That Class Below the Middle Class

This world, like they say, is full of ironies. I am a waiting graduate and I have lots of worries about my future. Being who I am and where I am from is reason enough for me to worry. I am from the background below that they call the middle class, and I am not as lucky as the middle class is. First, Kenya universities, the public ones, are not enough so the country does not provide, or rather is not able to cater for the needs of all of us. This means that you have to get a private university to move on with life just like everybody else. The only problem is that in this beautiful country of ours, employers do not value private universities as much as they do public ones. Still, they value people from Western universities better than local ones. This is what Bob Marley was talking about when he said that we need to “emancipate [our]selves from mental slavery”. Valuing foreign colleges is an assumption that this great land of Kenya is not able at all to give a decent education like any other country around the world. Though they may be ranked in the thousands, our own universities give as much as any do. The only difference is that those that are ranked highly may have more resources and age than ours. That therefore disqualifies university ranking. The criteria used to rank them is unknown to any layman and is unrealistic in the sense that they may look at how much research your university has done, but I wish they could take their time and look back in time to see how the same universities were doing when they were as old as ours. I have nothing against Harvard, Oxford, nothing at all. I am only jealous that somebody from these places is bound to get a job right from under my nose, even though he got a second lower degree and I a first class.

I am not even as lucky as those who might be considered after the “prestigious” institutions. After “eating my future” in high school, like my high school principal, Mr Kariuki, M.A., used to tell us, I could not get a way to the public universities in this beautiful country of ours. Due to their number, the cut-off points were WTC high. Furthermore, I came, or rather come, from that class I have already mentioned above. This meant that I had to get myself a place at our private universities, whose paper is not valued at home. These universities are usually for those in the middle class and the rich. Mr Kariuki used to say, “Continue eating your future but when the future comes, you'll have nothing to eat”. My future had come and boy oh boy, I had nothing to eat. I started a computer course in a local college, and all my hope was gone. When you start this short course training programs, you are usually at the point of no return. Your parents have tried all they could do, but unfortunately, that was all they could manage to get you. A month passed in that college of ours, two months remained. Now, I do not know how it happened but Mama managed to get a friend to talk to who talked her about me going to Uganda for my studies. Word was that it was way cheaper; that you could school three of your sons there and still not be as stressed as one schooling a son in a Kenyan university. I could not wait when I heard the good news. I abandoned my course and got into a bus for Uganda, the land of many wonders. I was briefed that in that country where a president would rule a country full of kings and queens, I had to attend two more years of A level because their system of education was different from ours. I did and as we speak, I have managed to finish my degree and I am waiting for graduation.

But a point that I should not forget to mention is that in this country too, though education be cheaper, public universities are also 'limited' and I do not know what keeps following me (fate?). I have been attending a private university. That is the root cause of my worries. As I type this article in the Main Hall, I secretly pray to who I believe in, that someone may read my story and give a job when I am out of here.

In Kenya, like already stated, Western universities are ranked first, then public ones, and lastly private ones. The public ones, also stated, cannot absorb all of us and that does not make anyone who does not attend them a fool. Though I also stated that Uganda has cheap education, those of us in the class below the middle class do not know the meaning of that saying. As a matter of fact we spend a fortune to get that degree that an employer looks at with disgust written all over his face. Our government promises job creation; I remember it used to say 500,000 jobs in a year. If I go to the job market and fail to get myself one, should I go home wondering why? Should I probably think that I was the 500,001^th person? It is still too early to complain. I am a teacher by training and our system is always said to have a shortage of teachers. I will try when I get there and if I do not, I will write you and tell you about it, maybe you might help.

Reading Instructions

If you happened to live in Africa, you might always wonder why the world does not want to leave us alone. We are among the most sociable of all human beings due to the fact that we never colonised anyone, we never shipped people of other races across seas to work for us, we never tried to kill Indians, Aborigines, Tasmanians, no one. As a matter of fact, other people did all those things to us, and you guessed right, we do not complain. I will not, however, talk about that kind of slavery. I will talk about multinational companies (includes associations, organisations, etc.). I was making myself a cup of chocolate the other day and thank God Africans do not read because I would never have bought anything owned by a multinational again. (Please get yourself a copy of “The Poor Reading Culture in Uganda” by Kimani wa Mumbi). What did I see except a reason to drop chocolate taking habits? In the instructions on how to prepare, I read something like: For a perfect chocolate cup, please pour four 'heaped' teaspoons into your cup and stir . . .. The word that made me question Cadbury is 'heaped'. I live in Africa for Chrissakes and when I buy a 500 g container of Drinking Chocolate I want it to stay for as long as it can. Matter of fact, if it could stay until three days before expiration there would be nothing better than that.

I have taken chocolate as a beverage for some time now and it is only the other day that I read those 'instructions'. And all those days I used to take my chocolate I never used to 'heap' let alone use four teaspoons, and it used to taste fabulous all the same. One teaspoonful is enough and the chocolate is usually perfect. The complaint against these companies is that they try to steal from the African the only thing that makes him exist, his dollar. (Please read: The Dollar Phenomenon – Below or Above the Dollar?)

After accidentally reading those 'instructions', I have gained a curious habit of seeing what else I should have been heaping all along and never noticed. I was using that detergent called Omo and God help them. These fellows were saying that for best results I had to heap my hand with their Omo in a basin with five litres of water. If I really have to heap my hand with Omo, you better look carefully because I will have a busy day. I will be doing a lot of laundry that day. The instructions do not even cater for those with big hands because suchlike people might do three-day's laundry if they really have to heap their palms. Now, I do not know what makes these people think that the African is just so ready to follow their instructions, and why they keep writing them even when they know that we do not read, but I know one thing: that if the African discovers that you are trying to make him broke, he will hate you and never buy your product again; he is already broke. My only special request to these companies is that knowing that we do not read, let them just stop writing instructions in these products of theirs. That will make the African content and we shall forever give you our custom.

Mind Rape of a School Girl

It may not be physical,

You may not even get to touch her.

Kissing her would be a thing

You can't in your dreams imagine.

It happens in your dreams,

Just after the heaviest of meals.

In the staffroom you kiss

her. And her thighs you wish

(for).

Might not even tell her

But every time she pass, mwaa.

Young and old school teacher,

That's my daughter teach her.

Teach her the world;

Teach her her pants to hold

tight. 'Cause if you don't, and differ,

That's a dream you defer.

My daughter's math teacher

Everyday you kid her

That without her sleeping

With you she's failing.

But that's just in your dreams;

Your staffroom dreams.

Teach her the world

please. And her pants to hold

(tight).

I, Kenyan

Once riding somewhere in old Kenya

Heart filled, head filled with glee;

I saw a Kenyan

Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was young and may be small

But he was no whit bigger!

And when I smiled he poked out

His tongue and called me Kikuyu.

I saw the whole of Kenya

And all that fateful December;

Of all that happened there

That's all that I remember.

Power (To the African Leader)

Hold fast to the office

For if you let go

Your life'll be a living hell

That you cannot face.

Hold fast to power

For when you'll be out

Your life a nightmare'll be

From which you waketh not.

Meal Deferred

                   What happens when a meal's deferred?

Does the child dry up

like a raisin in the sun?

Or starve like a dog–

And then die?

Does he crumble and fall over--

like a starved puppy?

Maybe he just sags

like a heavy beast.

Does He really exist?

Africa in my Insides

Open your metallic door,

You beautiful Acoli girl.

I may not be from your side

But Africa is in my insides.

You tell me I'm from the other side,

But truthfully I fell in love with you.

No matter our cultures

We are of the same feather.

Abandoned African Statehouse

He was a big man, says the size of his perimeter

and watch-out towers around his compound;

A scared man too, say his armoured vehicles

in a strongroom nearby; and not God-fearing,

say the Bibles rarely opened

in every bookcase of this citadel, smelling of print;

but not a man of the people, says the jewellery

cluttered with rocks and shiny metal.

Women lived with him, sometimes, say the photos

in his safes and, some yellowing with age

and some very young mistresses your kid's age-

not surprising he had no children.

Money here was more than could be spent

While millions of his subjects starved to death,

Wealth too was amassed in large quantities.

But 'twasn't happy here, says the gloomy surrounding.

Something went wrong, says the empty house

and the bullet riddled walls. Debris outside

say it was a coup; done the African way,

and the gloomy environs of this stately house.

He must have left in a nervous haste,

says the fact that he wasn't killed. What do you expect when you rule for decades, and your country's a mess? Something went wrong, for sure.

Of Farting

The above activity is called gassing in some East African country. And they say that everybody, including you and I, does it. It is not a bad thing to do when you are alone but it might be a real bad thing to do when somebody comes around, or when you are surrounded by other people besides yourself.

Have you ever had too much pressure somewhere in your bowels that the only reasonable thing to do was to release some, and not in form of solids or liquids as you probably think, but gases? It happens after great lunches and dinners, but also empty ones. You do not believe that a hungry man can fart? I have personally experienced this, being a member of those that lose their appetites at the mere taste of candy and to be truthful, there isn't a fart worse than a grown hungry man's one. And just when you get the right moment and say to yourself, 'O, thank God. Free at last. Free at last' and you let go, guess what happens? That girl that you've been eyeing for some time now pops in and the only conversation that you can start is about how the city council needs to mend broken sewers because you can smell the sewer right from your office. And out of embarrassment you can't tell her what you think of her because no matter how you try you know she knows something not about broken sewers, but may be a broken ass-hole.

Worse still, you report a little early to the lecture room and you receive the same feeling and knowing everybody's time-keeping habits, you let go, and just before the dust can settle, or rather mid-stroke, your professor comes in a little earlier than you expected? Then you can't hide the embarrassment and you start being jovial and talking about how you might have underestimated your lunch?

Well, I had reported a little early for that Phonetics lecture when I noticed, or rather felt that if I tried, whether hard or not so hard, I would fart. I could not blame my bowels for I had punished them myself by taking more spaghetti than my stomach could stomach. I looked at my watch and it said some ten minutes before time. I locked the door because being Class President I had the privilege to carry the key. I let out a long low sigh that was accompanied by a long low stinking fart. This gave me a relieving sensation in my bowels and an equally stinking one in my nostrils. Now, depending on your fart and level of ventilation, the stink may go away from just a few seconds to several minutes. My level of fart that day was a five-star in that level that scatologists and biologists may place it.

I was looking around to make sure that every window that might have needed opening was opened and before I could say 'open' there was a knock on the door. I panicked. Who the hell could that have been? I thought to myself. A second knock was accompanied by my professor's voice asking himself why I hadn't reported and yet he knew me to report a lot earlier than that. I had to get a way out. I feigned sleep and I told myself that I would wake up only when the time was right. I heard the professor shuffle through his pockets and I knew he was getting out his phone to call me. I immediately reached for mine and switched it off. He, being in the manner of thinking aloud, called me a name to the effect of a fool, which was not surprising for all professors think that they studied all books and no one did after them. He muttered something else and his steps retreated and I knew he had gone to sit somewhere in the college grounds.

When I thought it was safe enough to do it, I opened the door and guess what I found? He had stopped in his tracks to think aloud again and when he heard the door open he looked back and stared at me, with his mouth still open in the shape of the last word he had called me.

'Sir, I’m so sorry but I had a little nap and . . .'

'Never mind what you had. Is our toilet broken? I was out there knocking and I almost suffocated.'

The Bite Not Taken

Two dogs emerged in the woods

And sorry I could not run from both

And remain safe, seconds I stood

And looked one as much as I could

Till where its canines had 2 inches grown   Looked the other, I was dead ’twas crystal clear,

For it had perhaps the sharper cane,

Because it was bigger and wanted prey;

Though as for the standing there

Had made them look about the same.

  And both growling that morning I feigned

Their canes ready to get a piece of me.

Oh, I Usain Bolted out of their way!

Not knowing where the road led

I doubted if they would ever get me.

  I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two dogs emerged in the woods, and I --

I took the Usain Bolt Challenge,

And that's the reason I’m still a'ight.

 

Mama Love

Please forgive me, when I go wrong-

Teaching me right and wrong

Must have taken you long.

I cannot fail to remember

All the cold and lonely nights of December

When we sat and wondered why we never had a visit from Santa.

Mama you mean the world to me

And I wonder what I would do to thank thee

For unimaginable are your deeds for me.

Though I was never the happiest

You saved me from all tempests

And for that you are the greatest.

You were Mama and Papa at the same time

Though you never owned a dime

I cannot fail to acknowledge I grew up just fine.

You were light at the end of the tunnel

Nine months I clang to your tummy

You never tired I was your puppy.

And after all that you loved me

When no one else saw a thing in me

I'm grateful and I cannot repay ye.

Through my darkest of nights

Mama, though they turn off my lights

I will have you in my sight.

Mama, I cannot repay

All the good things you did in May

I would never forget if I may.

I love you and I would do anything

Just to please you I give everything

I will forever and ever your name sing, Susan!

Ajar

Close that door, son

For I am old and my bones are weak.

I've seen 89 under the sun

Journey's been long burning up my wick.

See, when the door's open, son

The cold air gets into my lungs
I can tell you that that's no fun.

It's like having in you a snake's bare fangs!

Son, this life is but a journey,

they've said. You wouldn't like to see

Anyone open the door when (funny?)

It's not your time, yet. See?

So please close that door, son

I have miles to go

a little fun I may have, yes, fun,

Before they say it's time to go.

© kimannpaul@yahoo.com 2011

The Dollar Phenomenon: Below or Above the Dollar?

When I was in the land of many bananas, I noticed a lot of differences from back home. The land in question is Uganda. I noticed, for instance, that my appetite was directly proportional to the thickness of my wallet, or its weight, depending on the unit you prefer. In times of despair, like I had come to call those times when my wallet was dry (and O how they came at an irritating frequency), any food at my disposal tasted like manna to me. But in the good times I had a peculiar appetite for expensive things and in such times, I would end up hating what I was actually brought up on. In other words I would become another self, not me. My background was not the type that allowed me to have the good times frequently. Rather, my good times came in small measures. My face therefore only shone a few months out of twelve. The rest I lived below the dollar, the legendary dollar. I say legendary for there is not a currency that has ever dominated the world as the dollar has done. Your wealth is therefore determined by the amount of bucks you spend on a daily basis, no matter what your currency is: pesos, drachmas, or shillings. Note therefore that your wealth or poverty does not depend on how many pesos you spend or not spend in a day but rather by the amount of dollars. You are regarded as poor if you are living below the dollar, and some cents, a day.

Back to the land of many bananas. I did not limit myself to the dollar when I got the money. I spent more that the said dollar and as a result shopkeepers became friendly at such times, when they had my custom most. This does not make me a spendthrift or what they say parts with his money. The span of good times did not last that long and soon I would be in my world; the world that me and more than half the world's population lives in.

It would be stupid of me to complain about the world I lived in. I remember Big Willy said something to the effect of, “Do not be afraid of money, some are born with money, some achieve money, while some have money thrust upon them (or was it 'greatness'?)”. I know, however, that I belong to that class that Big Willy did not have in mind. I was not born with money; it was not a thing I had achieved, nor was it was thrust upon me (and who could? In that miserable family tree to which I was a member?). The only thing I was sure of, no matter how long it would take to realise that, was that I was going to get it. Yes, of that I was almost sure.

Come what may, I was going to prove to my neighbours that ours was not a family tree that could just be cut down without any loss. In that tree there was going to be somebody who could comfortably spend at least three dollars a day, or more daily. That person, I hope to be. Like they say: So help me God.

©kimannpaul@yahoo.com 2011

The Road Not Taken

This is a parody of The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

See, two roads might diverge in any wood,

And sorry you cannot travel both

And remain a single traveler, stand you could

And look down one far if you would

To where it bends in the undergrowth.

You might take the other, might be fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

For it is grassy and wants wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Has worn them really about the same.

Both roads any morning equally lay

In leaves no step has trodden black.

Oh! you might keep the first for another day!

Yet you know how way leads on to way,

You should doubt to ever come back.

And you'll be telling that with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

That two roads diverged in a wood, and you --

You took the one less traveled route,

And that, surprisingly, made all the difference!

Dead Men Can See, and Hear

Hi, you must think I’m crazy before you even read this. I will write anyway. Have you ever asked yourself whether dead men, and of course women, see? Well, they not only see but hear as well. New research has proved this. According to a research carried out by none other than myself, dead men can see, hear, and feel. What they cannot do is react to the feeling, or the senses. May be because they are obliged not to. For example when you pinch a dead man, he will not twitch, or react in any way, but will feel it. Try it but be careful. You never know what they might be thinking.

I happened to attend a wake. The body was kept in a room, and due to its (room's) size, no one else was watching the lonely body. I walked over and touched the face, for it was still as beautiful as it was when alive, and she opened her eyes. I asked her, out of the greatest astonishment, whether she could feel me and she nodded. I wanted to scream but when she saw the look in my face she shook her head to tell me that she wouldn't do that. I asked her whether she was alive and she shook her head. I asked if she was dead, just to be sure, and she nodded. I asked her whether dead people reacted the same way and she nodded. Let's leave it at that. I could tell you that she asked me, by facial expressions, to kiss her and I did, but I know you wouldn't believe it and so I won't tell you.

When a person dies, the heart and the brain, alongside some other vital organs of the body stop functioning normally. These however do not affect the sense of sight, hearing, and feeling. So, never at all try to play near a dead man, he hears you, sees you, and can even feel your touch. Haven't you ever wondered why they close the eyes of the dead? To make the deceased stop spying on what is going on.

These processes, however, do not go on forever. They stop when the dead man rots enough to stop communication between these three senses. If only the dead could talk, they would prefer not to be buried. It is too dark in there. Though I would like to be cremated, cremation is another thing dead people do not like. That is the eternal burning fire they talk about in the Bible. People just misinterpret it. Even though the living ask for that favour (of cremation), they really do not know whether it hurts or not. It hurts to be burned, and you might wonder why I would like to be burned even after knowing it is a painful process. Well, I never lived to the expectations of anyone, I guess, and so I would like them who will be, get consolation from my burning. A good roasting doesn't last forever.

Africa: The Cradle of Man-'key' – Characteristics of the African Politician

Hi, I am African, I hate a wasted journey, Soyinka might say. (Before we go ahead, you will encounter a lot of references to Kenya, but it is just a case in point. Everything that might happen in Kenya happens anywhere in Africa). You really hear a lot about Africa and you do sometimes doubt what you hear about us. I will give you that information first hand. Africa is a good place to live in, for anyone. They say it is the cradle of man and I don't doubt that but it seems all the best men who came out of Africa left her and left behind a bunch of whatchamacallem? We are not really monkeys in Africa but we have a great number of them, literally and metaphorically. We do not live in trees but climbing them monkey style is easy for us. Africans are really nice people to live with, even as a foreigner, and African women are what do we say . . .? The bomb. Their behinds are the best on the planet and are sexy as hell, if hell be so. The greatest problem in Africa is not the perennial droughts and diseases. It is the politicians. Kenyan politicians are the most malicious politicians on earth. They reject a most important bill just for selfish interests. You do not see a realistic MP who comes out, despite his political affiliation, to support a bill that he believes is for the good of the nation. They are the most tribalistic people in Kenya, constantly reminding Kenyans which 'side' they come from and hence who to vote for. They can say anything, so unprofessional are they – if theirs is regarded a profession – and as a result any public rallies are usually what you wouldn't desire to watch, let alone attend. And thanks to technology, you can watch parliament sessions live BUT no one in Kenya watches these monkeys as they debate in their base ways, baser than seventh graders. No one would like to watch one's MP saying a thing that the least educated man in the community wouldn't. These are the monkeys we have in Africa. But don't get me wrong, we have some wonderful politicians, but very few fall in this class. The President of Kenya (Mwai Kibaki), no matter what they say, is the greatest politician Kenya has seen and might see in several decades. He is not the type that runs his mouth. He is calm and diplomatic. You might need to read the speech he gave on Madaraka Day (Independence), 1^st June, 2011. Regarding the current border crisis with Uganda, he said the Kenya cannot afford to go to war with her neighbours, and a lot more. Some would wish to see a President Bush in Kenya who they say 'doesn't give a f***'. Why would you go to war over some rocks in L. Victoria and lose millions in trade not to mention financing a war, that would probably never end soon? If I was in charge of giving the Nobel prizes, Kibaki I would give the Peace one. Don't get me wrong, we have some other politicians who would do the same thing but the biggest lot of them is what qualifies to be monkeys. That is not the main issue. You might not want to read about Kibaki all day, and it wasn't my intention to write about him, but his way of handling situations overwhelms me. As a reminder, the Kenyan economy has explored heights that never were before, under the regime of Kibaki.

The African politician is so selfish that soon as he gets to the place of his dreams, he forgets the promises he made to the people who helped make him who he is. He criticises current regimes and when he gets to power what does he do except repeat what his predecessor did? It is only in Africa where the Opposition wins all elections, no matter how unpopular it might have been, and if it doesn't it tags elections 'rigged'. And the West is usually another bunch of fools, whoever 'West' refers to, because they always come to support any side that complains. They come and ask: “Who is complaining? What is the complaint? You won the election? They rigged, huh?” What follows is the West claiming: “Our observers observed the massive rigging and threats issued systematically to supporters of the Other Party, and we declare the whole election (they usually say 'electoral process') a sham. The West cannot therefore do business with the current regime . . . .” You know what follows? No one accepts and there are chaos and at the end of it all, a Prime Minister is born. Opposition leaders, who are far from convincing the nation that they can deliver, get to be PM's. This is not a reference to any specific situation. I cannot say more than was said of the Kenyan situation, but notice how PM's come about in Africa. And it is all because of the monkey in the African politician. If you rigged my election and therefore denied me the chance to be president, that would be my best weapon against you. I would say it was rigged; matter of fact I would accept the 'defeat', if I really cared for my country. (Imagine what comes out of a rejection: you saw it in Kenya). The people would even call for the president to step down, just by the way I choose to act. If I decide to go diplomatic, I will get the love of the people. But if I’m all in foreign media preaching how it was rigged, more people hate me, riots even break out. And do you know the reason they do this? It's because they give not a damn what happens, as long as they get to the top: they are greedy to lead. If greed be the music of love, play on. I imagine what goes on through their minds: "I have to be president, I have to be, no matter what. If people die who cares? Long as I be president". I wish we remained with our own traditional ways of leadership.