I have said before that if I was Jesus today, one miracle that I would be hesitant to perform was turning water into wine. Not that I would be worried that the tricks and inspiration to perform miracles would suddenly fail me, making me look like a confounded confidence trickster.
The reason is that in the recent past, the war on the so called second generation drinks and bootleg brews has assumed such a disturbing magnitude, especially after the top man in the land ordered the mother of all crackdowns in the country, one might think that these drinks have just fallen down from heaven, yet they have been here with us all along.
The problem is that we have always turned a blind eye to this menace only to wake up to realise that these brews are turning fellows into cabbages and wrecking homes.
In Mavumbi town where I live the war has assumed some comic levels and I sincerely hope that I could have a heart to heart chat with Mututho to tell him a few home truths.
That the security boys who are supposed to enforce the law named after himself, hereinafter also called Mututho, have gone to ridiculous levels to enforce the same law without understanding the finer details of that law, that I have ideas of joining hands with few like minded fellows and take legal action against them. I have read the Mututho regulations many times and I understand the dos and don’ts, but when Mututho strikes, he does not have time to be reminded what the law says. Its either uchote or uende ndani.
In a nutshell, enforcing Mututho law in Mavumbi town has become a cash cow for some security officers.
Secondly, if my father or any relative for that matter lost their lives or jobs because of alcohol related matters, I would steer clear of any job to do with keroro. One would look small minded to be sentimental and perform their duties, for which they earn their keep, with emotions based on their background and not sound logic.
Anyway you will know why I am saying all this shortly. Last week my cousin Timotheo came to pay me a visit from the village.
His visit was not without precedents. First he had sent me an sms congratulating me “for being promoted to glory”,(based on rumors that had been circulating in the village that yours truly had been promoted to a senior officer in a media company that hardly describes their staff as officers!
Forgive Tim for the “promotion to glory” infamy. The poor chap did not even know what he actually meant, but I forgave him for being such an ignoramus.
His second sms was about an “achievement” he had made as a peasant farmer which he wanted to share with me. You see Tim had participated in the just concluded County Agricultural Show where he had dragged his rickety cow Kimora for the show.
My good governor Zindua Miradi had just re-launched the agricultural show which died of natural causes several decades ago, to restore confidence in the agricultural sector in the county, but I must say without fear of contradiction that if it’s the likes of Tim who will be the kind of exhibitors in such shows in the future, then our good governor who has been launching all sorts of projects, both real and imaginary, had better launch something else.
Well, that’s neither here nor there. Let’s get back to Tim. You see, when he called me up to announce that he had been declared second best farmer, I reminded him politely not to be an ass by laminating the certificate he had just been awarded. The reason being simply that he had been declared Second Best Farmer because they were only two participants in that category.
In fact prior to that I had advised Tim to slaughter that cow and feast on the meat then throw away the hide and hooves. Reason? In my own opinion Kimora was more of a liability to Tim.What do you make of a shenzi cow that eats ten bags of grass a day and forty litres of water only to produce half a litre of milk “mwanusu” in the evening?.
In fact I tend to believe that Tim was coming to town to prove me wrong that Kimora was a piece of useless domestic creature.
“Cousin, today I will buy beer. We can enjoy ourselves. Kimora has made my name,” Tim announced as he stretched himself on the sofa.
I looked at Tim with a mixture of disdain and incredulity as I served him a cup of Kahawa No 1.This is coffee that has such course grains and tastes like saw dust, one wonders if coffee of any class lower that is actually fit for human consumption.
Tim took a sip of the coffee and said again.
Safaricom line wallet
“Counsin, leo nitanunua chupa. Things are looking up”.
He pulled out his wallet, which is actually a Safaricom line pouch which he has found a new use for. In fact initially, he used an Ilara Milk pouch as a wallet until I advised him to style up.
Actually, Tim had some money with him but I could not tell how much. Anyway how much money can a Safaricom pouch carry?.
That notwithstanding, we finished our Kahawa No 1 and began musing where to go to celebrate Tim’s “achievement.”
It was around midday and as I said before Mututho had gone on the rampage as drunkards were hauled from bars to Mavumbi Police Station where they had to either part with bribes or taken to court.
Finally we settled for one of the bars where the bar maid at the counter looks at customers with such scrutiny as if they were specimen on a Petri dish, before serving them beer. I think she is a little hard of hearing.
I chose this particular bar because I am a regular patron and more so because they serve food and also offer accommodation. All this was to bend the law by pretending that we were actually enjoying our drink as we wait for our ‘order” for food to be executed.
As usual Tim suggested that we drink Balozi. They say that if your dog gives you a bone as a gift, you do not reject it. That’s the favorite gift from it to you.
We received our drinks and got down celebrating Tim’s “achievement.”
Three beers later, Tim actually came out of his cocoon and began talking as if he had a mortar in his mouth. All about his ambitions of becoming a rancher, poultry farmer and processor of hides and skins. I also remember him enthusing about starting a business of selling day old chicks.
The bar maid at the counter was still staring at us, unblinking, you might think she had developed x-ray eyes after eating fresh carrots.
Just when I was about to order my round kurudisha mkono three mean looking officers accompanied by Inspector Hongo walked in unannounced.
My heart skipped. There was the face of Mututho.But I did not panic.
I wore a goatish smile, wiped beer foam from the corners of my mouth and said.
“Eh wazee kaeni mpewe kitu”.
Inspector Hongo looked at me with such disdain you might think I had asked him to drink sulphuric acid.
He then blurted: “Hata wewe mtu wa mangazeti unavunja sheria?”
I tried to explain that I was having a few bottles as I waited for my choma to be prepared.
That did not make any sense to Inspector Hongo, who continued looking at me with fiery countenance.
I also stepped in to save Tim’s face by lying that my cousin Tim had just arrived from the village and would spend the night at the lodging in the vicinity.
My lies almost bailed us out when the cook came out from the kitchen and shouted excitedly; “Mamboyote, kwani leo hutanunua kachoma kama kawaida?
I wished the ground could break and swallow me. Meanwhile Tim, who is always a loud mouth in the village,kimbelembele,was as quite as a caged animal.
The officers pulled to one corner and begun talking in low tones, meanwhile casting cursory glances at us. I could tell what they were discussing.
When Inspector Hongo came back he was smiling sheepishly. Apparently my being a scribe had come in handy to bail us out but that did not mean all was over.
We parted with what we had and the cops vanished, after warning us to drink responsibly and avoid making noise. What crap.