WISDOM

AN ENCOUNTER WITH REAL WANGAS: A TRIBUTE TO KENNEDY WANGA

Barely two weeks ago, the good Lord in his wisdom or lack of it thereof (I think the latter applies) forced a dear friend of ours, a young man full of life and laughter to take a nap. That man took the nap and never woke up., and we from it. After that we had nothing else to do but to return him to the soil.
So last Friday, Kenyans of goodwill-abana ba obusuma (luhyias), abana ba amabere (kalenjins), abana ba waru (kikuyus) et al converged at Munanga village, Matungu sub-county, Kakamega County to return an illustrious son of the Wanga kingdom to the soil. The Son of the Wanga kingdom and the Son of Kenya was Kennedy Owino Wanga. As we ask God why and drown our sorrows, I'm pretty sure that Owino Wanga is probably having a long chat and exchanging hearty laughs with George Mulama, Martin Shikuku and Kijana Wamalwa or being shown around by Nabongo Mumia in the other world. He is most likely getting orientation on how things run in the other world from Cardinal Maurice Otunga. This is the company 'Papa' is keeping in the other world as he was a great politician, a reliable leader and an accomplished man of God; all rolled into one.
After we planted that Son of the Wanga kingdom into the soil, we did what he would have expected us to do-celebrate his life. Team WHO-a team that is causing sleepless and sweaty nights to a politician in the wanga kingdom-organised an Ingo night at Nabongo Cultural Centre to bid one of their own a befitting send off. For potential domestic tourists, Nabongo Cultural Centre is situated off the Busia-Mumias highway near Matungu Primary School. The place popularly known as Eshiembekho by the Wanga is the social, cultural and political seat of the wanga kingdom. I chose to join my senior Omwami Wanyundi-prezda team WHO, my juniors Wameyo Okutoyi, Blayer Nabende, Omukolwe Neondo and other well meaning wangas at Eshiembekho. I chose to have a beer at the right place and at the right price because I knew that if Wanga Owino saw me weeping tears, he would wake up from the grave and say: "Wamama aka omukele, what is this thing about crying, Bwana? Have four on my account and stop behaving as if Oparanya has shut down all poshomills."
That is what made me find myself perched on a stool at Eshiembekho. I found myself there because I knew that most sons of the wanga kingdom would be irrigating their throats there in celebration of Owino Wanga's life. It would be a grave oversight for me not to mention that Eshiembekho is the permanent watering hole for one Munyekenye, the self-proclaimed first and last wanga professor. Munyekenye is a Board of Management teacher at a local harambee school. Indeed, Munyekenye was there and did not notice me when, as is my custom, I made a silent entry into Eshiembekho grounds.
I found him addressing the fellows at his table as if he was at the climax of a thought provoking political science lecture. He was saying: "The emergence of Kakira sugar packets in our all under one roof shops in the wanga kingdom has had profound psychological and physiological effects on the mind of the Wanga proletariat. The cassava sugar from Uganda will definitely impact on the interactive capacity of the wanga people in their social dimensions and particularly as it relates to their economic dynamics. I am saying this while cognisant of the raw data that has emerged from recent bio-social studies by eminent scholars whose close acquintance I have enjoyed in my wide travels and whose wells of intellectual knowledge I have tried to quench my unquenchable intellectual thirst."
I listened and said nothing for a number of reasons. One of them was, of course, that I did not understand a word of what the first and last wanga professor was saying. I was sure the characters who were listening so attentively that their teeth seemed to be nodding were not understanding a thing either.Two was that although I know Munyekenye was seen in school somewhere, he had not chewed sufficient volumes of books to grant him the benefit of churning out the queen's language as if it was manufactured in his father's isimba. Then I remembered that Munyekenye owed his English to his illustrious career as a cook at a mzungus home in Nairobi.
The character who was seated next to me on the counter nudged me and said: "Young man, do you hear what chewing sugarcane fresh from the farm and avoiding Kakira sugar does to the brain? It makes the brain think. That is why that man Munyekenye is talking more sense than the senate, the council and all the professors of our Masinde Muliro University combined. I will buy him a swallow although I bought him five only yesterday."
It was then that Munyekenye turned and saw me. He welcomed me to his table and called for a swallow. Just as it was being opened, another fellow made his way into Eshiembekho and stood at the door as if he expected us to stand up and welcome him with thunderous clapping. That is the kind of welcome exclusively reserved for our MCAs; the latter day village kings. For the benefit of my kinsmen in diaspora, be informed that whenever some of our semi-literate MCAs gate crush social gatherings, the MC orders all individuals present to get on their feet robotically and ululate rhythmically until the MCA makes himself comfortable. Even where a semi-literate MCA gate crushes a serious consultative meeting, the MC will adjust the program to enable the said MCA share his unschooled opinion on very pertinent issues affecting us. We grant such respect to them because amongst our people, just like our cousins the Ibo in Nigeria, we respect age and academic credentials but revere political achievements.
Back to the 'stranger' making a grand entry into Eshiembekho, I blinked three times when I looked at him and the darkness outside. He was clad in dark sunglasses, a savco jeans, a fubu t-shirt, a yellow silk coat and a marching red 'seng'enge ni ng'ombe' cap. He was dressed like the DJs whose services my kinsmen enjoy during disco matangas or makumbushos. The fellow walked to our table in measured steps and at an angle the late Chrispin Tom Muganda-my principal at St. Peter's Mumias (May peace be upon his soul) would have described as 100% academic. The 'stranger' shook hands with all the people there - except me. Then he gave me a look that my kinsmen reserve for MOSSACO or Sukari SACCO tellers whenever they break DR news to them. He stared at my half empty beer bottle, surveyed the entire place and muttered: "You, we haven't met, have we? Anyway, my full and official names are Osundwa Shiundu wa Kweyu omwiwa wa Abakolwe, omukhwe wa Abakolwe. What might yours be?"
Munyekenye was quick to answer for me and say that my full names are Mkabana wa Omono wa Ometi. The fellow offered me a limp hand and then looked at Munyekenye as if he had changed his mind from cooking ugali to cooking porridge. He told him: "Omwami Munyekenye, bwana, why are you fraternising with peasants like this fellow you are calling Mkabana wa Omono who has nothing to share? I thought you were a man of greater substance. Haven't I always rightly said that breathing the same oxygen with peasants is like giving added value to their lives? Haven't I always warned you against keeping the company of hoi polloi's who have nothing to share but problems? The last time I checked, you were not a minister of God whose clarion call is 'come thee all with burdens and I will make the lighter!!!'. Wake up bwana..."
Munyekenye nodded as if the man was speaking all the sense in the world. Then he stepped on my shoes to tell me to hold my peace. The savco jeans clad man looked in the direction of the bar and shouted: "Steward, bring us a swallow. We did not come here to gather dust like the expensive Mumias Sugar in the midst of Kakira sugar manufactured in Brazil and packed in Kenya." Then he picked up Munyekenye's bottle and told him: "Munyekenye man, why are you suckling an empty udder? It is conduct unbecoming for a man of your social, political and economic standing to suckle from an empty udder. I mean to have a bottle that is neither full nor empty. Have something on me".
Munyekenye nodded as if he was listening to a 'panda mbegu' sermon in church. Munyekenye then said: "Osundwa wa Kweyu, as I was telling you, this man is called Mkabana wa Omono and . . ." He was cut short by the figure in the fubu t-shirt who said: "This Mkabana character of yours, where did he go to school? Certainly not Kakamega, Starehe and later Alliance like myself. I went to those places but have you heard me going to Radio Ingo to announce it? I keep the information to myself and my close friends. This Mkabana bears no difference with the type that went to Stendi Chang'aa Harambee Secondary School or Matungu sub-county National Youth Polytechnic. He does not look like a product of Carey Francis or Geoffrey Griffins to me."
The omumurono in me was beginning to rise to unmanageable levels and Munyekenye noticed it. He stepped on my shoes and told Osundwa: "Mkabana is equally schooled like you and he is a son of the Abamurono. He is . . ." Osundwa cut him short again and said: "So he is from Muronoland? That place has yet to produce a professor of worldwide acclaim like you and me. Okay, there are one or two people I am tempted to respect from there. Mark my words very carefully. I said I am tempted to respect them and this does not mean that I respect them. One of them is that fellow called Manda. The other one is Chikhula. At least I have reliable information that they went to universities which are almost like the one I went to. I don't want you to broadcast this but Munyekenye will testify under oath facing Nabongo Mumia's grave, and without fear or favour that I am Osundwa, LLB, Harvard, LLM, Massachussets, Phd, London and Diploma in Creative Arts, London School of Economics."
Munyekenye nodded and said: "Osundwa, you have forgotten that you also went to Makerere University to study medicine."
Osundwa said: "Thank you my brother for reminding me. That is why I say that when I die, I want to be buried next to you. You know so that we can exchange intelligent information as well as keep a keen eye on all the 'returning officers' desirous of 'returning' our wives when we finally rest with our forefathers. I keep forgetting that I went to Makerere. One is inclined to forget places like Makerere when you have been all over the globe."
Osundwa looked in the direction of the bar and once again announced and said, "Barman, I said I did not come here to sit like hyacinth. Bring us a swallow." Then he turned to us and said: "The barman does not understand that we are among the very few highly paid Kenyans. He is not aware that the Supreme Court of Kenya sitting at Hague has awarded us a hefty pay-rise. I'm talking about an eight-figure salary here although I am not saying this so that you can broadcast it. This is the sort of information that I share only with close friends. Bring us more swallows lest Bensouda comes for you for crimes against the mighty wanga throats."
By that time, the barman was standing behind Osundwa with a black book. Osundwa looked at him and said: "Where is my Vodka and soda water? Don't you know that I am doing you a favour by coming to drink here? I am supposed to be at the Kakamega Kempinski Rosa Villa hotel with people of my class and where they serve Vodka in a Vodka glass and not in one of the kind used to serve busaa in Musiola-Ejinja."
The barman said: "Omwami, now I know, kukopa harusi, kulipa matanga! The Mswahili was not wrong when he said that. I agree with him totally". Osundwa raised his nose in the air and said: "Are you addressing me by any chance? If you are, then I would like you to know that you are breaching protocol and inviting the wrath of my departed forefathers. Should my forefathers turn in their graves on the basis of your wild allegations, be informed that a goat and beer will not be sufficient for forgiveness. My forefathers are not as cheap as those from the lake. Customers of my kind are not addressed by barmen at the table when they are with their contemporaries. Yours is to serve and to speak only when and if you are spoken to."
I saw the barman leap in air, flash a razor sharp panga and let out the kind of cry that is heard in Mayoni only when burning the spirits of theft out of a motor-cycle thief. Then he said: "Osundwa, I don't care how many degrees you have in your head. You must pay your debts now. You have been drinking on credit for the last six months. Enough is enough! Why are you treating me like amatsi ko khuosia amapuoni?"
Osundwa rose and said: "So you now want to fight me over small overdrafts which I did not need in the first place, eh? I won't lower my dignity by fighting you back. But just you wait! My personal assistant will deal with you. Let me go for him."
The man then shot out of the bar with the barman chasing after him and telling him that he must pay. Munyekenye then looked at me and said: "Mkabana, welcome to Eshiembekho. This is the wanga kingdom. That man Osundwa is a gate keeper with the Toka Hapo Security Limited. If he saw school it was Stendi Bakhana Primary School. That's the life here. It is more dramatic than how our friend Kennedy Owino Wanga left us. However, may Ken's soul find peace wherever it is."
I could only say, Amen and adios amigo Ken!
(Largely borrows from Wahome Mutahi's A Drink with a con man: A tribute to Lenin Ogola.)