The exit gate

The exit gate

Yesterday I went to my local club to play tennis shots, and the courts were dotted with tens of wazungu kids having fun while their black counterparts watched lugubriously, if that word exists in the first place. I joined the locals in the watching game briefly before walking off in boredom to look for something to chew like any village cow. My wandering brought me to the exit gate, and that’s where I met my nightmare—the security guys at the gate. Being a well brought up son of my mother, I decided to say hi and extend a handshake like a real Luo.

Little did I know that in these parts, a handshake meant a commitment to pay them some unknown amounts of money. My courtesy had made me a few coins indebted to them. And the brazenness with which they demand it is so loathsome that my brother George Obbo would whip out his bokarao (hippo hide whip) and reward them with a few lashes. That reminded me of the rise to fame and influence at my university. All you had to do was to drop twenty shilling coins to the guys at the gate, and you would be called mheshimiwa. If you were the kind that gives fifty shilling notes, then you would instantly be called jatelo, which is a slight elevation from mheshimiwa if you know. They would open the gate to tens of students trapped due to a lack of identification cards, at your command. Such overtures made comrades look at you with awe and wonder how far your power and influence reached. However, slowly, this omwami nipeeko kakitu culture is making me fear and loath gates, of anywhere. I have been wondering, should I find these omwamis at the entrance to heaven?