Big town dwellers, especially journalists, like referring small towns as being sleepy. But I wish they would know how much we did not sleep in our 6161 feet above the sea level small town on the floor of the Rift Valley. The residents were and are still vibrant. In the years I was growing up, a young man hit town and life was never the same. His name was Kipruto, but because of our diverse ethnic composition, we called him all manner of names, including Giburuto, Kĩvuruto, and Gip or even Buruto. But we the young ones called him Kip, which sounded cool in those days before the emergency of Sheng.
Kip was like a man caught up in between two worlds. I am not sure we knew his exact age, but suffice is to say that he was older than us, but younger than the grownups. He had a smile fixed on his face that showed off his milky white teeth. His skin was jet-black it was almost navy blue and smooth like that of a baby, and he was fat enough to be nearly overweight. Those days we did not know that a word like 'obese' ever existed. When asked why he was so well rounded (as to suggest fat), he would say that he had just returned from 'Chondoni'. We told him we did not know where that town was situated. He said that Chondoni was not a town, but rather a secluded place where newly circumcised boys spent nearly two months in the bush being fed on the best food the world could offer.
While most of us would normally bathe two days in a week (at 6161 feet above the sea level it can be very cold sometimes), Kip used to bathe twice a day. He would comb his hair in a manner that left it looking like a shiny black skull cap on his head. People talked about Kip. Not in a bad way, but in a manner to want to know more about him. Most of us said he was from Kericho and that he was Kipsigis, but he corrected us and said he was from Kaptumo, near Kapsabet and that he was Nandi.
He fascinated us even more because apart from speaking Kipsigis, Nandi, Elgeiyo and Tugen (little did we then know that they were sister languages belonging to the Kalenjin group), and of course Swahili and English, he could also speak Dholuo, Luhya, Gĩkũyũ, and Kisii. He said that he lived in the midst of tea estates and members of those tribes who worked on the estates were his neighbours and friends and that he learnt their languages.
One day he fell ill and was bedridden. He did not have money to go to the dispensary that we all called 'hospital'. Odongo, his roommate at Fort Jesus where he lived, quickly diagnosed the illness as malaria but could only manage to get some herbs and roots which he boiled and forced Kip to gulp down the resultant concoction. People talked. They said he was sick because he used to bathe twice in a day. Others said it was because he drank mursik, which is fermented milk, mixed with soot from a certain vine. The slightly enlightened ones said it was because Odongo made him eat fish and that Nandi people did not eat fish, while the more enlightened ones blamed Kip's illness on an insect called a mosquito. But no one offered to take Kip to the hospital in Nakuru as his illness was now beyond the scope of the dispensary perched at 6161 feet above the sea level. His name stopped being Kipruto and everyone referred to him as 'Mgonjwa' (the sick one).
Back in town, an Indian who owned the biggest shop and whom we called Kĩhara (I want to believe it is because he did not have hair on his head that we called him so, for I have never known Kĩhara to be an Indian name) called his assistant, named Ngigĩ and said to him: "Ngingi, konda na mita Mgonjwa." Poor Ngigĩ was at first surprised to learn that even Kĩhara had known that Kip was mgonjwa, and then wondered how he was going to bring him all the way from Fort Jesus to town.
In his wisdom, Ngigĩ borrowed a bicycle and pedalled to Fort Jesus where he found the mgonjwa vomiting, but only producing a whitish substance because he had not eaten for four days. He had lost weight. Ngigĩ said to him: "Kĩvuruto, Kĩhara wants to see you. I think he wants to take you to the hospital because he knows that you are sick. He asked me to bring the mgonjwa." He hoisted the sick man on the bicycle and asked him to hold on to him lest he fell off. He pedalled carefully and got to town without spilling his human cargo. But when he reached the entrance of the shop, Kĩhara came out to find out why Ngigĩ had taken such a long time and at that moment Kip lost his grip on Ngigĩ's body and fell in a heap on the ground. Ngigĩ lost control of the bicycle which fell on Kip, and as Ngigĩ tried to stop the bicycle falling on Kip, he got entangled with its wheels and he too fell on Kip.
Kĩhara looked in trepidation and said: "If you had to kill him, did you have to do it in my presence? You have made me witness an aggravated case of murder." Ngigĩ, now mortified by what had happened, profusely apologised to Kip who was not dead yet. Before he could tell Kĩhara that he had brought the mgonjwa, Kĩhara asked him: "Wapi hii Mgonjwa". Perplexed by the turn of events and wondering why Kĩhara could not see that the mgonjwa had been brought, he told the now agitated Kĩhara "Si mgonjwa ndio huyu?" Kĩhara replied, "Mimi nataka Mgonjwa ile fundi ya nguo."
With that pronouncement, Ngigĩ realised that it was Mũgwanja the tailor that Kĩhara wanted to see and not Kip the mgonjwa (the sick one). But that confusion led Kĩhara to order his driver to take Kip to the Rift Valley Provincial General Hospital in Nakuru, twenty miles away. The sick man was put in the back seat of Kĩhara's car, a Simca (I don't see those cars anymore) whose registration was KCP, but I cannot remember the numerals. The driver was given money to go and pay for the hospital admission, while Kip was given twenty shillings for his pocket money. That was a lot of money because adults used to pay one shilling and twenty cents to travel to Nakuru by train; a mandazi cost only ten cents and a cup of tea was twenty cents. After one and a half weeks, Kip was back in town looking well and flashing his trademark white teeth as he smiled; only that he had lost some weight.
For our review, let us look at Pastor Joan Wairimũ's video, Mungu Amekusudia Kukubariki, where she is ejected from a matatu because she could not afford the required Shs.30.00 for her fare.
The poor woman eats the humble pie and with face down she steps out from the matatu before it speeds off. But in a twist of fate, Wairimũ ends up driving one of the most expensive cars in the world, a Mercedes Benz, and dining at the five-star Safari Park Hotel! I want to believe that is what they call a 'rags to riches' story.
The song's melody is appealing and lyrics are uplifting. There is nothing as assuring to a hungry and needy person when he/she learns that God will take care of their problem coming with the rider that 'kucheleweshwa siyo kunyimwa' which roughly translates to 'delay does not mean denial'. She could never be further from the truth. I commend her highly for taking the act to the slums where she belts out the song with appealing body movements along with the slum dwellers. The video has mixed footage of extremes (in lifestyles) that Kenya is famed for. Her lyrics give slum dwellers the optimism that their time of hardships in the slums will soon be gone.
But while Pastor Wairimũ's message is one of hope, how practical is it? The Bible teaches us of the need to work hard for our daily bread. God promises abundant harvest to those who sow more. Pastor Wairimũ does not send that message across, which would then give those people an illusion that they could just sit there waiting to get those blessings from the Lord. That is her major shortcoming. Also God gives according to one's ability, a simple fact that is ably illustrated by the parable of the talents, where the one with ten made ten, and the one with five made five, and the one who failed to make use of his one, it was taken away from him and given not to the one with five (as simple logic would dictate) but rather to the one with ten. To give slum dwellers the illusion that they too will drive a Mercedes Benz soon, while it is possible, is rather misleading under our prevailing situation.
As a Pastor, Joan Wairimũ should also have taken time to thank God by giving back to Him by way of tithing and assisting those in need. She has instead shown us how to lavishly spend that money. She goes for an extremely expensive car. Buying bottles of wine (I want to assume so because bottles of water are different from what we see in the video) from a supermarket, dining at the Safari Park Hotel instead of cooking a wholesome meal at home. She is doing this while those she involved in the filming of her video continue to earn less than one hundred shillings a day. Yes, her message is good, but is should not have stopped where it did. It is not as holistic as the Lord would wish for it to be according to His teachings as contained in the Bible. She earns three of our green stars.
