A Song for Tasha: Annie's Story

Dawn is breaking and I can see the rays from the rising sun behind me, I loathe the sight of sunrise for it brings me the pain of my life, my pain. I want to forget the anguish. Memories come flooding in one full swing as I recall those early days of our youth.

Tasha and I had been the best of friends for the longest time, since childhood to be precise. We went to school together, played together, we were inseparable. We even fell in love, or so we thought, together with the same guy. The episode was hilarious to say the least; it was as if we had been possessed by unexplained bout of madness. We were headed to the market when we met him, and his friend John. I hated John; he enjoyed taunting and making fun of me at every given opportunity. He always called me ‘momo’, which meant a fat person.

Well I must admit that I was a bit thick especially my backside, but I hated being reminded of it. On that particular day, it was not any different, for when he saw me, he started belting out sinister kikuyu tunes which had reference to the word ‘momo’, and as was the habit, I started running away from him. Usually I would outrun him and he would lose interest in me, but that day was different, I tripped and fell. It was humiliating, not because I fell, no, but how I fell. You see my dress flew over my back exposing my buttocks, barely covered. I wanted the ground to swallow me alive and no amount of consolation from Tasha would stop me from crying. The more John laughed at my humiliation, the more I cried. But all that changed then Wanjohi came to my assistance, he held out his hand to help me off the ground and I took it. He helped me wipe off the dust that had ruined my dress and picked up my bags. That was not all he offered his handkerchief to help me wipe off my tears, and soon enough I was feeling much better. It was his hug though that changed everything.

I could not describe it, but I had read about it in the numerous love novels that Tasha had loaned to me, it was beautiful and I felt like floating. He then stared at me, asking me whether I was okay; all this while his hand softly resting on my cheeks, I had never seen such shiny eyes, perfect teeth, and the smile, the smile is a story for another day. It was a silent journey to the market. Wanjohi had offered to take us to the market. He did most of the talking, we stared, and even when he took us home, all we could offer as gratitude was sheepish laugh and lots of unidentifiable maps that we drew on the ground using our toenails.

The next month would see Tasha and I change a lot, we stole our mothers iron cups poked holes into them and used them to burn our hair with hot coal, and to make our body and hair shiny we stole milking jelly. Out trips to the river took longer, we had to scrub our feet with stones to tame ‘miatuka’,the openings at the feet, and we learnt to walk like girls from the city, the trick was to deliberately incline the buttocks, and sway the hips back and forth. We seized every opportunity to ‘bump’ into Wanjohi. Each of us was out to win his heart, Tasha even feigned another fall and it worked. But our bliss was short lived when Wanjohi married. It was said that he had made her pregnant and the parents wanted to cover up the shame. We were truly joined at the hip. When we went to campus Tasha and I had it all figured out, we were going to study and work very hard. We both wanted to become lawyers, build huge houses and buy pick-up trucks for our businesses, marry and have lots of children. That was then, when we were young.

It all happened too fast, but that is what love does to you, it drives one mad, but no, not the kind of madness that had possessed Tasha and I in our youth. This was a different kind of madness, the kind that love novels could not explain; nobody could explain it, only Greg and Tasha could. I never knew why she loved him so, but she did. I once read one of her diary entry and this is what it read;'

I stare at him wishing he was mine,

But he doesn't notice me like that, and I know it.

I want to tell him, I want him to know that

I don't want to be just friends,

I love him but I'm just too shy,

And I don't know why.

I wish he would tell me he loved me!

She had called Greg in a spat of emotional epiphany, at 3am in the morning, and he came. He professed his love for Tasha, and she did the same. I could not stop it, nobody could, not even Tony her fiancée, he stood no chance, Greg had fought for his love and won.

Tasha loved Greg, since the first time she saw him make a speech in one of the law society meetings. He was handsome, charming, a gentleman she had said, not like the rest of the ‘scavengers’ as she liked to refer to them, those who only wanted to win her in the ‘gold rush’. She had tried so many times to tell him, but she had been shy, besides our mother had told us not to chase after boys, it was unladylike behavior, unacceptable and it made women look like prostitutes.

Life may have changed, and experiences waned the innocence of our youth, but the village spirit in us was very much alive, and very much so with Greg’s marriage proposal to Tasha. She wanted and longed for a traditional ceremony, the kind that had lots of food, and drink. She wanted to dance and shake her buttocks, and I could not believe my ears when she vehemently insisted that we visit her untie Waruguru who was respected very much back at the village for her prowess in lessons in ‘trapping men’. Waruguru was an old woman, but she was very strong, she had to be strong to teach the young unmarried women the famed dance ‘hutia mundu’. It was not an ordinary dance; it required a great deal of patience and discipline. The first step involved mastering the art of dancing to an imaginary tune, moving each part of the body especially the hips and buttocks, “dance, dance, to the rhythm of your love”, she insisted, and the second part was very much private, and the first time she told us on what it entailed, Tasha blushed, giggling. It was about well’s that we had……..,that our legs were chains………..,and that our breasts…….well Greg was in trouble, and Tasha could not wait.

Greg was of no help. He kept a safe distance, always referring to her as her ‘friend’, and she hated it. She hated it even more, when she saw him with other girl’s. She would get jealous. I remember this one time; we had gone to Entebbe for a swimming session with the rest of the law students. Tasha had saved up all her pocket money to buy a swimsuit that she had seen at the market just to impress Greg. She spent two weeks watching Mexican soap operas, there is a way that those ladies swim, and the hair would flow freely with the wind, as they run in slow motion on the beach, and the water never ruined the makeup on their faces, neither did they get sand on their feet as they took romantic walks, we had to learn, Tasha had to learn. On the decisive day, Greg showed up alright, with Stella clinging on his arm, scantily dressed, and Greg spent the whole day ogling at her, only giving Tasha an occasional glance. Tasha was angry, not like that Nyeri woman who almost killed her husband for selling the household radio, no, she was raving mad, and her face turned red with anger which easily turned into unmatched jealousy. Tasha was crushed. But that was then, then when we captives of the whims of youth

She looked beautiful in her wedding dress, as she twirled around, occasionally stopping to stare at herself on the mirror, and stare at her engagement ring. Her ring was simple, in fact, you had to employ the services of a magnifier and pose at a strategic angle with one eye shut in order to catch a glimpse of the rock on her wedding ring, and even then it was not guaranteed that you would see it, but she loved it anyway. It was two days to her wedding day, and I could swear she spent more time just fitting on her wedding dress, and each time she would dance and taunt me for having nobody who had ‘put a ring on it’ yet. In one of her taunting occasion she had told me that I would grow old alone and own many cats, and that I would be like Waruguru her untie who knew everything about men, but had never ‘trapped one’ for herself. I shivered at the thought; surely I didn’t want to grow old alone. She even once suggested that make a trip to my cousin who lived in Machakos, just in case, and she would laugh at the thought of it. She was happy.

Today, she will be just as happy to see all of us gathered together to celebrate her. She will smile that beautiful smile that made Greg lose a tooth. Poor Greg, at the night of their engagement party, the poor guy had tripped over a set of stairs in an apparent poor attempt to impress his love. There he was, doing a rendition of some love song, a poor rendition I must say, he could not pronounce the words right, well he was from the land of the great Mulu Mutisya, he who went to London and slept on his feet, because he found no bed in his hotel room. There was a bed, but one had to press a button for it to appear, and the great Mulu could not understand the instructions in any other language save for his mother tongue, so we all understood. So there he was, screaming his heart out, emotions got the better of him and he took to the stairs, two at a time and that is when it happened. He fell, landing hard on the ground, and it was Tasha who went to him, and consoled him. Of course, we laughed, you should have seen his swollen upper lip; it resembled those huge bananas from Uganda. If for any consolation, Tasha made a charming necklace out of the tooth, to her, it was a symbol of her love for Greg. It was weird. She wore it with pride. Even today, she is wearing it, I know it.

Greg, of course he has to be there, if only for a while, before he goes away, I cannot tell of his feelings, but he is fine, he will be there for his love, the owner of his heart and tooth. He will be there, at his best, Tasha cannot have it any other way. He knows it too. He had seen her, before the wedding ceremony, and in her wedding dress, taboo. Had it not been any different, the tantrums that would have been thrown by the women directed at Greg could have been unimaginable. They would have reprimanded him, fined him heavily for defiling tradition, but they did not, they could not. How could they when Greg held Tasha so closely, so jealously refusing to let her go. They could not deny him the chance to hold his love, kiss her pretty face, and tell her just how much she loved her. They could do nothing but stare, and fight hard to control their emotions. She was indeed looking lovely in her dress, like an angel, I had been the first to see her on her wedding day and the last. When he saw, her face was not the same anymore. It was dull, life had found another home, and it was not her, she was not the home. Her dress was not the same, but stained with the very proof of life that flowed through her veins. She had been stabbed by love. Love that had refused to die refused to give up, love that could not accept defeat. Love that wanted to be loved back, love that demanded care, respect, compassion, tenderness, love that needed to be tendered, nurtured, and guarded. Tasha had been killed in the name of love.

Tasha was gone, gone before she lived, before she lived her dream. Gone too soon, she didn’t have to go, but she did, she had to. It had to be that way.

As we gather for Tasha, she will be there, she will see us, as we lay her to rest and drape her coffin with roses, seal her fate with earth, she will see me, she will remember me.

I too, I’m Tasha, beautiful like Tasha, innocent like Tasha, easy to love like Tasha…... Tasha, this, Tasha that! I too saw him, his charm, I too love him, and I told you Tasha, you laughed it off. That it simply could not be, who is laughing now Tasha, beautiful Tasha, innocent Tasha, Tasha this, Tasha that!

Dear diary, I must leave now, am sure Greg still needs me, a shoulder to cry on today, and tomorrow it will be me who fights for him in court, he is innocent, he did not kill her, I know it, because I was there when it happened. It was me. I will get his life back. It will be me, and he will love me.

That is all I need…

Kamusiliu Retold

Not some long ago, in the village of Kamusiliu there lived a beautiful girl called Kanini. In those days, the days of Chris Kyanya, Johnston Mulaki and Kaburu Boniface, when beauty was not artificial like it is today, Kanini easily held the mantle as the most beautiful girl to have ever graced those parts of the world. Her beauty was perhaps the only unquestionable thing in the village. She didn’t need any make-up to appease; neither did she need to don any tight skin to outlay the curves of her elegant body. She was just beautiful, naturally.

It was always when the first trailing shadows of the night fell that Kanini’s beauty drew attraction from the boys in the village. It happened that this was the time when Kanini would snake her way down the dusty paths of Kamusiliu on her way back from the market, and every boy would forget what he’d be doing and gaze after her, as she swung her natural ‘behind’ and teasing the feelings of the boys, none of whom could gather enough courage to speak to her.

Kanini was fond of taunting the village boys, especially Johnston Mulaki, with her ferocious "Misung'u" whenever there was a "Kilumi" dance at Ngegi. This was a dance that every boy in the village would be looking forward to. Two outstanding things defined the dance, Kanini's dancing prowess and the baritone voice of one Kathuna aka Mukandi wa Kakweti that drew boys and girls from the neighbouring villages of Ndatani, Kalwa and Thunguthu. Those two people were the centre of attraction and it was a well known fact that no dance would end without a fight breaking out, either among the village boys as they clamored for a piece of Kanini, or among girls as they tried to endear themselves to Mukandi. The most unfortunate thing is that Kanini knew the effect her beauty had on the boys, and she would overdo herself in taunting them with her well-crafted 'Misungu'

It happens that strangers would wander into Ngegi where the dance was held. A stranger from afar would stretch on the grass and slumber with his head upon his arm. Thus it was, Kanini, the beauty of Kamusiliu, who had gone to the water carrying her earthen pitcher on her shoulder found a stranger sleeping under a Kithumula tree and stopped to have a look at him. She took him for a traveller, a stranger from some other village-someone she had waited for ever since she had become aware of her own beauty, at the river while bathing and massaging her mango-sized breasts....

On the forehead and eyelids dust and sweat made patches and on his body were scratches and cuts still bleeding. His tired mouth puckered a little as he slept. With gentle, timid hands, Kanini washed his wounds and bathed his forehead and eyes. The moon was already high in the sky, and you could see as far as Itumbwa Rock. It was a beautiful night for the mysterious, wordless betrothal of Kanini and the stranger with clay-coloured hair. She did not even hear Ivukuiyo, the old village hunter whom the villagers thought slightly mad, making his way back from Kithoi and grumbling as he came up the path, bent beneath his bundle of lines and wires.

At the moment the stranger in blue cotton clothes was lying deep asleep under the Muthumula Tree at Munyenze where Ikoo River meanders through the sand banks and rests before crossing the Kamusiliu-Kyuso road. Here he was to stay for several days- and these were the days which Kamusiliu boys in their round huts and the Kilumi dancers in their ox-hide dresses were to remember for a long time...

Out of the tree plunged the toucan at dawn's first light. The pigeon's eye showed pink, and the guinea-fowl stretched their necks and went in search of seeds. There was a murmuring among the trees as all the animals began to wake up with a quick sigh of surprise, the wide sweep of the country woke to the morning. The turtle-doves cooing expressed the thrill for a new day in clear limpid notes. And in Kamusiliu, the stranger beneath the Muthumula tree at Munyenze stirred from sleep. He opened his eyes and saw leaning over him a girl graciously made.

So smitten was the stranger that he was to remain in the village for a very long time. The villagers, who until then had enough warmth and resources to share, took this stranger from unknown land as one of their own. To date, Kamusiliu is home to people whose origin no one can tell.

Arrested Dreams

I yawn sometimes at five O'clock on on a Monday morning, kick my blankets off the bed and slide off the bed reluctantly still rubbing sleep off my eyes. I remember I fell asleep at 3 am, so that was a two hours sleep. I pull the drapes and peep out of my bedroom window, no sign of those ugly diaspora clouds that bring about cold in the morning. I sigh in relief, no wearing a jacket today. After all I ain't going to court. I slip into my shower  gown, of course I have one, that which was carried as a souvenir from a hotel in 2009. I still keep it to date. It reminds me alot.

 The heater on my shower broke down last week and I keep reminding myself to report to the caretaker to have it fixed. So I have to contend with boiling water using the electric kettle which I find myself calling perforator, or is it percolator? I'll have to find out its true  meaning soon. I let the water boil as I brush my teeth. Two kettles of boiling water every morning and I'm like let the electric bill come...
As a bachelor there is one section of my apartment I don't venture into in the morning. That's the kitchen. I'm yet to cultivate that habit of fixing breakfast for myself so it means no breakfast for me. That's the pain of being a bachelor, some luxuries are beyond my reach. So after shower I iron a trouser and a shirt, polish my shoes, grab my diary and step out of my apartment. It is 6 am. Thankfully Rongai is not cold this morning. A reason to smile.

I'm on one of these Rongai matatus, noisy but comfortable. Thankfully the traffic on Langata road never flows smoothly especially on a Monday morning so I got an hour or so to sleep as we get stuck on the traffic. This is one of those days I thank God that I'm my own boss. I can get to the office at 9 and have myself to contend with. I wake up as we get to the city centre. It is around 7.30 which means I've had some cool one and half hours to sleep, like everybody else in the matatu.

The morning sweeps away lazily. I'm yawning and stretching in the office. I remember I didn't have breakfast so I'll have to take some fruit salad. I prefer that more than tea or coffee or juice. Perhaps my friend Otti was right when he remarked that I've consumed so much bitter things  that my body cannot absorb sweet fluids. There is a fruit parlor at the ground floor of the building. I take the stairs, I've no time for the lift. Ten minutes later I'm back on my desk with my salad, nicely packed on a plastic container which I devour as I take my mind to work. I've been trying to draft a notice of intention to sue the government with no success. I don't seem to find a precedent in my files and no one seems to have one.

My client is on the line..."Mwalimu", he begins, "Did you issue the notice? Have the proceedings been typed?". I lie about the notice but tell him the truth about the proceedings. "Not yet", I reply in relation to the proceedings, "I'll call Mutie in Mombasa to find out from the registry." Mutie is a paralegal at the law firm where I did my pupilage right after law school. He never seems to be in a hurry to have things done and my client doesn't seem to understand how our court registries operate, especially in Mombasa.

I get back to notice of intention to sue, I'm still trying to crack it. Should I improvise a normal demand letter or what? In the midst of that confusion my phone rings. It is Ken, a colleague from way back in campus. "I saw your Facebook update. I have what you want". Bless Ken and bless Mark Zuckerberg, if that's how his name is spelt. I quickly open my emails and download the damn notice. I'm good to go. I draft the notice and dispatch it to the office of the Attorney General. Some damn government is getting sued after 30 days.

 I call my client to remind him that we have two of his matters coming up this week, one in Mombasa and the other in Kitui. Need I need to tell you that one comes up on Wednesday in Mombasa and the other the following day in Kitui? I remind him I don't own a chopper and ask him if there are flights from Mombasa to Kitui. Well, I'm too aware that we don't have an airstrip in Kitui, but isn't it my point made?.

There are some plaints to be drafted but I don't feel like. I'm a procrastinator. I convince myself that there is still time for them after all the client is yet to avail filing fees. I take my diary. I've a client to call about some mention coming up on Friday. I need to know if he has decided to take the DNA test. Thankfully he is ready and I don't need to explain to him that there is no other way out apart from taking the test. After all we denied parentage in our pleadings. These children cases, I always find myself defending runaway fathers, or supposedly runaway fathers.

I'm out for lunch. A friend has volunteered to buy me roast chicken for lunch. Thankfully I've been the one buying in the past few days so I don't feel guilty as I go for quarter roast chicken and you know how much that can cost in places like Westlands.
Midway through my meal a client calls, those kind of clients who always have legal problems but are never willing to pay a retainer or some consultation fee. He is in the military, or was in the military before he resigned and took up a lucrative job in Iraq six years ago. His contract has expired and he comes back to the country. And guess what, the military pounce on him and accuse him of deserting the military. He is like they are convening a court martial to try him along with other returnees. He wants to know if I can handle the case. Call me after thirty minutes, I tell him, I'll have an answer. Looks like by the time I turn 29 I'd have appeared before every court in our judicial structure. I salute myself. A jack of all trades indeed.

I don't know anything about procedure at the court martial. I call my senior colleagues but it turns out that none of them have in their professional career appeared before one. I'm on my own. Thankfully research is my hobby. In less than thirty minutes I have my opinion ready. I'm taking up that case. I call the guy, and he is happy to know he can count on me. I give him a comprehensive legal opinion and invoice him immediately thereafter. A lawyer has to live, and live abundantly.

I place a call to my uncle who has an office around Westlands. He is still in the office and he'll pass by and pick me up on his way home. I lazy around trying to think of something important to do. I remember to call the bank about some cheques that were issued to me sometimes back and which I've been reluctant to cash.

 I had some premonition that they may not be genuine. Some dude who had been charged alongside my client had been trying to play it smart with me. I had successfully had charges against my client dropped by the DPP and so the guy remained the sole accused. He knows that my client will testify against him and he knows my client's evidence will have him convicted. He wanted to settle the matter out of court. Pay up, I told him. On the day before my client was discharged he called me with a proposal. I turned it down. The following day a parcel was dropped in my office with four cheques worth 3.6 million. I called my client and he informed me that he too had received some cheques worth 10m. That's half of what we had sued for. I did some quick maths, I'm not that I'm good at it anyway, and realized the 3.6m was part of the costs of the suit. But all in all something does not add up. The cheques were all sent from Kisumu. The guy is remanded at Shimo la Tewa prison. As far as I know his company has no office in Kisumu. The registered offices are in Mombasa. I called my client. Don't you dare cash the cheques. This could be a trap to implicate him as his accomplice. I instructed him to send the cheques over to me which I forwarded to the bank with a request. Investigate the validity of the cheques. So when I call the bank today it turns out that all the cheques were fake....made in River Road!

My uncle pops up just as I'm about to call him again. We go out for coffee. No alcohol today coz he is driving and with this alcoblow thing on our roads drinking has become a science. We chat over nothing. I'm tempted to tell him that I've found a lady who gave me a rating of 7.4 out of 10 but I hold back. He has to know anyway, somehow.

He drops me in town. It is about 7.30pm. I board a matatu back to diaspora. My working day is over. I love working because it keeps me preoccupied. I tend to forget that I'm a bachelor. Now as the matatu navigates through the jam on Uhuru Highway the impact of my bachelorhood comes to my mind. I remember a call I received yesterday from my little sister and the message she had been told to pass to me by my mother. Mother is worried, she said, that you ain't getting married. What are your plans? She wants to know. I'm like I'm 28, is that a big deal? She reminds me that my dad was only 22 when he had me. Oops, now I have to get her an answer to give to my mum. Tell her, I say, I found a woman to marry. That is it. She hangs up. My mother must have spent the whole of today humming a nonexistent tune. My son is getting married, my son is getting married! That will happen, as soon my ratings get to 10/10!

I get home, and as soon as I open my door my phone buzzes'. A whatsapp message. I smile. She can only be the one who makes me smile. If this smiling continues, well my mum will have no reason to worry anymore.

That was my day. I'm back in my house. I'll go to the kitchen and fix myself something to eat, or drink and sit back and chat with this lady who makes my heart warm and beat fast. Today I'll sleep again at 3am, but do I complain? No. I won't and will never. It is her, and she is all that matters.

One Day I Will Sing this Song

It all began when I was nine years and in a village far away called Kamusiliu. A girl called Kamana would tease me, day in and day out for so many things, just because I was the youngest in our class and spoke bad Kikamba. She would hold my hands and remark how soft they were and then observe that a man should not have such soft hands. I hated her at times, but loved her mostly because she would always come to my defense when anyone else tried bullying me. That was in 1995, and we were only in class four.

She is the only person I remember being close to throughout that year, which so to say was my hardest in terms of school. I had transferred from St. Johns' Primary in Marsabit and I found the going tough in Kamusiliu. My poor Kikamba was my undoing and this wasn't helped by the fact that my mother was a teacher in that school who insisted that the only way I could learn Kikamba was through the constant bullying by my peers. And so I had to go through the bullying hoping that Kamana would be there to protect me. After all she herself liked teasing me, which I found myself enjoying most of the time.

As the year dragged along so did our friendship blossom. Her laughter-filled eyes always left me thrilled. I turned ten in November of that year and a few months later my father came and carted us away back to Marsabit. I was back to my familiar territory and to the waiting arms of my desk mate, one Karme Isaac. Kamana was forgotten, but not forever. I had since discovered I could write and I'd occasionally write childhood romance stories with Kamana and I as the main characters. I can't recall the actual title of my first romantic piece but I can clearly recall its opening line which went like this;

 "She walked majestically on the dusty footpaths of Kamusiliu teasing the little weaver birds that sang at the acacia tree opposite Titi's shop. My heart went wild, and my lungs jumped joyfully to kiss my heart. When I regained my breathe I mustered all the courage I could afford and walked shyly towards her..."

I can't tell what became of that story but I remember it was very popular in our class. Karme, in a bid to annoy me, made it her business to publicize it in class. And when those of us who thought could write organized a class writing context and called our English teacher to judge our stories, my little love story was disqualified for being "too adult" and our teacher reprimanded me for wasting my talent  writing stories that were way beyond my age. It was in the year 1996 and I was only ten. She had a point though, what business did a ten-year old have to do with romantic stories at a time when reading "Mills n Boon" was considered a crime for teenagers? For that reason and to my dismay, Ahmed walked away with the top prize, which was a packet of sweets, for his story about some child-eating ogre that had been killed by a brave boy in one of those villages scattered at the hedge of Chalbi Desert. I concluded that the teacher wanted stories about bravery and in the next round of the competition I entered a story called "Adventures of Kamande" and sure enough it emerged tops.

I went back to Kamusiliu Primary in 1998. I was twelve then and at threshold of teenage hood. Kamana was there, in class seven. She had matured alot since I last saw her way back in class four. My second coming was way much better than the first one. I had matured too, and my Kikamba had improved alot. My hands were still soft, but no one teased me about them. Even Kamana seemed to have discovered the advantage of a man having soft hands. Hands were no longer used to hold a panga and clear bushes for the woman to plant cowpeas'. But in the darkness during night preps while the prefects worked on the pressure lamps which we used as lighting, hands would find their new use. And it was only soft hands like mine that did that work better.

Then one Monday morning she didn't show up in school. Nobody paid attention to her absence since absenteeism in Kamusiliu was never a big deal. But none of us noticed that one shop at Kamusiliu centre remained conspicuously closed. And it wasn't until Friday that news came filtering in that Kamana got married to one of the local shopkeepers at the centre. We were left to speculate on the reasons that made her choose that path. Nobody questioned that, not even the school administration. 

Thinking about it much later I realized that there was very little anyone could have done to reverse the situation. Every day pupils dropped out for one reason or another. Nobody seemed to value education, especially that of the girl-child. Women empowerment in Kamusiliu was still at its infancy stage. Girls didn't seem to have anyone to motivate them to pursue education. There was only one female teacher in Kamusiliu primary and she had been there since 1985. She was in fact the first female teacher in the whole of Ngomeni Division as it was then. Everyone called her "Misis", a corruption for "Mrs". I can bet half of the school didn't know that "Misis or Mrs" was just a title. My mother was to remain "Misis" until 2002 when another female teacher got posted to Kamusiliu, more than seventeen years since the first one had been posted there. Now she was no longer "Misis" but Mrs. Mwalimu. One other reason why they called her Misis, as I later came to learn, is because her husband who in this case is my father is called Mwalimu, now instead of Mrs Mwalimu they just called her Misis. Today you'll still find her former pupils, those she taught in the seventeen years she enjoyed the monopoly of being the only female teacher, calling her "Misis". They still do.

You see when I came to Kamusiliu I found everyone calling her "Misis" which to me was weird because where I came from we used to refer to our teachers as teacher so n so, mostly by their English names. I found the usage of surnames a new phenomena. All along I was Charles Mathuva and I only began using Mwalimu when I came to Kamusiliu!

So Kamana was gone. She was now someone's wife and with her went the teasing. There was no one to pinch my hands and remind me how soft they were. Even though there had been nothing romantic between us, I couldn't help but feel the void that had been left by her departure. Very soon she was to be forgotten as I turned my attention to other ventures. Adolescence was knocking and boys were competing to outdo each other in matters of fornicating.

Growing up in the village was more exciting than I had thought. Unlike in Marsabit where we couldn't roam around the estate after dark, in the village we could venture out at night. I had cousins who had spent their entire life in the village and who were very willing to teach me a few tricks about village life. We would sneak from home every Friday night after my mother had gone to bed to go for keshas, not for spiritual nourishment but just to hang on the fence and wait for girls in the dark. We were allergic to light and would keep dodging any light that came our way. In most cases my cousins, who were members of those churches, would organize with their girls to bring along with them a girl for me. This was to induct me into the world of sex which I found fascinating. At the end of the night they would sneak with theirs behind bushes for what-only-gods knew while I'd be left with mine by the path fidgeting and wondering where to begin. At the end of it all we would discuss how to write good compositions and inshas. My cousins would later escort me home and brag about their sexual exploits while laughing at me for my inability to have a woman shed her panty for me!

 I learnt how to weave "Ikenge" for trapping quails and burn tires to get wires used to trap dik dik. During the weekends we would sneak from home and join a band of boys from the village and venture into the bushes to hunt dik dik. As a rule we didn't sell our catch but would divide it and take home to our parents. Mother would buy the game meat from us at a fair price which made us anticipate the next weekend with glee. 

It didn't take long for me to get absorbed to the culture of my people. I could now sing the Kamba cultural songs and dance to their dances with a lesso tied tightly around my waist and thrusting my torso about while performing the famous PTT, pelvic thrust taunt, commonly known as musung'u. I'm no good dancer and never was back then but there is nothing I enjoyed much than those kind of dances that involved PTTs. We would form ourselves into a ring and two of us, usually a boy and a girl would toss themselves in the middle while the rest of did the singing. One of our older cousins, Kavindu, who had christened himself Cleopatra the God's grandson was the lead soloist. With him in our ranks and with his baritone voice piecing through the moon-light night we were assured of having a hoard of village girls following our band.

Occasionally one would throw himself into the middle of the ring and from there invite a girl to dance with him. This invitation would be done in some bodily language that involved dancing toward the lady in question who would in turn start her moves, shaking her waist suggestively and thus she would end up in the middle with you. Once in the middle the dance would gradually transform into a game of wit with the man expected to thrust a Musung'u at the girl. Musung'u involved dancing towards  the girl and aim your pelvic at her hoping to connect with her bosom. You would be met with cheers if you aimed right or if the girl gave herself to you. I found this kind of dance a bit errotic at first but with time I came to love them. I would do a PTT at every opportunity I got. That, after all, was the closest I could come into contact with the girl.

Back in school, competition for the few eligible girls in our class was in top gear. Out of the huge number that we had in class seven only 16 of us had made to class 8, the highest number in recent years. We were even in number, 8 boys and 8 girls but the most eligible girls were only two.  One was my distant aunt and thus out of the equation. There only remained one who was up for grabs. My measure of eligibility back then, and remains to date, was based on beauty and intelligence.