If I showed you his photograph, it would appear as if his nose is the biggest feature about the small man. And even though it is plastered across almost half his face, I assure you it is not the biggest thing about him. His voice is. If voice were a baggage, I bet he could easily be relieving 10 men of their burdens. The voice is to be heard every night accompanying the frantic beating of the drum. Surprisingly melodious, it comes from his home across the valley. On windless nights, the drum and the man blend their sounds to rise and fall like the soulful song playing on a transistor radio’s short wave band.

Today, the man is by the river in the company of his growing number of followers. They are all wearing white robes with red crosses patched on the front, on the back, and even on the sides. On top, the men wear tall turbans and the women wear extravagant headscarves. Each man’s turban is swathed around the head over and over again from a single sheet of cloth. Once the headscarf covers a woman’s hair and binds the flaps of her ears, it is tied at the back of the head and left to dangle to the lower back. There are several boys and girls dressed in the same style.

There is music. The obviously unrehearsed singing is accompanied by enthusiastic up and down jumping. Their musical instruments consist of a drum made from raw cowhide, and a circular ring that used to be part of a motor vehicle that is Ting! Ting! Tinged! with a metal rod in rhythm with the drum. The hide covering the drum is bald at the spot where the heavy stick wielded by the profusely sweating man is beating it senseless. Were it not for the ebony skin, the red crosses, and lack of wings, the small group of believers would look like the angels illustrated on the colored children’s Bible that once fascinated me.

Yes, I know it is rude to keep talking about it, but you just can’t ignore the small leader’s nose. Perhaps during creation, he was accidentally fitted with a giant’s snout. And as if that was not bad enough, his drying cast fell over and the soft flesh was squashed all over the face. Surprisingly, as much as the nose bothers some of us, it never seems to bother its owner. Obviously, he has something else more important on his mind. You can see it by the slight twitch on the corner of the mouth that comes whenever he holds his audience in mid word as well as the flicker of light that occasionally shines intensely out of his eyes.

Today is baptism day. That is why they are at the river, all dressed in the white garb. Ordinarily, they would be worshiping at the small field next to the school. They have not always been there though. When the small man received his celestial calling, he and a handful of blood and in-law relatives congregated on the field next to the Catholic Church. That is when a huge row between them and the church leaders erupted. And it stopped as suddenly as it had started after the concrete cross incident. You see, the church orderlies tried to force the small man and his followers to take their noisy racket elsewhere by confiscating five wooden forms that the small group sat on while their leader preached. Undeterred by the hostile gesture of the church orderlies, the believers sang, and jumped up and down, and beat the drum and Tinged! the circular metal ring. And that is when it happened — right at the crescendo of the small group’s fervent worship. The concrete cross that was rigged high up at the front of the church tipped over and crashed noisily right next to the entrance. It missed the orderlies by the breadth of a cat’s whiskers. And the small group of believers froze in bewilderment at their supposedly new powers.

In a panicked haste, the forms were given back and the small man and his followers left to their unusual mode of worship. Fortunately, the small man got a divine message the following week. He was instructed to lead his followers to the field next to the school, away from the Catholic Church. Further confrontation was avoided, and the strange group of believers now enjoyed some new found respect from everyone. The title of prophet was quickly added in front of the leader’s name and a thicker concrete cross replaced at the top of the church.

Today is baptism day. The six new comers into the group will be baptized by being dipped into the water as a sign of joining the sect led by the small man. This is one spectacle that makes us miss our own church to come and witness. In our church, people get baptized using water from a small container. I suppose the shiny silver bowl in the hands of our priest is a good substitute to the light coming from the eyes of the small man as he capsizes yet another new comer into dazed submission to his strange faction.

For every service in the village, there is always one person who is distinguished for delivering it. When it came to brewing, one man was as popular as a fighting bull. His name was Kaigutha. The man had built his house some distance away from everyone else. He lived alone. Unlike most of the people who lived by themselves, he did not have much to say to others. Neither did he talk to himself. In a place where the art of talking long and ambiguously is highly valued, the brewer was viewed as eccentric. However, this was accepted as a mark of his brilliance. Doesn’t genius go well with bizarre?

For three consecutive days in every week, many people visited his homestead. In those three days, the broth would be ‘cooked’ ready for drinking. In the other days of the week, Kaigutha concocted whatever potions he used to prepare the magic brew that made grown men crawl on their bellies like snakes.

To get to Kaigutha’s home, you would need to cross the raging Mathioya River. The bridge you used consisted of a single log placed across a wide channel bubbling with furious water. A customer desperately needed balance coming from a drinking spree, as much as he needed it getting there. It was for that reason that Kaigutha administered his brew with the strict eye of a pharmacist. He only needed look at a customer once for him to issue a prescription. Two mugs for those in the category referred to in vernacular as ‘getting high on warm milk’ and four mugs to those in the category of ‘entering a honey eating contest with bees.’ Surprisingly, Kaigutha never went wrong in his judgment.

Being a quiet man, he did not get into unnecessary arguments with those who claimed they could drink more that he judged they could handle. For such folks, he would measure out the amount of alcohol they demanded and then ask them to go across the bridge and drink from there. The reason is because he was sure that once they drank above what he had prescribed, they would never be able to walk across the log. In fact, those braggarts never wandered far from the spot where they settled down to drink.

One of the peculiar ways of Kaigutha’s traditional brew was that it did not hit you immediately. It would take a while between the time it was consumed and the time drunkenness set in. Those who consumed it claimed that they could literally feel the alcoholic beverage ripening in their stomachs like a bunch of bananas. One of the tasks that Kaigutha took seriously was making sure that each drunk crossed the bridge before the alcohol stung. Woe unto the quiet brewer if the high caught up, and the undesirable character ended up bothering his peace all night.

In fact, not everyone would be sure of where they were likely to end up if the drunkenness set in while in transit. Many people had found themselves miles away from home. Others had been found in their underwear by the roadside with their clothes neatly folded and place next to an imaginary bed. One man slept in the rain across a drainage channel and created a huge dam that beavers would envy. Another was found in the garden a few days later with a colony of termites having built a mammoth anthill over his prostrate body. You can then see why it was crucial to avoid the embarrassment of being known as one who could not hold his traditional brew.

Every seasoned drinker knew of the two sure ways that guaranteed that a person got home after a dinking binge. The first was to take the drink as if participating in a relay race. Bottoms up the first mug�then the second�and the third�then run home. Your haste ensured that you did not get caught up mid way. For those who lingered, it was necessary for a friend to employ the second method while they were still in the initial stages of drunkardness. The Good Samaritan would quickly do some calculations to estimate the direction of the drunkard’s home. He would then point the inebriated fellow in that direction and then give him a gentle push on the back. Incredibly, the drunkard would stagger in a straight line through hell and high water and finally came to a stop as soon as his forehead bumped onto the front door of his house. And as if on queue, he would promptly black out in a drunken stupor. If the forehead knock did not, the roof-blowing snore would wake up everyone in the house. For three days every week, the irritable inhabitants of the house would drag the drunkard inside the house on humanitarian grounds, courtesy of Kaigutha’s brew.

And for that, praises of the quiet brewer’s magic concoction spread like bush fire, making him both popular as well as infamous across many ridges.

On a cold wet morning like this one, the birds are huddling together. They perch quietly without a sound. The soft drizzle falls and water courses down their sleek feathers to spill off to the ground.

From here, they look like a group of raincoat-clad commuters waiting for the morning ride to work. Just as the travelers know that the bus will come in a few more minutes, the birds know that the rain will not fall forever.

There is no need for the birds to fret, just as it is useless for the traveler to check his watch. In a little while, the bus will gently swerve towards the curb and the door will open in a welcoming wide embrace. Soon the sun will be shining and it will be time for joyful song and hopping excitement once again.

They come down from their nearby hovels for a swim in the mucky water of a river that washes down waste from the city’s higher ground.

“Aren’t you embarrassed to be naked in the presence of men, women and children passing by?� You ask. “No, we are not. They are just people like us.� They reply.

“Aren’t you afraid of swimming in water that is not chlorinated?� You ask. “No, we are not. The water we drink is not chlorinated either.�

“Aren’t you at least afraid of getting Bilharzia?� You ask. “No, we are not. We do not know about your disease, and so it does not know us.�

And so you scratch your head with lack of understanding and walk towards the city’s higher ground. As the gleeful sound of the happy swimmers recedes in the background, you head back to a world of shame, disinfectants and diseases.

Another old truck passes and adds to the floating cloud of smoke
And the city tree disappears in the blackness for a while
If its limbs could move, they would fan away the fumes
To avoid the old man cough whose hack wrenches to the innermost core

Another enterprising trader comes and hammers in a signboard
And the city tree winces with the hurt of each powerful blow
If its limbs could move, it would tenderly rub the smarting bark
To try and wipe away the pain from a wound that runs deeper than the skin

Another man comes in a hurry and urinates all over its roots
And the city tree recoils in indignation throughout the ceaseless shower
If its limbs could move, it would hold its arms akimbo
To stare down the vile man until he withers in embarrassment

Look at the brave tree in the city
With its soot-covered leaves and horribly punctured bark
Listen to the wondering of the tree in the city
“How would it feel like to be a flower in the country on this glorious day?�

There used to be stories that only the males who had undergone the painful boyhood to manhood ritual of circumcision were allowed to discuss. Being adults allowed them that privilege. It was common knowledge that the only reason why only young men talked about these things so unabashedly was because they tended to be reckless and uncouth. You could say that they laughed in the face of the culture that had natured them to maturity with each of these episodes.

When the young men talked, it was usually with an occasional wary glance at the boy who might be in earshot. If you were that boy, your only chance of eavesdropping was assured if you pretended that you were not interested in what was being said at all. That is the only time that you would get to hear about the incredible things that a man and a woman do when they are together in private.

If a boy were ever to repeat what he heard, it would be in whispers to his best friend after a confidentiality pact.

Our mothers were the strict custodians of what came out of the mouths of little boys and girls. For us small people, cussing was not allowed, calling the genitals by their real name for any reason was strictly prohibited, and any talk of ‘doing naughty’ as sex was referred to was taboo. I cannot then explain how woebegone I was at that age to discover that the mothers of the village were capable of talking about the same things that the shameless young men talked about!

It happened on the week that my grandfather died. During his wake, a group of women huddled around a wood fire in our kitchen on the cold July night. I was in bed in the next room, having been roused from sleep through circumstances I could not explain. With my brother snoring away from the opposite end of the bed, it was difficult to hear what was being murmured, but I got it all right.

The talk started with one woman enquiring about what was discussed at the family planning clinic recently held at the nearby government dispensary. Amongst giggles, it was revealed that the men and women who attended were educated about the condom. Though I was not to encounter a condom for a long time to come, on that night, I got to know of one way it should never be used. Apparently, a couple that attended the clinic confessed that they thought the condom was a man-sized birth control pill. The woman had been faithfully giving her man a glass of water to swallow the ‘pill’ every evening before going to bed. With another baby on the way, they thought that the dosage might not have been strong enough.

There was a round of muffled laughter that made my brother interrupt his snoring to say something unintelligible before turning over and continuing with snoring, but with a different pitch this time. With the assurance that the kids were still asleep, the women got into the conversation in earnest. And they began talking about the various birth control methods amidst snippets of bedroom activities that even a kid of today would consider very weird. They were well into their ‘doing naughty’ stories when my mother arrived to inform them that they should join the bigger group of mourners at a different venue.

I never had the courage to whisper what transpired on that evening of disillusionment to any of my young friends.

You will see them parked in the back streets of Nairobi, embarrassed at what has become of them. And perhaps they would not be, had they not been touted loudly from the rooftops as the best public transportation idea to ever hit Nairobi — much cheaper than the regular taxis and not as crazed as the matatus. And so a few years ago, they were imported from India in their numbers and displayed prominently in the streets. They were christened tuk tuk, probably because of the noise they make while moving. They had the regular taxis shaking in their boots while the ill-mannered matatus just sneered skeptically.

Matatu are fond of picking up passengers in the middle of the road, blocking other vehicles and causing general mayhem.

But then, stories started circulating. Some rumors started flying that passengers were being pick pocketed while stuck in the notorious Nairobi traffic jam. Whispers were heard that a few tuk tuks had tipped over after being destabilized by the turbulence created by matatus speeding by. Horrendous stories of passengers being soaked right through after being splashed with pools of dirty water by passing vehicles� and gallons of inhaled exhaust fumes. One quarter even claimed that to avoid paying, unscrupulous passengers were jumping off while the tuk tuk was still in motion, leaving the driver talking to himself. My friend Dixon confided that one tuk tuk he was riding got a mechanical problem and he and the driver were forced to carry it to the next fuel station. Well, such disturbing stories.

And so, whenever a tuk tuk trotted by, everyone was curious to see whom it was that was hiding behind the tarpaulin in the passenger seat. In Nairobi, the size of your mobile phone, the way you sip your favorite drink, and even the way you pronounce your English syllables really matters because apparently, it says a lot about you. Image is everything. And consequently, people avoided the tuk tuk forcing it to hide its face in the cul-de-sac where it can conveniently be access away from the disturbingly accusing eyes of the vogue police.

Some quarters claimed that the bad rap about tuk tuk was a fabrication of the regular taxi drivers who feared competition. In the meantime, we wait with bated breaths for the next best public transportation idea to ever hit Nairobi.

Mighty Cucumber’s wife had elephantiasis. Because of this unfortunate condition, she wore shoes all the time. That was unlike all the other women and most men in the village. Shoes were reserved for going to church, attending important occasions, or when traveling to the city. Her canvas shoes had their laces removed to make room for the unusual expansion of her feet.

Mr. Arrowroot had elephantiasis as well. However, he did not wear shoes. In fact, I wonder if anyone can claim to have ever seen him wearing shoes. What I can remember though was that he wore tight short pants everyday. His short pants terminated midway between the thighs, covering the only part of his legs that was not diseased. His feet, shin and the leg all the way to above the knees were swollen in unsightly concentric tiers that are characteristic of the malady that he suffered from. It was difficult for me to imagine that the pants actually went up the gigantic legs and I always thought it would be easier to wear then from the top. Mr. Arrowroot’s tight pants reminded me of a lesson that I learnt in Sunday school about the difficulty of a camel going through the eye of a needle.

Mr. Arrowroot was old and gray. He had gray hair, a gray irregular beard all over his face, and his afflicted legs were ashen — almost gray. He did not move much. He stayed alone in his small archaic mud walled house that leaned dangerously on one side. When he was out and about, his favorite pass time activity was terrorizing young girls. It did not take much for Mr. Arrowroot to send a girl squealing to her mother. All he had to do was tell the girl that he was in love and offer his hand in marriage. He even had a special song to go with the proposal. I seem to have forgotten the words of the song although I should not since we boys would regularly sing it to the girls whenever we wanted to tease them. Our tease was just as effective as Mr. Arrowroot’s proposal since it made the poor girls cry.

It was easy to understand why the girls did not dig Mr. Arrowroot. Apart from his elephantine legs, he did not have the good manners that make a man appealing to the ladies. For example, he would appear in the homestead where important visitors were expected and sit in the middle of the threshold to the chagrin of the hosts. Only a huge plate with food from each of the pots being prepared would make him bulge. He would then relocate to a discreet part of the compound where he would sit alone – away from the presence of the visitors and little girls.

Apart from being the first to taste the food cooked in important social occasions, he also was the first to eat meat from the carcass of any animal that died unexpectedly. Whenever a cow, goat or sheep died, the local government veterinary officer would be called to perform a postmortem on the carcass. Based on the outcome of his examination, the carcass would be declared fit for human consumption or would be condemned for burial. Our veterinary officer was one who loved his bottle and often, he would be too drunk to be of any service. That is where Mr. Arrowroot came in. He would cut off the choicest chunk of meat from the animal, have it cooked and eat it like it was his last meal. If nothing happened to him in a few hours, it would be taken as a sign that the meat was not contaminated and the rest of the people would dig in.

There must have been a time when Mr. Arrowroot had someone of his own since he had three grown up sons. Two of them lived in the village and one worked in the city. The sons that lived in the village would never give him the time of the day while the third one was what the villagers labeled as ‘lost in the city.’ Mr. Arrowroot just got sick one day and died in his small house. His body was embalmed the traditional way to await burial on the next Friday. The next Friday was the only day that the Catholic priest was available. Come Friday, Mr. Arrowroot was buried in a cheap wooden coffin that the village mason had put together. His sons were quick to demolish his small house soon after, and all monuments of the old man who once had someone of his own disappeared.

The verdict from yesterday’s national referendum is in. Kenyans have voted against the draft of the proposed new constitution. The ‘No’ camp got an edge with 58% of the votes against the 42% bagged by the ‘Yes’ side. So by default, the country will continue to be governed by the current constitution until we find a suitable resolution.

Prior to the voting date, it was interesting to listen to the debates on the streets as the common man argued with his fellow common man about issues concerning the impending referendum. In most cases, it was obvious that the contents of the draft constitution were no longer an issue. For example, many voters were planning to cast their ballots on the strength of the direction given by their favorite politician. Sadly, they saw no reason to bother with the jargon in the booklet or to waste time listening to civic educators.

Perhaps the politicians should take some responsibility for that complacency. They failed to emphasize to their supporters about the importance of understanding all the contents of the proposed constitution. Instead, leaders from both sides of the divide pulled out all sorts of cards from up their sleeves in order to influence the voters during the campaign period. It was standard practice for a ‘No’ proponent to single out a clause from the constitution that might not be in favor with his or her particular audience, and use it as the basis for maligning the whole document. It was just as common for a government official to hastily issue title deeds to squatters who have been languishing for years in order to influence them to vote ‘Yes’.

One of the cards that was played out loudly by the ‘Yes’ campaigners was that voting ‘No’ meant that you are opposed to the incumbent government. The reason is because the politicians in the government mainly sponsored the document in question. From that angle, it then turns out that the public verdict just confirmed the government’s worst nightmare: Apparently the government is not as popular as it thought it was or would like us to believe. But should that outcome be surprising at all?

It is no secret that one of the reasons why the current government got into power is because of the pledges that it made to the people of Kenya prior to the last elections. It promised to deliver where its predecessor had failed. One of the popular items in the list of promises was a new constitution. The politicians promised a new constitution within 90 days of being in office. Come next month, we will mark 3 years since the government got into power, still without a new constitution. Ironically, the draft of the proposed constitution has been rejected because that same government doctored it in the last minute hence overturning months of human efforts expended and billions of shillings spent in coming up with the draft that the people wanted. Why did the government need to change the proposed document at the last minute? Because once adopted, the new constitution would curtail the powers that the same politicians were so much against before they tasted it.

Perhaps the government underestimated Kenyans by forgetting the determination that the people demonstrated when they removed the former government in 2002. That determination is still there, and the people have once again shown their commitment to having what they really need. With the national elections just 2 years from today, it is time for the government to shape up. A good place to start would be going back to the list of promises it made to Kenyans. It would see that over 900 days later, we are still without a new constitution.

The man at the front of the voting queue went through the procedure of presenting his national ID and voter registration cards, collected his ballot paper from the clerk, made his choice in a secluded area, and put his vote in the ballot box, just like everyone else before him: that is, in subdued murmured communication with the national electoral commission officials. On his way out of the voting room, he dipped his little finger in ink to identify him as one who had already voted. After carefully wiping off the excess ink with a piece of cloth, he slowly ambled out into the open with a thoughtful look on his face.

But then, something happened – perhaps the sun or perhaps the breathe of fresh air – that made the man react as if he had just snapped out of a trance. He lifted up a closed fist with the small finger sticking out in the air like a pistol ready to be fired. With darting eyes, he looked up and down the long queue of people waiting patiently for their turn to vote. They all appeared to be in different stages of weariness as they sweltered in the early afternoon sun.

“When my wife and I left the house this morning to come and vote, our five daughters were still in bed. They will not be voting today because they have not registered as voters. This is despite all of them being over 18 years old. We have lost 5 votes just from my household alone!” the sixty something looking old man exclaimed incredulously. “Yet, they keep complaining that the government has not created the jobs that politicians promised before the last elections. Where do they think those jobs come from? We are now enjoying free primary school education for our children. Where did the free education come from?” The exertion of keeping his hand up in the air while speaking his mind on such an obviously passionate subject was showing in the sweat trickling freely down his face.

“When you go back home, you should talk to those people who will not vote. Tell them that this is the only way to the constitution that they deserve. This is the only way that you can decide what kind of a government you want. This is the only way that you can decide the caliber of leaders that you need.” With each sentence completed, he would shake his small finger for emphasis. “This is your weapon.” He said as he finally lowered his purple colored pinkie when he saw a policeman with another kind of weapon approaching him. Policemen had been deployed to do the commendable job of ensuring that everyone remained cool at all polling stations across the country. “At my age, why would I care for a new constitution? My daughters are the ones who should know that this is their future!” As the policeman shoed him gently, the old man walked away while wiping his face with a handkerchief.

What that man might not have known is that thousands of years ago, a Greek philosopher named Plato said the same thing, though not in so many words. Plato said, “Those who fail to participate in politics end up being ruled be their inferiors.” The impromptu speech by the old man definitely affirmed the commitment of all those people who were at the polling station long before daybreak. Many of those people continued to be there long after the sun had come up. Some of those people had to travel for long distances and overcome other odds in order to exercise their democratic right to vote.

Kudos to every Kenyan who spotted a purple colored pinkie last night.