THE TALES OF THE INNOCENT MIGINGO (Part 6)

Days turned into weeks and weeks into months; all this while I was busy helping our herdsman, Charles Ondiany a.k.a Jahera, in taking care of the few cattle. Charles was the same person who

taught me how to plough with bulls, fetch water with donkeys and squeeze milk out of the backsliden tits of the conspicuously emaciated traditional cows. Charles was known to be a no nonsense man when it came to the issues of the stomach. He had perfected the art of attacking food, with a jumbo jet speed, while the rest of us were still washing our hands. No matter the amount of food he consumed, he never grew fat. It’s like his stomach was just a channel through which food would get its way to the fly infested topless pit latrines. Dad never covered the roof of the only homestead pit latrine as he claimed it was a waste of building material. “What’s your problem if the angels see you? As long as they don’t speak to you and you don’t see them – go on with your business” he repeatedly said this jokingly.

Charles was an ardent lover of massage oils. He preferred Kaluma liquid to Robb. Despite the fact that it was evidently inscribed on the Kaluma packet “Do not drink”, Charles insisted on drinking it. He claimed that drinking the massage oil would help in “straightening” every vein in his body. This man knew every gossip of the village including the secrets that could only be shared between partners in the wee hours of the night. This was the fact that made people suspect him to be involved in the game of Ido.  Ido is a game where the participants play hide and seek in the night with the unsuspecting victims. It also involves kicking people’s doors and throwing sand on their iron sheet houses in order to keep them awake. Ido is a game that cannot be talked about openly since you would turn into a suspect immediately – I do not want to take that risk.

One day, we went to take bath in river Abururu and I for the first time noticed something – my elder brother George’s apparatus were just a few kilometers longer than mine. I was surprised. I
decided, from that day, that whatever my brother could eat, I could eat also. I had to seek the counsel of Charles. He promised to bring me some love portion from South Nyanza to mix with the remains of the dragon flies which I would then smear on my hands before greeting the girl I loved. I was promised that whoever I greeted, whether young or old; single or married; male or female, would follow me romantically to the theater room. That evening I boasted to George and Ouma Okaka about my new found prowess. Killing the dragon flies a.k.a helicopters was an uphill task as these pathetic insects would evade my stick over and over again. Making the love portion required ten of them – grounded to powder form. I managed the required number after about three days of grueling task. Charles traveled to their home, South Nyanza, and returned the same week with the love potion which he helped me mix with the helicopter powder plus some ghee. I was then good to go.

The love portion instruction was clear: “When you see the lady you want; apply it in your hand very fast and make sure you greet her. She will follow you to the house” whispered Charles, the love doctor. Interestingly Charles never had any known girl friend. That evening, I took some time by the road side waiting for the unsuspecting love of my life, Karen Agola. Karen was a chocolate lady with slightly large eyes. She was slender and moderately tall. Her voice was clear and romantic piercing through every part of my body.  She loved reading Songs of Solomon in the morning assembly and in the class room. The sweet songs were obviously addressed to me – who else? She used to ask me for assistance in Swahili and Mathematics and my goodness, my eyes beheld romance in its true sense.

Taking bath at river Abururu

The evening was full of love mingled with oxygen in the atmosphere. The birds sang in romantic tunes as I waited patiently for the love of my life. Sadly Karen, used to walk around with this big eyed younger brother – he was walking by her side all the time. His eyes were so big that he couldn’t miss seeing everything happening around his sister. After about an hour’s wait, the lovely Karen appeared accompanied by the eye ball guy and immediately I applied the love portion ready for the life changing greeting. “Jakotuol!” I heard my nick-name from the background. I assumed it. I must have heard “my ears”. “Jakotuol!” the same voice shouted my name this time round. I couldn't assume it anymore. I looked back. It was, Alseba, my only remaining step grandma. “Bi mosa nyakwara” (Come greet me my grandchild) She said softly. The devil is a big liar!! There was no way on earth I could risk greeting that old woman at such a time as that. I just assumed her, ones again, and went straight to the lovely Karen.  Those days, real ladies never greeted any boy just like that; I was not just any boy but a man full of love portion smeared all over my hands. I managed to greet her soft hands and walked away expecting her to follow me as per the doctor’s prescription. After walking a few yards, I looked behind. To my surprise my Karen was going the opposite direction. All these while a few pupils from my school were watching us from afar without my knowledge.

I was not the kind of person that gave up that easily. The following evening I went to Karen’s home without knowing that the young boy had reported the previous evening’s happenings to his parents. “How are you Son of Awat” Her father asked sarcastically. “I’m fine sir” I responded courageously. “How can we help you” The dad continued. I had planned to borrow Karen’s maths text book but I got confused and asked for a glass of water.  It was obvious that I wasn’t thirsty at all. “Bring this boy a whole jug of water; he must be very thirsty” the dad whispered to Karens mom while smiling suspiciously. I smelt trouble. I knew things would become elephant anytime from then. I had to arouse my appetite for water even though I was hardly thirsty. “Drink it all! Finish it or I beat you up” the father retorted. I tried my level best but I couldn’t drink even an eighth of the jug. The guy insisted until I drank almost half the jug -about four glasses. I felt excruciating pain in my stomach. My belly was producing funny sound as if I had swallowed a whole dam. This love portion was working miracles against me or maybe it was Alseba who interfered with its power through her long mouth. My apparatus which had been standing all along went into a sudden demise. My eyes turned watery as the purported love of my life looked at me in horror. “I don’t want to see you near my daughter again, understood!!” Osore, Karen’s dad thundered. He made me promise never to touch her daughter but at the back of my mind and despite the terror I whispered “Ma goyo bul e liend guok” (This one is playing drums in a dog’s funeral). As soon as I was released, I walked a few yards and I felt like passing water. “Dhi la mabor!!” (Go urinate far away), Osore shouted angrily. I ran as fast as a night runner with some urine finding their way across my pathetic dry legs.

The following day, my name prominently featured on the sisal leaves everywhere. “Migingo Osiep Karen” (Migingo is Karen’s lover). Those days sisal was the only mode of demarcating homesteads and farms and they were the facebook of the day. Rumours spread like bush fire in the school and depression was almost taking a tall on me. I had to feign sickness for a few days during which, I perfected the art of love letter writing:
“Amosi ahinya ka ageno ni ing’ima, an bebde ang’ima maber. Gima de aher nyisi en ni adwari osiep” (I greet you hoping you are okey, I’m also very okey. One thing I want to tell you is that I want us to be lovers)

A few days later, I took the later and dropped in Karen’s bag. Our class six home science teacher, Mrs. Omindo, was the next to come to class with a mission of marking our homework. She bumped into my letter which was comfortably hidden in Karen’s home science book. She gave me three strokes of the cane and asked me to get on my knees on the hot sandy school yard, where she could clearly see me. She also instructed me to lift my hands. I lifted my hands for close to one hour before I was reported to the deputy head teach Mr. Asingo (elder brother to the confirmation teacher).

A few days later one Omondi Odiwa fell in the same trouble. He was interested in the Agutu. Omondi placed his love letter on Agutu’s maths book and our maths teacher was the cruel Mr. Asingo. Asingo could cane nonstop for up to ten minutes.  He found the letter but by good or bad lack it was not signed; but somebody had seen Omondi dropping that letter during break time. When Omondi’s behind got frozen due to the numerous strokes of the cane, he asked the teacher to give him some breathing space to say something. Coincidentally, I was just innocently passing by on my way to the Oseke (Urinal). “Migingo ema ne oora gi barua-no” (Migingo is the one who sent me to deliver the letter), he said. Oooh Noo! Not again! Mr. Asingo landed on my behind as if he had just had a horrifying dream with me as the main character. That is the time I almost thought of dropping out of school but I could allow the thought to settle in my head at whatever cost. Canning was the order of the day in Ochok Primary school; even those who were very good in class like me were not spared. I was very good in Mathematics, English, Kiswahili, Music and home science.

Home science had so many boring practical lessons. At least twice a week, we would be asked to come with eggs and maize floor for these lessons. We would cook and watch the teachers eat the foodstuffs. I felt it was not very good manners. One day I decided to ‘accidentally’ pour excess salt on the whole dozen of eggs. The teachers who had, as usual, prepared their unwavering appetite for practical lesson's delicacies were served with a huge bowl of disappointment. Somebody had to protest in style. Cooking eggs on a weekly basis and chicken occasionally was too much a burden to bear. Our parents were practically starving to contribute towards the teachers’ stomach kitty in the name of home science practical lessons. There was no day we had a vegetable practical.

On the other hand, Agriculture practical lesson was very enjoyable even though we would do all the work with the teachers dividing the spoil. At times we would even go to the teachers’ home farms to learn the real meaning of “weeding” and “plowing”. Parents did not have a voice then; you criticized anything and your child got segregated. Furthermore Ochok Primary was the best performer in the Zonal Exams.

There was this fateful day when we were digging some trenches in the school garden in order to prevent soil erosion. Miloma and George Ocholla were busy with some dangerous farming pranks. At that time Ocholla was a very tiny but clever class six prefect. He was known for consistently including the names of his enemies in the list of the noise makers and malingerers who would then be forwarded for caning in the evening assembly. In the prank Miloma would place his feet in the trench next to where Ocholla was digging and as Ocholla’s jembe (hoe) was coming down, he would remove his feet very first leaving the jembe to battle it out with the ground. Ocholla on the other hand did not let the jembe kiss the ground. In the first attempt Ocholla pretended to dig Miloma’s feet but did not and Miloma on the other hand moved his feet very fast. It went on like that for close to four attempts. Things changed on the fifth attempt, as we were now watching them closely, Ocholla decided to dig the ground very hard having known that Miloma would obviously move his feet. Miloma on his part decided not to move his feet as Ocholla would obviously not let the jembe dig his cracked feet. The obvious happed, Ocholla dag that feet with all vigor with blood splashing all over the ground. He must have cut the planar veins going by the extent of the bleeding.  Despite the fact that speaking in mother tongue was prohibited in school, Miloma could’nt just help it. The excruciating pain made him wail at the top of his voice in all the mother tongue vocabularies he had accumulated in his vocal store. On the other hand, Ocholla ran as fast as his emaciated legs could carry him - never to be seen again. We learnt that he joined his dad in Iten- Kitale where he eventually sat for his Kenya Certificate of Primary Education Examination. Miloma was treated but had to be out of school for close to one month. He resumed class with a very funny style of ogol-ogol (limp) which would profusely shake his oversize buttocks.

Back at home I began rabbit rearing project – a project which caused me all my sa

vings from the sugarcane business. I used to sell sugarcane in Reru Market with the permission of my dad. Dad had told me that people would mock me but “Ywak Ogwal ok mon dhiang’ modho” (The groan of a frog does not prevent a cow from taking water). In deed people mocked me – doing school and business at the same time was not a very easy task but I managed it to perfection. People could not just connect me, a son of a moderately rich man, with retail sugarcane business. That kind of business was left to those who came from the not very well-off families.

Onyango Nyalenge, my cousin, was the one who introduced me to this rabbit business. He also assisted me in the construction of the rabbit pen. Onyango then sold me two rabbits - a black male and a white ‘female’. No sooner had I brought them to the pen than they started romancing loudly. The noises were so loud that I couldn’t have the luxury of catching some sleep during the mating process. It was loudest when these rabbits got into orgasm. I inquired from Onyango, the rabbit master, if the noises were normal. He told me it was a very normal commotion which would soon produce some little rabbit angels. Two months down the line, the white rabbits was still not in the maternity dress. I called Onyango for expertise advice. Maybe the white rabbit was barren or the black one was having non-functional apparatus. We inspected below their belt and I clearly saw the black one had something which looked like a small male apparatus and the white one had almost the same thing but a bit smaller. I doubted what I saw but Onyango insisted that what I saw on the white one was a rabbit clitoris. Another month down the line and nothing happened. I decided to call upon another expert and what I heard was shocking – the rabbits were both male. All along I was feeding my fellow men! The cartoons were all along fighting instead of manufacturing babies. We were forcing the straight rabbits to be gay against their will.

My three months labour of feeding my fellow men went in vain. They only became fat with huge but innocent stomachs. Onyango, conned me.

Yours in rabbit farming

Migingo Awat