One fine morning, I reported to work – or should I call it tarmacking, or, better still, some sort of jua kali stuff? – as usual. Like all spirit-filled and tongues-gushing men of God, I held my head high and treated every interjection as the pro-life equivalent of Hallelujah, ingeniously giving it a single respectful beat before speaking again, all the while pretending to have wallowed into a stupefied spiritual trance. I ended up in Madunda, some 400 kilometers away, instead of the heavenly chambers.
My visit to Madunda was inspired by some godforsaken mantra I had strategically learned to chant in the name of a trip to Calvary or is it Damn-A-scars! In this illusions’ birthday party in the heart of a dimly lit fish-boned city, the idea of eradicating poverty was conceived.
After numbing my senses with the mantra that had the power to speak life to a mountain of dry bones, the chant-holism started whispering some wisdom into my trance-self:
“Son of Mighty a.k.a Ole Mighty, he who made the blind see and the lame leap in joy and banjuka vinasty in a myriad of thankful bathos, you got a niche for making money !” The voice reverberated.
“Ole Mighty tell me, didn’t The Mighty trade his life for your ticket to heaven? Didn't you eat shamelessly without vomiting on your benefactor’s shoes, while he bore the brunt of hunger? Weren’t the heavens watching while you graduated with a Bachelor of Anything (B.A) degree? What can you show the world for your toils except a well calculated plot to send Mr Mighty to the next planet minus a heart? ” The inner voice chortled. “Listen carefully” the words were as if from a prophet! “go to Madunda and declare war on the carnival of the lost auditioning in the choir of lost souls” It continued.
Now you know why I landed in Madunda armed with a Bible, holy water and some handouts bearing such writings as ‘Hell will never freeze over if you keep the flame burning’, amazingly ready to convert both young and old, willing and unwilling.
Wednesday happens to be a market day. It’s the day when all the Madundans worth any salt became mobile world banks after trading their wares and shares. To me it was a day to give Caesar what belonged to Caesar, and much was expected in this regard! A harvest was nigh. Sowing wasn't any important; reaping was. And to ease my way to the imminent fortune would I hence preach:
Like all other Kenyans, Madundans prefer foreigners to locals. That’s why I erected a poster that did not read, ‘Mhubiri wa neno kutoka Nyayo.’ Instead, the poster screamed ‘Mhubiri wa neno kutoka ulaya!’ It was overwhelmingly effective, the poster; the very one capable of sending a sinner to his knees by just clearing my voice. And it lived to outdo its worth, or so I must stress.
The blathering mouths and wagging tongues made sure that the news of my arrival was well spread. In no time, sweat was literally jumping out of my system from counting real money, bearing the portrait of the not so popular ex-state house tenant.
Pocketing the first coin of the new State House occupier proved to be a downturn, not-so-godly project to my poverty eradication, for not much later did people calling themselves intercessory barrier crashers pay me a courtesy call accompanied by Kiganjo graduates.
In a ‘Welcome to Reality’ segment, I found myself staring at a real judge adorned in a head gear made from the hide skin of some Madunda sheep laid on the barbecue stove a while before. I was charged with false indoctrination and robbery without violence, crimes that are hardly popular with the Madundans.
The judge, from over the years' wisdom, seemed to realize that sending me to Kamiti in eternal fleas’ hood was of no tangible value to her mission of crossing the valley of poverty. She – thank heavens she occurred! – ordered me to surrender my ill-acquired fortune to the ‘honourable’ court instead. The enemies of populating hell had once again conspired against my poverty eradicating 20-was-never-to-materialize vision.
©2011 Redscar M. K.