[spider-ndwalz]

What kind of idiot writes down his/her memories on paper at this crazy hour of night? Some idiot that must be. Some idiot indeed. Even so, I speak for so many idiots like myself who express ourselves better with paper and our witty pens. Idiots like ourselves who find voice within written words. Idiots like us who can look at other potential idiots with a level of understanding without a word being exchanged. We are the mysterious kind of idiots, for you know there exists many kinds. Speaking of idiots, I remember this classmate back in the days whom we used to nickname ‘ burning spear’- for her fury would make us dread coming even close to confrontation with her. She probably considered the rest of us as cowardly idiots! Why, she would speak her mind ever so fervently, and if her point wouldn’t come across to us, she would threaten to use fists and blows when she needed to. I often wonder to myself whatever happened to ‘burning spear’- maybe she joined the army someplace and was commander in chief. Anyhow, that is besides the point. I remember my idiot boyfriend kalonzo who would come and pick me up with his bicycle that used to carry every sort of ‘ ndumas’ there were across the republic of Kenya. I laugh to myself when I think about that bicycle. How much he adored it! This bicycle was for no ordinary idiot. It was for the sophisticated idiot. It came with the full package: front and rear mirrors, reflectors on the pedals, hind reflection lights, a makeshift honk button that had a groovy kamba tune to it, two more mirrors on the front, and a cushioned backseat where he used to carry me every time we went to machakos downtown for a night out of mutura and fanta orange indulgence. No wonder he used to sweat like a pig, what with all that added weight on this bicycle that he was so very fond off! Would you even imagine that he gave this bicycle a name? Not just any ordinary name an ordinary idiot would, oh no. A name only a sophisticated idiot of class would. He called it ‘ my loyal Mercendes mbenz triple three, hi-fi powered, ndouble firestone kalonzo wheels with multipowered lens leflectors and emerngency mblakes mbike’-how more sophisticated can any typical ‘ blackee’ be baptized?- and how very proud he was of this special possession! This kalonzo idiot even had the nerve to install a makeshift safety belt from some sisal fibers that he stole from Mutua’s farm, ; his rival neighbour. Kalonzo…this boyfriend who did all sorts of wonders just to impress a girl and unfortunate enough I fell for him in those gullible years of adolescence. Kalonzo…this guy who was six foot one, had huge hands that resembled a spade…and yet so very gentle. Kalonzo..this idiot of a boyfriend who consumed Mutura as though it was larger than life itself. Oh! How can I forget to tell you how kalonzo used to be once he got drank on cheap chang’aa that consisted of almost 90% methanol! This man that resembled Hercules once drunk, would sing at the top of his lungs in a baritone voice that had no coordination whatsoever to the tune of the song. Once he got tired of singing,( after an hour or so), he would then ask Mama Kimeu to add him some more brew until he got senseless drunk after which he would tell me to take him home on his ‘ mercendes mbenz triple three, hi-fi powered mbike’. This kalonzo idiot of a man almost thrice my body weight made me acquire additional muscles not intended for a lady. I had to drag his stoned self to where he parked his ‘mercendes’, put him on top of the seat and push him down the hilly road while he was on top of his bike. If he did not pedal at all( which he never did), that would entirely be his problem- which indeed was- for many a times he would come visit me the next day on a Sunday afternoon, when I had worn my Sunday best dress which had pink and brown dots on it( the fashionable kao that I am) and tell me how he would suddenly find himself in the middle of the road and didn’t recall how he actually got there. Of course I would hush my mouth and tell him that he was probably seeing imaginary things and he should pray to the good Lord to have mercy upon his soul; and this fool took it seriously! After I kept telling him this blatant lie a dozen times, he would then insist on us going to Father Musyoki to confess our sins through that wire mesh that separates eye contact. Most of the time I had nothing to say. On the contrary, kalonzo would spill out each and every detail of how he went to mama kimeu’s waterhole and drunk himself silly and even to the very detail of telling Father Musyoki, how he kept going for a piss every now and then afterwards. This kalonzo idiot of a boyfriend would then proceed to tell this father of holiness how obsessed he was with ‘ motura’ and how he was in much need of deliverance from such a necessary evil. How infuriating that would make me! Once out of the church building (lest I be struck to the ground with flashes of lightning from heaven), I would slap him hard across his huge face and tell him that if he ever did such a stupid thing again, I would dump him- for real this time. Kalonzo…this idiot of a boyfriend I so loved. Kalonzo…this man that was proud of his bicycle….Kalonzo…this huge six foot one heavily built fellow that had the heart of a child. Kalonzo, my idiot boyfriend who was such a sincere drunk of cheap and dangerous liquor – how he loved it, even though in the end it made him go partially blind- but for the man he is, he still can be seen on occasion riding his ‘mercendes’ though partially blind, and yet still getting his way around downtown machakos, especially when he senses the sounds and smells of roasting ‘motura’ just around the corner.

‘ let humour be the heartbeat of your soul- only then will the stresses of life become a mere joke’
Ndwale

Written by carolndwalz- carolworks- all rights reserved©.