Utaona cha Mtema Kuni

In my lifetime I have learnt a great many useless proverbs and riddles. Useless I say, because all I knew to do with proverbs and riddles was complete them, not understand their origins nor the subtle allegories and metaphors that gave them immortality in oral tradition and written literature. It was this simple: as soon as I was done with high school, my mastery of language in an academic sense would become irrelevant.

Now, Kiswahili riddles and proverbs in particular are not only cryptic and spiced with double-entendre, but are often crafted to rhyme deliciously, too. So last Thursday, while slaking my thirst at my favourite watering hole, shooting a game of pool, I ruefully piped up that it looked like we were going to be shown cha mtema kuni by a certain tea-sipping, pool-shooting gentleman of indeterminable age. He was relentless in his quest to ‘go home with the winners’. Though he looked like he was well deep into his forties, he played like a teenager. He was disturbingly determined to win every game. This, in our yet-to-be-published playbook, was unsportsmanlike behaviour. We were there to have fun, not for accolades or medals. He smiled not unlike the Grinch that stole Christmas as he exhaled a guff of white smoke waiting for the next ‘victim’.

The gentleman who’d just been meted a sound drubbing took another sip of his white wine and slurred in my direction, "You don’t even know what Mtema Kuni went through in order to become part of such a forbidding proverb." As usual, I took this to be the ramblings of a sore loser out to make trouble... but my curiosity already had the better of me. Who was this Mtema Kuni? What was he doing spitting firewood anyway? I recalled asking my high school teacher that very same question. She had explained it away in a not-very-convincing manner. Was I finally going to unravel the warp and weft of this proverb? He didn’t know it then, but he had my undivided attention.

I feigned indifference. Everyone else was minding their own business. His buddy was busy trying to catch the attention a waiter. It was a slow night. Most of the staff had found a darkened corner somewhere to catch a few winks. He finished his glass of wine and got up. He picked up his bar bills and arranged them in order, and squinting at them in the dim light, tried to do a mental tally. I felt a small pang of disappointment. Was he leaving? He was obviously past basic math as he patted his pocket for his mobile phone. The calculator on the phone never lies, does it? He gave this up, too and with a quick flick of a finger, signalled the approaching waiter for another round of drinks for himself and his buddy. The tally could wait.

He got up and picked up the cue that was lying on the red felt. He glanced across the pool table in my direction asked, "Is anyone playing?" It really wasn’t a question. I shook my head slowly, quietly relieved that I still had a chance to learn about the cryptic Mtema Kuni. He slowly and meticulously chalked the tip of his cue, sizing his chances of reversing the course of this series of hopeless games. Everyone was secretly wishing that he’d win this game and 'redeem us'. His opponent had ordered another pot of tea, a sign that he wasn’t ready to give any quarter.With a deft whack, he broke the rack. It was a good break. It sure looked like someone else was going to be spitting firewood this time round, but it was too early to call. "Do you know what Mtema Kuni means in Kiswahili?" he asked. It seemed he had everyone’s attention now. Nobody was actually watching the game except his opponent. "Tell us why anyone would be spitting firewood?" I asked.“Splitting firewood," he corrected me. "You know the coconut tree is versatile in many ways. It provides roofing and oil, wine and firewood amongst others.” He continued, “Mtema Kuni is a professional. He splits firewood for a living. The trickiest wood to split is the coconut trunk. It is very fibrous and doesn’t yield to splitting by impact. So the best way to split the wood is by using a sledge hammer and two obtuse wedges. "Mtema Kuni would lay the trunk horizontally on the ground and, sitting astride it, moving slowly along the tree trunk, he'd place one wedge along the widening crevice helping it along with a whack from the sledge hammer. He’d then use the other wedge to keep the crack from snapping back. "It was getting close to that part of the day when Mtema Kuni would be lazily sipping something under the cool shade of a palm tree, spinning yarns with his neighbours. This particular tree trunk wasn’t yielding as fast as he had hoped it would. Maybe it was the effect of the previous night’s mnazi. He wordlessly mouthed an obscene curse at it. It must be this particular tree trunk. He had been splitting wood for many years. It was the one thing he was good at, he thought. Or maybe not. A lazy smile crept across his face as he thought of his wife’s glowing face that morning. She had rewarded him with an extra large portion at breakfast. He was a good husband. He would get home early that day, he promised himself.

"He just needed to split that wood faster. He was midway through the trunk, thinking of ways to halve his efforts. He would have to devise a new way to split this trunk faster. He tossed the sledgehammer and wedge on the sand and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He crouched down and took a swig of the now tepid water from the gourd at the other end of the trunk. He looked across the tree trunk to take in his progress.

"Taking a deep breath and feeling a sudden rush of the mnazi high that usually follows a gulp of water, he adjusted the lesso around his waist - thinking about underwear. “Who wastes money on such nonsense?” he mused. None of his friends owned underwear. The mnazi high was beginning to creep in, and the scorching sun was overhead. He put one foot on the trunk, enjoying the cool breeze under his lesso. With a sigh, he picked up the sledgehammer and the wedge from the sand and tossed them near the gunny bag that served as his tool-bag. He would have to continue the job the next morning. His wife wouldn't be happy, but he'd be home early. He would have to take the other wedge too. It was sad, he thought, that it wasn't like the old days. He couldn't leave his tools there and find them safe the next morning. He put one leg over the trunk and sat on it. With a hard yank from his callused hands he pulled out the wedge from the trunk.

"Mtema Kuni had never imagined a pain as such. It coursed up from his loins to his head and the rest of his body as swiftly as the crack on the trunk had snapped back".

“Black ball corner pocket,” said our narrator, yanking us from vivid imagination back to the game on the table. And with a deft tap the black ball plopped into the corner pocket. “And that, my friends, is how they found Mtema Kuni - still sitting astride a coconut tree trunk. He was in so much pain he was unable to cry out for help, trapped and in tears.”

We could all see a hint of a triumphant smile creeping across his lips. His grey haired opponent was shuffling through his bar bills. He didn’t need to. Two pots of tea. His bill was simple to calculate. He slapped a hundred bob on the counter and left without uttering a word.I still think Mtema Kuni felt worse.

True story.