Cock…(continued at the end)
I stood up to go somewhere, but now I do not know where it was, or what I was going to do when I got there. There’s the door I opened and closed, built by my grandfather’s friend and ‘shipped’ on an old donkey cart, repaired many times since, and still holding.
Everybody who has a heartbeat lies to everyone else, including themselves, most of the time. Some lie even after they die, which is interesting given that the dead tell no tales, unless they have written them before, or donated sperm ante-mortem.
If you are reading this and you have ever had your phone stolen, grabbed even, in this (used-to-be) city in the sun, then you are either smiling to yourself or holding your chin. A phone is not an easy thing to lose, never has been. The Kenyan phone thief is proof that Darwin was right. First, let us agree that there are no absolutes in science, there are no facts, and there is no proof. Everything depends…
“Once more into the fray
Into the last good fight I’ll ever know…”
My penance piety does not suffice
As the fray takes toll upon my mortal
As the dagger slices and dices
The fort crumbles…
Hope and pray I be reborn
To dive into the fray one other
To face demons whose fire I stoke
That my soul for peace to have
My heart for ants to feed
Yet death hath become this life I boast
All good fights have come to this
The moment on which I stand
The weapon upon my hand
Broken sheath under my feet
On this day I am born
On this day I die
I must hope and pray
That one day I learn to hope and pray
Eyes gaze beyond the clouds
For an omen I might see
This fort mine blessing and curse.
Immortality it might be
The bright light that cometh my way
Into the last good night I’ll ever see.
“…Live and die on this day
Live and Die on this day.”
The fact that you have read the title and decided to read this post implies that you find it intriguing that a beautiful girl can have a connection to the house of the dead, what we mortals call a morgue or Mortuary. Well, let me be the first one to tell you this, the beautiful girls die too…I hear beauty actually rots faster too…
Relax, this story has nothing to do with a dead beautiful girl…she’s pretty much alive but we’ll get to that part later.
Let me start at the beginning, if there ever was one…
I am pursuing what some might call a sadistic career. It is not the noble professions of medicine and law, or even the common business and commerce but rather, something that will make sure that I am in touch with the dead, literally, more often than most find comforting. But that’s the boring part…
If you know where City Mortuary is then you know something I did not before last Friday, I do not mean that I did not know it’s in Nairobi (because it serves the city, logic dictates that it be near) but God created man and man created Foursquare and there’s also the helpful conductor. The conductor was this guy who seems to think in vernacular, and when 98% of the passengers alighted at KNH, I gave him the Puss-in-boots eyes you give when you do not know the directions to a place. Ladies might not know the face because men are only too willing to help anyone with boobs at the cost of a smile (then again, no one wants to help a Wangu wa Makeri with a face like that of a guy). For guys, the first fight is always with your ego, first having to admit that no matter how helpful Foursquare is, it still does not beat a conductor who plies the route several times a day. Once you ask then you have to wait for him to finish giving you the quick how-the-fuck-do-you-not-know face, and no matter how important you think you are, you have to wait…and hope he does not forget.
It reminded me of my first trip to the city alone, technically I was not going to the city, I was heading to Eastleigh, Section 3, right behind MAB where my eldest sister used to live. Suffice to say I got lost, really lost, because I assumed that all Eastleigh matatus use the same route and I boarded a Number 9 which anyone will tell you do not go to that side of the busy town. Yes, you can laugh now, or wait till I mention that I only had a twenty bob in my pocket (the note, before they phased them out again-Life was cheap back then I tell you *holds head in despair*). Since I was too young and too proud to ask for directions, I ended up being taken back to Nairobi and then back to Eastleigh. I survived being charged thrice by a stroke of genius, okay, mostly luck in the fact that most of those huge and noisy minibuses have more than one conductor and I kept telling each one who came in that I had just paid the other. I was young and believable back then…in the end I asked for directions, and the conductor laughed, sneered at me even with the same face I described previously before pointing at a Number 4 and stopping the minibus so I could alight.
Then a few years ago, I had to visit a friend in UoN Kabete Campus. You would think that it would be easy to find such a ‘prestigious’ institution as their school of Veterinary Medicine and Agriculture but there are no matatus that have ‘watu wakujaza’ yelling UoN. Instead, you have matatus that head to a place called ‘Ndumboini’ (I will wait for you to pronounce that out loud in your head-thrice). The thing with this is that I am a self-confessed grammar Nazi and even with vernacular, I try to keep within the simple universal rules of grammar. I played the name in my head all the way past Waiyaki way, trying to gather enough courage to ask the conductor to ‘shukisha tukifika Ndumboini’. Luckily, someone beat me to it, and I found out that even the residents have a problem with the moniker and prefer to shorten to the much easier to pronounce ‘Ndumbo’…that, and it is the last stage on the route exactly 50 metres from where I was headed.
Okay, back to City Mortuary, I alight from the matatu on the roundabout because there’s a traffic jam and am late for my practical (plus am Kenyan, that’s my weak and flimsy justification for breaking the law). I walk in past the three hearses and the campus bus at the parking lot and call a friend who’s inside. A few minutes later am walking past the preservation and examination room, more of a hall, where the stench of decomposing flesh will hit you so hard you will need a few moments to collect yourself. In the office I get about seven light face masks because I am late and the only one’s available look like a cruel joke. I do not even know why am asking for them because I have what must be the worst sense of smell in the world-I tend to get smells hours after I should have, which meant that I was most likely going to smell the decomposing flesh in its full blown form later, much later.
When we finally do go in to the ‘house of the dead’, there is this overwhelming sense of death. It is not really something that I can explain, and it’s not the same feeling you get when someone close to you dies, it’s something darker, some sense that there is something deeper and darker, but I think it’s because of the formalin. There are bodies on some medieval looking examination tables and the floor is sprawled with blood and formalin. Every member of the staff is in gumboots, but this guy here who is in his loafers which means that he has to be extra careful lest he carries out a piece of death into the world. The staff is extra helpful; it’s the same way you feel when you are explaining to a child how something works. Did I mention that none of them, including my lecturer whose name is on a schedule on the wall as the consulting pathologist on Fridays, is in a facemask. They all have white, or at least what once were white, gumboots and overalls with a green plastic apron and a green plastic cap.
Relax, I will still tell you about the beautiful girl…woman actually.
Postmortems, that’s what am here to learn. My passion is a dark, and this morgue is not what you in CSI, NCIS or Criminal minds. I have been to more than my fair share of morgues in my short life, mostly for education but also because death tends to rob you of people you love once in a while but I had never felt this human before. There was the lady medical examiner, she was kinda hot, nothing mesmerizing or intriguing except the way she moved the scalpel. Yes, the scalpel, I had not mentioned that particular tool? I never got her name so am going to refer to her by all possible pronouns befitting a female. She had a scalpel she used to make the Y-incision you have seen many times on TV. That was not particularly gross, what killed it was how she cut open a guy’s, or at least what remained of him, head to reveal a fractured skull. There was no swag or ceremony, there was no war song or surgery stuff, no procedure, at least to the untrained eye, in the way she just sliced it open almost all the way round, making a perfect semi-circle and then pulling the skin up his face. I trust that you are still not grossed out yet, and you are still waiting for me to mention the beautiful woman…patience.
What you never see in the making of the Y-incision is the fact that the bone that connects the chest cavity has to be removed and there is no machine, at least in this institution to do the job. You guessed it right, it is done manually and before you ask, there is a cracking sound and voila! You are in!
Okay, that was a moment of sadism.
We were all concentrating on the lady whose accent gave away a privilege upbringing, which led me to the hypothesis that she either started engaging in S & M too early, or watched too many horror movies, or joined the profession out of rebellion and then fell in love with the whole quietness. As we moved from body to body, a team of three women followed, closing up the chests by sewing them sides together, and that’s when I saw her…lady X.
Lady X was hot! I do not mean the kind of extra hot that seems too good to be true, she was the kind of hot you want to eat right there. She was the expert among the three, the one with the big needle working up people’s chest and abdomen as if they were fabric. She was working with some random looking white thread, it’s not even a thread, but it’s too small to be called a rope and too big to be thread. She was sewing them like she had beef with them, but she was still hot. I ogled, I could not stop myself, and the irony being that we were both in what many would think was a hellhole. I watched her as she sewed the guy up, and then, this part spoils the story, she did what we all do when we are done sewing anything, we have tied the knot and we are ready to cut and there is no pair of scissors around. I will wait for you to think that one out before I tell you…
Yes, she cut the thread/rope by biting it! Even for me, that’s just gross! That particular part of the rope has gone in through each of the incisions she made with the huge needle…the hot cannibal, sounds new, yes?
I had discarded of the seven facemasks because my nose was not going to really tell me what everyone else was experiencing anyway. There was the guy who had beaten to death, the guy who had fallen from a motorbike, the other who had been burnt by a mob and a child whose story I did not want to know, for my own sanity. About the mob victim by the way, one of the staff told me that no matter how charred a male burns victim is, the dong never really burns off or out. It just keeps shrinking and shrinking (which is what we all fear more than anything else) until it is merely a stab (note that I am working from the point of view that the dong in question is of average African size, I do not know about Asians but theirs must be a sadder tale).
In the end, the woman was still hot, but disgusting nonetheless. We asked her a few questions before we left and she seemed to have a likeable personality but her and the needle doing it is still stuck in my head.
As we left, a police Landover drove in (I just felt like I repeated myself) carrying the body of what used to be a human being, naked and sprawled on the back. The dead guy supposedly tried to molest a child and a mob set upon him, beating him to death before the cops arrived and brought him to be dissected and studied for legal purposes. I did not stick around to see whether the lady X would taste this one too…I was hungry… (The thin between being a cannibal and being a carnivore)
I am at that age where it is easy to remember the days of yore without overly exaggerating for the sake of raising my stature among my would-be grandchildren. They are, actually, still minute cells within my loins and I have little need to lie to them now…at least just yet…
Okay, fine, I do not know. Just thought I should let that out before you started and halfway down this post you realized that I am just a writer trying to unblock his mind (don’t we all, and the toilet plunger does not work, I have tried, maybe my head is too big?) and then you really felt the need to stone me but couldn’t because…well, am invincible (or am too far, but still, invincible is more macho).
Okay fine, what’s grinding my gears today? Many things, okay, not many, maybe a bowel that needs to be emptied one time too many and does not, in my view, return the favor by ignoring its own contents at a time like now when I need to write. Let’s talk about several things, first politics (the option is I speak of religion first, and we shall play religious roulette where we all stand in a ring and blaspheme each other’s deities and then wait for it…..
wait for it……
waaaaaaiiiit….lightning! Who got hit? Who got hit?)
We are, as per this article, still winning on the corruption this scale, and of course, athletics and bad management. Corruption is the fuel that drives the world and if we cannot do away with it, I, like all other good and reasonable human beings, want a chance to participate in it. Did you cringe at that? Relax, you knew from the start that this was no apologetic post. In fact, we should all loathe people who pretend to have a moral sense. Whether it’s the politician who apologizes to us for being caught with his wee wee in public, or high-class escorts, or getting head from the maid. We should loathe them all because given the chance and the money, we would probably do not better. One of my favorite comedians (and I am feeling too lazy at the moment to start going through the collection to figure out which one-although I will probably do it later) says he will vote for the first politician who admits to everything.
Oh yuh, its Louis Ramey, he says that the first politician to admit to whoring and using drugs will get the most votes, the first being his (Ramey’s).
The not-worst part of it is that as a society, we are more sensitive to women even when they have fought hard to be treated as men (not ‘on your face’ feminists). If, for example, a female leader, I am not saying Rachel Shebesh or Mbarire ( Seriously, I am not even suggesting you get a mental image of the following part) posts a picture of any part of their anatomy complementary to that which Anthony Weiner posted on Twitter and lost his job for, I for one, would ask whether they were any more photos. Its simple, we are copying the American society at too fast a rate to understand that they might not even know they have a skewed moral sense after all.
An example? Remember the Superbowl where a wardrobe malfunction, thanks be to whatever deity you subscribe to, Janet Jackson’s boobbecame the hit of the year? (Which, if you followed that link, actually has a whole website dedicated to it)
And the American govenrment made a fuss like someone had been killed on TV and even fined the cable network? Then the journalist was beheaded in Iraq and it was shown on prime time news? My question is, WTF! So, imagine, for a minute, that Anne Kiguta or Julie Guchuru’s dress malfucntions when they are reading you today’s not-new news…
(Okay, I’ll give you sometime to imagine-Ladies, you can jump the part above, too late?)
You can see the furore? The millions of parents baying for the blood of the two, women, not boobs of course. Yet clothes and covering breasts is a new thing we adopted when we gave away our lands (an unfair trade if you ask me). If you see Samburu women with boobs hanging to their stomachs (very old women who are essentially, Kenya’s own proud nudists), do you cringe or laugh hysterically? Yet in private you either own or fancy a pair of boobs, right? But you do not think that, despite the fact that everyone else either owns or is chasing ass, they should see it all at once?
If you followed the ’08 US elections, you must have noticed a concerted effort by campaign teams to show the flaws of the candidates. This will probably feature in the elections next year all over the world… So, why do we expect politicians to avoid the temptations of alcohol, women, drugs, flashing wee wees on the internet, getting head from maids and other things that we do not ourselves do. For one, I loathe societies with double standards. I can co-exist with individuals with double-standards but not societies. Remember when Captain Sparrow says “You can trust dishonest people to be dishonest. It’s the honest people you should be afraid of because you never know…”
Do I advocate for people to photograph their wee wees with cameras with high megapixels and post them all over the internet? The fact of the matter is, one man’s nudity is another’s fantasy, in the sense that ‘raha ya bata si ya kuku’ (what pleases the duck is not what pleases the hen?). We are all uploading garbage on the internet, this is the great resource where you find what you are looking for. Unlike walking into a bar where you ex might be the stripper on the pole, or giving a lap dance to your ol’ man, the internet, and indeed, modern media, allows you to choose what you see.
Anyway, I support human politicians, if you still have hope in politicians then you should probably go lie somewhere on Thika Road that China Wu Yi has not tarmarcked yet and let them run the tar all over you. As a society, our skewed ‘Westernized’ morals will be the death and ruin of us (not necessarily in that sequence) OMG! Am still rumbling… So, politics are officially an ass, and politicians the riders on this unwilling unnecessary animal.
We are not officially a useless species but we are headed there if we continue to think that the vote of the masses means anything in this modern world. Actually, group mentality is the basis of the modern form of democracy. The skewed moral sense is, however, a result of the human interaction (and fabrication), of religion (Yes, I have just transitioned to this animal, if you have religious sensitivities, please follow this link to earlier religions, sorry posts ;)) Whatever your beliefs about religion are, People invented the idea of God in the sense that we have all, in a way, transitioned our respective deities and moral codes to suit our needs. That’s why the Christian pastor will add internet porn to the commandments, and the Saudi imam will give a theological argument as to why women should not drive. However you think of it, religion can only be true if there is a heaven for every religion, it is indeed, as Karl Marx said ‘the opium of the masses’. Anyway, religion is a boring topic so, let’s talk about whether or not we are a waste of genetic materials. Okay, maybe some other time…
“I am never going to have anything more to do with politics or politicians,” Churchill once declared. “When this war is over I shall confine myself entirely to writing and painting.”
Its no secret, there are no more formal jobs for any of us who do not have one already, and not enough money for those who do. The number of graduates tarmacking after four years of sex and alcohol (and a few lectures) is worrying so we all need to knock up some ideas that will bring everyone money, not just to live on, but to buy that shoe (for women) or peace (for men) that you have really craved.
High school was a morbid experience. I doubt the kids in high school now have gone through some of the things we went through (as each generation wants to think it more badass than the next, and less than the last). Given that I was in form 1 at around the time bullying was losing its gist and creativity was already on a downfall, this list is most likely incomplete. But that is not to say that legends do not exist…
Definitely one of the classics, and could have been an activity by itself, or part of a master plan of villainy to make your form one life a living hell. It was always about smelly shoe…a shoe so smelly that the reception was kind of decent…
First day of high school, you are excited but apprehensive. Your parents are leaving, and you are standing near the gate waving them goodbye….balancing tears….
Three mean-looking boys walk up to you. You can tell they are senior because their clothes are all torn and they have hardened faces. “
MONO, toa kiatu!” your mum said be obedient, so you remove your right shoe and hold it awkwardly in your hand.
“Pigia wazazi simu uwaambie wasisahau Vizo!”, that was your welcome to high school…..
Later in the Evening:
Sometimes, the things you go through at the hands of frustrated or high-on-cheap joints Form Fours make you want to eat yourself. The details of the ‘Tethered Dog’ are pretty basic: a senior used a tie or any other rope-y thing to tie you to, say a bed in a crouching position, like a dog….mean, is it not?
Well, that’s not the whole story, once tied, you had to act like a dog, you had to growl and bark at anyone that passed (and piss on a hydrant, but lets not go there). Fun, is it not? Well, that is If you are barking at your peers, but the highest probability is that your peers are tethered too. What about barking at another senior? That is what this one was made for, it was not an end in itself, or a means to an end, and rather, it was the classic start to the trail of destruction
This is one of the legends,
It is actually pretty simple…..
First, a senior tells you to close your mouth, then he holds out his clasped hands and tells you to imagine that is your mouth and mimic his movements….see the genius here????
It is pretty easy when it is just opening and closing, but we all know it went further than that, yes. He would twist and turn, and to the onlooker, you looked like you were doing weird facial massages, or the alien in you was trying to get out.
“I stroll into dorm 7, just to have kick out of its structure, it’s the first time that I am getting in, and the rumors in class have to be confirmed. And true to their words, it does appear to be a hall with beds flung all over; no partition whatsoever can be seen. Satisfied, I turn to leave. “Jokaaa, okia” I turn and see an upper form (they all looked ugly, bearded and old then (they still do, no?) student gesturing to me. I walk over to add to the number of shaking monos, huddled together.
He asks me what my name is:
“Jina moja kama blue?”
“Jina moja kama Blue Band?”
“John Kimiti Kiarie”
“Jina tatu kama Blue Band Choco?”
*slap* “joka unanijibu vibaya”
“ebu nioneshe venye uliruka”
“I attempt to jump up”
“Joka unaruka juu ama unaruka mwaka? ebu assume hii box ni mwaka na uruke mwaka”
*I jump over the box* thank God it was a Rabble’s box.
Then he asks us to sing Christmas carols and the loudest one can leave.
I really have no intention of overstaying my visit, and I flick on my singing voice and belt out a few choice notes. He is satisfied and lets me leave. But before I go, his pal, who was sleeping, asks, “nani huyo anawika huku kama mboch vajo?” He hands me a shirt to go wash. Since I don’t stay in that dorm, I just won me a shirt.”
“Its a sato, general cleaning is over, a forth former is lazy, does not play any game and cannot stand the heat in the Dh, so he is behind dorm 1, lying on the foamy mattress of a random form one. The sun is too hot, so he sends a form one to get a bed cover and three other guys, they come and miraculously become four posters, holding up the bed cover and shading the douche from the sun for a 30minute siesta before the bell announces the much awaited lunch of lumpy rice and beans. I should know, I was the back right post.”
I cannot say who went through this; because I believe they are still traumatized and might need therapy after reading it (Plus a few girls they might have kissed might read this and want to die). It was a sunny Saturday afternoon as I made my way back to the dorm. I met my friend, let us call him Phillip (still, any relation to persons alive, deceased or incarcerated is purely intentional!). Phillip was running out of the dorm, with a weird look on his face like he had just tasted the devil’s juices….well, turns out he had…
Inside, a Form 3 bully, a diminutive guy called KaNyamNyam (you do not wanna know) had been busy fiddling with his unused condoms when he thought up the most evil of plans. For interior décor, why not make some balloons for the dorm….to improvise, why not use condoms? And since Form Ones are certified blowers, why not get a host of them to do the dirty….slimy….work?
That’s where my pal Phillip comes in…its exactly as gross as you think it is , blowing a condom until it gets as big as a blown balloon (as opposed to what I do not know yet). That should be pretty easy, yes. Actually no, blowing a condom is hard work, it turns out, plus the tip will always be out on the other end looking all weird….have I mention that the oiliness gets to your mouth? And that as per what my friend went through for the next few days, three to be enact when his stomach was the site of weird grumblings (turns out tapeworms do not fancy protective sex).
In something related, I know someone who once got a whole can of Vaseline (the big one) applied to their naked body from head to toe! This was high school, they were no hot showers to melt it out….it was a cold shower as the drops of water slipped over his very-vaselined body! I don’t know who came up with this sadistic idea but am sure if he is reading this, he can tell how gay it looks now, does it, bully?
This was an isolated event, but it still stands out as one of the greatest acts of villainy ever thought of by a team of idle boys. We all know the idle mind is where Lucifer does his thing, but what if the idle mind has food for twelve people?
Let us start with some background…My high school was run by the law of the jungle in the latter part of my freshman year because the deputy principal had just been transferred. Not that he had been of any help, given that he thrived in chaos, and would yell “You Cccchoooooooullllld be a Man, You Chooooould resist!!!!” if you walked into his office claiming to have been bullied. But still, he brought order and his promotion left a vacuum his acting successor, nicknamed Ali Baba (who was my father’s student, back in the day, story for another day) could not fill.
So Form Fours would take all their food to the dorm and eat like they were in some cozy 0.5 star hotel. Behind Dorm 7 was our makeshift gym, which is just euphemism for a few connected stones of different sizes, and a makeshift bench-press. Two Form ones, let us call them X and Y are feeling very macho and venture into this restricted territory. They have a good session building their six-pack and all, until some Form Fours watching them from inside the dorm ‘pity’ them and offer them food…wait, did I write offer? I meant forced them to eat….get this, they had already had their supper, and before them was food that was meant for……wait for it……wait for it…..12 people!!!
To their credit, they cleared the ugali and bad veggies because they were form Ones and were therefore almost always hungry…but it gets better….
Someone offered them a glass of water each….which was good and brotherly….before they offered them another…..and another after that…..and even more! You know that feeling you get when you have fed past satiety? Imagine four glasses of water on top of that…….and a glass of very concentrated juice!
This was the height of torment. Luckily this was a legend when I got to high school but it seems intriguing and the genius of bullying and cheap torment. Now, most schools have what’s called a ‘Lights Out’ (any relation to the series is purely coincidental, no boxing ring). This is mostly during prep times and other times when the school administration will switch off the lights in selected places to discourage truancy. Its sort of like if aliens invaded earth and started farting all over the place except at sea, where we would have to go die rather than die from extra-terrestrial farts (is the image disturbing enough yet?).
Okay, so these timers did not recognize weekends, which meant that even when there were no preps and there should have been lights, they were off. Everyone herded at the entertainment hall until 9.30 p.m, or went to the dorm at the risk of being bullied, raped (story for another day) or kidnapped (still, a story for another day). Now, a small movement of evil geniuses, bored and mad at least, figured out that when most people got to the dorm at 9.30, the first stop was the washrooms before they went for cheap chitty chat , sleep or smoking joints. So, what did our antagonist’s do? In this particular dorm, the meter box had been placed right above the urinal (madness I tell you, madness). So, someone with a wicked sense of humor (who probably likes to be strangled and whipped too) poured salt on the cistern, dipped naked wires into the little pee that’s always left even when the other flows….can you see the genius now??
They/he then changed the timer to 5 minutes and then…..waited….
On the other end of our story is a little Form Boy, make that three little form One Boys. They have been hiding behind the crowd hurdled over the TV at entertainment, watching a soap opera (I should probably claim the time-barred defense of the Bro Code). They run away at exactly 9.20 and head to the dorm, timing it so that they will get there just in time for the lights and just in time to avoid getting bullied. So at 9.25, they get to the dorm door and enter…..wait for it….wait for it….they head to the washrooms because a man must empty his bowels, right?
Now, visualize three boys reaching three boys reaching for their zips. Visualize these three boys, reaching for their privates….can you see them now?
A naked wire was just minding its own business when some bugger tugged on it and placed it in smelly pee pee.
The pee pee left the bladder alright and headed up the channel, through the pipeline, momentarily heading upwards in a trajectory. It then yielded to gravity and headed down as the boy directed it there….it shot in a jet….right to the top of the naked wires just as the timer hit 9.30 and the lights came back on!
Can you hear the morbid laughter in the background?
Simple physics will tell you that this was essentially the crudest of all booby traps (perhaps exceeded only by marriage and mousetraps)
Suffice to say that if our three form one’s are reading this, they are shivering up and down their spines….I hope that, when you get Erectile Dysfunction at 30, you will direct your wives and fungas to this blog so they can know why…
My personal favorite
This is where Bernie Madoff and that DECI guy learnt their thing, maybe even Kamlesh too. On supper of day One, every Form 1, even the one who will later become a ‘kamjuaji’ is lost in the confusion and mayhem that dictates life in a dining hall. After supper you wait for directions, herded together like sheep….So, what is the Fraud of Spoons?
Think of it like this, before you went to high school, a spoon was just that…..a spoon…then you went to high school and it became a currency, a valued item that could be exchanged for favors (such as the name and address of a girl you had your eye on)
The Fraudster of Spoons thrived on these two things; ignorance and the worth of spoons. He was just a normal guy with an ingenious business idea….as you sat there looking all confused after supper; a serious looking fella would approach the first table holding an empty Kasuku (can). He would tell you that due to the worth of spoons, they are kept in the safety of the dining hall and he….in this case could be the Zeus or even Jesus…was the Guardian of the Spoons.
You were not naïve; you were following directions, right? And after the first table of suckers, the others would fall like a pack of dominos. A guy would leave with, say, 100 spoons for every 101 of you, the exception being the guy who did not go for supper that day….
Can you smell the fraud here?
So at lunch the next day, as the weevil-infested githeri swam in the soup on your green (or red) plastic plate, you waited…..patiently…..for the spoons or the Guardian of the Spoons…..but we all know what happens. Someone would notice no one was eating and enquire, and in your innocence, you said you were waiting for your spoons, and he would seek clarification m his eyes smiling already….then he would ROTFL like a mad hyena!
A few days later, when the demand for spoons was extremely high and supply non-existent, rumor would start that there was a guy selling spoons….at 20 bob each, and just like that, you would buy the same piece of cutlery twice.
Then there was that tree behind dorm one where jokas in that dorm used to be made to hang, about 10 of them and then fall off like ripe peaches.
Then you had to collect darkness using buckets.
Singing the national anthem in your mother tongue, singing it to the tune of “Wasn’t Me!”by Shaggy and Usher…