In case of floods, set up a committee

Ted Mosby, on ‘How I Met Your Mother’ said, “The universe always has a plan… it’s kinda wonderful; all these little parts of the machine working to make sure you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

I doubt Ted had an inkling of what the world would come to in the year of our Lord 2024. These days, it seems these little parts of the machine are constantly stacked against us.

Read more: In case of floods, set up a committee

If you happen to live in Kenya, for example, you will contend with unbridled greed and corruption by the ruling class. You could graduate with first class honors and still fail to secure a job. Heck, you could wake up tomorrow and find that the government has taken your house, your food, your dignity and the road you use to get to work has been blocked by a million gazillion guzzlers ferrying some assistant deputy’s secretary.

Really. It’s damn hard to stay patriotic when you’re heavily taxed and don’t know where the next meal is coming from, or even where your house is.   

Earlier today, while you were figuring out what’s between S and F on your keyboard, hundreds of families in Bunyala were wondering how to put their lives back together after floods had washed away their homes. 

Recently, the county government saw fit to set up evacuation camps for the displaced families. They also set up a flood committee whose purpose is still unclear, but Bunyala sub-county Flood Committee Chairperson, Godfrey Hamala, has raised concern over promiscuity and spread of STDs in the camps. “Some people are engaging their neighbours in nearby thickets or toilets to quench their thirst,”  he said. 

According to a news report, married couples have also complained that the camp shelters lack privacy, which means they can’t continue with the Lord’s work of filling the earth. What’s even more disappointing, though, is that there have been cases of sexual harassment of underage girls. And that’s just heartbreaking. Can we ever truly plumb the well of savagery that lies in the hearts of men?

Who knows. Maybe Mr. Hamala’s job description outlines that he may have to mitigate domestic issues and assuage horny residents once in a while. It’s not surprising from a government that creates a committee for every kind of crisis. Doctors strike? Set up a committee to find out why. Fake fertiliser floods the market? Let’s set up a committee to make the necessary arrests. Corruption scandal at KPLC? Yup. A committee should do the trick. Perhaps we should set up a committee to analyse what brand of crack cocaine they smoke in parliament.

I can’t imagine what a typical day looks like for a Flood Committee Chairperson. Actually, I can. He would turn up at the Sub-county office, fetch a cup of tea with mandazi, leaf through a copy of People Daily, issue a sitting allowance claim, swing by the camp with handouts for his clansmen, then do a photo-op before jumping into a government-issued guzzler to rendezvous with his mistress. But I may be wrong. 

Maybe Mr. Hamala is a dedicated and honourable man. Maybe he’s looking out for the people and hopes to restore the dignity of the flood victims. Maybe he even considers Masinde Muliro as his clansman and personal hero. 

Perhaps Mr Hamala is genuinely clueless on where to start. If so, I may have a few ideas. First -and I’m certain he’d like this– is to set up a taskforce committee to weed out all the rapists in the camps, castrate them, then hang them in the town square. Then he should meet with some proper qualified urban planners to sort out the drainage and housing development issues of Bunyala.

And I suppose he wouldn’t have to look very far to get them. I hear Masinde Muliro University has an excellent department of Science and Technology. 

Show me your friends. I’ll show you a liar

Everybody lies. That was true when Dr. House said it. And it still rings true today. We look people in the eye and we lie. We lie to lovers and friends. I can bet my good marbles that a lie will always follow questions like: “I called you three times yesterday. Where were you?”

When our folks back in the village ask how things are in the big city, we say it’s all good. Tuko sawa. “Kupambana tu.”

In the wee hours of a Saturday morning, we hide behind clouds of shisha smoke as we tell bold-faced lies with sly smiles; hoping to get into someone’s knickers, or at least a foot inside their door. We lie about needing an urgent 2k. We lie on Instagram stories. In the office we camouflage our lies with corporate lingo and strange politics. We say, “Sorry. I think there might have been a miscommunication”, when we obviously hadn’t seen that Email. Or even bothered to open it.

For some of us (read me), our entire existence can often feel like a lie.

Read more: Show me your friends. I’ll show you a liar

Some lies are harmless. Some lies start wars. Some lies come on a metallic snake. Just ask Nabongo Mumias. Or was it Masaku?

There are tiny white lies. And then there are massive black-hearted lies that could tip the scales (of justice?) and throw the earth out of orbit. The government of Kenya, for instance, is filled to the brim with juvenile, diabolical, inadequate, psychopathic, pot-bellied liars. And that’s just the Executive arm. (read Gachagua).

Anyway, allow me to take you back three years ago – back to the big fat lie that was my bike accident, and the events surrounding it.

Quiet please. Court is in session.

*
It is 11:23AM at Makadara Law Courts in Nairobi. Traffic court. The judge is a stern-faced bespectacled woman in her early 50s. She walks up to her chair and bangs the gavel. The pews are packed with lawyers, burly men in suits, plain-clothes officers, drunk delinquents, small-time journos and matatu touts in maroon.

The judge opens a huge red file and starts to scribble. The courtroom goes quiet. The sequence is like a flawless choreography of law and order. The wheels of justice start to spin.

An officer of the court stands up and prepares to read the opening statement:

“On or about the 10th of April 2021, Michael (herein referred to as The Plaintiff), was riding a bicycle at Kisaju along Namanga road when Joshua (herein referred to The Defendant), driving car registration number KAZ 97XX, knocked down The Plaintiff causing injury to his leg. The doctor who attended to the Plaintiff could not be present today, but we have a report stating the extent of the damage –a torn calf muscle and severe mental trauma. We also have a toxicology report that testifies to the Defendant’s inebriated mental state at the time of the incident. The case was reported to Isinya Police Station under OB number 10/42021”

The judge continues to write in her file, never once looking up. The officer of the court continues:

“Your honour, road carnage has claimed many lives in the recent months. This counsel implores the court to heavily fine the Defendant for endangering lives through reckless driving. We also ask that punitive damages be paid to the Plaintiff to cover medical expenses.”

The judge stops writing and looks up at the officer. Then she says, “Senior counsel, until you become a magistrate, I would ask that you leave the ruling to me.”

“My apologies, your honour. I would now like to call the Plaintiff to the witness stand.”

Because of the leg injury, the Plaintiff is allowed to testify while seated. He clears his throat and places a hand on the Bible. He swears to say the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. So help him God.

As he gives his statement, he thinks: “But where was God when the accident happened and I was oozing blood on the pavement like roadkill?”

After the Plaintiff had said his piece, two other witnesses were called to testify. Then the court went into a short recess. It was clear to everyone that this was an open and shut case. Or was it?

What the Plaintiff hadn’t disclosed was that, minutes prior to the accident, he had smoked half a blunt and downed two cans of WhiteCap.
The Plaintiff had demonstrated blatant disregard for road safety, having no protective gear, and playing loud music through a pair of earphones. His testimony was a clear distortion of the facts. Perjury by withholding information.

A lie.

**
Yesterday marked three years since a drunk-driver slammed his jalopy into my bicycle. The impact almost took out my leg. To this day I cannot feel my calf. Even if I had a -Tour De France- approved helmet it wouldn’t have been enough to stop the damage. A good samaritan who was at the scene offered to put me in his backseat and take me to hospital, where my folks were already waiting.

As the hospital staff carried me from the car onto the wheelchair, I grabbed my old man’s shirt and said, “Can I have a cigarette first? Please.”

My old man would have none of it. And the case never went to court as I might have led you to believe. (Everybody lies, remember?)

But I settled for a tiny sum for the surgery and chose to pursue no further action. Deep down I felt sorry for the driver. He looked as though life had thrown him a few curveballs. Maybe drinking was his way of escape. I can’t say I condone it. But I completely understand it. Us junkies have to look out for each other because no one else will. Plus who has the time/money for lawyers and endless court sessions?

If you ask me, the justice system would much rather focus on locking up all incompetent government officials. How about Susan Nakhumicha for a start?

Actually, they should simply dissolve the government. And put the entire country on ice.

A Monday Night Bulletin

Total Eclipse of the Heart

Right about now news about the solar eclipse will have spread to the far corners of the globe. I imagine no one is more excited than the Americans, Mexicans and Canadians. As I write this, CNN even has a timer at the bottom of the screen. The boffins at NASA must be looking through their telescopes and wetting their pants.

Closer home, we’re all looking towards Mecca – holding our breaths, hoping our Muslim brothers and sisters get a sighting of the moon that would ultimately usher in Eid.

Isn’t there an Imam or Sheikh who can update us? Is there a sliver of hope? Do we have a holiday on Wednesday? Actually, isn’t there anyone who can dispatch a message to NASA and ask them to do us a solid? Surely one peak through a telescope won’t hurt.

Black Death

Since most of my mental capacity is taken up by pressing matters such as content calendars and brand campaigns, I’m perpetually at risk of missing important things like breaking for lunch or spending time with my family. Last Saturday I forgot to shut my bedroom windows in the evening as I rushed to catch the Liverpool Vs Man United clash.

Later, as I staggered to bed, I was stopped by a gust of wind at the door. Hundreds of Swarmer termites had flooded into the room. Their flapping wings were as loud as a small helicopter. A bunch of them had landed on the bulb. Visibility was nigh on nil. Total eclipse. My bedroom looked like Chernobyl.

Which now made me sit back and think: With all that’s happening in the world right now; genocide, femicide, earthquakes, civil war, climate change, – how do we know that we’re not moments away from a bug infestation? Just months ago we had a Cholera outbreak. Not long before that there was Ebola and Swine Flu. And that’s before we get to the shit-show that is the Kenyan government who are all deadly pests.

In the 14th century Europe, North Africa and China were plagued by fleas which transmitted Yersinia Pestis between rats and humans – the bacteria responsible for the bubonic plague, otherwise known as the Black Death. The plague killed nearly 50 million people. Whole communities were wiped out. And because antibiotics were yet to be invented, most people said it was the work of the devil. Religious leaders went round exorcising the demons but the fleas kept winning. I doubt even the God of Benny Hinn and Dorcas Gachagua would have had a say.

Apparently the symptoms of the Black Death include but are not limited to: shivering, vomiting, fatigue, delirium, sleeplessness and joint pain.
Haha. Imagine that. The symptoms of bubonic plague might as well have been the result of cocaine withdrawal.

Thanks to medical advancements, though, diseases like the Black Death are kept at bay. In this Kenya of ours you’re more likely to die from taxation than a flea bite. Actually, you’re more likely die from the sheer stupidity and cluelessness of people like our Cabinet Secretary of Health, Susan Nakhumicha.

Anyway, that night, as I swept the swarmer termites off my floor, I couldn’t help but wonder: What if a drug-resistant bubonic plague was in the offing? I mean, we already have Black tax clutching at our throats. Who’s to say the Black Death isn’t too far behind? Can we truly trust Susan Nakhumicha?

**
Tune in next week for the next bulletin.