I’m back folks. Yep, the suffering son of my ma and pa is back. Save your breath, don’t ask where I’ve been. My running mouth is more than eager to fill you in. But in case we’ve not met before, I’ll tell you that perhaps it was for your good –or mine, that we did not meet earlier.
For example, what if we made our acquaintance in a dark alley at night and it is about that time you employed folks get your pay? Yep. A little squeeze on your neck, or a tap on the back of your dome with a number 26 spanner and before the little birds clear, your wallet finds a new home and advantage me.
But then again, you might be a cop. Then perhaps we meet shortly after I have relieved the earlier bloke of his hard earned dough and you tell me to stop and I decide my heels would look better in your face. Now let’s assume you just graduated from this here college, Kiganjo, and to make matters especially catastrophic, your name is Kip (something) and you love prown chackets. Now see me activating my Mt Kenya racers in a bid to outrun you… now picture a disastrous miscalculation I would have done. But you see where I’m going with this?
Yep! You haven’t missed much, in case we not met before. Still, you can travel to the past issues by clicking this link…A he-goat, unsuspecting girl-goats and how Sufferer was born
I am a sufferer who one day hopes to strike it rich. No idea how I’ll do that but by jingo, I will. And when I do, I will write to you, but instead of squinting on these tiny cyber café screens, I’ll be dictating the goings-on to a butler while being fanned by three beauties from the Caribbean as another feeds me grapes…gosh, I’m hungry.
Remember my friend Masengele from Kitui? I’ve been holed at his crib in Kawangware since I ‘resurrected’ from the dead yesterday. Should have seen the poor burger tear through the tin shacks screaming like he had seen a ghost —saying that he had seen a ghost. I think waking him up from the stupor he had fallen into after spending the day indulging in some portent illicits didn’t help matters any. Also, the fact that they were made to believe that I drowned in a drum full of traditional uji that I had jumped into to escape the wrath of a woman whose daughter I had been caught not being so holy with might have jerked up his panic levels.
But the boy can scream, I tell you. And, pray tell me, where do Kamba and Kisii men get such shrill voices from? Anyway’s, Masengele’s rumour wasn’t really far-fetched. I have indeed been in hiding. Let me tell you a story.
It was early last year that I landed upcountry after one inspector Korir from the Central Police Station advised I lay low or he would have me cooling porridge until when Raila becomes Ruto’s running mate. Weighing the odds of that happening, I decided that I loved my freedom and so I snuck out of my crib at night on account that I owed several months of rent. With all my earthly possessions in a yellow paper bag, I struck for Tea Room bus stage to catch a mat to shags.
Of course the folks upcountry needn’t know the circumstances around which I was leaving the city. To them, I was from Nairobi and that alone made me a celebrity. So, it did not take long for the barmaid at Gakenia Genuine Beer and Spirit, Day and Night club, simply called Gakenia, to decide that she wanted a piece of that city niceness.
That was okay. However, Priscilla wasn’t the kind of girl you would want to think about in a bedroomy sort of way. With several front teeth missing as well as fresh and healing scars dotting her generously shaped face, it was really hard to even classify her as a girl. But as that night wore on, the magic of alcohol happened. The permanent rolls of fat on Priscilla’s midsection disappeared. The huge scar across her large face became a beauty spot. Her missing teeth transformed into a beauty gap. By the time Newton Karish’s Muthoni Kifagio was replaying for the tenth time, I was staring at a beauty queen and Priscilla had her trophy.
But as they say, God does not eat sukuma wiki, and truly as the Word says, what is done at night will be revealed in the soberness of morning. If you thought Masengele was a screamer, you didn’t hear me that morning. With the alcohol replaced by a throbbing headache and tons of meat pinning me against the wall, I opened my eyes to the ugliest scene you ever want to subject a man to.
Finally, add a stream of saliva from his half-open mouth and watch a poor sufferer die in fright.
Ever watched that animation character Shrek? Good, make him a bit uglier…okay scratch that. Make him as uglier as you can go. Then strip him naked and cover her bloated body with stretch marks. Finally, add a stream of saliva from his half open mouth and watch a poor sufferer die in fright.
But that is not the reason I have been hiding this long. It happens that Priscilla is daughter to the assistant chief. Now, this is not the regular, modern administrators who carry smart phones and speak with a tweng. Priscilla’s father is the sort that calls village barazas and demands absolute respect for authority. Should see him whenever the DO visits, he salutes his hands off, poor burger, almost kneels down when addressing him. He demands that sort of attention when the big bosses are away and he is ruthless in enforcing it.
Now, it happened that after a week or two, Priscilla announced that she was pregnant. That was exciting news to the villagers and Chief Nderebino being the law enforcer he is, demanded that whoever is responsible must marry his daughter. I will not reveal where I vanished to my friend, incase I need to pull another disappearing act in future.
Reports reached me, nine months later, that Priscilla had shed the baby and in defiance of everything that is not magic, the baby had the skin, the eyes and the hair of a white man. But then, the villagers recollected that about nine months ago, there was a bunch of Polish visitors who had come to the local Catholic mission and they loved a drink or two. As I write this, I am reliably told Chief Nderebino has been camping in Nairobi, hunting for a visa to Poland for three. I genuinely feel sorry for the poor bloke that’s going to have to stare at that face each morning…even sufferers have standards