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

Published by

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The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

First published 2021

Reprinted 2022

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…For they are gods, we are mortals and as boys kill grasshoppers

wantonly, they kill us for their sport.

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

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

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.

******

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

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

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,”

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

******

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

‘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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

corruptioncorruption 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

freefree zone.

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.

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

‘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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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.”

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

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

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.

“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.

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!

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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.”

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,

“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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

***

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

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

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

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

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.”

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.”

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

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!”

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

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

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,

101

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

104

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.

105

“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

106

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

107

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.

108

“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

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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.

149

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

Chapter Eleven

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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

Chapter Twelve

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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.

217

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.

220

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

222

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.

223

“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.

225

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.

228

“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

231

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.

232

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.”

240

“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.

242

“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.

243

“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

244

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.

245

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.

246

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

247

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.

249

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!”

250

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.

251

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

252

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

254

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.”

255

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.

256

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

257

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

258

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

259

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

261

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.

262

“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

263

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.

264

“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!

278

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.

281

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.