THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (PART 22)

It was one rainy Sunday morning; the sound of guitars filled the air with the loud drum sets emanating from the sides of Kondele and its environs. The indigenous churches hitting their drums in the grabbed proposed Kondele – Pand Pieri road. Rev. Paul Oselu, the senior pastor of Deliverance Church - Kisumu, was the preacher that day. We, the residence of Gideon’s house, all came late as we were waiting for the rains to subside. We never realized that the sermon was squarely at our door step until the Pastor reached amidimidi (climax).

“Look at the book of Proverbs chapter six and verse six to nine” Rev continued with the sermon.
“The bible says ‘Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise: Which having no guide, overseer, or ruler, provideth her meat in the summer, and gathereth her food in the harvest. How long wilt thou sleep, O sluggard? When wilt thou arise out of thy sleep? Yet a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep: So shall thy poverty come as one that travelleth, and thy want as an armed man’” He continued and before we knew it, he started addressing Gedion Obiero directly. “Gideon, you are making young people very lazy! Feeding and giving them a place to sleep without reminding them that they should work hard to earn a living” He continued.

That evening Gideon asked all of us to leave his house and get back to our respective parents. He however exempted Musa Maganga Juma from leaving as his case was very special. Each of us was wondering where to go. I dreamt about going but to Mamboleo to continue toiling with the fish and muraa luggage; the dream was more of a horror. That night, the Holy Spirit must have spoken to Gideon as the next morning, he requested us to stay as “my calling requires me to stay with people who need my help”. That was how I remained there for close to three months before voluntarily returning to Mamboleo. Lazarus on the other hand left immediately. He rented a small single roomed semi-permanent house across the road. He enjoyed every bit of freedom he had been yearning for.

My covenant friend, Oscar Nyalenge, had by that time rented a house in Manyatta Siany Estate a.k.a Koyango. That estate was very swampy especially during the rainy season. His house was a semi-permanent one with a communal toilet at the far end of the plot. Monthly rent was about three hundred and fifty Kenya shillings for the small room and a kitchen. Oscar at a point shared with me how enjoyable it was to live alone as opposed to eating free food while under the bondage of parents. That was when I asked my dad to allow me move in with Oscar for sometime before landing into a decent job. Dad allowed me under one condition – he would cease paying my college fees forthwith. I made a deal and left.

I began to realize that Oscar and I were so different in nature. I loved making jokes while he never felt comfortable with the jokes. My style of prayer was – LOUD in underlined, bold capital letters, he liked whispering to God. I never loved cooking – he was a cook from his mother’s womb. He surely knew how to cook omena with little oil and some milk sprinkled on the eyes of those small fish. I realized that I was veryarudha arudha (very fast) with some fake twengs (sp); a fact that Oscar had to deal with in humility. I remember him coming to the pulpit, one time, as if he was bringing a seed, only to whisper in my ears “people are not understanding you – please speak slowly and normally”. The Spirit almost left me right there but I controlled myself. At least a handful got saved.

careless unlike Oscar who was very organized. Otherwise we lived and went into every gospel meeting together. Those days, I used to speak

Oscar noted a funny behavior in one of the girls’ schools, in Nyando district, which he brought to my attention. All the ladies who came for prayers were falling down under the “power of the anointing”. To me it was just normal - not to Oscar.

“Have you realized that all the ladies in this school fall when you pray for them” He queried

“Yes brother. These girls are so submissive to the Spirit of God” I replied cautiously as Oscar never began such topics without something under his sleeve.

“I think there is something you’re not aware of. Thank God I have pictures to prove my point” he continued. This Oscar guy used to take pictures in all our meetings.

“Most of these ladies fall forward instead of backwards. Why?” he asked

“Because I do not push them, they follow the stimuli of the power of God emanating from my anointed hands of clay” I responded.

“What happens when they fall forward? You notice in this picture, you’re busy rescuing a lady from falling face first. Look at your hands of clay” He continued with some sarcastic smile on his face.

“It was not intentional brother” I retorted.

After such a discussion, I realized that some of these ladies wanted me, the anointed man of God, to touch their milk tanks a.k.a bright futures and the only way was to rush to the pulpit, at every alter call, and fall forward whenever I laid my anointed hands on them. I was so clueless until Brother Oscar opened my innocent but darkened eyes. It was also customary for ladies to seek counseling after the service. We would sit down in an open space with Oscar waiting to handle serious counseling issues. We had never gone to any counseling class or anything related to that. Osh, as we used to call him, always had a shorter line than mine as he was very strict and to the point unlike me who was always smiling and praying for almost all the individual cases. Some of the girls were just crazy silly, giving us trouble during these sessions with the farfetched lust issues. (why do I feel I had said this somewhere?)

God gave us wisdom. Generally, we lived well with Oscar wuod Nyalenge despite our difference in opinion and character.

I later landed in a not so well paying teaching job which could at least sustain my very simple lifestyle. Despite the heavy work and meager salary, I decided to get the bull by its horns. Oscar and I agreed to leave separately. I moved to another similar house in Oscar’s neighborhood. I was paying a whooping four hundred Kenya shillings, though the house was exactly similar to that of Oscar. We were literally living in the slum for lack of a better word but we trusted God for a better future. I prayed and hoped against hope for a day when I could own a motor bike; that would surely rescue me from the tedious work of riding a bicycle to and from work. My friend and former classmate, Abala, was riding on a company motorbike. He continuously ridiculed my bicycle with unpalatable jokes to a point that I decided to stay aloof. Statements like “Migingo, I sympathize with you when you have to use a lot of energy, on your bicycle, especially when going up the slopes. Imagine it is effortless of a motorbike” He mocked. I forgave him for he knew not the damage he was causing to the innocent Migingo. This gave me more motivation to work hard for a better future.

The job I got required me to teach Kenya Accounting Technicians Certificate (KATC) Intermediate and Final classes. We were just a few guys, in Kisumu, who had managed to walk through KATC Final then. Our services were needed all over though at a pathetic consideration. I did not like where I was staying but I had to prove myself as a man – a man who could break from the walls of coercion and dependency; and live freely and securely alone. Living alone had its own challenges in the dusty city of Kisumu. The dust was too much until we ,one time at Oile Park, prayed for rain. Our prayers were answered in double portions almost immediately. The heavens opened the flood gates and it poured cats and dogs. I was so proud of this God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob for sending us rain. Everybody in the park was amazed at how God could answer prayers so fast!

After the rains, I rode my bicycle back to my humble abode whistling and praising God for answering our prayers and shaming the devil.  I did not believe my eyes on arrival at Koyango – it was flooded with water right from Koyango Market with a slow flow towards the direction of my house. Reversed roles played its part as I had to carry my bicycle nyagongo-gongo while penetrating the swamp through to my house. I made a mistake of opening the door so fast; the plates, sufurias and other utensils were floating on water in one accord trying to make their way through the water filled door to join in the free flow of water, downstream. “The devil is a liar!” I shouted. One of the sufurias had some left over fried meat that was meant for my supper – I had to drop the bike without winking to enable me grab the sufuria.

I stood akimbo in the messy but flowing water with the sufuria in my hands. I wondered my next move. Reality downed on me – I was staying alone. Oscar also had the same problem and therefore I had to die my own death. This was not the time to think about how rich my dad was and how he was now sitting with my step mom at the fireplace far away from the swampy waters. I had to wait for about an hour, keeping myself busy with encouraging Luo Christian hymns. When the water had subsided, I prepared a great meal, in that filthy environment, while thanking God for the answered prayer. I told God to give us just enough rain the next time we ask for it. I then retired on a mattress less bed as the soft matter was also water saturated.

That was how staying alone greeted me.

Yours in abundant waters

Migingo Awat.

Ja-Koyango

THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (PART 21)

My dad was getting worried about me; to him it was like I was either so much absorbed in this salvation thing or my apparatus had gone on an indefinite strike. He transferred me from the main house to an extension (simba) situated next to the gate at our Mamboleo home. This was to give me ample space to sneak skirt wearers into my room without anybody noticing. My brother George had already shifted to Manyatta Estate. He was obviously tired of carrying mura and splitting firewood for fish massacre.

Our gate was such a noisy one with two very huge dogs barking within the compound, keeping everybody awake and at bay. Any attempt to sneak a daughter of Zion would not pass unnoticed. Dad patiently waited, in vain, for noise from the gate in the middle of the night. He had to sit me down and inquire if I really knew stomachs. I was a different tongue speaking, demon chasing heavenly bound brother. I was living with the hope that one day I will perpendicularly ascend into heaven where angels would gladly receive me.


the use of the assets hanging loosely between my legs. Those were the days when fathers would be proud to hear village rumours about their sons inflating ladies

One day Rose Simiyu visited me with a more beautiful friend hers; a friend who knew a lot about languages; French, German, Clean Pure English with no Luhya interference, sweet Swahili and Maragoli Languages. She was such a linguistic queen! She was so beautiful with a birthmark dot on her cheeks; her shape was just irresistible. She almost stole my heart but I managed to wrestle that devil to the ground. I took them to the village to see my mother. My insistence on making them sleep at my step mom’s house raised eyes brows; it was a confirmation to my dad that I was long lilo. Long lilo is a man whose apparatus have gone to be with the Lord forever. Alseba, my grandma, insisted that I marry Rose’s friend as she was, according to her, more refined and beautiful than Rose. This Alseba woman knew how to convince me into some stuff but not every day was a Sunday. Dad, on the other hand, never wanted me to marry either of them; he just wanted me to put, my lethal anaconda into some practical assignment awaiting the main game at the appointed time.

The following month, Rose came alone to Mamboleo – at my request. This girl was very bright, she caught my attention this time round but I was not ready to make any meaningful commitment to any lady. I had to set the records straight so that I would not waste her time. When the night came, dad presumed that my lethal injection was ready for work this time round, only to wake up in the wee hours of the night to find his presumed ‘daughter in law to be” sleeping on the main house couch. That day, dad almost banished me from his home for displaying characters depicting me in negative light. He rushed to my room and read Quran for me for almost thirty minutes. I was a serious embarrassment to him. Dad even complained to my friend, Oscar Nyalenge, when he came visiting that morning but I was so deep in the word of God to an extent that my whole body was saturated with the verses of the Bible. Nothing would make me look back. We agreed to remain great friends. I even visited her in her home with so much fish. Her parents were so happy with me – who wouldn’t? I couldn’t just think of marriage or anything related to that at that tender age of twenty one.

My brother George, was happily married to Karnael a.k.a Nyar Ringa (Nyaringa). Nyaringa and I were very good friends; she used to happily do my laundry every weekend as well as those of her hubby. (I beg to stop it at that lest my brother swallows me alive).

I used to go to Deliverance Church – Kisumu, situated at the Shaurimoyo Grounds. My pastor and spiritual mentor, Rev. Paul Oselu (Now Bishop), was so strict on us. We couldn’t dare mess around at whatever cost. He was my role model. In those days, Ramogi Institute of Advanced Technology (RIAT) was situated at RIAT Center next to Kibuye Market, a stone throw away from our church. The students from the college would visit our church on almost every meeting. We were very happy to site some outstandingly beautiful figures – Mwanahawa Hussein Winnie and Jean Mutua Walubengo among others. Mwanahawa would move people with her testimony on how she became a Christian despite her Islamic background. At Oile Park, some Muslims promised to kill her before long but the Lord protected her from them. Musa Maganga Juma was also another friend who broke out from his Islamic background. When his dad chased him away with a machete, he found refuge in our then Youth Chairman, Gedion Obiero (Now Pastor at Kitengela).

Gedion Obiero was a man after God’s own heart. This guy turned his house into a rescue centre with all young men who had no place to reside finding refuge in his house. I also joined him some time later when I became tired of working myself throughout the night with the fish massacre business. That time we were about ten men in the one bedroom house situated at Manyata Estate. We could pray our hearts out with Ishmael Obiero playing his accordion loudly as the rest of us clapped our hands in praise to the Almighty. Neither the landlord, who was our immediate neighbor, nor the other tenants complained about our noise. Some of the brothers in the house had the grace to pray with one eye open but for me I closed both eyes. These brothers managed to notice the landlord’s daughter, Beril. This lady swept the young men off their feet. The brothers would come with many prayer items concerning Beryl. “Let’s pray for Beryl, she has been unwell for the last few days” “Let’s remember Beryl in our prayers” “Let’s pray for Beryl’s father” “Beryl……” Too many prayer items on behalf of the seemingly innocent girl. Beryl on the other hand was unaware of the commotion she was causing in the neighborhood. I wonder why nobody, among the brothers, dared approach her for her hand in marriage.

Prayer items increased when a brother, Chris Atemo, from Redeemed Gospel Church started hovering around. Chris was an organized, handsome smart young man who knew how to calculate his steps very well. He would come most of the mornings and escort the lady to Kisumu Poly and somehow escort her back in the evening in the full glare of the deliverance Church brothers. The bad news was that Beryl never noticed any of these DC brothers. Maybe they did not position themselves where Beryl was looking. (I have to cut this short as Beryl and Chris are now happily married. They are both pastors. If you want to learn the tactics of catching your own Beryl, please see Pastor Chris with a good seed).

I continued going to schools with the gospel.

• “The tales are too long” were the complaints from some of you. I’ve decided to reduce them from 2000 plus words to less than 1300 words. Happy now?

Yours Single and comfortable,


Migingo Awat

THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (PART 20)

After painfully quitting my well paying job, I focused on my college education and the preaching of the gospel.

I went ones again to stay with my step mother at Mamboleo. I was then an adult with national Identity Card. The moment I reached Mamboleo - Kisumu, my step mom, Elsa found it unnecessary to have a house maid. I took over the household chores, against all odds, with vigor and enthusiasm. The first task was to make sure that the kitchen was well stocked with mura (saw dust). We had a jiko that used mura for fuel. I had to get at least two huge loads of mura every evening, after college, before embarking on splitting firewood for the preparation of Nile Perch for resale. Elsa was a vivid fish business lady who transported fish to all the markets from Kakamega, Kitale and Eldoret. It was also my responsibility to transport these fried fish to the roadblock, about one and a half kilometers away, where a market bound matatu would pick them. The fish were so heavy to an extent that I had to embrace them and do some careful balancing act as I literally dragged them, on my bike carrier, to the road block. I used to do two to three trips every morning from around 5am to about 6:30 am.

I had to wash my bicycle, prepare breakfast for dad and the little kids, take bath and ride to college located in the City Centre. It was always next to impossible to catch up with the first lesson.

Gorety had already eloped, three years earlier, with a guy who was supposed to be her trainer in tailoring. She was to join Utali College for some hotel management courses but marriage seemed to be her first priority then. I tried talking her out of this relationship to no avail. When I first appeared in her new home without notice, I saw a severely malnourished woman whose beauty had disappeared from hard labour and food related stress. There was no way I would endure seeing my best friend and sister in such a state but there was very little I could do to drag her out of that situation. She later quit relationship, under pleasure from the man’s parents, as she could not produce any offspring within a given grace period. She hooked up with another man who though was not that educated but at least he was very sensible. Then is when, a disease, which had no punctuation marks, caught up with her.

Gorety was a quick witted woman who knew nothing about giving up hope. Her new husband and I were always by her side notwithstanding the whole of our family. The hospital made great profit margins from her predictable frequent visits. I prayed for her in several occasions but the disease grew worse. It was like my prayers were contributing to the multiplication of the viral or bacterial effects. Got Abindu (Abindu Mountains) knew me by all my names as I used to disappear in those caves for several days praying to God by faith for her healing; but she grew worse. When things became very thick, she was sent back to her parents to take care of their daughter. That was not the time to remind her of the past mistakes but dad being who he was could not let this opportunity pass by. Dad with a soft loving way gave her the whole Quran. Parents would never leave their children to suffer no matter what. She started developing some flesh in her skeletons. I glorified God for answering my prayers.

Got Abindu was not a place to go to casually. We had to prepare ourselves for tough weather conditions coupled with meeting some unfamiliar human beings notwithstanding crawling animals. Peter, now a Pastor, was the one who introduced me to this secret place. We arrived at around 6:30pm in the evening. It was a cold evening; the clouds were thick and dark. The birds of the air were already fondling to each other in their nests. The cows in the nearby homesteads had already been milked and the chicken had returned home to roost. We climbed up to the dry rocky mountain in anticipation for a great week before the Creator. As soon as we reached the top, the heavens opened pouring rains cats and dogs. We dashed into a cave which was full of men and women dressed in white, blue and green robes. They were surrounding a faire place which was keeping them warm in the chilly cave. Peter and I moved closer to the fire place to have a share of the warmth. “Hii!! Hiii!! Mmm!! Awinjo muya marach odonjo ka – Hiiii!! Hiiii” (Hii!! Hiii!! Mmm!! I feel the presence of an evil spirit here – Hiiii!! Hiiii) one long bearded old man exclaimed. What he was trying to say was that our spirits were not agreeing with theirs. We both insisted on sitting by the fire place despite their loud prayers and casting of “muya marach”

When the rains stopped and the rocks dried up, Peter and I left the noisy cave to the rocky top where we prayed later slept. We realized that those in the caves were Legio Maria people who had been fasting in the same cave for close to twenty one days. After a week of prayer and fasting, we left for home leaving the Legio Maria guys behind. They were to continue in their prayers for another ten days.  After walking for about twenty minutes, we saw ripe paw paws on one of the compounds. The owner handed over a few to us. We ate seriously to the full, forgetting the fact that we had been fasting for seven days. Wait a moment – the pawpaw refused to settle in the empty stomach but rather preferred to move directly to the exit point. That was the day we understood that one can diarrhea raw pawpaw live-live.

The following Monday, I headed to college where I noticed some very vital health issues which I addressed at the Superior College Kamkunji. “Mr. Principal, there is no way both men and women can share toilets” I began the complaint. “I once went to the toilet and both the doors were engaged. When I knocked some funny soprano voice replied ‘I’m inside’ but she refused to come out for close to fifteen minutes” I continued. “These ladies do not leave the toilets as soon as they realize it is a man waiting outside and they don’t continue with work in progress as they fear the one outside will hear them farting” I added “Sir, that day I had to rush to the privatized city council toilets only to realize it was a mere ombulumbuso which I could have gotten rid of in the college toilets were it not for the two soprano ladies”. At the mention of ombulumbuso, everybody went into uncontrolled laughter. Ombulumbuso is that small portion of poop that comes last when you’re already done; if you do not understand the art of exhaustively pushing your exhauster until that part leaves your system you’ll be surely walk around with it wherever you go. “The money I paid for the Ombulumbuso was meant for my lunch. I did not take lunch that day sir” the students continued laughing as I smiled softly. I knew my point was hitting the principal squarely. I went on and talked about the dumping of sanitary towels in an appropriate manner. Severally, the principal tried to stop me but the male students couldn’t allow it. In fact Mr. Ocholla, our Financial Accounting teacher asked the big man to allow me to express all my sentiments. The management had no otherwise but to act. Those ladies had very big bad manners, sticking in the toilets forever! For them to come out faster, we had to pretend that we were walking away only to bump into our handsome faces when coming out.

“Mr. Principal, the other issue is what we sit on – timber!” I continued amidst crazy applause. “The last time we sat on such was in primary school and we do not expect to suffer the same way in college” I continued with the fully blown pregnant points. “After sitting in those things for two continuous hours, our buttocks refuse to be ours and our legs follow suit! Even standing becomes a problem sir” I continued amidst laughter and applause.

I do not know whether my eyes were deceiving me but our class for full of faces which looked like Al Qaeda. They were always on toes even during photo sessions. It was like CIA agents would strike any moment. Damian Guda would have been different were it not for his cheek bone which resembled that of my donkey. He liked chewing so much until one day his supposed girl friend lamented loudly “Stop chewing! Chewing makes your cheek bones look funny” We laughed to near death. This Damian guy was either breeding snakes or leopards; his ties were either spotted or pythonish and the way he used to make them long..

Charles Lwanga was another one; very smart and handsome but never used to socialize so much with the ladies. He was never inclined to making fun of anything. His neck was always patterned with a shiny golden rosary. Those day’s ladies feared such religiously adorned men. He worked as an Accountant for some time but later joined the seminary and became a catholic priest. The talents bestowed on his God given apparatus were buried. I, on the other hand, was carefully very outgoing, with the gospel well knit on my loins. I used to preach at Oile market together with Jasper Mose and Musa Juma. Musa was one hell of a faith guy; his faith was so much, the faith the shook the kingdom of hell. He was brought up in an Islamic family with both his mom and dad being very strong Muslims. When he decided to be born again, he was kicked out, literally; his dad chasing him away with a machete.

Those day’s suspenders were the order of the day whether the trousers were loose or fitting. It was part of fashion – students, teachers, preacher, parents and even the touts were all in suspenders. The craziest thing about this was that most of us were wearing suspenders with belts! What a fashion disaster!

Lazarus and Musa Juma, my friends, were always in suspenders at every opportune time. I couldn’t also lose out on the fun especially when everybody was going that direction. My dad was the best fun of these fashions disaster items; his made the stomach protrude like a baby’s bottom but he was very happy in it.

Yours in suspenders,


Migingo Awat

THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (PART 19)

The grueling tasks of looking after cattle, fetching water for sale with the two donkey, pruning trees within the compound, helping mom with the farm work and going around schools with the gospel was greatly overwhelming. The burden and commitment to all these tasks were so heavy that there was no way I could isolate any of them for elimination. I had to take over in herding the cattle after our herdsman, Charles Odiany, decided to quit working for us. He went on terrorizing the young beautiful widows who had all the cash inherited from their dead husbands.

I fervently prayed to God, on a daily basis, for something that could give me some more money as the little cash I was getting from the two donkeys was not enough to meet all my requirements. If there was one thing I hated was witnessing my mom struggling to make ends meet. I shared my feelings with one brother who promised to get me some kind of a job but to my surprise he asked me to go and take care of his grandmother’s cattle which would pay me around Kes. 1.200 a month. The pain that I felt after the news was so heart breaking that I decided to delete this guys name from my friends list. How could he even think of such a job for a form four-leaver? The fact that I was taking care of my dad’s cattle did not necessarily qualify me to be every Dick and Harry’s herdsman. That was not my portion.

A few months later I was informed of an announcement from the Chief’s Baraza (gathering) that there was a recruitment exercise for an NGO which would surely pay well. I was among five hundred applicants and I was lucky to be among fifty people called for the interview. A day to the interview, I went for a nice stylish hair cut, the kind of cut that would automatically win me the most anticipated job – data collector. The barber, Awat Oyoo, decided to put his funny styles on my head on a day that mistakes were not to be tolerated. I couldn’t even dare appear before my dad that evening and therefore I decided to shave everything – Jordan style. Dad shouted at me that evening and assured me of failure in the interview owing to my pathetic hair style; but I encouraged myself in the Lord. That night I prayed in tongues that sounded like Latin coupled with a lot of Kijaka and very heavy English!

The following day, I went for the interview and to my surprise there were more that one hundred people waiting to be interviewed; the fifty of us plus the other opportunistic two legged parasites. My turn for the interview came at around 4pm that evening with one Phoebe giving me very easy but challenging IQ questions. I passed.

The joy of getting a very well paying job with the then Plan International (now Plan Kenya) was so fulfilling. The fact that only ten of us were recruited out of over five hundred people was just amazing. Our job was to interview at least ten families per day and decide whether they were needy or not with each questionnaire earning us a hooping one hundred shillings. This meant that we were taking home one thousand shillings a day – tax free.

Plan Int. Recruits

We were then to go through an orientation programme which would take just a day. The ten of us were taken to Tom Mboya Labour College, Kisumu. Each of us was picked by the same vehicle from our respective homesteads and driven straight to Kisumu City. The whole Plan Int. top brass was present at the event. On arrival, we took a lot of snacks as if the world would end before noon of the same day. When lunch time clock rung, we all walked to the dining room with those fully inflated stomachs. I had listened carefully to the advice of my old man “Do not do anything that the Director does not do. If she serves one piece of chicken, do the same”. One of my fellow new recruits approached the food with vigour like a lion approaching its prey. His dad never gave him any table manners instructions. He ended up serving too much mushroom soup for starters. When the main course was brought, the human being behaved as if he wanted to hide his soup under the table. “It’s okey, you can take another plate for the main course” Phoebe advised him. This guy had a heart of gravel. He went ahead and added some vegetables and meat on the same soup messing up the whole thing. No matter how much he tried to hurry to complete the food, it was next to impossible as he had served everything in hyena quantities. Wait until the table was cleared and desserts were served; most of us were as full as the village ticks and nothing could find any space therein. These people wanted to kill us with food.

When we embarked on the job back home, I realized that that people were very poor out there with some surviving on only natural fruits on a daily basis. I witnessed a nursing mother going without food with her tiny skinny baby sticking on the emaciated breasts which would not produce any liquid matter at whatever cost. Most of the time the guides would comfort me rather that the suffering families as my knees would refuse to carry me beyond their gates. I would scramble down and groan painfully at the helpless situations I had just witnessed. There was a home where a lady of about twenty four was widowed and neglected. The grave was still fresh by the house with her two closely spaced and emaciated children sitting on her laps with no hope of any meal in the foreseeable future. This woman was so young but had nowhere to go as she had refused to be inherited. Her parents back at home rejected her since she dropped out of school to be married to this confused young fisherman who professed love to her. She was filled with regret and agony beyond measure. Her in-laws couldn’t come to her home as she was a carrier of mikolo. I sometimes went out of my way to give out some cash to assist even just for a day.

After about eight months, I got promoted to be the head of data collectors, a promotion that was not confirmed in writing. This meant that it was nolonger required of me to go to the homesteads but only cross-check the questionnaires from the other data collectors. I did my work peacefully for some time until a lethal rumour hit the Reru airwaves. “Migingo the grandson of a wife inheritor has struck Ong’ele’s (not real name) grandson’s name from the list of the needy children” One woman who guided us the data collectors romoured. Ong’ele was one guy who was feared in the village as he was good with the magic arts. He had a magic stick that he would just point at his victim and blood would just ooze from all his openings. Who wanted to cross this old man’s path?

One Sunday morning, I woke up to find Ong’ele in my step mother’s house together with my dad. They were talking in low tones but I could hear the mention of my name. I knew I was in for some huge elephant shit. “Henure iluongi gi babani” (Henry your dad is calling you) Elsa, my step mom called out for me. I felt my world crashing down when I received that summon. I already had issues with the village elders and I did not know whether it was the same issues coming out or some other more dangerous ones.

“I want you to apologise to this mzee for striking his grandson’s name from the list of the needy children” dad roared.

“Dad I do not know what you are talking about” I responded.

With Dad & herds boy

“Don’t pretend, I just need an apology and I will forgive you. If you don’t apologise, I will point at you with this magic stick and be sure you will wake up in another world tomorrow” the old man threatened.

This old man refused to believe me but ended up humiliating my dad as he literally went on his knees tearfully begging him not to point that little but ugly stick towards my direction.

“Dad please let him point at me. What wrong with you? Don’t beg him, I have done nothing wrong. Whatever he’s saying is just but a romour” I reasoned. Ong’ele, the old man ended up not only pointing at me with the stick but also saying some malicious cursing words. I was not supposed to wake up the following morning.

That evening, I went into deep prayers and fasting commanding ever demon to disappear into the lake of fire. I also commanded all my opening not to produce anything that is not meant for them and they obeyed. My eyes could only produce tears of victory with my mouth shouting praises. There was neither blood in my urine nor in the solid latrine matter. I was as fit as a fiddle despite the thunderous threats from the stone hearted old man.

Dad had no idea that I had visited the hospital that day just before I returned home and I was due for a sick off the following day. The doctors claimed that I did not have enough fluids in my body. The following morning, I heard some steps around my brother’s house where I was “chasing sleep”. Those were the footsteps of my dad who was very worried about my well being that morning. I woke up an hour later and went straight to the market to buy breakfast for the two families. That was when I knew that so many other elders were involved in this conspiracy. They were like “what? You mean this kid is still alive?” I was not only alive but also stable enough to ride my bicycle across the market at high speed. The God whom I serve rescued me from the hands of my false accusers.

The villagers were so aggrieved by the fact that I, a grandson of Mango the terrorist, was having a well paying job. They claimed that such jobs were meant for the families with great backgrounds. These people were so sarcastic. They wanted all women to be inherited upon the demise of their husbands but when these inheritors gave birth to some offspring, the innocent ones were declared outcasts for several generations. This was very unfair but who cared? I personally didn’t. I never got any rest from these old men when I was working with Plan Int.

I later resigned from the job and joined college. I understand Phoebe looked for me thereafter but no one gave me the information until it was too late.


Yours in His Service

Migingo Awat

THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (Part 18)

George Ocholla and James Odiwuor were two young men who closely walked with the saved old men in the renowned East African Revival Fellowship. They had been acquainted to singing the “Tukutenderesa Yesu” song to an extent that they even behaved more mature as compared to their actual ages. They later convinced Oscar and I to join the fellowship where we were required to give our testimonies on our very first visit. Our testimonies did not move the old men. They asked us to sit in the feet of ‘Gamaliel’ to get more direction. Every other person had the same lines in their testimonies making the whole idea of fellowship very boring. The testimonies went like this:

“Opak Ruoth owete gi nyimine” (Praise the Lord Brothers and Sisters)

“An ma unena ka ok alongo e nyim Nyasaye” (As you see me here, I’m not righteous before God)

“An ja richo kaachie kodu” (I’m a sinner together with you)

“To asiko mana ka alokra aloka e remo” (But I keep repenting under the blood)

“Nyocha wuoda man Nairobi okowona sukari kilo apar wapake Ruoth” (My son from Nairobi sent me 10kgs of sugar, lets praise the Lord)

“Nyara ma yande otedo Kabuoch bende yande omako ich ma onyuolo wuowi. Wapake Ruoth” (My daughter who got married in Kabuoch got pregnant and delivered a baby boy. Lets praise the Lord)

Kabuoch is a place in South Nyanza where it’s said that people’s apparatus; do not have the capacity to be called assets but liabilities. That’s why when a lady was married in Kabuoch, it took a miracle for her to get a baby.

As much as I did not like the testimonies, I convinced myself that maybe I was the one who was a bit impatient and had to cultivate some level of endurance. Indeed I was a novice with only four years in salvation. I managed to attend two Revival Fellowship Camps at Chulaimbo and Maseno High Schools. When we made it to Chulaimbo, we were told that the word “youth” was prohibited since a “youth” was somebody who was a bloody sinner. Those were the days when the chief would send youths to the villages to forcefully take cash “donations” for the purpose of purchasing gifts for the visiting District Commissioners’, Provincial Commissioners’ or even District Education Officers. Having no cash would risk your only thuon gweno (cock) as the youth would chase the poor thing around and turn it into delicious soup for the so called visiting government officials. We surely did not deserve to be called “youths” kidhedhe or even Oyoro Tho. We were officially referred to as Owete matindo (young brethren). The work of Owete matindo was to serve Owete Madongo (Old brethren) during and after the camp.

Oscar, Rhoda & I in my step mother's house

I vividly remember the day we traveled to Chulaimbo from Reru. The day was so chilly with scattered drops of rain making the forty kilometer journey very gruesome. A few of us had bicycles while the rest of the community managed on foot.  When we arrived at Chulaimbo, Owete Madongo were directed to the well furnished dormitories while the rest of us, Owete matindo, were told to wait for “further instructions”. The very old, weary but powerful preachers spoke their hearts out on how they became Christians. We all enjoyed the powerful messages. When time to sleep came, every old person disappeared into the dormitories as we were left in the tent wondering our next move. An old man then appeared with pregnant testimony of how they went to “bring salvation from Uganda”. He explained how they suffered on their way to and from that foreign land. “Where is he heading to” a young man whispered. “Young brethren, we were even forced to sleep on banana leaves and stems for the sake of the gospel” He hit the nail on the head. Immediately, we smelt trouble. Something very fishy was cooking..it must have been a shark. This guy was a real fisher of men.

That night we slept in the classrooms; some on the lockers, others on the floor and the rest joined seats together to make a something close to a bed. I managed to sleep on the some joined hardboard seats. I can’t clearly remember whether Oscar and James slept on the lockers too but I could hear their voices in the same cell. Throughout the night, a fellow young brother, from Siaya, seriously lamented at the torturous experience we were going through. He instigated us to revolt against the leadership of the old brethren - he did not get any following. The following night, we did the obvious – slept on the banana leaves and we were encouraged ourselves in the Lord – but the owner of the banana plantation was not very happy with us anyway. Rules were so tight; we were not even allowed to interact with the beautiful sisters. In fact ladies had their separate queues during meal times. After the Chulaimbo and Maseno camps, young men ran from the Revival Fellowship. Oscar and I joined Kenya Students Christian Fellowship (KSCF) (http://kscf.org/). James and George Ocholla later joined us and we worked very well in reaching the students in high schools. Within less than two years I had preached in over one hundred schools.

Preaching in funerals and local churches did not have any financial benefit. I had to think of something I could do part time as I needed money to have much impact not only in my village but also in the surrounding villages; high schools notwithstanding. Photography hit my mind and I went for it with the support of my dad. Young windows would call me to take their photos with some asking me to take them in their birth suit – an idea I could not give even the slightest thought. Taking photos of kissing couples was never in my domain. In short, I had thinned my customer base to descent photos only. I would help my mom with the farm in the mornings, tether the animals and ran to the lake to the lakeside to take photos. In many occasions I would ride on my bike to and from Kisumu for picture printing. Kisumu is about forty kilometers from my village. My dad claimed that such kind of bike riding would interfere with my apparatus.

The photography business became so interesting until I started doing it just for fun. I then embarked on ferrying water, for sale, from Achuow dam to Reru market. Dad had bought two donkeys that were very obedient to me for some time. I had to wake up very early, fetch water for resale then get to the farm to help my mother, come back to tether the cattle and prepare for evening school ministry. My schedule was too tight to an extent that even my own dad missed my presence.

Dad was a very hard nut to crack but I wanted him to get saved anyway. I knew he loved to flirt and the only person who would bring him to Christ would be a lady. We arranged and asked one Rhoda Onyango, my spiritual mom, to come over and talk him to Christ. Instead of Dad receiving the message of salvation, he began to question Rhoda on the reasons for her long stay as a single lady. It was a case of the hunter becoming the hunted and Ondiek chamo wendone (a hyena eating its visitor).

School ministry wasn’t an easy task. Students, especially the ladies, would come up with very mind-blowing questions to me, a young preacher. A lady once came to me for counseling and she had a problem with men. “Brother Awat, I always feel like I need a man. This is my biggest issue” She said “Even now?” I asked “Yes even now!” she replied. The way she was looking at me suggested that the human being would jump at me any second if I continued with the counseling. I used to counsel them in the field where everybody could see; this helped me avoid so many temptations things with the girls. “The problem gets worse just before and after my periods. Like now my periods ended just yesterday” She continued. At that point I knew even the dwarfs would turn into giants. I handed over the sensitive case to the lady C.U patron. Matters of ladies mouse was never my area of expertise.

George Ocholla, Migingo Awat & Allan Oloko

There was this other case where a lady was raped by a so called Japolo (Man of Heaven). Jopolo (plural for Japolo) were those long bearded people walking around in white robes pretending to prophecy about the future of the unsuspecting individuals. Most of them were from Roho Fueny Church, Roho Msalaba, Legio Maria and such indigenous churches. This form two lady used to fail in class and the mother felt that there were some spirits behind this.

“So my mother took me to this Japolo in Kolweny ” She narrated.

“Japolo prayed for me that day but did not allow me to go back home with my mother. I was left alone with him for night prayers.” She continued

“Your mother left you alone for the night with another man!!” I exclaimed.

“Yes. She trusted him so much due to the fact that this Japolo was in my dad’s age-group. She knew he was so descent for any indecent act”. She responded

“He woke me up in the middle of the night for prayers. That’s when he started touching me everywhere without my consent. I tried to scream but he covered my mouth with his hands” She continued in horror with tears rolling down from her deeply depressed eyes.

“Brother Awat, Japolo raped me! I felt excruciating pain – the kind of pain I cannot describe in words. I was a virgin!!” the lady said amidst painful sobs.

“When did this happen?” I enquired

“About six weeks ago. When I told my mom about it, she asked me to stop accusing Japolo falsely. She caned me insisting that I was lying!” She responded with loud scream, the kind of scream that has refused to leave my ears 15 years down the line.

“Brother Awat, I contacted gonorrhea from that experience” She added.

“Oh, my sister. I’m sorry. ” I whispered in her ears with a deep urge to give her a comforting hug.

“Did you manage to contain the disease? What about pregnancy – have you gone for a test?” I asked hurriedly.

“I managed to use my pocket money to secretly seek treatment. I never got pregnant as the ordeal happened during my safe period” She responded.

She deserved a comforting hug but that would not suffice as it would lead to my automatic disqualification from preaching in that school again. I decided to forward the issue to the C.U patron but the lady seriously begged me out of the idea claiming that her parents had warned her against dragging the name of Japolo into such issues. Japolo had told her parents that the demons in their daughter were responsible for the false accusation. As much as I was begged to conceal the horrific experience of the lady, I felt the need of sharing with my KSCF Kisumu Team who took over the matter. The sixteen year old lady did not deserve such a punishment.

Yours in God’s Service

Migingo Awat

THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (Part 17)

A feeling of confusion, an emptiness born out of something very closely knit to culture shock passed through my body. My eyes stared blankly at the birds flying freely in the open sky as the animals beneath went on with their usual business. The herdsman busy squeezing the rare liquid out of the tiny backslidden tits of the cows. I was glad to be home, far from the usual Masada routine, but this happiness could not override the sadness I felt at leaving the environment and lifestyle I had acclimatized to for close to half a decade.

The sound of the morning bell was no longer envisaged. Studying became a thing of the past; the Holy Bible being the only relevant solace in the conspicuously lonesome environment. No more Sam Owitis and the George Orindas giving me trouble. The shouts from the Wajuaji wa Nairobi and those of Kisumu were but a pipe dream. Obunga, Ochung’, Bando, Kidi, Nyakwaka, Odongo and the rest of the teaching fraternity with funny names were a threat – no more. A molecule without boundaries – left alone for the world “out there” to complete the work that the teachers painfully began. I continued praying a lot coupled with fasting here and there and preaching the Word at every opportune time. Together with my cousin and covenant friend Oscar, we saturated every homestead with the gospel – one home at a time. We knocked at every door, the Catholic and the Protestants; the indigenous and the foreign; the old and the young – hearing the wondrous works of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.

The first Sunday came and we went to Oscar’s mother church – the Apostolic Church, Ogwedhi. The preacher, Pastor Ondijo, gave a lengthy lullaby sermon. The saved were bored while the sinners were sent to sleep with some snoring like my pet cat that died from snake bite. They were awoken by the offertory hymn and we all gave as the Lord enabled us. The village church had much accountability as the offering was counted and announced right before the church. The sum total that Sunday was thirty Kenya shillings. That is when the Man Of God went back to the pulpit conspicuously submerged in anger “The total is thirty shillings and I personally gave twenty. That leaves the rest of you with only” He argued. That is when I started smelling a dead rat because I also gave five shillings leaving the rest of the church with only five shillings. That couldn’t be! “What does it profit a man to be an usher and loose his soul in hell?” I whispered under deep anointing.

The following Sunday, after much deliberation, we went to St. Peter’s Anglican Church of Kenya, Nyiera. The preacher was a confused but crazily agitated human being who never believed in salvation. “The day you were baptized as a child was the day salvation came upon your soul. There is no other salvation apart from that. I hear some people walking around saying ‘I’m born again. I’m born again’. What is born again?” He preached. That is when one Mzee Dan Oloko, raised his hand in objection! “Teacher, I have patiently listened to you but I feel I have to make a few corrections to what you are saying before you conclude your sermon” he interrupted. “You see we have young men in this church like Mac’ Omera (that is how he used to refer to me) and telling them such things will lead them astray. I beg of you to rethink what you are telling your congregation” He continued as the whole church nodded their heads in agreement. The preacher remained up there looking at Mzee Dan lugubriously.

Oscar and I managed to give our testimonies and Mzee Oriyo, the husband to one woman who refered to herself as “Original”, was asked to pray for us. Oscar and I could not resist the overwhelming laugher triggered by the prayer of this mzee:

“Nyasaye wating’o nyingi malo” (God we lift your name on high)
“In Nyasaye mar nditi kendo nditini neon ratiro e ng’ima jogi” (You’re the God of glory and your glory is manifest in the life of your people)
“In Nyasaye ma ka opielo to got” (You are the God that when you pup – mountain”
“Ka ilayo to nam” (When you susu – lake)
“Ka ijir to mor polo” (When you sneeze – thunder)
“Ka iywak to koth” (When you cry – rain)

He went on and one with great imagery as the church was deep with back-up of “Mmmm” “Mmmm”. Thereafter we sang the song of salvation – Tukutenderesa Yesu (/watch?v=oD8ms-CjzmU).

My dad belonged to Nomiya Luo Church but we couldn’t dare pay them a visit there as that would put our innocent uncut apparatus into great unwarranted risk. This is the church where baptism is by blood emanating from painful chopping of the unwanted but precious foreskin. That is what we called apparatus sharpening. Since I did not have to use mine then, I saw no need of sharpening it in advance.

We then decided to stick with Anglican Church where the service was like a gymnasium as it involved too much short sessions of standing and sitting. “Let’s stand for the apostle creed” “Let’s sit down for the first reading” exedra, exedra. The church gave me the ministry of taking care of the stomachs of the Men of God in whatever church function. The only problem was that most of the church functions were funerals where I was supposed coordinate the volunteer women cooks. These women were the age mates of my mother and ordering them around was an uphill task but due to the authority bestowed to me, they would listen to every instruction I gave with deep respect. The hosts would give us live sheep or goats for meat and maize for floor. It was the onus of Migingo Awat to turn the sheep and goats into meat. I sent so many animals to the Lord to an extent that I would hear some funny sounds of “Meee!! Meeee!!!” in my dreams. It was revenge time.

Servicing in funerals later developed me into a funeral minister. I would go for every arita (the night before the burial) just to preach the gospel to the unsuspecting but willing crowd. I did not have to spend any money on posters as where the dead are the vultures would obviously gather. The problem with the funeral ministry is that it requires me to be aggressive as most of the crown were women who came to the funerals with their blankets and traditional mats (par) ready to sleep in the open. A boring preacher would send them to sleep literally. One day the elders called me for a meeting to introduce me to myself. “We want to tell you who you are so that you stop shaming yourself and your family in the funerals” they groaned. I did not understand how and when I ashamed myself. I requested them to elaborate but I assured them that I would not quit preaching in funerals. “How dare you preach against wife inheritance as if you do not know that your own grandfather, Mango, was a wife inheritor?” They shouted. “If Mango did not inherit Stella, your grandmother, after Oguda’s death, your father wouldn’t have been in this world” they continued. “Please stop this nonsense of ashaming us and just preach the general gospel like any other person” they decreed. “Elders, I know where my dad came from but that does not make right what is definitely wrong” I replied respectfully. They blamed refusal of women to accept joter (wife inheritors) on my kind of gospel.

Why wife inheritance? In Luo culture, a woman became unclean as soon as her husband kicks the bucket. Thereafter some codes, otherwise known as “kode”, forms around the subject matter – the mouse. These codes had to be broken to make a woman clean. The process of breaking the code was referred to as chodo kode. Chodo kode has two meanings depending on one’s pronunciation. The first being breaking the code while the second one is adultery. Breaking the code was not done my using the fingers or any other accessory but by male uncoated apparatus. This was where the wife inheritor a.k.a Jater or terrorist came in; he was meant to have unprotected sex with the bereaved woman anytime after three days succeeding the burial thereby breaking the code tying the woman to her dead hubby. If a woman claimed to be born again and refused to do the obvious, her children would be turned against her making her live in isolation. Such a woman was not supposed to go to any other homestead or relate with any other “descent woman” as she was a carrier of mikolo- bad omen. The old men would say to their sons “Dhakono ogak. Kik uyiene odonj e dalana” (That woman is a carrier – of mikolo – don’t allow her in my homestead)

The rule was that after yueyo liel (sweeping the grave), the woman was required to get back to the cloths that she wore the day her husband died. She would be in these clothes until she got a jater to chodo kode. The clothes were not supposed to be washed until the whole was drilled by the terrorist.  Any sensible woman would not stay in the same clothes for long hence forcing them, even against their will, to get hooked up with somebody at the soonest opportune time. There were women who refused to be inherited and even went ahead to change their clothes against the norm; their faith in Jesus Christ never allowed them to be inherited. They endured rejection even by their own children for the sake of the cross. “Weri gi ma. Wabiro make bang’e” (Leave this alone, we will catch her later) the elders would say.

What entailed catching her later? This meant that the issue of inheritance would arise as soon as the women are dead. When a woman died before being inherited, the dead body would be inherited before burial. Elders would convince a man ma chuny min oaye (Whose mother has lost hope in), to sleep with the body in the full glare their full glare. The thought of sleeping with a dead woman in the presence of old men would lead to an automatic strike form the apparatus department. A few glasses of traditional brew – changaa – would make the hired inheritor see life and beauty was there was none making him do the obvious.

The men, on the other hand, had an easier sweep. When a man’s wife died, he was required to have a dream where he would sleep with the woman and wet the bed. This would automatically release him to go on with his daily business which included looking for another bride to replace the dead. This was where I came in with my kind of the gospel; telling the ladies to open their eyes wide as the culture was discriminating against them. The elders obviously couldn’t tolerate me as I was in every funeral enlightening, mostly women, on the dangers of wife inheritance. I talked about AIDS, hepatitis B, gonorrhea and other sexually transmitted diseases. I elaborated through scriptures how God was angered by this tradition. People ran to God in these funerals like never before, giving all the glory to Jehova.

Yours Funeral Preacher,

Migingo Awat

THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (Part 16)

Going to Masada pit latrines could only be described as a horrific journey to hell and back. The latrines, despite the daily cleaning, were stinking habitation of both small and large crawling and flying creatures in equal proportion. The walls had crazy graffiti indicating who and who in Ngere community had frequented the dungeons. “Otis was here” shouted one graffiti. So what? While the rest of us would rush in and out like lightening, other mind twisted students took their time making history with their fingers between the ugly creatures in the name of creating remembrance for themselves; and the drawings and writings were not done by pieces of chalk or marker pens but by something close to what we would rather not talk about here.

Everybody in Masada was insane with only the level differing significantly. Personally I used to visit those places at night when I couldn’t manage to see who was who on the walls though my imaginations created monsters which never existed both within and without the latrines.  Very courageous boys like Sam Owiti and George Orinda made their visits right in the middle of the day nyawawa. (ghosts that speak Luo language). The consequences of getting in with clothes were dire as nobody would want to walk with you or even sit next to such an air polluting demon from hell.

when everybody could see them. They were the kind of people who would walk out of Kiswahili lessons and take great time in the well distributed exhauster places. To them, going to the latrines included but not limited to taking off all their clothes and walking in majestically into the tiny rooms in their birth suits. On completion of their assignments they would come out shaking themselves as if inhabited by some

Everything related to the latrines required some technique so as to avoid getting inside those tiny prisons. Passing water required the boys to stand outside the door at an angle; stand one to two metres from the toilet, depending on the strength of your subject matter; remove the precious assets, bend backwards and apply pressure as you move slowly towards the pit….by the time you reach the latrine door – you’re done with the business. Female teachers, including Mrs. Nyakado, found it hard to believe their eyes. Nyakando was extremely beautiful and many students liked flocking near her with questions which had neither heads nor tails.

These latrines were the same reason that made Kisumu Girl’s High School ladies abhor Masada. They wanted to help themselves after taking too much juices, sodas and tea but they couldn’t just dare the site of worms with horns looking lugubriously towards their direction. Sinyolo High school girls also went through the same torture or even worse. These girls came to Ngere for a Science Symposium which was held at the Laboratory next to Form four classes. They were given a usual treat of courtesy; sodas, tea and juices with Nyapolo’s well cooked mandazis. Just before t hey took their drinks half way, the boys decided to walk them around the compound without bearing in mind that the students who were in class were on forced study. As soon as they left for the walk, the form fours jumped into the lab like wild monkeys, drinking and eating everything that was left unattended in a splash and settling back to their classes as if nothing had happened. The girls could not believe their eyes when they returned; a shocking welcome awaited them from the screaming empty bottles and scattered plates. That was Ngere for them.

Mr. Obunga got fed up with the latrine behavior and offered a decree in the Monday morning assembly “From today, no more removing clothes when visiting the latrines; no more leaving the latrine doors open when doing your business inside; you must tack in when still within the latrines” he roared. That was when it became real to us that hell was knocking at our doors and nothing would save us. Obunga’s word was law and no one would dare break them. From that day, guys would come from those rest rooms with tears rolling down their cheeks with their mouths full of poisonous liquid substance while stinking like Obel Sibuth - the demon in charge of gathering warms in hell.

Mr. Obunga had the tendency of secretly “sleeping” in the dormitories with his ears wide open to listen to every gossip from the students in the thick of the night. One could only hear his name at the morning assembly, the following day, followed by “You fool run to my office!!!” Who would dare speak anything wrong even in darkness? Not even in the latrines; we wouldn’t even dare whisper anything to anyone – Obunga would obviously hear it. At one time he hid himself in the latrine next to where Odeny used to go to in the evening and he managed to hear everything Odeny was planning. Odeny could not sit properly the following day.

 Ong’a was later transferred to Thur Dibuoro Mixed Secondary school on a promotion. He was booed on his very first day when he decreed that every student, including ladies, had shave their hair. That was the first and the last booing.
Things took a different turn at Masada thereafter. We were left with the Mr. Ndolo, the Principal and Mr. Ochung as the acting deputy principal with Odongo Shelimia as the acting senior master. Whether it was a demon or some kind of unwarranted intoxication, I did not know; what I knew was that Ochung imported a spear from his village to his office which he would carry while strolling around the compound, like a watchman, at night. He would bully the students with the spear whenever any simple mistake drove them to his office. I remember one time he almost pierced my ribs with that lethal weapon; my mistake - praying early in the morning on a closing date. The Principal had decreed that there would be no more prayers by the Christian Union in the morning hours. We managed to pray underground for some time but this fateful day we decided to come out of the cover since the whole student fraternity was making lots of noise in anticipation of traveling home. Ochung took our morning prayers as a gross misconduct which had to be punished by a spear.

“There is one student here who insists of disobeying every decree the principal issues” Ochung began his speech at the assembly. “we have to teach him that this is not his village where he can do whatever he likes and get away with it” he continued. “Awat, run to my office right away – RUN” he shouted mimicking Mr. Obunga. During the speech I thought he was referring to someone else as I was known to be one of the most disciplined students in the school. I had been leading people to the Lord and there was no way I would go against the school rules. When the acting deputy head teacher came to his office, he took his spear and pointed at me so that I could keep my distance. I wondered what he was afraid of since he was huge and tall and obviously I offered no threat to his life. Mr. Ochung then started throwing blows at me without telling me what my mistake was. Mr. Bolo opened the door without knocking and coincidentally I was also tired of the jabs so I missed this one. It landed on Bolos nose. “Sorry! Sorry! Bolo. That was meant for this fool” he shouted. I managed to find some breathing space and asked, in the presence of Bolo “Sir, with all due respect, can you please explain to me why you are hitting me?” That led to more blows with the shout “Do you think you can disobey everybody now that your father is a member of the board?” That was still not answering my question. Bolo finally came back to my rescue when he requested Ochung’ to explain why he was ruthlessly beating such an obedient student. In fact Ochung’ was my class teacher and I was one of the best performing students in his subject, English. When he gave the reason, Bolo surely sympathized with me and requested him to let me go and that’s how I left with that office telling God “Jehova if you are God, Ochung’ will not be confirmed in that office” and surely God answered my prayers. Those days, reporting Ochung’ to dad would have led to even bigger troubles – I was safer keeping that to myself. George Matete, a form two student, gave me the consolation I required.

I thanked God that before the dreaded Mr. Obunga left; he had given the Christian Union free will to worship as long as we did not interfere with anybody’s peace of mind. He had, at one time, given us the schools music system to use as a Public Address system in our very first CU crusade which took place at Reru Market where Andrew Owesi, now a pastor, got saved. Andrew was my classmate in Primary but dropped out of school due to lack of school fees. Mr. Obunga also helped us hold rallies in the dining hall where he made it compulsory for all students to attend and indeed many gave their lives to Christ.

One time George Orinda and Sam Owiti joined hands to give me trouble in class and I reported them to Ochung’. I’m sorry to say that they came back with itching behinds. They never gave me trouble again in class except for a few occasions during coffee breaks where they wanted to fill their komboras with the precious liquid to the disadvantage of the majority. Making sure that coffee was shared equally was my salient feature.

Mr. Odongo was the form four East mathematics teacher as well as the CU patron. He would never allow us to go for any outing unless we produced our maths results. To him, anybody who did not pass in maths wasn’t worth going for an outing. “How can you go for an outing while you don’t know maths?” he queried.

During my tenure as CU chairman, I managed to protect over twenty form ones from bullying. I had many obedient sons than anybody would ever have in a single year. I can remember a few names; Felix Alala, George Matete, Steve Omoso, Geoffrey Odhiambo and the list goes on and on. Matete had a brother, Kennedy Matete, in form four who had all the books of the world but could not by any means lend any them to anyone. We nicknamed him – Top Mark, after the kind of books he had.

Steve Omoso, managed to divide Christian Union right in the middle by picking a few junior forms to rebel against me, their chairman. It was so painful when the people you’ve managed to bring up in Christ end up turning against you in broad day light. Some even went as far as writing letters to me stating their stand against my style of leadership. Otherwise, all in all, those who were for me were more than those who were against me. Steve Ochiel was later to be expelled out of school owing to his queer behavior.

The worst moment in Ngere was when Mr. Oga and Mr. Ochieng’ fought each other in front of the students and parents during parents day. We had all gathered at the school Kamukunji for a price giving day cum parents day. My class form four north was to entertain the guests with traditional music. We had surely prepared only to be knocked out, by Mr. Ochieng, from the final list of entertainers. I protested to Mr. Oga, the MC of the day. Oga, returned our names without consulting Ochieng’ and that is when things became male elephants. We ended up entertaining the parents anyway.

Yours out of Masada,

Migingo Awat

THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (Part 15)

Dad taught me to be a hardy person never to depend on anybody for either my physical or spiritual survival. This he instilled in me practically by not giving me any pocket money by the time I became a form three. I had to work for his construction company, to earn money for shopping and my other needs. My cousin Oscar and I worked tirelessly in the construction of Lakers Inn, which is situated along Kibos Road, where I learnt tits and bits about plumbing and masonry. Oscar on the other hand was working with an electrician inside the ceiling boards; it was very hard for the foreman to supervise them. We, the non skilled labourors were referred to as “Joluedo” or “Boy fundi”.

Dad insisted that we manage our way to and from work just like everybody else; going near the Peugeot would lead to dire consequences. The Peugeot was for “Engineer” as my work mates used to refer to dad. George, my brother, was a clerk and he was the only one allowed to sit in the office. He could pay us our dues through the foreman as getting close to such a big boss was not very easy. Oscar and I were very happy and hardy; happy because we were making our own money at an early age and hardy due to the tenacity of the work we were involved in at that early age. Otherwise it was better to work for dad in town than in the village where there was no payment. “In the village you’re working for your dad who pays your school fees while in town you’re working for the company which is a separate legal entity from me” He argued.

When I went back to school, I decided to take my Accounting Lessons seriously so as to be like my brother one day – a big boss. Our Accounting teacher was known as Mr. Kambare. He was dark, very huge and loved boasting of the CPA stuff. Accounting class was full of Westerners who boasted of their prowess in dealing with figures courtesy of Mr. Bolo, their maths teacher. That was when I knew one guy by the name Christopher, a friend of John Omindo, John Ombajo and George Okeyo. These were the top cream of the class with Omindo taking the number one slot and running away with it every term. Christopher was a very slender but short, young looking boy. He was the kind of person who thought everything was copy pasted in his skull as he would nullify every argument his class mates came up with in relation to any topic in whichever subject making it very hard for us to give our points in the Accounting class, no matter how pregnant they were. Thank God, I was not sharing any other subject with him. He was the type of person we would refer to as “Dhoge – Tunge” (His mouth – His horn); no one beat him in any argument as he was always right. Christopher was the direct opposite of my friend John Omindo. Omindo was a very quiet bright boy who refused to be number two the whole of his life in Ngere. Every time Christopher would reason that if his English marks were not taken away, he would have taken the number one slot. If not English, he would talk about maths, Accounting, Physics name them.

Anybody remembers Martin Obuo? Martin was in form four during the days I wrote the infamous poem. He surprised me one day when he, a young man who was topping his class of over 120 students, came to me, a battered form two student, in the prayer room. This guy did not come to talk about the poem but to accept Jesus as his Lord and savior. He claimed that he was touched by my courage and the manifestation of the power of God in my life. I was just amazed. I led him to Christ to the amazement of his classmates; I was so touched by his divine courage. We would study the bible together from there on. A form two sitting together with a form four was unheard of those days. He became very strong in the Lord. Martin was a very cool guy, the kind of guy you would admire. Since he was a residence of Reru, we became partners in the preaching of the gospel in the village together with guys like Oscar and George Ocholla and Patrick Ogwari. Martin would have loved to be a gynecologist but he turned up to be a very successful lawyer who sits as a magistrate in this land of Kenya.

Ajeri, whom I used to refer to as British type, was very loud both in class and in the dormitory. He had porcupine cheeks; this guy started shaving his beards when some of us were still taking free primary milk. The cheeks looked like something that had been walked on by an elephant or something bigger than that. He used to like the phrase “Masada ka wan mana oduma lilo” (In Masada We’re just maize only) and indeed we were just boys. I remember the phrase “Oganda kawuono oremo nyoyo” (There is less beans in this nyoyo*) was used when there were innings when the ladies were fewer than boys. When planning for Innings (opposite of outing), the club official made sure that they insisted on the number of girls who would coincide with the number of boys in the club. In Masada we had clubs of whatever nature ranging from Science to Journalism. I was in the Accounting Club and Christina Union – which we did not want to be referred to as a club per se but a Society.

There was this time we were organizing an accounting inning under the leadership of Christopher; the human being gave us trouble. First it was the school choice; then the subject of discussion and finally the people to present – it was trouble all through. We settled on Kisumu Girls; a school that had very bright and beautiful ladies. I decided to present on “Depreciation of Fixed Assets”; a topic that offered no challenges to me until Christopher challenged me with very nitty-gritty questions thus forcefully eroding my confidence to the dismay of many. This block of a human being was insecure as his mouth did not add up to his size. The much anticipated day came and the boys were in their best borrowed, form one, attire ready with the earthmoving vocabularies a.k.a Vocs, and well furnished romantic phrases which would sweep the hearts of the less suspecting targets, heels over heads. The previous week, instead of concentrating on the accounting topics, the boys were on love stories “Romeo & Juliet” notwithstanding.  “When love comes your way, grab it! When it has to go, let it! Know why? Because the right one will always come along and indeed the right one is right before me” I eavesdropped this phrase from Oracha, a form three Northerner. Oracha was very ugly, not even the mosquitoes and the many houseflies of Masada flew near him. Whoever is rejected even by the mosquitoes is ugly indeed; but this young and yummy girl was flowing into Oracha’s tune. The craziest bit was that I also had a girl assigned to me whom I gave an overdose of powerful bible verses which were freely flowing via my vocal code. I never heard from her again – Girls those days feared the bible brandishing boys.

The following week, Oracha received a well drafted letter from the yummy girl. The letter was full of praise to the mosquito rejected boy. His face glowed with joy, the kind of joy that no man would ever give, courtesy of the baby girl. He made a step and read it loud in class as we all erupted in laughter in deep unbelief. The lady must have been imagining somebody else when writing to Oracha or maybe the letter was posted to the wrong address; but it bore the right name! Those are the days when Arodi, now a policeman at Embakasi Police post, was busy applying ambi and other make ups on his ever dark and rough skin. His girl referred to him as “soft skin” making him try against all odds to achwiti (I can’t reach down) trousers but I’m sure I would love you more in your own” would make the boys stop the borrowing habit. Those are the days when we would be keen when the incoming mails were distributed in the evening assembly. It would take close to two weeks before you get your response as Kenya Posts & Telecommunications Ltd guys were behaving like snails. Patrick Ogwari, my good friend and prayer partner, used to receive frequent letters from Lwak Girls. He met this girl in a Christian Union meeting which was held in Kisumu Boys (I suppose). While the rest of us were busy praying with our eyes closed, Brother Patrick had his eyes wide open. Where the girl disappeared is anyone’s guess.
live up to the set standards (I will not talk much about Arodi – I don’t want a bullet on my butts). Those days’ girls knew how to make a man change his ways. Those girls would refer to you as “short nails” when indeed you had long nails. This led the boys to cut the nails to live up to the reference.  Phrases like “you look so sweet in those

I also had a girl from Givogi High; a girl who did not capture my attention while still in Givogi but managed to trace me to Ngere. The first letter I received from her was accompanied with a photo with very vivid reminders of whom she was. She was very tactful as she filled her letter with very many bible verses thus catching my attention. Those were the days when I could not respond to any letter which had no bible verse. This lady, Rose Simiyu, was very lovely and spiritual; a woman who would go to any extent to express her feelings to the determinate person. She managed to pay me several visits later on in life and I did likewise. My chicken back at home knew her name; the name that spread horror across the chicken population as the arrival of Rose would lead to gross massacre in their world. The most horrific part is that the kitchen was the chicken’s bedroom so they would have a clear view of their relatives being taken through painful death. That was the true meaning of horror movie! To make my chicken flee, I just needed to pick one cockerel and whisper the name “Simiyu” in its ear and the whole chicken fraternity would run halter-scalter (sp).

Yours in horror,

Migingo Awat

THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (Part 14)

Kenyan Former President, Daniel Toroitich arap Moi, was a very generous man; a man who would dish out cash to students and women who danced and sung his praises loudest.

A few weeks to the beginning of KCSE that year, Moi decided to visit the late Oginga Odinga, the then Official Opposition leader. The whole student fraternity of Ngere High and other neighbouring schools gathered at Kolenyo Market to sing praises to the “father of the nation” while en-route to Bondo town. After thoroughly twisting our waists in dance, Moi bent down to his limo and what he came out with was a huge bundle of very new precious papers bearing his portrait. “Which school is this?” he asked. “Ngere High!!!!” Alwala Mixed!!!!” “Bonde Mixed!!!” “Aduong’ Monge Primary!!!” “Ochok!!!!!””St. Barnabas!!” Utterly every student, by the road side, shouted the name of his school. Baba went with the loudest shout and handed over the bunch to our Deputy Principal, Mr. Obunga, leaving the other schools empty handed. He then bought the bananas, sugarcane and the snacks from the vendors asking them to distribute to the crowd. We were later informed that the huge bundle was a cool fifty thousand Kenya Shillings (not Zimbawe Dollars) in five hundred denominations. The highest Kenyan currency denomination was five hundred hen.

Each stream was asked to discuss what would be done with the money. Form two West settled for the purchase of music system and a 21 inch coloured television. The big boys, those who had very limited time in school, the so called wise men of the year, chose something which to my humble understanding  was very strange – a bull. This bull, according to my adult brothers, was not to be used for the collection of sperms for artificial insemination but was to be turned into a sumptuous meal which would eventually disappear in our stomachs en-route to the pit latrines. Obunga ended up buying only the TV as “the cash was not enough to purchase everything” the students wanted. The senior boys were very mad.

During our examination, Red Cross became very thirsty for blood and their first stop was Masada. Their target – the innocent students who had not been consulted on the whole impromptu blood donation project. We were asked to give our generous blood contribution “at will” and “without any coercion”  (as if those words existed in Masada). At that time one Hongo was the incoming SSP deputized by our very own, John Ombajo. Whether it was planned or not, I do not know, what I know is that Hongo cornered and “persuaded” me to the donation table. I impregnated a whole pant with my “donated” blood and thereafter drunk a free fanta soda to add me some energy. I can’t remember how I reached my bed after that. I can only remember waking up the following morning for Agriculture exams where sentences were appearing backwards like Chinese. I was still feeling English-English (Nausea). I did not pass that exam together with the subsequent ones; a fact that made dad very mad at me. The teachers also presumed that I was just mouthy for nothing.

I went to Mamboleo, where dad was staying with step mom, to submit my results. I was greatly lectured but all that did not increase my marks. I tried to explain to him what happened but he could hear none of that. He rather blamed my failure on “this salvation thing”. He gave me two options and asked me to give him feedback the following morning; “Drop the salvation thing and continue with High School or continue with the foolishness and drop out at form two” He roared. “Dad, I do not need a whole night to think about this matter. Whatever it is, I’m not quitting salvation” I whispered respectfuly. I saw horror in the old man’s eyes as he took a deep breath. He looked at the ground then turned to me before staring aimlessly at the roof then went into dead silence for close to three minutes. He then opened his mouth saying  “Since you’re my son, I wouldn’t allow you to go into the streets. I will rather take you to a village polytechnic where you will do some courses with the class eight drop outs. There is where you belong”. The next day, I was asked the course I had chosen and I settled for carpentry. I was taken to an experienced carpenter whose workshop was on the opposite side of our compound to train me, at a subsidized fee, in making household furniture. In less than three weeks, I had known how to make beds, tables and simple sofa sets but stools were proving very hard for me as the joints were too close to each other and requiring Mortise and Tenon (tongue-and-groove) joints at the same time.

On the other side of the word, the village, my sheep and chicken were doing very well. I estimated the chicken to be above fifty in number all being hens with a few cockerels waiting for their turn to slide into dad’s stomach. The sheep were just about ten; I was told that some were slaughtered for dads VIP guests while my brother’s only sheep had been given away, earlier, as a gift to dad’s special friend. I still remember how George Awat a.ka Jakolanya reacted when he received the news.

When schools reopened, in January the following year, I dropped out of that carpentry training stuff and went back to Masada via the village where I sold some chicken to raise cash for shopping and little pocket money. I went directly into the Principals office and told him that dad would pay the fees in two weeks time. “He has asked me to tell you to give him time to raise the funds” I said by faith and since dad was a member of the board there was no way the Principal would have sent me back home. I was also sure dad wouldn’t just dare take me out of school.

I was drafted to form three North, instead of West, where I was made the class secretary. All my friends went to West. I had to share the same stream with one Ongele Fuel, George Orinda and Arodi the black man and the ugly Oracha (not real name). As a class Secretary, I was in charge of writing minutes, making sure that the black board was clean, replacing filled-up exercise books and serving coffee to my stream mates. I had trouble in almost all these area. Ongele was an avid footballer who would eat the whole kitchen if given the chance. He loved top layer more than life itself and, together with his friend George Orinda, they gave me too much trouble during coffee breaks. Orinda gave me a crazy nick name due to the fact that I was very strict on them when it came to coffee; this guy would drink a whole nyuol ber (huge sufuria) of coffee if I dared even wink – I had to keep both eyes on him. I wondered where all the food these two guys took went to since their bodies refused to react.

There was this maths teacher, Bando, who did not like me from the time I wrote the life changing poem. He would rush to class at the start of his lesson to find the blackboard still crowded with the assignments from the previous lesson. This would make him throw tantrums by dusting the black board duster on my innocent head and face. I was then a senior student who could not just tolerate a camouflaged bully in the name of a maths teacher. Where would I report Mr. Bando anyway? He even insisted that I sit in front so as to face his wrath at will on a daily basis. He made mathematics so hard for me to fathom, a subject that I had to understand to succeed in my dream of becoming an Accountant. Dad, wanted me to be a Civil Engineer in order to work with him in his company – Migingo Construction Co. Ltd. Working with him was something I never dreamt about. I became uninterested in building stuff.

Bando used to wonder how I was still passing this subject despite his frustrations. He almost killed me when he realized that I would go to Mr. Bolo’s (form 3W maths teacher) in the evenings for free

tuition. To him, that was an abuse of his ability, something he would never tolerate. Mr. Bolo also had troubles with this arrogant teacher making him drop the tuition for the sake of peace. Those are the days I would teach my sister, Jane Ogola a.k.a Ojiro Nyamande (hunging Pranks), maths and she would excel with flying colours – not limping ones. She became one of the best mathematicians in Kisumu Girls High School.

At least I had a teacher who made life a bit interesting in this “Guatamano Bay” High school – Mr. Oga, the Kiswahili teacher. He was just so funny especially when teaching a topic he loved most – Ngeli. He didn’t like seeing students rush to the latrines during his class. He could say things like “what of if I also start rushing to the latrines after every ten minutes?”. This was the teacher who taught me that “a gentleman goes to the toilet ones in the morning and waits for the next morning”. There were also times when Kiswahili would refuse to find a safe landing in the skulls of the likes of Orinda, Aredi and Ongele Fuel. This was the time Mr. Oga would climb the seats and desks and shout in Swahili causing laughter to those of us who at least were born in town. Oga later got into trouble with us when he decided to teach Ngeli for close to three weeks – a topic that would ordinarily take just a week. We documented his behavior in our class minutes which Mr. Ochung’, the senior master but our class Master refused to sign.

Mr. Ochung was a very great English Grammar Teacher. I would have understood everything were it not for this same Orinda boy. When Ochung asked him to make a sentence with the phrase “showing at the elbow” he said “Awat is showing at the elbow”. That time my two shirts hard holes at the elbow which gave this coffee boy a chance to hit me at my weakest point. Showing at the elbow was a phase which was sued to depict deep poverty.
Mr. Nyakwaka was a neat, tall but slender Biology teacher who would attack bread from within. He never ate the crust of bread but threw it to the dustbin to the dismay of the people “beating dry”. Picture yourself showing a dog some bones then you deep it in the pit latrine – that’s the way the “dry people” were looking at Nyakwaka when he threw the crust. Mr. Obunga was our English Literature teacher. Our set books were “Romeo & Juliet” and “The Concubine”. These were very romantic novels but they sounded horrific owing to the way Ong’a looked at us. Even when he quoted the sweet conversation between Romeo and Juliet, we felt some elements of fear running down our spines as we never knew when the guy would get mad. Personally, I loved the guy even though he refused to mark my composition, at one point, because I depicted myself as a bank robber while he knew me in real life as a preacher and a CU Chairman. “Whatever you write is a clear indication of what you think” he shuted at me.

There was this group that Obunga didn’t like very much – Wajuaji (The I know it all); there were the Wajuaji wa Nairobi and Wajuaji wa Kisumu. Obviously there were no wajuaji wa Reru as those of us from Reru were referred to as Jopunde (The donkey people). Wajuaji wa Nairobi had very strange stories that would amaze those of us who had never landed feet in the capital city. There was this time when they were talking about a day when a KQ plane made an emergency landing at Moi Avenue. I sat silently wondering how a plane can land in the streets without making it to the headline news. These were people with Goliath stories and none of them lived in Dandora, K-South, Kayole, Ruayi and such estates; they all claimed to be residents of Kilesh, Runda, Karen, Westy and Parklands. Wajuaji wa Kisumu on the other hand looked like the sons of those Kondele thugs and like their Nairobi counterparts they had nothing to offer to the right thinking members of the society.

Rest In Peace Mr. Bolo, Mr. Nyakwaka and Mr. Oga (What about Mr. Bando – is this guy still alive?)

Yours in the mix,

Migingo Awat
Japunda