| MEJA MWANGI Baba Pesa |
 | |  | |  | |  |
| (c) Copyright 2007 by HM Inc. + Meja Mwangi |
Condom clinic
Janet watched helplessly, and quite disgustedly, as Broker hijacked
her guest and led him on a wild chase into unfathomable, egoistic
labyrinths, where truth had no meaning whatsoever and only cars
mattered, and they forgot about Crossroads. They discussed cars for
a long time, while Janet fretted and Chief Chupa seriously worried that
Broker might survive to usurp his throne.
“We’ll look into the budget,” Don Donovan promised Broker. “We
should be able to afford a Jeep for her.”
Then Janet opened her mouth and reversed every gain that
Broker had made in the last half hour. What she really wanted, she
said it loudly so as not to be misunderstood, what she really wanted,
more than a car and more than anything else, was to have a free
medical test for Crossroads.
They were startled into silence. Sensing something vital was at
stake here, Chief Chupa turned to his henchman and asked what she
had said. The ox had no idea, but Broker overheard them, and he was
incensed enough with Janet to tell them exactly what she had asked
for.
“Haui!” cried the Chief horrified. “You mean to test everyone?”
“Everyone who consents to it,” she told him.
Do you know what it would cost?” he asked her.
Broker patted him gently on the shoulder and assured him that it
would cost the earth, but asked him not lose any sleep over it, for it
was not his money and he had exactly zero to do with it.
“Can anyone pay for the test?” Don Donovan asked.
“No,” Janet told him.
“What is the population of this place?” he asked them next.
No one had any idea.
“The last meaningful census was thirty years ago,” Janet told him.
Before Aids made its first appearance. Since then, people had died
like flies and everyone had lost count.
“Many people are ill, anyway” Broker said. “We are talking very
small numbers, indeed.”
“So you think it’s a good idea too?” Don Donovan asked him.
Broker saw the anguish on Janet’s face, but this was a once-in-a-
life-time and he decided to speak his mind and be damned for all time.
“No,” he said, speaking the absolute truth for the first time that
day. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea at all.”
The money could be better off used in providing medical support
for those who were sick and protection for those who were not. That
was his honest opinion.
Janet was so disgusted she was about to spit in his face.
“But it’s all up to Janet,” he added. “She knows best the
problems of Crossroads.”
Don Donovan nodded thoughtfully and said, “We’ll look into the
budget.”
Then he thanked them all for a very enlightening tour and
promised to get in touch in due course. The delegation piled into their
new vehicles and left Crossroads, in the same rush they had arrived in.
The last vehicle had not completely left Crossroads before Broker
called back the boys and ordered them to surrender all the condoms
they had received from Big Youth. The crowd dispersed, and were no
better off, or worse off, than when they had arrived; except for the
few youths who had the foresight to disappear before Broker
demanded the condoms back.
A few old-timers lingered, and were heard to complain that they
had not come all this way and waited all this long in the sun for
nothing; and they now wanted the presents that the visitors had
brought for them. What had happened to the money that the visitors
had brought? they asked. Why was it not being dished out? They
wanted answers to these questions, and they wanted them now, and
they refused to go home empty-handed.
They confronted Chief Chupa and demanded the money that his
henchmen had promised would be distributed by the visitors with the
many cars.
Chief Chupa, totally confounded by the news himself, turned to
Janet for help, and Janet obliged him, as only Janet could.
Giving vent to the anger and the fury she had endured since
Broker told Don Donovan about the clinic, she responded by giving the
old men a tongue-lashing the like of which they had never had before.
What was the matter with Crossroads’ men? she asked them. Did
they grow up and turn to animals or were they hyenas from birth? Did
they think with their heads, with their stomachs or with their hyenas'
tails? When would they mature, start behaving like men? When
would they realise that they were husbands and fathers, and not
beasts of prey?
She insulted them for a full ten minutes, and one dared answer
back, but, when she was done, they grumbled some more and swore
not to leave before the money and the presents had been
distributed. They were not fools, they said, they were total men and
they had not come all the way out here to be insulted by a woman,
not even one with elephantine testicles. They insisted that their Chief
discipline the insolent woman and force her to hand out the money
they knew she had received. But Chief Chupa had received the
visitors himself, and had been with Janet all day, and he knew of no
such money or presents, and he suspected that there weren’t any,
and he too was helpless against this crazy woman.
It was going sunset before most of them understood, and
believed, that there would be no communal eating happening that
day, and dispersed. They went away disgruntled, and lamenting it, all
the way to their homes to vent their anger on their own hapless
women.
Thus ended another great day in Crossroads, arguably the
greatest day since Mobil brought out the giant cranes and tractors to
exhume and carry away the corpses of the old fuel tanks from the
impotent belly of Juma’s service station; the underground fuel
reservoirs that they had thought the town would never again need.
READ ON ...
Janet watched helplessly, and quite disgustedly, as Broker hijacked
her guest and led him on a wild chase into unfathomable, egoistic
labyrinths, where truth had no meaning whatsoever and only cars
mattered, and they forgot about Crossroads. They discussed cars for
a long time, while Janet fretted and Chief Chupa seriously worried that
Broker might survive to usurp his throne.
“We’ll look into the budget,” Don Donovan promised Broker. “We
should be able to afford a Jeep for her.”
Then Janet opened her mouth and reversed every gain that
Broker had made in the last half hour. What she really wanted, she
said it loudly so as not to be misunderstood, what she really wanted,
more than a car and more than anything else, was to have a free
medical test for Crossroads.
They were startled into silence. Sensing something vital was at
stake here, Chief Chupa turned to his henchman and asked what she
had said. The ox had no idea, but Broker overheard them, and he was
incensed enough with Janet to tell them exactly what she had asked
for.
“Haui!” cried the Chief horrified. “You mean to test everyone?”
“Everyone who consents to it,” she told him.
Do you know what it would cost?” he asked her.
Broker patted him gently on the shoulder and assured him that it
would cost the earth, but asked him not lose any sleep over it, for it
was not his money and he had exactly zero to do with it.
“Can anyone pay for the test?” Don Donovan asked.
“No,” Janet told him.
“What is the population of this place?” he asked them next.
No one had any idea.
“The last meaningful census was thirty years ago,” Janet told him.
Before Aids made its first appearance. Since then, people had died
like flies and everyone had lost count.
“Many people are ill, anyway” Broker said. “We are talking very
small numbers, indeed.”
“So you think it’s a good idea too?” Don Donovan asked him.
Broker saw the anguish on Janet’s face, but this was a once-in-a-
life-time and he decided to speak his mind and be damned for all time.
“No,” he said, speaking the absolute truth for the first time that
day. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea at all.”
The money could be better off used in providing medical support
for those who were sick and protection for those who were not. That
was his honest opinion.
Janet was so disgusted she was about to spit in his face.
“But it’s all up to Janet,” he added. “She knows best the
problems of Crossroads.”
Don Donovan nodded thoughtfully and said, “We’ll look into the
budget.”
Then he thanked them all for a very enlightening tour and
promised to get in touch in due course. The delegation piled into their
new vehicles and left Crossroads, in the same rush they had arrived in.
The last vehicle had not completely left Crossroads before Broker
called back the boys and ordered them to surrender all the condoms
they had received from Big Youth. The crowd dispersed, and were no
better off, or worse off, than when they had arrived; except for the
few youths who had the foresight to disappear before Broker
demanded the condoms back.
A few old-timers lingered, and were heard to complain that they
had not come all this way and waited all this long in the sun for
nothing; and they now wanted the presents that the visitors had
brought for them. What had happened to the money that the visitors
had brought? they asked. Why was it not being dished out? They
wanted answers to these questions, and they wanted them now, and
they refused to go home empty-handed.
They confronted Chief Chupa and demanded the money that his
henchmen had promised would be distributed by the visitors with the
many cars.
Chief Chupa, totally confounded by the news himself, turned to
Janet for help, and Janet obliged him, as only Janet could.
Giving vent to the anger and the fury she had endured since
Broker told Don Donovan about the clinic, she responded by giving the
old men a tongue-lashing the like of which they had never had before.
What was the matter with Crossroads’ men? she asked them. Did
they grow up and turn to animals or were they hyenas from birth? Did
they think with their heads, with their stomachs or with their hyenas'
tails? When would they mature, start behaving like men? When
would they realise that they were husbands and fathers, and not
beasts of prey?
She insulted them for a full ten minutes, and one dared answer
back, but, when she was done, they grumbled some more and swore
not to leave before the money and the presents had been
distributed. They were not fools, they said, they were total men and
they had not come all the way out here to be insulted by a woman,
not even one with elephantine testicles. They insisted that their Chief
discipline the insolent woman and force her to hand out the money
they knew she had received. But Chief Chupa had received the
visitors himself, and had been with Janet all day, and he knew of no
such money or presents, and he suspected that there weren’t any,
and he too was helpless against this crazy woman.
It was going sunset before most of them understood, and
believed, that there would be no communal eating happening that
day, and dispersed. They went away disgruntled, and lamenting it, all
the way to their homes to vent their anger on their own hapless
women.
Thus ended another great day in Crossroads, arguably the
greatest day since Mobil brought out the giant cranes and tractors to
exhume and carry away the corpses of the old fuel tanks from the
impotent belly of Juma’s service station; the underground fuel
reservoirs that they had thought the town would never again need.
READ ON ...
| Crossroads |
| Crossroads hm books May 2008 ISBN 978-0-9796476-4-2 |
| Crossroads |
Broker
The giant crane groaned and grunted, and spewed clouds
of diesel smoke, as it crawled to the next pit and lowered
the giant tank in place. The first tank was already in its
place and the army of labourers was filling in the soil.
The crowd of onlookers, no believers turned believers,
braved the heat of the day and the dust to witness the
greatest miracle of their life, the resurrection of an entire
community.
Up till now, no one, least of all the old men at the teahouse,
had believed the service station could be revived. Now the
whole town watched with awe as the puny figure in a
dusty, grey suit supervised the first stage of that miracle.
One day they would be able to tell their grandchildren they
were there the day Crossroads was raised from the dead.
Bakari Ben Broker, the saviour of Crossroads, was leaning a
little too heavily on his ebony cane as he supervised the
installation of the petrol pumps. The station building, a
clean, red and blue structure, stood at the heart of
Crossroads, a transplanted organ ready to start pumping
life back into the corpse. But there was work yet to be
done. The power generator was yet to be delivered and
the air compressors and service machinery that Mobil had
sent from Pwani were stranded in the vast savannah
somewhere between Nipe and Nikupe. But, all in all, the
project was progressing well and Broker was busy.
As the labourers buried the second fuel reservoir in its new
womb, Broker limped back to his car and drove slowly away,
wishing he could stop the reckless rush of time so he might
catch up.
He was getting out of the car at the condom shop when the
convoy arrived. It was composed of half a dozen
Government vehicles and was led by the dusty jeep that,
Broker recognized, belonged to the DHO. The vehicles
parked by the post office and Broker at once knew who the
visitors were.
The team was led by the same friendly Irish volunteer nurse
who had led them when they had taken blood from the
community. She too recognised Broker and introduced him
to her team.
Broker sent Big Youth to fetch Janet and, while they waited
for her, he invited the team to a cup of tea at Muse’s. It
was the largest single group Musa had ever served. Not
only did he immediately ran out of tea glasses, he also run
out of ideas on what to do with so many customers.
Broker took over, telling him what to do and giving orders,
as if he owned the place, and Musa gladly obeyed and did
exactly as he was told, and said he would be for ever
grateful to Broker for it. Broker suggested a fifty per cent
reduction in his rent and Musa laughed happily and said
Broker would have to work in the kitchen for a year to
expect that kind of gratitude. When the visitors were
contentedly gorging themselves on Muse’s mandazi, he
suggested serving his new, improved kale samosa. Broker
opposed the idea at once. These were big-time doctors,
seasoned far travellers who knew all about research and
about experiments, and especially about salmonella, and
were therefore the wrong type of guinea pigs.
READ ON ...
The giant crane groaned and grunted, and spewed clouds
of diesel smoke, as it crawled to the next pit and lowered
the giant tank in place. The first tank was already in its
place and the army of labourers was filling in the soil.
The crowd of onlookers, no believers turned believers,
braved the heat of the day and the dust to witness the
greatest miracle of their life, the resurrection of an entire
community.
Up till now, no one, least of all the old men at the teahouse,
had believed the service station could be revived. Now the
whole town watched with awe as the puny figure in a
dusty, grey suit supervised the first stage of that miracle.
One day they would be able to tell their grandchildren they
were there the day Crossroads was raised from the dead.
Bakari Ben Broker, the saviour of Crossroads, was leaning a
little too heavily on his ebony cane as he supervised the
installation of the petrol pumps. The station building, a
clean, red and blue structure, stood at the heart of
Crossroads, a transplanted organ ready to start pumping
life back into the corpse. But there was work yet to be
done. The power generator was yet to be delivered and
the air compressors and service machinery that Mobil had
sent from Pwani were stranded in the vast savannah
somewhere between Nipe and Nikupe. But, all in all, the
project was progressing well and Broker was busy.
As the labourers buried the second fuel reservoir in its new
womb, Broker limped back to his car and drove slowly away,
wishing he could stop the reckless rush of time so he might
catch up.
He was getting out of the car at the condom shop when the
convoy arrived. It was composed of half a dozen
Government vehicles and was led by the dusty jeep that,
Broker recognized, belonged to the DHO. The vehicles
parked by the post office and Broker at once knew who the
visitors were.
The team was led by the same friendly Irish volunteer nurse
who had led them when they had taken blood from the
community. She too recognised Broker and introduced him
to her team.
Broker sent Big Youth to fetch Janet and, while they waited
for her, he invited the team to a cup of tea at Muse’s. It
was the largest single group Musa had ever served. Not
only did he immediately ran out of tea glasses, he also run
out of ideas on what to do with so many customers.
Broker took over, telling him what to do and giving orders,
as if he owned the place, and Musa gladly obeyed and did
exactly as he was told, and said he would be for ever
grateful to Broker for it. Broker suggested a fifty per cent
reduction in his rent and Musa laughed happily and said
Broker would have to work in the kitchen for a year to
expect that kind of gratitude. When the visitors were
contentedly gorging themselves on Muse’s mandazi, he
suggested serving his new, improved kale samosa. Broker
opposed the idea at once. These were big-time doctors,
seasoned far travellers who knew all about research and
about experiments, and especially about salmonella, and
were therefore the wrong type of guinea pigs.
READ ON ...
| "In his 449-page novel, THE LAST PLAGUE, Kenyan writer, Meja Mwangi, achieved two things: he wrote a restrained AIDS novel that was true to the apocalyptic character of the pandemic, and he wrote a classic of delirious humour. It is this combination of tragedy (that never quite loses its grasp on hope), deft satire, and unexpected humour that bushwhacks the reader at the most sombre moments, that makes this book compelling rereading, even seven years after its first publication." - Books Worth Reading, AFRICAN WRITING. |
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