[supermann]

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 kalonzoidiot even had the nerve to install a makeshift safety beltfrom some sisal fibrs that he stole from Mutua’s farm, ; his
rival neighbour.

Kalonzo…this boyfriend who did all sorts ofwonders just to impress a girl and unfortunate enough I fellfor him in those gullible years of adolescence.

Kalonzo…this guy who was six foot one, had huge hands that resembled
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 tims 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©.