Kututha

Back in my high school days on the slopes of mount kenya, comrades spoke a peculiar tongue. A conversation between classmates would leave everyone around them "floating". The vocabulary consisted of a mishmash of words, sarcasm and cartoonish sounds. Beans were mbokio and tea was muhuwa. Kututha meant an epic fail. Kututha meant a walking pile of jokes who provided opportunities for his boys to "shine with him". Insults akin to verbal murder would be inspired, sometimes to even be immortalized on the back of a door in some ablution somewhere. Mututho just Tuthad.

While the alcohol control bill was supposed to fight underage drinking, poisonous concotions and encourage some responsibility, it did the exact opposite. It was a step too far. The spirit was willing but the flesh says otherwise. See, the thing about alcohol or tobacco or any other habit that the politically correct try to demonise is a matter of choice. you could replace alcohol brand names and just have bottles with huge warning signs on them and people would still drink. You could put real cancerous tumors in cigarette packets as a warning but people will still smoke. No one has accused humanity of being perfect. To a lot of people, these are just parts of a bigger picture.
In 1917 when America was in the throes of protestantism, a law was passed that came to be known as The Prohibition. The gist of this law was pretty much the same as Mututho's law. Sales of alcohol were strictly prohibited. The American senate realised that the media hype lay in bowing to the pressure of the temperance movement(google it!) and the Eighteenth Amendment was passed on December 18, 1917.
The clergy rejoiced as politicians basked in the hot glow of studio lamps. Squeezing every bit of political exposure from the experience. The police force was also quick to milk some PR from this and the daily newspapers were filled with images of efficient looking officers putting people under arrest as the 7 o clock news bulletin brought their no nonsense spokesman threatening thugs and promising the full force of the law on the newly created criminal class. Afternoon drinks were illegal and bars had to close down. Alcohol manufacturers reduced production and fired employees. For a while, it seemed like the wad was winning. Forcibly sobered drinkers sat around like turtles left on dry land out of their shells awaiting every drop they could get. But you know how elastic politicians are and just how elastic christians have become these days. And before you stone me, i said christians not clergy. Those folks on sunday in nice clothes and church programmes clutched in their hands like the ticket to heaven. The same guy from whose office 12 million shillings of taxpayers money will mysteriously disappear and the same chick who has a "spa" appointment on tuesday as her stressed husband contemplates robbery. Holy face on sunday then back to iniquity on monday. Heck, no-one's perfect. That's why God is a forgiving father, true love's about the bitter with the sweetness.
Selling of alcohol was illegal but people retained the right to do whatever they pleased with themselves. Essentially you could drink but the government would do its darndest to ensure that you had no access to alcohol. There's an old saying, one mans meat is another mans poison. You see, there are some people who wait for opportunity to knock while others actively prepare to receive their guest. A few enterprising characters, the best known of whom is Alfonso Capone, geared to fill the supply vacuum. Gangsters set about bribing cops and financing political campaigns for pliable politicians. They also set up hidden distilleries and created smuggling lanes that were the envy of legitimate merchants. Loopholes were found in the law and soon business was booming. Distribution included smuggling, hijacking of legitimate alcohol shipments( Canada was still happily tipsy and so were the south american neighbours) and illegal breweries. Men who ritualy stopped for a pint turned to the more easily available hard liquor and took to drinking at home. Imagine the strain on families. The more adventerous ones ventured into brewing home concotions that were never really sure if they wanted to be beer or whisky or porridge. Sinister dregs in the bottom of cups. It was legal to serve alcohol in a public show of some sort so 'blind pig shows' mushroomed. People paid a certain entrance fee at the venue to view some exotic object or creature (ergo, blind pig) and were served with complimentary drinks. Of course the entrance fee was suspiciously close to the cost or drinks.
Soon the nation went back to the natural rythm and people kept drinking. Meanwhile, the government was losing one of her favorite revenue sources, the sin tax levied on alcohol. The police rapidly went back to their patent indifference as they pursued 'real' crime. The young FBI turned its nose up on this debate and corruption thrived, keeping lots of people happy.
By 1933, the charade was stopped. The law was repealed and almost overnight, things changed. Being a drinker didn't make you a criminal and mobsters lost nearly all profits from illegal booze. Cheap, legal alcohol was now available and people could go about to the more important issues.
However, there's a happy ending to this (sort of). The USA has many social programs in place offering support to alcoholics and encouraging responsibility. They have strict measures against drunk driving and a tightly regulated industry.
This is where Mututho has tuthad, treating symptoms doesn't cure the disease(i've watched enough House M.D to know). Alcoholism and irresponsible drinking are personal issues while underage drinking is a social issue. Until you fight the cause, the problem is here to stay.

Lipstick Jungle

Face it, if you watch a lot of TV or spend time on the internet or are just the ordinary human, you see a lot of women. Yes, these fair daughters of venus can not be ignored. Sure, they’re good mothers,daughters, sisters,friends and much more but the primary attribute they’re known for is drama. Many a molehill has been made into a mountain with the mere introduction of a woman into the equation.
And with the proliferation of soap operas with hot latin women and vivacious white women and intelligent black women, the level of drama is at an astounding high. Everyone has had a moment when you wanted to just scream and pause. Where you just wanted it all to stop and just take a breather. I think it must be very intriguing for the Creator to watch the results of his 7 day project and especially the effects of element . If i remember my Bible right, God created man last. I bet he must have been happy with himself as he watched the gazelles frolic and man walk around learning. Heck, i bet Adam would already in the process of inventing a ball or some other equally masculine obsession but oh no, he just had to perform your first major surgery and introduce some drama. Maybe he created us on the morning of the sixth day but was already kinda bored by evening. Then he had a brainwave, picked a bone and voila! There was woman. Just in time to bring adam some drama the moment he recovered from his anaesthesia induced slumber. And it didn’t stop. Imagine how it was for poor Adam as the number of women increased and the drama became a constant part of his life.
Despite all this, i have to admit that life would be black and white without them. Because when you take a moment to enjoy the flavour of life, it has an unmistakably feminine taste. So here i am watching yet another of those strongly feminist-corporate but sexy-i want that bag-beautiful shoes-i dumped him series. Back to the drama.

The War Is Won.

7 September:
It’s 2 am and the 6 beers I had earlier demand to be expelled. I wake up and get out of bed carefully to avoid waking my girlfriend then I blindly stumble my way to the bathroom. With the bedroom door safely closed, I can now switch on a light to ease my navigation. The illumination reveals a bizarre sight. It’s like a party, an insectile orgy, tens of cockroaches scampering around with impunity and making half hearted attempts to hide. They obviously consider themselves members of this household but unlike the human occupants are unperturbed by the myriad shortages in Kenya and their girth declares “what food shortage?”
These little bastards are thriving like a Kenyan politician yet I keep all my food stored properly and I’m meticulously clean. Despite food shortages, power shortage, water shortage and an increasingly inhospitable environment they thrive and reproduce like mad.
I have fought many battles at these ungodly hours and I have claimed my fair share of victims but I despair now for they seem to carry powerful juju. Some have been crushed under slippers while others have been ruthlessly gassed to death with doom but they just keep increasing. Despite turning my house into a Nazi death chamber every week, they increase. For every roach I kill, two appear to take its place.
At one point they got so brave that occasionally one of them would take a nonchalant stroll around my living room unfazed by the presence of guests. Any move to approach it would just inspire a short dash to a hiding place that hardly looked like it could accommodate anything. The irony was that winning was losing but losing was still losing.
As we discussed war stories with my butcher, I lamented about my unending battle. As the cleaver landed on the pork ribs with a meaty ‘thunk’ he said,”Iko dawa.” With a conspiratorial smile on his face, he proceeded to extol the virtues of his remedy. Being kikuyu, he sounded like he wanted to sell me the stuff and the born salesman he was spoke to me,”Hii DIAZINONE inaua yote. Ata kupe na mbu. Hakuna kitu inabakisha.”
I needed to add this wonder chemical to my chemical warfare arsenal. These little sons of bi@#$ had taken over my home and made a mockery of my stringent domestic sterilization regime and it sounded like the end was nigh. As I went home I stopped at an agrovet store and picked up a canister of the lethal stuff and a sprayer. The label carried a large skull and crossbones and warned the user to dress in appropriate protective equipment.

8 September.
It’s 2 p.m and here I am with a sprayer full of the poisonous concoction. My ‘appropriate protective equipment’ is an old lab coat, the face mask and goggles. The battle lines are drawn and I spare a moment to let any sensible roach escape after all, I’m not Hitler. Then the war begins, I spray every inch of the house then I lock up the house and leave for school. The label said that no living organism (me or a pet) should enter the house for 12 hours so I’ll be away for the night.

9 September.
It’s 2 p.m and I descend the stairs to my house. Already a smile is forming on my face as I view the first casualties. Two roaches lie upside down right outside my door and I gleefully rub my hands together before I open the door. It’s a holocaust. This must be what genocide looks like. Tens upon tens of roaches lie on the floor in various stages of death. Some are upside down and unmoving while others twitch spastically in corners obviously dying an agonizing death. I put in a notorious BIG cd and begin the clean up. The few survivors walk around in a daze before the poison paralyzes them for my broom. The cd plays on.

10 September
It’s 2 am and I’m awake taking advantage of the last few hours I have electricity before they turn it off for rationing. Not a roach in sight.

11 September
It’s 2 am and here I am again. This time it’s not a bathroom break or a midnight oil burning session. My nose is blocked and I sneeze every few minutes. My head feels like it’s filled with crushed glass and my throat is parched. Any attempt to swallow anything results in a painful protest by my tonsils and any movement aggravates the little men with sledgehammers in my head. My joints ache like I got malaria from a herd of mosquitoes and I feel so weak that I can barely lift off the blankets from my sweating body. The lady at the agrovet had told me that the mild illness I’d been experiencing during the day would heal as soon as my body metabolized and excreted the residue of the chemical but my slight discomfort has progressively worsened to this. I resign myself to the discomfort consoling myself with thoughts of victory but wait a minute, what’s that? No! How? I weakly watch a juvenile roach crawl out the light fixture. Aluta continua.