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By WAHOME MUTAHI, February 3, 2002
The other day I read about what the man who was born and brought up in Sacho will do when he is told to go back to where he, as a Damiano like the one who taught me ABC, used to chew chalk in the classroom many years back. I have my ideas about what will happen.
If you remember, some time back he whispered that he is a poor man who earns only 40,000 bob in his monthly payslip.
My small mind told me that is what his payslip says before he has paid NSSF, NHIF and his contributions to Harambee Sacco, of which he must be a member.
My small mind tells me that the man will be entitled to a pension based on his monthly income and, as it happens, he will have to collect his pension money from his local DC. Now let us see the man at the end of the month.
Remember he no longer has the Nyayomobile because it has been taken over by the new president. Now he owns a Danielmobile and, like others who earn the kind of money he said he earns, it can only be something from Dubai with joints that complain every moment.
Collect monthly pension
The man from Sacho drives to the DC’s office to collect his monthly pension. He has told his friends at the village, “Ngonja ngano, nakwenda kuchukua ka-pension. Ka-nyama leo ni kwangu.”
He has assured his local shopkeeper that he will settle his account that same day without fear or favour. The account includes the maize seeds that he took on credit to beat the planting season deadline.
So he arrives at the accounts window at the DC’s office. He meets the accounts clerk who as usual is wearing a very bored face. The accounts clerk pretends that he has not seen him and continues to fill the junior crossword.
He does not look up when the man who was born and brought up in Sacho coughs in a manner to say that he has arrived and deserves to be served.
The clerk is too engaged in trying to think of a three-letter word for “a snake-like fish” so that he can complete the crossword.
The man from Sacho finally says, “I want some assistance. I used to work in the Office of the President.”
The clerk does not look up. Instead he mumbles, “Faili yako sijui iko wapi. Si you know how difficult it is to trace the files of those who have been retrenched from the Office of the President? You better come tomorrow.”
Not a working day
The man from Sacho reminds the clerk that the said tomorrow is a Saturday and it is not a working day. The clerk looks up and says, “Then do something about that. Si unajua kazi ni nyingi?”
The man from Sacho does not quite understand what the man is going on about there being too much work when all he is doing is picking his nose as he fills the crossword.
The former boss of this country then tells the clerk, “But am the only client here!” The clerk looks at him and tells him, “Mzee, si you know how this economy is? Children must feed. The file has to be found and that is precious time to be spent.”
The clerk looks at the man who was born and brought up in Sacho in a manner to tell him that he is not behaving like a Kenyan.
Then he adds, “Coffee or tea has never done anyone any harm.”
The man who was born and brought up in Sacho smiles and says, “It is true that the economy is not good. It is also true that children must be fed and that is why I have come to collect my pension. Yes, indeed I could do with either coffee or tea as you spend your precious time looking for the file.”
Clerk not amused
The clerk is not amused and tells the man who was born and brought up in Sacho, “Mzee, don’t pretend that you don’t know that this Kenya of ours requires a fast rat. What makes you think that your file will be found just like that? These things even disappear forever!”
It now finally occurs to the former Sacho teacher who is also the former main headmaster of the country that the clerk is asking for something to oil his joints so that he can get the required file.
He wants to tell the clerk that as a senior elder of the African Inland Church, he cannot part with kitu kidogo.
Then he remembers that he has a shopkeeper to pay. He is not just any shopkeeper; he is a man called Ezekiel who does not know how to keep his mouth shut.
He has a habit of telling anyone willing to listen about who owes him money and the man who was baptised Daniel does not wish his name to be splashed all over the village.
Thus the man from the village called Sacho takes out a hundred bob note and hands it over to the clerk.
The clerk smiles as if he has received a golden handshake and then asks, “Mzee, tell me once again. What is it you wanted?”
The former owner of a convoy of vehicles says that he has come to collect his monthly pension.
The clerk says, “Oooh, you should have said that long ago. Don’t tell me that you have not heard the news.” “What news?” the former owner of a title called Nyayo Juu Zaidi asks.
The clerk replies, “The news that the IMF and the World Bank have refused to release money. There are no pension payments until further notice. Mpaka hao World Bank watoe cheki yao bwana.” The former owner of the title “Mtukufu Rais” feels a strange thing in his head.
Last time he fainted
It is the kind of feeling he felt the last time that he fainted. A thread of sweat runs down his nose. The clerk is not alarmed. He has seen other pensioners go through that kind of experience.
All he can tell the man before him is, “Mzee, mambo kama hayo inatendeka hata Ulaya.”
That of course is no comfort for a man who must pay his debts. The man from Sacho goes back home and the following day he boards a bus called Kabiyet headed for the city. He is going to chase his NSSF and Harambee Sacco money.
He arrives at the Machakos Bus Station when it is getting dark. He has a bag in one hand and his rungu in the other. He is walking up River Road hoping to board the matatus to Buru Buru where he intends to spend the night at the house of a fellow elder of the African Inland Church.
Suddenly three policemen and their dog appear. They stop him and immediately want to know why he is carrying a weapon that is likely to be used to break into a house or to commit murder.
The man who was baptised Daniel by his local Cammissassius asks which specific weapon they are talking about. They tell him that under the Kenyan law, a rungu is defined as a weapon. He tells them that all that is news to him since he has carried it all the time.
Afande grabs him
One of the afande grabs the bag from him and asks him, “Unabeba nini hapa? Ni bangi? These days tumzee kama nyinyi ndio brokers wa bangi.”
Before the man from Sacho can protest that all he has in the bag are corduroy trousers, a Bible and a T-shirt which he won in a cooking fat competition, his pockets are being frisked by the men in blue.
Before he can say “Sacho,” they have taken all the money. Then he is told, “Tembea na usiangalie nyuma.”
The man from Sacho tells himself that his eyes must be seeing things that are not real. He tells himself that he must have been dealing with thugs in uniform who have hired a police dog.
He hurries along intending to go the Central Police Station to report the matter.
A short distance from where the police have taken his Euros, he is grabbed by four strong hands. The hands pull him into what is called an urocho or alley.
Before he can say “Dan,” he is done. This is to say he finds himself up in the air held by the neck in the latest ngeta style. He dies temporarily and when he resurrects, he finds himself minus shoes, his bag and his watch.
When he emerges from the lane owning only a quarter of his voice because the rest has been taken away by the ngeta he has received, he tells the watchman near the lane, “Bwana, you could have helped me!”
The watchman tells him with his eyes half-closed, “Hii ni Nairobi bwana. Kila mtu achunge laini yake.”
The shaken man from Sacho walks hurriedly towards the Central Police Station and when he gets to Jeevanjee Gardens, four glue-sniffing characters emerge. One of them says, “Mzee, chota ama nifyatue. . .’’
A gun in hand
The Mzee imagines that the young fellow has a gun in his hand and that is why he is saying that he will fyatua, meaning fire. He looks at the young man’s hand and sees the dynamite in it.
It is in the form of something taken from a city council toilet and the young man has all the intentions of “firing” it on the face of anyone.
Suddenly the man from Sacho rediscovers his skills as an athlete. He remembers how the legs used to chew Kapsabet hills like yams and takes off Olympic-style.
The four characters who intended to “deface’’ him cannot run because their legs have been slowed down by glue. He dashes into Sunset Hotel where my friend Nyamu sells gizzards and liquids of the frothy kind.
He quickly explains to Nyamu what has happened to him. Nyamu, with his face looking like misery itself says, “No! No! Don’t ask for cledit! I am in a chit.
The economy is vely, vely mband!” Then he calls the girl called Wa Kimani aside and tells her, “Wa Kimani, that man is craiming that he was the plesindent of Kenya.
Keep an eye on him. Don’t let him have even a grass of water on cledit. Tell him we are in a chit!” If the man who was born and brought up in Sacho is reading this, let him be assured that I am not wishing him ill luck. I’m just telling him that these things happen.