You tasted Him: He is yummy, why go for Rice?

It saddens me when many people look at my aged face (see picture) and start entertaining ugly thoughts to the effect that I was never a kid. I was and I grew up in a small town in the Rift Valley that was ethnically mixed, in what one would be allowed to refer as being a Kenyan cultural melting pot even though the population was quite small. It is the power of comparatives (or is it called proportions) that is guiding us here.

I attended school, although I used to skip afternoon classes to pick an ancient variety of zambarau we called ndĩrũ that only grew on the river banks, and which turned the tongues purple, hence my low level of educational achievement. In school we had boys and girls from all corners of the vast country that is Kenya and we only referred to them by their one name, but never by their tribes. We did not know our tribes until some people who were paid by the government and were called teachers, taught us that some of us were Luo because we ate kamongo and others were Kikuyu because they ate waru and others were Kalenjin because they drank mursik.

There were many friends and some of their names are still fresh on my mind: There was Kwayera, Mũkundi, Waithĩra, Aronyi, Kipsang, Maloba, Wangũi, Owiti, Mbũgua (no relation to Jobjow), Kubano, Nyaruai, Omondi, Matoke (not the banana), Chepkosgei, Kĩmani (not Pastor Lee), Akinyi, Mwanaisha, Juma, Madaka and of course there was a Kamau. Sometimes we would have two sharing one name and we would differentiate them by calling them Nekesa 'A' and Nekesa 'B'. We were all equal. The only person who was not equal (apart from our teachers) was Miss Emily (she of late memories) because she was a Sunday school teacher and was white. All the rest of us were black.

We are no longer kids. Some of us became teachers, others makanga, farmers, failed politicians, office workers (some as bosses and others as sweepers). Two even became semiprofessional footballers. I know one who became an ATM Dad (a man who only sends money to his kids but doesn't see them). Another became a top cop and another was shot to death in the USA. But when I last checked on them, I was surprised when told that Kwayera had become a Luhya, Akinyi a Luo, Mũkundi a Kikuyu and Kipsang a Kalenjin. What was even worse, they are not talking to each other. Mũkundi who had married Chepkosgei's cousin got crazy orders from two sides simultaneously. His people told him to return his wife to her family, and her family demanded her back. He did not know what to do with the kids (now grownups), who neither belonged to the Kikuyu nor the Kalenjin side as they are the true embodiment of the Kenya we want.

Yes, we used to have our own style of skirmishes, and many a times we went home with bloodied noses. Mediation was of the highest order, because we believed in still being friends the next day. When some of us stole Mũkundi's finger-licking lunch, little did we know that he had used newly sprouted bush spinach called terere that causes havoc to your stomach if you are eating it for the first time. Mũkundi went hungry and he cursed those who ate his food. When we went home we were hit by a diarrhea that was worse than a dysentery outbreak. For fear of death, the next day we confessed to Mũkundi, and in his wisdom he exercised a fine art of mediation where he fined each of us fifty cents. Not having money, we paid it in other forms (some of us stole eggs from our homes to pay him). But the moral of the event is that the art of mediation was in existence, perfect and biding even among us kids.

Today I hear all manner of accusation. Kibaki amebaki na (read steal) kura zetu and Odinga is A Liar (spell his first name backwards). As grownups we should look back to the power of mediation we possessed as children instead of sending our kin to early graves. We also know the power of mediation that Jesus wields and that is a fact. Do we need to go down as low as taking Kofi Annan from a retirement that he deserves, taking a graceful lady from the duties of looking after one of Africa's greatest statesman Nelson Mandela, or go the route of accepting President Bush's offer of sending Dr Condoleezza Rice (who does not even know what a tribe is, despite her mastery of the Russian language) to mediate? It will end up being nothing short of an episode that I thought I had forgotten, until now: Eating ugali at State House. Please excuse some of us if we interpret it to mean there is a wali wa pilau party at State House. The American woman has no relation with mchele.

Yusto Onesmo has reminded us, through his song Yesu ni Muweza (Jesus is the enabler) that a lot of our problems could be solved if we look to Jesus' power of mediation. I do not even know where Jobjow got this video from. The young musician, Yusto, is full of energy so much so that in the entire length of the video he is captured doing antics in the name of choreography some of which are unrealistic, but nonetheless help to illustrate his joy. Where he uses karate movements to demonstrate how Jesus shapes us, the video will certainly provide a compelling view to our younger citizens when they sit in front of their TV screens to savor the music. Parents, allow your kids to watch this video and they will end up spending more time in the house.

Coming at a time when Kenyans need the reassurance that peace is achievable, the song's message is music to our ears. Yusto has managed to give us a preview of the great powers that Jesus possesses, not just among human beings but among natural phenomenon including the act of calming a rough sea. But the most telling is when He is able to read the mind of Zakayo, as it shows that He can also read our minds and know what we require and end up giving it to us. That is the healing process we urgently need in Kenya. We need peace in Kenya and no amount of talking under the guise of mediation among the warring sides will bring it until we acknowledge Jesus as Muweza as Justo has rightly put it.

The video has a trailer of about 48 seconds, which I believe is not entirely necessary as it takes away almost a minute of the great song whose melody is quite uplifting. Too much video antics remind me of the puppets they used to show us in Sunday school. It does not appeal very much to have three or four images of him or his singers appear on the screen at the same time. On two occasions he has introduced snippets of footage showing three dwarfs dancing (1:21 – 1:22 and 2:04 – 02:06). If the dwarfs ware part of the singing team, I would have no problem with that. But the way they are dropped in and taken out before the viewer understands why they are appearing in the first place is no different from the way dwarfs have been misused in sideshows at circuses all over the world. But I have no problem with the one dwarf used (3:30 – 3:43) to portray the short man Zakayo.

It is because of the humbling message and its temperamental melody that Yusto Onesmo's song earns four green stars.

Unconditional love Africa edition

A dedication to all suffering African Women

(Dear Reader: Not wanting to be seen as profiling tribal stereotypes I will not mention my characters’ middle or last names. I will refer to them by their first – read Christian – names which are tribal neutral.)

Many years ago (in the last millennium) when my age was less than two score, my father had requested his work colleague who was a bachelor to allow me live with him, because our house was getting too small for the many of us. I cannot even remember how many we were. All I know is that we were indeed many, and that I was the oldest (among the children of course). The new house was made out of mabati but had nice wooden partitions inside that allowed for it to be cool even when the sun was very hot outside.

The wooden partitions also acted as dividers between our room and the neighbour’s room. His name was Alois and his wife was called Margaret (names changed to protect their identity). The wooden partitions could keep the heat out, but certainly not the sound. They were not very good sound proofing material, because every time he chose to beat his wife, and he did that regularly, I would hear every blow land on the poor lady and also the words he used, even though he belonged to another tribe and I did not understand what the words meant. But I heard them. There were these famous two words he would shout “xxxxxx Margaret!” (first word hidden not to reveal his tribe), and I would sit up in bed (he never beat her during the day) expecting to hear blows raining and the woman wailing, “Alois please spare me” (sometimes saying it in Swahili).

There was this day that he came home at about 8:30 pm and the next thing I heard the famous ‘xxxxxx Margaret!’ I sat up, my heart pounding like it wanted to exit the rib cage. But before I could even hear the pounding, the woman said in Swahili (probably she wanted me to understand what she was telling him): “Alois you are not even drunk.” While I did not understand what he said in his language, I want to believe he asked her: “What do you mean I am not drunk?” She said in reply: “You do not have any money and you do not even smell alcohol. Do not pretend to be drunk.”

That must have been a tactical error on her part because he beat her so bad that she ran outside, something that she never did. She used to take her blows like the good African wife she was. After I made sure that the beating was over and I could only hear her whimpering close to my window, I pushed my head out the window and even before I could offer my apologies, she said: “Masai (she could not pronounce my name as Mathai), today Alois has killed me.” I almost fell off the window but thank God it did not happen because I would have landed on her hurting body. Before I could think what to tell her, she said: “This time Alois has gone too far and I will certainly send radi (lightning) to him. He must die.”

My sympathies now turned to the jolly man who was best known as Bwana wa Margaret, and quickly back to me. I knew that if the lightning came, the house would go up in flames and my library of three books, my closet with four shirts, two kipande surualis, one long pant, a pair of underwear and a pair of shoes (and no socks) would be consumed in the process. I had to stop it. I sneaked out the door (she could not see me because she was by the window) and dashed the nearly two kilometers to the police station, not to report about the lightning that would come crashing from the heavens but to report that a man had killed his wife (that is what she told me, if the dead could speak!). The inspector sent out two constables, a man and a woman, with the instruction, “Lete hiyo Alois hapa. Ni lazima alale ndani.”

My heart started beating regularly. But it started racing again after I saw what happened next. When the police officers arrived at her house, she asked them what they wanted. They said that they had come to arrest Alois. She told them not her Alois. She was blocking the door with her body and the policeman tried to push his face towards her, but before he could say what he intended to say, she swung a clenched fist which landed squarely on his nose that so much blood came out you would have thought six chickens had been slaughtered simultaneously. The lady police officer tried to rush in to stop Margaret from hitting her male colleague a second time but in the confusion she hit the veranda post sending her kofia to the ground and she too started bleeding.

The police officers gathered their courage and arrested Margaret whom they took to the police station. Alois did not bother to protect his wife from arrest. I believe he was saying to himself, ‘good riddance I wish she is locked for many years.’ I followed them closely and I did hear the police woman tell Margaret in Swahili because they belonged to different tribes, “You have downed government crown on the ground! Woman, you will be jailed for so many years you will die before the sentence is over and your people will come to collect your bones.”

Now that worried me and I started regretting having called the police. But my worries were laid to rest when at the police station the inspector asked them: “I asked you to bring Alois, what are you doing all bleeding and arresting a defenseless woman?” They hesitated, but the police woman gathered courage before her male counterpart and said: “Afande, this woman has beaten us and even removed my kofia and threw the crown on the dirty ground. She should be jailed.”

The inspector could not believe what he heard and in reply told them, in a thundering voice that could have been heard miles away: “Take that woman home!” Now the male policeman found his voice and said, “Sir, it would be desirable if she walked home on her own. It is not very late and nobody will attack her.”

That happened in the last millennium. I might have added some chumvi but the essence of the story has not changed (nisameheni and do not let Jobjow know for he might sack me). Come to this millennium and whom do we find? Rose Muhando. I do not even know her tribe because she is from Tanzania. The people in Tanzania, unlike those from Kenya, are so cohesive, that I tend to think they have only one tribe. So I call them Watanzania, Rose Muhando’s tribe.

Jobjow has posted a terrific video, Nipe Uvumilivu, which depicts a heartbroken Rose, with four children all smeared with a lot of dust on their faces and body, singing about her problems.

Not just singing, but also being beaten by her very own ‘Alois’. What she sings about reflects her true life as she is the mother of three children and their father/s walked out on her. My Swahili appears to have taken the back seat since I relocated to the Caribbean because I do not seem to fully grasp the meaning of a word she has used, ‘walionizalisha’. It can be translated to mean the fathers of her children or the midwives who attended to her. Someone educate me, and please don’t recommend Jobjow as he cannot even pronounce that word, him being a true Kenyan.

Why do I compare Rose with Margaret? Only in December last year that this same Rose was quoted in an interview saying that she wants to get married. That she does not mind getting married to a nice man. Please Rose, do not beat your pastor when he tells you not to get married to so and so, because Pastor knows better.

Rose’s Nipe Uvumilivu (Give me Endurance/Perseverance) is a song that has a nice, simple and slow melody and is rendered prayerful. Its ‘temperature’ is right all through other than one point where she shatters the peace by raising her voice above the song’s tempo (6:50 – 6:52). The kids portrayed have conducted themselves like real actors, so much so, I am left wondering whether the opening scene had the kid fall accidentally or as part of the script.

Are those her kids? She has three but the video shows four, or were they borrowed to act? The ‘Alois’ in the video appears to enjoy his role as the man who knows how to discipline his woman. Watch him spring a gaiety (3:00 – 3:24) after he would have clobbered members of his defenseless tribe. See him do overtime – I wonder who is paying him (6:34 – 6:46). The footage of the woman bringing in farm harvest to the homestead reminds me of the many African women who have broken their back to feed their families. They are always there to make their husbands feel like true human beings. Kazi bila mshahara.

Rose Muhando has done justice with this song, which I will implore Jobjow to dedicate to all the suffering women in the world and Africa in particular. She gets four and a half of our green stars.

Jesus does not get lost in translation

It does not hurt to state the fact. Kenyans are a very enterprising people but I am today hiding my face in shame after someone (of course not an African) said that I looked so ugly I had to be a Kenyan. My review today has nothing to do the doctrine of forgiveness which our country badly needs. It has to do with our entrepreneurial spirit that sometimes, unfortunately, makes us weird copycats.

Quick to come to mind is this youth group from a church near Nakuru, that had heard a song over VOK (I do not remember whether those days if it was not KBC) radio and while they did not fully understand its lyrics, they felt compelled to believe that they understood them enough to re-launch that song in Swahili and possibly beat all the youth groups in their Division if not District. The song was so sweet and so was the message.

Their music writer, after listening to the lyrics, came out with super lyrics. They did not change the melody because it was the melody that took them over the hills (before they headed down the lake in shame). The lyrics they wrote for the new song went something close to this:

Wee Mkombozi, utukomboe …
sisi watu wa Bahati, utukomboe
Wee Mkombozi, utukomboe …..
sisi watu wa Bahati, utukomboe

Their melodious voices went through to the heavens until one of their own who lived in Nairobi walked into the church hall looking like a man who had seen a deadly snake. Before they could ask him what was wrong with him, he asked what was wrong with them. They all laughed. He composed himself and asked: “How can you possibly sing a chang’aa song in church?” The singing came to a grinding halt (ouch!) and in unison they asked: “What do you mean chang’aa song? This is talking about Jesus, Mkombozi.”

The man from Nairobi shook his head and explained to his brothers and sisters that from DJs on Voice of Kenya Radio, he had learnt that the song was originally sung by South African diva, Yvonne Chaka Chaka, and its title was Umqombothi, named so after a potent South African brew reputed to be stronger than the illicit chang’aa everyone knew killed those that chose to drink it.

They could not believe what they heard, and never having seen their fellow villager who worked and lived in Nairobi as serious as he appeared, the truth sunk in and a few tried to vomit. But nobody had said to them that they couldn’t vomit what they didn’t drink in the first place. What they needed was a prayer for cleansing performed by their pastor, but they were afraid to tell him the truth in the first place. A supposedly novel song died before it could live.

Emmy Kosgei is a budding Kenyan Gospel artiste from the vast Rift Valley, I am sure not very far from Nakuru. Many prefer to call her a Kalenjin Gospel artiste, which is quite unfair as it narrows her scope. She is a national figure and should be given her accolades as it befits her super effort, since music is a universal language. One of her songs from the Album Katau Banda has been hitting the airwaves giving her a large following, among them our very own Jobjow who has posted a video of the song Nguno on the Angaza Family Radio website. Sometimes (not necessarily all the times) Jobjow knows how to bring a breath of fresh air into our tormented lives. Asante Jobjow.

Emmy will have to excuse me because as much as I love the melody of her song Nguno, I do not understand the lyrics and therefore I cannot discuss the song’s subject matter and what she is talking about. She sings in Kalenjin. However, one word comes out clearly and it is “Jesus”. You can call His name in any language, but no one will suffer the disappointment of being told that they got it wrong. Jesus does not get lost in translation.



Everyone who watches this video will agree with me that it is one of the best choreographed songs that Jobjow has on the website. Video mixing brings up the song’s tempo in a superlative manner, especially the synchronised dancing put up by her backup girls, and the church congregation. The most rousing part is when the backup girls perform on the platform in the church and their shadows appear on the ceiling as they undertake the purposeful and well coordinated dance movements (05:20 – 05:24).

The backup girls have a choreography regime that blends in with change of key as evidenced on two occasions 05:37 – 05:40 and 05:45 – 05:49. The children in pink dresses and shirts stomping the ground in bare feet raising hot dust into the air as they execute well coordinated movements are a marvel to watch. However a number of times when Emmy appears 100%, one cannot help but note that the mouthing of the words is not consistent with the lyrics in the background. One does not need to understand the language to make that observation. A perfect example is 01:14 – 01:24. A couple that appears several times (among them 00:59 – 01:04) only helps to throw off the song’s fast and well harmonised tempo.

Hats off to Emmy. Kongoi missing! Whether you understand the lyrics or not, overall Nguno is an inspirational and a must-watch song. It easily makes four green stars in our non-scientific rating.