This particular man was the luckiest of
all the dead men I had known. In life he was a pauper but in
death he looked like a king. After the official viewing of the
body, the family walked out and left the morgue attendants
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to close the casket. All went on well and the man was buried.
The next Sunday, when the first reading was just about to
be done, the widow started screaming, “My husband has
risen from the dead!” She was screaming and pointing to a
particular man. When the people looked closely at the man
who was supposed to have risen from the dead, it was one
of the morgue attendants. He was wearing the suit, the shirt,
the tie and the shoes of the man who had been buried the day
before. The morgue attendant had stripped the dead man
naked and taken his new clothes. From that day, mourners
would only leave the morgue after ensuring that the casket
had been nailed shut.
Other cases included dead people who supposedly
‘refuse’ to get buried for one reason or another. One time we
were transporting a body to Western Kenya. We set off in
a caravan but when we reached Naivasha, the engine of the
hearse went off. We tried to restart the van to no avail. That
is when one old man who was a close relative of the deceased
told us what was amiss. The old man told us, “The dead man
is rebelling. He doesn’t want to be buried.”
“Then let us take him back to Majengo,” someone else
suggested.
“No. His spirit will haunt us,” the old man replied.
“What do we do then?” I asked.
“He has to be whipped to submission,” the old man
replied.
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I laughed loudly in spite of the situation but my laughter
was ignored by everyone in the entourage. I could not
imagine whipping a corpse. To my surprise, the casket was
lowered from the van and the body was removed. The corpse
was whipped for about fifteen minutes and then returned
into the casket. I was in shock. How do you whip a dead
person? That was an alien culture to me. When the casket
was put back in the van, the old man said we should restart
it. Believe it or not, the engine started without a problem
and we proceeded with our journey. You can imagine the
thoughts that kept swirling in my mind as I kept the body
company all the way to Western Kenya. I kept imagining the
man might wake up and talk to me.
Then there was the drama of the body of a woman which
went missing from the morgue on the day of burial. When
her family arrived at the morgue to collect her body that
morning, they found out that it had vanished and the morgue
attendants were at pains to explain how a dead person could
just disappear into thin air.
“First, our taxes disappear. Now, even our dead people
are disappearing! How can my mother just disappear into
thin air and the day of resurrection has not yet come?” one
man lamented.
Mystery turned into panic, then to anger and finally,
to a shouting match. The morgue attendant went to the
records office and discovered that the day before, the body
of a woman had been collected for burial somewhere in
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the Mount Kenya region. It was decided that some people
should travel to the place to ascertain if the relatives had
collected the right body. When the people got there with
police bearing orders of exhumation, the other family was
taken aback but they had to adhere to the law. Finally, soil
from the fresh grave was dug out and the coffin retrieved.
Alas! It was the missing body but there was an eerie detail;
her mouth was stuffed with ugali and there was also a plate
of ugali placed on her chest.
“Can you explain this? Why is our mother eating ugali
while she is dead?” the man who was lamenting at the
mortuary asked.
The other family could not say a word. The family that
had come to check the body descended on the people in the
homestead with blows and kicks for defiling the body of
their mother. One of the onlookers who happened to be their
neighbour came forward and explained what had happened.
“This dead woman in the coffin is their mother and she
died of hunger because they refused to give her food. Before
she died, she cursed them and said that they will never
eat ugali again. When their mother died, they consulted a
traditional expert who advised them accordingly.
“If you want to be free from the curse, you must prepare
some ugali. You must fill her mouth with ugali then place a
plate full of ugali on her chest as a sign that you are sorry for
your negligence and that you have repented your sins. After
this you will be free to eat ugali,” the expert had advised. The
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body of the woman was taken away for burial in her home
and the other family was left to go and search for the correct
body in the morgue.
Working as an undertaker taught me many life lessons.
Death is the universal equalizer; the best thing is that all of us
will die at some point. So, I concluded that one should fully
enjoy their life while they still can. Death is an intriguing
occurrence. You could be talking and laughing with your
friends one minute but if you drop dead, they immediately
stop referring to you as John or Jane. They start referring to
you as ‘the corpse’ and most of them do not even want to
come near you.
After working as an undertaker for about two years, I
felt the need to change my career. My sweet mouth was still
itching to be utilized and that is how I ended up becoming
a master of ceremony in funerals, and later extended it to
parties, weddings and other functions where the services of
a honey-coated tongue were in high demand. It is this shift
of careers that helped me to get a wife.
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No sooner had we left the meeting than the news of the
coming revolution spread through Majengo like a flu. It
was like there were some sparrows that had been released
to carry the news to the four corners of the slum. By the
following morning, everyone in Majengo knew that there
had been a secret meeting to organize a revolution to topple
Big Daddy III. There are two things that the residents of
Majengo cherish dearly; free things and gossip. Information
is never scarce around the slum. The salons, barber shops,
cobbler stalls and the numerous kiosks that dot the slum are
all epicentres of gossip. Our public toilets are a rich source of
gossip too. You just need to quietly stand outside and listen
to what those inside are talking about.
There are no secrets in Majengo and most residents do
not care who knows what about them. They are immune to
shame. If you want to know whose wife is pregnant, whose
in-laws are around and who fathered the child of the single
mother who sells fruits at the matatu stage, just visit any of
the business areas mentioned. Another unique phenomenon
Chapter Four
78
in Majengo is that adverts are placed on electric poles
and one pole could provide you with information that
would otherwise need a whole newspaper – contacts for
witchdoctors from Pemba or Zanzibar, although I have never
known why Majengo people prefer foreign witchdoctors,
available houses for rental and how much they cost per
month, where to get various technicians and repairmen,
who is selling what and how much the items cost, and so on.
The intelligence network in Majengo is one of the best. It
is like there are invisible CCTVs all over the place. Nothing
escapes the eyes of the intelligence networks in Majengo.
Unfortunately, they are very selective in the information
they share with the rest of the people. For instance, in some
areas of Majengo, if you leave your githeri boiling on a jiko
outside, you will not find the githeri or the jiko when you
return. How the thieves carry the hot jiko and boiling githeri
and manage to disappear into the thin air so quickly is still a
mystery to me. In other areas they steal wet clothes from the
hanging lines. If you wash your clothes, you have to watch
over them until they dry. Otherwise, you will find them,
and your hanging lines, gone. Nobody seems to know the
mysterious thieves but if you try and bring another woman
to your shack when your wife has travelled upcountry, that
is when you will know that the intelligence networks see
everything. Before you can even lock the door behind you,
your wife will have known about it and she would be calling
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to ask who the lady is that you have brought to the house.
If you are not conversant with what goes on in Majengo,
you will think your wife is a witch or she has supernatural
powers. Another thing we never do is to criticize popular
politicians, even in the confines of our beds. Dare to do
it and you will discover that walls and blankets have ears.
The youth wingers will descend on your shack early in the
morning to ask you to repeat what you said to your wife
about the politician. Before you can respond, you will have
received a proper beating to teach you a lesson to stop
mudslinging the leader.
It was therefore not surprising when news of our meeting
spread so fast all over the slum. There was an air of excitement
among the young people. There were all sorts of conflicting
stories from different quarters. Some said that Majengo had
formed a new political party while others said there were
plans to invade Majuu. The most shocking one for me was
that some people said that I was going to run for the position
of MP. Majengo was on fire. We had to work hard to counter
the misleading narrative of a revolution by explaining what
we were planning to do. Wrong or misleading information
could result in violence and loss of lives and property.
Majengo was always like dry grass waiting for a lit matchstick
to start an inferno. We had to counter the wrong narrative
before things got out of hand. I moved fast to bring together
my group of hustlers. I explained to them what Professor
had told us the day before. Most of them found it difficult
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to trust what a non-resident like Professor had to say and
they loudly wondered how the Professor was planning to
benefit from the whole arrangement. They made it clear to
me that they were tired of being used by non-residents of
Majengo who had just enriched themselves at the expense
of the residents. They, however, agreed that time was indeed
ripe for a bloodless revolution to ensure one of us ended
up in parliament. It was a gargantuan task to convince the
young people that we actually needed Professor on our side
since he was also bringing in sponsors who would provide
the money we needed for the campaigns. I explained to the
group how expensive it was to run a political campaign
and how the candidate from Majuu always defeated our
candidate because of money. Finally, my group understood
what we needed to wage a successful revolution. It was now
their turn to go out and spread the right message to their
parents, neighbours and peers.
After two weeks of intensive grassroots activity, the
committee reported our progress to Professor who was very
happy and remarked quite confidently that it was now time
to turn up the heat. In his trademark deep baritone, he told
us, “Metal is shaped while it is still hot. We cannot let the
current momentum slow down. Time is ripe for the next
level of activities.”
We all waited for the next set of instructions from
Professor.
***
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It was a mammoth rally that brought together kith and kin.
It had been a long time since Majengo had seen such a large
gathering of people. People closed their businesses to attend
the rally. Even the doors of Pondamali were closed that day.
Big and small, young and old, men and women, everyone
trooped to the open field at the periphery of Majengo. Even
Rasta, who seldom showed interest in matters politics, was
in attendance, an innocent observer as usual. Many were
just curious about the important message that had been
talked about in hushed tones for days now. They had heard
that Majengo was going to make a big shift politically and
they wanted to know what was cooking. The youth were full
of hope that this was the beginning of better days to come
for them. A few came because they had heard that bread and
soda would be distributed to all those who would attend.
Still, others came because they were idle and had nothing
better to do at home. A heavy cloud of expectation hung
over Majengo as everything came to a standstill. Everybody
waited for the big announcement.
The open field was as old as Majengo itself. It was where
most people from the slum, especially young men, carried
out their business activities. The residents harvested building
stones and ballast for sale from the only remaining quarry.
However, the government had started limiting the activities
in the quarry due to what they called environmental concerns.
The people of Majengo could not understand what was
more important, the environment or their livelihoods. But
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they had to adhere to the government directives, otherwise
the quarry would be closed.
“This quarry is where all the stones that built Majuu were
harvested,” one old man had once told me, before adding,
“These same stones have built most of our city.”
On a normal day, the quarry was a beehive of activity, the
panorama of the Hustler Kingdom. There were bare-back
men sweating in the sun while digging out stones. Another
group of men would be shaping the stones and the brokers
would be haggling over prices. Then there were the loaders
and the truck drivers who would be patiently hanging around
for the deals to be completed so that they could load and
transport the stones. Women at the quarry would mostly be
selling food – tea, porridge, githeri, chapati and mandazi.
Others hawked drinking water in bottles, boiled maize and
fruits. On the higher ground were the boda boda riders who
would be waiting for people who needed transport services
to the main road.
There was a strange group of young ladies who only
appeared in the evenings. They were always well dressed and
would be smelling of all types of perfumes. They looked out
of place but they never missed to appear every day. They
would sit at a far distance from the centre of the quarrying
activities but within a few hours, they would all be gone. To
newcomers at the quarry, it was puzzling what they were
after as they were quite odd in such a place. The last group
was made up of idlers and wannabe politicians who littered
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the place, talking and cracking jokes. Among all these people
were seasoned con men, pickpockets and budding journalists
hunting for their big story. The area where the old quarries
once stood was used for political and religious rallies.
The conveners of the rally had constructed a makeshift
dais on the raised part of the quarry area. When I looked at the
multitude of people, I silently wondered whether Professor
had some magical powers. He had convinced us that the
people would come and true to his words, the people were
there. Professor had coached us well and so the rally picked
up from the start. As the MC, I knew the right words to use
and how to prepare the excited crowd. This was a historic
moment. Majengo would finally be free from the oppression
we had endured for decades from those in government and
our political representatives. From then henceforth, we
would chart our own destiny. I warmed up the crowd and
this I did by speaking the language of Majengo.
“I look at the power that lies in your faces and your eyes
and I ask myself, ‘What force can stop a united people who
are driven by the strong will to emancipate themselves
from the evils of oppression, poverty and ignorance?’ As I
watched all of you troop to these hallowed grounds, a strong
emotion stirred up in my heart. Tears welled up in my eyes
as I realized that we are on the banks of River Jordan, ready
to cross to Canaan, the land of milk and honey! Nothing, and
I repeat, nothing can stop this tsunami. We are planting the
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seeds of prosperity for our future generations. We cannot
lose this battle. This is God’s anointed time. It is our time!”
As I spoke, there was pin-drop silence, and then the crowd
burst into loud cheering. They were all clapping. Some were
whistling as others blew horns and vuvuzelas. The noise was
joyous to our ears. It showed our people were truly ready to
take part in this bloodless revolution. I invited Chairman,
a man who was great at steering the boat. Chairman knew
that this was the time to talk in the language that the people
loved to hear. He knew that if you wanted the residents of
Majengo to listen to you, then you had to strike a raw nerve,
and that nerve was the historical problems the residents had
endured for decades, and the cause of those problems. This
created sizzling anger among the people and he capitalized
on it.
“We have always known who our enemy is, isn’t it?
We have never been given the chance to steer our destiny.
It has always been other people telling us what to do and
throwing crumbs after their stomachs are full. Most of our
people have never seen the inside of a bank. It is like some
special people have a birthright to the bank keys. As they eat
chicken, mbuzi and the best cuts of beef, our children go to
bed hungry. As they drive the latest fuel guzzlers and splash
rain water on our shoeless feet, we have to trek for miles
to Industrial Area to look for kibarua to buy unga for the
day, but sometimes that kibarua is not easy to find and we
have to trudge back home empty-handed, weather-beaten
85
and hungry. Only God knows how He sustains us through
these insurmountable problems. When it rains, our shacks
are carried away by the floods and we sleep with our wives
and children outside in the cold. Look at how we live; is this
how human beings should live more than 50 years after we
were told we have got our independence from the wabeberu?
It appears only some Kenyans got independence while most
of us remained in slavery. We wake up early to go to work
for these Wadosi and they pay our people peanuts! It is time
to change the course of the river. We need to take the future
of our children in our hands. And we can only do that by
electing people who understand our problems, our own
people; those who eat, sleep and live with us. They are the
only ones who can understand our pain! To do this, we have
to unite. Our forefathers said, ‘one finger cannot kill a louse’
and ‘unity is strength’. My people, we have to unite, and the
time is now!”
Chairman’s words reverberated across the valley as the
crowd responded with a thunderous applause. Some women
were even shedding tears at the emotional words. We then
knew that we had hit the right cords. Chairman paused and
wiped some imaginary tears from his eyes. After the noise
had died down, he continued in a lower voice, “We all know
the solution. We must fight to get hold of the meat and the
knife. We must be well represented when the kill is being
shared at the high table. We must have a say in the division
of the national cake. After all, we are also involved in its
baking.”
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The iron was really hot now and it was time to strike it
hard. It was time to introduce the real agenda for the rally.
The minds and hearts of the people were ready for something
new.
Chairman continued, “We have always believed that our
main enemy lives in that paradise called Majuu, but it has
never occurred to us that the real enemy lives right in our
midst. Like in the story of Jesus, the traitor is amongst us.”
He paused again, this time to allow the crowd to reflect
on his words. There was some movement among the crowd
and one could hear muted murmurs.
“The real enemy of Majengo is you and I. It is our disunity
that has given strength to our enemies. Our obsession to hide
behind our ethnic affiliations waters down our potential.
Our external enemies exist because we have refused to live.
The day we, the residents of Majengo, will shed our tribal
differences, our external enemy will fall. And that time is
now.”
The excitement in the crowd was now at fever pitch.
Chairman had touched their most sensitive nerve. All he
needed to do now was to strike a match and set the emotions
ablaze. And Chairman did not disappoint. As he raised his
hand up and pointed towards Majuu, he thundered, “Our
main goal is to bring down a political system that has
done nothing but to impoverish us. With the fall of the
Big Daddies, all our problems will be over. But for this to
happen, we have to unite! We have to come together as one
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for we have nothing to lose except the shackles that bind us
to poverty! That is why we have called you today because
we want to present to you the vehicle that will take us to
Canaan – the Ballot Revolution! And what do I mean by
the Ballot Revolution? The Ballot Revolution has only one
weapon – your voting card. We shall no longer vote for
anyone to represent our interests if he or she is not one of
us. The Ballot Revolution will give us our freedom and the
right to determine our destiny.”
The crowd literally exploded. Shouts, screams, claps,
ululations, horns, vuvuzela noises and anything else that
could make noise were all deafening. It was one huge
cacophony of real excitement. The people were releasing
pent-up pressure that had been kept inside them for decades.
It felt like the skies had come down.
“For this battle to be successful, we need soldiers and we
have them in plenty in Majengo; our unemployed youth, our
men, our women and everyone else, we are all soldiers in
this battle. We must all agree to march together under one
command. That is why today we must make the Majengo
Declaration.”
The noise that followed signified that the fire had now
been lit and it was burning hot. I took the microphone and
called the next speaker. The voice of a woman was needed
and Mama Chama was the right person at this time. The
women clung to every words she said. We had a sizeable
population of women in Majengo. We did not want to fall
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into the trap of alienating any group. We needed the unity
of everyone if we were to succeed. All the men held their
breath. They all feared her because they knew she usually
fired straight from the hip. She was a real war horse and she
took no prisoners. She was thorough and sharp with her
tongue and her words punched hard. But on this day she
was not there to bash the men, she was there to add impetus
to what the other speakers had said. She spoke as a woman,
wife, mother and leader.
“I speak as one who has played a role in giving birth
to Majengo. Every mother in this crowd is a mother of
Majengo because every person who lives in this place we call
our home is born of a woman. When a child is born, he or
she is greeted with ululations as a sign of joy. Yet when I look
around at our children I see many things that only bring pain
and tears. My question is, who gives birth to all this poverty,
all this hopelessness, all this dirt and all this squalor? Who is
the mother of all these diseases and desperation?”
“Majuu! Majuu!” the crowd shouted.
“Children are born out of the collaboration of men and
women. Men and women have to come together for life to
continue. If we want to give birth to a new Majengo, then we
must all collaborate, we must all be united. Our enemy keeps
you divided because they know the day you will unite, that
will be the day of their demise. They have perfected the game
of divide and rule, just like the colonialists did many years
ago. Unity is our password to unlock all the goodies we have
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missed for all these decades. Today, I am here to declare
that my fellow sisters and I are ready to give birth to a new
dawn. All the women of Majengo are unanimously behind
the Majengo Declaration of today, which will lead us to the
Ballot Revolution. I want to assure you all that when the day
of battle comes, no woman will remain in the kitchen. Let us
unite, my brothers and sisters; let us liberate Majengo from
the shackles of poverty, desperation, crime, joblessness and
hopelessness.”
After Mama Chama took her seat, even the men ululated,
something that had never happened before in Majengo.
Our mission had picked up the rhythm and the ship was
fast moving in the right direction. Professor had been very
clear in his brief the evening before. He had said, “The fire
must be lit and it must be kept burning, for without a fire,
the food will remain raw.”
He had met a few of the people who were opposed to
what we were doing and had spoken to them at length about
the plans we had. He had then coached the committee on
how to steer the ship amidst any storms. We had begged him
to attend the rally but he had declined.
“I am only providing you with my intellect as this is the
best thank you I can give to Majengo for welcoming me as
one of your own. I am still a foreigner, remember. If the
enemy finds out what I am doing, my deportation papers
will be signed in a second. I must stay behind the scenes
until our mission is accomplished,” Professor had said.
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The next person to take to the podium was Apostle
Jonah, the man who represented the voice from above.
I have always believed that when Jesus comes back, his
headquarters will be in Majengo because in almost every
corner and street, there is either a church, a mosque, a pastor,
a prophet, an apostle, an evangelist or a bishop, and they
all claim to be speaking for God. On any busy day, there is
singing, dancing, preaching, prophesying, healing, speaking
in tongues, casting out demons and giving offertory for the
spread of God’s word. Indeed, there were three institutions
that competed for numbers in Majengo: the churches, the
bars and the betting shops.
Before venturing into my preaching business, I had taken
a benchmarking tour around Majengo. The first church that
I visited specialized in speaking in tongues. I witnessed one
woman who also happened to be my neighbour being seized
by the power of the spirit and she began to speak the language
of the angels. To an innocent listener, she sounded like she
was reading the list of shame. She muttered something that
sounded like my name and then mentioned the name of a
single mother who lived in my lane and who had recently
given birth. I was afraid she would relate the baby to me so I
sneaked out before anyone could put two and two together.
In the next church, I encountered the powers of a
bishop. Most of the bishops do not reside in Majengo but
they mostly preside over the thanksgiving services at the
end of each month. This particular bishop was supposed to
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preside over a supernatural healing service. The church was
packed with worshippers spilling over to the outside of the
church building. The crowd reminded me of the instance
in the Bible when some people had to lower a lame man
on a mat from the roof so that he could be healed by Jesus.
When the bishop called out for anyone who wanted to
receive a miracle to go to the dais, a man with crutches came
forward. A strange thing happened during that service. The
lame man was recounting how he was born crippled when
a stray dog appeared on the dais. Nobody was sure where
the dog had come from but it headed straight to the lame
man and pounced. It seemed to be after something in the
man’s trousers as it kept sniffing around one of the pockets.
I wondered if the man had a bone in the pocket. By the time
the bishop and his handlers had recovered and were rushing
to help the man, we saw the man jump out of the window
with the dog in hot pursuit! His crutches were left on the
dais. The man landed outside the church and broke into an
Olympic record-breaking sprint. All the while the faithfuls
in the church were shouting, “Halleluia”. I was never able
to establish if the lame man got healed supernaturally or he
had been pretending to be disabled to attract sympathy and
some money in the process.
The next church I visited was led by a prophet. This
was a difficult area as prophets tell of things they have seen
in the spirit or in the supernatural world through dreams
and visions. Most of them had answers to the causes of all
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your problems but they offered no concrete solutions. Their
trademark attire was long robes, a turban and a drum. They
always sported long, unkempt beards and their preferred
hour of worship was during the dead of night. One of my
friends heard that the dreams given by the dreamers in one
of the churches always came true. He therefore decided to
join the church. What they did not tell him was that the
dreams only affected a particular category of chosen men
and were not for everybody.
A few days after joining the church, one of the dreamers
reported that he had seen a vision where my friend was
marrying a certain woman named Joanina and they had
lived happily ever after. My friend had no problem with the
dream as he had been searching for a wife until they presented
Joanina, his wife to be. Joanina was a middle-aged woman
who had never been married but had six children in tow. My
friend left the church before marrying Joanina. What I never
comprehended was why Majuu, with only one church, was
always winning against Majengo with our many churches.
I kept thinking that probably God had favourites but I was
not sure what we had to do to become His favourite too.
Nevertheless, the religious class, despite their shortcomings,
played a pivotal role in keeping the residents of Majengo
happy, their hardships notwithstanding. They gave us hope
of a better tomorrow even as some of us succumbed to the
vagaries of poverty before the better future had arrived.
Those of us left behind kept the hope alive. The promise
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of a place called heaven where everyone would live forever
in peace, love and joy was more than enough to console us
when problems seemed insurmountable.
Apostle Jonah looked up to the skies as if he was saying a
short prayer to God. He then spoke about God and the plan
that He had for all of us as His children.
“It is the will of God that all His children live in happiness.
This is a divine right. However, our enemy has made us look
like children of a lesser god. The people of Majuu are our
brothers and sisters and God has commanded us to love
everyone, including our enemies. Nobody wants to go to
war with our brothers and sisters, but it is the will of God
that the mistakes of humanity be corrected. One of the sins
they commit is to refuse to share what they have with the less
fortunate as God has commanded all of us to do in the Bible.”
Apostle Jonah paused for those words to sink in before
unleashing the bomb, though with a very compassionate
voice.
“The power of God is immense and all those who go to
battle in His name have never lost a war. We, the residents of
Majengo, are a prayerful people. The number of churches in
this place is uncountable. Our enemy may have the money
but we have God on our side. With God, nothing, I say again,
NOTHING is impossible! God is our shield and protector.”
There was a general applause and while the apostle
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headed back to his seat, someone started the song, ‘We shall
overcome’, and the crowd joined in and sang joyfully.
Headmaster, the man everyone called Mwalimu, was
the next to speak. Majengo had only one school, a primary
school, and it was old, dilapidated and poorly equipped. The
school had only five teachers besides the head teacher. The
head teacher never got tired of telling anyone who cared to
listen that school was the stone that sharpened the swords of
tomorrow.
“My brothers and sister have spoken. You have spoken
too. The voice of the people is the voice of God.” The
excitement started to mount again after the calm that had
been witnessed during Apostle Jonah’s speech. He then went
on with his speech.
“The founding fathers of our country had three goals in
mind at independence – to eradicate ignorance, disease and
poverty. The battle against ignorance, disease and poverty
can only be won by people who have gone to school. The
great Nelson Mandela said, ‘Education is the most powerful
weapon which you can use to change the world’. He also
went on to say, ‘A good head and good heart are always a
formidable combination. But when you add to that a literate
tongue or pen, then you have something very special’. My
dear friends, if change is to come to Majengo, it will be
brought by people who have ‘chewed’ books. Those are the
people who will transform this place.”
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Personally, I never believed this theory and not just
because I had not excelled in the world of books. At the
end of every year, Headmaster would transverse Majengo
holding a list of examination results to show us the names of
the children who had excelled.
“These are the soldiers of tomorrow,” he would say,
beaming with pride. But the ‘soldiers of tomorrow’ never
seemed to come back and save Majengo from poverty and
disease. Every year, many wazungu trooped in and out of
the only primary school in Majengo. We were informed that
they were potential donors. Headmaster would take them
round the school and around the slum but we never saw
any meaningful development in the school or in the slum.
One was left wondering whether these were real donors
or they were just tourists looking for photo opportunities
in the largest slum south of the Sahara. There used to be
a rumour that a certain group of NGOs operated like a
cartel to get donor funds while pretending that they were
going to help the residents of Majengo. These NGOs had
turned our Majengo into a human zoo. They sponsored
newspaper articles, shot documentaries and put Majengo on
the international scene but there were loud whispers on the
grapevine that they were only interested in attracting donor
funds which ended up in their own pockets. Headmaster was
loved by most residents of Majengo, especially the women,
because he was forever campaigning for fewer bars and more
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schools. However, the drunkards did not like him. The man
was a natural orator and he had no problem grabbing the
attention of the multitude.
“For many years now, I have been telling you that
education is the key to the future. It has taken such
painstaking effort to make this a reality. Every day I meet
many of you and you ask me, ‘Mwalimu, this future that you
are always talking about, when will it come?’ Today, I have
the greatest pleasure of answering that question. The long
awaited future is now!”
The pandemonium that followed made me believe that
the future had indeed arrived.
“I have always taught you to believe that education is
the key to a great future but I never knew I would live to
see that future happen in Majengo in my lifetime. We now
have the master key to our future. We will use this master
key to open the door to a bright future; a future that is full
of development for our people. We will then use the same
key to close the doors of poverty, joblessness and squalor
forever. Wakati wetu ni sasa, na kama sio sasa, ni sasa hivi!”
The crowd chanted that last statement as Headmaster
finished his speech. There was a sense of expectation as if the
crowd was waiting for the master key to be unleashed from
somewhere. Headmaster lifted up his hand and pointed at
the mammoth crowd below, saying, “Behold the master
key that locks and unlocks all doors! Behold the Ballot
Revolution!”
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The crowd went into a frenzy.
When I took the microphone from Headmaster, I decided
time was ripe to have a rallying call for our revolution. I
shouted, “Up, Up, Majengo!” and the crowds roared back,
“Down, Down, Majuu!” I repeated the slogan four times
until it stuck in the mouths and minds of our people. The
crowd picked the rallying call and made it their battle cry.
I decided that it was time to have a commercial break so
I called Boychild. There was a lot of tension in the air and
emotions were running high. We needed a valve to dissipate
all the built-up excitement and tension. This was the time to
seek the services of a thespian.
It was important for Boychild to speak at the rally. He
represented a lot of men, known and unknown. Many men
did not want people to know that they were henpecked by
their wives. In the African society, the man is supposed to
be the head of the family. He is supposed to be the one who
gives orders and guides his family. For a man to be under
the control of his wife, it shows that he has failed in his
primary duty of being the head of the family. This leads to
stigmatization and as Boychild always said, most men will
never freely come out to say they are being oppressed by
their wives. Boychild’s address was short and straight to the
point.
“For there to be harmony in the society, there has to
be respect in the family. Males and females, women and
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men, short and tall, fat and thin, dark and brown, we are all
created equal in the eyes of God and so we should treat each
other in the same way.” He paused for a minute and then
continued, “For many years, Majuu has been at the top and
we have been at the bottom. We are not asking that we swap
positions; we are asking that we be at par with them. We all
must have equal opportunities.”
Everyone clapped and laughed as Boychild went back to
his seat. It was interesting that even without cracking a joke,
Boychild always made people to laugh.
The last speaker of the day was Mzito. He represented
everything that any resident of Majengo could desire. He
was a moneyed man who wielded power. He was the richest
person in Majengo. He owned about one fifth of Majengo and
so, he was a landlord to a sizeable number of the residents in
the slum. He was the chief broker of the building stones and
ballast from the quarry area where the rally was being held.
He also owned some of the matatus, boda bodas and tuk tuks
that plied the Majengo route. He was therefore an employer
to many young people in the crowd. Mzito was incharge of
the security in Majengo. One had to pay some protection
money to him in order to operate a business in the slum.
He was the nexus between the residents of Majengo and the
authorities, and he was one of the few men who had the ear
of the OCS. He had the power to secure the release of many
young men when they collided with the law. Mzito was also
the official trade unionist in Majengo and he claimed to serve
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the interests of the barbers, the hairdressers, cobblers and all
the other lowly workers. It is him who set and controlled the
prices of building stones from the quarry, the rents for the
shacks in Majengo and the wages for the casual labourers. It
was important that he be the last speaker at the rally because
when he spoke, everyone in Majengo listened.
Mzito surveyed the quiet crowd the way a general would
size up his troops before going to battle. Their silence and
eager looks told him that he had them where he wanted
them.
“Many people have spoken; a lot of words have been
said. Time for talk is over, now it’s time for action. We have
already identified the enemy and the war has already been
declared. The weapon is ready, and we cannot retreat. We
have the will, we have the potential, we have the resources
and we have the soldiers. All we need now is a general, a
brave commander. An army of sheep led by a lion will defeat
an army of lions led by a sheep. Who will guide us in this
war?”
A giant murmur swept through the crowd. The people
seemed confused. They did not know how to respond.
“In this war, are we guided by our love for Majengo or
our hatred for Majuu? Are we looking for riches or are we
fighting poverty? We have a common enemy and thus we
must have a common front. We must hang together lest
we fall separately. Unity must be our general, for united we
stand, divided we fall!”
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At that juncture, everyone applauded. The people had
heard these words before. He was now speaking their
language. He changed tact just as Professor had advised.
This is what Professor had referred to as the million-dollar
move. He called Mzee Kobe and the other members of the
Council of Elders and made them to stand in front, facing
the crowd. The Council of Elders was an informal group of
leaders who governed Majengo. It was composed of five men;
one from each of the four regions that made up Majengo,
and Chairman. Although they were effective at solving local
disputes when they arose, they were a major stumbling
block when unity was needed. When political interests were
at play, none of the elders could tolerate the other. Majengo
was united in times of calamity such as when a fire broke out
but when it came to uniting the people for a political cause,
the Council of Elders was always the elephant in the slum.
Mzito introduced the five elders to the crowd. “These
are our leaders. They are the men who will determine the
success or the failure of this revolution. Before I ask them
whether they are ready to fight together, I want to present to
them and to all of you a very special guest.”
The crowd went quiet as it watched a strange woman
walk up the podium. She was dirty, rugged and walked
barefoot. Her hair was shaggy, her face rough and she looked
like someone who was suffering from severe malnutrition.
Indeed, she looked like a walking skeleton. She was
accompanied by her three children. She carried one in front,
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one on the back while the eldest, a boy, walked alongside her.
The woman was carrying an old, dirty bag while the boy was
in tatters and was holding an empty bowl. They stood facing
the crowd, their watery eyes staring blankly at the multitude
of people who were staring back at them. The people stared
as if they were seeing ghosts. Some scratched their chins,
others shook their heads in pity and some women wiped
tears from their eyes.
“Do you know this woman? If anyone knows her, please
raise up your hand,” Mzito asked the crowd.
No one moved, the environment was eerily quiet.
“Where does she come from? What language does she
speak? What is her tribe?” Mzito pressed on.
The only answer he got was a deafening silence, broken
from time to time by uncomfortable coughs.
“Although you don’t know her, this woman is one of us.
She lives in Majengo. She speaks the language of poverty and
her tribe is poverty.”
There was uneasy calm in the crowd and Mzito knew this
was the moment to hammer the nail home.
“For many years, we have been cheated and we have also
cheated ourselves but now, the truth has dawned on us. We
all belong to one tribe, we speak one language and we are
bound by the same culture: poverty.”
The crowd clapped. The point had got home. He now
turned to the elders.
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“Like in a tree, our roots are supposed to be the foundation
of our strength but they should not retard our growth. Our
cultures and languages should be celebrated for they bring
out the beauty of our diversity; they should not be chains
that hold us back from progress.”
“Yes! Yes!” the crowd bellowed.
“We are all equal, we have the same challenges. We must
march forward as one troop. In the past we have fought and
lost but this is because we have never fought as a united front.
We are giving our elders the homework of identifying a flag
bearer; a worthy general whom we shall all rally behind. Do
you promise to rally behind the person who will be chosen
as the flag bearer?”
There was a unanimous answer, “Yes, we promise!”
More fuel had been added to the fire and it was now
roaring. The people danced, they embraced and exchanged
high-fives.
Time had come to give the rally a photo finish. I grabbed
the microphone and thundered, “Up, Up, Majengo!”, and
the crowd roared after me, “Down, Down, Majuu!”
I repeated the slogan three more times and the crowd
thundered after me. Majengo was right in the ship! Nothing
could stop this mission. The rally came to an end.
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That evening, Majengo was on fire. The residents
celebrated as if the day of independence had come. Women
withdrew savings from their secret ‘banks’ in their mattresses
and made sumptuous meals for their families. The smell
of filth was replaced by the aroma of tasty dishes. All the
bars were busy, filled with light chatter and laughter. Those
who did not have money to buy beer drank on credit. That
day, bar owners were curiously generous. It was one big
celebration.
Pondamali was filled to capacity. One could not get
a seat. Music blared from the speakers all around the
pub. Every few sentences were punctuated by the words
“Majengo Declaration”. The new song in town was ‘Up,
Up, Majengo! Down, Down, Majuu!’ Everybody in Majengo
became a friend of everyone. People were drunk with hope
and optimism.
“Let someone send an emissary to Majuu to tell them that
their days are numbered. Their Mene mene tekel moment is
finally here and the writing is on the wall. They thought we
Chapter Five
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were a rained-on cat. Let them know that the lion has woken
up!” roared Boychild.
It was time to toast to the Ballot Revolution. As usual,
Rasta watched and listened. Since people were talking about
a new era and a new world that was coming, he became Jim
Reeves and dedicated the following piece to the bright future
they were anticipating:
Across the bridge there’s no more sorrow
Across the bridge there’s no more pain
The sun will shine across the river
And you’ll never be unhappy again
Together with Professor, Chairman and Boychild, we
were going over the events of the day and analyzing the
highs of the rally we had just held. I could hardly believe that
I was now one of the high ranking drivers of the revolution.
How did this happen? I asked myself. In my heart, I was
saying to myself, Surely, God works in mysterious ways! Who
would have thought that a guy like me, a former undertaker,
street preacher, tout and mtumba seller, could rise to such
a position? My eyes welled with tears of joy but I quickly
resolved that I could not show any weakness in front of my
colleagues. I was a brave son of the land. There is no way I
could allow myself to look weak in the midst of such gallant
soldiers of our revolution. In my community, men who cry
are considered weaklings.
As I came back from my thoughts, Professor was talking.
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“That was a cameo performance. Our plane is now ready
and the passengers have boarded. The only thing left is to
identify the best captain and we are off to the skies!”
I was now starting to feel like a very important person. I
was part of the small group that was going to determine the
destiny of Majengo. This was not a small feat for a guy like
me. It felt like I was in a dream and I had to pinch myself to
prove I was not. After the sterling performance as the MC
earlier in the day, my friends were starting to treat me like
a celebrity. There was a feeling of pride and success in my
heart – I had addressed a big crowd and it had listened to
me. Most people thought I had come up with the words of
the rallying call but they had been given to me by Professor.
All I had done was to unleash them at the most opportune
moments. That took me straight to the history books. The
ground was shifting fast and soon, my wife would have to
start respecting me as a real man. She would have to keep
quiet while I talked, and she would no longer call me a
useless man. Professor was a contented man. He confirmed
that everything was proceeding as per the game plan.
Professor continued. “Politics is a game and for us to
win, we must make the right moves from the beginning to
the end. Our next move is crucial. It is what will take us to
nirvana or break the revolution. If we make the wrong move,
then we are done for.”
Kadogo appeared just at the right moment, balancing
fried chicken on a tray in one hand and roast potatoes in the
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other. Professor and I were the first ones to go and wash our
hands.
As we waited for the other two, Professor talked to me.
“Of all the academic disciplines,” he said, “History is the
most fascinating and not just because of its accuracy and
fairness. History never lies and you can never change it.
However, you can determine its course and shape it.”
It was hard to comprehend what Professor was saying,
so I pretended to be busy replenishing my glass to avoid eye
contact. Luckily, Boychild and Chairman came back in the
nick of time. I relaxed.
“You people have been through this before but you
always lose your step. Everything is normally all rosy until
you have to choose who will steer the ship. We must change
this situation,” Professor said.
Everyone was pensive as we all got lost in our private
thoughts. It was hard to imagine who would unite all the
communities in Majengo to vote for one person. It was going
to be a tough battle ahead but for now, we were just happy
that everyone was on board in our bloodless revolution.
Our merrymaking continued until the wee hours of the
morning. While we were leaving, Professor called me aside
and whispered, “That was a great performance. You did well
with the rallying call and I am overjoyed. Tomorrow, I want
you to walk around Majengo and secretly find out who the
people feel should be our flag bearer, then give me a call in
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the evening.” He slipped a thousand-shilling note into my
pocket and added, “That is for airtime.”
The next day, Majengo was ablaze with rumours.
Everyone was trying to guess who the compromise candidate
would be. Every group was lobbying for their person in the
hope that the more they talked about him or her, the bigger
the favour they would get from the committee.
The battle had begun in earnest and from listening in to
various discussions, it was clear that it was a two-horse race
between Chairman and Mzito. The two men had been rivals
for as long as I could remember. They controlled different
camps. Chairman controlled the hearts of the people while
Mzito controlled the money. Thus, the relationship between
them was often frosty. At one time, both had served at the
Constituency Board and the feuds between them had been
endless. When Chairman was lobbying to be appointed to
a chief’s position, he accused Mzito of having bribed the
residents to talk ill of him. Like a cat and mouse, the two
were forever chasing one another.
I did some rounds in Majengo as Professor had instructed.
I talked to different groups of people and listened to them.
My conclusion was that a titanic battle was looming. My first
stop was at the matatu stage. Here there was a mini contest
and it appeared everyone was against everybody.
“Chairman is the right person to be MP! This is a hot
seat that requires someone who has sat on similar seats,” one
tout shouted as he jumped around like a tennis ball.
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“No, we don’t want people who have made leadership
seats their birthright,” retorted a driver who was menacingly
waving his forefinger at the jumpy tout.
“We all know you are campaigning for Chairman because
his brother’s wife is a cousin to your aunt!” shouted another
driver to the tout.
“And what about you? Who doesn’t know that without
Mzito, you would not even have paid your dowry!” another
tout retorted.
A shouting match had erupted and it was almost
degenerating into a fist fight.
“Take it easy, brothers,” intervened a male commuter.
“We should not be guided by relations or interests. We
should settle for a candidate who can be a father figure to
all of us; someone who will have the interests of all in his or
her heart.”
I left the matatu stage and headed to the open air market
at the periphery of the quarry. The market was dominated
by women and therefore the debate was less confrontational.
“Since the beginning of time, this seat has been held by
men. We are in a mess because of them,” one woman who
was selling vegetables was speaking loudly as she held her
hands akimbo.
“You are very right, Mama Api! This time we need
change,” supported another woman. “Time has come for
women to take the steering wheel. We need one of us at the
top!”
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All the women in the market burst into laughter. Some
could be seen hiding their faces due to shyness. They could
not imagine how their fellow women were so brave to say
such things loudly and in public.
The first woman, emboldened by the laughter, continued,
“We have to be serious this time. Since time immemorial,
women have been the main drivers behind men’s success.
Now we need to be at the front of this revolution and not at
the back. Every other time, we support men to get to the top
but what happens afterwards? They forget us as soon as they
clinch their reward. We, the women, who do the donkey
work, are completely forgotten until the next time they need
our support! They then appear with a few hundred shillings,
sugar and lesos to bribe us. We have to have our own this
time round. And we have the numbers to propel one of our
own to the top!”
The other women agreed with her and showed it in the
manner they clapped. In my mind, I wondered if that idea
was even feasible. The thought that a woman could be picked
as a flag bearer was as far-fetched as it was odd. My thoughts
were interrupted by the shrill voice of another woman who
was saying, “What if we get a woman and she ends up sitting
on us worse than the men do?”
“Look at you!” chided the first woman. “We have always
been told that the enemy of a woman is a woman. Why would
you have doubts about the leadership of women while you
are one? Haven’t we seen how Mama Chama has helped us,
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the women, over the years? Are you saying she’s not capable
of being an MP?”
A heated discussion ensued and I decided to move on.
I had collected an important piece of information: Mama
Chama was the favourite among the women. In a few minutes,
I found myself at the main ‘base’ in Majengo. This is where
all the ‘hustlers’ meet in the afternoons to chew miraa and
play draughts. I found the discussion about the flag bearer
in top gear. The group was debating who between Chairman
and Mzito was a real ‘hustler’. One of the guys, a burly fellow
with a loud mouth, was giving the others a lecture on how
it was important for them to settle for someone who had
experienced what they go through every day. He was saying,
“We need someone who has slept hungry, walked without
shoes, hustled for a job, and one who knows the taste of real
sweat. We need a hustler like us, and to me, Hustler fits the
bill.”
My heart swelled with gratitude. I could not believe that
my ‘boys’ thought I was capable of representing Majengo in
the National Assembly.
A dissenter immediately brought my pride crashing to
the ground. He retorted, “Hustler hawezi! Can you imagine
Hustler running against Big Daddy III with all his money
and connections? We need someone like Mzito who has
money.”
“But we are the ones with the votes; we are the ones who
will vote. Why can’t we elect one of our own?” another one
resisted.
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“Boss, are you the only one in Jerusalem who doesn’t
know? Haven’t you heard that those who cast the votes do
not determine the outcome of an election; that the outcome
of an election is determined by those who count the votes?
You need money to win this thing,” argued another.
I slipped away quietly and headed to the pool table hall,
the barber shop and the video den. The debate was the same.
I wanted to drop in and see Apostle Jonah to gather what
the religious group was thinking, but I was informed that he
was held up in a meeting with the other men of God. I put
out my feelers on the ground and by evening, the grapevine
had spilt the beans. The men of the cloth had spoken with
the same voice. They had decided that it was time for God to
rule Majengo. Like everyone else, they wanted one of their
own as the flag bearer.
My final destination was Pondamali, the heartbeat of
Majengo’s politics. It was here that political deals were cut
and alliances were brokered.
The debate at the pub was sober. Socrates, the heavily
bearded man who supplied beer to all the bars in Majengo,
was saying, “In my constituency, we had a project similar to
yours some years back. We elected someone and we thought
he was our saviour. Little did we know that he was a wolf in a
sheep’s skin! After five years, we elected another person and
the results were not different; this time we ended up with a
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chameleon. We soon realized that we were only changing
the forest but the monkeys remained the same.”
“Are you suggesting that we pick someone who has no
experience?” asked one of the revellers.
“No one here has experience because no one has ever sat
on that seat,” retorted another.
“You must go for a fresh man. These moneyed chaps
have no mercy for those who do not have money. They care
less about you, my friends. Go for a poor man. Chairman or
Mzito will not help you.”
At the mention of Chairman, Kadogo shot up. Though
she rarely participated in political debates, the mention of
her boss’s name in negative light had touched a raw nerve.
Socrates had forgotten that this was Chairman’s turf.
“Nonsense! Stop that useless talk here. Have you forgotten
where you are and who pays you for your supplies? Do you
know we can get another supplier right this minute and
return everything you have brought today?”
Kadogo was visibly angry and before Socrates could
defend himself, Boychild interjected, “This is an election
and not a beauty contest! We can elect someone thinking he
is good but when he gets in there, he becomes a worse leader
than Big Daddy III. We must be careful. We might even get a
novice and lie to ourselves that he is harmless, then he shocks
all of us after assuming leadership,” concluded Boychild.
***
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As they say, in politics, a week is a really long time. Things
change too fast. As the week progressed, the debate of who
would be the flag bearer of the Ballot Revolution turned
toxic and the residents of Majengo were divided into two
major factions. One group was rooting for Chairman to
be picked as the candidate while the other wanted Mzito.
A dangerous confrontation between the supporters of the
two men was imminent. Words were being thrown around
and emotions were running high. Each of the two men was
openly holding meetings with his supporters to strategize
on how to win the other side. There were claims of money
being used to influence the residents. The Council of Elders
was also divided and there were fears that the same would
happen to the religious groups.
The conflict between the two groups was threatening
to undo all the good work that we, as the drivers of the
revolution, had done so far. Majengo was dangerously
hurtling towards the status quo to the delight of the Big
Daddy III supporters and most of the residents of Majuu.
They were all watching the unfolding scenario with much
glee. Flight ‘Ballot Revolution’ was at the risk of crashing
even before lifting from the runway, rendering the Majengo
vision a pipe dream. Something had to be done and it had to
be done fast. I called Professor so that I could give him the
briefs. He told me that he was at the school having a serious
discussion with Headmaster. He promised to call me back
when he was through with his meeting.
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The meeting was held in a five-star hotel near the university
where Professor taught. The entire committee was tense and
anxious as we were transported in a hired bus to the venue.
For once, Professor looked beaten and I could understand
why. The war machine that he had meticulously assembled
was dismembering at an alarming speed even before it had
been tested in the battlefield.
It was my first time to go into a five-star hotel. I was
excited and fearful at the same time. Would they serve
us strange foods that we had never seen before, like I had
heard so many times before in the rumour mills around
Majengo? Some people said that such hotels served snails
and frog meat. Others said that the hotels served raw fish
and crocodile meat. I never believed some of these rumours.
How does a person eat the meat of a crocodile and yet it eats
people? I always wondered.
We were herded into a special room on the fourth floor of
the hotel. The place was uncannily quiet, unlike Pondamali
where Rasta’s reggae music blared from supercharged
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speakers, competing with the noise from the touts at the
matatu stage and the women at the market. The music in the
five-star hotel seemed to be seeping out of the walls! It was so
soft that I had to strain my ears to clearly hear a single word.
Matters were complicated by the fact that all the music was
in English. It sounded more like a lullaby that could easily
soothe one to sleep, especially if one’s stomach was full.
On sitting down, a waitress appeared from nowhere. She
was impeccably dressed and had the sweetest smile. Unlike
Kadogo, this waitress moved quietly and smoothly like a cat.
We did not hear her coming. She gave us hot wet towels. I
did not know what to do with my towel. I went ahead and
wiped my face and neck with the towel since I was sweating
but I noticed that Professor only cleaned his hands with his.
I also cleaned my hands with the now dirty towel. Just as we
were finishing wiping our hands, the food was brought in. It
was clear that Professor must have studied us very well. He
had only ordered what we were used to – goat meat, ugali,
chips, green vegetables and kachumbari. The waitress then
took our orders for drinks. When the bill was brought to
Professor, I noticed from the corner of my eyes that one
beer cost five hundred shillings. My heart skipped a beat.
Why would a beer cost so much in this hotel yet it was the
very same beer that cost one hundred and fifty shillings at
Pondamali?
I reasoned that perhaps the prices were high because of
the superb service we were receiving at the hotel. It was the
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first time in my life that anyone had ever addressed me as
‘Sir’ and I loved it. To make matters even better, it was being
done by the beautiful waitress who was forever smiling. I
wished I could record her calling me ‘Sir’ so that I could play
it to my ungrateful wife when I got home. Maybe, she would
then learn to respect me for I was now an important person.
Nevertheless, I made sure Boychild took a selfie with me so
that we could show everyone in Majengo that we were not
small people. The bill was so big that I started to sweat. I
feared a situation where everyone would be asked to pay
a portion of it based on what each had eaten and drunk.
Professor seemed to notice my uneaseness because he
quickly reassured us that a friend of Majengo was sponsoring
the meeting. He also mentioned that the sponsor wanted to
remain anonymous for the time being.
I could not help admiring people who could foot a bill
without breaking a sweat. I wondered when my time would
come to achieve the same but I consoled myself that I was
also on the way to becoming an important man. This was
my time or never, I told myself when I visited the toilets. I
looked at my reflection in the mirror and imagined myself
dressed in the most expensive suit, walking into such hotels
as if the world belonged to me, and swinging a bunch of keys
in my hand. I even did a small walk in front of the mirror to
imitate how I would start walking once I had become rich.
The idea made me extremely happy and since I had taken a
few beers, I was smiling from ear to ear.
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After the meal, serious talk started. The agenda for the
meeting had not been shared. It was not clear whether
this was a reconciliation meeting, a strategizing meeting,
a meeting to unlock the gridlock of the flag bearer or just
an updates meeting. Professor started by thanking the
committee members and encouraged us not to lose steam in
spite of the setbacks.
“Our quarrels and feuds are a sign that we have opinions
and diversity of ideas, and this is a healthy climate for
democracy to thrive. However, our differences should lead us
to agree to disagree and not to disagree to agree. Otherwise,
we will not be different from the two foolish dogs. The two
dogs hunted together and caught a rabbit. Unfortunately,
they couldn’t agree on how to share out the kill and they
started to fight. While they were busy fighting, a fox passed
by and ran away with the kill. It was only after the two dogs
had become tired of biting, scratching and kicking each
other that they realized they had all along been fighting for
nothing as their meat was gone.”
Professor paused and gave each committee member a
knowing look before continuing, “Like the two dogs, we
have everything. We have the dream and the will. Above all,
we have the wherewithal, the potential and the numbers to
make this a success. However, if the sibling wrangles do not
stop, then all this advantage that we have will go to waste
and we will be left empty-handed, just like the two dogs.”
Professor paused and took a sip of his water. After
clearing his throat, he shifted gears without warning. “We
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have potential candidates amongst us, and good ones too.
Both Chairman and Mzito are qualified for the job and each
of them is up to the task. However, we face a serious enemy,
one who has more superior weapons than we could ever lay
our hands on. For this reason, we do not just need the good,
we need the best!”
I noticed Chairman and Mzito shift uneasily in their
seats.
“How do we get the best candidate?” Mzito asked with a
tinge of impatience. Professor ignored him and consulted
his notes.
“It is true that elections are about democracy and the
will of the people, but as we have witnessed, if we allow our
people to make this decision, nothing good will come out
of this process. All we will get are quarrels, divisions and
anarchy.”
“The people must be involved in choosing their leader.
Otherwise, where will we get votes from? Remember,
the Ballot Revolution belongs to the people,” interrupted
Chairman.
To the surprise of everyone, Mzito interjected and tore
at him.
“We know what you mean when you say that the people
must choose their leader. Everyone knows that you have
already formed cartels to influence the way the people will
decide.”
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“What about you?” responded Chairman, angrily. “Who
doesn’t know that you have already started dishing out
money to the youth?”
There was now a real danger that the two perennial arch-
rivals would shed off the gloves and go hammer and tongs
at each other.
It took the intervention of Mzee Kobe to have a ceasefire.
“Gentlemen, let’s be respectful to one another. Otherwise,
we will not achieve anything. Professor is offering his services
and intelligence and here we are, quarrelling unnecessarily.
Please, let us listen to him and then we can discuss our views
thereafter.”
“Mzee is right. Let us put aside our vested interests and
listen to Professor with open minds,” added Mama Chama.
All this while, Professor was watching what was going on
with a bemused expression and a somewhat satisfied look
on his face. I had a feeling that he was enjoying the drama.
The small altercation between Chairman and Mzito helped
to drive his point home; that we needed someone else as the
flag bearer.
Once everyone was silent, Professor picked up from
where he had left.
“In a democracy, we have two things: making the right
decision and ending up with the right choice. What we have
now is a problem of decision making and not a problem of
choice. A good father knows what is good for his child and
sometimes, he is forced to make decisions on behalf of the
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child. To the child, it may appear like the father is a tyrant or
a dictator, but later the child realizes that the father actually
made the right decision. You are all parents so you know
what I am talking about. We must help our people to make
the right decision and in turn, they will make the right choice
on voting day.”
Professor seemed to be driving towards a particular
narrative but I could not place my finger on what exactly it
was. Everyone waited anxiously for what he would say next.
“There is a time for democracy and a time to reason. The
voting day is the day for democracy but today is a day to
reason. We must reason together so that we get a candidate
who reflects the face of Majengo and one who represents
us all. In Chairman and Mzito, we have two formidable
candidates, but in them we also have two irreconcilable
factions. If we must choose the best, we must shelve our egos
and go for a candidate who is acceptable across the board.
This is what is called striking a balance.”
Everyone was now calm and I started to believe that
Professor had some supernatural powers. If he had managed
to quieten Chairman and Mzito, then he had power and that
meant he was capable of breaking the gridlock. He went on
and everyone was very attentive.
“In every election, there are winners and losers. In our
case, we want everyone in Majengo to be a winner.”
The emotional appeal tugged at our hearts and softened
our stance. We had all seen what had happened in the
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previous elections. It began with leaflets that appeared from
nowhere, warning some communities to vacate the slum and
before long, houses started burning. Long-time neighbours
turned against each other and families broke up, leaving
children confused and destitute. Nobody wanted to see this
happen again. It had taken more than a year and the hard
work of the elders for the communities to start trusting each
other before harmony could be restored.
“The process of picking the flag bearer is accompanied by
fear and I fully understand where you are coming from. There
is fear that we might end up choosing the wrong candidate.
The people of Majengo have been betrayed so many times
before and this has weathered their trust. They are scared
of reliving the ‘same monkeys, different forests’ narrative.
When you have been fed with a lot of false promises and
hope, the result can only be mistrust.”
Our faces brightened but no one laughed. We hang on to
every word Professor said. We were hopeful that we would
finally break the jinx that had kept us shackled to the Big
Daddy family for all these years.
“Trust is the word. We must get a candidate who can be
trusted by everyone in Majengo. This must be an untainted
person and one who everyone will be at ease to associate
with.”
I wanted to say something but I could not muster enough
courage to talk. The serious things Professor had just said,
as well as the environment in which we were, were quite
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intimidating to me. I wanted to say that Professor was
talking about an angel because nobody in Majengo would
have the qualities he was describing. I was fully convinced
that unless Professor was speaking of a utopian place, such a
person could not be found in Majengo. Just as that thought
was sinking in my mind, I heard Professor respond to my
thoughts and that sent a shiver down my back.
“I know some of you do not believe that such a person
exists,” he said, looking directly at me.
I flinched. How could he have known what I was thinking
about?
He then continued, “As a university lecturer, I have a rich
CV. I have taught and made geniuses. I have also written
books, mentored leaders and toured numerous countries. I
want Majengo, and this election, to be my magnum opus,
and that is why I have called you here. I have the person that
Majengo needs to move to the next level.”
That was a bombshell! The room seemed to get cold all
of a sudden, and we all looked at each other in confusion.
Mama Chama was the first to find her tongue and she
quickly asked, “Who is this person?”
Professor drew in a deep breath and sighed. He then said,
“Before I present this person to you, I want all of us to agree
on one thing. I want all of you to assure me that you will
accept the candidate I have chosen for Majengo. You all
know I am not one of you and my impartiality, like Caesar’s
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wife, is beyond reproach. I am doing this purely to help you.
If you agree to this deal, I will reveal to you who my choice
of candidate is.”
The tension inside the room was palpable. My eyes drifted
to Chairman and then to Mzito. Both appeared puzzled by
the turn of events. I turned to look at Mama Chama and
she appeared calm. The elders looked confused and so was
Apostle Jonah. Headmaster was wearing an almost invisible
smile and a knowing look in his eyes, which left me slightly
puzzled. Boychild had a blank expression on his face. This
was no walk in the park. Just like the residents of Majengo
were currently divided on the choice of a flag bearer, so were
the members of the committee in their emotions.
“Do we have a deal?” Professor asked after a lengthy
silence.
No one said anything. The silence was assumed to signify
that everyone had accepted the deal. Professor pulled out his
phone from the pocket of his jacket and dialled a number.
The silence and expectation from everyone was stifling.
The door opened slowly and as if on cue, all our heads
turned to see who was coming in. A young man in his mid-
thirties walked in. He had a serious demeanour about him
but his lips were turned slightly as if he was smiling. He was
neatly dressed in a dark blue suit, a white shirt and a red tie.
His black shoes gleamed like a mirror. His eyes were covered
in a pair of dark glasses and he walked with a white cane. We
all turned to look at each other with puzzled expressions.
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Mjumbe was a household name in Majengo. His life story
read like a fiction novel. It was one of pain, tragedy and
overcoming huge challenges against all odds. As most
people in Majengo intimated, the young man had lived
more years than his true age. In his primary school days,
Mjumbe was a success story. He had been among the
brightest pupils that the primary school in Majengo had ever
produced since its inception. His name and results hung on
the school’s Wall of Fame and many years down the line,
no other pupil had managed to break the academic record
he had set in the school. Headmaster had fond memories
of a boy who loved books more than anything else. He was
the first and only pupil from the school to have appeared
in a national newspaper for exemplary performance in the
national examinations. Due to his excellent performance,
he was admitted to a most-sought-after national school and
everyone in Majengo celebrated their good fortune for in the
slum, a successful child belonged to the whole community.
Unfortunately, their joy turned to sorrow when it became
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apparent that the boy could not afford to go to the school of
his choice as he could not raise the expected fees.
The boy was an orphan. His parents had died in a fire in
their house when he was only four years old. In Majengo,
fires were a common occurrence. The boy had survived the
fire and kind neighbours had taken him in. Well-wishers
supported him all through primary school. He had worked
hard and achieved the best results but now there was no
money to take him to secondary school. Headmaster had
taken up the matter and moved from door to door and office
to office telling everyone of a bright future that was about
to be extinguished due to lack of school fees. He managed
to mobilize the residents of Majengo and other well-wishers
from beyond the slum to a big harambee. Everyone had
contributed what they could and by the end of the day, they
had raised enough money for the boy to report to his new
school. At the end of Form One, the school was able to offer
him a scholarship for the rest of his secondary education due
to his exemplary performance.
Mjumbe had studied hard in secondary school and when
he sat his final examinations, he had emerged among the
top students in the country. This attracted a local bank
to sponsor him to one of the public universities to study
Engineering. The residents of Majengo loved the young man
as their own son. They were very proud of him as he had put
the name of Majengo on the national news twice due to his
top performance.
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The young man had continued being a beacon of hope
for other young people and a poster boy for the slum. He
was a living testimony that Majengo could produce winners
too. He was doing very well at the university until disaster
struck one Saturday afternoon.
Mjumbe was successful in many things but he had one
fatal flaw: he loved everyone and was loved by all. The love
the people had for him made it difficult for him to say “No”
to anything and this turned out to be his Achilles heel. He
thrived in the wholesome acceptance he received from his
peers. When a group of his classmates at the university
invited him to join them for a party at the local drinking
den, he could not resist. The drinking dens around the
university competed to see which one would make the
strongest alcoholic brew. They added all sorts of chemicals
to the alcohol to achieve this goal. That is how Mjumbe and
his friends ended up taking chang’aa that was laced with
methanol. They did not realize the drink they were taking
was compromised until the room started to become dark, yet
it was still daytime. For some strange reason, they assumed
the lights had been dimmed. As the darkness increased, one
of the party goers shouted, “Even if you put off the lights,
we shall drink until tomorrow!” They all burst into laughter
as they heartily agreed with their colleague. Little did they
know that they were going blind. It was a sad day for the
university when scores of young men were loaded into
vehicles to be taken to the hospital. Even though their eyes
were wide open, they could not see anything.
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After one week in hospital, the doctor declared them
totally blind. It was unbelievable. Some people visited
them in hospital to confirm that for sure they could not see
anything. One man was so traumatised by what he saw that
he permanently quit drinking.
It was a double tragedy for Majengo. Their shining star
had been dimmed right at the prime of his youth. He was
now blind and he could not continue with his studies at
the university. Majengo cried a river and the entire slum
drowned in sorrow. One pastor organized a mega prayer
rally in the slum hoping for a miracle but no miracle took
place. When prayers failed, a rumour started circulating
that some people had been jealous of Mjumbe’s success
and so, they had cast a bad spell on him. His tragedy was
blamed on witchcraft. That was Majengo. If your life went
south, you are bewitched and if it went right, you were using
charms! Someone claimed to know a powerful witchdoctor
in a neighbouring country who could help the young man to
regain his eyesight.
Poor Mjumbe was towed away to the witchdoctor but
when he came back, he was still blind. When it became clear
that he would be blind forever, the young man resigned and
gave in to despair. He kept to his house and wept all the
time. Many well-wishers came to see him and to cheer him
up. They filed into the house the same way they did when
they went to mourn someone. When he cried, many of them
broke down and cried with him. Never had he known such
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pain and desolation. After a couple of months, help came his
way when an NGO that took care of the physically challenged
took him to a school for the blind where he learnt how to
use braille. He was also counselled as depression was setting
in. This helped to revive his battered spirit, giving him the
desire to start living again. He had a strong determination to
make his life count.
On returning to Majengo, Mjumbe went back to his
old friend, Headmaster, and asked to be allowed to teach
without pay. He was a good teacher and the pupils loved him.
Although he was a volunteer teacher, he taught with passion
and his pupils always posted good results. Mjumbe was a
strong young man who believed in his abilities. He came
up with an array of activities to help the people of Majengo
better their lives. One such activity was an NGO he founded
called Jitegemee that was helping the residents of Majengo
to become self-reliant. The NGO took care of people across
the age groups. He managed to bring together the idle youth
in the slum and helped them to form a music band and a
theatre group. With the limited engineering skills he had
acquired at the university, he helped the Jua kali artisans
to make solar panels from scrap metal to help the Majengo
residents light their homes. His signature invention was an
energy-saving jiko which used sawdust instead of charcoal.
This helped the women to a large extent to cut down on the
cost of providing food for their families.
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The environment was a pet subject for Mjumbe. He
initiated the ‘clean-up day’ whereby the residents came
together every last Saturday of the month for a few hours
to clean up Majengo. They would sweep the paths, collect
garbage and unclog drainages and trenches. He began
educating the people of Majengo on how they could recycle
waste and led the war against the use of plastics. Working
in collaboration with Mama Chama, he encouraged women
groups to start making sisal baskets and bags made of cloth
instead of using plastic paper bags.
Through Jitegemee, Mjumbe approached an eco-
friendly toilet company to offer toilet services in the slum
at a small fee. This helped to eradicate the ‘flying toilets’
phenomenon that was common in the slum. This initiative
earned him international recognition and he became one of
the few people from Majengo to board a plane when he was
sponsored for a UN environmental conference in Singapore.
Mjumbe was also a great negotiator. One time when
the appointment of the chief was being debated, there was
a lot of tension among the different communities living in
Majengo. Everyone wanted the chief to come from their
community as this meant they would get favours. Mjumbe
offered a great suggestion that they could have a rotating
system for the appointment of the chief. Once appointed, a
chief would serve for only four years and the next chief would
be appointed from a different community. This meant that
each community would have a chance to provide a chief at
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one time. His suggestion resolved the perennial problem of
appointing a chief that had dogged Majengo for a long time.
His life, however, was not without drama. He also earned
some enemies along the way. Trouble started when he
helped the government come up with a meal card during
one relentless famine. Before his suggestion, the government
would send money directly to vulnerable families to buy
food. Instead of buying food, some men would take the
money from their wives and use it to buy alcohol instead.
Mjumbe joined forces with Mama Chama and together,
they petitioned the government to give meal cards to the
families, instead of cash money. The families would use the
meal cards to get provisions from designated shops. The
shops would then use the cards to claim their money from
the government and then they would return the cards to the
families.
This initiative made Mjumbe very unpopular with the men
in the slum but the women were very happy. The decision
that finally broke the straw was when he suggested that the
dead should be cremated instead of being transported to far
off places for burial. His argument was that the residents
of Majengo were spending too much money on funerals
every year and yet they could use that money on other more
pressing needs. This did not go down well with the people. It
took one man to start the protests.
“My son, I have no problem with your education or the
many good things you have done for us here in Majengo
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but let’s not meddle with cultural matters as we could attract
many curses on ourselves from our ancestors. Whether you
have read all the books on this Earth or not, you have to toe
the line when it comes to the requirements of our culture.
We are Africans and we bury our dead and not burn them.”
The religious groups were also up in arms. They argued,
“This is against the Bible! People must be buried in readiness
for the day of resurrection. How can we rise back to life from
ashes?”
“Just think of the resources, the time and the energy we
will save! This money can be used to buy food or to obtain
better services,” Mjumbe tried to defend his idea but nobody
would listen to him. It appeared that matters of culture
and tradition were a no-go zone for most of the residents
of Majengo. Even though he was blind, he could feel the
seething anger from those around him. Like a wise man, he
decided to abandon that crusade and left the people to bury
their dead.
Mjumbe had many admirable qualities. He could speak
each of the four main languages used in Majengo besides
English and Kiswahili. This endeared him to the people
as he could converse with almost everyone in the slum in
their mother tongue. Most people did not know about his
tribal roots since his parents had died when he was still a
small boy and nobody seemed to know where his parents
had originated from. He was therefore a true representation
of the younger generation in Majengo. He was a son to all
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the parents in the slum since they had all contributed in
raising him up. He was the only person who could rightfully
claim the title ‘son of Majengo’. Even though he was blind,
Mjumbe knew all the alleys in Majengo. He could walk
through the whole of Majengo without missing a corner.
He could also recognize people by their voices and even
by a simple handshake. He was charismatic and he had the
power to move the people. Although he commanded fame
and admiration from all, Mjumbe had never shown any
interest in politics. Once a friend had asked him to consider
running for the chief’s office but he had declined, saying, “I
am a servant, not a boss.”
***
Professor welcomed Mjumbe and asked him to sit next to
him. He then turned to the now bewildered members of
the revolution committee and said, “When we were talking
about a true son of Majengo, this is the man we were talking
about. Those from Majuu are expecting that we will keep
quarrelling and never agree, but they are wrong. This is our
surprise card. We said we were looking for someone fresh,
someone who is untainted and someone who reflects the
true face of Majengo. Mjumbe is the man. He has the trust
of everyone in Majengo and he is acceptable to all. Here we
have a candidate whom we can all relate to. Here is a man
who speaks the language of Majengo and he has the culture
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of Majengo. A man we all know cannot be bought or be
corrupted. This is our candidate.”
What followed was another spell of pregnant silence.
Everything that Professor had said about Mjumbe was true
but the committee seemed confused. Professor had made us
promise we would accept his choice of a candidate before
unveiling him. We were trapped and we did not know
what to do. Everyone was deep in thought. We were all
startled when Headmaster started clapping. Within no time,
Mama Chama joined in the clapping. Eventually, the whole
committee was clapping and the deal was done and dusted.
Professor gave a few people the chance to talk and to
everyone’s surprise, Mzito was the first person to endorse
Mjumbe as the flag bearer of our revolution.
“I want to begin by thanking Professor for his intuition
and inspiration. Without him, we would not have made this
breakthrough. Personally, I was hoping that I would be the
person to steer this ship but today I shelve my ambitions,
and I am ready to embrace the will of the people.”
More clapping followed. Professor turned to Chairman
and with a twinkle in his eyes, he said, “Mwenyekiti, I guess
you have something to say too.”
Chairman stood up and buttoned his coat. He had been
caught flat-footed. He licked his lips and said, “Like my
brother has done, I want to toast to the choice made by
Professor. To all the men and women of Majengo, Mjumbe
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is a son. To the youth, he is their hope. To the hundreds of
workers in Majengo, he is one of them and to our children,
he is an inspiration. We could not find a candidate who
better fits the bill than Mjumbe. I have nothing against my
brother, Mzito. Both of us had the same ambition but now
we are united for the same cause. May the Ballot Revolution
realize astounding success for our people.”
The whole group clapped and Apostle Jonah broke into
a gospel song. We all joined in and sang melodiously and
heartily.
When it was all over, Professor took charge and thanked
all of us for our cooperation. “Now we have the captain
and so the plane can finally take off from the runway. The
engine has been revving for too long and the passengers
were starting to get restless. Where our candidate cannot
see, we will be there to hold his hand. It will be a symbiotic
relationship; he will lend us the eyes of his heart and we will
lend him our physical eyes.”
Mama Chama conducted the closing prayer. When it was
over, we chained our hands together and Chairman led us in
singing the ‘Solidarity forever’ song.
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Good news, just like bad news, travels like lightning in
Majengo. We do not know how the message leaked that a
breakthrough regarding the flag bearer had been made but
the phones had an answer to this. The residents of Majengo
knew that their leaders were holed up in a five-star hotel
discussing the weighty matter and so were anxiously waiting
to see the ‘white smoke’. Three kilometres before reaching
Majengo, our bus was received by a multitude of people on
boda bodas, matatus and youths carrying twigs and singing
victory songs. The motorcycles and matatus had their full
lights on, and their hooting filled the air. It was a reception
worthy of royalty. The rallying call, ‘Up, Up, Majengo!
Down, Down, Majuu!’ was chanted, with everyone thrusting
their fists into the air, the symbol for the revolution. Our bus
was now blocked by the multitude of people as they shouted,
“Hustler! Hustler!” Young, energetic men were threatening
to carry the bus on their shoulders. One of them shouted
that the heroes inside the bus did not deserve to walk on
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bare ground. The crowd kept growing as we neared the
main entrance to the slum. The people screamed, shouted,
whistled and broke into sporadic dancing and singing. The
scene was reminiscent of a joyous people receiving heroes
who were returning from war.
When the bus reached the quarry area, the people
demanded to be addressed. A microphone was mounted on
top of the bus. Chairman, Mzito and Mjumbe climbed on
top of the bus amidst deafening cheers and ululations. It was
Chairman who spoke first.
“Majengo oiyeee!” he bellowed and the crowd responded
with, “The future is now!” He went ahead and presented the
candidate to the people. “When we were bringing up this
child, we did not know that we were planting a seed for our
future; a seed that would grow into a big tree that would bear
fruits that we would all eat. We have no one to thank but
ourselves.” A burst of ululations and shouts followed. “We
have quarrelled, bickered and disagreed. However, we have
not fought, for we are one big family. And like a family, we
have found peace in one unifying factor. We have found a
perfect candidate, a link that joins together our dreams and
our goals.”
“Mjumbe! Mjumbe!” young people chanted.
“Like the Biblical Pharisees who had eyes but could not
see, it took a Messiah from beyond our borders to open our
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eyes. The solution to our problem was right in front of us
but we could not see it because we were blinded by vested
interests. When we dropped our pride and selfishness, we
were able to see the right candidate.”
People were now very anxious. They wanted to hear
Mjumbe talk. They kept shouting his name. Mzito
whispered something to Chairman and Mjumbe was given
the microphone. His speech, which actually served as his
acceptance speech, was moving, even though it was made in
his characteristic humble and soft spoken voice. The crowd
became calm and were inspired by Mjumbe’s words. This
raised the hopes of the people that finally, one of their own,
whom they had all contributed in bringing up, would take
them from their current desert to the land of milk and honey.
“It is an honour to stand here in front of you. Even though
I cannot see your faces, my inner eyes can clearly see your
hunger for things to improve. I can clearly see your needs
and expectations. I can feel your dreams and hopes. Perhaps
my greatest joy today is to know that we share the same
dream and this becomes my driving force and motivation.
When I was asked to take up this honourable responsibility,
I was assailed by great fear. It was not the fear of the enemy
for I have no doubt that united we shall subdue him. It was
the fear that I might fail you, fail myself and my parents, but
worst of all, fail our future generations. At this very moment,
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this fear has been conquered by the courage that I draw from
you. Your heart-warming acceptance of my candidature and
the faith you have shown in my abilities has strengthened
me. The work ahead of us is not for the faint-hearted, but
I can assure you that we are all capable and we are in this
together.”
They crowd remained still as his words continued to
inflate their eager hearts.
“You all know that my passion has been to help our
people but it was never in politics. You can then understand
my initial fear. I must confess that I am one of those people
who always believed that politics is a dirty game that is full
of betrayal, back-stabbing, brinkmanship, gerrymandering,
deceit and self-gratification. But then, in the last few months,
I started to ask myself, ‘What is dirty in the game of politics?
Is it the game, the players, the rules, the judges or the
spectators?’ Then I remembered what is written in the book
of heroes and heroines. The most enjoyable pages in that
book cover the exploits of men and women who were brave
enough to make a difference in the way things are done. I
therefore accepted to be the captain of this ship because I
have a desire to make a difference in the game of politics and
the only way to accomplish my goal is to demonstrate that
the players can practise a different brand of politics.
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“I know this is going to be a long walk to our freedom but
freedom is never given on a silver platter. Our forefathers
fought for our freedom from the colonialists amidst huge
challenges and they conquered. We, the people of this
generation, are now called to free our people from the
debilitating poverty that afflicts them. There is a common
saying that the future belongs to the brave and that nature
abhors weakness. We have to believe in ourselves and be
courageous, despite the many challenges that lie ahead of
us. There can be no stronger army than the one that believes
in itself. This self-belief is fortified by the realization that
we share a common destiny; just as we have the same past
and are living the same present, we all also share a common
future.”
Mjumbe paused, and then he did the most unexpected
thing. He raised his white cane and hurled it to the crowd.
“Today you have declared me the eyes of Majengo. For
many years I have used that cane to see where I am going,
but I now declare that I need it no more. From today, you
will be my eyes. I want to be guided by your courage, your
confidence, your unity and your resilience. Your dedication
to our cause will shine light on the right path for me, and for
us all.”
The driver of the bus we had come in gave a long and
rhythmic honk as the people went into a frenzy. Shouts of
140
joy could be heard miles away. The people sang and danced
as they escorted the bus home. The bus snaked through
Majengo, over all the main streets. Everywhere it passed, it
was greeted by shouts of “Up, Up, Majengo! Down, Down,
Majuu!” The bus finally came to a stop on Fifth Lane where
a fully furnished house for Mjumbe had been donated by an
anonymous benefactor who was only known to Professor.
From then on, White House, as the house was nicknamed,
became the headquarters of the revolution.
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My fortunes changed overnight. As the chair of the Hustler
Kingdom, I was right at the centre of the revolution. I was
now a star. Everyone was clamouring for my attention for
I commanded the strongest army that would ensure the
revolution succeeded. I had graduated from a ‘nobody’
to a ‘most-sought-after-somebody’. My name was now
mentioned with respect. Though I had never been a
passionate believer in politics, I was beginning to see its
power and why people killed to win political seats. Political
power was too sweet. I was in the right place at the right
time and with the right people, and that meant that I was
strategically positioned at the dining table. To start with,
on the day we unveiled Mjumbe as our candidate, I spent
the night on Fifth Lane. I could not believe that I had slept
in a house that had concrete walls, tiles on the floor, water,
electricity and a clean toilet. To make matters better, my sleep
had been uninterrupted since my usually nagging wife was
not there. My wife never lets me have peace. She can wake
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me up four or five times in a night just to remind me about
the unpaid rent, children’s school fees, her sick mother and
myriad other problems that would not wait until daybreak.
On arriving at Mjumbe’s new house that night, we
found a sumptuous meal ready for us to devour. The entire
committee had taken dinner while we talked about the main
activities for the coming days. Everybody now referred to
Mjumbe as Mheshimiwa.
“Elections are about sacrifices. If we have to achieve
our goal, then we all have to sacrifice our time to make this
project a success,” Mzito reminded us.
Everybody was happy except Chairman who looked
uncomfortable. I had a hunch that the supremacy battle to
control the destiny of Majengo was not over yet. It appeared
that the long rivalry that had existed between Chairman and
Mzito could not be extinguished by a mere declaration. After
breakfast the following morning, I left Mjumbe’s house and
headed home.
It is interesting how power can change everything so fast.
I was welcomed home by my wife with a big smile. Unlike
in the past, she did not ask me where I had spent the night.
After my meteoric rise, she had realized that my fortunes
had now changed and she wanted to enjoy the fruits of my
new-found success. I took a shower, changed my clothes
and left after informing her that I had an urgent matter of
national importance that I needed to attend to.
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The first meeting was held at the workshop instead of
White House. It was a meeting to share the roles we would
play in the campaign. Professor had insisted that he wanted
to operate behind the scenes, so we couldn’t go to White
House. When I reached at the workshop, I only found
Chairman and Boychild seated as Mama Chama was busy
arranging cups. She excused herself and when she stepped
out, Chairman started complaining that Mzito was fighting
to steal the limelight.
“I know he is angling for a position in the kitchen so
that when the meal is ready, he can be a server. That is why
he stays close to Mjumbe so that he can bribe him, but he
doesn’t know me. I will beat him at his own game.”
“Take it easy, Mwenyekiti,” quipped Boychild. “The
kitchen is big and there will be space for everyone.”
While they were arguing, I was thinking a step ahead.
I fathomed that the jostling for positions would pick up
in earnest and I wanted to be ready when it reached high-
gear. Signs were that the Ballot Revolution would succeed
and if I played my cards well, I would end up in the kitchen
cabinet. I didn’t mind any role, even a role as a court jester
was welcome. Mzee Kobe and Apostle Jonah joined us and
the topic changed. They started talking about the good job
we had done the day before and the talk on the flag bearer
took centre stage.
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“We could not have found a better pick. Mjumbe is a
candidate who cannot turn traitor. Without eyes, he can’t
see power,” Apostle Jonah said with a chuckle.
“Power does not require to be seen, it requires to be felt
and he has hands. However, without eyes he will be safe from
the greatest devil, the devil that turns people into betrayers:
money. They are all good until they come into contact with
the money environment. Then, like a chameleon, they
suddenly change colour and they are never the same again,”
Chairman said.
Professor waddled in carrying a bundle of books,
accompanied by Mzito. Without wanting to, I turned my
head and looked at Chairman. The disgust drawn on his face
was disgusting to look at. Mama Chama came in with tea
in a thermos flask. She served us the tea and after we had
settled, Professor read the agenda of the meeting. He began
by expressing the apologies of Headmaster who couldn’t
make it to the meeting because of some official duties.
“We have covered a lot of ground. With the flag bearer
issue sealed, we move to the second phase of the revolution.
Today, our assignment is to draw a formidable blueprint for
a watertight campaign.”
“Who is funding the campaign?” Chairman asked.
“Although we intend to have a well-oiled campaign, we
don’t want to make money a deciding factor in this election.
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We want to concentrate on the people and not on money,”
Professor answered.
“Money is fundamental in carrying out an effective
campaign. We have to print banners, posters, T-shirts, caps
and so on. We also need to consider the logistics of ensuring
the committee members remain upbeat and on the ground,”
Boychild said.
“You are very right but for now, I would suggest we do
not worry too much about the money. We shall cross that
bridge when the time comes. Our priority right now is to
draw the campaign plan and then share the roles each one of
us will play,” Professor said.
It was crystal clear that he did not want to talk about the
money issue at that particular moment.
“The first thing we need to do is to get a campaign
manager,” he continued.
I looked at Chairman, then at Mzito, and waited for the
first salvo. What I heard left me utterly surprised.
“I suggest that Chairman takes that role. It suits him,”
Mzito said calmly.
I believe Chairman was also taken by surprise the same
way one would if their sworn enemy brought them a birthday
gift. I sensed some conspiracy in the whole thing. There was
no way Mzito could have surrendered so easily unless there
was something bigger he was angling for.
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“Do we all agree to the proposal?” Professor asked
and everyone agreed. “The next role is that of the official
spokesperson – he or she will be the public damage control
officer. The person will also act as the personal assistant to
the flag bearer.”
I figured out that such a position required a person with
a big mouth and it was just fair that it went to Mzito. We all
agreed to the proposal.
“Good. We have other minor roles to fill, which don’t
need much discussion. I propose that Hustler continues as
the MC for all our public rallies and Boychild acts as the
bodyguard to the flag bearer,” Professor added.
My star was continuing to rise. After all the roles had been
shared out, Professor started talking about the campaign
strategy.
“Our first duty is to educate our people. We should not
forget that a country of sheep begets a government of wolves.
It is true that majority of the people are with us but we still
have a small percentage that is still undecided. There are
those who are sceptical that anything will change; those who
belong to the “nyani ni wale wale” sing song. There is also
another category of residents who benefit from the work
they do in Majuu. That is where they earn their livelihoods
and unlike us, they have something to lose as this campaign
progresses. Then there is the gullible lot; those who can be
bought. This type of people believes that elections time is a
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time to pick the ripe cherries. Instead of beating the donkey
like the proverbial rider, we must talk to it. We must come
up with an elaborate plan on how to win over the lot that is
still not with us, or those who can swing any way after being
induced with money.”
After a lot of discussion, it was decided that we form a
propaganda machine. We agreed to look for champions of
the mouth, those with the gift of the gab, who’d go to all
corners of Majengo and talk to any willing ear, in order to
convince those who were still sitting on the fence.
“Now what we need is the chief of the propaganda
machine, a man who can walk the talk,” Professor said with
a smile.
I immediately proposed my old friend, Domo. His
businesses had gone south and what he did now was to move
around entertaining people with his never-ending stories. I
remembered with amusement how he had recited for me a
poem the last time we had met. The poem went this way:
The rich and the poor do not belong to the same class even
in death.
When the rich die, they are taken to a home,
But when the poor die, they are taken to a mortuary.
The news of the death of a rich man is found in an obituary,
But that of a poor man is found in a death announcement.
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A rich man is laid to rest,
While a poor man is buried.
The remains of a poor man are stored,
While those of a rich man lie in state.
A poor man dies,
But a rich man is promoted to glory.
A poor man’s send-off is a funeral,
But a rich man’s send-off is a celebration of a life well lived.
The life of a poor man is told in a story,
But that of a rich man is told in a eulogy.
Domo would recite for me a poem or narrate a funny
story every time we met. He would meander through life and
death with the same litany. One time he tried to convince me
why rich people and poor people can never be equal.
“Even in life, when a rich man tells a joke, it is funny, but
when a poor man tells one, it is stupid. When the child of a
poor man takes drugs, the child is a criminal, but when the
child of a rich man does the same, then the child is sick and
needs rehabilitation. When a poor man goes bonkers, he is
mad. When the same happens to a rich man, he is mentally
disturbed.”
I always wondered where Domo got all these wise cracks
from. When I reflected on his words, I thought there was a
lot of truth in them.
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Domo’s life story was as intriguing as those of most
people in Majengo. Those who knew him well said that he
used to work for a private company in the city but his family
was living in the village. Then the company he was working
for folded up and he was paid a ‘golden handshake’. He
squandered all the money he got on alcohol and women, and
when the money ran out, he found a home in Majengo. Like
the proverbial cat that has nine lives, Domo has been taken
to his rural home twice. The first time it was due to sickness
but the second time was a forced exile. In both cases, he
always bounced back stronger than before. After the ‘golden
handshake’ money ran out, he became very sick. Everyone
thought he was going to die. Well-wishers donated money
and transported him back to his village so that he could
be near his grave. A year later, he resurfaced in Majengo
looking very healthy and pretending to be a prophet. He was
a changed man and we could barely recognize him. Sporting
a long white beard, he was dressed in a long white robe and
had a turban on his head. From afar he looked like someone
who was hawking bed sheets. He also had an old drum that
he kept drumming as he walked around the slum, singing
in a voice that made one think that he was possessed by an
evil spirit. He told us that he had indeed died but when he
reached heaven, God told him to return to Earth because
he had a mission to fulfil. He was now ‘born again’ and was
bringing a new religion from heaven whose main objective
150
was to help people repent and return to the God of Israel.
He talked of a place called Zayuni, a holy city where people
lived without buying food or paying rent. According to him,
we were supposed to pray facing Mount Sinai where Moses
was buried.
Domo had not only come with a new religion but he also
had a new holy book which forbade all men from shaving any
hair on their bodies. Though he knew something about the
Bible, it was clear that he had mixed his facts. He preached
that people had to return to Canaan.
“God put us in a very beautiful land, Canaan, where there
was milk and honey. We rebelled and left for Sodom and
Gomorrah, where we became slaves of Pharaoh. God now
wants us to return to the foot of Mount Sinai,” he preached.
Prophet Domo, as he was now known, told the people
that to get a ticket to Canaan, one had to follow the
commandments given to us by Jesus, who got saved after
he was baptized by Moses in the Red Sea. Some people got
very confused by the new message Domo was preaching.
They could be heard wondering whether Jesus ever met
Moses, who never crossed to the land of milk and honey
after rescuing the Israelites from Misri. Prophet Domo had
surely not done his homework well for his messages were
hardly believable. Every evening, Domo would take his
drum and go round Majengo, singing and dancing like a
demon-possessed person. He entertained us at our ‘base’
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until we began looking forward to it. One morning we
heard that Prophet Domo had been arrested by the police.
Everyone was surprised. There were many questions on
people’s mouths. What had the prophet stolen? Had he stolen
bedsheets to make a new set of robes? Could someone be
arrested for misquoting the Bible?”
We later learnt that Domo had been caught selling bhang.
It then dawned on everyone why Domo always looked
possessed. It also explained his confusing Biblical messages.
“Instead of giving people manna, the holy food from
heaven, Domo was feeding them with weed,” one friend
joked.
The cunningness of Domo had escaped our eyes. Domo
would leave his house with the bhang tucked inside his
turban, in a pocket under his robes and inside his drum. The
drumming and singing was supposed to alert his customers
that the delivery van was on its way. That explains why we
only heard his singing and drumming on his way out but
never on his way back. He was taken to the police station
and remanded, awaiting his day in court. We knew that if
he was taken to court, then his goose was cooked. Using
our unwritten code of always standing with a brother, an
impromptu harambee was held and the money raised was
taken to the OCS to oil his palms. The OCS could not dance
to our tune, so we enlisted the help of a respected elder to
plead with him on our behalf. The OCS agreed to release
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Domo on condition that he had to leave Majengo and go
far away from the city as he had stepped on powerful toes
in Majengo. Unknown to Domo, there were drug cartels in
the slum and he was spoiling business for them. After his
release, Domo relocated to the village.
Exactly one year after he had left the city a second time,
Domo was back. This time, he came back as a herbalist and
a fortune teller. He claimed that he could heal all diseases on
Earth using his herbal medicines, and that he could read one’s
future from a crystal ball that had magical powers, which he
kept hidden in his house. He now called himself Daktari.
His house became a beehive of activity as various people
sought his help with illnesses that had defied conventional
medicines. With time, everyone realized that Domo was
a fake herbalist. Nobody got cured after taking his herbal
medicines and his predictions never came true. He therefore
became broke. Now we needed someone to talk us into
parliament and since I was at the centre of things, I could
not forget the man who had saved me when I first came to
the city. I was a true hustler and hustlers never forget those
who help them. When I proposed Domo’s name, everyone
agreed that he was a perfect pick.
“Funds will be made available for bench-marking trips
to neighbouring constituencies so that we can understand
better how to run our propaganda campaign successfully,”
said Professor.
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Mzito laughed and asked, “Professor, why waste time
and money on bench-marking trips when we have our own
home-grown solutions? Who can beat Majengo in the art of
baking and spreading propaganda and rumours?”
Everyone laughed for this was indeed true.
“You are right but it is important to note that propaganda
is a very powerful tool in influencing people to support your
agenda. These are not the usual rumours that go through the
normal gossip mills. It is a high level form of communication
geared towards influencing people to support what you are
saying without them knowing they are being brainwashed.
This requires gathering intelligence so that the information
being spread is authentic, or appears to be authentic, but
it is twisted to suit the agenda at hand. We will therefore
have a media logistics person who will help us to spin our
information before feeding it to Domo and his lieutenants.”
That sealed the discussion. We were all now convinced
that the campaign would rival any that the Big Daddy family
would roll out.
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As the revolution picked pace, little was heard from Majuu,
not even a weak rejoinder. On the other hand, the residents
of Mapendo continued with their usual life as if nothing was
going on around them. In the meantime, activity in Majengo
hit full throttle and the fire was burning fiercely. No other
topic was on the lips of the people of Majengo apart from the
revolution debate. Domo and I visited some constituencies to
learn the art of spreading rumours to discredit an opponent.
We also learnt a few dirty tricks that politicians use to ruin
their opponent’s reputation. Our instructor told us, “The
first goal is to ensure your opponent is never heard in public
rallies. The objective is to make sure that the audience only
hears your lies, so you must deny your opponent a chance to
speak his lies. One of the ways of achieving this is by hiring
hecklers to shout down your opponent as soon as he starts
to speak. That will ensure your opponent does not speak to
the people.”
That one sounded good and we took notes.
Chapter Ten
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“The next trick is to harass your opponent; it is called
bullying. Hire a group of rough-looking young men. Let
them harass the opponent and his campaign team wherever
they meet. After some weeks of sustained harassment, if
your opponent is weak, he or she will opt out.” I couldn’t
see how we could employ this tactic with the candidate from
the Big Daddy family and so I asked, “How do we get our
people to execute this effectively without being arrested by
the police?”
“Just pay the police! They will turn the other side when
such things are happening. But you have to know how far
you can go because if the public starts making noise, then
the police will be forced to act. I thought you people have
money, that is why you are running for a political seat?”
I let that one slide and gave him space to go on.
“The effectiveness of propaganda lies in the pack of lies
you come up with and how well you can sugar-coat them
with half-truths. If the lies are juicy, presenting them to the
people and making them stick is a walk in the park. Our
people do not like to dig out the truth and the more salacious
the lies are, the faster they are gobbled up by the masses.
Look for information on marital scandals, embezzlement
of public funds, nepotism and so on. Forget about whether
your opponent has a degree or not. Lack of proper academic
papers does not excite the masses and so you’ll just be
wasting your time. The main thing to remember is that a lie
repeated many times starts to look like the truth. The more
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you repeat your lies, the more the people start to believe
them. And the more alarmist the lie is, the better for your
campaign. For instance, in your case, you can start by saying
your opponents are planning to throw out all the people
who live in Majengo so that they can sell the land to a private
developer. This will definitely raise alarm and the damage
done to your opponents may not be repairable.”
The last suggestion sounded good to me. I was sure
it would work best against Big Daddy III. One of his pet
campaign promises was to upgrade the slum by getting
donors to build decent houses for the residents of Majengo.
He was proposing that they move the families to another
piece of land far away from the city as the donors puts up
the houses. We could use this to create fear and mistrust that
probably this was a way of grabbing the Majengo land.
Our instructor continued, “Depicting your opponent as a
monster and a dangerous person is key in the book of tricks.
For example, we had this candidate who was proving to be a
hard nut to crack. We cooked a juicy story that he was a devil
worshipper with powers to transform himself into any kind
of animal except a cow. In one of the stories, we claimed that
he had turned himself into a leopard. He had then attacked
a woman and chewed off her leg and she now had to use
crutches to move around. We then circulated the story
through the gutter press and the results were sensational.
Even though he defended himself by saying he was a God-
fearing person and so was his family, the rumour stuck and
has remained up to today.”
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The instructor shared a lot of tricks with us and we took
a lot of notes. We returned to Majengo with enough cannon
fodder.
***
The Big Daddy family struck without warning and it did it
so fast and furiously. Having maintained a studious stance
for some time, their rumour mills were switched on and
were running at full throttle. Their mission was clear; to
poke holes into the Ballot Revolution narrative. The media,
through radio, television and newspapers, had started to do
the dirty work for the family. The headline, United Behind
a Blind Person, was their first punch and it landed squarely
on our face. The second punch landed below our belt. It
read: Drunkard Takes Charge of a Fake Revolution. Before
we could put our arsenal together and respond, the last kick
landed in the form of a morning radio talk show. During the
show, the presenter and the guests spoke of a bachelor who
wanted to lead a constituency.
That last punch forced the committee to call for a crisis
meeting at the White House. The irony of our times is that
single people are envied for being happy and without marital
stress in a world that seems to be killing the institution of
marriage and yet, when it comes to serious matters in the
society, unmarried people are not given a chance for they are
considered as not being serious. At Pondamali, unmarried
men were always insulted and called jokers. Personally,
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I would have preferred a bachelor life but I wanted some
honour and respect from my age mates. I also wanted to
contribute in serious matters when the need arose, and so I
chose to get married. However, I always felt like I had been
conned because when my wife accepted to get married to
me, I did not expect that I was marrying her whole family.
How do you explain that a father-in-law turns my house
into a free lodging every time he comes to the city? This
means that every time he is around, I become an internally
displaced partner since we do not see eye to eye, because of
his constant accusations that I have neglected his daughter
besides the fact that I have not paid her dowry. The man has
no respect for a hustler like me who has no permanent job,
and whose pockets are, more often than not, empty.
When Mjumbe was presented as the flag bearer for the
MP’s seat in Majengo, his candidature was accepted by all.
However, there was still the unresolved issue of him being
unmarried. The debate about his marital status started and
continued in hushed tones until it could not be overlooked
any more. The intelligence from Majuu must have picked
up that information and realized it was an effective arsenal
against our candidate. At the meeting, Mama Chama was
chosen to steer the discussion. She spoke like a mother
would.
“There is no doubt that we all admire Mjumbe. Personally,
I have worked with him and I love him like my own son.
However, the women feel that he needs a helper; someone
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to be warming water for him in the morning, someone to
wash his clothes since he will be extremely busy, someone
who will ensure that he always returns to a warm meal in
the evening. A man who has no wife or family may find it
difficult to govern a constituency as his management skills
will be put to question. This debate, which has been started
by our enemy, may cost us valuable votes from our women.
We therefore need to address it as a matter of urgency.”
The committee listened attentively as the matter at hand
was threatening to distabilize the revolution. What might
have appeared as a molehill had grown into a mountain.
Mzee Kobe spoke next and he did so on behalf of the Council
of Elders. The matter at hand hit home for them as having a
family was paramount if one wanted to become an elder. By
claiming that Majengo had chosen a child to lead them, our
enemy had played a bad card which was like a slap on the
face for all the elders.
“Our son has everything; he has the intelligence, the vision
and the charisma. However, he is missing one critical thing,
a wife. From a bird’s eye view, it may seem okay to have a
candidate who doesn’t have a wife, but the perception on the
ground is different. Right now, they are only calling him a
greenhorn but once the gloves are off, do not be surprised to
hear our candidate being associated with behaviours that are
not African. If that happens, we shall not be able to salvage
the revolution for you know that our people have the highest
regard for our African culture and traditions.”
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The debate was getting lively but Mjumbe was quiet. The
decision of the committee was leaning heavily on Mjumbe
getting a wife before the campaign heated up. When
everyone had put forth their views, Mjumbe was given the
chance to speak.
“It is good that you have brought up this matter as it
shows that you take me and the revolution seriously. I have
given this matter serious thought since it appeared in the
rumour mills of our enemy. Given a choice, I would opt to
stay married to the cause of Majengo. I would want to give
my full attention to the revolution without any distraction.
I believe that by staying single, I will be able to devote all
my energy and time to the myriad problems that afflict
our people. When I first met all of you as the proposed
candidate at the hotel, I made it clear that I would want to
come up with a different brand of politics. I want people to
understand that the call to leadership is the call to serve and
the call to serve is a call to sacrifice.”
One of the elders immediately sprang to his feet and
blurted, “You cannot say that! If we needed such a leader,
then we would have gone to the nearby Catholic Parish and
asked one of their priests to be our candidate. After all, they
are used to leading their followers!”
The whole committee laughed in spite of the gravity
of the matter at hand. The jab helped to ease the tension.
Mzito quickly interjected, “The truth is pivotal when one is
hunting for votes and image is everything if you are fighting
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to convince the voters. In our culture, the picture of a family
man will send a strong message that Majengo believes in the
institution of the family because as residents of Majengo, we
are one big family. Our candidate needs a wife to act as a
support and an anchor in times of storms.”
Apostle Jonah decided to weigh in with a Biblical
perspective to the debate. He talked about the Bible, God
and the law of marriage.
“A man shall leave his father and mother, he shall be
joined to his wife and the two shall become one. Power is
lonely and we don’t want Mjumbe to be lonely. We must
help him to get a good helper. He who finds a wife finds a
good thing and obtains the favour of the Lord.”
“Yes. Let us begin the search for a good wife for
Mheshimiwa. To a man, a wife is a symbol of power and
honour,” added Boychild.
Chairman begged to say something.
“I suggest that we mandate Mama Chama and a few
honourable women to go for a retreat in order to select the
best maiden among those we have in Majengo. The selected
lady must be worthy of the title of First Lady.”
A thunderous clapping followed Chairman’s words. The
words ‘First Lady’ had a beautiful ring to them.
I fought hard not to laugh. I had been party to many dowry
negotiations that had turned chaotic. Women were turned
into cash cows and men became slave traders. In one case,
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the elders from the lady’s side insisted that the young man
had to pay two more cows because the lady had a tailoring
and dress-making certificate. When the party from the young
man’s side went outside to consult about the additional cows
they were being asked to pay, one of the uncles asked, “Are
you buying the engine of an aeroplane?” That ended the
discussion with the young man’s party threatening to take
their cows back and leave. When the lady heard that her
fiancé’s party was threatening to leave, she cried a bucket.
She could not imagine losing her man because of her greedy
uncles! The uncles had never bothered about her mother
and siblings since her father died and she felt they had no
right to mess her future life. She started packing her clothes
and told her mother, “I do not care what happens. My fiancé
is not leaving me here! I swear I am going back with him as
one of his cows if not as a wife!”
Her mother had to warn her about the consequences of
being rude to her uncles. She sat down at a corner, sulking,
until the gridlock was finally broken.
Mjumbe stuck to his guns and insisted that he did not
need a wife. This was the second time that his radical stance
was rubbing the committee members the wrong way. In one
of the meetings that had been called to thrash out the details
of the campaign, the issue of money and its role in elections
arose. Mjumbe was strongly against the idea of giving cash
handouts. He insisted on running a clean campaign founded
on the principles of good governance.
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“That is bribery. Our manifesto is very clear; we want a
new beginning. We cannot use the same dirty strategies that
our enemy has used for years to impoverish us and claim
that we have a revolution!”
There was an outright disagreement. Chairman was the
first to register his opposition. He said, “If we don’t have
money to give out, especially to the idlers and the undecided
voters, we will fall into the same hole that swallowed
Kiongozi. Everything was working well for Kiongozi until
he had nothing to give to the people.”
Mjumbe could hear none of it. He vehemently opposed
Chairman’s view, saying, “We must fight this mentality and
change the mindset of our people. Let those who ask for
kitu kidogo be told that the revolution is neither for cheap
things nor for cheap people. We may not have much at the
moment, but we are promising a bright future.”
“I agree with you, Mheshimiwa, but we will still need
money for the campaign,” Mzito responded in a cool voice.
“Some of our people are very vulnerable and when Big
Daddy III starts pouring money, we will stand no chance.”
The debate raged on but Mjumbe stuck to his guns.
“For many years, people have only talked of uplifting
their economic status and forgot the moral fibre. We have
complained so much about the bitter fruits we have been
fed all these years, but we have ignored the tree that bears
those fruits. If we improve our moral fibre, our economic
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status will improve as well. Small-time crime, prostitution,
tribalism, vote-buying and bribery are all fuelled by poverty.
Our curse is that everyone dreams of the day they will leave
Majengo for a better place, like Majuu, but nobody dreams
of transforming Majengo into the paradise they all dream
of. The revolution must teach the people that with brutal
honesty, tenacious will and hard work, Majengo can become
their paradise. This transformation cannot happen if we
continue with the old mentality of vote-buying and bribery
during elections. It will only happen through a path of solid
morality.”
“What about the cash handouts that Big Daddy III will
dish out? Do you mean to say that we should tell our people
not to take them? That will be the joke of the century!”
Boychild exclaimed.
“We must refuse them too! We cannot talk from both
sides of our mouths,” Mjumbe answered.
“You are too idealistic, Mheshimiwa. Climb down from
that high horse you are on. Be realistic and see how poor our
people are. Does anyone, even in your wildest imagination,
think that a parent who has no food for their children will
refuse to take a packet of unga or two hundred shillings
offered by a politician? Let’s be real. Our elders say that a
cow must be milked before it is slaughtered. Kula kwa Big
Daddy III lakini kura ni kwa Revolution. That has always
been our motto,” Mzee Kobe said.
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It was clear Mjumbe had radical principles which he
thought he could impose on the people, while the committee
was stuck in the old ways of doing things.
“New wine must be put in new wine skins,” Mjumbe
said. “I prefer we lose while playing clean than win by
playing dirty. Even the use of political slur and character
assassination must be absent from our campaign speeches,”
he insisted.
That raised some niggling doubts about his readiness for
the MP’s position. Money and dirty tricks had always played
a major role in elections, not only in Majengo but all over
the country.
Here we were, locked in a second controversy. A heated
debate on the issue of having a wife went on for hours.
Everyone, except Mjumbe, was of the opinion that getting a
wife for him was an urgent matter. It took the intervention
of a man who had great experience to halt the debate.
Headmaster decided to call the meeting to order. Of all the
people in the room, he was the one who had known Mjumbe
the longest.
“I have known this young man for the whole of his
lifetime. I am requesting the committee to give me a few
days so that he and I can talk this matter over and then I will
give you our feedback.”
Good sense prevailed and the committee obliged.
Headmaster was given two days to give feedback on the
matter.
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***
The so called Bunge la Wananchi was very busy that evening.
Majengo had an informal parliament where everyone was
an MP since they did not have one of their own in the
official parliament. From Pondamali to the quarry, market
to the barber shop, mutura bases to the chang’aa dens, the
discussion was the same: Majengo is looking for a First
Lady. I walked around, listening to what the different groups
thought about the issue. I started at the mutura place where
the debate was quite hot.
“We have done everything right until this wife issue
cropped up!” lamented one speaker. “This idea of a wife will
spoil the party. Mjumbe will never be the same again.”
“How do you expect us to get the women’s vote when
there isn’t one of their own on the ballot?” asked another.
A peacemaker interjected to cool the tempers, “Cool it
guys. Mjumbe will still get the votes, with or without a wife.
Nevertheless, the idea of getting him a wife is good. A man
needs a woman to enjoy his money.”
A self-proclaimed thinker waded into the debate, saying,
“My biggest worry is that this issue about a wife is not
coming from us, it has its genesis in our enemy’s camp, and
that is why I am smelling a rat. I bet this is a ploy to distract
us. We had our eyes firmly on the ball but now, instead of
concentrating on the elections, we are talking about a beauty
contest to choose a bride for our candidate. This process will
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lead to cracks. Every region in Majengo will want the First
Lady to come from their area and we shall be back to square
one.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” quipped a fellow whose left cheek
was bulging with miraa. “Big Daddy III is losing this one
and he knows it. Right now, he is busy crafting an exit plan;
he has no time to think about us.”
After a short pause to swallow some of the juice from the
miraa he had been chewing, he asked, “By the way, what
kind of a wife is best suited for our candidate?”
The mutura man quickly answered, “Number one, we
don’t want an educated wife for that is inviting trouble to
ourselves. My take is that we go for a housewife; one who
will be obedient, one who knows how to cook well and one
who can select the best suits for Mheshimiwa.”
“Let’s not forget about beauty and youth. We need a
msupa, a lady who’ll show the world that we also have
beauties in Majengo,” added a young man who looked like
a by-stander.
I had heard enough and so I decided to move on to my
next rumour mill, Pondamali. I found the entire Council of
Elders taking their favourite drinks, courtesy of Chairman.
I joined the party and Kadogo promptly brought me my
favourite drink.
“Are you discussing dowry? Who is buying and who is
selling?” I joked.
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The elders laughed. “Hustler, stop your jokes and
drink. We are just setting the stage. We are organizing for
a fundraiser because once the girl has been found, we shall
have to pay her dowry,” Mzee Kobe joked.
For days, the residents of Majengo talked of nothing else
but the bride-to-be, and the fire of the revolution started to
wane. The women were the busiest. They talked, laughed
and lobbied to have their choices considered for the position.
Then something unexpected happened, suddenly killing the
debate on the First Lady. In a most unusual circumstance, I
was relaxing at home, chatting with my wife who had now
become very amiable. It was hard to imagine she was the
same woman who used to call me useless every morning
before I left the house and every night after returning home.
I received an SMS from Chairman that read: Urgent. Let’s
meet at the workshop immediately.
I thought that was odd as Chairman was not in the habit
of sending text messages to people. He was an old school
guy who preferred to call people on phone rather than to
write text messages. I hurried to the workshop which had
now become the centre of our campaign meetings. I found
everyone waiting for me and that made me feel important.
I noticed that the committee was complete. Then my eyes
rested on the last person in the room and my blood froze.
The man’s name was Jogoo and he was the face of the Big
Daddy family in Majengo. He was loved and hated in equal
measure in the slum. Hated by some because he was Big
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Daddy III’s official campaigner and errand boy, and loved
by some because he was the conveyor belt through which
Big Daddy III dished out goodies. The Big Daddy family
members rarely set foot in Majengo, unless they were on
a campaign trail. Their contact man there was Jogoo, who
collected all the intelligence and conveyed it to his masters.
His seat at the Constituency Development Fund Board was
always assured after every election. He knew all the election
brokers in the area and their price tags.
Jogoo owned the biggest youth militia group which
he used to do all the dirty work for the Big Daddy family
during elections. He was the CEO of a group that the people
jokingly referred to as H & H (Hecklers and Hooligans), a
group that employed idle youths and exported their services
to politicians who needed them during elections. It was said
that all the money that had been poured to divide Majengo
during the infamous clashes passed through his hands. It
was also rumoured that he was the biggest drug lord in the
city. He employed many young people in his businesses
and so, he had the support of most of the young people in
Majengo. It was interesting to note that the sale of bhang
in Majengo went on unabated, yet the police knew he was
the main supplier. Rumour had it that he enjoyed top police
protection since he was associated with the Big Daddy
family. To the young jobless men, he was like a godfather
as he always made sure they had a constant supply of bhang
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and protection from the police. They often joked that the
only way to survive in Majengo was to see things from a
‘high’.
If there was a man who hated Jogoo more than anyone
else, it was Domo, and he had a good reason for it. When
Domo was deported the second time, people thought that
the OCS was just doing his duty and getting rid of a drug
peddler. What we could not see was the hidden hand of
Jogoo behind Domo’s predicament. Domo’s mistake was to
have encroached into Jogoo’s territory. He was lucky that
he was just a small peddler, otherwise this time he would
have gone back to his village in a coffin. The narcotics
business was a vicious one, dominated by ruthless kingpins.
Jogoo was born and bred in Majengo, so he knew the slum
inside out. He had extensive and deep networks in the slum.
However, once he struck it rich, he moved out after buying
a palatial house in one of the affluent suburbs near the city.
Most residents of Majengo considered him a traitor. I was
therefore quite shocked to see him in our meeting.
Professor started the meeting by thanking everyone for
honouring the short notice summons. He registered the
apologies of Mjumbe whom he said would have wanted to
be with us but could not because of some technicalities.
“The revolution is at a turning point and our net is
catching more fish every day. Today we have a prized fish
who I believe you all know,” he said as he turned to smile at
Jogoo.
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Professor was right. We all knew Jogoo, probably more
than we even knew our immediate neighbours. What was
not clear was when he had turned into a fish after being a
snake all his life.
“I have invited all of you so that we can receive our lost
brother who has repented for having betrayed his people all
this time but has now seen the light and desires to return
home and work with us. Some will call it a defection but I
prefer to call it a conversion. The former is a fruit of treachery
while the latter is a fruit of conviction. I believe Jogoo wants
to join our side because, like the Biblical Saul, he has seen the
light and he is ready to become Paul.”
No one said a word. Everyone was tongue-tied. We all
knew miracles happen but this one was unbelievable. The
past of our new convert was so dirty that no known detergent
could make him clean. Professor invited Jogoo to say a few
words.
“At times, it is good to hear from the horse’s mouth,” he
said on a light note.
Jogoo’s words were as dry as a sandy beach. This was
strange for a man who had just been referred to as a ‘big
fish’.
“I am here courtesy of the power of the revolution.
Nobody can stop an idea whose time has come. An idea
as appealing as this one can transform even the heart of a
dragon. I know most of you do not trust me but I believe
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what I am bringing to the table will convince you otherwise.
It takes a brave man to fight but it also takes courage to
surrender. I have never fought Majengo; I have only been
playing for the opposite side. Life is about winning and I
want to be on the winning side. This is why I have chosen to
return and play for my home team.”
Everyone looked confused. We were in a catch-22
situation. It was true that poaching the best player from
the Big Daddy III’s camp would tilt the scales hugely in
our favour, but it was equally true that we were risking
welcoming a spy into our bedroom.
Professor picked up from where Jogoo had left.
“In every election, there comes a moment when a big
statement is made and this is our big-statement moment.
The big statement is that the train of the Ballot Revolution
has left the station and it is unstoppable. The train will crash
all those who are not on board and so everyone must ensure
they board on time.”
For the first time, Professor was vehemently opposed.
Everyone seemed to find their tongue at the same time.
“This man has done more harm than good to Majengo!
How do you convince the people that the revolution is a
serious affair when you are busy contracting experts in
skulduggery?” asked an infuriated Mzee Kobe.
“We need him more than he needs us. The aim of the
revolution is to gather not to scatter,” retorted Professor
firmly.
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“Professor, I have no problem with your project, you
have done a perfect job and your ideas are appealing to all
of us. But I would want you to come down from your ivory
tower and put your feet on the ground. Do you know how
many votes we will end up losing if we welcome this man
into our fold?” asked Mzito.
Chairman came to Professor’s rescue and attempted to
broker a truce. “The aim of what we are doing is to win.
It is true Jogoo has a dirty past but who doesn’t have one?
Everyone has a dirty past and the best we can do is to open
the closets, throw away the skeletons and go to battle!”
“What you are saying is true but remember our elders say
that a leopard can never shed its spots,” retorted Mzito.
The argument went on until Jogoo asked for a chance to
say something in mitigation.
“Friends of Majengo, I understand your fears just as I
respect your opinions. We can all accuse and counter-accuse
each other by asking who is cleaner than the other but what
we want is power. It’s not a question of what I have left
behind; it’s a question of what I am bringing with me. I am
bringing experience, my whole support block and the most
important of all, intelligence secrets that none of you has
ever heard. These secrets will help you to overpower your
enemy in the most effortless manner.”
Everyone was silent. They had swallowed it hook, line and
sinker. It was time for them to digest it. Mzee Kobe turned to
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Jogoo and said, “If you don’t mind, we would want to have a
moment to ourselves so that we can whisper a few things to
each other before we come to a final resolution.”
Jogoo did not object. Before walking out, he bowed to
show respect.
With Jogoo out of the room, the debate became calmer
and sober as the daggers were returned to their sheaths. It
was Mzito who set the ball rolling.
“I suggest we handle this defector with utmost care lest
we end up burning our fingers while thinking that we are
gaining something. None of us knows exactly how the Big
Daddy family operates but this man does. He also knows
our Majengo inside out. It is true he has his past but his
formidable mobilization skills cannot be gainsaid. This man
is known to be vicious and he never leaves prisoners behind.
If we decide not to welcome him into our camp, you can be
sure there will be ramifications on our side. If we decide to
have him on board, then we are talking of an uncalculated
risk. He could end up rocking the boat from within. We
must handle him with care.”
Chairman seemed to agree with Mzito. He added, “Wars
are won by generals and soldiers but sometimes, they are
won through the help of traitors and spies. It’s true we do
not know why he is defecting to our camp but we can use
him to our advantage then dump him when the war is over.
After all, the end justifies the means in any war.”
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“Well said, Chairman,” said Professor. “Keep your
friends close and keep your enemies even closer. Jogoo
will cause less damage while he is inside the kraal than he
would if he was outside. We would rather have him inside
and pissing outside than have him outside and pissing into
our tent. I should probably clarify one small detail which I
had forgotten. Jogoo has not defected on his accord, we have
poached him. At the end of it all, politics is a game that has
no permanent friends or enemies. It is driven by common
interests.”
We all reached a unanimous decision that we should
welcome Jogoo to our camp. However, it was not clear which
position he was coming to occupy in the revolution. I was
asked to call Jogoo and I did it without hesitation. Professor
welcomed Jogoo back into the room and explained our
verdict to him.
“My brother, you have been tried by a jury of your peers
and have been found suitable to join our camp. You are now
free to board the revolution train.”
Everyone whispered a welcome message to Jogoo.
Jogoo thanked all of us for accepting him as one of us and
in a show of gratitude, ordered drinks for everyone. He then
led us to a toast to the success of our revolution.
“Cheers! All for Majengo! Long live the revolution,” he
said.
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He went on to say that he wanted us to take photos that
would be kept in memory of this great day. We all stood
and walked outside to take the photos. No sooner had we
stepped out than tens of motorcycles started hooting and
flashing lights. A group of his supporters had come to show
support of his defection. After the photos had been taken,
Jogoo jumped onto one of the motorcycles and he was
ridden round Majengo in a caravan. The residents came out
of their houses to see what the noise was all about. Nobody
could believe what they were seeing. One thing that was
not in doubt in the people’s minds was that the revolution
must be really strong if it had managed to convert somebody
like Jogoo. The caravan finally stopped at the quarry area.
This seemed to be a shrine for the residents of Majengo,
where all important political declarations were made. Jogoo
climbed to the top of one of the lorries that had been part of
the caravan and addressed the crowd. This convinced the
people that the prodigal son had indeed returned home.
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The next day, the picture of Jogoo flashing his clenched
fist appeared on the front page of the City News. It was a
proud moment for me because for the first time, my face
appeared in a newspaper. I was right behind Jogoo when the
photo was taken and so my face could clearly be seen. That
day I bought a copy of the newspaper so that I could cut
out the picture and keep it for future reference. Everyone
would know how important I had been in the success of the
revolution.
For the remaining part of the week, all talk in Majengo
revolved around the big fish the revolution had netted.
This was a big morale booster to the residents of Majengo.
It was a psychological masterstroke that converted even
the naysayers, the fence-sitters and the lukewarm voters.
It helped to soften the heart of the most difficult area in
Majengo, Fifth Lane. Most of the residents of Fifth Lane
identified with the residents of Majuu more than they
identified with the rest of Majengo residents. Most of them
had good jobs and so they lived a more dignified life than
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the rest of us. I remembered a statement Professor had once
made regarding the challenges that the revolution would
face.
“This is a game of gains and losses and Fifth Lane will
be the weakest link in this game. Most of the residents of
Majengo have little to lose so they will give their all to the
revolution. Those from Fifth Lane have something to lose,
so they can easily become betrayers. Their biggest weakness
is the fear of tomorrow. They are scared of the unknown and
so we need a strong influencer from there to help dispel the
fear from their minds.”
Jogoo’s defection served this purpose.
As expected, the Big Daddy family came out with guns
blazing. The bullish MP called a press conference and went
at Jogoo with hammer and tongs. He called Jogoo a thug for
hire who sold himself for two pennies. “Jogoo is a shameless
mercenary whose sell-by date was long overdue. He is a man
who for years has been misappropriating the funds meant
for Majengo, yet he now claims to be working for the good
of the people of Majengo.”
Some people wondered what the MP had been doing
with a thug all those years. The press conference exposed
the MP as a corrupt and incompetent person. This worked
to our advantage and we utilized it to the maximum in
our propaganda war. Majengo had drawn first blood and
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the scoreboard now read: 1 : 0. I watched the MP’s press
conference from Pondamali. Since the revolution started,
my pockets were never dry.
The next day I woke up with a hangover the size of a
mountain and a splitting headache. It felt like an orchestra
was performing inside my head. I took a cold shower and
hastily drunk a cup of strong black coffee without sugar. My
wife was in a happy mood that morning as had become her
norm since the revolution activities started and she could
not fail to lovingly taunt me, “Looking at the hurry you are
in, one would think you are going to your own funeral. This
revolution business has proved to me that you can make
yourself useful if you want.”
My heart welled with pride and I smiled coyly.
I was just about to step out of the house when I heard a
knock at the door. On opening the door, I was surprised to
see Headmaster standing outside, looking as neat as ever.
“Good morning, Hustler! It looks like I could have missed
you. Anyway, better late than never,” he said with a grin.
My heart was brimming with joy. The revolution had
made me such an important person that even Headmaster
could come to my house. Before, it was only my fellow
drunkards, the landlord or those I owed money who would
come knocking at my door.
“Can we talk for a few minutes?” Headmaster cut my
thoughts.
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“Yes, we can, although I have an appointment with
someone. Is it urgent?”
“Very urgent indeed. We have a meeting at White House.”
When he mentioned White House, I stopped thinking.
I mounted on his motorcycle and off we went. After five
minutes of meandering through the alleys, we got to Fifth
Lane. Headmaster parked his motorcycle outside the house
and we walked up to the door and knocked.
The whole committee was there. The only person who
was missing was Professor. However, there was a stranger
who was seated next to Mjumbe, though she looked faintly
familiar. Her beauty and elegance were attractive and her big
smile brightened the room. She looked like someone who
had spent the night in the house and from her behaviour, I
could tell she was not a casual visitor. Next to her, Mjumbe
looked unusually relaxed and in good spirits. He was so
radiant that he looked as if he could see us through his dark
glasses. Then it dawned on me. The lady was Malkia. I had
not seen Malkia in person for a long time. I had only been
seeing her on TV and in the newspapers.
Malkia’s story was as beautiful as her round face. She
was a daughter of Majengo who was known more for her
brains than her beauty. She was the first girl to have topped
a national examination at the primary school in Majengo.
This earned her a sponsorship from an international NGO
that was supporting the education of girls. After completing
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her secondary school education, Malkia proceeded to the
university where she graduated as a medical doctor. She was
a poster girl of Majengo and another testament that given
equal opportunities, the children from Majengo could also
succeed in life. On the day she brought the degree home,
Majengo saw one person single-handedly, in more than
one sense of the phrase, lift the mood of a depressed and
downtrodden slum into the stratosphere. Her marriage to
the son of a tycoon in Majuu placed her in the limelight.
It had never happened before that a girl from Majengo had
got married in a family from the other side. Malkia was no
ordinary girl; she was a woman of many firsts. She grew up
in an area of Majengo called Soweto. The residents were
in heaven when they heard that she was to get married in
a wealthy family across the valley. When the rest of us in
Majengo were complaining that the fat cats in Majuu had
stolen our doctor, Soweto was unbothered and they told us
off.
“Instead of complaining, you should also educate your
daughters so that they can get serious men to marry them,”
was the response from the residents of Soweto.
The day Malkia’s husband’s family came to pay her dowry
remained etched in the minds of Majengo residents forever.
Sleek cars were parked along all the roads and policemen
were transported from outside to come and guard them. The
delegation of the Wazee was led by Big Daddy III himself.
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There was no fighting or quarrelling about the bride price
as was the custom in most dowry negotiations in Majengo.
Malkia’s family quoted the bride price for their daughter and
this was tripled by the suitor’s family and paid in cash. After
the ceremony, the MP passed through Majengo and bought
goodies for all the women he met along the way. He then
went to a few eating places and paid the bills for those he
found there. Malkia’s wedding was an invites-only function
in the exclusive Good Knight Golf Club, a Victorian-styled
hotel that was built in the coffee estates during the colonial
era. All we heard were stories of the fairy-tale wedding from
the lucky few who had been invited. So famous was this
wedding experience in Majengo that when the next elections
came, the stories about it were still fresh in the minds of our
people. Since our people were still riding on the wave of the
wedding, Big Daddy III was re-elected unopposed.
Malkia’s father could not get Majengo out of his veins
even though his family had been moved to a better locality
in the outskirts of the city by the rich in-laws. He would visit
us from time to time, and buy us a few drinks. In case you
contradicted him, he would ask you if you have ever set foot
in Majuu. As days passed, he started to fade away. The last
thing we heard about him was that he had married a second
wife as he did not know what to do with the windfall that
had come his way.
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Malkia never forgot her roots. She was sponsoring the
feeding program at her former primary school and she also
occasionally volunteered her services at the health centres
in Majengo. Unfortunately, five years into her marriage, her
husband succumbed to cancer. She inherited her husband’s
wealth and continued living in their beautiful home.
This was the first time I was seeing Malkia since her
husband died. The meeting looked joyous. We were all
dying to know what had brought Malkia to Majengo. Mama
Chama took to the floor and invited Apostle Jonah to open
the meeting with a word of prayer. The man of God led us
through a long emotional prayer. He prayed for unity, love
and victory. After the prayer, Mama Chama took over and
started the meeting.
“I apologize to you all for this impromptu meeting, but
as you all know, we are in the battle to reclaim Majengo
in order to build the foundation to a great future for our
children. When people are at war, they stay prepared always.
Although I am the one who has called this meeting, the actual
convener of the meeting is Mheshimiwa, so please allow me
to just let him to take over the proceedings.”
Mjumbe stood up and adjusted his dark glasses. He
flashed a wide smile, clasped his hands together and began
to speak. He did this with the aura of a professional actor,
choosing his words very carefully.
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“It is a pleasure to host you this morning and an honour
to have you listen to me. This is a moment that our people
have been eagerly waiting for. Let me begin by talking about
a girl I met right here in Majengo though she was a class
behind me in primary school. We became good friends and
our friendship grew when we went to secondary school.
When we got to the university, our friendship grew even
stronger and at some point, we thought it could lead to
something bigger and more permanent. But before we could
nuture our relationship to that stage, tragedy struck and I
felt I could never offer her what she deserved. I shrunk into
my own cocoon for a long time and cut off communication
with her as I could not face her in my condition. I then threw
my whole self into helping the children of Majengo through
teaching. Our friendship came to an abrupt end and we
drifted to different directions. When I heard about the death
of her husband a few years ago, a thought came to my mind
that maybe we could rekindle what we had before, but I did
not have the courage to communicate my thoughts to her.
When you insisted that I needed someone to be by my side,
I thought about her. Although I was scared of the response
she would give, I gathered courage and looked for her. That
lady is sitting right next to me. She has accepted to become
my wife and I have requested Headmaster to act as my father
and initiate the necessary discussions with Malkia’s people
so that we can have a wedding soon. Maybe Headmaster can
say a few words on the same.”
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Mjumbe sat down and Headmaster began to talk.
“My remarks are very short. As you all know, Mjumbe
has been like my own son. A father must ensure that his
son gets the right woman to marry and also oversee the
marriage discussions with the in-laws. I therefore have no
choice but to proceed with my duty as a father and ensure
the discussions are successful. Thank you, Mheshimiwa, for
granting me that honour. I will not let you or the people of
Majengo down.”
Mama Chama smiled as she stood up to talk.
“Malkia was the first girl in Majengo to attain a university
degree. As women, we nicknamed her First Lady. Like the
wise people tell us, be careful what names you call your
children for they could end up being exactly that. That
seems to have come true in our case here. We are all happy
to officially christen Malkia our First Lady. Thank you,
Mheshimiwa, for making this happen. As your mothers, we
are ready to welcome Malkia back to Majengo and to support
her in her role as our First Lady. Let me invite Malkia to say
a few words.”
Malkia was a confident woman. She was a respected
professional in the medical field. She had specialized in
public health and so, she was used to addressing the public
on various matters. As she stood up to talk, there was no
doubt that the two would make a great power couple. Malkia
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was respectful yet confident. As she spoke, I could not help
admiring her melodious voice.
“Majengo is my first home. This is where I was born and
brought up. Even though I got married and moved out of
Majengo and then my parents relocated, our hearts, as a
family, have always been in this place. As they say, ‘East or
West, home is the best’. There is no place like home. When
Mjumbe called me, it was like I was being taken back in time
and memories of our time in this place came flooding back
to my mind. It was a very emotional moment for me. He
reminded me of all the stories we used to share as we planned
how we were going to come back and transform Majengo
once we were through with our university education. It
seems the wise people who said be careful what you wish
for knew what they were saying. Our dream of transforming
Majengo is getting actualized right before our eyes. It is hard
to express how that makes me feel but I am so glad that
Mjumbe never forgot those dreams. As you can imagine, it
did not take much for Mjumbe to convince me to become
his wife so that we can accomplish our dreams for Majengo
together. Thank you for welcoming me back and I promise
to give all my support to Mjumbe as he fulfils the mandate
of the people of Majengo. Asanteni sana.”
I have never believed in magic but I started thinking
that it may exist when I stepped out of Mjumbe’s house.
Messages of congratulations started streaming into my
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phone and I couldn’t tell why I was being congratulated. As
I walked around Majengo, everyone wanted to shake my
hand. I had to ask one of the market women why they were
congratulating me. She gushed, “Oh Hustler, you look so
cute on television.”
“Television? What television? Why am I on television?”
I asked.
“But Maneno TV has just aired what was going on in
Mheshimiwa’s house! Didn’t you see the cameras in there?”
the lady asked me.
I became even more confused. I could not remember
seeing any cameras or cameramen in Mjumbe’s house. On
that day I believed the common joke around Majengo that
walls have eyes and ears. The idea of Malkia returning to
Majengo to get married to Mjumbe was like a fairy tale or
a soap opera. Majengo residents loved such stories: stories
of love and hope. Malkia was like a princess who had fallen
in love with a poor boy but circumstances had forced her to
marry a prince instead. Unfortunately, the prince had died
and now the princess was free to marry the love of her life.
To all hustlers, the scoreboard between Majengo and Majuu
now read: 2 : 0.
Appearing on a national TV came with its benefits. We
were starting to be featured on social media. People had
already started talking about what was happening in Majengo
on Twitter and Facebook. I was curious to know how we had
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ended up being on TV without it. I called Headmaster to ask
but he just brushed me off with a laugh, saying, “Hustler,
this is not a time for questions. This is a time for joy.”
That evening, I walked to Pondamali to watch news and
catch up with the latest happenings in Majengo. As soon as
I sat down, Kadogo came over and whispered, “I have your
ten beers at the counter.”
“From where?” I asked.
She smiled and said, “That is a state secret.”
The nine o’clock news came on and I could hardly
control myself after seeing my face on TV. Even though I
appeared just like a spectator, I wished the TV screen could
freeze on that picture forever. I could not believe how easily
power can make you a ‘somebody’ while all your life you
have been regarded as a ‘nobody’. I started thinking that I
needed to exploit my new-found fame to make money. I
started cracking my brain on how I could become rich.
On the same news item, our candidate appeared for an
interview. The interview had been recorded earlier in his
house as Malkia sat next to him. He was interviewed about
the Ballot Revolution. Mjumbe was sharp. He answered all
the questions very well. When the news was over, we started
our drinking session as we chatted, debated and laughed.
Somewhere in the background, Rasta was singing Bob
Marley and the words were striking.
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You can fool some of the people all the time
and all of the people some of the time
but you can’t fool all the people all the time
I sat at the counter in the company of the usual revellers.
One of them congratulated me, “Nice move, Hustler. We now
have the best First Lady south of the Sahara. Our candidate
has a jiko now. We are now waiting for the elections day to
know what to cook!”
“Don’t be so sure, mate! It could also be that by taking
that woman, we have shot ourselves in the foot. What if she
turns out to be a traitor?” someone else said.
I was not surprised by the scepticism. In Majengo, there
are people who love to oppose everything. One of the usual
revellers at Pondamali, Otis, interrupted my thoughts when
he said, “If it’s love, I would be sceptical but if it’s a political
marriage, then that is a sure deal. It could turn out to be the
silver bullet that will bring down Lwanda Magere.”
“Who is Lwanda Magere? Is he an MP?” Boychild asked.
“No. Lwanda Magere was a great hero of my people. His
body was made of stone and no sword, spear or arrow could
penetrate him.”
Everyone at the bar counter burst out laughing.
“My brother, if you are drunk, just find your way home.
How can a human being have a body of stone?” Rasta asked.
He had taken a break from his music to join in the fun.
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Another bout of laughter followed but Otis maintained
a serious face. He was not laughing like the rest of us. He
continued after the laughter had died down.
“At the time Lwanda Magere lived, my people were
forever at war with our neighbouring communities. But
every time he appeared in the battlefield, our enemies knew
the game was over. He would slaughter hundreds of them in
a short time. They tried everything they could to vanquish
him but they lacked a suitable weapon which could penetrate
his body.”
We were now all silent as we waited to hear more about
the legendary Lwanda Magere. Otis seemed to revel in the
attention he was getting. He got quite excited as he continued
narrating the story.
“Our neighbours realized that they could never win in the
battlefield, so they decided to change tact and seek refuge in
the game they knew best; the game of wits. They pushed for
fake peace with our community and to show their sincerity,
they offered Lwanda Magere one of their most beautiful girls
for a wife. What our people did not know at the time was that
the girl was a Trojan horse sent to us with a single mission:
to discover the secret behind our hero’s invincible strength.”
He paused but we were all getting impatient to know
what happened next.
“What happened next?” two people asked simultaneously.
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“The shrewd woman bid her time until the day she
discovered that the secret lay in Lwanda Magere’s shadow,
and not in his body. All that one needed to do was to stab
his shadow with a spear and he would die. After learning
the secret, the woman hurriedly packed her things and ran
back to her people where she relayed the much awaited
information. That is how our hero fell.”
Otis took a sip from his drink and gave his final remarks.
“This First Lady you have brought was born in Majengo
but she has had a long sojourn in the enemy territory. When
voting day comes, where will her vote go? To her love or to
her people? Women have been used to bring down powerful
men since Biblical times. Never trust these daughters of
Eve!”
No one said a word. We all quietly went back to our
drinks. Rasta went back on stage and continued entertaining
us. He switched to gospel music and sang about Samson
and Delilah, about hair that was cut and eyes that were
gouged out. We all listened to his nice songs but not to their
messages.
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The campaign trail entered the homestretch and everything
was on top gear. All the loopholes were sealed and everyone
who mattered was brought on board. All aspects of the
campaign were running smoothly and in harmony like a
well-oiled machine. Chairman was a genius in coordinating
our activities. Mzito was doing well in public relations
while Boychild and Domo, our rabid dogs, were perfect in
the propaganda docket. Jogoo had really added value to
our campaign machinery. Thanks to him and his team of
professional bloggers, we were winning all the propaganda
battles on social media. My star kept rising and my phone
never stopped ringing. My house had become like another
headquarters with people streaming in and out any time of
the day or night. My wife had even started to behave like a
First Lady B of Majengo!
Many consultative meetings were held with the aim of
winning over the undecided and the sceptics. The residents
of Fifth Lane had softened and were now playing ball.
The defection of Jogoo and the engagement of Mjumbe to
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Malkia had made them shift their allegiance. The fact that
Mjumbe was living in their midst also played a crucial role
in convincing them that the revolution was serious. Only a
few who could not overcome their fear of being cut off from
the protection of the Big Daddy family were still hesitant.
It took Domo a tank of saliva to convince them that there
would be another Big Daddy but this time, he would be one
of their own.
“The manna will even taste better if it is prepared by one
of your own,” Domo told them.
Another difficult group to deal with were the kitu kidogo
cabal. Their standard response after you had spent hours
trying to convince them was, “Well, you have spoken very
well but do you have something small for us?”
The report from our own internal opinion poll was
encouraging; 85% of the voters supported the revolution.
We really needed to get 100% support from our people. We
spent hours strategizing on how to convert those who were
still undecided but unknown to us, fate had been on our side
all along. A week to the voting day, something happened
that titled our scale favourably. It was at night when we were
awakened by the sound of gunshots. This was not unusual in
Majengo, so we were not overly bothered. The next morning,
a crowd milled around a saloon car that was riddled with
bullet holes and which was parked next to Mjumbe’s gate.
Someone had attempted to assassinate Mjumbe. According
to an eye witness, there were three men inside the car. Two
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were dropped at the gate and while they were trying to scale
the gate, someone had spotted them and raised the alarm.
A night police patrol car responded immediately. The two
gunmen fired at the police before disappearing on foot into
the sprawling slum. Inside the car left behind, the police
found a map of Mjumbe’s house with his bedroom circled in
red, an indication that our candidate was their target.
The residents of Majengo exploded in anger. A big
demonstration was held on the road leading to Majuu and
all the local leaders came out to condemn the heinous act.
All anger was directed at the Big Daddy family and their
supporters. Everybody in Majengo believed they were the
ones who had attempted to eliminate our candidate, now
that they had realized they had no chance at the ballot.
The demonstrators carried a big banner with the message:
THE BALLOT IS STRONGER THAN THE BULLET. This
incident helped to galvanize the people of Majengo behind
Mjumbe just as Professor had predicted.
“A people united can never be defeated!” the people
chanted as they demonstrated. They called on the police and
government to beef up our candidate’s security.
By mid-afternoon the same day, the Big Daddy family
had reacted through a press conference. All the major radio
and TV stations were represented in that presser. When
Big Daddy III came on Direct TV, we all knew what he was
going to say. He accused the drunkards and bhang smokers
of Majengo of having come up with a stage-managed
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assassination plot to attract sympathy from the masses and
to ruin his family’s reputation. He angrily ranted, “Since
this revolution nonsense began, it seems many video shops
and theatres have been opened in Majengo. They are busy
training actors but, unfortunately, they are only producing
half-baked movies. If they want to do real films, I promise
to donate free air tickets to take them to Hollywood or even
Bollywood where they can be taught how to do real acting.”
The MP then went on to condemn some people he
referred to as ‘foreign masters’ for poisoning Majengo.
“Some foreign masters masquerading as NGOs, solidarity
groups and social workers are the ones who are fuelling this
revolution nonsense, but let them be warned that they will
not succeed. We live in a sovereign country and our affairs
will not be dictated by outsiders.”
After the ranting by the MP, the OCS was given the
microphone. He assured the Majengo people that the police
would leave no stone unturned in getting to the bottom of
the matter. As always, he said Majengo was safe and there
should be no cause for alarm.
The assassination plot helped to bring the whole of
Majengo together. With our people fully united, there was no
way Big Daddy III would win the coming elections. Buoyed
by the wave of sympathetic emotions, the popularity of
Mjumbe surged to over 95% in the slum. In the nine o’clock
news bulletin that evening, Mjumbe was interviewed live on
TV. He was flanked by Chairman and Mzito. He reassured
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his supporters that he was safe and unharmed. He reiterated
that the Ballot Revolution was unstoppable.
“The genie is out of the bottle. Nothing can stop an idea
whose time has come; not even a million bullets. They can
kill our bodies but they will not kill the spirit of the people
and the revolution.”
As his supporters, we were all excited when he
courageously took the establishment head on.
“The power of the people is greater than the power of
money or guns. Be assured that while our enemy has invested
in guns, assassins and other wakora, we have invested in our
people and the unrelenting desire to see real change. The
ballot will prove who gets the dividends on voting day.”
That evening, our campaign platforms on WhatsApp,
Twitter and Facebook were full of smiling memes. Whether it
was real or stage-managed, the assassination attempt turned
out to be the game changer. By close of that day, nobody in
Majengo was sitting on the fence. They had all boarded the
revolution train.
The campaign team was now charged like a horse on
steroids and we were not leaving anything to chance. We
were busy dealing with all the demons that had dogged our
past elections. Our task was to ensure that nothing happened
to change the wave we were currently riding on.
It was a few tense days to the elections. We decided
to keep the fire burning by having a mobile campaign
to ensure our message was replayed in people’s minds
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non-stop. That would ensure no other message was allowed
to get their attention. We walked from door to door talking to
any willing ear. We sold the revolution manifesto with gusto
and won many undecideds. We did not have any posters
or billboards as Mjumbe had been adamant that having
them was like vomiting on the feet of our constituents; such
promotional material reeked of extravagance, yet some of
our constituents went to bed hungry. This earned Mjumbe
a lot of respect and cemented our conviction that he was the
right candidate for Majengo.
“There is no need to plaster my face on walls, trees and
every lamp post. The people are not voting for me, they are
voting for a new Majengo. It is that Majengo that needs to
be put on the poster and not me. Besides, we want to run an
environmentally friendly campaign. The posters make our
environment ugly and will become garbage in no time. This
is the same thing that we are campaigning against.”
As an alternative, the committee hired some young people
from the local Youth Club to paint a big picture of the new
Majengo that they wanted to see as the young generation.
The Youth Club came up with a beautiful picture of Majengo
with paved roads, street lights, decent houses and smiling
residents. There was a playing field, a commercial centre,
a modern market and piped water. They put a big label at
the top of the picture with the words: WE ARE VOTING
FOR THIS. The picture was painted on the wall at the main
entrance to Majengo so that everyone could see it as they
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came in and left the slum. We then decided to deal with the
demon of vote-selling. We knew that this was one of the
tricks that were commonly employed by our current MP,
and he normally did this at the eleventh hour. We embarked
on a rigorous exercise of civic education. Our message to the
people was clear; “Do not sell your vote because that’s your
weapon. We are going to war. What will you fight with if you
do not have your weapon?”
We took our campaign strategy a notch higher by
incorporating the community in everything we were doing.
Wives and husbands were advised to keep checking on each
other so as to ensure they still had their voting cards and
IDs. This was extended to the shops and to the market. Your
voting card was the licence you needed to buy anything. Even
at Pondamali, you could not be served by the no-nonsense
Kadogo unless you had your voting card with you.
After having dealt with our internal problems, there
was one last problem to handle. Many people in Majengo
believed that the patients at Mapendo Mental Hospital were
made to vote for our opponent in every election through
coercion by the supporters of the Big Daddy family. It had
been noted that Mapendo Mental Hospital, which in normal
circumstances was noisy and chaotic, was always quiet on
voting day.
“This time, we must make sure that the people at Mapendo
remain impartial,” Chairman said. “We shall strategically
position a group of youths to keep vigil at the gate and make
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sure that no monkey business takes place there. Jogoo, you
will see to it that this is done.”
“That’s my speciality, Boss,” Jogoo assured.
The next problem was the importation of voters from
outside Majengo, a trick that Big Daddy III had always used
to beef up his numbers. It was unanimously decided that
everyone must know someone and any unknown person
was to be evicted from the voting queue.
“It’s a pity that we cannot do anything about their
cemetery because there have been rumours that the dead,
too, vote sometimes,” added Boychild.
Everyone burst into laughter.
“My brother, when they say the dead voted it does not
mean zombies came out of the graves and literally voted.
These people use the details of dead people which have not
been removed from the voters’ register to pretend that those
people are alive and have actually voted. But even if their
dead come out and vote, we still have an upper hand due
to our numbers. Nobody in their right mind will rig this
election. How can anyone explain how a united Majengo,
with five times the number of voters as Majuu, has lost? That
would be suicidal!” I responded confidently.
One of the main causes of electoral malpractice that
we had identified was the counting of votes at night and
transporting the ballot boxes from the different voting
centres to one central counting centre. My take has always
been that the devil mainly operates at night and anything
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done under the cover of darkness has to be sinister. Just
think of all the bad things that happen at night. Think of
Laban, that unscrupulous father-in-law in the Bible who
conned a fellow called Jacob by giving him the wrong bride
at night. Only at dawn did Jacob realize that he had married
the wrong sister! He had to work for seven more years to
get the sister he always wanted. Transporting and counting
of votes at night was a major problem. Luckily, we had
petitioned the electoral body in good time and new rules had
been put in place. Counting of votes and announcing of the
results would be carried out at the wards. This would make
it impossible for returning officers to change the results to
favour the highest payer.
“This time, we must protect every single vote that is cast
in our favour. We must have our representatives inside
every polling station. The ballot boxes hold our destiny
and we must protect them like the Central Bank of Kenya,”
Chairman had declared.
“What happens to all the drunkards who spend the night
drinking and then fail to vote the next day? We have seen
our enemy pour money in such bars to ensure the men
drink until the following morning at which point they are
too drunk to go and vote,” I argued.
“No bar will be open in Majengo the night before the
voting day,” Mzito declared.
We all agreed with him although I noticed Chairman
wince a little. He must have been calculating the amount of
money he would lose that night.
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The next day there were fireworks when the doctor
in charge of Mapendo Mental Hospital called a press
conference to clarify what he called misconceptions about
his institution. He was flanked by two other doctors and
a few nurses. He began by condemning the ‘misguided
elements’ who had wrongly accused his institution of being
used to rig elections.
“Let it be clear that Mapendo Mental Hospital has never
had any vested interests in an election. No person in their
proper state of mind would think that patients who are
under our care can be used for such shameful acts. We are
professionals and our mandate is to save lives and take care
of patients under our care. Our track record is known by all.
We have always served patients from both sides of the divide
with impartiality. We are not politicians and neither are we
interested in politics,” he stated his message loud and clear.
***
On the penultimate day of the campaign, we held a mega
road show which was to culminate in the biggest rally we had
ever held. Mjumbe was going to address his supporters at
the quarry area later in the afternoon. We had hired an open
truck which was fitted with loud speakers from which music
blared. Mjumbe, Malkia and the younger members of the
committee, like myself and Boychild, climbed on top of the
truck together with the musicians, comedians and dancers.
Motorcycle riders and people in their private cars escorted
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the truck all over Majengo while flashing lights and honking
their horns. A large multitude of young people danced and
blew vuvuzelas as the caravan snaked its way through the
main streets of Majengo. I could clearly see myself and the
people of Majengo finally crossing over from ‘poverty land’
to the Promised Land somewhere in the horizon. My mind
was abuzz with plans for the future which was going to dawn
in a few days. Many questions raced through my mind. What
title would fit my new status? Mdosi, Buda, Boss or should I
just retain Hustler? I wondered.
The evening before, the entire committee, with the
exception of Professor and Mjumbe, held a secret meeting
where the positions in the Constituency Board were shared
out. Chairman was slated to be the head of the Constituency
Development Fund Board, Mzito would keep his position as
the PA and official spokesperson to Mheshimiwa, Boychild
would be the official bodyguard to Mheshimiwa, Domo
would move his activities to Mjumbe’s new house as the
comptroller of the residence, Mama Chama would be in
charge of catering and entertainment, Apostle Jonah was to
become the official chaplain for all our religious affairs and
I was to retain the MC title for all Mheshimiwa’s rallies. My
success was so near I could actually taste it in my mouth.
As the caravan headed towards the quarry area, I craned
my neck to see who were there. It was impossible to identify
anyone as there were thousands of supporters. I could see
local and international journalists jostling for vantage
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positions from where they could take the best photos. There
were tens of policemen patrolling the area to ensure security
was guaranteed. I could see uniformed policemen with guns,
some with sniffer dogs and yet others on horses. Majengo
had really become important on the map of our country and
I was right at the centre of making that happen. It looked
like a dream to me. How did I even end up here?
The stage was warmed by Jitegemee Theatre Group who
staged a play about a certain village that sold their river to
a private developer only for the villagers to start buying
water from the developer. After the play, I had invited the
representatives of the various religious groups found in
Majengo for each to say a brief prayer. Then I took over
the show. I was wearing a new suit purposely made for the
occasion. I had polished my language and my speaking
skills. Nothing gave me more joy than to stand on the dais
and watch the multitude of people below. When they started
shouting “Hustler! Hustler!”, I knew that we had actually
arrived at River Jordan, ready to cross to the Promised
Land. I warmed up the crowd with a few chants of ‘Up, Up,
Majengo!’ and started inviting the speakers. Every single
one of them was warmly received with a loud applause by
the crowd. Chairman talked of a new Majengo while Mzito
spoke of a victory assured. Apostle Jonah talked of God
being on our side in the battle while Headmaster lectured
us about a new dawn. Mama Chama sang a song about the
future generations.
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I invited Malkia to greet the crowd and chants of “First
Lady! First Lady!” rent the air. She flashed a bewitching smile
at me then waved to the crowd. I felt my blood go warm
when I remembered the telephone conversation we had had
the previous evening. The evening before, after the rehearsal
for this big day, I had received a message on my phone
notifying me that someone had sent me twenty thousand
shillings. I looked at the number and could not recognize it.
When I called the number, the person on the other end told
me she was a friend of Majengo. I immediately recognized
her voice.
“So you are the generous Santa Claus who has been
funding us?”
Her laughter was melodious.
“Yes. I like the way you do your job. I have sent you that
little amount so that you can buy yourself a good suit for
tomorrow’s function. As the MC, you have to be smart.”
I could hardly believe it. My star was shining even during
the night. I thanked her and promised to keep her generosity
a secret.
Malkia bowed as a sign of respect then clapped to show
her gratitude. It was the first time she was addressing the
residents of Majengo since getting engaged to Mjumbe.
“I want to start by acknowledging everyone who has
made this day a success and that includes you, the people of
Majengo. Never in my life have I seen such a large number
of people eager to change their destiny and build a better
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tomorrow for their children. When I look at you, I see
unyielding hope, the key that will open the door to a great
future. That door will be opened at the ballot box.”
A thunderous applause swallowed her last words. She
continued after the noise had died down.
“This day will be marked in history as the day when
Majengo showed to the world that she exists and that her
people matter. This is the time for Majengo to decide to soar
high...high up to the heavens. And that, my dear people, was
achieved when you decided enough is enough and it was
time to steer your own destiny using your own hands!”
She looked at me and I brought out a ballot box for her.
She lifted up the box and shouted, “Up, Up, Majengo!” and
the crowd roared back, “Down, Down, Majuu!”
“We have a good captain who will steer our plane to the
Promised Land. All that remains is for us to do our civic duty
as good citizens. Remember bad leaders are elected by good
citizens who don’t vote. Our weapon is the vote. We will put
our hearts, our heads, our dreams, our future and the future
of our children inside this box! Mko tayari kuingia box? Are
you ready to get inside the box?”
There was a unanimous answer as the crowd roared,
“Yes, we are ready!”
“I feel humbled and honoured to be part of this revolution
as the chief helper of our candidate. I now have the honour
to invite our Mheshimiwa, Mr Mjumbe.”
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The crowd broke into song and dance. The DJ did
not disappoint in his attempts to amplify the noise. Any
conversation that was going on was drowned in song and
dance as Malkia went to Mjumbe and sought his hand.
She led him to the front amidst shouts of “Majengo hoiyee,
Majengo aaaaah!”
As is the custom with Mjumbe, his speech was short and
straight to the point. Many people knew him as a man of few
words and more action, and he did not disappoint.
“The long awaited day draws close. On that day, we will
put everything aside and line up with our pens ready to
write history. Each of you will get a ballot paper and you
will be required to mark against your preferred candidate.
That small mark that you will make on that ballot paper may
appear insignificant, but believe you me, that is what will
change our collective destiny as a people. The mark may be
small, but the impact will be so big that it will reverberate
across the world. That small mark will determine the course
of our history, our future and the future of our children.
That mark will one day speak of a people who woke up one
day and said enough is enough! Archimedes the scientist
asked for a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to
place it and he would lift up the earth but we are only asking
for a pen and a ballot paper.”
There was an explosion of applauses and whistling
and Mjumbe had to wait for the noise to die down before
continuing.
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“Once you finish marking your ballot paper, you will fold
it and put it inside the right ballot box. That act of putting the
ballot paper inside the box signifies that we are a free people
and we are a powerful people. The power is expressed in the
freedom and the right to choose which dream to pursue and
the ability to design the trajectory of our destiny.”
Another round of thunderous applause followed.
Mjumbe remained cool and collected. Once the noise had
died down, he picked up from where he had left.
“Flight Majengo is now ready and you have boarded. The
captain is in the cockpit and the engine is roaring. The sky is
clear and the weather is excellent. Nothing can stop us from
flying to the Promised Land!”
The DJ gave a minute of music and the crowd danced
to the beat of it enthusiastically. I felt like I was in heaven.
Everyone looked and behaved as if they were under the
influence of a hypnotic drug. The feeling was out of this
world. I had never experienced the kind of euphoria I was
feeling.
I was brought back to Earth by Mjumbe’s firm but gentle
voice, “Voting is through secret ballot but our goals and
objectives are not secret. As we go to vote, I want you to
remember that our enemies are poverty, disease, joblessness,
marginalization, ignorance and lack of opportunities. Our
enemy is any kind of malaise that degrades us and snuffs
out our future and that of our future generations. We are
not voting against anyone; we are voting for development,
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growth and transformation. We want space to develop our
potential.”
Mjumbe went on to warn those who could be tempted to
sell their votes.
“Don’t sell your vote, it is your right. A person who sells
his vote is like those fools that you saw in the play. They sold
the river only for them to start buying the water. If you sell
your vote you are selling your birthright and you will pay a
heavy price to get it back. When someone gives you a packet
of unga as an inducement to vote for them, he is just feeding
you for a day and then you will remain hungry for the next
five years. Would you rather get food for a day then stay
hungry for five years or would you rather stay hungry for a
day but get food for next five years?”
“The latter!” everyone chorused.
“Well then, let us make wise decisions on the voting day.”
Mjumbe ended his speech with a note of encouragement.
“Victory is ours and nobody can take it from us. The meat
is already in our mouths. Do not allow anyone to remove
meat from your own mouth! We shall meet again on the
day of homecoming as we celebrate our incontestable win.
Thank you and God bless you all.”
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On the elections day, the voting queues were a scene to
behold. Voters from Majengo had started arriving at the
polling stations hours before opening time. They lined up
on their own and kept order. They were determined to bring
the Big Daddy tyrant down. Power was going to shift from
Majuu to Majengo.
The evening before, Jogoo had distributed whistles to the
youth. The whistles were to act as alarm clocks for waking
up people to ensure everybody was on time at the polling
stations. At dawn, the youths went round the slum blowing
the whistles, waking people up and announcing the arrival
of a new dawn. They reminded everyone to carry their
voting card and ID, ready to usher in a new era. By the time
the polling stations opened, the queues were so long that
they were meandering like River Tana in its lower course. A
cloud of optimism hung over Majengo and all the signs were
there that this was the long awaited day.
The day will remain etched in my memory forever. I was
among the aides who escorted Mjumbe and Malkia from
Chapter Thirteen
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White House to the polling station and so I did not line up
like everyone else. I was allowed to vote immediately after
the candidate had voted then I accompanied him outside for
the usual small talk with the press. All we could see were
flashes from the cameras of photo journalists as they clicked
away. I was sure I would be on TV that day. My slide into the
history books was unstoppable. The hustler tag did not seem
to suit me anymore. I had now joined the crème de la crème
of the society. As our candidate walked to his car, flanked by
his beautiful wife, the people cheered wildly.
For most people, I included, elections day was the longest
day we had witnessed in Majengo. The sun smouldered like
a ball of fire straddling majestically across the sky, but our
people stood under the sweltering heat, wiping off sweat and
stoically persevering their hunger pangs and dry throats.
We followed the voting exercise on TV from the comfort
of Mjumbe’s house. Mjumbe was advised to take some rest
because it was going to be a long day and night before results
could be announced, but he adamantly refused to go to bed
while his people were out there waiting in queues to vote
him in.
At sundown, voting ended and the next phase of the
election process started. It was time to go round all the
polling stations to observe how the counting exercise would
be conducted. The time to open our eyes and put our ears on
the ground had arrived. In his final brief, Professor had been
very categorical. He had said, “The formula is simple: get out
in large numbers to vote and then protect the vote.”
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***
The next morning found me in a five-star hotel with
my friend, Domo. I had taken him for breakfast as a pre-
celebration for the landslide win we were expecting. We
were seated at a table having a sumptuous breakfast while
following the live streaming of the results on a screen the
size of a door. Silently, I was rehearsing for the inevitable
rise up the ladder of life. My language, too, had changed.
I was now talking about main courses, appetizers, desserts,
side plates, forks and knives, and everything else that goes
with dining in high-end restaurants. Professor was a man
of his word. He had kept his word until now. He had been
financing me secretly to ensure I collected all the intelligence
from Majengo and forwarded it to him in real time. My good
fortune had started with a phone call.
“Hustler, when the plane of the revolution lands, I want
you to be right at the centre of the kitchen. You cannot
afford to be far away from power for power is like the sun –
the giver of all life on Earth. However, be careful not to get
too close lest you get burned, and don’t stay too far lest you
freeze.”
From that day I acted as his spy by reporting to him
everything that took place in Majengo and gathering
intelligence for him in what he told me was called ‘crucial
data collection’. For every piece of data collected, he gave me
a fat tip. This data, he told me, was very important because
it helped him to clearly map out the battle ground, enabling
him to plan the next moves with precision.
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The gods of providence appeared to be smiling at me
from all corners and money was therefore not a problem
to me. In keeping with my new status, I had shifted base
from my shack in Majengo to a high-end hotel in a quiet
neighbourhood. What better way was there for a hustler like
me to spend his hard-earned money than with his closest
friend? Domo had to be by my side. Domo and I had been
through hell in life and it was now our time to eat. Like the
wise men said, every dog has its day and our day had come.
The voting day had been long and gruelling, and the
night was full of anxiety. Our teams had been stuck in the
counting halls for hours as they watched every single vote
being counted.
“This is our make or break moment. If we dare fall
asleep even for a few seconds, it could cost us our victory,”
Chairman kept drumming the message into our heads as he
encouraged us to stay awake.
The counting exercise was tedious and by the early hours
of the morning, my legs could hardly support my tired frame.
Around 3 o’clock in the morning, I requested Chairman for
permission to go and sleep for a few hours.
“It is okay. Get some sleep and then freshen up. You may
come back after you have freshened up. We will keep vigil
until you are back,” he told me.
With the money I had in my pocket, there was no way I
could sleep in my house in Majengo. I had not been home
for a few days and I knew my wife would start nagging me. I
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hailed a taxi and went straight to the five-star hotel where I
blacked out on the bed due to exhaustion. After about four
hours, I woke up and called Domo for updates. I then asked
him to join me at the hotel for breakfast in about half an
hour as we strategize on how we would take advantage of
our current positions to get rich. After our conversation, I
took a long hot shower and went downstairs to meet him
and have breakfast.
Just as I entered the hotel’s restaurant, the first results for
our constituency were being streamed in on live television.
The results were from Soweto Ward. I was so excited I felt
like clapping my hands. Preliminary results showed that in
Soweto Ward, 80% of the people had voted in favour of our
candidate. My phone started ringing immediately. I could
also hear messages streaming in as I spoke on phone. Just
then, I heard someone pat my back.
“We are winning, mate! By tomorrow, we will be in the
big house.”
I turned round and realized it was Domo. When
breakfast was over, we moved to the hotel’s bar garden so
that we could have some privacy to discuss important issues.
Domo beckoned the waiter and ordered a round of beer. We
continued following the results on a TV screen as they kept
streaming in. At around midday, results from Fifth Lane
Ward streamed in. This particular ward was expected to be
our weakest link in our battle. We were pleasantly surprised
to see that 60% of the voters had kept their word.
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“I knew it! Those leeches had no courage to bite the
fingers that feed them,” lamented Domo. He called the
waiter and ordered some nyama choma to be prepared for
us. My friendship with Domo and Boychild had grown
stronger over the campaign period and I considered Domo
to be my right-hand man. We called ourselves the ‘Trinity’
and just like the classic musketeers, our motto was ‘One for
all, all for one’.
Around mid-afternoon, the next batch of results for
our constituency streamed in. These were from Majuu. As
expected, we got almost nothing from there. Big Daddy III
was fast catching up with our candidate. The race was now
on a knife-edge. We crossed our fingers and waited for more
results to be announced.
The waiting was anxious because we were not sure what
the outcome would be. The tension that accompanies such
waiting is enough to send someone straight to Mapendo. The
waiting reminded me of three boys from my village who had
been dating the same girl. When the girl got pregnant, she
could not tell which of the three boys was the culprit. The
elders made a decision. Once the baby was born, it would be
scrutinized to determine who its father was.
“Don’t think you are off the hook yet! The eyes, the
ears and the shape of the head will definitely tell us who is
responsible,” the elders warned the three boys.
One of the boys was so worried that he suffered
intermittent diarrhoea for seven months as they waited for
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the results. When the baby was born, he was a carbon copy
of the worrier!
Like the boy from my village, my stomach was threatening
to start misbehaving due to tension. Domo joked that it
was just my body preparing to pass out the last remains
of poverty. When the results from Jahannam Ward were
announced, the battle with my stomach ceased immediately.
The results were a massive win for our candidate with 95%
having voted for Mjumbe. I now believed that the Promised
Land, a land of milk and honey, was just a few hours away.
We were now eager for the results from our strongholds to
start coming in. When the name Canaan Ward appeared on
the screen, I held my breath. This was our polling station
and there was no way Mjumbe could lose in my own area.
The results did not disappoint. I jumped and hugged Domo.
Big Daddy III was now trailing by a big margin.
With results from only one ward yet to be announced, we
knew we had crossed the River Jordan. We were already in
the Promised Land. Ghetto Ward was the most populous in
the constituency. The place was full of drinking dens which
meant that one could not be too sure about the outcome, but
I already smelt power. The gap between our candidate and
Big Daddy III was so big that the latter needed at least three
quarters of the remaining votes from Ghetto to overtake our
candidate.
My dreams of leaving Majengo, driving a big car and
wearing designer suits were nigh. Just a few more days
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and I would shed off the title ‘Hustler’ and take up a more
prestigious title, such as ‘Boss’. With friends in big places, I
would also become a big fish in the sea of life. This excited
me for nothing can stop the big fish. They just break through
nets when they encounter them. This is the raw power I
craved. I was going to be an untouchable person. I pulled
out my phone and dialled Professor’s number. Strangely, he
was offline. I tried again, thinking that probably the network
was experiencing congestion due to the calls people must
have been making across the country. Still, the call did not
go through.
“Oh well, he must be held somewhere, preparing the
acceptance speech,” I mused.
I dialled Boychild’s number and confirmed that
everything at White House was okay. Our candidate was still
sleeping. I told Domo that we needed to finish our drinks
and head out to Majengo to start the celebrations. As we
were finishing our drinks, images of Majengo juxtaposed
with those of Majuu started flashing across the TV screen.
The streets of Majuu were deserted and an ominous silence
hung over the area. When the cameras panned over to
Majengo, we could see all the public places were full of
anxious but excited people waiting for the final results to be
announced by the electoral body. An hour passed and yet no
results were announced from Ghetto Ward. Another hour
dragged on and my anxiety was starting to build up again.
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What could be happening? I wondered. Why is the electoral
body taking so long to release the last results?
With evening fast approaching, I could detect a sinking
feeling in the pit of my stomach. I had a gut feeling that
something was not right. My anxiety mutated to panic and
finally turned to raw fear. Those who were well versed with
elections in our country knew that rigging usually took place
at night and so, nightfall was not a welcome guest.
The TV stations continued streaming in results from
other parts of the country. I tried calling the other members
of our committee but no one was picking their phone.
Domo, who was now quite drunk, kept saying, “If they steal
this one, we shall invade Majuu and burn everything there!
Then we will storm into parliament and swear in Mjumbe. I
know you will lead us in this, Hustler, won’t you?”
I could not answer him because my brain was now
frozen with fear. I could not imagine my life after this if the
revolution aborted. Just then, a red banner flashed across the
TV screen and my heart almost stopped. I consoled myself
that the long awaited moment had finally come.
The first image that came on the screen showed several
police cars parked outside a gate in Majengo along Fifth
Lane. We moved closer to the TV screen and what I saw
almost made me faint. The cars were outside Mjumbe’s
residence! I trembled with fear and for inexplicable reasons,
my mouth felt completely dry and no words could come
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out. I could only stare at the TV screen with my eyes and
mouth wide open. The cameras focused on the platoon of
policemen who were guarding Mjumbe’s gate. Somewhere in
the background, we could hear a woman wailing. Everyone
had now surrounded the giant TV screen. Even those who
had not been showing keen interest on the results being
streamed in were now glued to the TV screen. The gate to
Mjumbe’s house was opened and two men carrying what
looked like the body of a person on a stretcher covered with
white bedsheets came through. Then I saw Malkia following
closely behind, wailing. Two women whom I had never seen
before were restraining Malkia. The stretcher was loaded
into an ambulance which drove away with the siren on. The
two women herded Malkia to a waiting car which was driven
away in the direction the ambulance had gone. The police
were busy putting a yellow tape around the house. This
meant that the house was a crime scene.
I was in shock and totally confused. What was going on?
I needed information right away. Just then, a man who was
handcuffed was led out of the compound by two beefy cops.
A close up image of the handcuffed man’s face came on the
screen and I gagged. It was Boychild! The police were still
busy putting a ‘crime scene’ yellow ribbon around White
House as Boychild was loaded into a police car and driven
away.
Domo and I looked at each other, tongue-tied. At that
point, I thought I was dreaming. I thought the alcohol I had
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taken the whole day was causing me to have hallucinations.
I tightly closed my eyes and when I opened them, I saw the
OCS on the TV screen, speaking.
“...the wife became suspicious after noticing that her
husband had slept for too long. She then went to check on
him but he would not wake up. Being a doctor, she knew
something was amiss and so she raised the alarm. A doctor
was called in and he has confirmed that the candidate is still
alive although his condition appears critical. We suspect
foul play and we have arrested one suspect. That is all I can
say for now. We shall release more information after our
investigations,” the OCS said.
“Where have you taken Mheshimiwa?” one of the
journalists asked.
“He has been taken to the national hospital.”
The press wanted to ask more questions but the OCS
declared the session closed.
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What we had just seen on TV had shaken me to the bones. I
pulled Domo aside and dragged him to the toilets.
“What is the meaning of all this?” I asked him in a hushed
tone that betrayed the panic inside me. Domo said nothing.
He just blew out his cheeks in fear as sweat broke out from
his brow. I held him by the shoulders and shook him hard.
“You told me it was harmless!”
Domo said nothing. I shook him even more vigorously.
“Don’t tell me he is dead!”
Just then, the crowd inside the bar went silent. The only
sound that could be heard was the TV presenter’s voice. I
suspected something important was being relayed. I loosened
my grip on Domo and rushed back to the bar. On the screen
was the OCS but this time, he was flanked by a doctor at the
national hospital. The doctor was speaking. He reported that
the patient was alive although he was in a coma.
“We have put him on life support. We suspect it is a case
of poisoning but we are carrying out further tests. We are
optimistic he’ll pull through.”
Chapter Fourteen
221
Before any journalist could ask a question, the OCS took
over and what he said next sent a cold stream of sweat down
my back.
“I am glad to announce that our investigating team
has covered lots of ground in the short time. The suspect
we arrested earlier has provided the names of his two
accomplices. However, we cannot release their names at
this time as it would compromise our investigations. We are
closing in on them and an arrest is expected any time, even
as we speak. We are therefore requesting the residents of
Majengo to remain calm. Thank you.”
Our goose was cooked. If Boychild had talked, then it was
just a matter of hours before Domo and I were arrested. The
cops must have been on the way to the hotel at that very
moment since I had mentioned to Boychild where we were.
I decided that if they were to arrest me, then let them do it
while I was on the run. I was not going to be a sitting duck.
There was no time to discuss with Domo anything else. It
was now every man for himself. I climbed the stairs to my
room like an antelope running for dear life. I picked my
coat, some money and documents that I had placed inside
a safe in the room, and dashed out of the hotel. As I took
flight, I cursed fate, cursed myself and cursed Domo’s magic
medicine.
***
After the final public rally before the elections day, a rehearsal
meeting for the committee members had been convened by
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Professor. He had briefed us on how to conduct ourselves
the next day. He had then wished us good luck. I had called
a taxi because I wanted to go to the five-star hotel to take a
few beers and talk with some friends before heading back to
Majengo early in the morning to escort Mjumbe and Malkia
to the polling station. While I was waiting for the taxi to
arrive, Domo had followed me with a story that was hard
to comprehend. He had pulled me aside and showed me a
bottle with a brown substance inside it.
“This medicine has strong protective powers. It is meant
to protect our candidate from any harm,” he had told me in
a whisper. I knew that some people in Majengo swore on
the power of witchcraft to protect themselves from harm
and I was also aware that Domo used to dabble in herbal
medicines, although I could not vouch for their effectiveness.
It was also common knowledge that some politicians used to
visit witchdoctors just before elections to secure powers that
would enable them attract voters in order to win.
“The immediate period after voting is the most delicate.
The anxiety and fatigue can lead to high blood pressure and
heart attack. Some candidates have even died while waiting
for election results. There are also people who would want to
bewitch our candidate. This medicine is supposed to protect
our candidate from all that,” Domo had worked hard to
convince me.
“How does it work?” I asked.
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“Immediately after our candidate votes, he will go back to
his house. He will be very tired. We shall put this medicine
in his tea without him or Malkia knowing. The medicine will
help him to relax, by making him go into deep sleep and he
will not wake up for hours. Hopefully, by the time he wakes
up, the results will have been announced and we shall have
protected him from too much anxiety.”
Domo moved closer to me and whispered to my ear,
“According to Professor, they use this medicine in his
country as a magic medicine. Mjumbe will go to bed a pauper
but he will wake up a king. He will be like a new person.”
“So it’s Professor who gave this medicine to you?” I asked.
He nodded in affirmation and told me, “He said it is
supposed to be a top secret and I should not share it with
anybody else except Boychild and you. He even forbade me
from telling Malkia as the medicine would lose its powers if
a woman looked at it.”
I could not understand the things Domo was talking
about but after mentioning Professor, I had no reason to
doubt his story. I reasoned that if Professor had given it to
him, then the medicine must work. Before heading out to
the polling station with Mjumbe and Malkia, Domo passed
the medicine to Boychild since he was the official bodyguard
to Mjumbe. He therefore had unlimited access to all parts of
Mjumbe’s house. The execution of the plan would be quite
simple since Mjumbe was blind.
224
On returning to the house after voting, Malkia brought
us some tea. She then left for the kitchen to tell the cook
what to prepare for lunch. The timing could not have been
more perfect. Boychild poured some of the medicine into
Mjumbe’s tea as we continued talking. Soon after, Mjumbe
said he was feeling sleepy and Boychild escorted him to his
bedroom. Once we were sure he was asleep, Domo and I left
to find out what was happening at the polling stations and to
catch up with Chairman. Well, it now seemed that the plan
to protect Mjumbe had seriously backfired and the medicine
had almost killed him.
***
I shot through the hotel’s gate with the speed of a rich man
running away from poverty and then half sprinted towards
the main road. I flagged down a boda boda and asked the
rider to take me to the main bus terminus where we usually
boarded vehicles to our mashinani. Fifteen minutes later,
I was at the bus terminus. Good luck was on my side as I
found a bus that was almost filling up and in about half an
hour, we had left the city.
The journey to my village would take us four hours.
During the ride home, I had all the time to think about the
life I had lived in the city after leaving the village many years
back. Most of the residents of Majengo rarely travel back to
their villages unless there is a big occasion, such as a funeral.
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The only other time hustlers go to their villages is when they
are being taken back by their peers, either because they have
become very sick or they are going to be buried. Like every
other hustler, I dreamt that one day I would get rich and
return to my village in a big car and not in a hearse but alas!
I was now returning there not to show off my riches but to
hide myself and save my skin. The golden castles that I had
been building in my mind had come crumbling down like a
pack of cards. History was repeating itself. This is the same
way I had left the village a long time ago, running away from
my responsibility. I was now returning as a fugitive. Since I
left the village, I had not laid eyes on my parents or any of
my other relatives.
Three hours later, I alighted from the bus at our local
town. It was late at night and all I could do was to get a
room to sleep in until morning. I knew the town very well. I
walked to the nearest open hotel and got a room for myself. I
climbed the lonely stairs and got into bed. My mind was too
exhausted and combined with the alcohol I had consumed
the whole day, I blacked out immediately.
My sleep was restless and by six o’clock in the morning, I
was up. I took a shower and headed out of the hotel. I walked
to the main bus terminus and boarded a matatu home. The
matatu took some time to fill up since it was early in the
morning. Finally, we were on our way. One and a half hours
later, I alighted at our local shopping centre and started the
long walk home. I was surprised at how our mashinani had
226
changed. As I walked to my father’s home, I could not help
admiring what I saw on the way. The local primary school
which used to have mud walls was now built of concrete
and I could see it had been connected to the electricity grid.
The road leading to our home was now tarmacked. I could
see that many homesteads now had piped water and most
houses had also been upgraded. There were even a few
private cars parked in some homesteads and the road to our
home was quite busy. The log that we had used for years to
cross the river had been replaced by a swanky new bridge.
On the other side of the bridge, I could see that a technical
college had been constructed. It was amazing how things
had improved in our rural area. It felt like I was visiting the
area for the first time in my life.
My father received me the way you would receive a
prodigal son even though he did not slaughter a fattened
calf. My mother cried with joy and thanked God for having
brought me back home safe.
“I am glad you have returned home safe and sound. Most
of the young people leave the village only to be returned in
a coffin but you have come back on your two legs. I really
thank God for bringing you back,” my father told me as he
embraced me tightly. He had aged considerably although his
face had the same sternness as before and his voice was still
authoritative.
My mother brought for me a plastic chair and I sat next
to my father. I found him taking steaming porridge and
227
sweet potatoes for breakfast. Like everybody else in the
country, he was following the elections news on his small
radio. My mother brought me a cup of porridge and some
sweet potatoes. I walked to the tap outside to wash my hands
and then sat down to devour my mother’s first meal in many
years. My father then said, “You people of the city are very
strange. You have all the money but you are poorer than us.
You have all the power but you are the weakest in the mind
and when you elect your leaders, you poison them.”
I almost chocked on my porridge. I started coughing to
clear my throat and as usual, my mother could not help but
castigate me, “I always tell you people not to eat and talk at
the same time.”
I thought about my father’s assertion of how rich the city
people were and I almost laughed. I wished he could visit
Majengo to see how people lived in the most dehumanizing
conditions where even a toilet was a luxury. My mouth was
itching to explain to my father that the village was a far
much better place to live in than the slums of the city, but the
mention of leaders being poisoned almost made my heart to
stop. I urgently wanted to change the subject. However, my
father had other ideas and he seemed really keen to share
the raging political news with me. He updated me on the
latest developments in our area and what the people were
expecting from the new MP. He also told me about the new
market they were planning to build but some news item on
his radio caught my attention.
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“We interrupt the music to bring you updates on the
candidate who was poisoned in Majengo yesterday. The
good news is that the candidate, Mr Mjumbe, has been
elected the new MP with a majority vote and for the first
time, the Big Daddy family that has controlled politics in that
constituency since independence has lost the seat. The bad
news is that the MP-elect is still in hospital and in a coma, and
the doctors have said his condition is still critical. However,
they are optimistic he will pull through. In a related story,
police have apprehended a second suspect in connection to
the poisoning attempt. The suspect goes by the name Domo,
a local herbalist in Majengo but who has in recent days been
closely involved in the election campaign of Mr Mjumbe. A
third suspect is still at large and is suspected to have escaped
from the city. The police are hot on his trail.”
My hands were shaking so badly that the cup of porridge
slipped and crashed onto the ground. My entire body was
soaked in sweat.
“Son, is something wrong?” my father asked with
concern. “Do you need some water?”
I did not need water. What I needed at that moment was
a toilet. I needed a place where I could pass out the immense
fear that was sitting inside my stomach. I needed time to
myself. Without saying a word, I rushed to the pit latrine.
The situation in the pit latrine made my mood worse. I had
to balance three things at the same time – to hold the door
229
as it had no latch, to squat as I wrestled with my trousers,
and to worry about toilet paper! My stress levels were going
through the roof and I started having a throbbing headache.
I imagined how Majengo must be at that moment and what
people were saying.
For the first time in so many days, I thought about my
wife. I would have wanted to call her and ask her how things
were but I knew this would be a risky thing to do. I was
certain the police would trace any calls I made, which would
make it easy for them to nab me. My goose was definitely
cooked. I was sure Domo, with his legendary big mouth,
must have sung like a canary after being arrested. To make
matters worse, he was quite drunk so he must have been
spewing out everything without any breaks. I decided that
only prayers could save me.
I must have been in the toilet for a really long time
because my father started calling out my name. At first, it
had not registered in my mind that he was calling me as it
had been a long time since anyone had called me by my real
name. Everybody in Majengo called me Hustler. I heard my
mother ask, “Kwani he has fallen inside the toilet? I think
you should go and check on him.”
On hearing this, I sprang up and cleaned myself using the
soft leaves that were usually kept in village toilets to serve
the role of toilet paper. One had to check them carefully to
ensure that they did not have caterpillars. I then walked out
and assured my parents that I was okay.
230
“I think you must have eaten something bad on the
way,” my mother said with concern. “Let me prepare some
concoction that will help to clear your stomach.”
I felt guilty for making my mother feel so disturbed but
I could not explain to anyone, least of all my parents, why
my stomach was misbehaving. I sat down again and tried to
calm down. I did not want my parents to suspect anything.
“Tell us about the city. Is it raining there?” my father
asked.
He was trying to start small conversations since he had
noticed I was not okay. I wished I could tell him the city was
only raining trouble. I answered, “No, it has not rained for
some time.”
I was finding it difficult to hold a proper conversation
as my brain was on overdrive. I wanted to continue talking
but I felt an overwhelming urge to go and rest. Just then,
my mother walked out of her kitchen and brought me the
concoction she had just prepared using some bitter herbs.
As she handed the cup to me, I saw her turn towards the
gate, before announcing, “We have a visitor.”
I looked up towards the gate and what I saw made my
blood freeze. The unmistakable figure of my wife was
walking through the gate, and towards where we sat. Real
trouble had finally followed me to mashinani.
As they say, when the devil points at you, he works
overtime and when he decides to pay you a visit, he never
comes alone. I had not seen my wife for over a week, though
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I had been sending her money through M-Pesa. Ever since
my pockets started filling up, I had migrated from my home.
I had been living and sleeping in hotels or at Mjumbe’s
house. Every time my wife called, I would tell her that I
was at Mjumbe’s house, handling sensitive matters. I also
told her that our security was at risk and so we had to stay
in secure locations until the elections were over. The truth
was that I was just having fun with friends, drinking in all
manner of places and meeting women. I wondered how my
wife had known my rural home. I had never told her the
truth about my origin and I had never brought her here. She
had been nagging me for a long time about taking her to my
parents, but I was never in a hurry because I was convinced
that all she wanted was to know where she would take my
body for burial once I had kicked the bucket. I imagined
what she must have been saying in her mind all these years:
Please, Hustler, tell me where your home is or better still, take
me there. Can you imagine how embarrassing it is for a wife
to be stranded with a dead body, especially of a useless person
like you, not knowing where to dump it?
I was wondering who might have told her where to find
my rural home. An idea struck my mind that probably,
she had heard me talking to myself. I had a habit of talking
to myself when I was stressed or when I had no money. I
also, sometimes, talked in my sleep. Maybe she had taken
advantage of that to get directions to my rural home.
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On reaching where we were, my wife greeted us
respectfully. I stood up and offered her my chair. My mother
looked at my wife, then at me, her eyes full of questions.
I introduced my wife to my parents.
“Father, mother, please meet my wife,” I said flatly.
Such an introduction, coming from a celebrated MC like
myself, was really short of expectation. This was the kind
of introduction we called a ‘miniskirt introduction’ – never
long enough to cover the subject. My father looked at me and
shook his head in disbelief. Unlike my father’s reaction, my
mother was very happy. She raised her hands to the heavens
and let out a nerve-wracking ululation. She then broke
into a jig, the kind that African mothers usually perform
to welcome their future daughters-in-law when they are
brought home for the first time. My mother danced around
my wife, ululating, as my father looked on, bewildered.
In normal circumstances, this act would have alerted the
neighbours that there was a visitor in the homestead.
Women from the neighbourhood would have responded by
ululating as they headed to our homestead. This time round,
no woman responded. Instead, we heard the siren of a police
car driving fast towards our home. There and then, I knew it
was end-of-the-road for me.
I counted three police cars heading to my father’s
homestead. For some strange reason, I remembered Rasta
as he belted out Kenny Rogers’ song, Gambler. Every time
233
Rasta sang this song, he would start by saying, “Every hustler
is a born gambler.” He would then continue to sing:
If you’re gonna play the game, boy you gotta learn to play
it right.
You got to know when to hold em, know when to fold em,
know when to walk away, know when to run.
I think Kenny Rogers should have added ‘Know when to
give up …’ to his song. The OCS was in the lead as police
officers jumped out of their cars with their guns trained on
us. I was tempted to tell them to cut out the drama and take
their prize.
“Hustler, it’s you we want,” said the OCS as he swung
handcuffs.
He came towards me and I stretched out my hands for
him. After he had clipped the cuffs on, he held me by my
trousers’ belt and dragged me to one of the waiting cars.
Halfway to the car, he stopped. He turned to my wife and
said, “We have nothing against you, Madam. All we wanted
was for you to lead us to him.”
He turned to my shaken parents and spoke to them in
Kiswahili. He apologized for the rude intrusion into their
homestead and told them that I was required in the city
to help with investigations regarding the poisoned MP.
He assured my mother that I would come back once the
investigations were completed. I could not help noticing
234
the similarity of this incident to the one in which I left this
home many years back. It seemed like I would always leave
the village in unusual circumstances. The last time I had run
away after impregnating some girls, and now I was leaving
after being arrested by a dozen policemen on charges of a
very serious crime. I looked at my mother one last time and
tears welled in my eyes. I felt sorry for her. I was still thinking
about the pain I had caused my parents a second time when
I was roughly pushed into one of the cars and driven back
to the city under tight security, like a most wanted criminal.
235
From my village, I was driven straight to Majuu Police
Station. At least I managed to tick one off my bucket list.
I had finally managed to set foot in Majuu. I considered
myself lucky as all this time I had been on the run, I had
never imagined I would end up in such a police station.
The ride back to the city was bumpy and rough. My
mind was going crazy with all manner of thoughts swirling
in there. All the way, the cops said nothing to me. When we
got near the city, one of them sarcastically said I was lucky
to be one of the most famous prisoners. On reaching the
junction that separated Majengo and Majuu, I had expected
them to branch off to the left towards Majengo Police Post.
However, they proceeded to Majuu where I was handed over
to the officer on duty at the report office.
Even in my unfortunate circumstances, I was awestruck by
the surroundings of the police station. The place resembled
what you normally see in movies: big old indigenous trees,
manicured lawns and clean streets with tarmacked roads
Chapter Fifteen
236
and street lights. The report office was more presentable
than my shack in Majengo.
Two police officers were busy following the news of the
day on a television set that was mounted above the report
desk. On the screen, I could see a doctor speaking. We all
stopped in our tracks when we heard the doctor say, “The
MP-elect is still in a coma but our medical team has made a
major breakthrough in diagnosing his condition. His blood
is totally contaminated and the only way to get him back on
his feet is to replace all his blood with fresh blood so as to
flush out the deadly poison. Unfortunately, we are short of
blood and we are asking well-wishers to come to the hospital
and donate blood.”
Inwardly, I sighed with relief; at least Mjumbe was still
alive. I knew that if he died, we would be charged with
murder and that meant a long prison sentence. The officer
behind the desk pulled out a big black book. He smugly
looked at me, smiled and said, “Welcome to heaven”. He
went on to take my details. Indeed, Majuu Police Station
was like heaven compared to the hell-hole that was Majengo
Police Post where the accused were packed like sardines in
cells that had no toilets. Each cell had a plastic bucket that
served as a toilet.
Contrary to the practice at Majengo Police Post, I was
allowed to stay in my two shoes. My cell was spacious and
had a flushable toilet. It also had a bunk bed and mattresses.
237
I was also issued with a blanket and a towel. In Majengo,
the accused slept on bare floor. I thanked the heavens that
at least I could enjoy some comfort even though I was an
accused person. I had expected to find Domo and Boychild
in the cells but I was surprised when I was thrown into my
own cell.
With nothing else to do and a big burden, ironic as it
sounds, having been lifted off my shoulder, I now had a lot
of time to think, worry and pray. There is nothing as gut-
wrenching as being on the run from the law. I realized it
was better to be arrested and be thrown into the cells than
to be on the run. It is interesting how even the most wanted
criminals turn to prayer when they are cornered. They will
cry and beseech God to forgive them even when they know
they have killed people. They will also pray for impossible
miracles. I prayed that Mjumbe’s illness be miraculously
turned to sleeping sickness. I knew that sleeping sickness
was spread by flies and such insects were mainly found in
poor neighbourhoods due to the lack of proper drainage
systems. It would therefore not be impossible for the disease
to be found in Majengo. I asked God to wake Mjumbe up
as soon as possible because it was clear to me that if he slept
eternally, I would be sentenced to life imprisonment and
that was not good for a hustler.
That night was long and I barely slept a wink. At dawn,
I was rudely awakened by the officer on duty as he noisily
opened the door to my cell and announced it was morning.
238
“You have fifteen minutes to tidy up your bed and freshen
up before we serve you breakfast,” he said in a calm voice.
Breakfast consisted of a hot mug of milk tea and four
slices of bread. I could not believe it. Was I in a hotel or
a police cell? I looked at the man who had brought in my
breakfast and he smiled at me. He said, “Here we treat you
like royalty. Enjoy your breakfast.”
I was beginning to like that particular officer. He was
curiously gentle.
“Do you treat everyone like this or is it because I am a
special guest?” I asked as I munched my bread.
“There is nothing special about you except your naivety,
or probably ignorance. Anyway, we rarely get GUESTS here
so when we have one, we make up for the days we have not
worked.”
I was impressed by the way he stressed the word ‘GUESTS’.
In Majengo, accused persons are callously referred to as
mahabusu, which literally translates to a wretch. There was
something uncanny about that police officer. His face and
accent were familiar.
“You look and sound very familiar, but I cannot tell
where I have met you before,” I said, to quench my curiosity.
He laughed.
“I am married to a lady from Majengo. We met once
when you brought the body of my father-in-law for burial.”
On mentioning his wife’s name, I remembered the
funeral. Now that I had met a brother, I felt a bit relaxed. I
239
asked him whether he knew the whereabouts of Domo and
Boychild.
“Boychild is being held at the Majengo Police Post but I
am not certain where Domo could be.”
“How are things out there?” I asked him, pointing towards
the direction of Majengo with my chin. I was desperate to
know what was happening in Majengo.
“Things down there are a bit tense. Everyone is waiting
to see if the MP-elect will pull through. The residents are
also demanding to know who masterminded the poisoning
incident. We are observing things very closely because as
you know, Majengo is a tinderbox which can ignite at the
slightest provocation. Today, everyone in Majengo is going
to the national hospital to donate blood,” the officer said.
“Would you know what they are saying about me? Have
they known that I have been arrested?”
“Yes. The television stations ran it last evening on prime
time news as a main news item. They are really angry with
you because they believe you were part of the plan to kill
their candidate. The fact that you were nowhere to be found
when the saga unfolded has convinced them you knew
something. That is why you had to be booked here for your
own security. Those Majengo people can burn down the
police post if they suspect you are in there. Some say you
have been bewitched but I think it was just stupid of you to
be used in that way.”
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“Stupid? To be used...by who? What do you mean? The
revolution was a noble idea, don’t you think so?”
To my surprise, the officer broke into loud laughter. He
laughed so hard that his whole body shook.
“What is so funny, officer?” I asked.
“Soldier... Just call me Soldier. That is what they all
call me,” he said, fighting hard to compose himself. “A
revolution...eeeh? There was no revolution. What you had
was just a pipe dream.”
“What do you mean?” My confusion was now ten-fold.
What is this officer talking about? I wondered.
He laughed again but this time, he did it respectfully.
“Finish your breakfast. At nine o’clock, the OCS will
interrogate you, and you better put your cards in line.”
My body froze. The idea of interrogation scared me stiff
but I had very few choices on the table. Some few minutes to
nine o’clock, Soldier fetched me from my cell and handcuffed
me. He took me to the interrogations room. The OCS was
there waiting for me but this was a different OCS from the
one I knew. The hard and stern expressions that were his
hallmark were gone. He looked quite friendly and genuinely
concerned. He was sitting at a table watching something on
TV. When we stepped in, he lowered the volume of the TV
to barely audible.
“Welcome, Hustler,” he said with a comely smile.
He instructed Soldier to remove the handcuffs from my
hands. Soldier then walked out, leaving me with the OCS.
241
There was a tape recorder next to him although I was not
sure if it was on.
“How was your night?” he asked me.
I fearfully mumbled something. The OCS was a hated
figure in Majengo due to the rough and extreme ways in
which he dealt with the residents there. He was accused of
leading a police force that was trigger-happy; one that never
observed basic human rights as it executed its duties.
“I know you people at Majengo hate me but I also hope
that one day you will appreciate what it means to maintain
law and order in a place that harbours criminals,” he said.
“All the same, I want you to treat me as a friend. Remember
the many times I have released you from the cells for idling,
loitering and being drunk and disorderly, without taking
you to court.”
“Okay,” I replied reluctantly, thinking of the many times I
had paid bribes to get out of police cells. At that moment, the
presenter on the TV screen said something about Majengo
and both of us shifted our attention to the television. We
could see queues of people lining up to donate blood at the
national hospital. One would have mistaken it for a voting
day. There were two long queues which seemed to be defined
by class.
“The queue on the left comprises the residents of Majuu.
You can tell it from their neat suits, fancy dresses and well-
polished shoes. It’s funny that today, they have joined the
people of Majengo to help a candidate from Majengo,” the
OCS said with a chuckle.
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“The residents of Majengo also dress well,” I said in
protest.
“You have eyes but you don’t see. No wonder you fellows
fell so easily for the tricks of that political con man. These
people are all lining up to donate blood. Majengo and Majuu
are today united for the same purpose, which is to save their
member of parliament. Isn’t this the revolution that you
fellows were fighting for?”
“You cannot understand the revolution if you were not
part of it,” I said indignantly.
“Of course I do! I didn’t go to the university to study
rumour mongering. I know what a revolution is. Which
revolution does not spill blood? Today, the blood of peasants
will mix with the blood of royalty,” he said, laughing
contemptuously.
The discussion could have gone on and on but then I
noticed something odd on the TV. One of the queues was
moving quite fast while the other one moved too slowly. I
pointed out this to the OCS.
“Well, there can only be one answer to that,” he said with
some arrogance.
“And that is...?” I asked.
“The Majengo queue is not moving as fast because the
people are being tested for dangerous diseases and pathogens
before they can donate blood,” he said in a matter-of-fact
manner. I wondered how he would know that from his
office.
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“And what diseases and pathogens are those?” I asked
curiously.
“HIV AIDS, tuberculosis, malaria, syphilis...all kinds of
dangerous diseases. You never know what type of pathogens
are breeding in that slum. These people could infect the MP-
elect with terrible diseases...”
It was my turn to laugh. I asked him, “You want to tell me
the residents of Majuu do not have any diseases?”
“They could have but their diseases are not communicable.
Theirs are lifestyle diseases such as obesity and hypertension.
Anyway, enough of this talk. Let us go back to what brought
us here,” the OCS said with a feigned sternness. “You were
brought here yesterday and put in a cell that is cleaner than
your own house. We fed you better than you have ever been
fed in your life. Look at this floor! Do you think anyone can
contract a disease from here? This is not a place for petty
thieves and the drunk and disorderly. This is a place for
people who commit white collar crimes. Think twice before
making silly allegations against the respectable people of
Majuu!”
The OCS smiled at me. He must have remembered that
this was meant to be a friendly chat.
His outburst reminded me of an episode some years back
when one of the common revellers at Pondamali had his
expectant wife in hospital and she needed blood. We were
requested, as his friends, to go to the hospital to donate
blood. The running joke in the slum was that most of his
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friends had more alcohol flowing through their veins than
blood.
“OCS, you mentioned something about having been at
the university. How long were you there?” I asked for the
sake of bringing back our conversation to friendly terms.
“I was there for four years.”
“Were you working there as a security officer?” I asked
with a smile.
“No, you cockroach! I was there as a student of Political
Science! You think my head is empty like yours?”
“How can a graduate work as a policeman?” I asked in
disbelief.
He broke into a laughter and said, “That is the problem
with you, people of Majengo. One would think you live in
caves. These days even a good thief needs to have a degree.
No wonder you fell into the trap so easily.”
“Which trap?” I asked.
He ignored my question and smiled at me. I could tell we
were friends again. He then put on a serious face and said,
“This is not an interrogation, Hustler. I have collected all the
evidence I need to nail the culprits in this case. However, I
want to hear your side of the story so that I can reconcile the
facts I have collected.”
My thoughts were still on Mjumbe. I was still hoping for
a miracle so that he does not die.
“What do you think will happen? Do you think he will
recover?” I asked with a trembling voice.
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He smacked his lips and said, “Don’t worry. Mjumbe is
not going to die. You can take that to the bank. Once he
receives that blue blood from the people of Majuu, he will be
as new as before. And as you have said, blood is thicker than
water. You you elected as a Majengo representative will be as
blue as Big Daddy IV.”
The OCS laughed so hard I almost joined him. Something
he had said in that statement bothered me. It seemed he had
uncovered more than he was telling me. I wanted to give
him my side of the story but I did not trust him. I decided
to listen to him more and do less talking. That way, I would
have a better insight of what he knew.
“OCS, for sure I know nothing about what transpired on
that day. I am in the dark,” I said, feigning ignorance.
He did not push me. He told me he would talk to me the
next day to see if I was ready to own up.
“There will be a lot of prayers in Majengo tonight. Every
church will hold a night vigil as they pray for their MP to
experience a miracle of healing. You better join them in
spirit,” he told me before I was taken back to the cell.
I followed his advice and prayed the whole night. I prayed
that Mjumbe wakes up from his coma. I also prayed that
after he wakes up, he will have a soft heart to listen to my
side of the story.
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I was woken up by the frantic voice of Soldier and the
stamping of boots.
“Wake up, lazy bones! This is not a fattening camp!”
I woke up confused.
“Don’t tell me it is morning already,” I growled.
“Oh yes, it is a brand new day. Let’s hope it’s going to be
your day.”
Soldier was holding a thermos flask of tea and a plate
with slices of bread on it.
I took the thermos flask and the bread. It had been a long
night and I had barely slept. I had been disturbed by morbid
thoughts of death the whole night, and it was not until the
wee hours of the morning that I had managed to catch some
sleep. Soldier left me taking my breakfast. After finishing,
I lay on the bed staring up and thinking about the bleak
future that awaited me. It was strange how in a few days I
had fallen from cloud nine to the gates of hell. I was now
between a rock and a hard place. If Mjumbe died, I would
face a life imprisonment and if he survived, I would face
Chapter Sixteen
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charges of attempted murder. I was still thinking about my
fate when Soldier hurriedly came back to my cell with lots of
excitement.
“Wake up and put on your eyes. There is a miracle for
you to see!” he said breathlessly.
“What is cooking? Has Jesus come back?” I asked,
rubbing my eyes.
“No, he hasn’t. However, he has sent his representative,”
he said with a giggle.
I dug deep into his eyes and although I could read his
excitement, I was unable to tell why he was so happy.
“What is it, Soldier?” I asked.
He shook his head and said, “I know you won’t believe it
but you are off the hook.”
I sprang to my feet and grabbed his shirt. “What do you
mean?”
He shook his head again and blew out his cheeks. “If I
tell it to you, you will not believe me. I prefer you come and
watch it for yourself.”
“Why don’t you tell me what it is, Soldier?” I pleaded. “I
am in no mood for pranks.”
“Aaaah, Hustler. You ask too many questions! Don’t
you trust what I’m telling you? The news I wanted you to
watch on TV must be over,” Soldier said in a disappointed
tone. He pulled out his phone and seemed to be looking for
something in it. After a short moment, he looked up and
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said, “I know I shouldn’t be doing this but I feel sorry for
you. I will leave this phone with you. Watch that video and
see what has just happened. However, you must promise
you will not call anyone after you have finished watching the
video as doing so could get me into serious trouble.”
“I promise,” I said.
I was now very eager to see what had just happened. After
handing over his phone to me, Soldier walked out and locked
my cell behind him. The video was on YouTube and I could
see it had just been uploaded. The video showed a team of
doctors talking to journalists in front of cameras. They were
all wearing smiles like they had just discovered the cure for
the deadliest disease on the Earth. My heart was now racing
with excitement. One of the doctors came forward and took
the microphone. He reported that ‘the operation’ had been a
success. He then added, “After the operation, the patient was
wheeled back to the ward and after one hour, he regained
consciousness. In an unprecedented occurrence, the patient,
who has been blind for years, regained his sight. Medically,
we cannot explain this turn of events but we are happy for
the patient. We shall continue to monitor the patient and
update the public on the same.”
That was the last thing I saw before collapsing. When I
regained consciousness, I was lying on the bed in my cell and
Soldier was standing over me. On seeing that I had regained
my consciousness, he smiled at me and said, “Welcome
back, buddy! For a moment, you scared the hell out of me.
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Luckily for you, we don’t need a blood transfusion; we only
need to work on your brain.”
“A brain transplant would do,” I retorted in jest.
I was fighting hard to recollect what had just transpired.
I was sweating profusely even though I was not wearing a
shirt.
“You don’t need a new brain. All we need to do is to clean
the one you already have, then we teach you how to use it!”
I laughed, despite my confusion, and asked him, “Tell
me, has our MP left the hospital?”
Soldier chuckled. “Your MP, you say? If I were you, I
would talk of their MP.”
“What do you mean?”
“He who pays the piper calls the tune, so they say. The
people who own your MP are the same people who brought
him back to life. Why do you think the residents of Majuu
were queuing at the hospital to give him their blood?
Somebody has been working extremely hard to ensure your
Mjumbe becomes king.”
“What are you talking about, Soldier? We, the people
of Majengo, voted for Mjumbe! I know this as I was right
at the centre of his campaign all the way from the start,” I
protested.
“That’s what you think, Hustler. When I tell you that
your brain does not work well, you think I am insulting you.
Your Majengo boy now has blue blood running through his
veins!”
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I clenched my fists in anger. This officer could not
understand what I was trying to tell him. How did he imagine
he knew the current politics of Majengo better than I did?
“That CANNOT be true! You must be hallucinating,
Soldier.”
Soldier laughed.
“Hustler, a lot has happened behind the scenes without
your knowledge and the golden boy is no longer yours. Do
you know who the first person to donate blood for him was?”
“No.”
“Big Daddy III. And do you know who the lead doctor
was in this whole saga?”
“No. Who was it?”
“Dr Malkia. She has been in charge of Mjumbe’s treatment
from the beginning to this very moment.”
“There is nothing wrong with that! She is a doctor, too,” I
protested. “And remember, she’s Mjumbe’s wife...”
“Yes, she is. But do you know what her area of speciality
is? She is a specialist in ophthalmology! How does that relate
to what Mjumbe was suffering from? Poisoning...”
“What are you driving at?”
“I am not driving at anything. I am only trying to open
your eyes. The OCS will be here in the evening for another
round of interrogation. Think about what I have told you
but do not tell him that I have been telling you stuff.” Soldier
winked at me and left.
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I was now more confused than before. What exactly was
Soldier trying to tell me? I wondered whether there were
developments I was not aware of. I pondered over every
single detail of the campaign from the first meeting that
Professor held with us. Some things started to appear odd,
such as the money Professor and Malkia had been dishing
out to me. However, I could not see how that was related to
my current predicament.
***
That evening, I was expecting to be taken to the interrogations
room but I was surprised to see the OCS walk into my cell.
The officer on duty was carrying for him a plastic chair
which he sat on while I sat on the bed.
“I have spoken to all the other members of your campaign
committee. The only person I have not talked to is the wife
of the victim. I would want to ask her how you all came
together to plan this conspiracy,” the OCS said and I thought
he was keen to see how I would react.
“We did not plan any conspiracy. We were all working
hard to get Mjumbe elected. Malkia was one of us...” I said.
“Haa! And you expect me to believe that? Why did
Malkia get engaged to Mjumbe so fast? In politics, there
are no coincidences! The whole thing seemed to have been
well calculated by your committee and you all endorsed it
without a whimper. I understand that Mjumbe did not even
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want a wife but you all forced him to marry. How much did
Malkia pay you?”
I flinched. I knew that only the truth could set me free. I
was tempted to spill the beans but something was holding
me back. Maybe it was my general mistrust of police officers.
I decided to tell him the truth but in piecemeal. That way, I
would be able to tell what was in store for me.
“OCS, I have a lot I can tell you but I need reassurance.
What do you intend to do with me?”
It was a sincere question.
“Hustler, I already told you that this is not an interrogation.
It is a friendly chat. You can trust me, just like I trust you. I
know this is not your game. I have already collected enough
evidence to build a good case against all of you. But like I
mentioned to you yesterday, there are some facts that I want
to verify. There is one card that is missing in this whole
puzzle and I believe the person holding that card is Malkia.”
The OCS paused and planted his steely eyes on me. In
that pose, he reminded me of a cobra that was ready to strike.
“When we searched Mjumbe’s house, we found some
poison in a bottle. We think that this was the poison that was
used on Mjumbe. We then took the bottle to the government
chemist for analysis. The results show that the bottle
contained a very lethal poison. The government chemist has
confirmed that one drop of that poison is enough to kill an
elephant. That raises some questions and the main one is,
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How did Mjumbe survive? For an investigator, this tells me
that something does not add up in this whole saga.”
I could not hold myself any more. Although I did not
trust the OCS, I decided to confess everything. I told him
the whole story and how Professor gave Domo the magic
powder.
“Malkia did not know anything; she was not supposed to
know. How would she have been part of the conspiracy?” I
asked, more to myself than to the OCS.
His face brightened and he nodded, like someone who
had struck gold.
“So, it means there were two poisons; the one we found
and which was a liquid, and a powdery one, which is what
Domo had. Malkia must have known about your magic
powder. She also must have known it was harmless. This
means she must be the one who administered the liquid
substance which was a lethal poison.”
“How do you know she knew about the magic powder
Professor gave to Domo? Who could have told her?”
“Allow me to ignore that question for now. Do not for
a minute assume you even know 10% of who Malkia really
is. She is a very cunning woman and has been so since
her days at the university. Malkia tasted high life while at
the university as she was dating older men who had deep
pockets. She would change them the way you change your
clothes. In Majengo, she pretended to be a saint but at the
university, she was partying and clubbing every night. It is
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at the university where she fell in love with the power that
big money brings and she made sure she ended up getting
married in royalty. Her steps were all calculated, contrary to
what that young man, Mjumbe, thinks.”
“I cannot believe this,” I said.
The OCS ignored me and continued, “Malkia knew that
Mjumbe had gone blind after taking chang’aa that had been
laced with methanol. Methanol is a chemical that causes
blindness but there is a small window for recovery. In case the
optic nerves are not completely damaged, then the problem
can be resolved through a very expensive operation. Malkia
knew all this since she’s an ophthalmologist. She only needed
to identify a team of good doctors to work on Mjumbe and his
sight would be regained. The coma must have been induced
to enable the doctors undertake the operation. Everything
was stage-managed by Malkia, including the blood donation
exercise.”
“Unbelievable,” I whispered.
“Unbelievable? Do you know where Malkia has been all
this time?”
“At the hospital, giving moral support to Mjumbe. I
suppose ...”
The OCS waved his forefinger at me and said, “The
operation took eight hours and by the time it was over, your
candidate had a set of new eyes. Now he will look at the
revolution with very different eyes.”
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The last sentence sent shivers down my spine. Although
I was not fully convinced, I was starting to see some truth in
the OCS’s story. I felt angry after realizing that I had been
played by Malkia and Professor. I was enraged.
“Bastards! How could they do this to me! I trusted them.
They…”
“Let it be!” the OCS hissed at me. “This is not Majengo
where you can curse and shout anyhow. Do you hear any
noise here? Just sleep and pray that the real culprits are
nailed by the courts, otherwise you could end up being the
fall guy...collateral damage. The people you were working
with have very deep political connections and even deeper
pockets.”
I could not miss the veiled threat. I prayed the whole
night.
***
The homecoming of Mjumbe in Majengo was quite a
spectacle. It was the most colourful event I had ever witnessed
in Majengo. The roads had been swept clean, potholes had
been filled and the national flag was hanging on all the shops.
All businesses had been closed and policemen lined up along
the roads to provide security. The residents of Majengo sang
and danced like there was no tomorrow. Majengo was fully
prepared to receive their hero. They had only heard about
homecomings but they had never hosted one. It was a dream
come true for most of them.
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As I stared at the TV screen in the interrogations room
where I was sitting with the OCS, all I could see was a sea of
people. It looked like everyone was carrying something in
their hands. I could see drums, trumpets, horns, whistles,
vuvuzelas, soda bottles, sufurias and so on.
Unlike other days, I was brought to the interrogations
room from my cell without handcuffs. Soldier had walked
with me like I was his colleague. That convinced me that
I was no longer considered a dangerous criminal. The
environment at the police station was very friendly to me. I
wondered why the OCS was not at Majengo since the event
happening there was quite big.
“I thought such a major event needed your attention?”
The OCS shook his head emphatically.
“Not exactly...my officers are there. I am monitoring the
situation from here. Besides, I know better than to gate-
crash at a party where I am not wanted,” he said.
As we watched the homecoming event on television,
I cursed politics and my naivety. Painful memories filled
my mind when I remembered how eagerly I had waited for
this day. I had meticulously planned that I would be right
at the centre of the homecoming party, yet here I was, not
even in the tail cabin of the revolution train. I remembered
a popular verse in the Bible which says the first shall be the
last and the last shall be the first. I had chosen a front seat
but I had been thrown out of the wedding feast. At the start
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I had been presented as one of the owners of the revolution
but now I was an outsider.
The emotions of regret were so painful that I craved
a strong drink to dull them. I turned to the OCS and like
someone in a hypnotic state, I asked, “Bwana OCS, is it
possible for me to get a shot of chang’aa or something equally
strong, like whisky? The news is quite disturbing for me.”
“What? You are asking me for chang’aa? Do not bring
your slum mentality here! You have quite a nerve to be
talking to me like that. Kijana, is your brain okay?”
I apologized profusely and kept quiet.
The convoy finally came into view. The boda boda riders
led the way. Every motorbike had a passenger who was
waving either a twig or a miniature national flag. A few of
them had large pieces of cloth with the picture of Mjumbe
printed on them. The Ballot Revolution had been successful
and the lucky ones who had managed to cross to the
Promised Land safely were now making their triumphant
entry into Majengo. The cars started to arrive. A motorcade
of shinny cars carrying dignitaries from Majuu was the first
to arrive. This was quite odd. All through the campaign, we
were fighting the politicians from Majuu as our main enemy!
How ironical that now they were at the high table while I
was languishing in a police cell in the enemy territory. This
was incomprehensible to me. It felt like a bad dream.
The limousine carrying the MP-elect was in the middle
of the motorcade. The sunroof opened and his head popped
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out. Malkia’s head appeared next. There was a deafening
applause as he and Malkia waved to the ecstatic lot of people
who were lining the main streets of Majengo.
I was brought back from my trance-like gaze at the TV
screen by the OCS’s question, “What happened to the slogan,
‘Up, Up, Majengo’? I do not hear anything like it today from
the people.”
I knew the OCS was being sarcastic. I kept quiet. I had
swallowed enough humiliation to last me a lifetime and
nothing else mattered now. All that I had worked hard for had
gone down the drain and I was watching my achievements
as an outsider. This was hard to accept.
“Tell me, Hustler. Do you have any feelings of nostalgia?”
The OCS asked to break the uncomfortable silence. He could
tell that there was a lot going through my mind at that time.
This time, I could not hold back.
“Yes. When I look at this celebration – the people, the
convoy, the excitement … I wish I were there. It reminds me
that just two weeks ago, I was right at the centre of that gravy
train. I was sitting in the driver’s cabin, directing the driver
on what to do and when to change gears. My main fear
then was to be relegated to the middle carriages or worse,
the last carriage where firewood is kept. Today, I would give
anything to be in that last carriage with the firewood!”
The OCS patted my back in consolation.
“The Ballot Revolution was a noble idea but you people
forgot that power has its owners. Many times I have been
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invited to the Good Knight Golf Club where the owners of
power meet to socialize. When they invite you to their table,
always remember that this is a members-only establishment,
so you don’t behave as if you belong there. Be cunning. Just
take your food and drinks without forgetting that you are
just a guest. Do not offer information or services that you
have not been asked to provide. Always know your place at
that table. Like the mythical Icarus, you and your hustler
friends flew too close to the sun and you got fried.”
To me, the OCS was now speaking Greek. I wanted to ask
him to explain what he was saying but the events showing on
the TV screen were distracting my attention.
The convoy had now reached the empty space near the
quarry. What I saw next left me mesmerised. The place had
changed. It was littered with tents. Today, everyone was a
guest. There were giant TV screens, strategically mounted
for those who could not see what was going on at the dais.
The entire space was packed to capacity with anxious people
waiting for the revolution plane to land with its goodies.
The main dais was occupied by key people from the two
turfs. This had never been witnessed before. Just two weeks
ago, it was unimaginable that the residents of Majengo and
Majuu would one day sit together at the same table as equals.
The entourage from Majengo consisted of the remaining
members of the campaign committee and all the members
of the Council of Elders who were dressed in neatly pressed
suits and not their usual monkey skins and hats decorated
260
with chicken feathers. I could make out the unmistakable
figure of Chairman wearing a big smile, obviously very
contented with what he was seeing. Mama Chama donned
a flowery dress and she looked every inch the leader of
the women. Jogoo was there too, looking tough and very
much in his own element. Behind them were the religious
representatives from Majengo led by Apostle Jonah. The
bishops, pastors, apostles and prophets were all dressed
elegantly in their usual immaculate suits or robes. On the
left side sat the nobles from Majuu. They were there in their
expensive suits.
The focal point of the dais was the ‘high table’ where
Mjumbe was sitting, flanked by Malkia who looked every
inch the queen bee. Next to them was the outgoing MP, Big
Daddy III, and his wife. Mzito was now the MC. Missing
in action was Hustler and the other two members of the
‘Trinity’, and the OCS noted this and said in jest, “One for
all, all for one, joined together by naivety, and now none of
them is at the party. That’s what you get when as an amateur,
you jump into the deep end of the pool without your floaters.
My friend, politics is not a game for amateurs. I would call
you the three blind mice. Do you know the song about the
three blind mice?”
His words hurt. I ignored him and concentrated on the
drama going on in Majengo. Mzito had filled my big shoes
with relish. As a showman, he did not disappoint. Dressed
in a colourful tuxedo and now owning a well-oiled tongue,
he directed the orchestra with the skill of one who had been
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well trained in the art. His language was polished and every
word that came out of his mouth was carefully curated and
marinated with the right spices.
The next thing that surprised me was that the slogan of
the revolution had changed. Mzito started by shouting, “A
new beginning,” and the crowd roared back, “Together as
one.” That sealed it. Majengo had changed. This was a new
entity all together.
Apostle Jonah was called to lead the people in prayer. The
apostle requested everyone to stand up and be quiet. He led
the crowd in a lengthy prayer that was packed with fervour
and emotion. He offered thanksgiving to God for the victory
in the elections, and for the bright future that the residents
of Majengo now faced. He also thanked God for the many
blessings they had received over the years. After the prayer
came the big moment which most residents of Majengo
could never have imagined.
Big Daddy III came forward and took to the stand. Like
a good sportsman, he was gracious enough to accept his
defeat. He began by accepting the will of the people.
“I am not here to accept defeat; I am here to acknowledge
the will of the people. The people have spoken and their
voice is supreme.”
His last words were swallowed up by the thunderous
clapping and cacophony of the noises that followed. He then
continued.
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“This is a historic victory because in it we are all winners.
In a democracy, the majority have their way and the minority
have their say, and everyone is happy. The naysayers are the
losers here, those who said it was not possible to unite our
people. For many years, they have taken advantage of the
fake iron curtain that had divided us. Now that the iron
curtain has been pulled down, they have no grave to dance
on any more because the problem is over.”
More applause followed.
“When I saw Majengo and Majuu lining up to donate
blood for our MP-elect, I knew that we had struck the right
note. With this spirit, there will be a peaceful coexistence for
we have learnt that we all need one another.”
The outgoing MP stretched out his hand and his wife
handed him a leather bag. He unzipped the bag and produced
a big gold-plated key.
“As I hand over the mantle to my successor, I want to
say that a good deed deserves another. Today, we have been
hosted here in Majengo and we would like to request for the
honour of hosting our MP in Majuu too. This key is for his
new residence, complete with servants, and all utilities paid
for for the next five years.”
The crowd was ecstatic. Drum beats, trumpet blasts and
whistling filled the air. Big Daddy III invited the MP-elect to
come forward together with Malkia. He then asked the elders
from Majuu to come forward and help him to officially hand
over the key to the new MP. The air was filled with ululations
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as Mjumbe received the golden key. Big Daddy III shook his
hand and concluded, “Welcome home, Mheshimiwa.”
I remembered the day we held our first rally to introduce
the Ballot Revolution. I remembered Headmaster talking
about a master key. Was this it? I wondered.
When the handover ceremony was over, Mzito took the
microphone and introduced the next item on the agenda.
“Ladies and gentlemen, before I invite our chief guest, I
want to introduce a very special person without whose help
we could not have achieved what we are celebrating today.
It’s a pity that he cannot be here with us in person but thanks
to technology, he is able to give us a few words of wisdom.”
All eyes turned to the giant screens and after a while an
image appeared. It was Professor!
“There goes the master planner, the villain in the pack,”
the OCS said with a sneer.
“What do you mean?”
“I prefer you hear it from him, not from me.”
Professor looked happy and unusually presentable. He
had trimmed his beard and taken a haircut. His trade mark
kitenge shirt and the faded jeans were gone and he now
donned an expensive three-piece suit. He was seated in what
looked like a high-end bar and there was a glass of red wine
on the counter. He flashed a big smile, waved to the crowd
and his voice boomed through the speakers.
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“I salute you all and tender my congratulations to your
new MP. It’s a pity that I could not be with you on this
historic moment which I believe is your day as the people
of Majengo. However, I draw a lot of satisfaction in seeing
all of you happy and your faces shining with the hope of
a bright future. The Ballot Revolution belonged to you and
you deserve to fully enjoy its fruits. I had to leave suddenly to
attend a conference abroad; a conference on democracy and
elections in sub-Saharan Africa. I hope to return one day to
find a new Majengo. I salute you all. It was a pleasure doing
business with you.”
The people clapped as others blew kisses to the figure on
the screen. Professor was now considered the greatest friend
of Majengo. I was sure the people would not hesitate to give
him the keys to the city if he was to return.
“That is the man who planned this whole pyramid
scheme. History will call him the political genius of the
decade; a man who was in the right place at the right time
and with the right people. He fed his ideas to everyone and
they all swallowed it hook, line and sinker. Here is a schemer
with the neck of a giraffe, the wisdom of an owl, the patience
of a vulture and the nose for good business. A swindler who
was as cunning as a fox and as slippery as a fish in water,
a real professor of politics,” the OCS said with a note of
finality. I looked at his facial expressions and I was surprised
to see that he was as serious as a sharpened knife.
“Are you speaking in tongues?” I asked.
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“No. I am trying to open your eyes. Politics, just like my
profession, is a game for those with good eyes. You need
to see far, like a giraffe. You need the eyes of a mole to see
underground and you must see underwater like a fish. You
need the eyes of an eagle to see from above, and of course the
eyes of an owl to see clearly at night. Professor had all these
eyes and that is why he was such a cool operative. He worked
underground like a sly serpent until he brought all the sheep
together, promising to protect all of you from the big bad
wolf, only to sell you to the lion.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“You will only understand this if they agree to release the
recordings of the telephone conversations between Professor
and Big Daddy III.”
“Huh?” I was lost for words.
“Professor should have studied engineering and not
Political Science. He assembled a perfect campaign machine
and used all the parts to achieve his objectives. He controlled
all of you like marionettes. I bet a lot of money changed
hands and he must have flown away with hundreds of
millions, if not billions. To him, Majengo was neither a
tourist attraction nor a slum; it was a very healthy cash cow.
He was cunning enough to sell the idea of the revolution to
the people of Majengo. He had then forced Big Daddy III
to the negotiating table and made a deal. The ‘Trinity’ are
the fall guys while he is in France sipping champagne at the
Ritz.”
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The whole story was now starting to unfold before my
eyes. There was no way the OCS would have created such a
story just to trap me. The things he was telling me seemed to
coincide very well with what had been going on during the
campaign.
“Nothing happens in Majengo that escapes my ears. This
is why I have kept my job for this long. Intelligence gathering
is my speciality. I have eyes and ears in every corner of
Majengo. I get intelligence briefs from my informers every
morning.”
The OCS threw a quick glance at his watch and resumed
his storytelling.
“This was a tight game involving three players: Professor,
Malkia and Big Daddy III. The rest of you, including
Mjumbe, were just pawns in the game. Malkia is a very
ambitious woman. She has always nursed the idea of one
day taking over leadership from the Big Daddy family.
That woman loves power and big money. She must have
been the one who hired Professor to come up with a great
strategy to ensure she realized her dream of becoming an
MP. Unknown to Malkia, Professor was a real mercenary
and he decided to eat from both sides. Malkia bankrolled
the Ballot Revolution thinking that she would be the flag
bearer but Professor changed the cards under the table. He
secretly made an offer to Big Daddy III and forced him to
the negotiating table. He must have told the incumbent that
the revolution train had already left the station and it was
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too late to stop it. At best, what Big Daddy III could do was
to derail the train. Professor promised that he would identify
a weak flag bearer and with that, he took a loaded briefcase
home. When Mjumbe was made the flag bearer, Big Daddy
III saw that Professor had kept his part of the bargain and
thought that he was out of the woods. What he didn’t know
was that by making Mjumbe the flag bearer, Professor had
killed two birds with one stone. He had satisfied Big Daddy
III and he now had control over Malkia. It must have been
easy to handle Malkia. Professor must have convinced her
that a woman candidate was not sellable to the Majengo
electorate, hence the choice of Mjumbe. He then convinced
her that there were many ways to kill a cat. All she needed
to do was to get married to Mjumbe and rule through proxy
since Mjumbe was blind. Malkia bought the idea and that
explains why, out of the blues, she started calling Mjumbe
frequently. Although their love had faded away many years
ago, Mjumbe still had a soft spot for her. Once the spark
was reignited, Professor secretly introduced the talk about
Mjumbe needing a wife.”
The OCS paused. The revelations he was making were
shocking to me.
“The engagement between Mjumbe and Malkia came
as a big shocker to Big Daddy III. He had already lost a lot
of ground through the defection of Jogoo who had been
bought by Malkia. Without Jogoo, Big Daddy III knew that
he could not recover the lost ground in Majengo. He could
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not imagine that the seat would be snatched away from him
right under his nose. Desperation led him to use his last card
– assassination.”
“What? Are you saying that Big Daddy III hired the two
gunmen who tried to kill Mjumbe?” I asked.
“No. That one was a stage-managed ploy planned by
Professor and executed by Jogoo; a public relations exercise
whose aim was to whip the emotions of the residents of
Majengo and win sympathy votes for Mjumbe. I am talking
about the poisoning attempt. From the look of things, Big
Daddy III must have talked to Professor with a promise that
he would pay him handsomely if he promised to organize
for Mjumbe to be eliminated. He provided Professor with
the lethal poison that was supposed to be given to Mjumbe.
And for that, Professor got paid some more millions by Big
Daddy III. Professor then went back to Malkia. He sold the
information to her for a very high fee. The two had been
very cautious up to this point. They never met in person but
operated through secret telephone lines. The matter at hand
was serious and they had one meeting in a certain city hotel.
Professor needed to pass on the poison to Malkia personally.
She in turn paid Professor another few millions. That man
was really harvesting money from both sides! Professor then
went ahead and prepared a harmless compound just in case
the Big Daddy III intelligence was following up secretly to
ascertain that he was fulfilling his end of the bargain. It is
this harmless substance which he passed on to your friend,
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Domo. After this, Professor’s work in Majengo was done.
Before anyone could find out his whereabouts, and in the
confusion of the last minute campaign, he left the country.”
“Meticulous planning, I must say. Professor must be a
real professional!” Despite my circumstances, I was very
impressed by Professor’s workmanship.
“It is at this juncture that Malkia took control of ‘flight
Ballot Revolution’ and steered it at her own pace and will.
Malkia never used the lethal poison. Instead, she sedated
the MP-elect and when she was sure the stage was set, she
called Big Daddy III and blackmailed him. She told him that
she knew that he was the man behind the poisoning and
threatened to expose him in case he refused to dance to her
tune. However, she assured him that all would be fine if he
cooperated with her in her plans. Big Daddy III knew he had
run out of cards. Like a sharp player, he knew he had been
outsmarted but there was still the chance that he could live
to fight another day.”
The whole story, as narrated by the OCS, sounded like
a plot for a great thriller movie. My eyes bulged out in
disbelief and shock. It was unbelievable that all these games
were being played and we had no clue about it, yet we were
priding ourselves with being at the centre of things. I could
now see what Soldier was driving at the previous day.
“The saddest part of the story is that everyone is a winner
except Hustler and his ilk! Malkia is the power behind the
throne, Big Daddy III is happy that the hoi polloi have not
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taken over power and Majengo is contented that one of their
own is in parliament. But the biggest winner is definitely
Professor. As you can see, he has pocketed millions of
shillings and is now eating life with the biggest spoon in
Paris.”
The OCS fished out his mobile phone from his pocket
and started to scroll through it. A few minutes later, he
said, “Just in case you don’t believe, I have here proof of
what I have just told you. Politics is a game of deep secrets.
Sometimes you need to go back many years to retrieve these
secrets. Your Malkia is no queen; she’s a very sly woman. I
have her full dossier and you better believe me when I tell
you she’s worse than a serpent.”
The OCS paused and showed me a photo on his phone.
“Voters forget but the Internet never forgets. Here is your
Malkia in her younger days. She’s with the same man you
call Professor somewhere at the coast enjoying themselves.
This is a Facebook account that was opened using a fake
name but you can see that is Professor in the picture. The
similarity is undeniable.”
I looked at the photo of the two lovebirds. It was the
picture of Malkia and Professor some years back. I could
hardly believe my eyes.
“OCS, how did you manage to get all these?” I asked in a
muffled voice.
He gave a beaming smile; the kind you give to yourself in
the mirror after you have achieved a remarkable feat.
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“When Professor started frequenting Majengo, I decided
to investigate who he really was. In the beginning, I thought
he was there to sell drugs but I found out that was not the case.
It is true that he holds a BA in Political Science but he did
not complete his master’s degree. He was kicked out of the
university for stealing an examination. He is not a professor
of Political Science; he is a political con man. At best, he is a
mercenary and a professional power broker. He was a crafty
player who kept his cards close to his chest. It was difficult
to smoke him out until I found a chink. As they say, no
crime is perfect and everyone makes a mistake. Like all good
criminals, Professor had a woman and it is this woman who
led me straight to his lair. I decided that if I was to nab him,
I had to use that woman. I got some of my men to watch her
movements but we never went near her for we did not want
to arouse the quarry. Professor and Big Daddy III never met.
This woman is the one who acted as the courier. After the
poisoning saga, I sent my men to go and arrest Professor
but when they got to the woman’s house, he was not there.
We searched her house and found traces of the compound
that professor had given to Domo. We immediately arrested
the woman and she confessed everything. Since she acted as
the middle-woman in all the deals, she knew all the secrets.
Professor always kept her abreast of what was happening.
The only thing he did not tell her was that he would sneak
out of the country once the job was done.”
I kept silent for a while as I chewed it over.
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“Sir, with all due respect, I thought you were interrogating
me because you wanted to build a good case. Why then are
you telling me all these things?”
The OCS laughed and said, “I have a gut feeling that there
won’t be any case. Besides, even if you started yapping about
what I have told you, nobody would believe you. It would be
your word against the word of an OCS who has more dirt on
all these people than you can imagine. And they know it.”
Just then, Mjumbe stood up to give his maiden speech.
“What a pity!” the OCS said as we watched Mjumbe step
forward. “In this man, Majengo had the perfect candidate if
only he had remained the way he was; a bachelor and blind.
History will call him the best MP that Majengo never had.
Now he is a different man.”
Mjumbe began by thanking everyone, especially Big
Daddy III, and all the generous neighbours of Majuu.
“We all saw what happened at the hospital when we
put aside our political differences to save life. That gesture
introduced the kind of spirit that will be the hallmark of
my administration. I am promising collaboration and
cooperation between us and our good neighbours.”
Mjumbe thanked Big Daddy III for handing over
leadership peacefully and for the generous gesture of the
new house.
“The peaceful transition of leadership and the generous
gesture are evidence that all the suspicion that has existed
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between us was unwarranted. True to our slogan, ‘A new
beginning, together as one’, we shall scale greater heights
together.”
He then addressed the people of Majengo, calling them
the salt of the earth and the sunshine of tomorrow.
“We have come from far and we are going far. The
dreams and aspirations of our hearts will translate to
happiness, development and progress. Our new slogan, ‘A
new beginning, together as one’, reflects our new spirit. The
Ballot Revolution has proved that there is indeed a lot of
potential when people decide to unite behind a great cause.
Our creative brains and strong hearts are our wealth. This
becomes our turning point, for we have now realized how
powerful we are as a united people. Long live the Ballot
Revolution.”
He did not forget to thank the people who had done the
donkey work.
“I shall forever be grateful to all the people who have
worked tirelessly to make this dream a reality. Without their
help, I would not be standing here today. Thanks to Professor
in absentia, the man who transformed our potential energy
into reality. Thanks to Headmaster, my mentor and guide.
Thanks to Chairman, Mzito, Mzee Kobe and the Council
of Elders. And to Apostle Jonah, all the religious leaders,
Mama Chama and all the women and men of Majengo, I
can only say, may God bless you all. I cannot forget a very
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important group of people in this bloodless revolution, the
Hustler Kingdom, our gallant soldiers, asanteni sana!”
“What about me?” I whispered loudly.
The OCS chuckled and punched me lightly on the thigh.
“Take heart, Hustler. Power and betrayal are like a pair
of shoes, they go together. Besides, every revolution eats
its own children. You and the other two members of the
‘Trinity’ paid the ultimate price. In every revolution, there
are those who are sacrificed. Even when our forefathers
fought for independence in this country, many died during
the struggle but we now enjoy the fruits of their sacrifice.
Just console yourself that you did something great for the
people of Majengo.”
I thought the OCS’s words were true. I was holding onto
a very thin ray of hope that Mjumbe would remember me.
Mjumbe continued. “As my predecessor has said, this is a
game of winners only. This election will go down in history
as the first that has been conducted peacefully. My sympathy
goes to those who tried to derail the revolution by poisoning
me. They sold their souls to the devil for three pieces of
silver, but they are now where they truly belong – in police
cells. But never forget, every cloud has a silver lining. Their
conspiracy was providential because without it, the doctors
would never have known that my blindness could be cured.
We are ushering in a new era and so in the spirit of this
beautiful day, I want to forgive my three enemies and ask
the government to grant them amnesty. I declare that I will
275
not file any charges against them. They are free to come back
home.”
There was clapping from the people as they acknowledged
the big heart of a forgiving leader. I was awestruck and, like
Lot’s wife, I sat there like a pillar of salt.
The OCS gave me a knowing look and said, “You see?
What did I tell you a few minutes ago? I saw it coming.
Congrats, Hustler. It seems you are now a free man although
I have to confirm with my superiors at the headquarters. See
what a good MP you have given to us?”
I wondered if those last words were sincere or the OCS
was just being sarcastic. I did not know whether to be happy
or to be sad. Yes, I was happy that I would soon be free and
I could go home and continue with my former life. But the
dreams I had during the campaign were still alive in my
heart. Then I heard Mjumbe say something about fulfilling a
promise and I cocked my ears to listen.
“Finally, I want to thank and honour my fiancée, Malkia.
On the day I got engaged to her, I promised her that our
wedding would be celebrated on the day of my homecoming
and that day has now come. Our wedding today will act as a
memorial of the Ballot Revolution for future generations.”
His words were so sincere that I almost doubted the
OCS’s story.
“OCS, does Mjumbe know what is going on?” I asked.
“He doesn’t, and he may never know. Where he is right
now, he does not stand a chance.”
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“It’s not over yet until it is over, so they say. What if he
remains true to his promises? What if he refuses to betray
Majengo and honours the revolution?”
The OCS laughed and said, “Welcome to the boat of
politics, Hustler. As my lecturer loved to say, getting into
politics is akin to taking a ride in a devil’s minibus; you need
to have a comprehensive insurance, not a third party one.
When you join the walk you must be aware that you will
walk amongst vipers, so always have an anti-venom in your
hand. When darkness comes, a clever politician knows that
he must sleep with one eye open. That’s the rule.”
Mzito invited the religious leaders to come forward for the
inter-denominational wedding ceremony. Apostle Jonah led
the ceremony while the rest of the religious leaders assisted
him. The vows and promises were exchanged amidst cheers,
song and dance. The OCS patted my shoulder, saying, “I
know this disgusts you but don’t worry. I have a hunch it
will not last; political marriages hardly last.”
The bile in my stomach was rising and I was feeling
nauseated. I requested for permission to go to the bathroom
and the OCS granted it. He could see I was feeling sick. I
dashed to the bathroom and gagged for a few seconds. I was
sweating profusely. I rinsed my face with cold water to cool
my body and sat on the basin, talking to myself. Take heart,
Hustler. Every dog has its day. It just wasn’t your day.
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I was whisked back to reality by the OCS knocking on
the door. “Hey, Hustler. What are you doing in there? Come
out!”
I walked out half-heartedly and joined him again in the
interrogations room.
Mama Chama was now the MC and she was taking the
First Lady through the paces of making a husband happy.
Finally, the cake was cut and the couple distributed pieces of
it to the distinguished guests at the ‘high table’. Thereafter,
Mzito invited all the esteemed guests to toast to the occasion.
They lifted up their glasses and toasted to a new beginning as
the people watched. The crowd exploded in dance and song.
“That marks the end, Hustler. First, they gave him the
blood, then the eyes, then a home and now, they have made
him drink from the poisoned chalice,” said the OCS.
I could tell from his words that he was being sincere, and
it touched my heart.
Mzito declared the official function over but announced
that the celebrations were just starting and they would go on
for three days. He indicated that there would be no work for
those three days as there was enough food, cake and soda
for everyone. He announced that the distinguished guests
would proceed to the Good Knight Golf Club for a reception
hosted by the newly-wed couple. In my heart, I imagined
myself accompanying the couple to the grand hotel. Oh,
how times change!
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I was a lone walker in a night engulfed in deathly silence. I
trotted towards the only home I had known, Majengo. I was
like a jilted lover, returning home after a break-up. I was now
going home, penniless and broken. In my mind, I imagined
how life would have been if things had been different. I
imagined myself going to Mjumbe’s house as part of the
kitchen cabinet for our constituency. I consoled myself
that every experience is actually a lesson. My experience at
the police station had opened my mental eyes. As I waited
for my release, Soldier had made sure that I witnessed the
celebrations in Majengo. Though I could not join the party
at the Good Knight Golf Club, Soldier managed to go there
as part of the security team and brought a take-away of the
most delicious meal I have ever tasted – pilau, roasted goat
ribs and a bottle of red wine.
The next day at around seven o’clock in the evening, the
OCS came with my release papers. As he bade me goodbye,
he gave me a piece of advice.
Chapter Seventeen
279
“Hustler, when you reach Majengo, I want you to have
your eyes wide open but I advise you to keep your mouth
shut. Count yourself lucky that you are walking home
instead of going to prison.”
He warned me against sharing with anyone the
information he had given me. There was a thinly veiled
threat in his statement when he told me, “Remember, I have
eyes and ears all over Majengo. I also know where you drink
and where you live.”
He wished me all the best as I left.
Earlier that day, before leaving my cell, I made sure I left
a mark in Majuu. I took a knife and with its pointed edge, I
wrote on the wall, ‘Hustler was here’.
I passed Mapendo. I could hear some noises coming from
there as if some people were still celebrating. I could not
understand. They were not part of the game; why would they
be celebrating? But events of the past few days had taught me
that in this world, anything is possible. I stopped to listen to
the singing and the laughter, and I was tempted to knock at
the gate and ask to join in the celebration. Maybe they could
even offer me accommodation because frankly speaking, the
noise was a welcome distraction. I felt that Mapendo was
a better place to be than where I was going. All the same, I
280
told myself that East or West, home is the best. I continued
walking.
As I entered Majengo, I was taken aback by the deep
silence that engulfed the slum. It was the second day of the
three days of feasting and Majengo had eaten to her fill. All
you could hear were the soft snores of satisfaction as Majengo
slept in peace. Street dogs that would usually be roaming
around scavenging for food lay on the cold shop verandas,
soundly asleep. On a normal night, one could count the
number of fires lit by watchmen as they kept themselves
warm but tonight, there was not a single fire anywhere. It was
like entering a ghost town! I passed through the quarry area
where it had all started. The tents were gone and the whole
place was littered with papers. As I walked on, I heard some
music. I followed the sound of the music for I wanted to
know who was still singing while everyone else was snoring
in their sleep. The music was coming from Pondamali. So
the place was still open? I decided to pop in and say hello to
my old pals. When I got close, I recognized the unmistakable
voice of Rasta. Tonight, he was playing Lucky Dube and the
words that greeted me were very consoling.
Wandering up and down, the streets of Soweto.
No place to call my home.
I tried to find you many years ago,
but the woman you are married to, was no good at all.
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I made my entrance into the bar expecting to find a
multitude of revellers but alas! There was only one person
sitting on a chair, watching and listening to Rasta. It was the
ever faithful Kadogo. The rest of the bar was empty and cold.
Rasta stopped singing when he saw me. Kadogo looked
at me with pity written all over her face. Our eyes met and
that was enough for I could not find words to say anything.
I stood at the middle of the bar, not knowing whether to sit
down or to walk out. I looked at the walls and they reminded
me of the halcyon days of the past months, the meetings, the
dreams and the expectations.
Kadogo walked up to me and embraced me. It touched
my heart to see that her eyes were moist with tears as she
embraced me. Rasta followed suit, giving me a long brotherly
hug, the kind you would give to your long lost brother who
was returning home. I could hold it no more. Tears streamed
down my cheeks and I decided to leave. I waved to the two
and they understood my situation. I walked out and Rasta
resumed his performance. As I began my trek in the dark
again, his music escorted me.
Daddy wherever you are, remember me.
In whatever you do, I love you.
I had barely walked a few metres when I heard someone
call me. I stopped in my tracks but I did not turn my head.
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I recognized the voice. It was Kadogo. I knew what she
wanted to tell me but I was not in the mood. Then from up
the hill came a loud noise. It sounded like an explosion. This
was followed by other cracking sounds and bright lights
shooting into the sky. I looked towards Majuu and admired
the beautiful fireworks. For a moment, the dark night was
lit with beautiful colours as Majuu celebrated. When the
spectacle was over, I resumed my walk and increased my
speed towards my house.