• Like clockwork, out-of-towners come bearing promises for Jiji Ndogo in the fifth year
Once about every… say five years, the dirt road leading to Jiji Ndogo gets a facelift. It’s a spectacle reminiscent of those old movie buses that used to roll into town when my parents were still in love with each other and with high-waist stonewash jeans.
As soon as the weird-looking bus parked near the town grounds, they knew what was to come — a call from the booth saying, “Watoto, kaeni chini!” followed by Bud Spencer and Terence Hill getting into all kinds of shenanigans.
The road grader that rolls into Jiji Ndogo heralds similar but much less exciting news. The arrival of out-of-towners bearing all sorts of promises they don’t intend to keep. Five years ago, I’m told, a fella named Oswago trooped into town in a convoy of Subarus driven by loud youngsters and promised to bug us for five years max, then he was off to the State House race. The fact that he admitted we were only a stepping stone to his higher ambitions didn’t sit too well with the denizens, most of whom couldn’t pick the State House from a lineup of grand mansions.
Then came a man who claimed to be “one of us”, born and bred in a village much like ours, in circumstances much like we grew up in, only he had the good fortune to run into a benevolent soul that catered for a good high school education and a stint abroad to a foreign university. But he never forgot his roots, obviously, and that’s why he was back.
“I am going to make Jiji Ndogo the Bamburgh of Kenya,” was his pledge.
“I think he means hamburger,” one of the villagers said. “It’s something they eat in the city.”
“Why would he want to make us into a national food? Besides, nothing can knock ugali off that pedestal.”
“My good people,” the candidate explained, “Bamburgh is in Northumberland, England. One of the most beautiful towns in the world.”
Everyone got a good laugh at that.
“What’s funny?” shouted the candidate, realising he was losing his audience.
“You mean people in that place only have four fingers?” shouted a potential voter.
“What gives you such a misguided idea, citizen?”
“No Thumb A Land?”
More laughter from the audience who were still chuckling as the candidate mumbled something about incorrigible country-dwellers and rode out of town in a huff.
Then came Ponda Mali, he of the big stomach and even bigger ego, who grandly promised to send our village football team to the English Premier League and one of our sons to the moon by 2020, obviously proving to be the best candidate for our small borough.
The Sh200 notes he threw around went a long way in making his point. The highlight of his visit would remain on people’s lips for years to follow. Unfortunately, the said moment was Nyaguthii breaking her leg fighting for her share of the common loot one of Ponda Mali’s aides tossed in the air.
As the grader gets to the Police Post, the skinny driver who looks stoned out of his mind brings it to a grating halt, jumps melodramatically out of the cab. “You got a loo around here or is this one of those places one is allowed to wee in the bushes?” he asks.
“You do see I’m wearing police uniform, right?” I hit back.
“I do, but I’m afraid blue is not really your colour, dude. Green would be dope on you. KWS maybe? So, what about that loo, huh?”