“TO be or not to be, that is the question” someone once said, and I am still not sure whether it was Shakespeare or Mwalimu, but it is a message that still lingers in my heart. I have now discovered that anyone can change, for better or for worse, but as long as we live, change is inevitable, although some changes are manipulated by others. That is why I really get pissed off when the mother of my small clan in Manzese, mama Boyi, always swears upon her mother’s skirt that I will never change, even if God Himself begged me to change.
Blasphemous words like those always keep my imagination fired, but because she happens to hold the title of ‘Mother House’, I always keep my mouth shut! I started believing that change is constant recently, and with it I knew that the world was coming to an end, when out of nowhere, the domestic thug I call my son decided to change his evil ways, and instead of carrying a matchbox stuffed with weed, he decided to carry a Bible the size of a small briefcase.
All this was after he announced that he has decided to change his ways, and instead of smoking any type of weed or herb, he would rather smoke the trail of the gospel, and preach the word of Sir Jah, as he calls God.
Of course it caught me by surprise, because for those of you who happen to know the domestic thug, a. k. a Papa Dog Killa, or ‘Mtoto wa Ngwasuma’, he is one of those boys who can do anything for fun, including setting a house on fire after smoking the grass he fondly refers to as ‘The Holy Herb’.
He is also the boy who is constantly getting on the wrong side of the neighbours simply because he believes that as far as the Muungano stuff goes, the neighbour’s property can as well be his, which is why he has always been doing justice to careless chicken who dared to cross his path.
Just as he shocked me two years ago when he announced that he had decided to become a devout Rasta Farian, it was the same way he surprised me when he announced that he has decided to become a devout Bible thumping Son of Jehovah.
I didn’t have anything to do with it of course, because the person who was responsible was none other than the mother of my clan, mama Boyi, who convinced the young thug that he should be ‘carrying the gospel to other nations’ instead of carrying trouble on his trail. If you have good memories, then you will remember that I told you that the mother of my clan is a woman who has a very strange hobby, of changing religions like a pair of old socks.
The last time I heard she was deep into another funny sect belonging to a tiny Korean called ‘The Meek Sheep of Christ’, but I can assure you that there is nothing meek about this ‘sheep’. I discovered that there was nothing meek about them when they decided to hold their weekly fellowship and prayers in my house, when they suddenly became furious with the devil, and they imagined that he resides in my house, because they started kicking everything around, commanding the devil to get out.
Of course my dear wife was the one who led the charge against the unfortunate devil, and it was on top of her warlike voice that she screamed…“pepo toka!, and the rest of the ‘sheep’ shouted in unison…
“Toka!” “pepo la wizi,” my own ‘sheep’ shouted, and the rest shouted toka! Pepo la ulevi, toka! Pepo la ugomvi, toka!” they screamed, and with every toka!, they kicked something.
Anyway, let me get back to my domestic thug. This time round, my wife convinced Dog Killa that he would be better off preaching the gospel, and I don’t know what kind of magic she used, but the boy actually reformed, and believe it or not, last week I bumped into him preaching to his ‘former crew’.
“Yesu akawaibukia masela wake, akawapa laiv, oya washkaji, mi ndio hivo tena naenda kwa Dingi, ila msikonde watu wangu. Msikandamizane, msipige fix, msimind madem wa washkaji, wapeni shavu madingi na mamaza zenu..au sio! Mshkaji akamaliza, akawagotea, huyo akasepa!,” In short, the boy told his friends, some of whom appeared to be high on illegal substances, that Jesus told his disciples that He was going back to His Father, but they should not worry.
Anyway, I would not have taken it seriously if the boy had not decided to invade my drinking joints in the name of preaching the good news to sinners. When he turned up one evening at Zakayo’s Pub, my local drinking hole in Manzese, I knew that the boy was going too far and should be stopped by all means.
That day I was enjoying a cold one with Jatello, that noisy fellow from the lake side, and we were having a fantastic time. The DJ stopped the music and was shouting in the microphone that there was a vehicle which was blocking other cars, so the owner should move it and park it somewhere else.
The announcement was made several times, and Jatello did not make any effort of cooperating, because according to the numbers which were being announced, it turned out to be his brand new Mercedes Benz.
“Say the make bwana, say the make! Is it a Toyota, a Volkswagen or Peugeot!?” he shouted back, and the DJ had to be more specific and announced loudly that it was a Mercedes Benz ‘S’ Class, and that was when Jatello stood up with all the necessary mbwembwe and went out!
Before Jatello returned, I was busy giving special orders to Suzy, a pretty new bar maid for a plate of kitimoto roast, when I heard a familiar voice shouting the name of Jesus.
I turned around and I came face to face with the reformed thug, in the company of a young girl I identified as my neighbour’s daughter, carrying his big Bible, telling the confused revellers that unless they stopped drinking, then Sir Jah was waiting for them with fire and brimstones.
My throat suddenly turned dry when the boy turned to me, and in a voice that rang above the usual noise in a pub, he pointed to me and said “Mtakula mawe ya moto asubuhi, mtakunywa mkojo wa shetani jioni, kila siku, milele na milele, hata wewe dingi!” I was in the process of removing my leather belt and discipline the boy when he bolted out of the pub like lightening, the young girl right behind him! In the evening, I was the one breathing fire and brimstone when I confronted his mother, and told her to take good care of her boy, because I had a feeling that his days on earth were drawing to a close.
“I am the one who brought him to this world, and I can as well take him out!” I told the mother of my clan. But as I am writing this, the boy is back being a devout Rasta, and he is even seriously thinking of growing dreadlocks to prove his dedication!
