My Kenyan mum; kill me in your mistake.

SHE held my left thigh, checked the hamstring, sides of my face behind my ears, my calf and said, "when will you ever learn how to apply jelly like your age mates?" I was seven years old who didn't understand the reason for applying jelly after all it was a matter of moments before I could return home with 3 kilograms of dirt especially in the regions mum insisted I had to apply jelly properly. I couldn't blame me: hyper, adventurous and kiherehere, she should have thought of an appropriate time to scooch me and wash me amidst protests and finely targeted pinches in my soft areas like the groin and buttocks. 

Kenyan mum,  why wash a child at 4 O'clock then expect them to come home like you sent them out to go play, well put "aya sasa enda ukacheze nje" (okay, go play outside). Outside! Back when we were growing up in the suburbs, these fancy bricks streets never existed, it was all about dust, murram or mud...so when mum hands you the keys to the kingdom of play and begin with "aya.." then followed the words that make up the dream of every child, "..enda ukacheze", I had to be careful. 

Well, "a bit careful" to be precise. I tip-toed, avoided dust like plague...abstained from all the vigorous plays like football (made from plastic bags) which in many occasions resembled soot as a result of dark mud that covered it. I could sit in the stands or a rock when the stands were full of sweating eliminated teams waiting another shot at glory. I could see my team lose then they could beg me to join and help (I was the best player of the group), at first I said no, then okay, but as the coach. I was the coach.Then catastrophe strikes, "Robin mamako anakuita ukaoge!" (Robin your mother needs you to go take shower), the referee, apparently the fat and lazy one was just withdrawn from the group and now we had no referee to officiate the match. It isn't a defamatory statement. You should know that during my time, the fat and lazy kids who couldn't run as fast as their team mates were rarely selected by captains when teams were being constituted, so they were by default referees if lucky or if unfortunate, ball boys.

Between the rocks or sticks, the goal. I had to help my team if I couldn't play because I would be dirty and that meant blood cuddling spanking from mum; or couldn't be the referee because the other team didn't allow for obvious reasons of biasness. I had to do something, that meant being a goalkeeper who couldn't handle the ball.They will understand.The semi-fat kid called Brian had to be the referee regardless of the number of goals he scored; 7 goals already yet he was sent to be referee amidst protest. In these games we could end up with double digit scorelines like 20-13. Notwithstanding Brian's good goal scoring record, his undoing was his sagging cheeks and fat fingers...that was fat, off you go! Be the referee or sit in the losers stand. He had no choice. 

They appreciated the sacrifice I was making for the team, they loved it, an extra motivation was obvious.They played like they missed me. As long as Alango (me) was between the sticks, paralyzed or not we would win.  They played well then, "Goal!" I conceded. We were losing again. No way! I consoled myself, "mum will understand, just this once, she said I am a winner, why lose today?" In full throttle, I was in "ndaaani" where I should have been...Game On! My team cheering. The opposing team trembling, they were 8 goals ahead. That was nothing. I was jogging and stretching up and down. We had a new goalkeeper. Our striker who had scored 9 goals was tired and we swapped positions. I was in the mood to break his record. It was 6.30 p.m in the evening. I removed my sandals and stepped on the rather muddy pitch, skidded and fell on the mud, stood up. There it was the ball came in my direction, I thought of executing a bicycle kick or scorpion kick or an overhead volley kick...I was about to exercise my objectives before this huge footed Ouma from the ghetto kicked the ball up in the air, a trajectory that landed on Mama Onyango's fresh kanjwele (fish)...

When you saw, Okwomi pick his akalas (sandals made from tyres), tuck them in his waistline, know that he was ready for a flight. He was the safest in such situations because he was the fastest in the group. Mama Onyango, stood rooted looking at the dirty ball landed on her "fres fis from Obunga" (Luo's lack the 'sh' syllable when they pronounce words like 'fish' they say 'fis'). She took the ball threw into the fire. The whole squad looked on with anger and confusion yet all set for flight. Onyango, hadn't been called on to the scene to give us a chase of our lives. He was the eldest no-nonsense son of Nyanam (Onyango's Mother came from the lakeside). 

"Onyango sika hii ongeche imepiga opira kwa kanjwelena" meaning "Onyango catch all these monkeys who kicked the ball onto my fish".

We couldn't wait for the neanderthal headed boy with nose the size of a vuvuzela to catch any of us. We believed he was the strongest boy in Ngei I. He broke firewood with an axe in one swing. His hands we rougher than the sand...he had a temper of a rhinoceros. His sweat was abnormally dark, probably because of his dark complexion. He had a jawline so developed for his age, we made fun of his jawline that it was adapted to crushing fish bones to powder.

I fell four times before Onyango could take a stride, I must have been standing on the slippery pitch watered by the overflowing manhole of the poorly maintained sewers of Nairobi. The squad was scattered in different directions. I couldn't find a route not far from our flat to hide because it was getting dark and I was terrified especially having watched a lot of  ghosts from Cartoon Network's Scooby Dooby Doo and Courage the Cowardly Dog's horrors, I had to find a well lit place I could hide from the real threat in Onyango.I chose to enter Baba Khamala's poshomill. I hid under the maize bags and held my breath like Van Damme under water when he trained to fight Thailand's Tong Po- contrast being that I was in a poshomill. When I came out, it was all quiet and normal but not for me, I was white, sneezing with beetroot for eyes. That's when it hit me, "Mum is going to EAT your heart for supper!"

"Yes, I didn't know how to properly wash myself at seven...or we can say mum didn't entrust me with hygiene of my body being a hygiene freak. It was her fault! She's a freak, even dad knows"...any consolation wasn't working...Being on Tuesday, at exactly, 7.30 p.m, customarily  KBC didn't miss to air WWF wrestling and on that day, it was Royal Rumble. "Jeso!". Being a Rattle Snake Stone Cold Steve Austin's fan it would be travesty to miss and my absence,goes without saying would be obvious. 
 
2 minutes to time for wrestling, I was still climbing stairs to our second floor apartment, one step at a time. I must have taken 40 minutes to climb from the ground floor. Dirty, smelling and white like Snow White (Cartoon). At kwa kina Noon's window, a KBC anchor (or presenter)  must have said next in program line up was wrestling. Back then, every program had to be announced by a presenter. It meant that someone was wondering where I was at, especially (I came to realize) Stone Cold was eliminated immediately he set foot in the ring by the Fat Rukishi..."What's with fat people, today!" 

"Alangooooo! mama amesema ukuje na kiboko!" (Alango, mum needs you to come with a whip). Back then, you could be thoroughly beaten for snoring in sleep let alone being late for meals. Here I was dirty and my 3:16 WWF white T-shirt was chocolate. I was DEAD!  That was my sister calling me from the stair rails. They all knew why I was sacrificing wrestling and meals for. I was grotesquely, hideously dirty. I had to heed and reduce damage to my butt. I went ready for the worst. 

I knocked on the door, for the first time in my life. No one answered. Oh I failed to tell you that we had the biggest television set, the 21 inch National Star black and white which defied all power fluctuation odds, which had every neighbour in our floor flock our house after their Greatwall tvs went off when the electricity went down. I pushed the door meekly and asked for permission to enter. The first face I met was mum's then 12 other faces...."Phew!!! at least the beating will be delayed until after some minutes...." Allover sudden exodus ensued. Neighbours walked out.Wrestling just ended, genesis of my torment.... and there came  my time to scream. 

The four of us (dad, mum, sister, brother and me) remained. Bro and sis were happy, The Rock just won his first Royal Rumble...dad was dejected because Shaun Micheals was ejected before he could throw a punch and off to his record player he put Franco, "Masu ozalaki kothambo na eee..." he started singing. Mum reached for her favourite, my right ear and pulled to the bathroom with the red "umoja" sandal in her left hand..

"Nilikuambia ukacheze ama ukachafuke....!!"  she retorted.

"Waaai" I replied!

Kenyan mum kill me in your mistake.