My Village Liquor Store

Dear reader, I will start boring you with a story which is not worth telling but worth reading. Out of forces of nature forcing you to do acts that your mind tells you not to, you sometimes develop habits that you would like to drop as soon as you get started in them.

I had started visiting this village liquor store with a frequency that made my liver complain in two weeks, but I just couldn't quit. Deep in my mind I started developing the assumption that 'drinkers were born, not made'. Up my family tree there was a good number of those who hit the bottle. I had become an addict overnight also thanks to a song Bruno Mars usually sang about liquor stores. But that is not why I share my liquor store experiences. No.

There was this guy whose space was never occupied even if everyone had got information beforehand that he would not come that day. He was the meanest, ugliest, and toughest guy a woman had ever given birth to. He was the most feared man in the little hamlet, only next to God and Lucifer.

It happened that one day, as we were just making merry, tossing for no reason and drinking to every ancestor we imagined we had – and some had quite good imagination, drinking all the way up to Adam and collapsing. Well, it happened that a certain traveller was passing by and was attracted by the noise of the inn and so he had decided to join us. The only unoccupied spot that he could spot was Gui's and so to Gui's spot he took a seat. Even though most of us were too intoxicated, there was still a part of our brains sober enough to advise that stranger that that was a spot where nobody had ever dreamt of sitting on, even in their wildest dreams. He was huge too, about six one, and his biceps were bulging out of his sweater. He had asked us whether the devil himself usually sat there, and we had replied that the devil did not live around that village. Then he had also replied that unless the devil himself sat there, then he would because that was the only man, creature, or whatever race he belonged that he was afraid of. From the tone of the voice he used, people could tell that this man was a match for Gui, and many indeed wished there was a fight so they could enjoy watching.

We got wind that Gui, for Gui was the only name his retarded mother could come up with for her ugly son, had been hit by an auto-rickshaw and that he had bled profusely and gone into a coma. We heard all that on the grapevine and whoever had started it no one really recalls - and so for those who wished for a fight so they could watch only disappointment was seen in their alcohol-beaten countenances. Their disappointment did not last as they drank and forgot about it.

Ashie and myself were drinking a little bit too slowly because both of our livers would cry out every night after the drinks. We both enjoyed the village liquor, served in the village glasses that every lip of every drinking man had kissed. For strange reasons we usually discussed foreign exchange although we had never enough money to buy a single dollar. We stood out from the rest because we had seen the chalkboard and the classroom, as the drunks usually put it. Everybody was deep in conversation by then, most of them too drunk to drink to anyone, and no one noticed the entry of Gui.

Everybody was distracted by the sound of a loud blood-curling scream and when we looked at its origin, we saw a gaping hole in the stranger's scalp with blood all over his face and clothes. Standing next to him was Gui looking as mean as ever. Nobody drank any more. Even those who had drunk to Adam the umpteenth time got on their heels and gave a show that would have been watched with envy by Usain Bolt.

Dear reader, I cannot tell you more than that because I would be forced to lie. From that day I never went back to my village liquor store and in that little village I reside no more. All I hear are rumours that Gui had got arrested and that the rumour about him bleeding and going into a coma had been started by himself and a couple of his friends just to give the drunks a good show. But really if that was his idea of a show, I cannot help but be shocked by how people have got a mean sense of humour.

To Get an Ethiopian Driving Licence if you Have a Foreign One

Guide from Kimani wa Mumbi

If you happen to visit Ethiopia, and you need to drive, you will need your DL changed to the local one. They do not recognise foreign ones or the International DL. Crazy place, isn't it?

I suffered a lot being from Kenya and not living near the capital, I lost a lot of money moving back and forth from Addis to Nazret. 

This is what you do:
First, go to your embassy with your DL, passport, and three photocopies of your DL, and have them write a letter indicating the equivalence of your DL to the Ethiopian one. Make sure they give you the right level. Here they have 5 grades or levels, grade 5 being the highest. Also make sure the people at the embassy indicate the weight of the vehicles you can drive, on whatever grade they give you. (I had to go back to my embassy because the guy there had just indicated the grade and had forgotten to also include the weight). At the Kenya embassy (near the Bulgaria, UK embassies), you can get that letter the same day after paying an equivalent of 10 USD (or 170 Birr).

After that, take your sorry ass to a place called Kasanchez where we have a branch of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Move as fast as you can from your embassy because there is usually a line as long as the Nile (the people at your embassy should give you – if you ask – all the details and directions to the places you need to go). One thing you should know is that at Kasanchez they go for a “tea” break at 11:00 am and only return to work at 1:00 pm. Whether the tea they drink has bones, no one really knows. It is orderly there because we have several cops at the gate. When you get in the people tell you to sit in the waiting lounge or hall, or whatever (so do not drag yourself!) When you go to the counters, or tellers, you will be required to pay 17-20 USD or around 300 Birr. They will look at the photocopies of your DL which have already been stamped at your embassy and the letters from you embassy (two original copies of the same letter), and they will stamp one of the letters, and you will then proceed to go to a place called Kaliti.

If you are new to an area, the best way is to practise what your English teacher taught you: asking directions. I never get lost anywhere as long as I am not dumb at any particular moment – and I have travelled far and wide. Do not be afraid – people in Addis Ababa, including drivers, they speak English! 

And so to Kaliti we are headed. Kaliti is on your way to Nazret and Shashamane, and Moyale, et al. Do not go all the way to the bus station. There is some “institute” for training and testing drivers and mechanics. It is about 600 meters from the bus station so I repeat – do not wait until you reach the bus station at Kaliti. Right after a place called Sarece – read [saris] – you will find a huge roundabout and right after that roundabout is the institute, on your left.

If you are a foreigner, do not be dumb! Always carry your passport whenever you have to deal with local officials. I saw a lady being told to go get her passport after waiting for like two hours. Always have it, and have like three copies of it – they love photocopies, don't they!

O, back to the institute! Ask around for the right office to go, and hurry – here you will also find a multitude! I think it serves the whole country. You might also be guided by looking at where foreigners seem to be going. When you get into that office turn right and spot a small office behind those who might be standing there. Buy a stamp and a form and fill it in with the help of a local – it is all in Greek! Oops – I mean Amharic. After that you will not be too dumb to ask for whom to give it to. And you might pay as much as or half of what you paid at Kasanchez. I guess it all depends on the grade and the period. I guess that helps! Ciao! And drive safe!

Nappy Head

Your hair is dirty, good sir –

Said an innocent child to me one day.

I have what they call African hair,

A natural nappy head.

Its brownish colour they call mousy

What I really would like called auburn.

And so the kid had observed,

She was innocent though

And I had to explain to her

That the same creator who endowed her

With her long beautiful black curly hair

Had also done the same with my kinky mousy one!

Read more of my poetry at:
http://www.poemhunter.com/kimani-wa-mumbi/

My Ethiopia

They call it 'the land of the thousand smiles' or in case you speak a little of that thing spoken by Sarkozy, 'le pays des mille sourires'; it is home of the Ark of the Covenant, the Biblical one believed to have been brought here from Jerusalem by Emperor Menelik I, son of Queen Sheba and King Solomon. So here you will find actual descendants of wise King Solomon and Queen Sheba of the Bible, etc., etc. O! Not to forget the great Haille GebreSellasie, the one who gives Kenyan runners a pure headache. Ethiopia is revered by the Rastafarians, it is their Zion.

Ethiopia borders Kenya to the south, Eritrea to the north-east, Somalia to the east, the two Sudans to the West. It has a great topography, if I remember my geography right; and a great people. If you are a tourist looking for a place to get away, my Ethiopia is the place, that is after you have visited the world-known Maasai Mara, where you see the world as it was in the very beginning, animals roaming everywhere and the 'eighth wonder of the world' – the wildebeest migrating in millions. Once you are here in ET, you will need to visit places like Bahar Dar, Gondar, Axum, Yeha, Harar, among others.

Wondering why a Kenyan would be writing all this? Look. I came here exactly six months ago and I have seen a lot. But the aim of my writing is to be a little critical. You want to try this, I'm sure.

If you are an African, or have African origin, come here and ask around. People here do not believe they are African, not that they hate Africa, but for strange reasons which they cannot explain. Wherever I go and speak English, for Amharic here is spoken by about everybody, English by less than 20 percent, well, wherever I go they always ask me whether I'm Ethiopian, for they say that I look like them. If I say that I am not Ethiopian they always proceed to ask me whether I am African to which I always say “Yes”. But whenever I ask them whether they are African they say “No, we are Ethiopian”. May be their geography teachers do not do enough trying to let these people know that they are actually African in the sense that they are living in Ethiopia, which is not located somewhere in Mars but in Africa! Another question that they might ask if not the first is whether I am Jamaican! I do not think Jamaicans have a peculiarity, if not for the ganja they love, but it is understood that they love Ethiopia so much, some of them actually settle here, especially the Rastas, in a place called Shashamane. And this started a long time ago when Rastafari Mekonnen was still emperor, google that and find out for yourself.

Another peculiarity of Ethiopians is how they have failed to appreciate the hanky, and all its relatives like tissue. God! People here blow their noses right inside a building, or right in front of you. This is especially bad when it is windy because they do not care whether you are downwind or upwind, they will blow all right, and expect that you forgive them or excuse them depending on how serious the flu is. That is one thing I have never come to grips with. You will see a very beautiful lady blow her nose right into the palm of her hand, and then proceed to greet you. I say, the beauty disappears when you see this barbarian act. Ladies have a way of concealing that blowing – they do not do it in the wind but in the palm of their hands. It happened to me one day. I went to the baker's to buy some bread and the woman there blew her nose noiselessly on her palm. Bread here is never wrapped and they have a habit of handling it with their bare hands. So right after she blew her nose she went ahead to handle it. I showed a disgusted face and went on home to give that bread to the landlady's dog.

Another thing, if you think that you are naturally a comedian and you would say a few God and Jesus jokes, even church jokes, do not set foot here. You will be hanged, mark that, hanged, the second day. Religion here is a thing they hold dear, and they have a right to, seeing that they have the relationship to that wise king and the Ark, not to mention that the country is mentioned severally in the Bible. So if you would like to crack a few of those jokes, just go south to Kenya. People there will give you an ear and they are going to be shedding tears laughing.

Another thing about Ethiopians is how they board taxis, as they call these minivans. They never want to sit at the extreme corner or seat, no matter where they are going. You might break a bone trying to squeeze past three grown man who will not move to that extreme seat for reasons known only to them. And if they happen to sit at the window, they do not want it open, even under the sweltering heat of the country.

O! I almost forgot: if you come to Ethiopia, be sure to taste their coffee, known as buna locally. They usually have a unique ceremony where they sit around a person who is making coffee and talk and drink when it is ready. They drink this coffee for many hours and that is what makes it a ceremony. It tastes good but what bothers me about it is the fact that they do not usually buy processed coffee, even for two cups of coffee. They prefer to buy the coffee beans and roast them for almost an hour, after which they crush them and later on make you some coffee. If you are the type that has no patience, do not ever follow somebody who invites you to a cup of coffee at home, it will take more time than it takes to roast a goat! I like my Nescafé. It takes less than a minute to make! If you wanted to venture to the coffee processing industry, Ethiopia is not your place. They produce a lot of coffee but they would rather it was not processed for them.

I do not mean to be mean on the Ethiopian way of life. I was just pinpointing the various differences as they occurred to me. You might go to any country and you will no doubt get things like this to write about.

That is my Ethiopia for you!

The following is an actual question given in a courseunit called professional ethics that I did back then.

This was a very difficult question I had from one of the course units I did at college. I decided to tackle it with a sense of humour. I might sound a little prejudiced at some places but please read and digest before you judge me. I did not score highly in it but I did not fail. I always thought that everybody appreciated my sense of humour. Was wrong.

QUESTION:

Explain at least six ethical dilemmas you faced during School Practice.

School Practice is an activity involving new teachers going to their field, in this case education, to literally practise what they have learnt. These ‘new’ teachers are usually straight from colleges of education or at the university doing a course in education. They usually get schools from which to practise their teaching skills and when the time to report comes they start their practise just like any teacher would in that school. It is like a practical in chemistry in the laboratory where this time you do not deal with beakers and titration tubes but with the school as a whole: the teachers, the students, and the non-teaching staff. It is not an easy thing and especially not if it is your first time. You come across obstacles sometimes. Some of these are what we call ethical dilemmas. Well, it was my first time and I faced some of those ethical dilemmas. In real life, a dilemma is a situation where you do not know what to choose, or you are in a situation where you are forced to choose between two things, or factors, both of which are unpleasant. An ethical dilemma is when you are in a controversy to choose between what is right and what is wrong. But there are usually times when people have different views of what is wrong and what is right. In such a case, you find yourself in an ethical or moral confusion, called a dilemma.

During my School Practice, I faced a few dilemmas and the first one was that the proprietor of the school I went to was white, as in not African. The problem was not the colour of her skin, or her husband’s, because they were always around the school but that white people usually have a feeling towards Africans that makes me dislike them. The proprietor, to be named ‘She’ hereafter, would exhibit some of these feelings in many ways. For instance, you could not tell a teacher from a student if it was not for the uniform. Teachers in that school were treated how Senior Six students in another school would not. There was a time, and there were several of such times, when She came and found that the teachers were having a nap: this was common after being fed on posho, the same as the students which is not really the problem but being the nature of posho to make you sleepy in the afternoon. She, being an old woman, took her walking stick and hit the table so hard as to wake the dead. She then went ahead to say that she did not pay anyone to sleep. Of course I was not asleep personally but I was confused. Should I have told the old lady to treat us with dignity or should I have kept quiet like everyone else? They say two wrongs do not make it right, and that even if a thousand people believe in a thing it does not make what they believe in right. So, even if all teachers saw no wrong in what she did, I was confused because according to the teaching profession that was as wrong a crime as it gets. What accentuated the matter was that the school was not all made of bricks, but being church-based, it made use of the Church to accommodate two classes partitioned by movable blocks of wood, and the staffroom was in the pulpit, also partitioned in the same manner. This made sure that the students in Senior Two, which was bordering the staffroom, and those of Senior One further away could not only hear but they could see through the partitions, that is if they cared to look. That was among the ethical dilemmas I faced.

Secondly, the ego of the proprietor – owing to the colour of her skin no doubt – made her act in ways that were way too rude. This might also have happened should She have been black for teachers are known to go through anything to get that meagre salary they get. So in this school meat, a rare delicacy, was served on Mondays and Fridays. That almost made sure that every teacher was present at lunch, even those who did not attend some other days of the week – that is those who were part-time. As a result meat was never enough for all teachers and it is said that even in the best of groups, there must be somebody who is always messing up everyone. So one of these reported to her and She never took her time; instead, She – being quite computer literate – wrote a notice and with all her guts She did not send anyone to pin it to the staffroom notice board. She brought it herself. The poster had a picture of a cow, I guess She could not get one that expressed her note better, and below the cow read, in bold and capitalised: DON’T BE A PIG, DON’T TAKE MORE THAN TWO PIECES OF MEAT. In all my life, no one had ever called me a pig, and here I was, practising to be a teacher and somebody, white, was actually calling me a pig. I bet She could have called me a monkey had She been allowed. That note, as innocent as it looked, and as good-looking as it was, being coloured (not in black and white) with the picture of a cow, was so very racist to those who understood it. I did not know whether to talk to my colleagues about calling a meeting. The only problem was that among that group there were some teachers who did not mind what you called them or thought of them as long as you payed them. That really was a dilemma. According to me, She should have called a meeting to handle such a matter, because there was indeed a good number that ate more meat than everyone else.

The other problem I faced was that I taught English and Literature and as such, I had almost more lessons than many other teachers, being the nature of the timetable in all good schools: English and Literature should have as many hours in a week as possible. By this, I was almost always in class, in Senior Two, just next to the staffroom. The lady lived just behind the staffroom in a very big house with a gate on it so she had enough privacy. The only problem is that when I was teaching she would pass through the classroom, being partitioned by blocks of wood only on those sides that bordered the staffroom and Senior One. What was even worse was that she did not only pass through the classroom but she also spoke to her students, the school being those that value their students more than anybody else. So there I would be literally shouting about what verbs are and why they should never be confused with nouns. I say ‘shouting’ because the nature of the classrooms asked this of you. If you did not, the teacher in Senior One would be teaching both classes. So our dear old lady would come to class and without excusing herself she would start talking. It took me time to know and respect this peculiar disposition of hers. Still, this was wrong. How could I tell her, or the headteacher? It was impossible yet it was just an interruption of the smooth flow of the lessons. I was confused, but of course She had her way.

The other problem I faced was of a personal nature. Being created by God and he having endowed us with certain unalienable rights including life, and also size, I am what you would call small. In fact, the first time you see me you must notice that I am small, if you care to look critically. So, one day I was just entering the school and at the gate I met our dear old lady. Owing to her poor sight, no doubt due to old age, she spotted me. I was not in uniform and so I was not to be confused with a student. Whether she was trying to be funny or not, I cannot tell, but if that was her idea of a joke, she needed to read a how-to book on how to crack them. So she asked, in a voice loud enough to address a school parade, “Are you a student or a teacher?” I was kind of puzzled for not only had I not seen her but I also did not expect her to talk to me from such a distance, being not in uniform and supposedly having some privileges. I might have been an official from the Ministry! When I came back to my mind, because that had really taken me out of it, I smiled at her and said, in a tone showing a lot of confidence, “A teacher, of course” to which she replied, “You are too young to be a teacher” to which I also replied, “Yeah, I am twenty-one”, smiled and moved on. There were of course, many students who might have overheard this conversation and this was just wrong. How was I supposed to tell this lady to show me, and many of the other teachers who were treated likewise, some respect? When somebody is not in uniform, how do you go ahead and ask him a question like she did? I guessed it was wrong to confront her. Her husband did the same one Wednesday afternoon. The students were preparing to go out for what is curiously named ‘Intervention’ and so I was just in class as some were leaving. I was talking to one of the Senior Twos and he came straight to me and asked me where my uniform was, right in front of my students. I was so humiliated and I must have gone red in the face with rage. What a dilemma this was! I touched him on his shoulders, for he was a more sociable man than his wife, and took him outside and explained to him that big things come in small packages, to which he laughed and became my friend henceforth. Notwithstanding, I was still puzzled on how to make sure I was never again mistaken for a student. My problem was I could not walk around like other teachers who walked with all the airs of teaching experience around them.

In my Senior Two class, there were girls who a priest himself would not fail to give a second look, no matter how many years he might have spent in the seminary. The problem with these girls was not that they were beautiful, but that they had realised it too. They took advantage of this and made teaching a profession demanding a lot of endurance from the teachers, more so the male teachers. The dilemma I faced during my lessons was to keep my eyes off them and this was not an easy thing, especially I who had just joined the field. Their eyes were, of course, always on the teacher. No matter how hard I tried to keep my eyes off these beautiful girls, who by the way occupied all the front desks, I always found myself wondering at their beauty, and I think everyone noticed. The boys, especially the naughty ones who, by way of their “trade” always sit behind – noticed and started showing no interest in my lessons. I had a hard time as it was not a weakness of mine but of man to notice. This was among the most difficult things I had to overcome.

Finally, I had this problem of some students who, from the countries they came from, could not speak any word in English. The school, being private, admitted them as the proprietor wished, which was not really a problem but I feel there should have been different lessons for such students. In teaching a language, it has been proven that if the learner of a second language is taken and settled among those who speak it then that leaner will have better chances of grasping the language faster, a process called immersion. I had an Indian girl, young and beautiful, but who could not say as much in English as a kindergarten child could. I, as the teacher of English, had an obligation to teach her English. This could not be possible as what she needed was elementary English which I could not teach while teaching the rest of the Senior Twos. I had practically nothing to do since the residing teacher himself had done nothing, may be due to lack of pay for any extra lessons, and so I let her move along with the others. When the time for exams came, I got wind that what they did was to let her copy from the others. This came as a shock to me. What was she learning then, and how did she get to Senior Two? I felt it was very wrong because her reports would indicate that she was doing well yet in reality she was not learning anything. But I also remembered a proverb about doing in Rome what the Romans do. So I let her, against my wishes.

Prospective American

May is just around the corner

He patiently waits and counts the days.

The long days and hours just make him wanna,

Take the clock and slap it right on it's face!

He is an American, in waiting,

He is literally not getting sleep.

As he dreams of the states he will live in,

And all the promises he would keep!

'This clock's gotta be kiddin' me'

He says in what will be his accent

'Them days just ain't movin', man!'

A rejection I wonder if he would accept!

The DV is this African's American Dream,

Owning mansions and a Lamborghini

Is what he thinks in his wild American dreams

Of saying goodbye to misery and to the Equatorial Guinea!

Unfortunately there's a rap on the door,

That wakes him from his American dreaming.

He opens it and drops dead on the floor

His one week girlfriend can't help screaming.

O Uganda, How I Miss You!

O Uganda! I miss you.

I miss you and your sweet bananas.

I miss your matooke and the beautiful nyabos.

I miss your beautiful capital and its dirty ghetto

That I called home, Kisenyi.

I miss you like a child misses sleep,

Like an oppressed people miss a revolution.

I have travelled far and wide

But still, still, I cannot compare anyone to you!

I now sit in this far-away land

And reminisce all the fun I had in Kampala,

And though I would earn just half what I do here

There's no place I'd rather be.

There's no embrace I'd rather have, I'd rather feel,

Than that of Kampala, warm and tranquil.

The pearl of Africa

With the friendliest people God ever made.

I miss you and I'm coming home

I'm coming to stay

To a mother that's not my mother.

Life I Live

Mama contemplated flushing me out

But she couldn't, I held on,

And so a bastard was born.

My step father always threw me out

But I always found my way back by dawn –

He failed to keep me down.

My girlfriend I loved her in and out

So to speak. Just her smile turned me on,

But I caught her cheating on the phone.

Now I sit and suffer bouts

And wonder why I'm all alone

And why my house will never be a home.

I Wonder Why She Left

I wonder what she was thinking

When she decided she'd be leaving.

Did she compare the pros and cons

And the cons indeed won?

She probably said that I was ugly

after all: There are people that look better.

Or may be it was my profession

That I'm a teacher or was it the confession?

I thought I was being good

When I came up to her and said

That I had cheated but once

And that it would never again happen.

Teachers are poorly paid in Africa

And I am not totally handsome

But all I did was be honest

Consequently, I am the loneliest.

When I look back I regret I let

the cat out of the bag but

I smile when I realise that

The same was bound to come some time in the future!

The Noticeboard

Nazret city was as windy as always. Being in the Rift Valley, it was not many metres above sea-level and as such the sun literally roasted anyone who ventured its streets from noon till it set, and it seemed to take a year before it set. The heat from the sun made sure that the soil was almost always dry and this, coupled with the wind, made Nazret one of the dustiest towns in Ethiopia. Ironically, people here had never developed the habit of using caps or umbrellas like you might notice in other hot cities of the world. Two teachers walked down Sellasie Street window shopping at every shop. That was mostly what they afforded, not the real thing. Shopkeepers were used to their habit. They always walked down that street at around four o'clock going back home from work. They briefly paused at a government shop and since none of them had a bed at home, they admired all the “cheap” beds on sale. In their minds they desired that should they one day “strike gold”, they would buy the biggest beds in that shop. Striking gold was a term they had developed after their daily habit or prospecting for new jobs at a government noticeboard. They got out of the shop. No one said a thing. They were single and poorly paid. They walked on toward their area of prospecting. It was an area that had come to stick to their minds like a bad habit. It made each of them sick should they have gone home without checking the noticeboard for some new jobs. It was like each and every one of us. If we had developed such a habit, it was there to stay. And surprising is the fact that the day you miss that habit is always the day you feel that you missed something.

The noticeboard was government owned, like almost every other facility in this beautiful city. As is usual with government property, it was neglected and tired with years of use. Initially, it had steel poles for support and it had a shade around it. Now the poles were wooden and the iron sheets that provided the shade had been looted by some scrap metal dealers, a lucrative business in the third world. It was like the sale of gold in Africa in particular and it ensured that any metallic public facility and road sign was at danger. Pins of all kinds had been stuck on it and in some places they had made holes so big you could stick your finger in them if you had a mind to. Old glue could be seen where it had literally refused to let the paper go. Old notices and adverts were sometimes not removed. Instead, new ones were stuck on them and you had to be careful not to read the wrong item for a certain job. Paul and Seif never minded the age and neglect of this board. Provided it provided motivation through job adverts, then it served its purpose.

Paul was the first to notice.

“Hey, look! They need 'a private tutor at three to four, preferably female for the student is female. . .'”

Seif looked with as much eagerness and disgust as he could balance the two on his sunburnt face. He was disgusted that he was not qualified because of the fact that he was male. Paul looked at him and saw the disgust.

“Wouldn't you like part timing?”

“Why wouldn't I? It says that the candidate should be female.”

“No, it doesn't. You must've skipped your English classes. It says preferably. Preferably, Seif, means that though they prefer a female tutor, they might as well get you. . . ”

“I know what it means. Thanks. I just don't like the way it sounds. They probably think you'll impregnate their little girl if you're male, like that's all males think about. Hey, look at this other one!”

It was a job advertisement from the very school they were teaching. A teacher of Biology was needed. They skimmed through it and saw how much their employer was offering that Biology teacher. Both Paul and Seif were English teachers. Being a private school, your power of negotiation meant how much you earned. It also meant that teachers were paid different salaries. The Biology teacher was being offered double what they earned.

“I can't believe this. He's hiring a teacher at double what he gives us. Why doesn't he use that money to retain me because truthfully I'll leave if I get paid a penny more in some other school.”

That was Seif almost getting emotional. He meant every word he had said. Paul jumped in:

“That's what teachers of English get here. Since English is not a science they believe that you don't need much to earn a degree in it. Now, if you'd done Math or any science you should've been able to make all you could. People still have the mentality that the sciences are more important than the arts. Help us God.”

Other people at the noticeboard now all had their eyes on the board and their ears on these two. Teachers, whenever they speak, people listen. May be it is the philosophy with which they argue that makes them stand out from the crowd. The people at this noticeboard were obviously jobless or bored out of their jobs and they desperately wanted out of the mess they were in and so listening to a little drama was entertaining to them.

“Did you know that those who do the most are the ones who get the least? Look at these people who work in offices for instance. They sit and fart in their seats all day and get a whole heap of money at the end of the month. Meanwhile, those of us who make them who they are – the teachers – earn peanuts. I just don't understand!” Seif blurted out.

The bystanders could not resist laughing at the argument that people in offices just sat and broke wind. Though they said all they said, and though they said it almost every day, they kept their eyes glued to the noticeboard. They did not take their eyes off until all areas, from top right to bottom left were carefully scanned. After noticing that the noticeboard was not providing them with any relief, the two teachers parted ways and planned for the following day. Another day at the noticeboard that provided solace to these poorly paid teachers was gone.

By Kimani wa Mumbi

Note: This story is entirely fictional although characters and the setting in its entirety is not. It was inspired by a real situation.

Injera: A Change of Strategy

 

Friends who have been following my troubles since I moved out of my home country Kenya to the land of beautiful women, aka Ethiopia, know that I do not at all like the cuisine they have here. They have “traditional” everything. That, friends, is past tense. Injera, depending on what you are using as sauce (or stew) is quite harmless, like I have come to learn. Although it is sour, it is still edible to the foreigner, as long as you have the right sauce aka teps or tips depending on how clearly you understand the accent of Ethiopians. Now, teps is beef or mutton minced and fried. It tastes just like it would if you cooked it yourself, as long as you visit a good restaurant, you know. I strongly recommend that if you are going to eat Injera for the first time you use teps, the whole teps and nothing but the teps. If you dislike pepper you had better tell them because they assume that you will like your food peppered anyway. If you have the language virus aka HLV which stands for human linguodeficiency virus and you cannot speak any Amharic, just learn this word: barbari. This word stands for pepper and you can say: “No barbari” with a face that expresses how much you hate pepper. “No” is of course known by anybody who speaks any human language despite being an English word.

Teps, we said. Should you be the adventurous type who'd like to try anything, you will hate Injera for the rest of your days on earth. Since I first tasted Injera accompanied with teps, I have not looked back. Injera is a good thing especially because you can choose to ignore its taste and concentrate on the taste of teps.

But there is one thing I have been observing with the locals here. They are very sociable and even men hold hands as they walk, a thing that would be interpreted as gayism in some countries. It would sound un-serious if some men walking holding hands asked for your wallet. You know they would not harm you at all. The point I was trying to bring was that concerning table manners like my mama used to call them when I was little. These people have none of the above-mentioned attribute. I will prove to you:

I was sitting in a little restaurant near the Commercial Bank of Ethiopia in Nazret having my Injera and enjoying it when out of nowhere comes this neighbour that I greeted one day. He does not say hi and just takes the seat beside mine. I look at him carefully. He starts folding the cuffs of his shirt and all this leaves the food that I was directing to my mouth halfway between the plate and the mouth. He reaches for my plate and grabs a piece of Injera, which in case you do not know is eaten by first tearing. He takes a big piece indeed. He goes ahead to collect almost half of the teps folded in the Injera. I cannot believe it. The Injera in my hands I drop by accident. After the Injera is in his mouth he reaches out for another and I cannot resist it. I hold his hand and ask him:

“Hey, I know sharing is good but you are stealing from me! That was indeed a very big piece you tore, and you are going to finish my meat!”

He looks surprised. All his life he has never been stopped from eating from anyone's plate. They have this kind of brotherhood here that is not known on Kenya. He gets up and walks out of the restaurant, offended. I cannot eat any more. I have lost my appetite because I told a man the truth and he got offended.

The moral of the story is. If you prefer eating in peace, do not tell your friends where you eat. They will all storm on your plate, hate it or love it.

Injera – What is Injera?!

Friends, Romans, Countrymen, please lend me your ears. Human beings are supposed to share what they are going through, right? And whether good or bad, am I right? I will be very sincere, like I have always been when narrating stories about my life experiences. Since I moved to Ethiopia, about five days ago, I have had nothing to like here, except may be admire their very beautiful girls. Some say that Ethiopians are a 'handsome' people and I say that that is not right. I am straight and so I say that Ethiopian women are beautiful. Period.

The real reason I started writing this essay is because I have had nothing but trouble ever since I moved here. There are no foods that a Kenyan might eat. Everything is cooked their own style, with as much pepper as if they had 'diabetes and pepper had insulin in it'. I talked to you about Injera and much as I have tried to eat it, I have failed terribly to swallow more than a few bites. I lived in Uganda for five years and everything they cook there I ate, because it was the same as the Kenyan cooking and if not then it was African by all means. Rice is available in the shops though I heard it is only cooked in restaurants run by Muslims, and there are not many here, and not especially in Nazret. Plus the rice costs about Kshs 100 more than in Kenya. A tray of eggs is 66.20 Birr. Multiply that by five to get Kenyan or divide by 16 to get Americano. Where I come from, that would be expensive!

Injera, I tried and initially, the plate looked like this: it was topped with meat, unlike the first time where assorted vegetables were served and made me not touch it. The first picture shows my Injera untouched, and the last shows all the damage I inflicted to it, or mostly to the meat. Everybody at the restaurant watched me as I tried and failed to eat it.
Before I tried



 After I failed

If you are Kenyan you probably think that mkorogo tastes good but is has no salt, no sugar, and it tastes like they ferment the dough they make it with. It is the worst food in all Africa (I know that) being a traditional cuisine, like they call it. I have heard about foofoo of West Africa and it must be their type of ugali and I resonate well with ugali and anything in that family.

I have lost weight tremendously, for I have been living on bananas like a monkey. Have you ever seen an overweight monkey? My belt, I have skipped a whole hole and I am starting to worry how long I will last here. The only thing that might hold me back, to be truthful, is getting a girl. If I do not get a girlfriend in a week (because of the Linguistic barrier), the next time you hear from me I will be writing in Nairobi! The only thing spoken here is Amharic, and it is worse when written. Ciao!