Yesterday I read something on a poster here. Something about a vacancy. I was tired from the hustles in the city and so I didn’t stop to digest. It happens. There are times you just put on a gangsta face and say don’t wanna take no shit from nobody and think that that is cool. So this morning I came back with the intention of taking any shit from anybody. I came to take the details and see if I could apply. I didn’t find it.
Okay, I found it; them. But they were all torn and ripped from the walls. All, from the junction at B-Centre all the way to Kayole, where yours faithfully stays. I actually walked from B-Centre back to Masimba and found nothing. Then I thought that going the other way towards Mama Lucy was the thing. That was not clever at all. I walked on and on and the only posters I met were of those city magicians and witches. They call themselves doctors and treat things like losing jobs, love problems, promotions at work, and finding a lost person. Those are the only posters that were left like the virgin of Joseph, very untouched. The rest were all gone and it appeared this man was using a chisel just in case a piece of paper remained on the electricity posts.
So I am officially a disturbed mind.
Who is this African employed to be ripping off posters from walls and electricity posts? Does he earn in US dollars or in shillings or he goes to the cashier with a wheelbarrow to take home the booty? Does he buy beer when the dollar towers over the shilling? Does he go to meetings and greet people in the hand? Who is this person?
Perhaps he is a high school dropout or his term papers were done for him like those guys at Moi University. He is a B.A. Collection of Stories. Zero.
I think we should all do one thing – find and cane him. It should be near a bridge so that in case he tries to run away, let him fall into the river and drown and we shall all witness that he fell in the water by himself. It would be better to hold a caning competition so that we choose the best people with strong muscles to do the work. Cane on the buttocks, cane on the back, cane on the stomach, cane everywhere until he sees what people like him are supposed to see. We don’t want a nation where job vacancy posters are ripped from walls by Moi University students who do not even know why their term papers were done for them.
What does he (it is a he) tell the wife when he comes home late? Like when it rains? Baby today work was hard. They used cobbler’s glue instead of office glue. Look even my hands are swollen. Baby these people have made my work so difficult and the local government must look into this.
And then madam will reply something. Sorry baby. God will help you so that next time they use saliva to stick the posters.
Yes baby, the mister will agree.
And God will also ensure it doesn’t rain while you are at work. It is only God who can intervene. The county government is sleeping on the job, especially that governor of theirs….
May God help you.
Then they will say a loud amen.
And then the wife will bring to the table dinner. A mountain of ugali served with boiled chicken legs. All along she will sing and pray that God makes easy the work of her husband so that tomorrow he comes home early. She will ask God to bless the work of the hands of her husband.
This is a raw deal. The guy should not have a girlfriend in the first place. He is a fool.
Okay, don’t you also want us to be received home by our favourite daughters with smiles? I grew up watching those Britannia biscuits adverts and one of my favourite childhood obsessions was to raise one such happy family. I come home holding something in the arm and there is this daughter who rushes to me and throws daddy down in her mad welcome. She has really missed daddy. Look, she has even lost weight since yesterday. Then daddy opens the bag he is holding and gives cakes to her and she stands by the window and shouts to the unlucky kids below that daddy is the best. Is that a foolish dream?
When growing up, I used to dream that my wife would be British. Of course, of course. To me, British wives were the blondes who worked in Hollywood. Then along the way I encountered Kamasutra and the dream changed. Asian girls shone like stars and the long strands of black hair looked like they would trap all my troubles. But this, too, vanished somewhere. I had a couple of more dreams and the last was that I would marry one girl from Rwanda. I even gave her a name. She would be of medium height and dark complexion and have white teeth and a long neck. Then I would come home and she would tell me that I was growing grey hair and I would tell her that it is my job that is doing all that. Then she would ask if they give us any annual leave and I’d thank her for that reminder. Then we would go to the village for three weeks where I would take her through the attractions in the kingdom and teach her the difference between Pukas and Ebutingo. And at the end of the leave, she would say that my hair had grown black once again. And she would smile with the white teeth out and I would die there a happy man. Then this woman would weep for three days and also die and be buried next to me – the first woman to be buried in the royal graveyard.
But there is this man who thinks we should not read what employers want us to read. He keeps collecting stories and throwing them in the drain. Nobody may realise whether my hair turns red or yellow or any other colour.
This man who is our collector of stories esquire.
Not everyone wants to be an idle mind. Give us chance to work hard and send coins to our mothers back in the village. Is that too much to demand?
Threatening to arrest them is a futile thing too. It’s like a woman in short skirt who tries to chase a hen. A hen is an animal that knows she lives rented life, in a rented house, and on rented friendship. The hen understands that there is nothing to lose. So if our lady in a short skirt chases this animal, chance has it that it will cease to be a matter between a woman and a bird and become that of whether the understatements are pink or black. There will be a fall, definitely. And the hen will be somewhere in the fence congratulating itself as the woman dusts her skirt.
Once upon a time there lived Lizard. Every time she left home to go hunting, a neighbour would sneak into her home and steal an egg or two. Whenever Lizard asked to know this thief, nobody claimed responsibility. She tried to set traps but still nothing happened. So one day Lizard decided to call all her neighbours and force them to proclaim an oral treaty among themselves. Today, he told them as they repeated, I swear that I don’t know who steals the eggs of Lizard. I swear that I will help my neighbour with the right information to keep her eggs safe. If I spot any thief, I will raise alarm. If I am the thief, may I die a cursed death….
No egg got lost again. And of course, then they lived happily thereafter.
Let us all have an agreement. The person who rips posters off posts is a fool. That if we spot him we shall report to the nearest police station.…
The person who does this is our example of modern day night runner. What else drove night runners into the chilly nights but a sadistic passion? They merely wanted to see the agony of others. Then what happened? We came together and lynched all of them. The only one we spared died last year. We are at peace.
If this man of ours knew what we go through seeking jobs, he’d not tear an advert. Especially where one has been promised to earn Nairobi’s 15k weekly. Tell me where else you can earn that and I will call myself backward. Even lawyers and other thieves would envy such a sum. Then you come with your dirty fingers and rip off all this cash from us in a bid to collect stories to nowhere! RIP yourself.