My name is Tabu Bin Tabu. I was born and brought up near the Eastern slopes of Mount Kenya. If you are asking about the year I was born, I am sorry I won’t tell you. It’s not long ago. It is only yesterday. That time when there was a draught like the one we are experiencing. When money was scarce in peoples pockets. When rain had ceased for three or more years. Jobs were not there anymore.
If you want to know more ask my mother Sabera. She will tell you I am not old enough to take care of myself. When she lastly came to my place one year ago, she had a better idea about nearly everything. The position of the couch, the colour of the table cloths, the type of meals to be prepared. She informed me to take good care of my money and I should not invest in the pyramid schemes. I did not oppose. I was afraid of the argument that my views could elicit. I was not bitter though. I was happy that somebody had told me that I was young. Something I wanted to hear.
If you are not satisfied with what mother told you about my age, ask my father Marete. He keeps a diary with all those important dates. He will tell you that the dust has not settled since I got circumcised. I have been asking him to subdivide our land to us. He told us that since we are so young to be able to keep Title Deeds, he can only show us were to construct our houses for the time being. He would continue to cultivate the land to allow us some time to grow. It’s Just the other day that I convinced him to give me my form four certificate. It was kept inside a small wooden box under his bed.
My mother had asked to be given my class eight certificate so that she can take it to a friend who could offer me a job in a small hotel in town. She had folded it several times and tied it at one Conner of her leso. It took a lot of beseeching before being allowed to have it. I lied to her that a friend had offered me a better job if I presented the paper to him. She had told me to return it soon after seeing the man. After some thinking I returned a photocopy which she kept safe.
Last weeks incidence left me with no words. I was in town doing some window shopping. I did not know exactly what I was interested in. Everything seemed to be very beautiful. Clothes, electronic gadgets, even the beautiful girls attending to customers. You could bargain and bargain even when you had no cent in the pocket. Only to listen to their beautiful voices and professional language. Even window shopping them was okay.
I stared at one shop to another. Moving to and fro used all my energies and I started yawning. I approached a fat lady who was passing by and asked her what time it was. “Two p.m.!” she replied. I thought it was a good idea to have a bite at a Nyama Choma joint in the bus park.
I ordered three pieces of meat, ugali and mala. This time I wanted to take a break from the usual kagoto (the ballast). Roasted remains of a dead cow could be tasty. I thought. I had sat at a corner opposite the door. I could see the touts asking customers to board their matatus, passengers getting in and others leaving the park. In some minutes time I was through. I stood and approached the counter to pay. The cashier called the waiter and asked him how much I should pay. “mzee amekula so moja” (The old man had a bill of a hundred shillings). This statement caught me off guard. “nani unaita mzee? Huoni mimi si mzee ni nguo zimezeeka?” I complained. (Who are you calling an old man? You are confusing my age to that of my clothes). “You people have no manners these days. If you think that I am old why don’t you cut the old part and throw it away!!! Look at yourself, you and me who is older?” I bellowed angrily. The waiter kept quiet.
I turned to look at the other patrons seated at the hotel. All of them were looking at us. I overheard one say: “mwangalie huyu mzee anayefikiria ni under 18. Hee heee heeee!!!” (Look at this old man who thinks that he is under 18 years of age). I hurriedly paid up and left dejected.
I had to consult some people asking them if really I looked as old as implied by my enemies. “You are not growing any younger. A wife and two kids make the matter worse.” One of them commented. Look at your pot belly! Do you think a young man has eaten enough to fill a protruding stomach?” the other one had said. They seemed to have been bought by my enemies.
I took time to look at myself. My abdomen made me look as if I was seven months pregnant. That night I did not sleep. I kept waking up and thinking so had why I allowed myself to get old before being a leader. These people did not realize that having a big stomach is a sign of overeating and not old age.
In my church I am called a youth. When looking for a job I am told I lack experience. Where will I get experience without getting employed? It’s like telling a person not to taste the pudding because he has never tasted one. The little English I know tells me the pudding is in the eating.
In 2007 I wanted to vie for the councillorship at our local location. My political enemies decided to politicize it saying, “You young people are leaders of tomorrow. Wait for your turn.” We have waited and waited. When is tomorrow? When will tomorrow be today? When tomorrow becomes today there is always another tomorrow.
Now I have discovered that old is the tool my enemies are using so that I cannot have a good time. The other enemies are using young to prevent me from leading. Please tell me. Am I young to lead or too old and worn-out?
© Tabu Bin Tabu 2009
