| MEJA MWANGI Baba Pesa |
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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. |
| BABA PESA Striving for the Wind |
Baba Pesa
| ISBN 978-0-9796476-1-1 |
| Baba Pesa hm books 2007 |
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 |
| (c) Copyright 2007 by HM Inc. + Meja Mwangi |
Confucius was a dog. No one doubted the fact, not even
Juda who did not feed, shelter or treat him any better or worse than
a dog. Most days, the only attention Confucius got from his master
was a poke in the ribs when it was time to go home. Although they
spent some time in discussion, Juda selfishly doing all the talking,
Confucius would never understand him. Still for some strange reason
that many could not understand, Confucius would have died for Juda.
However, it was becoming increasingly clear to the dog that his
master had read too many books.
“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. Along
the way he was joined by Confucius looking well-fed, happy and in no
way remorseful.
“I’d stay away until things cool down,” Juda said to him.
Confucius barked his acknowledgement and accompanied Juda down
to Fujo Bar, where they got drunk and disorderly, and caused so
much trouble the Chief had to call the police from Ngobit to sort them
out.
READ ON ...
Juda who did not feed, shelter or treat him any better or worse than
a dog. Most days, the only attention Confucius got from his master
was a poke in the ribs when it was time to go home. Although they
spent some time in discussion, Juda selfishly doing all the talking,
Confucius would never understand him. Still for some strange reason
that many could not understand, Confucius would have died for Juda.
However, it was becoming increasingly clear to the dog that his
master had read too many books.
“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. Along
the way he was joined by Confucius looking well-fed, happy and in no
way remorseful.
“I’d stay away until things cool down,” Juda said to him.
Confucius barked his acknowledgement and accompanied Juda down
to Fujo Bar, where they got drunk and disorderly, and caused so
much trouble the Chief had to call the police from Ngobit to sort them
out.
READ ON ...
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| US $ 19.95 |
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