just why is beautyfying kids necessary?

Jane is a charming miniature version of her mother. Her hair is beautifully done the ‘obama’ style. Her face is properly adorned with makeup, eyelashes; lip bum etc. she is spotting a white sleeveless top and a black pencil trouser. She is in high heel shoes making her look taller than her peers.   Her combination of natural childhood grace and grooming effects make her look way much mature for her seven years of age. Looking at her one would get the impression that it is all rosy on her until yesterday I experienced something that made me wonder why the society is holding kids to the same rigorous and almost untenable standards they hold themselves. Meet the modern child who spots piercings from the conventional to the most unconventional places like tongue, nose and even chest!

She isn’t playing with her friends and she cut the figure of a forlorn child. I can see from her eyes that she really wants a piece of the hide and seek her friends are playing today but something is really holding her back. Out of curiosity I walk to her and ask her why she is not playing and her answer does not surprise me strangely. Slowly she whispers into my ears ,”mummy atanichapa nikichafuka”.it is not difficult to get her mother’s logic but what is even more perplexing is why we as a society cannot just let kids be.

But that is not the only bit she has to deal with daily. Recently I went to a beauty parlor to get my hair done and accidentally bumped into her and her mother. She was at the verge of tears and winced in pain under the heat of the hair dryer. Her mother in mock anger was reprimanding her for being so weak while at the same time letting her genuine concern show. And even her best efforts to impress her mother and gain the lollipop she was promised could not help her from the occasional twitching of the face or even a muffled yell. After what seems like almost an eternity to her she heaves a sigh of relief and were I a face reader I could swear that her face said something, her excitement was exuberant and very visible. She couldn’t hide her disappointment when her mother spots a part not done to her standard and wants it redone. But this time it’s done quickly and the little angel can now go. The reprieve though is short lived as the beautician tells me that in two weeks time they will be back again.

This got me thinking about what our society has become, materialistic, very superficial and concerned more about the facial representation of facts as compared to the inner and deeper moral values our fathers believed in. Lest I be accused of being conservative let me clarify that I don’t subscribe either to the belief that children should be half dressed leaving their dry buttocks to the whims of the weather. Neither do I believe that they should not be smart and clean. My concern here is the methodology of arriving at the conclusions; the means justifying the end. Whilst it’s true that most parents are driven by the sacred love and the sharpest of maternal instincts, others on the other hand view their children as rods to achieving their ends. Mothers who dreamt of representing their beloved nations in beauty pageants in Rio or Johannesburg live their dreams through their children.

As much as I believe that beautiful and well groomed kids are a blessing and the pride of their parents, moderation should be looked into to ensure that no one gets the wrong deal. Piercings and other extrovert emblems of beauty I believe should be out of free will and voluntary consent which of course the children aren’t capable of. What if on growing up the child realizes that she doesn’t what the piercings anymore? Beauty is not merely the outward representation of glamour and correct facial construction or even the absence thereof it; it is what the person has inside, his or her attitude towards people and the demeanor or the lack of it towards members of the human race considered their inferior. That if instilled in children at tender ages can be what best we bequeath to them as parents as compared to the cut throat competition for misguided beliefs and scoring in the wrong post.

I am my aunts nephew

The middle aged man in a turban placed his left hand firmly on the young lad’s head. His face looked menacing and threatening as if he was facing some older and stronger adversary and not just the frightened lad who shivered and trembled with the least of jerks. As the prayer got more and more fervent, the jolts got stronger and stronger. These motions almost caused the boy to fall backward but the man of God was there to seize him, drag him forward and redo the circle again. His bushy beard the trademark of his religion was neat and well kempt and a few strands were bridled together at the end to form a knot. The clusters of hair were perhaps the greatest test of his unshakeable belief that the God he chose to serve would triumph over all the forces of evil. I don’t remember his name but his entire ilk were referred to as Japolo meaning a man from heaven.

The man of God admonished the devil inside the young lad sometimes confusing his quest to break free as a resolve of the devil to challenge his powers something he couldn’t accept just lying down. He had to respond, and to answer he did in style. He made a ball of fire and passed it around through the terrified boys legs and arms. As the fire hovered over his head the boy made one last desperate look at his aunt in an attempt to appeal to her to end this tribulation. He could see the pain in her eyes and for one second he was sure that he was about to be rescued.

 However the last shred of hope was blown when the man of God shouted to the young woman not to interfere with the fight, that the cool demeanor and feigned innocence in the boy’s eyes was the work of the devil. He intensified his movements and the boy realized that fighting it was proving futile. He therefore just let be and got resigned to his fate, whatever would follow, would happen. Japolo noticing this proclaimed defeat on the forces of evil in one last act of hurrah.

The young boy ran for his aunt and embraced her for what seemed like forever never wanting to be exposed to such acts of savagery again. He knew though deep that the ritual would be done again, and again. The reprieve was thus a temporary relief but one nonetheless that was to be welcomed with open arms. But how did he get here in Got Kagumbo? For that was the places name. You might be wondering where this anecdote is going or whether I changed my writing style. Nothing of that sought, I just remembered glimpses of my childhood that was characterized by such a rollercoaster experience that was exhibited by joy and pain, expectations and despair, calmness and agitation all in equal measure.

When I sometimes I hear my friends contend about who went  to boarding school the earliest I suppress an urge to laugh especially when they quantify that early to mean class four or thereabouts. I started boarding school before I learnt how to read and write. Heck, it was even before I learnt how to gormandize ugali properly. Am told it was just for a month but am sure I stayed longer. Nevertheless a month is still enough a stint, right? It’s not what you thinking-it wasn’t because my behavior was that bad or any of those reasons. It was more like pilgrimage. Just like the ones the Muslim take to Mecca only that I didn’t travel that far.

After all Got Kagumbo was just as holier (Got Means Mountain).I shared Damieno’s fate- I heard that an evil lady had cast a spell on me as well. So sending me there was to protect me from further harm and undo the damage that was already done. I can’t remember well how bad it was that it warranted this seclusion from family at such a tender age but to this day am grateful to my aunt who orchestrated it.

Most students remember their first time in school, a parent clasping your hand and dragging you like a bull to slaughter. Well, it was very much the same, only that as my aunt waved goodbye it hit me that I would not be seeing her for a long time! As the gate closed behind me the enormity of the situation hit me like a thunderbolt. I remember standing there helpless warm salty tears cascading down my visage. And every time she came to see me and just left me there my repulsion increased, I couldn’t understand why she would just leave me there, in that god forsaken place, with them!

I remember we had a school anthem back then and the words are still etched in my brain. It went something like:

“Kagumbo ku to iomo ang’owa?”

“Yesu e ma adwaro”

The soloist did the first line while the second line was a rejoinder. The soloist asks what we came to seek in that mountain and the rest of us replied that it was Jesus we sought.

If there is anything this assemblage taught well above everything else was how to eat nyoyo, a skill that was very useful especially in my high school years. This nyoyo was purely of boiled maize and salted to taste. I used to be repulsed by it but as hunger rose, I couldn’t remember more delicious a meal.

I write this piece because I remembered my aunt and just what she did to me, the days on the end that she spend transversing the regions seeking for a cure to whatever I suffered from then. I remember her carrying the plum child as she walked on foot. I remember the tribulations she bore as the child demanded food in the middle of nowhere. Long live Waya!

I would have gone on about Got Kagumbo it is just that it is difficult to concentrate on writing with so much hustling and errands to run. Maybe the holiday mood is sinking in or am just growing illiterate as our high school teachers used to prophesize if we went home and kept away from our books .

 Until next week!

exam sting

It’s been a while since I posted. You can lay the blame squarely at the feet of the exams that have reminded me just how average I am. Sometimes it’s funny how time flies away. Just yesterday we were registering units ready for the semester to begin; now the boisterousness of the first days has been replaced by a somberness that has become characteristic of campus exam time. That is not to say that the Student Annex-the official beer center in campus has been closed. Far from it, its doors remain open to comrades who wish to drown their sorrows in shots of liquor or those who albeit temporarily wish to exit this world and find solace in trance. All the university cares for is just their pass mark, how you get it matters less. That’s why the  first thing anybody would learn in school today is the art of multitasking-listening to loud music on headphones, a beer in one hand, your hands around some damsel who conveniently forgot her purse today and you guessed it right-a book on the other hand!

I remember just before I travelled to university for the first time, my uncles and grandma gave me advice on the importance of remaining true to oneself, shunning bad company and most importantly avoiding evil men. Looking back, I wonder which parent didn’t say that. But looking at it now, I don’t see any extremes the way they paint at. Of course we know paragons of virtue either. The mention of the name student in our televisions is not about some inventions they made or the picture of different tribes uniting for a common purpose. It’s usually the image of students on the rampage, looting and destroying property of much value. It’s about some student leader giving the government a two week ultimatum either to increase HELB funding or to resolve some mysterious murder. It’s about comrades barricading Thika Road or Waiyaki Way. Oh, I was talking about my exams. I just detoured to create the picture one has when coming here.

As is the nature of university students, I won’t feel complete until I complain about something. This week I will just have to complain about the good time tabler. In as much as he hit the nail on the head in the first week of exams, I bet he got exhausted. How would one explain an exam in Monday and the last on Thursday? It could have been on Friday, I guess. Maybe I should just be thankful to Good Friday after all! Now that I have helped perpetuate this whining stereotype, let me get back on track. But at least it gave me time to see those I had not seen throughout the semester among them my good friend Nyaikai. What a name, what tribe? Admit it that was the first question on your mind. Nyaikai was my roommate last year. The name evolved from his enormous nyoka that has been the reason behind the high number of cases of ladies fainting in Usambara Hostels .In case you are still not catching it, my official condolences. A man can’t go far without putting the posterity of his jaws in jeopardy in the process.

So upon successful completion of my exams my friends and I decided it was party time. We had to abolish our illusions of grandeur and settle for something feasible. So armed with thirty bob each we raided the gym-not to work out of course. Years of extensive research had proved that this was the place with the best uji in campus prepared using a secret recipe only known to select few. As I mentioned earlier, this is the place where sweaty muscled men with aura of the gods retire to mingle and share tips after a hard day of turning fat into muscle. One guy who was conspicuously missing was Sad News. Far from the implied meaning, his name stems from the Kiswahili words ‘mambo mbaya’ which can be loosely translated as invincible. Of course we had no option but to accept his excuse that he had to go to the library (after the exams I must add).After all none of us has ever had the opportunity to pursue a degree in medicine from an ISO certified university!

In a bid not to appear any lesser beings, Wekemeu started to dispense his two cents knowledge of gym and technical terms such as which training should precede which at times breaking into monologues of how dangerous unsupervised training  can be. The slight tremor in his voice was that of unmistakable passion. Looking at him we repressed a desire to laugh-he cut the image of an experienced sportsman even though three months on a hockey pitch and a month on the gym probably doing aerobics is all the sports experience that would make it to his resume. I could see men with big chests turn to listen to him and I learnt one important lesson- That in as much as muscles are important, guiles and a bigger mouth are of more vital significance. In case you are reading this, just know that ‘we ni mzee inspirati…….onal.”

Did I say that we were in the company of Mzee Default? The name Mzee just is coz of his wisdom and nothing to do with his age. Why default, well there is a wireless network in KU called Default .Let’s just say that he used to spend almost the whole day downloading the latest series and software save for the thirty minutes for meals and one hour for lying horizontally on his bed. Well, the reason I mentioned him is of his extreme love for uji that made me remember my late granddad. The only difference is that the old man used to drink his uji in an agwata- a sacred calabash that was not to be used for any other purpose and Default would use a 1 kg tin with a faded blue band colors on the surface. Just like my old man, Default believes that food shouldn’t be wasted so instead of pushing his tin away after consuming the content, he used his hand to lick the side of the container the traditional style.

Well, now that I remembered my grand dad, allow me to boast of a man who was extraordinary in his beliefs, approach to life and philosophies. I know everybody says this of their kin but he was an exceptional man who counted family among his most prized assets. There was always something special when we went home for the holidays something that made us look forward to going to shagz as we called it then .If it wasn’t ripe mangoes, then it was paw paws or boiled maize never mind that it was well past the harvesting season. His favorite dish was mudfish and he made an attempt to treat us to this delicacy every market day. If you see me carry fish in my hand with no polythene cover, don’t think it’s due to my strong environmentalist tendencies, its coz I learnt something from this great man. I remember there was a time he came home with a live fish .In our minds, it resembled a snake and we screamed as we receded deeper and deeper into the compound. I couldn’t remember the old man break into a heartier laugh. As we learnt later, he wasn’t a sadist, he just wanted us to learn important life lessons the hard way. Let’s just say that the next time he brought a live fish, we were better prepared.

Still about the old man, he used to have a walking stick that was multifunctional. Just as it could be used for our happiness, it could also be used turn out to be used for gloom. The stick could be used to point directions, used to fall ripe mangoes or paw paws from the trees. It could be used to point at chicken that was to face the butcher’s knife or even a goat for Easter! However, the rode could also be used as a tool to correct errant behavior. I remember on many occasions I fell victim for committing some serious crimes like playing ‘uki ‘with the girls. Real men don’t play with girls is a lesson I learnt only to well. Just in case I lost you there, uki is a game in which a rectangle is drawn and players have to run around the box stopping at the edges .The opponents can ask you the number you are in at any time. Any wrong number could lead to ‘death’. As we learnt later the hard way, the game was not won by those who panted and sweated the most but by those who were brighter in the divisibility test. It was not my intention to make you an uki expert but in case you are, you know who to thank. Forgive my detour, if I were to write about Bernadus Okombo, probably half his life would be enough for a complete book.

The end of semester is though not all rosy. At such times, the yoke of luggage storage and transportation hangs over the comrades’ head like a hangman’s noose. It’s during such times that you realize just how much clothes you have that you didn’t wear during the entire semester. Maybe next time all carry just a bunch of clothes-who am I kidding? If the annual wildebeest migration is considered a wonder of the world then maybe the flurry of activities around such times should be given some mention in the world records as well. What with the transportation of bed and tables to and from school every three months! Of course am not complaining, I would have hadn’t I whined about the good time tabler though.

So as I head to Oyugis Town for my long holiday, am suddenly hit with the reality that all be away from this crew for another six months! We toast and promise to keep in contact. Of course we will simply go back to the circle of friends we left at home and try and get cozy again after six months. Maybe forward a few funny SMS during those times. If the impending attachment would not help the time go away fast then I hope playing professional hockey on tuft under flood lights would do it. Sorry, I just had to mention that. Varaq is now a proficient player having signed for Vultures Hockey team for a staggering sum of nothing Kenyan shilling! Don’t laugh; you will soon see me on DSTV! Of course all miss my new mystery girl more but that’s a story for another day.

Baadaye! In case I lost you there as well, that’s among Sad News’ contribution to the linguistic community. It simply means till next time.