“And devout men carried Stephen to his burial and made great lamentation over him.” Shiru reads from the Acts of the Apostles.
I stare at her and wonder if my tears are running as fast as hers; if hers are as hot as mine.
The Reverend Dr. K_ approaches the grave. His face is set in a scowl that says that he didn’t get his DD for purposes of burying miscreants. Abominable misfits who even the Good Lord Jesus Christ, with his basketful of mercies, would give a cold shoulder. Hopeless. Bangi people… phthuu…Mungiki!
The Reverend stands as far as he possibly can from the coffin. He doesn’t even glance at it. When he begins to speak, he doesn’t look at a central spot, as you would expect, with alternating nods to the left and to the right for emphasis. No. He stands at a ridiculous angle all his attention, his sermon and all the glory of the almighty God emanating from him, directed at the people to his right.
To his right. To his right where the so called watu wazima and such young people as have ambitions of being referred to as that, stand. The youths to the right are unlike the rest of us. So unlike us: the juvenile delinquents. They are youths, youths with a capital Y.
And most of them are decent fellows I must say. But amongst them there are devious characters. Like those choir guys… aih… apana!
The choir guys hold bashes kila Friday that would be like the Last Supper but for the fact that when the guy at the head of the table gets kissed, he doesn’t open his mouth to say, the hour has come but kisses back and says, wee kamu. Their bashes would be as tame as kiddie birthday parties if only they would end when the Britannia and Bamboocha are over and if all the bouncing on the
Their parties are meant to be a remake of the Kesha. I guess it is the New and Improved Kesha (sms the word KESHA and win). Here they come in with leather bound bibles that are only opened to admire and exchange the cute little bookmarks within. Bookmarks inscribed with biblical verses. Verses from the Songs of Solomon are preferred.
Their keshas are music heavy. But you will not find their music in the hymn book you bought from Uzima Press. After all these are young people and they weren’t colonized by some self-righteous limey who found Amazing Grace in the pitiful wails coming out of the slave deck. These youths are from a new generation colonized by the descendants of those slaves and not their masters. These ones are colonized by T.D. Jakes. So their praise music is inspired by the discordant screeches of Kapuka acts with names like: Gospel Gangstaz and Thugs 4 Christ.
Their praise and worship sessions go like this:
Worship Leader: “D.J weka traki…!”
D.J: “Can I get a muthafuckin’ halleluiah!”
Worshippers: “Yeah… Oh Baby!”
Song: Mikono juu…. Mikono juu kwa yesu
Tingisha hiyo kitu… hiyo bibilia tingisha
Kaka shika huyo dada… shika kwa jina lake
Zamani nilikuwa nawasha… sasa Yesu ameniosha
Nilikuwa napenda madame… sasa napenda his name
Then somewhere in the middle of the night the angel of the Lord appears before the choir girls, only, and many of them end up pregnant without having known any man. They are not sinners you know.
The sinners are to the left of the good Reverend. The sinners are us. We, the low-lifers and our bevy of hood rats. I can see Bobo, and she is desperately trying to catch my attention and I am grateful, for a moment, for all the people pushing about trying to stand next to me and who are shielding me from her. Well I know some of those people pushing about, Danso in particular and Vaite of Vaite’s Veve Base just want to pick my pockets but that is better than Bobo getting anywhere close to me. Damn bitch will definitely try to kiss me. Eeewww. Kissing her is like sucking my own dick… and Johnnie’s,
Grrrrr… okay now I have run out alcohol so I cannot continue writing this scene. It has been raining since five in the morning and it still is so I cannot get to the supermarket…yes I said supermarket and not One Love Licker Store, for a refill. I know my dead friend will understand. I mean I poured a bottle of expensive alcohol into his grave while everyone else was pouring drops of Napshizzle grudgingly. I gave that fallen soldier a send off bigger than a vain jango’s. Maybe if I can get some alcohol soon I will finish this, get down to the eulogy part.
Man that eulogy, it was like Anthony's eulogy to Brutus, only better. And I gave it…
Oh damn it, I really need a drink but in lieu and as I wait for the rain to ease up let me go abuse myself.
Oh fuck, I am bila gaffs… now that one there is no negotiating, I will just have to walk in the rain. Man there is no such joy than a post orgasm gaff… even when the orgasm is self induced.
Sawa wacha I walk to shoppie. I will get a Ka-quarter of something decent, which is too much to ask from some of these neighbourhood kiosks, and finish this narration there. Sawa?
Hiyo ni how much?
P: Sawa nipe hiyo na lights…
P: Ati ngapi… si pako, Kwani?
P: Eh, na unakaa poa…
P: Hapa per day wewe humake mangapi…
P: Sawa si nikugee mshande yako ya leo alafu ufunge duka…
P: Ehh funga duka tuingie kejani…
Ati bado ma fans wanangoja story ya mazishi, maumbwa; mi niko juu ya vitu. We nani, hata sijui jina yako ninani… ebu sema jina yangu.
Aii Aii Potash!