SAY WHAT?

The women of Kituni village had lessos tied around their waists as some whipped the remaining tears from their eyes just in time to welcome the professional village mourners who steamed through the gates of Mzee Trenks homestead wailing at the top of their voices to mark their territory and register their presence. A throng of in-synch mourning rented the air as they competed on who could wail the loudest. Strange things people do for popularity I tell you.

Men on the other hand gathered in a small circle talking in soft hushed toned like blood from a headless chicken oozing in spurts with their heads bowed down as a sign of respect to the dead. Evil practices and traditions have taught them not to show any emotions and any man who dared do other wise was considered weak, so the best the could do was fold their arms and venture into a trance with a possibility of thinking who would visit the ancestors next. The elderly ones occupied the nuclear of the circle and the younger ones or new men like one George chenenje donned the circles periphery gleaning and cranning their necks with frequent coughs that earn them death stares. The struggle to be recognized as men seeming elusive.

A lot goes around the community during such an occasion and so the rest of the population has to be assigned some duties. The older boys for example had the duty to fetch firewood and water to be used throughout the ceremony. But most of them showed up to mark their presence, capture a savage and protect their territory for the dance session that would take place every other night till Mzee gets laid to rest. The young girls and new women on the other hand made themselves useful in the now open air kitchen trying to prepare meals for the crowd that would soon fill the homestead. They split firewood and sorted out beans as they chatted the time away, oblivious of the gravity of the matter.

The dance popularly known as disco matanga is one really interesting activity. Its more interesting than this clubs young’uns go these days. Its more pocket friendly so to say. No tickets, no VIP lounges, no makeup, no dressing up or applying any cologne. Just sweaty bodies scented with smoke from the kitchen and the bon fire dancing to the beats from a taut isukuti drum, Dr. Dre got nothing on this one. The grownups have no say during this time. The mothers are usually somewhere gossiping and rocking the younger kids to sleep and the men are gathered by their own fireplace discussing politics, burial arrangements and more politics as they sip on their local brew made from fermented maize meal.

It however does not come as a surprise to find some women in the banana plantation muffling their cries and speaking to the dead. Some like Annette Trenk could be in the kitchen looking for food in the wee hours of the night when they ought to be out breaking a leg or two at the open air rave. Others could have as well marked their presence at the ball and snaked out to the maize plantation to finish off from where they started; simply obeying Gods commandment to go into the world and subdue it, literally.

When you mingle with my people you will be forced to look and act like them but it still surprises me that one Jeff Watitwa has been a hard but to crack especially when it comes to this things he tags along from Nairobi e.g that thing he carries in his hands and keeps touching touching the screen, it is said that it is possessed to an extent where he talks through it to someone he calls Mama Naliaka. His wide framed glasses that look like ‘googos’ in the words of my standard six droupout grandmother have over the ages been a subject for discussion by many. The only thing that makes him part of us is that he enjoys the Bukusu circumsision ceremony and that he makes an effort of exercising his two left feet huko disco matanga.

And that my people is how we sent off Mzee Terrence ‘Trenk’ Mukinginyi. The great councilor who had the guts to challenge Mzee Jommo Kenyatta in his own palace. The man who tasted whisky from the presidents table while wearing some short khaki shorts and never looked back since then. The penchant for good things still lives on Grandpa