Upya Fresh

  Mr. Steven Akumu was a man of many talents. In another life, he had occasionally caressed the guitar to submission. Then, comely ladies clamoured for his attention. Ever generous, he had reciprocated accordingly. This, then, is one of the stories he strummed to life. Listening to the journey he took his audience to with his guitar skills, you could tell that it was partly gossip and partly experience. He was that good. “The man flirts with the guitar, persuading it to accompany him to Mombasa. The story in the song is about a man. And Fatuma. The ocean breeze… the man, tired of the city, seeks refuge in a dream sold by a mysterious traveller in a moment of serendipity… The song is in snatches, glimpses of a memory that is the tune, the lyrics different in the heads of the listeners. Perhaps, haphazard – for men long differently. Fatuma, role plays. In the dream, she is a school girl. She has that dangerous look of innocence, of naivety, even. Young girls are like that, luring...

 If you attended Sunday School, CRE lessons or go to church, you are probably familiar with the question above: What’s in your hand? Then, God was asking of Moses what he had that He could use through him in the saving of the Israelites. The answer? A staff. A simple staff, nothing as ornately carved as those of our African leaders (can’t blame them – they got swag, they got style – if only they were more visionary…). Just a simple staff. The current status of Kenya, Africa, the world … rising cost of living, rampant unemployment, economic recession, culture clashes, worrying climatic changes, political instability, uncertainty about the future, angry populaces… indeed, it seems as though we are teetering on the precipice. That said, in most of these instances, we are powerless – relatively speaking – as they are beyond our control. But again, that eternal question: What’s in your hand? Perhaps, you’ve lost a job or a business, lost a child or spouse, fell sick, been divorced...

  ‘God bless the work of my hands… I have done my part, I leave the rest to you…’ Thus begins my prayer as I go to print. First, some excerpts: Sally I killed my landlord. He had been stressing me out. Like that day he locked me in with Sally as I was behind in rent payments. Let me tell you about Sally and you’ll agree that killing the landlord was a noble idea…   A Woman Scorned: Part I Nakuru. The city, recently incorporated, of a hundred adjectives rushing on to a thousand. Nakuru. The city of peace, war and presidential fiats. Handshakes and political proclamations. Suspect samosas, pussies, meats and their traders. Gangs and police brutality. Nakuru. The city for a con seeking a fresh start at life. The zealot sweeping the roads of Jerusalem as the highest of the Lord’s priests prepares to make a triumph entry to the city for some hired miracles. This time, on a convoy of fuel guzzlers and a phalanx of bodyguards and chase cars, for the ass is become obsolete… ...

Where I come from, we have an influx of foreigners. Already, we have an area by the name Congo, named so because it had an influx of Bakongo refugees, fleeing the war in their country… Congo, Zaire and back to DRC… The Democratic Republic of Congo. Very soon, we might have areas such as Sudan (South), Burundi, Rwanda, etc., etc. Fun fact, Dynamiq, He of ‘Remember them Days in Nairobi’ used to be our neighbour in Coast. Anyway, these Burundian have taken over the groundnut and the coffee (and KDF – the gluten stomach holder) hawking business. On their part, their Rwandan neighbours have taken over the phone accessories’ hawking business, almost as if by some tacit agreement – bilateral trade agreement or something. The Burundians, night and day, they trade, huge flasks of ready coffee, the mwananchi version, and buckets of said body-building, economic-miracle-worker, KDF in tow. Ever been served by a Ugandan lady? Down on their knees, submissive service that will have you selling your ...