Mr. Steven Akumu had announced his
candidature for City Hall amid much aplomb and fanfare. Of course, this had
rattled the then occupant of the city, Msamaria. Msamaria said that he had
gotten the seat with much difficulty – in fact, he equated the seat to being
his wife, and stated that he was ready to shed blood just to keep this particular
wife. Msamaria, a much dangerous man.
Always a man of vision, Mr. Steven Akumu
had started a myriad of small projects here and there two years prior to this
big announcement. There was the rabbit hatchery for Waliokoma Rehabilitated
Youth group – meat, leather products, urine fertiliser – the Mchana Sukuma
Mwezi Project – a vegetable value-addition project for the loud market women…
in fact, this was the project that rattled Msamaria. These women, very influent
and meticulous mobilisers.
Now, Mr. Steven Akumu loved his bottle, and
occasionally made friendships at The Tropical Paradise… there was a way
generosity oozed out of him when he sat at the counter and opportunistic ladies
touched his body and opportunistic men laughed hard at his mild jokes. An
objective man could very well tell that Mr. Steven Akumu was a man headed to
great ruin or to great things.
Mr. Steven Akumu, someone had whispered
things to him… meaning that at his strategy meetings, attended by both the
worldly types and the religious fanatics, he only drunk tea. This tea, brought
in big thermoses straight from the kitchen… no special tea for him. After all,
he was one of them. Plus, this freed his resources to cater to other campaign
activities.
Again, someone had whispered other things
to him, such as where the votes were. Among these places, were ‘busaa’ dens.
So, casting his pride aside, Mr. Steven Akumu ascended from his lofty position at
The Tropical Paradise and descended deep into the bowels of the earth that was
cheap votes. That said, with ‘busaa’ drinking being a communal activity – a
shared pot of the warm beverage drunk with reeds that served as straws, this
was no way to eliminate him.
What to do? What to do? Msamaria consulted
his oracles. So, one evening, it was whispered, of two old men, stern of face
and hard of gaze, who were seen about at the local bus station for upcountry
buses. These men, they spoke strongly among themselves, with an intensity that
shook their intended eavesdroppers. If Msamaria was to lose, the consequences
for the ward residents…
Mr. Steven Akumu, he had lived in the village
too and knew of ‘chira’ and other ways of the ancestors. So, when this piece of
information was relayed to him, he had two masks – in full witchdoctor regalia
– hover about the bus station and break the spell cast by their colleagues.
Thus, those who formerly had eaten of Msamaria’s generosity were no longer
afraid of associating with Mr. Steven Akumu. After all, he was a much more
generous benefactor, or so, the rumours swirled.
This Msamaria, it was said he was an exiled
man of the cloth. Temptations, in the form of lovely faces and even lovelier
figures – other men’s wives who flocked his charismatic church – had made him
flee that life. Rather, scorned, vengeful husbands as the women didn’t seem to
mind his anointment of them with fruits of the (un) Holy Ghost. He sent for
Linda.
Linda, voluptuous in every which way. A
comely face chiselled on Monday morning when God started His creation. A lusty
voice that suggested that she could have interned at Delilah’s Academy of the
Soft Arts. She was recently come to the ward, and had taken accommodation at
the princely Oak Resort. She had come to The Tropical Paradise a couple of
times to savour local offerings. Of course, Mr. Steven Akumu – as of any other
man with big ambitions – had to come see this beauty for himself.
Mr. Steven Akumu, very organised, had
Mwende call him when this beauty next made appearance at The Tropical Paradise.
Mwende worked as a waitress there and Mr. Steven Akumu was very generous with
her. Besides, she had eavesdropped on Linda, that she was intent on starting a
feeds company, in which case, Mr. Steven Akumu could very well finagle her into
a receptionist post. Her mileage was advanced and younger women were seeking to
retire her.
So, Mr. Steven Akumu was reserved a table
near Linda. He sat there self-importantly, making loud calls as he closed big
deals, buying everyone in the establishment rounds… a goat too died and was
roasted and shared to all to cater to his vanity. In the end, Linda simply had
to notice him and asked him to join her table. She was come from a neighbouring
country, an investor, and Mr. Steven Akumu could very well become her local
contact… smoothen things over with the overzealous government type that made
investments into the country an arduous task, such and such… Mr. Steven Akumu
was most agreeable to this.
The night wore on, the crowd became
boisterous, the songs lewd, the dances bawdry… Linda, hugging sophistication
about her, retired for the night to the Oak Resort. A while later, Mr. Steven
Akumu, too, said his goodbyes. He would settle the accounts the next day when
sober, as was his practice, as this lessened thievery of his money. That said,
he couldn’t resist whispering loudly to a confidant or two of his impending
conquest… The Felling of the Oak, he christened it. Well, Mwende got to hear of
it, got jealous and made an anonymous call to Grace.
The setting. Linda’s ensuite room. Mr.
Steven Akumu taking a cold shower before he joins her for a few more drinks,
then onwards to other exciting activities. Linda spiking his drinks… a
slowly-acting substance that would trigger a heart attack in a couple of days
or so. A loud banging on the day, cussing that attracts the resort’s management…
Thing is, Grace had arrived and booked a room
as a visitor, but was now causing a ruckus. On other days, she would have been
chucked out unceremoniously. Then again, she was claiming herself to be a wife
to the man fornicating inside. Plus, in tow with her, were a couple of menacing
local thugs, eyes bloodshot and armed with knobkerries… Linda escaped by
scaling the roof while Mr. Steven Akumu was dragged back home to sleep off the
infatuation. The planned heart attack could wait.
(Meanwhile, get my short stories collection
at: https://nuriakenya.com/product/a-funeral-dress-for-nyasuguta-by-mark-mwangi/
)
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