The Bahatian

Before the advent of colonialism in Africa, big and elaborate funerals were never heard of. In some customs like the Kikuyu, when one was one a death bed, it was fashionable to take such to the bushes to die, or miraculously recover in case of a grave illness and come back to the community, only after a special ceremony to ‘welcome the dead’ was done. And in case one died in one’s own hut like at the night, the standard practice of the time was to drill a hole at the back of the said hut for the hyenas and other scavenging animals to drag the dead body out and carry it to wherever. Touching a dead body was considered a taboo and a special cleansing ceremony was conducted to the ‘offender’.   Fast forward. Death is a big business minting millions for those in the industry. Be it that nondescript village carpenter or the morgue owner, the hearse operators or paid professional mourners, the buying of burial places or seeking crematorium services, the dead ‘blesses’ several al...

No one paid attention to the man who sat at the furthest corner of Murira Pub consuming copious glasses of whiskey. For those who glanced his way, they saw a man slouched forward on the table with a wide brimmed hat partially covering his face. Being a weekend, Murira’s pub was full, and noisy as music boomed and patrons shouted themselves hoarse in an attempt to communicate with each other.   Karanja, the patron with the wide brimmed hat, was in a foul mood and his mind was in an overdrive. He swirled the glass and gulped down the contents that left a searing fire in his throat as it coursed down to his stomach. As he refilled the glass, his eyes were bloodshot.   He could still hear the voice of Linah ringing in his ear following a phone call hours earlier.

It is a different scenario when handlers or diary keeper of the president deems some people unworthy of a president’s attention, or views them in different light.   Since 2017, an athlete by name of Maryanne Wangari (pictured), a resident of Nakuru, had tried in vain to reach the head of state and present him with a glass vase trophy she won in a road race in Germany.   Her story begins in 2012 when she registered for the Nairobi Standard Chartered marathon, and emerged almost the last. Disappointed with her rear finish, she decided to throw in the towel, and call it quits. But a talent scout who was at that event spotted her, and seeing much potential in her, took her, with others, to Nyahururu for rigorous training in ‘making athletes out of novices’.

A century ago, a man appeared in this village following what was more of an animal rut than a footpath. He wore an animal skin, the standard wear of the day, before colonialism came to Africa and the colonized adopted the Western attires. Legend has it the man was a messenger, and was only armed with a sword tied to his waistline which was for self-preservation from wild animals than for antagonism. He had a headgear where coloured feathers, purportedly from an ostrich or peacock, were stuck. Anyone who witnessed him from far off knew him as an emissary of a tribal chieftain more than a spy heralding a raid.   And as he approached a cluster of huts that calm morning, young men on lookout noticed him and gave out the warning whistles that any able bodied man within the clusters of the huts armed himself with whatever weapon he could get. The man with feather plumed headgear kept on walking making every effort not to reach for his sword or make any hand movement that would ...

  His name was Muraya. That’s what the man introduced himself the morning he came up the winding path to my home. He was in white gumboots, a white lab coat and an equally matching white cap. He carried a cardboard with papers attached by a clip with a businesslike countenance.   My first impression of him was that he was a veterinary doctor. I’ve not heard of a major livestock disease outbreak or an ongoing vaccination. The least I expected to hear was quarantine the moment he opened his mouth.   Not so. He said he had come from Nyeri and represented Nguku Nene Poultry Farm. He spoke with ease of a seasoned salesperson and it appeared that this was his forte.   There was no doubt that he was a persuasive speaker. It took him less to make me ‘see’ and buy into his plan. Already, according to the list he showed me, some of my counterparts were for the idea. It was this simple. With Sh3, 000, Nguku Nene Poultry Farm would supply some farmers in my village...

Teacher Neema was the new face in the village school. She had what was a typical bewitching smile, a well proportioned behind and an ample bosom with a revealing cleavage that made every male staff member drool after her. It was hard to tell then why she had chosen to teach in such a godforsaken village school that offered no quality education and little value for money. To begin with, it was a private institution with a confluence of Early Childhood Development and Education certificate holders, diploma graduates and a slew of untrained teachers. Salary was pegged on one's seniority and the level of training or experience garnered. I, being an untrained teacher, was in the lowly third tier with a salary nothing to write home about. Basically, it was a wage and not a salary that saw one go broke in a week or two of the pay day.

  Standing at the summit of a hill or a mountain and looking at your surroundings from that vantage point can be exhilarating. It is as though you’ve conquered a strong giant and you can jump up and down giving out whoops of joy to the delight of none other than your satiated heart.   Mountaineering is one of my hobbies, but over the years, I’ve given it a wide berth owing to the ups and downs of the life’s rat race. Of course, we all gets encumbered with cares of life that we hardly takes note when lethargy sets in and our pastimes slowly becomes things of a remote past.   The other day, I reignited this idyllic passion and set to the east of my general residence. The hill is simply known as ‘ Kirima ’, which simply translates as hill. It has been denuded of tree cover with few trees scattered here and there with surrounding peasants given minuscule plots to farm. These handkerchief sized pieces stretches all the way to the rocky summit. And how they manag...