We dreamt of lofty and grandeur places. Holidays in Hawaii. Salaries in dollars.
High-level talks on diplomacy, climate change, forex, president’s shoes.
We thought the world operated on merit, and specimens like Sudi were just anomalies in a petri dish; to be observed and studied so we could offer our expert analysis.
Aside from screaming at the TV when Sudi is speaking, my contribution to Kenyan society is that by the time I get to the cashier at the supermarket, I already have keyed in the till number and I am just waiting to press send. But, perhaps, my chief contribution to civilisation is that I don’t let kids win…I beat the living daylights out of them, be it in FIFA, a foot race, hell, I even take the last slice of pizza. Lesser men would die from the slatternly shame. I apologise for none of it.
You may want to call me selfish, petty, evil, some would even go as far as childish. It’s true. Just not the whole truth. I grew up around seven siblings—five boys, mind you, and those acolytes could eat. How fast your hand moved was how fat you would get. Here’s how meal times worked in the Ashioya household: Mama mzazi, bless her soul, would hand everyone a plate of mboga. Ugali was put on a large sinia, and placed in the middle, like the president on top of a tour van, erm, I mean Prado. Mother would say grace, and then instruct us to attack. The faster your hand could coordinate with the ugali—never mind how devilishly hot it was—the more portions you could eat. In those days, speed was everything, something to be appreciated, hailed even. Chap chap. And someone’s daughter now wonders why I do everything mbio mbio, including…ama wacha tu.
