Fragmentation

It's the highest form of disrespect. Trying to read a person.

The battle. Chapter 1. Verse 1.

You know what's sick with this world? Wanting more money than you know what to do with. What's sad is not knowing what to do with it.

Respect this

Admiration is a poor substitute for respect. I care for neither and put them to the test frequently to cut the wheat from the chaff.

He ignored the sing-song taunts of the dusty and pot-bellied children dancing around him. With the car battery perched gingerly on his head, he did look like an old woman coming back from the market with unsold wares. He smiled, wiping his glistening brow with his free hand. His callused palm smelled of cow's intestine. So did the other, which was clutched around a leaky newspaper wrapping. As he wiped his hand on his trouser bottom, he made a mental note to remind Ada to mend his khaki trousers. He adjusted the clump of itchy sisal fibre that cushioned his head from the hard battery plastic, wordlessly cursing the flies that had somehow found their way from his left hand and were now buzzing as annoyingly above his forehead.

The pair of red and black cables under his left arm were uncomfortable, but he didn't have much farther to go, he told himself. If he quickened his pace, and connected the battery as instructed, he would catch the early evening news on his black and white TV.

The evening light was waning fast. "I must remember to buy some tomatoes to fry the matumbo", he thought, spitting out the bile that accompanied his rumbling stomach. He never even noticed that the raggedy children had stopped following him. He quickened his pace, whistling tunelessly.

A Dark Night

All the shops were closed. Shuttered with security grilles. A flickering lightbox provided the only illumination accompanied by electrical sizzle from within. There was very little traffic on the road and no matatus to be seen. It was cold but I reminded myself not to put my hands in my pockets. The streets were no longer safe. I might need both fists. I blew into my hands to warm them up, staring back bleakly at my reflection on the wet tarmac. I rubbed my hands and made my way warily down the street. I heard her voice before I could see her. A heavy smoker and a heavy drinker, or maybe the weather was getting to her. "I don't know", I replied. It was true. I didn't know what time the matatus stopped plying that route. It was my first time there. She took a couple of steps back into the shadows. I barely caught a glimpse of her face. A fine nose, and beautiful red shoes. Pity about the voice. A warm red glow and a guff of white. Ah, a smoker. Foul habit. Glad I had quit. It was cold and it would keep her warm. I took one look over my shoulder once I was in the shadows just to make sure I wasn't being followed. The streets were no longer safe. I squared my shoulders, hunched my back against the biting cold and picked up my pace.

I tried to whistle, but my lips were too cold and numb to carry a tune. Taking a quick look around me, I blew into my hands again, rubbed them together and put them inside my pockets. I have to remember to ask my wife to fix the hole in my pocket, I told myself. Then it hit me hard. I was on the wet ground. An unkempt crowd rushing by me from the alley on my left. There was no sound from them but the patter of plastic-soled shoes and cheap pumps. I instinctively knuckled my fists over my face until they passed. I turned my face to the alley, picking myself up warily. In the dim light over the tinny sound of a pocket radio was the silhouette of a security guard in a waterproof coat. Maybe a policeman. He squatted and slowly pointed a finger into the dimly lit doorway in front of him. Two shots echoed thunderously from his hand. I got up, trembling. He stood up slowly, and fired three more rounds into the doorway. Then he turned and looked at me. He raised his gun towards my face. Twenty metres away from my face. I stumbled and tripped backwards over the pavement as the shot rang out.

I don't quite remember how I found myself next to the bridge. It wasn't really a bridge. It was a series of odd-sized planks tied over a pair of twelve inch water pipes. I didn't remember running over it either. All I remember was the cop staring at me from across the black river just before I disappeared into the bulrushes. I emerged into a clearing after what seemed like an interminably long stumbling run before I felt the first sting of a hundred cuts from the napier grass blades. Bent over with my hands on my knees, I quickly took in my dim surroundings. I had never been across the river before. Very bad things happened on this side of the river. Above the rise of the river bank was a black matatu, I clambered up and circled round to the passenger entrance, coughing through the acrid exhaust smoke. It was cold inside the matatu. I asked the somber passengers whether the matatu was going to town. Most were in various stages of despair and tears. Then I smelt it. A rotting corpse. It wasn't the black river. I was in a hearse. I hurled myself out of the morbid vehicle, bumping into wailing old women and drunken laughing youth.

The run across the muddy road almost got me hit by a motorcycle without headlights. More long grass on the other side of the road. I wasn't going through that grass again. I half ran and half walked, not wanting to draw attention to myself. The grass was getting shorter and the music grew louder. There was a bonfire at the end of the grass with half a dozen teenagers dancing around it. I was desperate. I slowed down just enough to ask them the direction to town. One girl in dreadlocks with a baby strapped in a lesso on her back grinned at me and pointed in the direction I was going. Her other hand was clasped around a bottle of glue she was sniffing from. The boys started getting into formation and I started running again. My lungs were burning and bits of driftwood and jagged rocks flew past my head. As their shouts faded away, I realised they had given up the chase.

What was I doing on this side of the river, I asked myself. I was as good as dead. Finally, some form of residential building built of stone. There was some nocturnal activity at the matatu stop. It was floodlit and the lights were protected with a wire mesh so the rocks catapulted there wouldn't smash the lights. I was safe again. I pointed at the plastic bottle and the deaf-mute hawker signed twenty shillings with his clenched fists. I dug out a bunch of coins from my good pocket to buy a bottle of water for my burning throat. I hadn't run so far and so long in more than a decade. I took a long swig of the water as I slumped into a chair in the matatu wondering what I would tell my wife. That was the second phone I had lost in as many weeks. I slid over the vinyl seat to make space for the lady asking to sit next to me. The last thing I remember before slipping into unconsciousness was the taste of the water. It was a little bitter. And her hoarse voice. A heavy drinker. Or a smoker. Her fine nose and her bright red high heels.

Dog training

So these 'dog trainers' (or are they 'canine behavioural psychologists'?) say that dogs sniff each other's asses to identify one another. So tell me this 'DOG TRAINER' - If you trained this pair of dogs for this single lady in Kileleshwa to the point that her friends declared them the smartest dogs EVARR... Didn't you train these two mutts to be smart enough to know that there's no other dog "apart from the two of us. Just checking. Nothing to see here. Now move along". Let's be real here. Dogs just love to sniff other dogs' asses. Dogs even love to sniff their own asses. They LICK their own asses. Ass is like CRACK to dogs. I have cats, too, and they get along fine. And the dogs keep sniffing their asses. And when my son starts crawling they'll be sniffing his ass going like "That's some different kind of ass, dudes. Let's sniff it". That's why you don't try to smuggle coke up your butt, because the sniffer dogs will be sniffing your ass and "bingo!"

Memories of our Childhood

The headboy would make sure the microphone was working, and he would even throw in a "Mic check. One two one two". But that was frowned upon by the headmaster. The schools in Westlands called them Headteacher and the ones in Lavington called them Principal. Doing a mic check was frowned upon because only deejays kept saying "Mic check. One two one two". And deejays were bad elements who had refused to finish school. Then the headboy, who was also the scouts leader would unfurl the canvas flag which would droop saggily in the windless quadrangle. The National anthem was sung. And then we pledged our loyalty to the President of the Republic of Kenya. The words of the National Anthem and the Loyalty Pledge were inscribed on the inside cover of your school diary so that you would memorise each word, each reflective pause.

And the scouts leader would take a step forward, stamp his foot, do an about-turn and he would say "Scouts! At ease!" And the scouts would part their legs in equal measure and unsquare their shoulders. The scoutleader would resume his position by repeating with flourish, but in its reverse. The cubscouts and the two girlguides occupied the front left row. The class prefects would occupy the inner end of each class row. They always made an inspection before Parade and the boys with untucked shirts and loosened school ties would be asked to kneel on the cold hard tarmac for the remainder of the school Assembly.

Latecomers were not allowed to join the Assembly. They slashed grass until they got blisters in the palms of their hands.  Worst boys were never asked to slash grass. They enjoyed some kind of immunity from embarrassing punishments that involved picking of rubbish on the sportsground.

The scouts weren't ordinary civilians on Fridays. And they could name over ten different knots and go camping in a real tent without their parents. In the bush.

Then the Deputy Headmaster would step forward and shout into the microphone "Silence!" even though nobody was making a sound. Then he would take two steps back and glare at the standard Sevens and Standard Eights who thought they were men just because they wore trousers.

The headmaster would speak with a very deceptively soft voice and go slowly through the list of miscreants and additional school fees payable and inform the pupils that harambee cards were to be issued to raise money for a new Gestetner Cyclostyle Duplicator. We had all of the School Holiday to raise the money. It was rumoured that he would be the Chief Headmaster the whole of next year.

There was a comperehensive rules poster pinned on one of the notice boards outside the Headmaster's office. All the notice boards were now encased in glass. The Teacher on Duty had the keys to the notice board for a week. I couldn't post cartoons of teachers on the notice boards any longer. Nobody had snitched on me so far.

The Headmaster expected every student to memorise the twelve page Rule-Book with a blue Manilla cover. The headmaster was the only one who could expell a student. He would spell out his last warnings. He would not make eye contact with the Worst Boy.

Worst Boy was a title that took hard work to attain. It was the Second Worst Boy who invariably got expelled for doing dumb things like taking credit for what the Worst Boy had done in the generator room.

The Deputy Headmaster would then repeat the last warnings and add a new rule to be engraved on a plaque to replace Major Rule Number Ten which was "NO WHISTLING". All major rules were engraved in capitals in Times New Roman. The bell-ringer polished the brass rule plaques with a rag and Brasso every Monday morning before School Assembly. The school would remove the "NO WHISTLING" rule because everybody would be whistling on Sports Day. And nobody whistled in class or in the corridors any more. It would be replaced with "NO BOUNCING" which would later be replaced by "NO BREAKDANCING".

The rescinding of "NO WHISTLING" is met with lots of whistling. The Deputy Headmaster, while looking the Headmaster in the eye over his glasses would clarify that "NO WHISTLING" was still a rule and would not be removed from the Comprehensive Rules. This was the first time the Headmaster was hearing about this new rule. There were ninety six rules in total, inclusive of the ten Major Rules.

Roger had broken all the Major Rules and became the first to attain the title of Worst Boy in Standard five. He was the first Worst Boy in our school who still wore shorts.

The Deputy Headmaster screamed "Silence!" but the microphone wasn't working. The Headboy ran into Mr. Nyagah's office and came back with the Ahuja megaphone. He had a key to the Discipline Master's office which was basically a storeroom with a desk. It was the only key on the ring attached on his Scouts belt that worked. It was the only day he was allowed to wear his shiny brass keys to school. Tom Hardy was the only other boy who carried keys to school. His mother worked late and they didn't have a maid. The Geography teacher called him a half-caste. The Deputy Headmaster would say "That's all." And hand over the bullhorn to the Sportsmaster. He preferred Sportsmaster to P.E. teacher. We were lucky to have a P.E. teacher who had studied P.E. at Kenya Polytechnic. He had a very good command of English that made his heavy Embu accent even more comical. We called him "Firefox". He didn't mind the nickname because he had watched the movie and was a great fan of Clint Eastwood. He had a poster of Clint Eastwood on the wall of the sports storeroom.  The sports trophies were displayed in a glass case in the Headmaster's office.