Author: mirawu

LIAR LIAR: GENERATION ON FIRE

I am disappointed in my father’s generation. In the generation that has taught most of my peers what we know and the beliefs we hold close. I am displeased by their preaching without action. That they have the audacity to tell of peace and prosperity when we saw first-hand what they did in the 2007-2008 aberrations that cost many their lives and had my fellow country people affected.

I am discontented by the words of my leaders when they say that we are united yet I still see people politically affiliated according to their own tribe. No…I was told it is “ethnic group” now, because tribe is too brute a word. I am saddened terribly when I still see a grandma being cruel to a daughter in-law because she does not belong to the same tribe as them. Yes…for this article, I will use this god forsaken word, if only to open the eyes of my father’s generation.

I have lived only two decades on this earth, but I have seen my fair share of this disgrace. When a father passes on and children are chased away from the only home they have known because their mother is not one with the community of her belated. When a woman is stripped of her inheritance because her late husband’s people own it and she does not belong to the tribe. When lovers are forced to live star crossed lives simply because they have different tribal customs.

It is not right. I believe it is not right that our parents have upheld this vice and yet we still continue with it like it is second nature.It is not right that we have the capacity to embrace one another regardless of their geographical birthplace, but still have to think of what our parents will say when we take home a best friend for a sleepover and their last name is not satisfactory. It is not right. And I know many will disagree with me, but look around my friends, and tell me if I am wrong.

Tell me that employment does not still rely on where one is from. Tell me that first class treatment is given to people from the lake region in the central part of this country. Tell me that my aunts and uncles from the same central part can comfortably flash their identity cards in the lake region while there on holiday. It has gone to as far as my tribe having a name specifically for the other. I am owning up to this disrespect today. They call them “Okuyus”… And yes…it may sound like a privilege, like at least they get some recognition in the other part of the nation, until you hear it in a sentence, used by an old mama, saying how the “Okuyus” have robbed the land of all its provisions. It is still not right. My father’s generation has failed us.

Now, they did try to do something about this. They taught us to forget about our tribes. To forget the parts that define us first. That one part that, even without our names, we already belonged to. This generation of masters of pretense taught us to forget where we come from. Right now, if one of my friends is randomly asked, “And hey, what ethnic group are you?” the first thing, the first instinct, is usually to ask “Why?” Why would a stranger want to know where I am from? What intentions do they have? They could be having a hidden agenda…so we have trained ourselves to turn defensive when this question is first asked.

After this, comes the disillusion that we have fed ourselves. Since the question Why is not satisfactory an answer, and the stranger could most definitely go on to probe so as to find out more, we have adapted an answer that is so outrightly outrageous, I wonder why it is not fitted right after The Wildebeest Migration in the “Seven New Wonders of the World”. We have taught ourselves to say “I am Kenyan”. My generation has become so gullible as to name my country a tribe, and this upsets me.

We have been deceived, deluded and made a mockery of by our parents and their parents. We have grown up believing a lie. We are not of the tribe Kenya, but of that one Great Nation that comprises of 42 amazing tribes that we should be proud of. Some of us have been given white man names and lack the identity of their tribes. Children grow not knowing the language of their fore fathers and are out here claiming to not belong to any “ethnic group”. Claiming to be “Kenyans”…but that is not true. We lack a sense of identity because our fathers’ generation has made it so. We have no sense of belonging or fulfillment in our backgrounds. It breaks my heart to know that if only we were raised to know that all tribes are amazing and exotic in their own way, then maybe, just maybe, we could have grown up appreciating one another the way it should have been.

But sadly, my father’s generation has shortchanged us.

-Awuor M

 

I KILLED LUCY

I killed her

Lucy

I killed my granddad’s one true love

The one that made him smile all day

I killed his happiness

And I am cursed

Because there is none like her

I stare down at her lifeless remains now

A tear drops

He will kill me in return

My heart breaks

I am a murderer now

I will have this follow me forever

Granddad will be back in an hour

I look for words to say but nothing comes to mind

Why did I disturb her?

Why did I have to make her fall down the stairs?

A little jealousy has cost me my evening tales of the military

Jealousy had cost me the love of my grandfather

It had cost me the hot chocolate talks with my favorite person in the world

He will never look at me the same way

I will always remind him of Lucy

Of how it was all my fault that he lost her

He will hate me

Perhaps I should also fall down the stairs

Just so I can also die with her

I killed the one my granddad truly loved

Even Chica the cat did not get that kind of love from him

She was his lifelong partner

His ride or die

And in one swift swing

I had murdered her

I had destroyed granddad’s life

I had lost my favorite grandchild privileges

In the next forty seven minutes

Granddad will walk through that door

And have his heart broken

Because he will see Lucy

Lying there on the floor

With me standing over her

And he will despise me for this selfish act

He will hate me for what I have done

He loved her too much

The kind of love that cannot be replaced

Lucy was an old soul

Her caramel skin flowed for miles

She had a beauty about her that left many stunned

And I had killed her

I should call the police

Thirty two minutes

I can’t move

I look at my hands

Her blood on them

Twenty six

Granddad should be walking home now

Home to see Lucy, Chica and me

Only that he will find two of us alive

His number one lifeless on the floor

Seventeen minutes

My heartbeat fastens

No words can get me out of this

No amount of hugs can salvage her now

Lucy is gone

Nine minutes

Eight

Seven

I can’t breathe

I am stuck to the floor

I can’t move

Still standing over Lucy

I bend down and touch her head

Cold

I hear the gate open

And granddad’s voice

Jovial

He is singing one of his old songs from his band when he was younger

He sings of peace and prosperity in the country

An old independence song

I brace myself

He is right on time

Typical granddad

Couldn’t even give me two more minutes to compose myself

Not one second to come up with an acceptable tale of how beloved Lucy died

Another tear drops

He opens the door

“Pa’…it’s…it’s… I’m sorry”

He looks at me, confused

Then I see grief fill his face as he stares at my hands touching Lucy’s head

He stares at his true love

Lifeless

“Pa’… I didn’t mean to… it wasn’t my fault…”

He closes the door behind him

And walks up to me

I see him lift his walking cane

And I fear he wants to strike me with it

But he hangs it on the staircase railing

And puts his hands around me

I fear he wants to squeeze the life out of me

Kill me like I did his happiness

Like I did Lucy

His body starts to shake

He sobs on my shoulder

“Pa’… I’m so sorry”

He looks up at me

His eyes are bright

He has been…

Laughing?

“Sweetpea” he says

“It’s just a smoking pipe. I have hundreds of those”

I look at him

Shocked

“But it’s Lucy…you love her!”

“No Sweetpea. I love you. Not a silly old pipe that you broke”

He kisses me on the forehead

“Want some hot chocolate?’ he asks

“Yes please”

And I laugh at my own madness

It was just a stupid old smoking pipe

I dust the ashes from my hands

-Awuor M