Possessed by the demon of pleasing people

 In my previous story I mentioned how I can easily be possessed by the demon of pleasing others. I am not so sure whether I was pleasing Isaac or being hospitable. This man and I met in the year 2005 before Christmas in Molo. We did not predict that five years later we would fall victim of robbery with Violence in Nakuru town. Isaac had travelled more than me. He had completed high school a year earlier. He had a driver’s license. He also had a fancy flip Alcatel phone. Life must have been kind to him. He appeared soft and with zero wrinkles. He was loveable. Even nuns ran shot of grace when they shook his very soft hands.

I had just completed high school. Fate sent me to the village somewhere in Londiani. This is a village too far from everything. And I mean it. The village is even far from itself. I grew up in this small village. And I knew everyone including those I had not met in person. Call it the power of gossip. I had just lost my mother. The kitchen was not always smoking. Therefore, I had a long neck and protruding mandibles that begged to be covered with some flesh. Frustration got its way in my soul and manifested itself to the world through rashes and wrinkles on my face. 

It is during this time that I met Isaac in some COME AND SEE retreat in Molo. We were aspiring to be Catholic priests. I had not been that holy. God was kind to us. We got admitted in the seminary. We were nine. Only Zachariah Oketch made it to priesthood with the Passionist Missionaries. Call it resilience. We went through the formation year in Molo. The church then sent us to Arusha, Tanzania to pursue a bachelor’s degree in Philosophy and social sciences. 

My experience in Molo was about learning. I was fresh from high school. Isaac was my chaperone. He was really committed in uprooting the deep roots of ignorance and naivity from my nerves. He also had some experience in dating. He may have had several girl friends before ditching them for seminary. Call it sacrifice. I was so innocent. He made me feel like breaking them ten commandments especially the seventh one. Call it lust.

I don’t think describing my life in Arusha is necessary. But believe me, dear friends, it was great. In a word, I had lost my ignorance and naivity and a half of my dignity. Don’t misunderstand me. Arusha remains one of my best cities in the world. If you haven’t been there, just try it. It was so affordable by then. With ten thousand Kenya Shillings I felt like a non-governmental organization. Tanzanians are kind too. Tanzanian women are so humble and respectful. They are beautiful too. Wow, you don’t want to even blink when they wear the long tight vitenges. I loved to admire them. Being Kenyan was a veto vote for me. The softness and calmness of these ladies, their light and tender skin made me see all Kenyan women as handsome. Beauty was reserved for them Tanzanians. Only one Tanzanian lady insulted me really bad. This hurt me big time. 

I think I stopped her to ask for some direction. Or may be I had some other unclean intentions. I don’t remember exactly what it was. But I remember the insult. First she hissed. I hate the hissing sound. Hissing is for venomous reptiles. Then she was like, mwangalie huyu kaka, then she laughed with an elaborate sarcasm and gazing at me from top to bottom… na jinsi ulivyonyimwa. What did she exactly mean with kunyimwa? What Had I been nyimwaad? What had I been denied. To her I had been denied. Or did she mean I had been denied flesh? Or may be beauty? Or good clothing? What is it that was a miss? What did I lack? Yes, her remarks actually denied me esteem. She was a bully. I hate bullies. 

In three years we had completed the school program. Philosophy was fun. It just a game of wits. It is purely abstract. It makes you swim in a world of ideas. I was good in systematics. I loved metaphysics and epistemology. Philosophy of science was so interesting. Isaac is a scripture scholar. He was leading in Pentateuch. He was good in cramming. Very intelligent young man. One day he scored all the points and he went to complain that two answers had not been marked. Who does that? He had 100% and still needs more? Isaac give us a break. I was so envious when you scored everything. This guy always succeeded when we had a fight. 

My worst course was social science and religion. In itself, the course is good. I did not hate the lecturer, Professor Peter B. Clarke, until that fateful day when he saw me dozing in his class. He was asking the students the social definition of religion. And so he mentioned my name. I immediately woke up from my slumber. His sharp eyes were on me. He was breathing fire like a dragon. I remained calm. There was an awkward silence. Every student looking at me and probably wondering how  and why the hell I slept in class in the morning. 

“Samuel I am talking to you” He shouted. “What have I been explaining, you have been sleeping.” He complained. I was now getting tensed. I could feel that thin sweat. I wished he left me alone. I was not sleeping in class. I just closed my eyes and my head was agreeing with everything he was teaching. Yes, my eyes were red because of the reflection from my red notebook on my desk. Do you believe me now? Why is he ambushing me? 

“Samuel you need to be serious. There are many people looking for this opportunity and you are here wasting it. I come from London to help you poor africans…. I sacrifice a lot. I am a busy professor in Oxford University .,… I sacrifice all my comfort to help you and you are sleeping … Why are you smiling? I am serious”. He diarrhea-d words. Who cared where you come from. It is not a big offense to doze in class. It happens. We have all dozed in class, or in the Church. He just disliked me like the damn reptile that hissed at me. Yes He even failed me that class. He gave a 46. Hii ni namba ya kiatu. I went to complain and he argued how I could pass yet I was sleeping in his class. I only slept for less than five minutes. He rudely interrupted my sleep. Now he has rudely interrupted my mean grade.

Professor Peter B. Clarke passed a year later. The news of his death was a tragicomedy to me. It was not really bad news. Such bullies should give us a break for sure. I never knew people from Oxford would die young. I thought that by the mere fact of volunteering to teach poor sons of Africa would please divinities and make him live longer. I only slept for maybe for three minutes and it was such a big deal. He is now sleeping eternally and am not complaining. 

Anyway, Isaac and I graduated. I think we both had magna cum laude – upper division. I invited no family for my graduation. However, I had invited all the rich friends of mine in Arusha. I had invited Fr. Tarimo, he was the parish priest at Njiru. I had invited an engineer, a Kenyan guy working for some wealthy firm in Arusha. My chief guest was Mzee Salim Khamisi, a Swahili- Arabian merchant. I was to use his Mercedes Benz to move around after the graduation. Who else did I invite? I just cant remember now. But I had only given my tickets to the rich. Yes, I did not want to invite poor people because I was myself very poor. I did not want them to start having pity on themselves and on me. Well, I am not saying I hate poor people. Otherwise I will be hating myself too. What I hate is poverty. 

None of those I invited came for my graduation. Not even Fr. Tarimo. Mzee Salim Khamis was to offer his Benz. He never turned up. When I called him he was headed to the airport to receive some engineers from India. However, some lady called Shiro came. I did not invite her. She was a house help in some wealthy Kenyan Family. She overheard from her neighbors that there was graduation at our college. She knew I was in my final year. She therefore invited herself. And she even got me a good gift. The only gift I got. Wait, Fr. Simon Njuguna gave an envelop with some ten thousands Tanzanian Shillings. The Passionists nuns had some flowers and some congratulatory hugs and pecs. 

It is ironical how life can be sometimes. People I had disregarded are the one who crowned my day of graduation. Well, I was sure Fr. Simon and the Passionists would attend by default. They never miss any celebrations. May God bless this Shiro. I did not invite her. I invited people of a certain status quo. I am such a snob. I feel guilty. Very guilty. I saw the maidness in her and not the humanity and charity in her heart. She saw a brother in me. She reckoned that my family may not be able to attend from Kenya. She invited herself, she became a family. She had to be there for me. This challenged my ego. I had to do something to her. At least every time I visited Arusha after my graduation I made sure to visit her. Yes, with a gift. She later relocated back to Kenya to establish her own business. I hope she is doing well. God the Father of all kindness, may you bless her abundantly.

Isaac had a plan. He had very committed friends. Both worked with East African Community. These guys, Steve Kikwai and Juba, had organized a party for us. This I was totally unaware. Believe me, I did not party crush, they had planned. Isaac may think otherwise. Nevertheless, we had a great evening in some restaurant in Kijenge, Arusha. Isaac, What restaurant was it? 

Now with a bachelor’s degree I thought I had conquered the world. I developed some pride that distanced me from the love of God and his charity. Philosophy and too much reasoning had killed the presence of God on earth. I was the master of my own. And my fate depended sorely on my choices. I concurred with the philosophy of the death of God developed by Friedrich Nietzsche. He had tried to demonstrate that God is dead, and that Christianity was actively dying because of scientific development and emergence of a secular world. Ideologies of Jean-Paul Sartre, that God never existed, and that if he existed he never cared for us flooded my mind. Yes! Humans are being thrown into the world to take care of themselves.

Why would I proceed with priesthood when I doubt the existence of Him who instituted this sacrament? And as a matter of fact, if by any means, God existed why cant I serve him as a lay faithful, a married man with a good family? The first and noble vocation is marriage. Period. No democracy. I concluded. So did Isaac.  He was actually more prompt and pragmatic. We had both graduated. I left Arusha with a Bachelor’s degree of Arts in Philosophy and Social sciences. Isaac left with the degree and a wife. A pregnant one. No judging. It is life. Life is good. I did not know where wives were being manufactured. I haven’t known yet.  

I am still guilty for disappointing Fr. Raphael Mangiti, the Vicariate Superior for the Passionists Missionaries. It is such a disappointment when the Church invests its resources in you and you quit without an apparent reason. This is what we did. I wanted to face the world like other people. Hustle and make money. And travel. And maybe have a family and live happily there after.  

Everyone has these fantasies of an ideal life. Have you ever fallen in love and you to figure out how you will get married, walk in the park holding hands and frequent kisses, or travel to Bahamas and play at the beach, or driving a Ferrari in the winding roads of some cities in Switzerland, maybe playing with pillow with you bae, or maybe occasional hugging and cuddling … This do happen. They happen in movies. And they also happen in early stages of relationship and marriages.  To a greater extent, these are vague speculations of life. Nothing but pure utopia. Maybe today’s utopia is tomorrow’s reality. This is a Marxist thought. I am not a Marxist. 

After quitting the formation program Isaac remained in Arusha. Only God knows what he did for a living or how he survived. Myself I survived through teaching. I taught mostly History and CRE. My first teaching job was at Baltimore Mixed secondary School in Barnabas near pipeline in Nakuru. I hear people complain of earning peanuts. I think I earned only pea without nuts. Be grateful for your peanuts. 

This was the toughest time in my life. All my wealth was contained in a small suitcase. I had a Motorola W220 flip phone which was actively dying. My relatives living pretty close to Barnabas refused to accommodate me as tried to figure out what to do with my miserable life. Actually, a relative made me clean the bedsheets I used the night I spent in their house. I don’t hold grudges, but this is unkind. It was too early to clean them sheets. They could wait. 

I had a job. And I got it as soon as I knocked at Madam Francisca’s office. She was the principal then. A very pretty madam. What was she doing in such zoo? She did not look miserable. I almost gave her a job, to be my wife. She looked manufactured. But where would I have taken her. I got no house. I was hired in less than three minutes. She said I was God sent. She did not even know my name. She did know later when she introduced me to the staff. I looked at teachers and got tired. It was an early morning and they looked so tired and hungry. I bet they were watchmen somewhere else. 

I went to class. All day I had lessons. At 5 PM we had to go home. I have no where to call home. I started to hustle for a house. Just one room. It’s all I needed. I have one thousand in my pocket. And with my suitcase. I was so lucky. I walked less than mile and found this poster: House to let. They required 2500ksh deposit. I told them I have only a thousand and a suitcase. And He let me in. I was the first tenant. Good people exist. Good strangers exist. Mr. Ngugi trusted me. He took me to house No. 2 He invited me for dinner in his house. His wife too was so kind to this stranger. A close relative you have known for years kicking you out, only to find a stranger you never met before welcoming you, hosting you, and feeding you. 

I remember going to this my one room rental house. No curtains, no mattress, no blanket, no sheets, no padlocks. And am wondering where do I start? Where can I get all these furniture with 1k? My oversized shirt volunteered to be the curtain. I needed more volunteers. As I was negotiating with my fabrics Mr. Ngugi knocked the door. He asked whether I needed anything from the shopping Centre. Well, I needed everything. But then he told me he has extra Mattress and bedsheets, and blankets and padlocks. What else did I need? My single room is full. Dear friends, Mr. Ngugi is not the owner of the apartments I secured a room. He is a humble caretaker. He did not have much, but the little he had he shared with much love. The poor are so wealthy.  

It's been three months. I am teaching in this school. The most unpleasant place to be. Madam Francisca quit along ago. Now I don’t even have a prospective wife. She was a perfectly manufactured wife. In other words, a self-contained woman. With all faculties aligned in their right order. 

A relative of the owner of this school took over. I just don’t wonna describe her in this media because If I am to be honest I will have no choice but to be extremely mean, real mean. I just can’t talk of her without cursing. Yes! Talk of her and the “F” word becomes the responsorial Psalm. I have done enough psalms. This time I quit psalming. I love to quit. I quit everything. I quit eating even when I am hungry. Ever wondered why I am skinny? Ask no more questions. Just rest and go to bed. Snore off your curiosity. Thank you.

It's almost Christmas. My Motorola W220 is now dead. Screen shows nothing. Keypad is paralyzed. The phone rings, but I can’t respond. I need another phone. A new one. I got debts to pay. I have to clear my deposit with Ngugi the care-taker, my only begotten relative, my feeder, my ‘the reason I sleep on a bed’. For me, and to me, Ngugi is the word made flesh. You may call it a heresy. You think you are wise? You don’t know my life. Just spare yourself. You can’t understand me. Am I an enigma? I even never understand myself. I am this complicated. Who do you think you are to understand me?

Nevertheless, Ngugi the caretaker, understood me. In a word, or maybe  in several words, they adopted me. These are people never to forget. When I pray for them I pray with Joy. May God bless them a hundred folds and may they live long to be good Samaritans to the needy. I must also mention a colleague teacher Mr. Maranga. His company was absolutely therapeutic. Them days we used to drink “donkey” soup and mutura every evening. The most delicious meal ever. Those mutura guys took almost half of my pay.

Mr. Maranga became my friend because we had a common enemy. A rogue student whose main objective was to insult others with cursing words. He had been expelled from five schools and was dumped in this zoo. I once asked the class to write an apology letter for making noise in class. When I handed him a plain paper he grabbed it and tore it into small pieces. He looked at me unafraid. His eyes were extremely red and scary. His wrinkles almost swallowed my fears. He threatened to ‘’pass with me.” This how he put it: Dijo, ukiendelea kucheza na mimi nitapita na wewe. I had to politely retreat. He was capable of fighting. And if we fought he would definitely win. He was far much strong than I. And he was under influence of some drugs. Or even possessed by a sort of demon. 

When I explained this to Mr. Maranga he was sympathetic. He hurriedly walked in class and fetched this student. Believe me, I have seen punishments, but this one was unique. I think Mr. Maranga was equally possessed. Did  he have to exorcise the demons out of this notorious student. The beating he received was more than the fire furnace in hell. He never reported  to school again. School was not his place. 

Thank God we finished the semester. Behold, Christmas was at hand. Maranatha was our Song. And Ecce homo – behold the man. And this Man is Isaac. He is Past Namanga from Arusha, Tanzania. He is coming to celebrate Christmas with his folks. I am hosting him. I am good host. By 5 Pm he is in my house. The single room. Yes, he got two choices. To stand or sit on the mattress on the floor. The room was well organized. There was nothing to disorganize it anyway. Now there are two suitcases. His and mine. Life has been kind to him. He doesn’t look beaten up. He looks so moisturized. 

We decide to go to Nakuru town for dinner. I had all my salary. I mean my pea. He was with money too. Actually in dollars. I had not touched a dollar before. I had touched a euro. Yes, in Londiani  Market. I had gone to buy some mtumba. I got this hoodie. And I paid for it. It was mine. When I put my hands in the pocket I grabbed 50 Euros. Wow! This  was then equivalent to six thousands Kenyan shillings. I was so excited. Unfortunately, some woman a mile away saw it. She came flying. All the market women surrounded me. They needed the currency back. I had no room to defend myself. I lost both my hoodie and the Euro. I would have lost my life if they shouted Mwizi. Life has taught me lessons. 

Now I can play with Isaac’s dollars. He bragged a lot. He had two good phones. One for calling. The other one for texting. Call it esteem. This is Isaac. Living his youth at its best. We agreed to go to cheaper restaurant in town. Ugali Matumbo and managu is what we grabbed for 200 each. Pretty affordable. After dinner we moved to some joint. For a drink of fine liquor. We did not want to spend a lot. We had to save some money for Christmas. So we went for Napoleon and coke as a chaser. What a moment. The stories… recounting our life in school. Predicting a successful future. Gossips. Women and stuff. Possibility of a business etc. He is a great company. 

It is 11 pm. We are still in Nakuru town. We need to get back home. The stage is empty. No matatus How shall we get home? I don’t remember seeing motorbikes in 2010 in Nakuru town. I suggested we walk to the Nakuru – Nairobi highway and try our luck. We walked past Safaricom house. We are now walking on the fly over near the round about, or near the cemetery. (the shortcut to the General hospital) It is dark. Only two of us. I am walking ahead of Isaac. He is slow. He is on a call with one of his phones, and texting with the other. As soon as we left the fly over, I had a scream. Before I even looking behind, I had been attacked by a gang of thugs. They grabbed me by my neck. I couldn’t even breath or move. They threw me down on the hard concrete. More than ten hands were trying to grab everything I possessed. They emptied all my pockets. It happened so fast. It took less than two minutes. The attack was simultaneous. Isaac screamed before his neck was put on mute. They robbed all his dollars, his two phones and his expensive shoes. 

They left me on the ground. I was still trying to understand what just happened. I was also trying to breath again. I hurt my elbow. I was bleeding. I was hurting too. I couldn’t see Isaac. I thought they went with him to their hideout in the cemetery. Adrenalin was at its best. I am ready to fight. I am gonna kill someone today. I have to recover Isaac. I was following the gang. I couldn’t find them. Then I saw one thug coming after from the highway. I was ready for a combat. I walked bravely towards him. Then he called my name. It was Isaac. He was also looking for me. The wolves had scattered the sheep. 

Since Isaac was born he had not walked barefooted. Except maybe in the bathroom. I still see him walking on dry concrete. Let me laugh. He could hardly make a step. Its like he was walking either on fire or on thorns. We had to get away from war zone. We were walking on the highway now. Isaac is crawling. We were lucky. We got a matatu. We boarded. The conductor couldn’t believe that we had been robbed until he saw me bleed. We made it home. I was still scared. I dint want to see anything dark. For a very long period of time I slept with lights on. 

The day that followed Isaac had to make calls. I forgot to mention that they didn’t find my phone. It was a small Nokia. When I landed hard on the concrete I rested on it. They never found it. Nobody, absolutely nobody believed that we had been robbed. Isaac’s brother, Simon, called me. Niambieni tu ukweli, mnataka tu pesa za Christmas (Just be honest guys, you only need some money for Christmas). I don’t remember how we recovered or how Isaac travelled home. 

What I remember is meeting this OCs in Pipeline police station. I had lost my ID and I had to record a statement. This officer is a charismatic counselor. Talking to him was the genesis of my healing. I had been traumatized by the ugly ordeal. Isaac, do you remember his last words? Here they are: Gentlemen, you are still young. God has a plan for you. The spot you were attacked is deadly. People are stabbed to death every day. Thank God for your lives. May be God want you to learn a lesson. It seems you have rejected his call. You need to go back to him in humility and penance. It is God who calls us. It is him we serve. I serve him as a police officer. You must discern on how you can serve him better. Amen.