Thursday, September 17, 2015

A Tin full of chicken




I was determined to mind my own business. I had had enough of social pretences  and kuzoeana that had led me to give away  and eventually lose my dear dear Mooze( A three year old British blue tomcat). I didn’t even want to know my new neighbour’s names.

The first knock was quite unexpected. A pea sized, grin faced ruffian with a lisp was peeping at the door.



“Thi,thilia, hiyo ni TV unaona? Tunataka kuona Tv.”
Then one evening, a scrawny girl with an overactive mind knocked:
“C, silya? Tunaweza kuja kuona TV?”

Most of the evenings I just wanted to chew my food meditatively, stare blankly at the video playing,
Mac: You get to stay here with your big brother bloo..
Bloo: Don’t say it
Cheese: Braathas,, and together we are?
Bloo: Don’t say it.
Madame Foster: Bloo Cheese?

I had a choice; I could open the door, and expose myself to a session of mental damnation.

“We wacha kufanya hivyo”
“Achana na kisu”

Pretty soon I’d be running to get a rag to clean the stream of pee galloping toward the fruit bowl.
And the recriminations.

“C,silia mwambie aache kunivuta nywele”
“Mimi, sijamvuta!”
“Umenivuta wacha uongo! Mwongo kama Marba!”

Followed by pulling, biting and howling upon which I’d start to drag them to the door, all five of them. 

“Go home, it’s 10 o’clock.”
“Chakula haijapikwa kwetu..”
“Endeni mngojee iive.”

I would turn off the lights, just in case I heard the little fists pounding the door again.
I miss them though, they were really gorgeous kids, just neglected. I liked to watch them rounding up the chickens in the evening. One would hold an old milk tin while the rest picked up the chicks to put them in the tin.
They made me think of Oliver Twist

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