This is why Kababa goes gaga over vehicles

Yesterday begun with Mama Promulgation, Oti’s queen, whining about boys and dogs. How come when and where there is one there is the other, she wondered? She was barely done when some boys – accompanied by some dogs, no less – appeared. Her whining went full throttle because as long-time-no-see dog friends met each would smell the other’s backside. I believe you are witness to this tribe of greetings, the very reason you shouldn’t whine as you read this.


Much later I ran into the same gang only that it lacked the peace and harmony evident beforehand. The dogs had located a long-lost enemy and were seriously trying to bury him. The boys were about to become permanent enemies thanks to a matatu that had just zoomed past. To Deno’s faction the matatu was KCN, to Kevo’s it was KCM.

I could very well see why a simple M or N was a matter of life and death to the boys. The matatu was sneezing and whining louder than a fire truck and had a string of minor earthquakes for music. With darkness in the process of reporting for the night shift the matatu was like a 200th birthday cake on safari.

matatu 3

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It was a healthy argument for boys who will probably become politicians until they decided to do what John Cena and Block Resnar does on TV. That is when yours truly stepped in for two for two reasons. Firstly, I saw a chance to change my status now that blessed are the peace makers because they shall be called sons of God. Secondly, I knew how high the stakes were having been in similar tussles at their age.

Back in the day nothing was half blood-boiling as watching a tipper offload, or a bus sneeze downhill, or a car skid in the mud. I would easily have become Goldalyn Kakuya (a golden girl who came up with the closest thing to the marking scheme in this year’s KCPE) in my day had the examiner concentrated on matters automobile: registration numbers, brands and makes, the fastest of them all, the newest, their owners, etc. Better still he should have asked for drawings of every vehicle in Kiandutu.

As a walking encyclopaedia in matters vehicles the easiest way to see the Mike Tyson in me was to question my gospel in automobiles.

Allow me to explain why boys will always fight over vehicles when nobody in their clan owns one and the reason dogs will always exchange their queer greetings.

First, a definition: if life was a loaf of bread and someone calls you a boy he means you have barely consumed a slice. I know that despite having manufactured the Queen’s language mbeberu would call someone’s great grandfather a boy. Oti, my legal advisor, calls it slander, same case as calling Range Rover House a Vitz.

In all fairness, expecting a man who travels all the way from Yorkshire, grabs your land and deposits you in a concentration village to ‘sir’ you is like expecting a police officer who has been taught and ordered to hit where it hurts to forget his rungu, teargas canisters, water cannon and life bullets to give you a pat on the back.

Untill we can return the favour by colonizing the colonizer let’s talk about a particular mbeberu who saw value in real boys.

Now, in case you answer to the ‘boy’ title you are expected to have some characteristics. Your ears are for hearing; your mouth is for eating and decoration. You can go as far as admiring a Slay Queen, secretly, but not giving her a chance to slay you. You must remain unemployable for lack of an animal called experience. (Incidentally, experience is invaluable when you don’t have it but useless when you have lots of it. Just ask your retired uncle). If you are working you don’t have a job, you are undergoing ‘child labour’.



The mbeberu, Lord Cavendish or Kavendithi, viewed boys differently. To him, for some plant to become a hedge you work on them when they are young. You would find a boy driving a truck, another one a tractor, another one a combined harvester, anything but a particular car which was a birthday present from his late father. To guard his vast wealth Kavendithi had hundreds of dogs.

All was great for Kavendithi, the boys and the dogs until the day Kavendithi woke up on the wrong side of the bed. The sun was barely up when his rib declared she had had enough of him and would dine at her parents’ in Devonshire. Kavendithi dropped on his knees then his belly telling her she was his one and only lollipop, pizza and popcorn but she still left him stranded at the airport.

On arrival home Kavendithi found his no-fly-zone car missing. One of the boys reported hearing another boy claiming that another boy alleged that another boy took a Slay Queen out in the precious car. Kavendithi ordered the boys to leave and never to return without the car.

To make a crisis out of a mess, as Kavendithi was drowning his frustrations with a bottle of Johnnie Walker one of the dogs polluted the air. His demand that the scoundrel responsible steps forward was met with it-wasn’t-me looks. He kicked the mongrels out as well with a warning never to return until the mkosa adabu had been identified.

Ladies and gentlemen, if there ever was a mission impossible it must be locating a boy with a Slay Queen in a special set of wheels. Just ask the boys. After years of searching they can’t agree on the make, brand, the registration number or anything about the lost car. Nonetheless, they are all eager to return Kavendithi’s wheels.

Singling out the bad-mannered dog has not been ABC either. Even dogs value their image, you know, and owning up to tear-gassing your boss is not in line with preserving or improving that image.

Now that you know, next time Kababa behaves like cooking popcorns when he spots a vehicle kindly join him in celebrations, it could be Kavendithi’s car which means he can finally resume his duties.

Let’s all wish him success, shall we?


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