Commonwealth Writers Prize (Africa Short List) '... a masterly, artistic representation of the reality, contradictions, aspirations and problems of a post-colonial Kenyan community in Central Kenya.' Sunday Nation 'Mwangi... weaves a thread of humour through a fabric of tears. ... STRIVING FOR THE WIND (Baba Pesa) is an instructive exploration of the true nature of the human condition in rural Kenya and a fascinating appreciation of the foibles and vibrancy of the human soul.’ The Weekly Review |
Confusions is a dog. Everyone know that; even
Juda, his owner, who does not feed, shelter or treat him any
better or worse than a dog. Most days, the only attention
Confucius can expect from his master is a poke in the ribs
when it is time to go home. And, although they share some
quality time in discussion, Juda selfishly doing all the talking,
Confucius will never understand his master. But, for some
strange reason that no one will ever understand, Confucius
would died for Juda. However, it is becoming increasingly
clear, at least to the dog, that his master had read too many
books for anyone's good.
“Why do you call him Confusions?” Pesa wondered on one of
the rare occasions they exchanged something resembling a
conversation. “He is less confused than you.”
“The name is Confucius,” said Juda. “Con-fu-cius.”
“Why?”
“He’s a thinker.”
“A thinker?”
“Philosopher.”
“Philoso … what?”
“Philosopher,” said Juda. “Someone who thinks great
thoughts. It comes from the Greek word philos, meaning
love, but in Chinese it means great-wise-head. Confucius was
from China.”
“Choma Choma too came from Chania.”
“China, not Chania,” Juda said, unusually patient. “China is a
little farther than Chania. You can’t walk to China.”
“How did he come here then?”
“Who?”
“Confusions?”
“The man or the dog?”
“The man.”
“Confucius never set foot in Kambi,” Juda informed, delighted
for the rare opportunity to educate his father. “He lived
thousands of years ago. He was a great believer in
harmonious coexistence and a teacher on how people ought
to live and interact with one another and with their
surroundings. You know father, even in the old days, there
were rich people and poor people and they had the same kind
of problems you are having today.”
“But why do you call your dog a man’s name?” That was all
that Pesa was interested in learning.
“Because he is wiser than you or I,” Juda said. “And he’s loyal
to family and friends, and he treats others with respect.”
“He’s just a dog,” observed Pesa. “Why don’t you call him
dog like other dogs? He’s a slaughterhouse mongrel, isn’t
he? What makes him different from other dogs?”
The same question from a friend in Fujo Bar had started a
brawl that had lasted a whole weekend. But Juda did not
have the permission or the energy to lay a hand on his father
so he let it pass.
“You have heard of seeing dogs?” he asked his father.
“Seeing dogs?”
“Dogs for the blind? People who can’t see? What about
rescue dogs?”
“Rescue dogs?”
“You know of police dogs? Policemen have them.”
They occasionally brought police dogs from Mweiga police
station to remind Kambi that Chief Kahiu and Pata Potea were
not the only Government.
“Confucius is a thinking dog,” Juda explained. “A thinking man’
s dog. He helps me think, helps me find answers. You should
try him one of these days when you get in trouble with Mama
Pesa.”
“Talk to a dog?” Pesa asked, scandalised. “Are you mad?”
“Confucius is not a dog,” Juda finally lost his patience. “How
many times do I have to tell you he’s like my brother?”
“Don’t insult me, boy!” Pesa bellowed at him.
They would have been at each other’s jugulars in a flash, egos
suddenly inflamed, had Mama Pesa not suddenly appeared to
inform them that Confucius had ran off with the leg of lamb
she had grilled for their lunch. Pesa went for his shotgun and,
Juda, relieved that there was no reason to hang about
anymore, left for Kambi.
READ ON ...
Juda, his owner, who does not feed, shelter or treat him any
better or worse than a dog. Most days, the only attention
Confucius can expect from his master is a poke in the ribs
when it is time to go home. And, although they share some
quality time in discussion, Juda selfishly doing all the talking,
Confucius will never understand his master. But, for some
strange reason that no one will ever understand, Confucius
would died for Juda. However, it is becoming increasingly
clear, at least to the dog, that his master had read too many
books for anyone's good.
“Why do you call him Confusions?” Pesa wondered on one of
the rare occasions they exchanged something resembling a
conversation. “He is less confused than you.”
“The name is Confucius,” said Juda. “Con-fu-cius.”
“Why?”
“He’s a thinker.”
“A thinker?”
“Philosopher.”
“Philoso … what?”
“Philosopher,” said Juda. “Someone who thinks great
thoughts. It comes from the Greek word philos, meaning
love, but in Chinese it means great-wise-head. Confucius was
from China.”
“Choma Choma too came from Chania.”
“China, not Chania,” Juda said, unusually patient. “China is a
little farther than Chania. You can’t walk to China.”
“How did he come here then?”
“Who?”
“Confusions?”
“The man or the dog?”
“The man.”
“Confucius never set foot in Kambi,” Juda informed, delighted
for the rare opportunity to educate his father. “He lived
thousands of years ago. He was a great believer in
harmonious coexistence and a teacher on how people ought
to live and interact with one another and with their
surroundings. You know father, even in the old days, there
were rich people and poor people and they had the same kind
of problems you are having today.”
“But why do you call your dog a man’s name?” That was all
that Pesa was interested in learning.
“Because he is wiser than you or I,” Juda said. “And he’s loyal
to family and friends, and he treats others with respect.”
“He’s just a dog,” observed Pesa. “Why don’t you call him
dog like other dogs? He’s a slaughterhouse mongrel, isn’t
he? What makes him different from other dogs?”
The same question from a friend in Fujo Bar had started a
brawl that had lasted a whole weekend. But Juda did not
have the permission or the energy to lay a hand on his father
so he let it pass.
“You have heard of seeing dogs?” he asked his father.
“Seeing dogs?”
“Dogs for the blind? People who can’t see? What about
rescue dogs?”
“Rescue dogs?”
“You know of police dogs? Policemen have them.”
They occasionally brought police dogs from Mweiga police
station to remind Kambi that Chief Kahiu and Pata Potea were
not the only Government.
“Confucius is a thinking dog,” Juda explained. “A thinking man’
s dog. He helps me think, helps me find answers. You should
try him one of these days when you get in trouble with Mama
Pesa.”
“Talk to a dog?” Pesa asked, scandalised. “Are you mad?”
“Confucius is not a dog,” Juda finally lost his patience. “How
many times do I have to tell you he’s like my brother?”
“Don’t insult me, boy!” Pesa bellowed at him.
They would have been at each other’s jugulars in a flash, egos
suddenly inflamed, had Mama Pesa not suddenly appeared to
inform them that Confucius had ran off with the leg of lamb
she had grilled for their lunch. Pesa went for his shotgun and,
Juda, relieved that there was no reason to hang about
anymore, left for Kambi.
READ ON ...
| HM Productions Intl. All Rights Reserved |
| copyright 2008 by HM Entertainment Inc. |
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| Baba Pesa hm books, 2007 248 pgs ISBN 978-0-9796476-3-5 |
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Baba Pesa
| Baba Pesa by Meja Mwangi |
| Tyrannical landowner, Baba Pesa, owns nearly all the prime farmland around, yet he covets the meagre plots of his poverty-stricken neighbours who barely scratch out an existence. Not content to be the wealthiest man in the land, the self-titled Father of Money sets out to bully them into selling and moving. Sadly for him, Baba Pesa is up against his son, Juda, a college dropout and self-proclaimed philosopher, who has elected himself a champion of the people, and taken to lecturing his fellow villagers on the greater values in life. |
| US $ 19.95 |
| REVISED |
