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Saturday 28 January 2012

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!

Friday 20 January 2012

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!