Shujaa Tom Mboya

He stands there towering above other mere men, water gushing from his feet, his trademark African hat and whisk unmistakable; the slight blimp on his belly, clearly visible. His presence is loud, ubiquitous and unignorable. Though not drawing of breath, he is everything but lifeless. 

Around him ducks swirl, men and women seduce each other, others backbite, others plan major heists and yet others just stare into their clueless immediate future. Friends who haven't met for a long time warmly embrace each other and chat happily; for a few minutes and then realize that they are both in a hurry to get to something important. They exchange some ten useless digits and promise to keep in touch. Your guess is as good as mine; they will never call each other. Each will be embroiled in his nation building duty, giving birth and collecting their children in limo convoys, investing in real estate, making counterfeit money, caning Raila, throwing shoes at the other guy etc. 

I think he has grown immune to teargas; be they provoked by city hawkers or the trouble loving Kogallo faithful. To him, teargas now just smells like a rich kid's fart. Harmless. Undisruptive. Tolerable. Immature. Okay. 

Students will start their three months of automobile Engineering in the Interglobal Institute a few steps away and graduate with honors; others will start relationships, post their pictures on Instagram well captioned with words like #bae #forever and still break up. 

Yet he’ll be there; stretching his arm into the Moi Avenue traffic.  I wonder why they made him point at the railway station. Is it coz just like Paulina, he came to Nairobi via train? Martin Were was there to receive Paulina. Who received him when he came to Nairobi for the first time? 

I wonder if given a chance he would change the direction his outstretched arms are pointing at. I wonder if he would accept to face Mount Kenya. I wonder if he would instruct us to retain our foreskins or to fit into the bigger civilization. I wonder what his reaction would be to this mushrooming statistics that put his people on top of all the bad things. HIV, poverty, teenage pregnancies, harmful cultures etc. 

I however do know that he would be excited that Barrack Obama, son of Barrack Obama Snr, a beneficiary of his famous student’s air lift program is the 44th president of the United States of America.

He may have been modest but he would still be a Luo about that. I imagine him calling the white house and being taken through the necessary protocol.

"Bwana give me the president now…..ati he is busy?… you should know people. I found his father hungry herding goats in Kogello and took him to America…..Were it not for me… ……………"

He would leave the statement trailing, just like any Luo who wants to be taken seriously.

I wonder how it would be like if he were still alive. Will HELB have doubled their loan?  Would he have organized another airlift? If he would have, I think I would choose Brazil. It’s not just because of the sexy supermodels in colorful bikinis (though that's a huge factor), but it’s mainly because America is too cliché. Anyway after Uncle Barry became the president there, there isn’t much record to be broken anymore.

Among the Luos, individual and family successes are measured in records. 

Bwana I have two degrees. 

Bwana I went to Maseno.

There's a way that Maseno is said with an accent that makes it sound like the Harvard of Kenya. 

Were he alive today, would he be inwardly pleased by the man who caned Baba? Considering that Jaramogi and Mboya weren’t the best of friends back then?

Given a chance today, would he choose to remain dead and worshipped or alive and unsure? I don't think he would be ready to forgo the daily Kogallo rituals or the prayers in his name. Am not sure he would want to come back and live in this era of MCAs and Duale. He would rather not engage in such base discourse.

Maybe he won't mind going back home in the evening for a change of clothes and warm embrace from his family. If he would be swayed by such sentimentality, then perhaps he would remember that these days’ old men are quickly found insane and incapable of making sound judgments regarding their own hard earned money. 

But what if he could open his mouth and speak.  What if he could see beneath our unrevealing facades and easy smiles? Would he tap us in the back, look us in the eye and say 'it’s okay son, you got this'. I didn’t meet him but his legacy says he is that kind of a man.

What if he could reveal our secrets? Yes, what if he could list the number of guys he's seen holding your waist leading you into the land of milk and honey (Pizza Inn, Creamy Inn, Galitos). 

What if he could let the world know that you've just been sitting in front of his house admiring the Africanness of the Nairobi woman while claiming that you are busy and that you are not to be disturbed on phone? 

Will he tell us that you buy your shirts from the hawkers in front of Mr. Price and still claim to all how you love your new Mr. Price shirts? 

Would you be afraid of anything he’ll have to say?

Personally there are a lot of things I wouldn't want him to say; chiefly that infamous day I ate too much at a party in Ngong and the queue at the public toilet outside his house was so long.

I won’t mind him revealing the breakup speech I gave to Njeri when she called Kogallo faithful uncivilized, uncouth and backward. Am sure, he tapped Robert Ouko, JM Kariuki and Jomo and told them, ‘now that’s ma nigga’.

 

I like to tell myself if he could he could sprint to Dedan Kimathi some hundred metres away and tell him, ‘in your face bro”.

Maybe am just idle enough to let such thoughts find home in my mind.