This my kinsman

BY M. JUMA

I have nothing personal against Amakobe. On the contrary, I respect him as the only son of a man who almost became our village head but allegedly surrendered to my father’s brother (who inherited my mother). His father is a lazy man.

Amakobe. Just another one. The drastic civilisation he has undergone ever since coming to this land of the Course, only God knows. My aim here, however, is not to undress him before your eye; I only seek psychological therapy for as my handsome fingers strike these keys, so does my cathartic realisation drop the knots of emotions well welled inside me.

That he doesn’t know our language! Who would have imagined this of a young dirty and timid boy he was some few years ago when all the villagers, including his mother, had to safely hide their chicken whenever he appeared. Even when we were conducting his second harambee function for school fees, Amakobe was more innocent than innocence itself. He who now claims to have been detached from the village by ‘a long stay in Nairobi.’

But I saw it coming.

After going to the city for Makhatsa’s funeral (which took three days and three nights) even his Swahili took an imperfect Nairobilisation which came to produce more imperfect in-between copies by the day. It was not a surprise to hear that he had stopped persecuting omena, a delicacy over which our lakeside in-laws strangle dogs.

Speak of eating and I will tell you he eats our style, only that in the presence of people, his stomach shrinks to reopen when the crowds melt. In his normal moods, he literally sweeps the plates. Let me talk of my kinsman.

Yet he considers his unfittingly baggy clothes as best a symbol of enlightenment. Walks along the pavements, big earphones eating a greater part of his head, changing walking styles at three minute intervals, seeking attention, as if he is not the good-for-nothing-son-of-a-lazy-man. You will be fooled to think of the clothes as his own. I know the truth. One of these God’s days I will have to walk naked, for my kinsman shall have exhausted my closet. According to him, it seems, clothes once borrowed cannot be returned. Yet I don’t complain to this my Mr. Nairobi, my I-tond-know-my-matsa-tang-well.

The only thing I pity him is that he has never found an accomplice from the fairer sex, not even a single toothed daughter of another lazy man. Never received a hug, as far as I know. Thirdly, and more painfully, the fairer sex often ignores him, maybe because of the aesthetic massacre on his face. I have to swallow my pride to walk with this my civilised Nairobi kinsman who interprets people laughing at him as laughing with him.

Always coming for this and that. Kinsman, son of an almost village elder, don’t you have other avenues for funds? Are we sharing a pocket where we both ingest the legal tenders?

So the proud Amakobe , my civilized village brother who stitched his pocket into mine still refutes our village ways we have ever shared. Now seeing himself above and over others. Rejecting his tongue, the closest to which he comes is when he throws his hands in the air, neck high held, claiming in Nairobish that our tribe has numerous sub-tribes which speak disagreeing tongues. Except, of course, when he is dipping his hands in our shared pockets.

And coming to establish an at least two weeks long camp in my room.

This my kinsman.