From Kisii, the road winds up and forth, across a
panorama of green trees and sunbathed sheets of peasant homes, and beyond herds
of livestock bellowing in their hundreds; alive and chewing cud. Further,
Tegunot lies at the summit of hills and ranges with its nonchalant grace yet;
Londiani lies west and is a vast jungle of brick and tarmac.
Tegunot is at the edge of the hilltops flaunting the
Western Mau. It is home to a deranged forest complex; a lush belt of
eucalyptus, cypress and oak trees, brimming springs, and a robust peasant
economy. The locals here farm corn, and cereals – and rear cows, goats, sheep,
donkeys, and poultry. A cup of milk goes for a paltry ten shillings.
It was in this sleepy village where he grew up and made
his cut. Beyond the great mountain ranges, and the alleys that iterated below,
a river snaked downstream from the tip of the Mau. It was in this river where, as a boy and in the company of his peers he swam, fetched water, and watered the
animals. But none was as poignant as diving into the stream and swimming across
the length of the river. Even the whirligig beetles and water bugs couldn’t
take away the excitement of frolicking in the deep of the waters. Utility poles
used to run across the village, following the trail of murram – everywhere it went
until it stopped at the premises of the government administrator. Such rarity
stunned him and his peers, and they would often engage in some mindless
tampering of telephone cables out of curiosity, for which they would get a
beating and a stern warning of dire consequences should they be culpable of
committing the same offense in the future.
I remember mama asking me to tag him along to school one fine morning. He was around five at the time and I was already making moves in my schooling. Our old man was once a music instructor at the school. My other siblings were a couple of grades ahead of me at the time.
He was ready for school, I thought - since he could fetch
water all by himself, and climb uphill, panting and puffing until he reached
home with the water can intact. Later that year, I changed schools, and my boy
turned out fine. At Tegunot, he established himself as a humble and quiet boy,
and this endeared him to teachers and students. And his grades seemed to follow
in-step. At grade 2, he was challenging for honors, but one Ndungú – he told
me, was simply unbeatable. He talked of him fondly in the later years,
relishing the old rivalries and the kind of personality cult he created.
At that tender age, he fell off a tree and got a leg
stuck in a trench. And this would define his life. Before long, he was
incapacitated and could no longer walk without a supporting stick. One year
after my secondary education came to a close, I returned to Tegunot, this time
as a teacher in the newly established secondary unit. Sometimes I could take
his class through the paces of elementary mathematics, and there was this
unusual excitement that arose when I tasked him with answering a discussion
prompt.
In his formative years, while at school, he used to bear
the brunt of ridicule and pity with immense equivocation. The younger children
who appeared to, or even tried to mock his physical incapacitation, were
whipped up – no one messes with the duke.
I must imagine he was probably at a stage of self-denial.
Sometimes, I wonder how it felt being in his shoes. He was very green and fresh
when he encountered his first obstacle yet. At 5, things were not as green as
he would have imagined, and by bits, he harbored some rebellion I only
understood. And because he was always in sync with me, we hardly fell apart.
Mostly, we agreed on a myriad of matters, including our unfettered support for
the Chelsea football club.
By the time he joined high school, his legs had acquired
some form of tremor and had completely lost their strength. They would
involuntarily shake, as though no film of muscle was holding them together, and
this necessitated a wheelchair. On the day he was getting admitted, I
accompanied him to school. I remember the deliberations that ensued as to
whether he would board or day school. I remember how he resisted any attempts
to have him lodge at a nearby special school. Surely, he believed he could
do it with or without the necessary infrastructure for the physically
challenged persons. I remember going to see the headteacher of the school to
argue why it was imperative we let the duke of Londiani be.
“It is matters policy, “said the teacher. “We do not want
to fall in trouble with the ministry”
“Nothing you could do?” I asked one Mrs. Wandeo who
taught me Swahili in my high school years.
“I wish I could,” she said. “But my hands are tied.’’
At that point in time, I knew we had reached a dead end
as far as our quest was concerned. Mama was beyond tired and infuriated. Duke was
exasperated, and amid that melee, I figured what to do. You see, there’s no
need to set off a wagon on a mule. I pulled duke over and
talked about the possibility of shifting schools when that term came to a
close. Surprisingly, he agreed with me like he always did. He must have thought
big brother might just have nicked in a point.
Over his high school years, he became asthmatic, and we
constantly had to ring the school administration to check on his health and
well-being. Then one closing day, he packed up and told his friends he was not
coming back. He informed the sister in charge that the school had done him in,
and that he was leaving. That must have been one heck of a resolve. So my folks
had to look for a school in some place warm, and Joyland they found and enrolled him the following term. He settled into the Joyland community as
imperceptibly as possible. He still kept in touch with friends from former
schools. Some of them became close in his tight-knit circle.
“Some friends, morio, are for keeps,” he told me severally.
Then I visited his school one fine morning in June. I was
fresh from college and I had recently been invited to my first interview. When
the first light struck, I was on my way. I was at the outskirts of Kisumu town
at around 8, and Joyland shortly thereafter. There had been a torrential
downpour the night before – you could tell. The field was drenched in water,
and the place was surly. I was disturbed at this sight at first. Knowing how
immovable a wheeler can get against a slack of mud and mundane grass, I was
worried for duke.
I waited at the reception until the students stepped out
for their tea break. I was taken to his classroom. He was not in but had seen
me enter. When he closed in, I could see the delight in his eyes. We exchanged
pleasantries, talked matters school and how he was possibly coping up
especially with the lack of pavements and the long grass.
“I have someone to help wheel me around under my payroll,”
he said sheepishly.
When I pressed to know what kind of payroll he was talking
about, he told me his aide gets fifty shillings worth of mandazi weekly
as his penance. It was this feeling of physical frailty that made him a very
diplomatic person. He had his guys doing moves for him without expecting any
form of defrayment. He had some sort of wand that he played, and drew people
close.
By the time he was done away with schooling, he had developed multiple
conditions. He was more focused on staying alive as opposed to going to
college.
“Going to college is absolute baggage for now,” he said.
“Let me grind and see what happens during the turn of the year.”
For a start, with the help of his most trusted lieutenant
called Denno, he started a barbershop. Before long, he had contacts in
the Chinese colony deployed for various infrastructural projects in the
country, where he sourced lottery machines. Already, I was getting flattered by
his business acumen. Now he could cater for his weekly drug essentials and we
would chip in when he felt the need to tip us off.
It seems so yesterday when duke and big
brother took a walk down the farm to have a little chat and keep off
the boredom of having to be in one place through the length of day and the glaring heat. We had done this drill severally for he was at peace reconciling
his thoughts with the purity of air and shade, as well as the buoyant company.
I would engage him on a variety of topics and his breadth was beyond reproach.
“I am on Twitter, and while you are at it, you get on top
of things; your knowledge on a subject matter is up to speed,” he said. And he
knew Drey.
Sometimes he would get lyrical when we listened to some
strident rap songs from yesteryears. And Shakur, he became. He
christened himself as the duke of Londiani.
*******
The dusty road now looms. Some wind blows south, gusting dirt, foliage, and tin. Cows are mooing from afar. The sun is high in the sky
radiating with brilliance, and scorching menacingly. The river that once sliced
through the thick canopy of trees is now dry and drenched by the sultry
weather and the ravaging drought.
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