What a damn!

I've been up and down for some days (over a week) . My head has almost blown off. My oscilliation between the Main Gate (The Ivory Tower) and Barclays Bank@Wandegeya has been one of my bad nightmares. I can't explain why The Barclays Guys@the Wandegeya station can't style up. Traditionally, after depositing a cheque, a customer is customarilly supposed to wait for a period four days before it matures. But, hell hath no fury for an incensed young lad. A wait of as more than a week ain't worth their name.

Their 'new' computer which hang@the slightest opportunity. Their slow, reluctant, remorseless, disgusting, annoying servive to customers. 'Their' relaxed, unconcerned outlook toward their 'platinum' customers. What a damn.

These are some of the expressions I overhead, (besides being myself, unordinarilly and unwittingly incenced with their relaxedness and lagginess@work) :

'This fellow is shit man!' a well dressed man's remark after being told to go to the next counter for services that could be done by the fellow@the counter.

'My account (despite having enough cash for a few months salary) has been closed three times," a lady in her thirties expressing her annoyance. Her face, adorned with fury could tell it all.

'This is stress,' another one decried. She brisked out of the banking hall.

Their unpredictable on/off severs. Who is their service providers? Are they really World Class bankers when all&sundry are grumbling@their services? Is it pride?

Transactions are often slow (sometimes done) without the passion to work.

A particular lady refused to serve me. Reason?

"You had said I earlier intentionally refused to serve you when the server was off." Pure nonsense. Does she even know the concept of vital public whom she needs to woo instead of proudingly claiming she wouldn't serve for lack of sense in her head?

"You should know how to treat your customers?" I told her. Without us, you would be on Unemployment Street.

MY DREAM FOR RUSSIA

Old dreams die hard. But, I’ve never believed that dreamers are high achievers. They could be, but other factors do play a role to make them true.

The story of ‘An African (Nigerian) in Russia’ inspired me way back in high school to dream of making a pilgrimage to Russia, the land of winter. My Geography then in Senior three inspired me the more to wish to feel how real winter felt like. Russia is just close to Greenland, the land of the midnight sun. Greenland is close to the Arctic, but my mind then, stubbornly conceived Arctic is one of the edges of the world.

My European History in A-level reinforced the same old dream that I would make it to Russia. The Summer Palace in St. Petersburg with its magnificent mausoleums, spiced with unique historical artefacts, prominent of which is Lenin’s in St. Petersburg Palace Square.

But then, when I kept reading the story of ‘An African in Russia’, I told my classmates about it and my dream to Russia. At that, I even specified the locations I would yearn to set my feet upon. Minsk, Moscow and St. Petersburg (formerly, Leningrad) came top on my priority list. Again, my passion for Literature kept my dream alive.

I loved reading different literature about Russia: The Moscow Campaign, The Bolshevik Revolution, Russia in the two world wars and of course, The Government Inspector by Nikolai Gogol. There’s also the Summer Literary Seminars, often held in St. Petersburg. A local journalist wrote inspiring literary stories about the event any time he attended the seminar each year.

Now, won’t my dream come true if I pick journalism as my career choice? I often wondered. That was the time when one’s passion to pursue a certain course but prestige guided one to choose a career. Most of my classmates, just like me, were conscious of pursuing ‘heavy’ prestigious courses, without considering a drop of passion in their expectations. But, my passionate dream to visit Russia inspired me to study journalism, some years later.

In high school then, impatient wishes and dreams of touring the world came in handy. Another classmate would tell me how he would wish to go to Japan. Another would say, “As soon as I finish my senior four, I would head straight to former Prussia (Germany). My brother lives there. He even has a German wife.”

Nevertheless, with the story of ‘An African in Russia’ as my immediate inspiration, I appeared to have a dream for my other vehement inspiration. I even inspired another friend, whom everybody in class thought was totally confused, to fall in love with the word ‘Minsk’-a town in Russia. He even headlined his autograph ‘Minsk’ before giving it to us to sign our best wishes for him since our time in high school was coming to an end.

All friends in class jokingly called me ‘Russia’. I felt no slight offence after all, this would be ‘my next destination after school (DV),’ I told them in the fullness of my heart. I spruced up my confidence and inspiration of going to Russia by applying for some courses (not Journalism but medicine) that were advertised in the press. I highly disliked medicine related courses. But, with my dream to go to Russia, here was I applying for the courses I loathed. That would surely put me on the road to Russia, I thought longingly.

Time came when we had had to part from one another. It was inevitable. We had finished our final examinations. Most of us were only waiting for our dreams to come true, however hard to attain they appeared to be.

A few friends had got feedback concerning the courses they had applied for in their respective countries of interest. Whatever was sent back to them were mere prospectuses, glossed with magnificent College structures. But, the tuition aside, let alone other expenses say for visa, travel, accommodation was enough to shatter my dream. Mine was broken. From a humble background, I could not even dare tell my parents how much money the course I had applied for in Russia would cost them.

For some time, out of school, I still see most of my school cronies treading on both village paths and town roads in an endeavour to make ends meet. Their dreams too, seem to have died a long time ago.
“My dream for Russia….” RIP.

Joshua Masinde

A funeral week

The past week was a funeral one. The long awaited exam results for last semester were released. The delay was worth a tonne of complaints. A letter (or two) found its way to the editor. A meeting with the Head of Department was convened. Reason? "We want results." Expectations of good grades were high.
Now, the results were released. Many students were pregnant with the hope for the best. Unfortunately, the notice board became suddenly repulsive. The results were disgusting...stinking...reeking. "These are not our grades," many a student complained.
Faces smelling of grief prevailed. The dismal results on the notice board drew unto itself repulsion. From a mere glance, they were unappealing. Approximately forty retakes in first year is a sad affair. Over sixty retakes in second year elicited shock.
A few laughed.
"So and so has not been spared the dark fate," Justuu remarked. But, he had not been spared either.
Far from the disgusting results, the grievers distanced themselves. Far from the maddening crowd, they back-strode. Far from the dark corridors, "We Build For The Future."

Joshua Masinde

Village football, in good old days

Sweet, nostalgic memories die hard. Old as they may be, they are often a precious souvenir for ages. The memories of the village setting, with its relaxed, serene and refreshing atmosphere signify a world of their own.

One of the most popular past times for the young men in the village was playing football. While the girls went to the river to draw water, the boys invited their counterparts from a neighbouring village for a soccer match in a swiftly marked crooked terrain.

The most exciting of matches would come into play in the face of two rival camps. Each camp would boast of its skilled commanders, who in the name of chance or good fortune, stood out as the best ball dribblers and top scorers. They lacked a contemporary as far as taking control of their teams from the start of the game up to the end until they either won or lost a match. Losing in a match was intolerable. If this happened, the commander would change the line-up as soon as possible.

The commanders had the prerogative of carrying the balls neatly knit from nylon papers. The balls were often referred to as lifundo in western province. The commanders also had the privilege of choosing the first eleven players for their sides. Their decisions were rarely disputed.

They were better players, save goal-keeping. They feared being scored since that would portray their Achilles heel. Nevertheless, as the game would progress, they would swap positions until the game would come to an end. In the process, they would point out the weaknesses of the holders of different positions but show how they could play better in such positions.

When they caused a penalty either accidentally or at will, they would dispute it strongly in order to have it cancelled.

“Haramu hailipi,” the opponents would shout.

Many a time, when the penalty would be declared valid, the field commander would take the risk of substituting his goal keeper for the moment. Fortunately in case they could save the penalty, they would boast of their incomparable proficiency in not only goal keeping but also defending, middle-playing, striking, lines-manning, refereeing, marking the field and coaching.

Lumonya was one such commander. Though, tiny as he appeared, he had the stamina that would shake even the hugest of defenders both in his own team and in the rival team. For his Ronaldinho skills on the field, his fame surpassed the whole village. He would literally dribble the ball from morning to noon, without erring. He would play any game at any time, anywhere without tiring, until the cows would come home. It required a commander of similar pedigree from a far away village to give him a run for more skill.

Lumonya had a football squad of his own. The members of the squad ranged from the very mature and tough muscled youths to the skinny ones still in their elementary classes. He coached them separately, ushered them in the field to play and monitored their progress. Every game would present a good opportunity for Lumonya to choose fine players to face their perennial hardcore rivals from the next village. Whoever displayed a good albeit rough game would often be absorbed in the line-up.

The top scorers enjoyed some privileges too. They were automatically assured to play in successive games, until they could get injured or fall sick. Moreover, they would be involved in making some key decisions, like which rival teams to play against.

Whenever Lumonya would feign sickness, there would be no game on that occasion. Most members of his squad would simply call on him to wish him a get well tribute. A game would only take place if they managed to convince him to accompany them to the field. They would do all they could to convince Lumonya watch them play. His mere presence morale boosted them a great deal.

For his all round soccer proficiency, Lumonya was a darling of the girls as well. Most of them admired him clandestinely. They wished he would give them a look of admiration whenever they flirted in his presence.

Till now, Lumonya, who had hoped to play for AFC Leopards, Gor Mahia FC or Tusker FC, has not since attained his dream. He is now old enough with a family to take care of. But, the memories of his heydays as a soccer hero still linger in his mind with nostalgia.

Joshua Masinde.

Growing up as a child

Life can be a thorn of roses, especially when growing up in the house of a stringent and disciplinarian father. It is worse when he is a conservative and a perfectionist. I can’t remember any time when I felt totally secure without harbouring the fear for punishment even on the minor errors committed.
The disciplinarian was always on our neck. Growing up as a child, I was reserved. Strains of the same reserved nature still trail me today in my twenties. As a reserved child, father never really understood whether I was happy of or not, whether I had something I needed or not. So, even though I needed anything, I could not pass my request directly to him. I merely swallowed my wishes and let the agony burn in me in silence. The same attributes also characterised my younger brothers.
But, mother would always endeavour to listen to us. She was a vital intercession between us the kids and dad. However, there are times when out of our inborn fear for dad, we would even dread to see face to face. We would always hide away whenever he was around.
Though reserved and shy we were, father always expected the best out of us. For instance, being himself a teacher, he expected us to be top performers in class. It is for this reason that he always lectured us on how bright he was at school.
“I was always top of my class,” he would say
He expected us to participate in numerous co-curricula activities like dance, drama, the choir and sports. He personally played football in high school and college and was highly respected. But for having made it to a teacher training college, he could possibly have joined one of the established football clubs in the country.
However, that was too much expectation out of us. For failing to instil confidence in us from an early age, we could not do anything that could easily make him a proud father from the outset. The fact that confidence lacked in us, it was too hard for us to be outgoing or to venture into extra-curricula activities for that matter.
Nevertheless, his conservative nature gave him hope. He still had the idea that our outgoingness and confidence would ‘naturally’ come out at the right time, since he never ‘lacked’ such attributes.
As fate would have it, we never used to perform excellently in class. We were ever criticised on such poor academic showing. Whenever we endeavoured to do our best, he would not offer us a tap on the back. He would rather say on a serious note, “You could have done better than that.” Poor we.
The major problem with an over disciplinarian cum conservative father is that he will always look at your views as insignificant to him. He never easily accommodated our views since he always portrayed himself as the sole claimer of knowledge. The best he can do is to turn you into an automaton. He has a time frame for every stage of life you’ll pass through. His duty is to ensure the remote keeps working as you grow into the various stages of life he would wish you to undergo.
But, as we grew older, we tended to resist such autocracy though, mildly. When we began to have our way in many situations, he would regard that as defiance of authority. It would be worth it if we asked for permission to every little or petty issue we would wish to partake of.
Initially, he regarded the choice of our future career as his preserve. We were ‘remote controlled automatons’ so how could we define our future career without his involvement? Advice could serve better, but not coercion. He regarded the latter with prior importance since we would easily comply to every one of his dictate courtesy of the fear he instilled in us.
As a teacher and as a conservative, he believed we could make good teachers just like him. He therefore tried hard to push us in his way of belief and perception of things.
“As a teacher, you will always be marketable,” he always informed us.
What would happen if we told him we wouldn’t wish to take on the noble profession? In most cases, someone usually aspires to do something in the way of ones role model. But, was he our role model? He never instilled the confidence and spirit of noble teachers in us.
In growing up as a child, I came to realise, many years later that one of the best gifts a parent can instil in their offspring is confidence. But, right from a tender age, this was lacking in us. We perceived almost everything in stringent colours. If you become bold enough and tell your senior about a mistake they have made or are about to commit, you are scoffed. Often times, you are punished. How can confidence grow in such a tender heart and mind?
But at least, he managed to see to it that my elder brother ended up in a teacher training college. He would have wished his eldest son to go to the very teacher’s college he went to in the early eighties. Such a control of course came to pass when my elder brother was far into the voting age. Would he swallow the dictates and controls any more?
One of the worst shocks seized dad when his eldest son swooped churches without his consent. Dad was mad at him. But my brother would not withdraw his decision.
“He should know that I am a grown up,” that’s what my brother would tell me. After many years of exercising no independent decision on his own, it was high time he defied authority and acted on his own.
Father has come to realise that things have changed and he needs to act more liberally.
I might not be alone in this fate of growing up as a child. I remember one of my friends telling me that he never has anything important to tell his father. The two can’t easily hold a talk with each other. In fact, he professes, “I only talk to my father when we are quarrelling.” To him, it is not absurd. He grew up knowing that as a man, he was supposed to be tough.
Steve on the other hand was born a left handed guy. However, his late father, being a disciplinarian and conservative as he was, made sure that Steve used his ‘right’ hand instead.
“It was hard,” Steve confesses. The father even instructed the teachers at school to make sure Steve used his ‘right’ hand to write. At home, whenever Steve would pick food with his left hand, his father would bang that hand. Eventually, though painfully, Steve adjusted. He now writes with his ‘right’ hand though the left one is stronger. He can throw a stone far when he uses his left hand, but he is not good at writing with it.
23 year Isaac Abilu however has a different experience. The affection between him and his father is evident. He is ever communicating with him on almost a daily basis. In their communication, such kind words like ‘dear son’, ‘dear dad’ are not elusive. He attributes this to gender in the family structure. He has five sisters. He is the only boy and that is why his father banks so much affection on him.
I don’t exactly understand whether my childhood was hidden somewhere in the face of affection. In growing up under the roof of a conservative and disciplinarian guardian, I understand he wanted to curve us into better citizens of the world.
This would only happen in the face of stringent laws and observation of such laws to the letter. Perhaps, the reserved status which grew inside became demystified when I ventured into writing at the age of fifteen. It was at that age that I strongly felt I wanted to say something, which couldn’t come out exactly as I wanted.
Partial relief exuded into my selfhood when I took pen and paper and began to communicate my alien thoughts in a tangible form. Here, it seems, is where my life rotates.
Dad might have been right when he said we could make better teachers. Chinua Achebe once said that a writer is a teacher who needs to re-educate his people. Perhaps, he was wrong since it is not a matter of chalk and blackboard.
In growing up as a child, it hasn’t been an easy experience though. I wonder how things would be if I was close to my father from the outset.

Joshua Masinde.