THE TALES OF THE SHANTY TOWN

The writer airborne for 5 minutes

The long route was usually my ideal way home from the town. I don't really know why I preferred the long route, but I guess I enjoyed the roars of River Thingithu.

The town was trifling shanty town with more barber shops and drinking dens than there were vegetable vibandaski’s. The presence of many barber shops was an indication of high levels of joblessness among the young people. Engaging in barber shop business was undoubtedly also an indication of the young people's ambition for a better life. Besides each barber shop, there was at least two besmirched drinking dens. Dens that were stocked with the porridge looking liquor, 'marwa' and the foul smelling yellow liquor 'mugacha'. It was these drinking dens that had killed the aspirations of some of the fledgling people.

In the evenings, I would often take a walk to the shanty town to pass time. Pass time listening to ragga music with my teeth busy gnawing the mild-antidepressant herb from Nyambene hills. 200 meters afar from my shanty rest place, there was a drinking den that was a favorite place for my old friend Mr. Kiambati and his wife Ntibuka Kiambati. On my way home, once in a while, I would pass by my friends favorite drinking den to have a 'kithikothio' of 'marwa' while having a giggle with his wife Ntibuka. Apparently, a giggle about nothing important, save for discussions around her pretty daughter, Kendi Wa Ntibuka, who was growing to be of interest to me. I will, at some other day, narrate to you how I passionately and romantically strolled Ntibuka's daughter on an evening walk along the paths of River Thingithu.

One day, on a relatively chilly evening, slightly more minutes after twilight, and after I had a 'kithikothio' with Mr. Kiambati and Ntibuka Kiambati, I took my usual long route home; the route along River Thingithu. Those many years back, River Thingithu used to growl that you would think lions were entombed by the mads of the river bank. Today, I am informed that the same river, cannot quench the thirst of a one-month old lamb; sadly, the roaring waters are no more. The only visible thing are the small smooth soap pebbles and the tadpoles swimming in the little stagnant waters; swimming like a sperm would swim its way to fertilization.

As I walked along the river bank, with nothing in my mind other than Kendi Wa Ntibuka, two men buttonholed me. I am not sure where they came from, but I suspect they had been surreptitiously following me. In a mixture of shudder and courage, I made five quick steps behind, stood stand still and asked the two scruffily dressed men, "Imbi bukwenda nturika iji"?. They made a step forward to me and I made a step behind as well. Those days, I had already started my Karate classes and as at the time, I was a proud holder of a second degree belt in Karate.

Sensing danger, I jumped up in the skies, remained airborne for five minutes and on landing down, one of the men, was fighting for his life drowning deep in the waters of River Thingithu. If there were any witnesses then, they could be narrating to you how my heart was pounding like 'muthikore' being pounded in a mortar. The witness would now be narrating to you how I was roaring heavily in anger that you couldn't tell whether it was me roaring or River Thingithu.

My second victim was now hiding behind the bamboo trees. I held him by his shaggy shirt and pulled him back to the path. I made a step behind and returned back with a 'frari faking' slap that landed him to deep in the waters of River Thingithu. This time I was fuming with fire. I felt like diving, like the way I used to dive in 'nchiumbe', into those deep waters and eating those two men in cold water. 'Nciumbe' was a natural swimming pool downstream River Thingithu where we used to swim and dive together with the village boys. During those swimming days, I would swim and dive like a shark to the roaring of the on looking boys.

I could no longer hear the screams of the first victim who I sent drowning after my heavenly flying kick. I guess he was already drowned to death. I could though see the hands of the second victim who suffered the wrath of my 'frari faking' slap. After a short while, the hands were invisible; the man was dead.

I wish Kendi Wa Ntibuka, had witnessed my experience along the banks of River Thingithu. She would be screaming my praises today. Mrs Kiambati would probably be an in-law today. But wishes are not donkeys.

These were the tales of the shanty town last night.