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

THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (Part 13)

Mori Dhano was a man who knew how to make very crude jokes. I remember him one day telling my friend and prayer partner, Patrick Ogwari “Omera ia Nyalgunga piny moro nono - ibiro Ouko Omamo ka goyo dry ma pi wangi chuer ka dok mana e iyi” (Bro, you’ve come to Ouko Omamo from afar off world, Nyalgunga, to take hot coffee without bread to an extent that yours tears are reversing back to your body). Nyalgunga was a dorm next to the teachers quarters, separated from other dormitories by the dining hall. Patrick was my frequent visitor to my dorm to an extent that people though he was from Ouko Omamo.

Mori Dhano was a very protective “father” to me even though he deeply loved making fun of me in the wee hours of the night. He was a nocturnal animal preferring to study deep into the night and making sure that everybody was awake upon his return, usually past  one pm. “Nyathini, ong’edni idonje gi kanye?” (Kid, how do I get into this blanket?). This was his usual question in the wee hours of the night upon his return from the nocturnal activities. It was the duty of the sons to spread their fathers’ beds but Mori never wanted any justice done to his bed as, maybe - just maybe, he wanted to resist the powers that were. Failure to spread the beds would lead to severe consequences to the sons. I decided to obey the powers against Mori’s wish and this was why Mori insisted on waking me up when sleep was sweetest to show him the modalities of getting into his blanket. When I got tired of waking up, I decided to be spreading his bed in the morning and unspreading it in the night. From that time I no longer heard his voice in the night.

Another issue arose with this skeleton but mouthy foster dad; he was okey with me sitting on his bed until Patrick, my friend, surfaced. He claimed that Patrick’s pointed buttocks created holes into his slim mattress while my protruding behind was thinning the same old ugly thing. I wondered why Mori was abusing the name of mattress – that thing didn’t deserve to be called by that name. We told him that transferring him to the upper decker would solve the problem and he obliged. That night Mori Dhano, studied until dawn. “Ma ng’a ma onindo e otandani?” (Who is this sleeping on my bed?), that friendly photocopy of a human being asked. I had to wake up to show him where his bedding was – on the top decker. Top deckers were meant for form ones and twos; and we used to be woken with stokes of canes. As soon as I showed Mori where to sleep, the bell waking up junior forms, rung and I rushed to the dining hall. Our decker, with Mori, was the very first one on the door and the prefects on duty had no idea that it was no longer me on top but Mori. I understand Mori received several strokes of the cane from the form three prefect on duty. That is when the prefect understood why some people are reffered to as Mori Dhano. This created tension between form threes and fours for a whole week. “Jo form three gi ochawa. Giparo ni tinde gipong” (These form threes are looking down upon us. They think they’ve grown up) shouted the form fours on sighting any form three.
Mori never used to wash his blue coated aluminum plate. The plate had acquired so many dents due to the way its handler was throwing it under the beds where it would stay until the next meal. One time I decided to be washing the plate and keeping it safely in his weak, ever unlocked mabati (iron) box. That day, Mori Dhano went looking for his noisy plate under every bed towards the direction in which he threw it after the previous meal. He was not very happy when I informed him that I had washed and kept it safely in his ugly box. Subsequently, I decided to be washing and getting it back under the beds for the sake of peace. (I miss you Mori).

I did not like the way the form fours became overly rowdy and unmanageable when they were approaching their final exams, Kenya Certificate of Secondary Education, but I was still in the category of those who were there “to be seen but not to be heard”. I decided to do something about it without thinking of the consequences. The easiest way to communicate to these hooligans was through a poem which I entitled “BIG BABIES”. It was an eight stanza poem, very long to communicate everything in my mind. I took it to my literature teacher, the dreaded Mr. Obunga for review before pinning it on the lockable school notice board. All the form fours went on the rampage looking for this, Migingo Awat, everywhere. On my part, I had no idea that the “demining” poem had been “published” on the notice board. They finally caught up with me in my dorm. No need to say more; I would have lost all my hair and teeth were it not for Mori Dhano and our Dorm Captain. I was thoroughly roughed up by these big babies.

The portions of the poem read:

“With plates hidden in their bellies
They rush to the dining hall
Shame is foreign in their minds
As they eat never to be full
Staying patiently as the juniors are served
Dogs waiting for umbilical cords

“Adiso!! Adiso!!” they scream
Scrumbling back to the queue
Hungry refugees scrumbling for aid
Big babies is what they’re called

“Spoons are their pens
Plates – books
They bully their juniors for deserts
The ones they’re meant to protect”

That evening the form fours planned to cane form twos courtesy of the poem. Mr. Obunga had to come to the assembly to calm the situation warning anybody who touched the “brilliant student” of dire consequences. That night I was whisked away to another dormitory by my trusted form four cousin, Elly Masudi, where I spent the night.”This kid has balls!” One four shouted on sighting me the following morning. Oh yes I had not only balls but also apparatus and horns to speak my mind. Senior students were not supposed to behave stupidly.

As much as we, the form twos, had graduated from washing the pit latrines and the abolition block after the arrival of form ones, things took a reverse turn from the date of the poem. Prefects started assigning us, the duties that ordinarily belonged to form ones. My stream literally blamed me for this. ‘Form four pong’o dhok” (Form 4 fills the mouth) were like bees which were not supposed to be poked.

One day I was summoned by the Senior School Prefect (SSP), Ampher Apidi, to go to the dining hallwith my two open eyes. My fellow form twos advised me not to attempt unless I wanted to be pronounced dead on arrival.
and apologise to the form fours. I knew something very hot was boiling somewhere and I was the one to be dipped in it - I refused to adhere to the summons. That time dining hall had been turned into an examination center and where they wanted me to stand while addressing the over one hundred and twenty “big babies” had no exit route. Disobeying the summons of the SSP was tantamount to asking for your own death. Next, they sent Odeny, at around 8pm, and that’s when my blood went on an overdrive boiling point. I knew something was definitely fishy. When my uncle Okoko, came for me personally in class, just a few minutes after Odeny, I felt I had to tell him my mind. I sincerely loved this uncle of mine even after neglecting me but I couldn’t allow him to take me to the burning fiery furnace

“Uncle, please tell your fellow form fours that I’m sorry for saying the truth in that manner but I will not dare take myself to the dining hall” I reasoned. “Please let Ampher come for me personally and pick me in the presence of my classmates. I know he will be responsible for whatever happens to me thereafter” I requested. After telling me how disappointed he was in me, he left back to his colleagues.

I thereafter lived in constant fear until the close of the term. One Sunday I preached to the whole school on "Love and forgiveness" and people were really blessed. Odeny as was his custom, responded to the alter call and got “saved”. I surely laid my hands on that demon infested head. It was so sweet laying hands of my bully. Odeny was one man I would refer to as a “pulpit customer”. He had other four friends who would get saved every Sunday morning just to please the preacher. There were these preachers who would take too long calling for people to be saved and unless somebody went forward, we would sleep in church. That was where Odeny came to students’ rescue – getting saved for the sake of time.

Yours in poetry,

Migingo Awat

THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (Part 12)

Having cleared the dirty cleaning work, I went back to the dorm to prepare for the morning classes. I dressed very fast in my oversize, trouser, shirt and shoes. Dad had insisted, against my will, on buying the oversize attire with the notion that they will eventually fit me. “You’ll grow in them” he insisted. As a building engineer, he had obviously done a lot of cost-benefit analysis and he believed that the same uniform would carry me through to form four. “Ne uru nyathini – lau oruake” (Look at this kid – the clothes are putting him on) Odeny shouted. That was to say, I had disappeared in the clothes. I had to practice the art of pulling the trouser over and over again so as to confirm its existence. That is how I started wearing high waist and pulling my trousers – a habit which has refused to leave me to date.

The Bully, Odeny had very queer behavior among them kicking his kombora mug (Kombora is an empty drug/magarene container) right from the dormitory up to the dining hall. This was the same kombora that Ja Boma a.k.a JB, the strict cook, would serve him his porridge in. To fill a kombora required JB to deep his service mug into the source of the rare liquid four times – something he would never do easily. This was the point where Odeny would refuse to move from the queue – his kombora had to be filled before moving – a fact that gave him continuous problems with Obunga a.ka Ong’a, Bungero, the Deputy Principal. Ong’a was everybody’s nightmare; no one wanted to cross the paths of this huge man with eyes exactly resembling that of Mark Henry, the WWE wrester. The phrase “Mr. Obunga is calling you” could only be described as horrific for lack of a better word. He had no facial expression making it difficult to scan his mood at any given time.

I didn’t like the thick white porridge; it had funny taste of thuth (beetles), cockroach and other funny insects coupled together….but that was just for the first week. On that first morning, I wondered why form twos were dilly dallying in the dining hall. Since I did not see the need of joining the bandwagon, I decided to take my porridge while sitting on my bed in the dormitory. “Ja form one, kelna Makati akuota kanyo” (a form one, bring me quarter loaf of bread over there), Odeny shouted. A full loaf of bread was retailing at seven Kenya shillings but the traders across the school fence would make a kill with two shillings and fifty cents for a quarter loaf. I wondered why Odeny insisted on calling me a form one while I was in form two – shame on him. Otherwise, I went and bought him the quarter at my cost. Then another cartoon roared from a separate corner “An bende kelna” (Bring me too). I went out and disappeared to the classes. Then is when I understood why form two’s preferred staying the hall forever.

In our class, we had a guy known as Oile. He was short, fat and somehow difficult in a way. He surely knew how to cram during the exam period and if anything would refuse to stick to his pathetic skull, he would hit the wall, several times then get back to books as if nothing happened. One of the things giving him trouble was “Dichotomous Key” in Biology – a topic that I was too good in. Another Character was Patric Omondo Ogwari, my desk mate; he would shout a big “amen” during preps after reading a powerful point in the “In Touch Kenya” bible materials. I had introduced him to the same Postal Bible Study, which he used to enjoy very much. John Ombajo, George Okeyo and, I think, John Omindo was also with me in the same stream. The only person whom I can’t remember his whereabouts but later featured prominently was George Orinda. He was nicknamed Unoka after a very unfamiliar Character in Chinua Achebe’s book “Things Fall Apart”. This was the literature book we studied in form two. Unoka was Okonkwo’s father, of whom Okonkwo was so ashamed since childhood. By the standards of the clan, Unoka was a coward and a spendthrift. He never took a title in his life, he borrowed money from his clansmen, and he rarely repaid his debts. He never became a warrior because he feared the sight of blood. Moreover, he died of an abominable illness (maybe related to coffee). On the positive side, Unoka appeared to have been a talented musician and gentle, if idle. He may well have been a dreamer, ill-suited to the chauvinistic culture into which he was born. Orinda obviously did not deserve such a nickname but there must have been a good reason for the name.

Ngere High had what we referred to as Boma Leave. This was every Sunday Afternoon when students would be allowed to walk freely outside the school compound without any supervision. On one such Boma Leave, Odeny got hold of me and insisted that I wash his old button less shirts and zip less trousers together with those of his friends before I depart for the Boma Leave. I had planned to go home and talk to mom about a few things including additional pocket money. When I explained to Odeny why I had to go home, he gave me his horribly smelling sweaty hockey shoes as an imaginary handset to call my mom. He got hold of me and pushed the shoes across my face so as to suffocate me with the terrible smell while insisting that I talk. The laughter and joy expressed in the faces of his fellow form fours gave him more energy to bully me. Reporting such cases to the administration often landed junior students into even deeper problems. Form ones and twos had no voice as we were there “to be seen but not to be heard”.

I remember one day, Odeny committed some “crime” which warranted some sort of a showdown. Mr. Obunga, came to the evening assembly which was always held in front of the dining hall. “There is this fellow who insists on playing against the team every time. He’s a difficult person whom we would have loved to expel but we do not want to do that.” Ong’a thundered in his usual rough tone. Mr. Obunga would speak in thundering murmurs thus making us very attentive. The next thing I heard was a loud shout “Odeny, run to my office now! I said run!!” Obunga literally chased Odeny across the football pitch into his office leaving us guessing at what would happen to the poor bully. The bully did not return that night as he was beaten to a point where he couldn’t walk to the dorm. He slept in the staff room courtesy of the Deputy Principle. I managed to see him the following day slashing the grass on the hokey pitch. He could walk only with the support of the slasher. This made him more hardy as he was the only one in the school who was never scared by the presence of Ong’a.

Another silent bully was called James a.k.a Jemo. Jemo was everything and everywhere. He was a CU Secretary, a singer in the school church, a drumist, a preacher, name them. He liked giving some fake testimonies in Christian Union Rallies while clad in very new form one clothes. It was the in-thing for form fours to dress in form one clothes when going for any outing. James was the second person, after Odeny, to slap me. This fellow slapped me in a prayer meeting. My mistake – I touched an open electricity socket ‘knowingly’. He stopped praying, slapped me and went back to prayers as if he had done nothing at all. That was the last time I called him Brother James; I stopped looking up to him and I, together with Patrick Ogwari, started hatching plans of dethroning him from the leadership of CU. We later found out that he was not even interested in the “CU thing” in the first place.

I got a sigh of relieve one day when my other cousin Elly Masudi, who was then a very tough form four, came to my rescue. He took me from Ouko Omamo Dorm to Ayoki Mboya after very heated exchange with my Uncle Okoko. I stayed in that dorm peacefully until the Ouko Omamo Captain Complained to Mr. Obunga. They wanted their donkey back. I think it was a coincidence that when I was in Ouko Omamo, that dorm was always number one in cleanliness and when I went to Ayoki Mboya, I took the number one slot with me. The deputy decreed that anybody who had migrated to a dormitory not assigned to him at the time of his admission to return to his original dorm immediately. Even before I reached the dorm, somebody had already transferred my belonging back to Ouko Omamo.

This time round, I was a “son” of another fellow going by the nick name Mourice a.k.a Mori Dhano. I didn’t meet him face to face until after one week. Otherwise I could feel his presence, in the middle of the night, daily.

Yours in torture,

Migingo Awat

THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (Part 11)

I used to believe that everything in Givogi was perfect until things turned into male elephants.

One day, around August, I was aimlessly walking around Banja Market, a stone throw away from Givogi School, after visiting my dear friends Patrick Malesi and Lumasia. A group of young men noticed me “Huyu ni mjaluo – hajatahiriwa!” (This is a Luo – he’s not yet circumcised!) they shouted. Immediately they started singing chopping songs and shaking their shoulders while dancing towards me. Shivers went down my back like ice; even my apparatus went on a silent mode. I stood still in great fear and trembling, bearing witness to the unspeakable horror approaching me. I couldn’t allow myself to be chopped in public in the middle of the day by people holding bloody knives in both their left and right hands. “What if they make a mistake and chop the whole thing?” I asked myself silently.

I can’t remember how I penetrated the crowd, unhurt but I do recall myself riding on the slopes of Banja heading towards Givogi High with the crowd following me on foot as others shouted shamelessly from their homesteads - all in the name of my simple but innocent foreskin. I rode that bike like a madman from Kogelo without fear or favour with the narrow anticipation that nothing would particularly go wrong. That day I escaped from Male Genital Mutilation (MGM) and promised myself never to walk around Luhya land during chopping festivities.
The following term, third term, I decided to convince my English teacher, Mr. Odhiambo, who was a very good friend of my dad, to talk dad into taking me to Ngere High School. He succeeded but I had to complete third term before joining Ngere. I was also fed up with the form four lady who never gave up on winning my love. My friends referred to her as “Moto Kubwa” due to the fact that her mouse had the capacity of blowing out my apparatus’ fuse. I couldn’t allow that to happen as the consequences would be dire.

Schools closed and I went back to the village to enjoy the company of my friends who had given me less than six months to drop out of salvation. They were shocked to realize that I was still standing in the Lord despite the numerous temptations. They told me that if I successfully remain saved during December holidays, then they’d leave me alone - I managed. I never went to the discos; never worked with the love portion; never fought as I used to; never refused to look after cattle as was my norm previously. I was totally a changed man and the whole village testified to that. I no longer rode my bike very fast while ringing the bell making elderly people scatter in the crowded Reru market as before. I continued preaching from house to house and teaching Sunday school at St. Peter’s Anglican Church. I joined the Revival Fellowship even though it was dominated by very old people.
Ngere High School had some vacancies in form two as most of the parents behaved like my dad when it was time to bring their children to school the previous year. My cousin Luke and I made formal application and we were invited for some interviews which we passed. I knew those were just formalities as my dad was a member of Board of Governors of the school. Several other people failed with their behinds facing up.

The day of reporting to Ngere, my third high school, came with pomp and colour coupled with excitement beyond measure. I learnt that Ngere was also proudly referred to as Masada.Oyier Ojal and Noah Ogwang’ had given me some verbal orientation on that school which I didn’t just want to believe. Dad gave me a rare treat on the Peugeot up to the school and without my knowledge form fours were busy booking me. Ngere had a culture where form ones were “adopted” by form threes while form twos were the sons of form fours. These foster fathers were to provide protection to their ‘sons’ against any undue harassment. Blessed are the cartoons who were sons of Senior School Prefects (SSPs) and Kitchen prefects as they would enjoy top layers.

After the grueling registration process, I was taken to Ouko Omamo dormitory, the only red roughcast dormitory in Ngere then, where I was given upper decker bed.  Ouko Omamo was a huge hall without any partitions just like all other dormitories in the school. Nobody picked me as a son as the headmaster, with the request of my dad, had insisted that I be Okoko Guti’s son. Okoko was a very tall Luo man hailing from South Nyanza; simple put, he was my mom’s cousin making him automatically my uncle. I had earlier considered him my champion, mentor and guide. I was dearly looking up to him in almost every aspect of life and I was so free in sharing with him my problems; but that was before I joined Ngere. When Okoko reported to school atht same week, he was not very happy having me sleep on his upper decker. He looked noticeably sad to have me around him. “Nera ang’o ma rach koso wiyi kuot koda” (Uncle, what’s wrong or you’re ashamed of me?” I enquired. He assured me that things were cool.
The same night, one Odeny, came and slept in a bed adjacent to ours but sleep refused to cooperate with him. He then woke me up to help him catch some sleep. “Ja form one chiew ihoya anindi” (Form one, wake up, and soothe me to sleep) he roared while shaking me furiously. I climbed down from my decker smiling while thinking that it was some kind of a welcoming joke. I looked at my Uncles face, who was also woken up by the shaking of the bed, to see if he was okey with the “joke”. The human being just closed his eyes and went back to sleep leaving me with the silly bully. I realized that he was surely bullying me when he landed a slap on my chicks and shouted in capital letters “SING!!!!”.  “Odeny nindi nind aninda Odeny nindi” (Odeny sleep, just sleep Odeny sleep) I sung my own-composed song softly while Odeny’s eyes were widely glittering in the darkness. Those days there was no electric power in Ngere and the old generator was going off at exactly 10pm. It was after 10pm when sleep refused to befriend Odeny. This creature voluntarily refused to sleep despite my efforts. “Mano to ja form one mane magonwa koko no? Ling’ kata wawiti oko sani!!” (Which is that form one making noise for us? Keep quiet or we throw you out) one horrific voice roared from a far off corner of the dorm.

At this time I was so afraid with tears rolling freely down my cheeks. My uncle, who I trusted so much, had already left me into the hands of my persecutors. I knew I was alone and within me I cried “Jesus help me. You’re my only hope in this situation”. I did not know whether to continue singing or stop. I decided to stop and climb back to my bed. Just as I made the first step, Odeny grabbed me shouting “Ja form one ni ochaya! Iparo ni ka dalau?” (This form one is looking down upon me! You think this is your home?). He pulled me back and asked me to sing another song. In deep agony and tears still flowing from their glands I got hold of a famous tune:

Mama ma nyaka nende idhi e chiro (Mom since you went to the market)
To iweya gi lelo ni (And you left me with this noisy one)
To Ng’a ma rite to ng’a? (who will take care of him?)
Ringi nyathini ywak (Run your child is crying)
Reti, nyathini otimo potlololo (Come quickly, your child is full of diarrhea)

At the mention of potlololo, which is a Luo slung for diarrhea; the whole dorm went into uncontrollable laughter! Immediately, I knew I was in trouble as I had woken up even the sleeping giants. Odeny on the other hand was so mad at me since I had insinuated that he had soiled himself. The dormitory prefect then intervened and I was left to sleep.

That night I slept thinking of Maturu and Givogi. I almost regretted why I came to this rowdy school. Just as I was trying to catch more sleep, I felt some strokes of the cane on my back with the shouts minyaga into the latrines holes.

“Up!! Up!! Up!!! Up!!”. I just jumped out of the bed running everywhere. I found myself, together with other form twos, in the dining hall. It was 5am already and nobody informed me that I was required to be in the dining hall at that time. Since form ones had not reported, it was our duty as form two’s to spotlessly clean all the latrines, dining hall, classes, ablution block, and dormitories together with the pathways. This was to take exactly one and a half hours. The new kid in the block, Migingo Awat, was given four despicably dirty latrines to clean. Either it was just a form of senior forms bullying us or they had not concentrated on their mathematics class. In maths class there was a topic known as Vectors which would have done them some justice. They never knew how to direct their

(Advisory: Maths ahead)

Vectors in three-dimensional, ordinary space are mathematical objects that can be manipulated according to well-defined rules. Let’s assume the three-dimensional is W which is an ordered triple of real numbers W=(a,b,c); a,b & C being components of W. The length or magnitude of the vector, W, is therefore the square root of the sum of “a” squared, b squared and c squared.

If you have not understood the above paragraph, you must have been a form four or three in Masada when I was in form two. You’re part of the people who were soiling the latrines to give the innocent Migingo and others such hard work.

Yours Lullaby

Migingo Awat

THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (Part 10)

Having conquered the small fish, Oscar and I decided to go for the whales, the first being Oscar’s Dad, Mzee Nyalenge. Mzee Nyalenge was (and still is) a huge man who commanded both respect and fear in equal measure. He was referred to as ‘ten men’ by his peers due to his massive size. We approached him with courageously despite the prevailing fear. We really walked him through the bible but he proved to be a very hard nut to crack. Oscar then decided to expose everything that God had saved him from to the amazement of everybody who was present. Mzee, Nyalenge was shocked beyong comprehension at the things his own son revealed to him. He thanked God for saving his son. That afternoon we decided to visit the areas surrounding Ochok Primary; that is where we would get more people who would be more than willing to come to the Lord. The very first home we went to drew shockers in our feeble spiritual back bones; the beautiful Karen was also there. I had not given her my testimony since she was not around the day we visited her home. My apparatus refused to know itself when I remembered the love I had for Karen previously. She was even more beautiful this time round. I had to suppress whatever was lifting its head. “In Jesus name – freeze!” I whispered and it froze.

That day Oscar was in his usual brown bulky corduroy trouser matched with a white shirt, and I was in my favorite lady like high waist oversize jeans. The jeans had space for the hips and huge behind. I wore it low waist since then I did not know how to put on high waist. Karen, was in the company of many ladies, about six, mostly young adults but we said “let come what may, we will still preach to them”. I started by greeting them then continued with “as you all know, my name is Migingo the son of Awat Mango; what you don’t know is that I have accepted Christ and I’m now born again” All of them went silent for some seconds before bursting into mockery laughter. “Migingo - Saved!” Aching’e Omindo, the sister to Eman Omindo shouted while pointing at me, amidst much laughter. “If Migingo is saved then everybody is saved” she added. Oscar took over very fast to rescue the situation but the girls were like high on something not close to water. “Migingo, dhinwa kucho gi long machalo mar jadiewo!” (Migingo get off us with that trouser which is hanging as if you’ve been on a diarrhea spree” the same lady retorted. I was so hurt to see my beloved Karen also laughing at me. We then left them in peace in accordance with the scriptures and went to preach to other people who were ready to listen.

Back at home, my dad who had come home for the weekend, was busy thinking of how well to utilize our new found energy. As soon as we arrived, he asked us to get into his car and he drove off; men, we went from one funeral to another with us praying in each of them alternately. That day we prayed for the buried and the remaining families until we got tired. “Why have you not told God to rest him in peace?” Dad asked at one point. You see we were avoiding such prayers all along as Luvanda had told me that one’s a man is dead, his fate is sealed and no amount of prayers can reverse his destiny – salvation is now or never. In the evening, as usual when dad was around, one of my cocks went to be with the Lord courtesy of daddy. (I mean the chicken cock)

Second term opening day reached and as I had informed my dad, I declined to go back to Maturu under whatever circumstances; I wanted to go to Ngere High where I was supposed to be in the first place. Luke also didn’t want to go but his dad had already paid the non-refundable fees for the whole year leaving him with no option but to service the fees. The day came when I was to report to Ngere, I boarded his official car, a seven-seater van which was driven by a very smartly dressed old man. Something must have been very wrong with my old man those days - instead of taking me to Ngere, the guy diverted me to a school in the then Vihiga District known as Givogi High School. Givogi was also a mixed day and boarding school with the males as the boarders just like Maturu.

We arrived arrived safely and dad was fully involved in the registration process. He insisted on dealing with the Headmistress as the clerk was proving too difficult. Dad shook the hands of the headmistress and she smiled back funnily. Dad must have done something funny to the lady’s hands. Then dad winked and the lady winked back. All along I was watching these two adults engaged into something that did not bring us to Givogi. Little did I know that dad was just trying to have a safe passage since he had not bought for me several requirements like hokey sticks, games uniforms and several other necessities.

Dad left and I was directed to the dormitory by the prefect in charge. I noted several differences between Maturu and Givogi. Unlike Maturu where we had two small dorms, Givogi had only one but slightly congested dormitory, the size of a forty seater class room. At least Givogi looked more organized and well furnished than Maturu. People here spoke Luhya language which was so different from the Luhya I had been introduced to previously. In Maturu, we had the Luhya sub tribes like the Kabras and Tachoni -both speaking lubukusu language; the Kisa -speaking Olushisa and the Kabras -speaking Lubukusu. I was very well acquainted with the lubukusu language. On the other hand, Givogi was flooded mainly with the Tiriki and the Maragoli coupled with dots of Bukusu, Tsotso, Wanga and Kisa. The maragolis there spoke as if there was something they had to vomit soonest possible and they could die for one thing -TEA! A carton full of tea bugs worked better than romantic flowers to their ladies then.

The following day was a sunny morning full of the brightness of the sky with very nice view of the Serem hills on one side and Nyabondo mountains on the other. The days callers arrived in their numbers with the boys walking in a weakling manner as their female counterparts strode in their fully inflated maskwembes (drum sticks), with their bags full of not only books but also some snacks to be attached after every lesson. If there was anything these guys were very good at, it was taking care of their stomachs. This was like the motto of the fat bellied girls who would eat endlessly in class while envying the few scattered slim Luo ladies. I learnt these ladies were the way they were because of the motivation inculcated in them by their food oriented cultural saying – I will mention a few: “Akhwesimirisia inzala yeera” (he who suppresses his hunger dies); “Amani okalila (your strength is your source of food); “Amani kokhulia kali herosi” (The power to eat lies in the throat); “Amakumba kabili kakanakania imbwa” (Two bones confused a dog) meaning focus on one meal – clear; get to the next- clear then the next – clear and sum it up with a jug of tea – clear!; “Tsitaywa tsibili shitsitekhwa muyamunyu ndala  ta” (Two cocks must NOT be cooked in one pot); “Eshibi shieinda nelifumo” (The stomach’s enemy is a spear); “Eshibi Shieinda shikonanga shionyene” (What you will eat sleeps alone / is hidden); Eshiawima omukhulundu aba yashilia” (whatever (food) you deny an old man, he has eaten it already); “Eshawikomba oshiliila muluchendo” (You may eat the food you’ve been longing for on a visit) – which explains why you will never luck visitors when you marry a Luhya; “Eshia omwimani oshilia nali omwibo” (You can take advantage of a mean woman and eat her portion when she is nursing a baby – vanee); “Eshiolilekhwo nishio eshishio” (What you have eaten is what you count as yours); etc. There are thousands and thousands of such sayings which explains why Luhyas will remain Luhyas; if you compete with them you will suffer from throat exhaustion.

We were only two Luo boys in that school; my friend Okech (not real name) and I. Oketch was a tall slander Luo boy with the feet of ostrich; he hailed from Nyabondo mountains (Let me spare Okech for the future). Christian Union was headed by one Patrick Malesi with Lumasia as the Secretary. Givogi did not have a stable library prefect until I came into the picture; I was in charge of both the Library and the Lisbeth Study Room which I later turned into a prayer room as the Givogi Borders preferred to study in one class – we didn’t have electricity thus lantern lamps were the way to go. It was in this school that I experience the power of God as I had so many demonic giants to fight. The strength of my salvation was not measured by the absence of temptations but in their very abundant presence. I remember one day our lazy Biology teacher sent us to hunt for grasshoppers for a practical class. I chased one huge grasshopper only to catch up with it outside the school compound. Little did I know several ladies were also (supposedly) after the same grasshopper. I calmly covered the hopper with my right hand so that it would not lose any of its limbs; all over a sudden I felt another very soft and lovely hand covering my own. Looking to the direction of the hand, I saw a smile emanating from a very tenderly beautiful brown Maragoli lady. “What?” I retorted spiritually “I like you, Henry” She whispered slowly into my ears. Immediately I discerned that the devil had visited me together with his earthly relatives and I had therefore to do my homework well in order to overcome the battalion. There was also this one called Nanjala (not her real name) who would insist on me escorting her to the gate every evening. She was a form four and I wonder what she had to do with a naïve form one student. She must have been interested in exploding my fuse.

One day I made a mistake of going back to Mamboleo, on foot, for midterm holidays. I did not have any cash with me as dad had decided to leave me empty handed as he claimed I did not need any cash since the previous term, I used all my cash to but sheep. My colleagues had informed me that Kisumu Town was visible from Nyabondo Mountains and therefore I decided to try walking the talk. I didn’t know that whatever is visible is not necessarily reachable. That was the day I will never forget, climbing and descending on one long hill and a huge Nyabondo mountain was not an easy task despite the fact that I could see Kisumu town from afar – a fact that gave me home and sorrow in equal measure. That walk took close to five consecutive hours of my lifetime while the return journey took close to seven hours. When dad realized that the distance was walk able, he decided to call it quits with giving me cash for transport but rather asked me to take my old bike to school. I became the only border with a bicycle in school.

There was this other day, I was travelling back to Mamboleo (I think it was the close of first term) and I got a bicycle puncture late in the evening at the pick of Nyambondo mountains. I remembered I had a friend called Okech, whose home was just walk able distance from where I was. I obviously took refuge there for the night – what a welcome! The next day, my friend, insisted that I wait for breakfast against my will and I obliged. Little did I know that this course of action would make my ears grasp waves which were not meant for it. Okech’s dad was half deaf so they had to shout while talking to him and he also shouted in return. The old man shouted “Nyathi maluoko ndiga oko kanyo dong’e ne obuoro abuora nyoro. Ang’o ma pod otimo e dalana ka to piny oseru? Nyoro ochiemo ka kendo orito chai nang’o? Nyise uru odhi dalagi! Ok adwar nene e dalana ka!!” (I thought the kid washing his bicycle out there slept here last night. What is he still doing here after dawn? He ate here yesterday and he’s now still waiting for tea – why? Tell him to go to their home! I don’t want to see him in my compound!!). That old man was too late since by that time I had been Luhyanised and I had faith in their sayings like “Eshawikomba oshiliila muluchendo” (You may eat the food you’ve been longing for on a visit). I did not have shame when it came to matters of the intestines. To cut the long story – I took two cups of tea with several slices of bread while giving very great stories of how I am a son of a very rich man from Seme Reru. All this while, the old man had something stuck in his throat; something that would only disappear at my evaporation. When I was fully satisfied with the slightly heavy breakfast I sublimed as the old man remained complaining of the damage I had caused to his gallery – shame on him!

‘Chiem ma iyieng’ ka okuodo mantie e thund dhiang' malando cha” (Eat until you’re full like the tick which is in that brown cow) Daniel D. Awat Mango


Yours in the destruction of galleries,

Migingo Awat

THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (Part 9)

After Luke Nyalenge, my trusted cousin, got born again and evacuated from our dormitory, I felt very lonely. I did not count myself to be among the sinners even though the dormitory where I slept placed me squarely among them. To me, sinners who needed salvation urgently were people likes of  my cousin Odero Oyoo and my brother George Awat. These were the individuals who had no alternative but to be saved or perish in hell forever.

There was this one eyed guy who would buy several loaves of bread at wholesale price at our local Reru Market and transport them, on his bicycle, to Akado Market. Odero together with his accomplice, George, one day grabbed several loaves of bread from this speeding one eyed cyclist and fled to the nearby bush in my full glare. They ate all the bread together with Ouma Ogwang’ without sparing even a piece for me. That made me report them both to Nyaguti, my mom and Agneta,  Odero’s mom. They received a well deserved cane treatment on their sinful behinds. These were the big sinners who only salvation would help – not me. Another guy who was a big sinner but had luckily repented and joined the fold was George Ocholla. This is the guy who dug Miloma’s feet and ran away from Ochok Primary, never to be seen. When he came back to the village, after close to three years, he was so innocent to an extent that no one would believe that he was the Jembe guy. He had seen the light.

I had made a decision that by no means would I be saved in form one; not until I inject some Luhya lady with the seed of my loins. How could I make a mistake of getting saved while there were so many things to enjoy far away from my parents? Emman Omindo, who was then in Ngere High, had earlier told me that ladies would run after me like termites when I join high school. I surely wanted to observe the scenario on my return to the village and therefore I couldn’t just follow my cousin, Luke, blindly. Another reason why I couldn’t see the light was that I had not tuned one Beatrice Oriyo into my agweng’ box. Agweng’ is a village lover. She was the third daughter to the third wife of Mzee Oriyo, our village neighbour. We used to play kalongolongo together when I was still in class four. Kalongolongo game was a mimic of African traditional family where there is a father, mother and several children. When we started playing this game, I was always the child whom would be sent to bed early because “baba na mama” wanted to do some serious stuff. When Beatrice came into the scene, I was then old enough to be a ‘baba’ and Beatrice a ‘mama’. The “house” was a bush nearby. Those days I was very innocent and I didn’t know that ‘mama’ had some inbuilt honey tap at the junction. She was my class mate throughout my schooling in Ochok. I was convinced that we had some unfininshed business.  Beatrice enjoyed my stupid jokes but somehow, Karen’s beauty managed to distract me from her.

That same weekend, at Maturu, Wycliffe Luvanda prayed so loudly, at dawn, to an extent that I could nolonger catch some more sleep. He was in the power room casting out demons from the unsaved people and claiming their souls to Christ. Power room was not a term related to electricity as there was no electric power in Maturu then; this was a term synonymous to a place of serious prayers. When Luvanda deliberately woke us up, I decided to go for a lone bath. The bathroom was on the right but being a confused form one that I was, I made a left turn. I can’t explain how I landed in the so called power house where Luvanda, the CU chairman and his secretary, Baraza were speaking to God in a language which was neither Luhya nor Swahili. I had something like “Kami memuji Anda Yesus. Anda adalah Tuhan kemuliaan” (We praise you Jesus. You are the Lord of Glory). I said to myself “now that I’ve landed here, with my basin full of water and towel, let me just close my eyes until these guys say amen”. I waited for that “amen” for almost one hour yet I did not have the courage to move my legs – they were just too heavy. When they finally shouted “amen”, Luvanda beckoned Baraza to go over and summarize with a prayer, then he asked me to join them. “Brother, what’s your name and when were you saved?” inquired Luvanda. I asked myself why Luvanda was referring to me as “brother” while I was not a catholic eunuch. “I’m not saved and I’m not interested for now” I responded. Little did I know that Luvanda had all the time on earth to speak to me about the dreaded topic of salvation. That guy took his time and the way he knew how to describe hell and Satan… After much punching of holes into my confirmation class beliefs and telling me so much of the love of God that made Him send His only begotten Son, I decided to say “Yes” to Jesus and immediately became a child of God.

The powerful prayer by Luvanda was surely manifested by the numerous drops of saliva emanating from his shouting tongue, landing into my sinful forehead and trickling down to join the tears on my pathetic cheeks. I was born again after repeating a short prayer led by the man of God. The feeling of salvation was just perfect!! I was so excited and I knew I would jump into heaven any minute. Without hesitation, I was transferred from the sinners’ dormitory to the overcrowded salvation dorm. If anybody deserved to go to heaven – it was Luvanda. From that day, I stopped winking at the form one ladies and I concentrated in class and Bible Study. On the other part of the world, Alwala Secondary in Kisumu Rural, my other cousin Oscar Nyalenge, was also getting saved. Oscar was a man who had presumably more demons than I had. By the time he was in class eight, his head was already saturated with bang coupled with traditional alcohol and a lot of other stuff that I cannot speak of without his express permission. He was a bad boy ab initio- thank God for remembering him.

Luvanda told me about very many good things but, maybe, he forgot to inform me that I would also be persecuted for the move. I wrote letters to everybody who knew me informing them of the new development. The happiest person was my sister Gorety who was in her final year in Nyakongo Girls. The saddest one was my dad who claimed that instead of concentrating in books I went to join other religions. Dad had earlier canned my elder sister, Grace Akinyi, until she said “I quit Jesus and I will never be saved again” The only people I did not write to were Karen Agola and Beatrice Oriyo – I had to tell them face to face that I was saved up to my apparatus. Whoever is saved up to his apparatus is saved indeed.

By the close of the first term, I had not even used ten percent of my pocket money. Luke on the other hand had used utterly nothing but our parents still sent us some more cash for transport. We traveled in full school uniform to Mamboleo. Dad, in his usual manner insisted that we listen to BBC English Radio just to make sure that we could understand those twangs. After a few days, we decided to travel back to the village, again, in full school uniforms. The villagers had to notice our long awaited arrival from afar off High School. Immediately, our enterprising minds led us into buying some domestic animals. I bought two female sheep while Luke went for two female goats. We wouldn’t buy male ones because they were all over in the grazing ground – furthermore they were all not born again and that’s why they had the courage to make love with the new ladies we had brought to the fold. Buying animals had serious consequences on the pocket money for the following term.

I was informed that my dad had turned himself into a carnivore as soon as I left for High School. He used to say “nyathi otenga ok cham alot” (The young one of a hawk does not eat herbs). Every time he came home, from Mamboleo, he would declare war with one of my cockerels. He was a mass cockerel eater! My two chickens had produced so many descendants, in less than two years to an extent that dad had to do some “pruning” on them. “Thuondi ariyo ok kok e dala” (Two cocks cannot crow in the homestead), he said. What he meant was that he can’t share a home with his fellow active polygamous men hence he had to eat the male chicken leaving all the ladies for his cock. In the Luo culture, the active cock should belong to the head of the homestead as a cock was a representation of authority. In short, my dad was jealous that my cocks had more wives that he had. (I have said the word “cock” several times until it is almost acquiring another meaning). So he used to eat my cocks.

After I had bought my two sheep, George my brother was also reminded that he needed to buy something “which calls his name” so he bought an senior sheep. I’m saying ‘senior’ because his sheep was very old – I think it had passed menopause. That thing used to walk as if any little wind would make it fly away. Its behind was so pointed, a fact that proved that it had lived to see many
descendants. One day when he came back from Mamboleo to check on what “calls his name”, he found nothing. The sheep had already been eaten by our carnivorous dad together with his guests, without his knowledge. When he questioned, he was told “gimoro amora ma wuotho ka donjo kata wuok ei abila man e dalana en mara” (Anything that walks into or out of a farm house that is in my compound is mine). That was the last time George ever brought an animal into the homestead as he swore never to make that mistake again.

It was then testimony time and I had to tell everybody about Jesus. I also had to ask for forgiveness from both my dad and mom for the sins I had committed against them. I forgave mom for letting me down when she left me to be brought up by other women at a very tender age when I still needed motherly love. Dad asked me to be an obedient child, like my sister Grace, and leave this "stupid salvation thing". “You’ll have a lot of time to be saved when you’re through with schooling but now please concentrate in class” he said angrily. This mzee surely did not know the ugly plans I had which would have messed my life even more.

The next day, my cousin Oscar Nyalenge and I went to preach to Mzee Osore, Karen’s dad, and later to Beatrice Oriyo. As soon as we arrived Osore asked “Do you want a glass of water?” I just smiled and went direct to our testimonies but he was still looking at me suspiciously even after talking for close to five minutes. Later when we had broken ground, some tea was served and I opened my big mouth “Mzee do you remember when you almost killed me with water?” What followed was not very palatable and I better bury it with history. We then set to Beatrice’s home where we were welcomed very well. I grabbed a file from my bag which contained salvation materials from ‘In Touch Kenya’ with Oscar removing his small pocket bible. We took time to go through God’s word and at the end of the day Beatrice became a child of God by faith.

“To convert somebody, go and take them by the hand and guide them.”  St. Thomas Aquinas

Yours in Christ,

Migingo Awat

I acknowledge the following audiences in order of clicks:

1. USA
2. Kenya
3. Uganda
4. France
5. UK
6. Oman
7. Switzerland
8. Germany
9. Somalia
10. U.A.E and the list continues.

Thanking you all for your continued support. The journey has just began! Please invite your friends and do not forget to leave a comment.

THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (Part 8)

 “Excellence is an art won by training and habituation. We do not act rightly because we have virtue or excellence, but we rather have those because we have acted rightly. We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act but a habit.” Aristotle


In Standard Eight, the very last class in Primary School, I was very excellent in my behavior. I think I had overcome the temptations of adolescence. As much as I had not literally slept with any woman, my heart was very filthy and I decided to turn to God. My sister Gorety used to bring people she called “brethren” to our home but dad never allowed me to sit with them since I was not “born again”. Those are the only evenings we would evade the usual porridge for tea. “Brethren” used to take a lot of tea with makati siagi (battered bread) before embarking into continuous prayers; each of them speaking in different tongues. Dad was like ‘What language is that?’ I had no knowledge of the Bible because I was taught, in the confirmation class, that reading the Bible would introduce headache into my comfortable skull. I did not need headache during my national exam year.

I do not know whether it was a national exam fever wearing me down or just the fear of God - I felt the need to pray a lot. I used to light candles in my room – red, white, blue name them. I could just pray silently for my exams but I never came out shouting “I’m born again”. I was, in fact, not born again but in my heart I wanted peace with God. I was still determined to do some earthly gymnastics during the December holidays as soon as I completed my KCPE exams. “Born again” was a term introduced to me by my beloved sister Gorety; I loved her so much but couldn’t just understand what happened to her when she got into this “born again” thing. She nolonger wanted to apply herbal medicine at my kajumba back. Kajumba is a fungal disease which attacks the skin making it not only change colour but also stink when in contact with unexpected water like rain. Let me just say that it makes a person look like a leopard.

As much as I was trying to be so God fearing, a few leftovers of the old self followed me in class eight. One day Mr. Uhuru Amol was teaching Music in class; I wasn’t interested since I had read through that topic in my previous evening’s study. I decided to swing the desk slowly by slowly to produce some sound like that of a bird or something close to a rat – chwiu! Chwiu! Little did I know that the teacher was keenly following my moves; the guy caught me red handed and men, I was beaten by a black board ruler on the head several times until it was swollen. Thereafter class mates started calling me Otunge (horny since I had a horn). This name earlier legitimately belonged to Noah Ogwang' who had a head which had so many horns. He didn’t like the name at all while I enjoyed calling him by the same name. This led to us fighting thoroughly in the school. Miloma was solely responsible for the fight as he was the one who came with athuwe. Athuwe is the art of making people feel like beating the hell out of each other. The talk of fighting reminds me of Osunga Okaka. Osunga was very tall and hardy. Fighting him was close to impossible as his body was full of bones. One day he crossed my path when he wrote on the village facebook leaves that I was a lover of one Millicent. In deed Millicent was very charming and her hands would wake my shameless python from the slumber, but I had no feelings beyond that. I decided to monjo Osunga demanding detailed explanations as to why he spread romours about the innocent me. The human being did not even let me complete my sentence. He wrestled me to the ground full of okuro, the ground thorns.

Osunga managed to leave me with some scratched emanating from his long hardy nails. “Kama agoyo to agoyo” (Where I’ve beated, I’ve beated – direct translation) I shouted as I walked away having consumed more blows than I delivered. Mom pleaded with me to tell her who on earth inflicted such enormous pain on her son. I couldn't dare tell her since she was a professor of sarcasm. She had earlier made sarcasm out of a very serious issue involving Grace, my elder Sister. Grace together with a few of her friends from Sinyolo Girls High School were having a walk from school (I'm not sure to where) when some young men gave then a serious chase. The men were interested in raping them all. The story was horrific but it ended well. They were not raped. After breathing in relief, mum made a very sarcastic remark. I wasn't ready for such remarks but after much convincing, I decided to tell her that it was Osunga, the son to Okaka. From that day, whenever I committed any mistake, mom would say “Abiro luongoni Osunga” (I’ll call Osunga for you).

Osunga, was very close to Miriam Muga. I decided that the only way to beat Osunga was to befriend Miriam – but how? The prominent weakness of Osunga was academics. He neither knew languages nor mathematics. I decided to be teaching some mathematics and Swahili to the lovely Miriam. Every evening, she would come to our home for the lessons after which I would escort her to their home for "security reasons". In many occassion, we would bump into Osunga. This tore into Osunga’s bowels. Things become elephant when I was overcome by my carnivorous weakness; a weakness that did not permit me to eat vegetables in two consecutive meals and still retain my happy mood. I had refused to take Ugali and mito (vegetable chloroquine) for lunch hence I was so hungry. When I returned home in the evening, tired and hungry, I resorted to odeyo – the hard remains of ugali, in the source pan (sufuria). In the process of scratching the odeyo, the beautiful Osunga's queen appeared catching me in the act. There was no time to throw away the sufuria and there was no way I could have denied ever chwerowing odeyo. She laughed profusely to an extent that I began to hate her. She had come for my maths lessons. The following day, sisal leaves were full of my name “Migingo Ja chwer Odeyo” (Migingo, the Odeyo scratcher). That was the last time I tolerated Miriam around me. I lost the battle.

I decided to fully embark of my studies and prayer for the exams. I nolonger had time to waste on the likes of Osunga and Mirriam. One day, I noticed something strange, a trend which I had never concentrated on before. Onyango Mitana, Tindo and Kubi Ochoro disappeared from class and returned after some thirty minutes talking too much with great courage and vigour. They were fearless with their eyes beaming with joy unfathomed. The following day, I followed them closely without them noticing me. I found them smoking something in the nearby bush. I decided to reveal myself and threatened to report them to the Headmaster.  That is when they decided to force me to have a taste of the substance or "we kill you". I refused and promised not to speak a word. We therefore ran back to school. It was break time. These trio started running around the school like wild goats hugging and kissing trees. I bet their minds told them that those were ladies.

After the National exams, I felt there was no longer any need of coming back to school for some closing day ceremonies. Mom insisted and sent me back there forcefully. I arrived late and therefore had to device a plan of settling in the assembly without Mr. Adem Raongo noticing me. Mr. Adem used to have a third eye at the back of his head; nothing would bypass him no matter how small. He was always several steps ahead of us. On this fateful day, many of the big boys and girls came late. We tried to sneak behind him but it was impossible; he just spoke loudly to the school “tell those who are sneaking behind me to come and lie down for some strokes of the cane. They think that completing KCSE is the end of life”. He said that without even turning to our direction and that's how he “closed school with us”. He gave me several shameful strokes of the cane.

During the holiday, I did not get a chance of doing the numerous things I had planned as my dad called me to join the rest of the boys in Mamboleo. My step mom came to join the girls in the village. At Mamboleo, it was the male dominated world; Francis Dwero, James Dwero, Amos Dwero, George Awat, another guy from Gem - Yala, who was a house boy, dad and myself. I was the youngest in the group. We then had to cook even though we knew nothing about cooking. Dad never allowed any of us to step in the kitchen before. It was a grave mistake to be found in the kitchen for whatever reason. The hardest part of the game was fetching firewood by the road side with all those Mamboleo girls watching in wonder. James Dwero, then a University Student, never gave the girls any thought. Luke Nyalenge later joined us and we were given the assignment of watering the blocks to raise our pocket money. The rest of the boys were engaged in very hard labour. Dad never wanted to see anybody relaxing.

Our invitation letters to High School was ready and Luke and I had to rush back home to collect them. We were both invited to join Ngere Boys High School. We were very excited as we rushed to Lukes Dad, Nyalenge Mango, to inform him of the news and later ran to Mamboleo to inform my Dad, Awat Mango, of the same. We were very ready and couldn’t wait to be called Form Ones in a Provincial School – we were in our own class.

Behind the scenes, the two brothers, my dad and Luke’s dad were plotting a plan to divert us to a different school in Lughari Division. We had no idea until the opening date, when my dad’s official driver took the Eldoret route instead of the Bondo route. We were in shock! We remained silent for a very long time; close to one hour before we opened up. “I can’t allow my children to go to a village school” Dad broke the silence and we were like “haha”. Problem came when dad acknowledged that he had no idea of where the school was; he was just informed that the school was after a place known as Luandeti. He had no prior knowledge of Laundeti despite having lived in Eldoret earlier, a stone throw away from there. After much ado, we found the school. My first impression was not very good – why lie. It looked like a primary school to me though teachers were so excited to receive us even without calling letters. We later realized that one of our cousins, Okumu Dinga, was teaching there. He was the one solely responsible for our misery. Dad looked around and against his will added us more pocket money “you’ll need it” he said. That’s how he left us to survive but at least I had my then very trusted friend with me.

Maturu Mixed Day & Boarding Secondary School was a very cold place with very nasty smell from Webuye Paper Factory. I almost puked the first day due to the tenacity of the smell but later on got used to it. Due to the cold weather condition, we did not take bath that night but procrastinated the whole idea till the following day. We went to what they called a communal bathroom which could

accommodate up to about ten dirty people at ago. We didn’t expect what happened next – guys got wild interest in our uncircumcised apparatus. Everybody was touching us everywhere – for God’s sake we were not gay! We were in Luhya land and these people cut their young when they’re still in lower primary. Here we were, old men from Kisumu Rural walking around with uncut fixed assets. Somebody touched mine and Luke whispered “bring him a girl and he’ll respond”. News spread all over the school and the village like bush fire. We were then candidates for the August Circumcision Festivities. I needed to seek God’s guidance in this even though I was not born again.

The school had only two mini dormitories to carter for less than fifty borders; which automatically found us being in two groups. Luke and I joined our fellow tribesman, Omondi, who was very rude. Our dormitory had no saved person – all of us were sinners heading to hell by doubt as our counterparts, in the other dormitory, were heading to heaven by faith. In class, I was good in all subjects hence attracting most of the girls. The males in the class decided to teach us some Luhya language. They taught us very dirty words, without our knowledge, hence eroding our innocent looks.

In early March that year, Christian Union (C.U) in collaboration with Kenya Students Christian Union (KSCF) organized for what they called Weekend Challenge to lure the form ones into “accepting Jesus into their lives”. The preachers preached their hearts out until Luke Nyalenge, my trusted cousin decided to accept Jesus as his Lord and Savour. Immediately the CU members, led by Brother Wycliffe Luvanda, transferred him from the sinners’ dormitory to the Salvation domitory.  Luvanda was known for praying so loudly until even the demons would tremble; his voice could be heard up to Laundeti Market, a kilometer away. He was like an alarm bell for the rest of the students.

Yours in the company of sinners,

Migingo Awat

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THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (Part 7)

I used to have a male dog that I named Danger due to its hunting prowess. It was not a pet but a hunting dog. It therefore spent the night outside in the cold, doubling up as a security dog. During the life of Danger, I managed to capture so many squirrels and a few hares here and there. In our tradition it was a taboo for women to eat squirrels and hares. I enjoyed eating the delicacies alone save for a few jowanya.  Jowanya are those people who only appear during food time. I clearly remember when George Amula aka Otis Arowo stole my squirrel – I went demanding it from his mom and it was returned to me intact. His mom never liked wild animals. I was also engaged in hunting for monitor lizards as I used their skin for making the Luo one stringed instrument known as Orutu. Orutu is an instrument which I loved and played very well until my elder sister, Grace betrayed me with my dad. Dad asked me to destroy the orutu and concentrate in class work. I tearfully stepped on it under his watch and to date I’ve never owned another one. All the monitor lizards I hunted died in vain and the way those things were hard to hunt down - At least Danger enjoyed their flesh. Danger later went to be with the Lord. I suspected somebody very close to be must have prematurely sent him there.

returned to me intact. His mom never liked wild animals. I was also engaged in hunting for monitor lizards as I used their skin for making the Luo one stringed instrument known as

Those days I used to sleep in the late Teresia’s house until one day it collapsed without notice - injuring nobody. I had to practice the art of chasing sleep. Chasing Sleep literally meant going to sleep in another man’s house which was not build with the intention of accommodating invaders like me. We were several kids in Okoth Ojal’s single roomed house; Noah Ogwang’, Oyier Ojal, Tis Arowo, Miloma Okoth and me. The room was divided into two by a light blue curtain with one side being the bed side and the rest being the living room. We used to sleep on the floor of the dining side. In many occasions, we had trouble doing our home work as Riat Ojal, Okoth’s step brother, proffered having his three aggressive, noisy and ill mannered hunting dogs sleep with us in the same room. These village dogs were not trained on the slightest clue of manners. They would bark at the slightest movement, outside the house. Apart from scratching their bellies throughout the night, they also had this habit of producing ugly sound as if something was choking them. Maybe they were being haunted by the many squirrels they had killed. Ironically, whenever they puked some smelly stuff, they would struggle to lick them back. Even though tradition required me not to spend the night in my dad’s house since “I was of age”, I decided enough was enough with the disgusting dogs; I went back to and started sleeping in bedroom two. They later transferred me to a small separate room where Charles Odiany and our other servant used to spend. There I witnessed things which cannot be recounted in the words of the Englishman. The other servant made me witness the real meaning of pornography. They spoilt both my innocent eyes and ears. The love portion was working for them just too well – I guess.

One day, my mom together with my sister, Jane Ogola aka Ojiro nyamande (Hanging Pranks) decided to clean our room. They found my draft letters to Karen; letters which never found their way into the girl’s bag. That was not the worst part- the embarrassing part was that I caught them red handed laughing at my soothing words! My sister leaked the information to dad who engaged me in a very serious dialogue this time. At least he didn’t cane me – he knew his son was turning into a man. He asked me to concentrate in class and stop playing around with girls who had nothing to do with my future. He explained to me that what was disturbing me was not love but a process in life known as adolescence; something that he also passed through. I really wanted to ask dad how his adolescence girlfriend looked like but I couldn’t just dare. “How can I just leave Karen without any injections” I asked myself silently. Dad also asked me to do away with the “gay” rabbits and get into a venture which did not require much of my time. I was wondering how this time round Dad was so calm and cool while talking to me. I knew this issue was touchy and I had to think deeply at what this man was saying – obviously something was hidden under his sleeves.

The following day, after much thought, I decided to sell the gay couple to separate individuals and replace them with two chickens. This time round I had to confirm for myself that they were all female and not cockerels. I couldn’t buy a cock as tradition did not permit me. There was only one cock in the homestead belonging to dad and the cock (oh my – not again) had the ability to service not only my new girls but also many others around the homestead. I also had to painfully break up with Karen and preserved my penisity (what is the synonym of virginity?). I also stopped being a scout, traditional dancer and an instrumentalist. My Orutu talent died a natural death. My letter writing skills were also buried. That year I failed the elimination test by a paltry one mark. Mr. Adem Raongo, the head teacher refused to let me move to class eight despite my several pleas. I was therefore forced to share a class with the Hanging Prank who later failed the test.

During this period, dad had already transferred his second family from Eldoret (Vihiga) to Mamboleo – Kajulu (Kisumu). He had another home there which they had built, with my mom, before we went to Eldoret. Mamboleo home had a very big compound – about one hectare. This is where we would later go during school holidays. My brother George was in Ngere High school then with Gorety, dad’s obvious favourite, in Nyakongo Girls High School. Gorety used to know how to get money out of dad’s pockets. She would inflate the sanitary towel budget to almost triple. When dad dared to question, Gorety would offer detailed explanation on how she would use them and when; an explanation dad would never give a chance preferring rather to part with the cash. My brother George on the other hand remained with dry skin because the items in his budget did not include any sanitary towels. Maybe he needed to inflate the prices of condoms; but the thought of even including such item in the budget would be disastrous.

One day, while still in the village, we decided to go visit my brother George in Ngere High School. We had gone to play football just after closing school and we remembered that we also had brothers in High School who needed to be assisted with their luggage. We were very dirty. When we reached Ngere High with Oyier Ojal and Otis Arowo, we beckoned my brother who asked us to get into the school through the fence – he was a form three then. Those were the days when a form three was feared like petrol fire. A few form ones were kicked out of their beds that night and imagine what – my fellow dirty cartoons and myself took over. I shared the bed with one of my friends while the other slept alone. Due to the fact that the beds were small, we slept in with our heads facing opposite direction – his cracked and smelly toes were next to my nose while mine were next to his as we covered ourselves with the same Kalara blanket. We slept soundly apart from my bed mate who was busy making noise with the gases from his exhaust pipe thereby keeping me half awake. I forgave him for he did not know what he was doing to the little available oxygen. His farting behind produced several sounds that could not be traced in any musical instrument.

Nyoyo

That night, I learnt that the students who come from Ngere and its environs; those who do not need to board any bus; those who have to be assisted by their dirty brothers in ferrying their belonging are referred to as “Jopunde”. Jopunde literally means “people of donkeys” and my brother squarely fell in this category. This just meant that the only means of transport available for the type of my bro were donkey -Hihooo hihoo. The high school boys had very many love stories with the nocturnal ones giving many giants episodes of their experiences with their girls. One of my ears was wide open to listen to everything; in fact there was no way I could be fully asleep with the kind of supper I had eaten the previous night – white porridge with nyoyo (githeri). That was the kind of meal meant for those who are plowing the farms at home – not High School students!

The following day, after taking porridge for breakfast, we departed with the luggage to the Reru – about 2kms from Ngere. At the back of my mind, I was imagining how I could implement the giant ideas I got from Ngere. When the school opened for holiday tuition, I decided to taste the waters ones more randomly. I started becoming fond of standing at the door just when the break time bell rang; this would enable me to have a feel of the ladies tiny boobs. For sure it was mind blowing and I was not alone. Miloma Odhiambo was my brother in crime. He would stand on the opposite frame making the door even smaller. Ladies had to pass sideways. They had a choice of either facing Miloma’s side or my side. I was very glad when most of them proffered facing my side with my apparatus weeping in overwhelming joy.

In my class, people had very queer behavior and this forced them, including me, to keep pocketing all the time. At a point Mr. Adem Raongo, the Head Master illegalized pocketing in school. Why was pocketing abolished, in the first place? You see almost all of us had no underwear’s; we could just walk bolingo nangai. Ladies used to mock us “omera okot ywak” (Brother your bell is ringing) due to the fact that the apparatus could play aimlessly within the short trousers. In many occasions lady teachers would ask us to sit properly because in those occasions someone’s uncut python would produce its pathetic head for some fresh air.

The reason for pocketing was to hide the fixed asset from being exposed. You see, after standing at the door something would automatically happen below the belt which we had no control over and this something had to be suppressed by the hand within the pocket. This is a tactic that did not just start the other day. Those are the days when split less trousers vanished – how could one have real apparatus and still wear split less trousers?

Yours brother in crime

Migingo Awat