DEBT RECOVERY

How do you cope with the indignity of asking for your money from people who happily borrowed or used your services but have now gone Birdbox when the time to honor their pecuniary obligations comes? I've just watched someone raise an ugly scene. She worked in this pub but got laid off during the pandemic. They had her salary arrears which they promised to pay once things looked up.

Well things seem to be looking up. The pub is having a sizeable crowd of patrons but the owner has- like he has done so many other times in the last 5 months - told her that he cannot pay her arrears since things are not looking up. She lost it this time, got hysterical and told everyone who cared to listen how she's on the edge, her house locked up by the landlord and her kids unable to go to school.

She recounted the many trips She's made here, following up on her money and receiving endless promises that are never honoured.

As a final nail on the coffin, she's reminded the bar owner of the numerous times he used to mount her on a stack of beer crates after doing the stock take for the night.

To avoid further embarrassment, the proprietor fished out 5000 bob from his wallet, hurled at her, while promising to sue for defamation. And she was gone.

Some people only pay their debts after being dragged through the mud 😐

TRIBES OR INDIVIDUALS? 254

"We didn't elect a tribe. We elected an individual", declared a man of the cloth somberly, while receiving appreciative applause from his audience.

His reaction and many others came after UK threw down the gauntlet on the raging Dynasty-Hustler narrative and introduced the idea of a rotational presidency amongst Kenyan communities. Any self-respecting hustler sympathizer could not let this assault on a carefully crafted political narrative go unchallenged. With this statement, UK gave a clarion call to the dynasty side, which for months had been looking rudderless. Hustlers 1-2 Dynasty.

My opening line begs the question: why are tribes so much invested in election outcomes if one of their own is a candidate? My answer is: because we vote tribes. Our political contests are tribal-based. Our reward system after winning is tribal. The trauma of loss is felt by entire tribes.

The tribe for the early man was a bastion of security, an entity where trust and goodwill prevailed and where values were crafted and taught for the betterment of all. As societies became more complex and division of labor became necessary, tribal organization was one way to achieve structure in leadership, harmony and ensure generational succession.

The tribe was seen as that protective blanket against aggression and had men dedicated to protecting resources- be it grazing rights, water resources, farmlands and even fishing territories. 

Some tribes morphed into powerful kingdoms militarily, that conquered and dominated other weaker ones, assimilating them while destroying their culture and identity.

Colonial East Africa became one of the stages for the Anglo-Saxon tribe to pitch tent, pilfer resources and lord over existing tribes. Colonialism weakened existing tribal organizations especially where there was direct rule, the territory known as Kenya being one such place. The colonial masters introduced the idea of a territory, then later a nation named Kenya, and put in place their own administrative structures. For effective governance, it was in their interest to weaken the culture and values of the existing tribes, something they achieved through brute force, collaboration, missionary work and western education. 

By the time we attained independence, what was left of the precolonial tribes was basically language and a few vestiges of culture. The few elderly purveyors of the old order, who were considered animist and backward by the emerging educated generation, were shunned and disregarded. Western teachings and practices, with only a slight tinge of the traditional, became the accepted path for many.

And thus died the precolonial tribe.

We can argue that the imperialists, by design or as an aftermath of their colonial experiment, created a new tribe named Kenya, held together by western education, practices and institutions. Or so many thought.

It was expected that, post-independence, this identity would be the fabric that held together the people of Kenya irrespective of their backgrounds, as they undertook the work of building a self governing nation while fighting illiteracy, poverty and disease.

In the neighboring Tanzania the leadership quickly and deliberately harnessed the new identity of mTanzania. Nationality was intentionally placed way above ethnicity. This legacy of Mwalimu Nyerere has prevailed to this day. His adoption of socialism (ujamaa) may have been the reason why he was able to temper ethnic interests. It is a demonstration of how leadership can leave an enduring legacy.

The tribe named Kenya was however very shaky from inception. Tensions between the founding fathers, sectarian and political interests and rabid capitalism snowballed into a dysfunctional tribe. A tribe comprised of pockets of people who felt marginalized or unequally representated in the sharing of the national cake. A tribe where some suffered fewer opportunities in the economy because of their last name. Add to that toxic political rivalries, that exploited ethnic identities, fractured the bonds irretrievably. 

 Kenya hasn't fully succeeded in integrating the various ethnic outfits that constitute it. The few efforts made have been lackluster and eventually stillborn. It's not surprising how the numbers of public servants per community reflect the regime in power since independence.

A leader will be on one lectern preaching tribe Kenya and later in a political rally promoting ethnic bigotry.

President Obama's speech while visiting Kenya, and delivered on 26th July 2015 -an excerpt:

"As in America -- and so many countries around the globe -- economic growth has not always been broadly shared. Sometimes people at the top do very well, but ordinary people still struggle. Today, a young child in Nyanza Province is four times more likely to die than a child in Central Province -- even though they are equal in dignity and the eyes of God. That's a gap that has to be closed. (Applause.) A girl in Rift Valley is far less likely to attend secondary school than a girl in Nairobi. That's a gap that has to be closed. (Applause.) "

The aftermath of our fixation with ethnicity is that it becomes an advantage or a disadvantage in a Kenyan's life's journey. It's a tag you carry around from birth to death. It can determine if you'll be accorded or denied a job, a scholarship, a government tender or even a tenancy. During elections, it can even get you killed. 

It creates ethnic privilege and disenfranchisement. For example if jobs and tenders are given based on ethnicity, financial inflows to the beneficiary's home region will happen. The beneficiary will employ people from his region, set up businesses and this will make his home economy more robust.

My opinion? As it stands we indeed do elect subtribes of the Kenyan tribe.

Our generation, despite having more exposure than our forebearers, hasn't changed much. 

Maybe the next one will succeed. Maybe the intermarriages will help. Maybe our tribal tensions will simmer to a point of civil strife, after which we'll reengineer tribe Kenya, the way Rwanda did. On this last one I'd wish to be wrong.

A VISIT TO THE MEDICINE MAN

At the back of the rickety pick-up was me, my father, my 3 sisters and a goat that was held captive using sisal ropes. At the front sat the driver, my mother and our infant twin brothers on her lap. Next to her was another man I did not recognize. The journey was on a rough terrain and since we were seated at the back, it required us to constantly hold on to the edges to avoid tipping over. The driver and my mum were engaged in an animated chatter that we could hardly follow. My brothers slept peacefully on her lap, oblivious of the rough journey. Clouds of dust would hit our faces at the carrier, causing us to squint in discomfort. My sisters' lesos, the ones they were using to cover their heads, had already gathered enough dust to distort the color to brown. Looking at my dad's dusty hair and face I knew I was a replica in appearance.

The goat bleated at every toss and turn of the pick-up, frightened. I focused my attention to it, trying to escape the discomfort of the journey.

It was a purely white goat, healthy and still young, in goat years. I watched as it chewed cud while occasionally defecating small green mounds that were more fascinating than disgusting. Goat and cow shit, heck even chicken shit was ubiquitous in our dwelling. You stepped on it barefoot and moved on. When dry it served as manure for the farm. It could also be used as a repellent for mosquitoes. But I digress.

Before this journey I had surreptitiously overheard my parents discussing the mission at hand. We were visiting a traditional doctor who was highly rated in giving protective charms, amulets and making spiritual incantations that kept all the enemies and evil spirits at bay. The man had advised that we bring a white female goat that had not given birth as yet. We didn't have one but on the day before this trip, my dad had appeared home leading a a white goat and under his arm a red cockerel.

He was ready for his family to receive this divine cleansing.

I love goat meat. Partly the reason why I was excited by this journey, besides the curiosity of meeting a traditional healer. I could picture it slaughtered and expertly prepared for our dinner at the medicine man's place, which we were to spend a part of the night, as he invoked his superpowers to wage war against any haters lurking around our family. 

The oracle had also asked for us to carry five thousand shillings in cash, which would be his fee for the services. Again strict instructions had been given on the allowed denominations - strictly 50 bob notes only. Finally a red cockerel was to complete the list of requirements. The cockerel silently stayed put in a box, its feet bound deep in thought.

After about two hours of turbulent travel, mostly on a rough untarmacked road, we pulled up into a compound with a perimeter defined by densely spaced euphorbia plants. In the middle of the compound was an old red flag with no insignia, fluttering calmly. We were now on the oracle's territory.

As we disembarked from the pick-up I felt apprehensive, my young mind concocting all sorts of eerie scenarios that are likely to happen in a traditional healer's house. I looked around. There were three grass thatched huts, a kraal with a few livestock and a dilapidated pit latrine. An old dog that did not even attempt to bark lay outside one of the huts, from which an elderly and morbidly obese man, with a wrapper around his waist, appeared. He adorned numerous ornaments on his neck, arms and feet that jingled as he moved. He ambled slowly towards us, aided by a walking stick.

My father introduced himself, reminding him of their previous encounter and conversation. The old man seemed to recall and asked us, in his raspy voice, to display the requirements needed for the rituals. We obliged and he gave them a careful inspection as if looking for blemishes, which would render our visit futile.

Despite his advanced age and ungainly frame he counted the 50 bobs meticulously all the way to 5000 bob and nodded in satisfaction. Using his cane, he directed us to his hut, with strict instructions to remove our shoes. 

The two men that had accompanied us - the driver and the other passenger, stayed out as my family crammed itself into the poorly lit hut. An array of tools of trade lay scattered all over the hut -gourds, a deer skull, dried hooves, some cowrie shells, a whistle and many other paraphernalia that I could not immediately recognize. We sat there silently, our goat still chewing cud and shitting, our cockerel finally out of the box, rummaging around for grains.

 The medicine man came in with some effort, as the door was quite narrow for his frame, and sat in the middle of the room, still clinging to the wand of cash.

In his raspy voice and with a deliberate and authoritative timbre, he began question my parents.

"Where do you come from?"

"What are the issues you are facing? Are you having any toxic relationship in your extended family? Oh, your half brother?

Tell me more about that? Oh, you don't see eye to eye over land boundaries...uh huh...you even had a physical altercation last week? He promised to finish you, didn't he?"

He ruminated over the answers given, head held down solemnly. Picking some beads and a small gourd, he chanted some unintelligible words, his midsection trembling, perspiring from the little physical effort. Once finished, he rose slowly, his joints creaking, took the goat and instructed my dad to bind its feet. 

With the confused goat lying on the ground bleating, the medicine man sat on its neck, exerting over 120kg of weight, smothering the poor animal to a slow painful death. We watched, horrified as my infant twin brothers started to wail in shock and terror. 

The oracle called out a name and it was our first time to notice that the home had other inhabitants besides him. A young dirty man, with yellow teeth appeared and was instructed to go dismember and cook the carcass.

 The cockerel did not suffer a similar fate, two lives too many, the old oracle must have said to himself. 

Meanwhile the man's attention was now on us -using a small knife to make incisions on our faces, backs, feet while applying his mysterious concoctions of dried herbs on the cuts. A lot of spittle too, dished liberally and rubbed like vaseline on a baby's bum. A mix of awe, disgust and amusement in our young heads, but I could see deference and humility on my parents faces as they executed his raspy commands

.

Any doctor, conventional or traditional, who's worth his salt will give a prescription and future date for review. I believe both for altruistic and commercial reasons. No exception here. We were handed a small bottle with some thick liquid that we we to sprinkle all around our compound as well as on our bodies, each morning and evening.

We were also reassured that the evil uncle, who was actively seeking the services of witchdoctors to harm us, would fail spectacularly. The prognosis looked good and I could see relief on my parents' faces. They were asked to visit after 6 months to review progress.

Goat meat and ugali was served, though the portions were small and drowned in lots of soup. 

It was 10pm when we began our journey back in the same pick-up, confident of the future, all worries gone.

STAY SAFE OLD-TIMERS!

Retirees are defiantly going into sexual combat with 25 yr olds, knowing fully well the attendant risks. You'd think the stories of their fellow senior citizens dying during coitus- which have been amplified by the media -would deter their drug-induced lust. But wapi, it seems the mantra is 'I'm going in. If I die, I die!'

The fear of death never stopped many a gallant soldier from going into battle for a cause they believed in. It won't stop an ageing sexual tourist from venturing into the energy-sapping chambers of a nymphomaniac. And that's how natural attrition works. A percentage of the populace is always ambivalent to danger, thus accelerating their death. 

That's why you'll meet people who won't wear masks despite the prevailing risks. That's why a bodaboda guy will cut across a moving truck or train. That's why a pickpocket will take the risk knowing fully well that he could be lynched. That's why some chase that adrenaline rush in high risk activities.

Geriatrics won't stop carvoting with spring chicken. The only practical solution is to beseech their much younger mates to handle the wazee gently. Ensure to know if he has a medical condition, if he's taken his drugs and if the blue pill he's using was endorsed by his doctor. If possible carry a checklist and have him sign an indemnity that protects you from blame in case of any eventuality. But above all handle him with kid gloves. Pamper his ego, even if the strokes are weak and his member semi-turgid, to avoid him seeking performance enhancing substances that are potentially fatal.

Please learn some first aid techniques and ensure to keep some medical emergency numbers, that you can call kikiumana. Instead of fleeing the scene.

Happy humping!

OF POLITICAL DEBTS IN THE 254

One thing that BBI should have included is the issue of unpaid political debts and how to pay them, as we move the country to that coveted spot next to South Korea.

There has been a lot of noise and disquiet about the political deni the Hasla is 'owed' for having supported Kamwana. There's also another one - the infamous MoU- that Emilio reneged on with Tinga. 

A solution exists though, one which I should have presented to those ageing patriots who crisscrossed the country seeking fresh solutions to our murky politics. A solution that will pacify the current protagonists and put everything to rest for good. To pay the two outstanding debts in 2022 (and any other debts that may be accrued in future coalitions), just split that vote basket into two and give each their half ajisort. That way they can now focus on hunting for the rest across the republic.

No voting should take place. Just compile the number of total registered voters in the region, divide by two and tell Chebukati to transmit to that server in France.

Send the incumbent there to convince the peasantry to continue tending to their shambas and milking their cows on voting day, since he's undertaken to clear outstanding debts on their behalf. 

The two protagonists should thereafter sign a treaty, witnessed by the muthamaki, affirming that all political debts have been paid irrevocably, and pledging never to whine again about unrequited political endorsements #musings

VEXATIOUS BUFFOONS

What is a vexatious buffoon? It's a buffoon alright, but one who knows and relishes being one, to the irritation of those around them.

One who feels ordained to exercise their vexatious nature on the people around them. The more they vex the more they draw satisfaction of having a profound impact. It does not matter the subject or place -they'll run roughshod over others, outshout everyone, ignore advice and wield a massive bolus of negative energy. They are mostly crass, pompous and conceited.

Prominent ones in our society include a certain unsmiling professor to whom we've entrusted the future generation to - he loves issuing edicts that are not only poorly thought out, but also sound and feel like they're designed to cause extreme annoyance. 

Another is a mustached irritant who seems to have arrogated himself the role of a moral policeman and ombudsman to every song, film, advertisement or joke in this our land and nation. He actively courts controversy and any attacks on him only embolden him further. 

How could I forget the exiled and self-styled revolutionary general who bashes and dresses down even those sympathetic to his cause? Vexatious buffoon extraordinaire! 

Internationally, the crown would go to the former TV personality, casino magnate, property guru and golden shower enthusiast, who became a president, only to later leave the office acrimoniously.

Vexatious buffoons are ubiquitous in all cadres of the society -corporate offices, residential neighborhoods, schools, churches, temples, bars, public transportation, government offices, TV shows, WhatsApp groups na kadhalika. 

Easily discernible, they wear that know-it-all countenance, share their 'truths' condescendingly and enjoy destroying opinions shared by others. They revel in getting praises from their contemporaries and superiors. Puffed up and irascible, they require an advanced level of emotional intelligence to tolerate and interact with them.

Some, through concerted efforts by those around them or after finding themselves isolated, have unlearned their reprehensible traits. 

However majority still carry them stoically as a badge of honor, in the mistaken belief that they're martyrs who will get vindicated with the passage of time.

THE IMPENDING DIVORCE

She was cheating no doubt, he thought to himself. The signs were however not overt. It was a gut feeling - energy vibes if you may. The way she wore that innocent look, almost mockingly. How she was obsessively careful to be home in good time. How she evaded arguments and confrontations. She stopped enquiring on his whereabouts when he was out ‘with the boys’.

Most times he’d walk into the house about a minute after the official curfew time that the government had imposed, grinning drunkenly. She'd be seated on her favorite couch all warmly dressed, eyes glued on her phone acknowledging his presence with a slight nod, as the kids rushed to receive him. Besides the three minutes it took to serve him dinner, she'd stay glued on the couch till 11pm, still focused on her phone.

He noticed that she was avoiding coming early to bed, waiting till he was fast asleep. On the few occasions that she did, she would lie on the far end of their large bed facing the wall. His attempts to huddle closer or initiate sex would be countered with excuses of a bloated tummy, exhaustion or simply silent non-reciprocation. On the countable times that she gave in, it felt totally unlike the old times -tasteless, a silent mechanical act, lacking the lustre and the energy of the past. Something was amiss. He’d tried broaching the issue severally, but she brushed it off, accusing him of not understanding women and their moods. He let it pass.

And indeed, she was cheating, but very discreetly. She deliberately kept it within her working hours to minimize any suspicion. On the days agreed with her lover, she would drive to her workplace, park her car, check into the office and then leave shortly thereafter. Ostensibly for a myriad of reasons ranging from a medical appointment to her children’s school visit. Her job occasionally allowed her to meet clients, which accorded her even more opportunity to keep her illicit dalliance going.

Her lover was a monied Southern Sudanese ex-freedom fighter and politician -a very tall, slim middle-aged man with a dark, shiny complexion and visible tribal marks on his face and neck. He had large jutting teeth on the upper jaw and a couple missing on the lower one. His name was Malong Kirr. He would pick her a few meters from her office in different sleek cars and whisk her off to expensive hotels and exclusive clubs.

They would wine and dine in exclusive restaurants in Nairobi before retreating to a hotel room for more intimate engagements. Besides being endowed like a stallion, the ex-freedom fighter had the insatiability of a cocaine addict. He would pound her endlessly and in different positions, his curved member massaging areas of her reproductive anatomy that had never been touched before, driving her to pulsating orgasms. It was with him that she first experienced squirting, something that she had only seen in adult movies. Her new sexual discoveries made her averse to the three-minute silent sex that she was accustomed to from her obese and perpetually drunk husband.

She loved watching Malong’s grotesque expression as he came, his teeth bared like a dangerous carnivorous animal, howling in his native tongue while squeezing her tightly, almost as if in a trance. They would then lay back, recuperating for about 15 minutes before he would be on her all over again.

By late afternoon, he would drop her back to her workplace, exhausted and slightly tipsy -where she would complete her shift, sober up before heading home by 6pm. She would feed the kids and then take her favorite position on the couch to chat her lover.

Her increased indifference to him in the last couple of months worried and raised his suspicion levels. But there was no evidence that he could use against her. Just the vibes and circumstantial events.

Like that one Saturday afternoon. While seated in the open area of a bar, he had noticed a brand-new Toyota Land Cruiser passing on a road nearby. A dark bespectacled man was behind the wheel and next to him, was a woman that looked like his wife- but in a mask. They locked eyes briefly before she looked away. He was a little shaken -but by the time he recovered enough to contemplate the next step, the car was gone. He thought maybe his paranoia was alcohol-induced. He sat there brooding, wondering what he would do if indeed it was his wife. It could also be a case of mistaken identity, he consoled himself. He called her number, but it went unanswered. She would later tell him that her phone had been charging.

He drank more than usual that day, all sorts of uncomfortable thoughts running through his head. The idea of his wife preferring another man to him pained him. Thoughts of denial though prevailed since he still had no evidence. He headed home a little earlier and found his wife seated on her usual couch - dressed all warm and engrossed on her phone. He rushed to the laundry basket looking for a black dress or top- for the lady he'd seen in that car had been wearing one- but found none. He went into the shower and noticed that she had taken a shower a few minutes earlier, which was part of her routine and which meant she had just gotten home. Resigned and in emotional anguish, with nothing to anchor his suspicions on, he retired to sleep.

While lying in bed, he contemplated on what he should do to put his suspicions to rest. Maybe mystery call her workplace to enquire about her reporting and departure times for the day? He ruled against it. She may be alerted and raise her guard. He contemplated contacting a friend of his, who worked for a mobile phone operator, to get her call records and financial statements. It sounded like a good idea, but what if he was wrong about her? His friend would no doubt share the juicy gossip with his wife, who would then share the same within their circle of friends, until it reached his wife. He wasn't ready to carry the tag of an insecure, snooping husband. But he still needed to put the matter to rest.

He had heard and read about private detectives, who had the means and time to investigate cases like his. He recalled watching numerous episodes of the 'Cheaters' show, where the investigators tailed suspected cheats and made sure that they were caught in the most compromising situation. In the wake of incontrovertible evidence, the suspect would have no option but to admit. Fist fights and public spats would follow. Sometimes reconciliations, sometimes nasty breakups. The investigators did not come cheap though, he noticed after going through a few rate cards.

He'd also seen several digital adverts promoting a novel snooping software that one could install on their spouse's phone and get copies of both texts and audio conversations. It could be bought online. However, it required installation of the software on the suspect’s device. The challenge was to access her password protected phone.

Then the idea of gifting her a new phone and preloading it with the software hit him. 

Yes! That was it!

Bingo! Or so he thought.

With the software installed, he could carry out his own investigation and avoid awkward conversations with third parties, he reasoned. He would also save a lot of money that could have gone to a private investigator. If it turned to be a false alarm, he would just carry all these events to his grave. This was his best shot.

His wife was currently using a Huawei P30 Lite. He logged onto an online shop and browsed for a befitting upgrade. He spotted a Huawei P30 Pro, a logical and affordable upgrade to what she was having. With a satisfied smirk, he purchased it. The phone was delivered within two days. He went back to the internet, shopping for the snooping software. There were many available, some looking questionable. Painstakingly he read through the reviews and narrowed down to two - a Chinese version named Mousetrap and a Russian one named, ironically, Grab 'Em! There were trial versions that lasted a week, a basic version that missed some salient features he would need and lastly a pro version that would do the job, but at a slightly higher fee. Using his credit card, he purchased for 15 dollars the pro version of Grab 'Em!, since it also promised total stealth against anti-snooping tools. He installed, as instructed on the user manual, on both the new phone and his, performed a couple of tests successfully.

For a job well done he passed by his local pub for some beers, drinking about fourteen before the curfew time.

At 9pm, he staggered home brandishing the brand-new phone, wrapped nicely as a gift for his wife. She was there slouched on her favorite couch, eyes on her phone. Just as he was about to hand it to her, he noticed she was using a brand-new iPhone 12 Pro! Unknowingly she'd beaten his scheme! How did she even afford it? Why was the cosmos conspiring to deny him the information that he had a right to? He cursed under his breath.

Disappointed, and as he made his way to the bedroom, she looked up and noticed the package and enquired, "honey did you buy me a gift? Awww!"

Forcing a smile, he responded, "no honey, this is a farewell gift we are buying a colleague at work. But I can see you don't need gifts from me, you now even have the latest iPhone.."

She ignored his sarcasm and replied, "you know I always treasure your gifts the most. This iPhone was sold to me at half the price by a friend who works at the Apple store near our office. I couldn't resist the offer! What did you guys buy your colleague…A Huawei P30 Pro! Wow! I had been meaning to upgrade to the exact same phone, until this deal came through. It really is a great phone. Your colleague will be excited". She retreated to her new phone.

He walked dejectedly to the bedroom, tossing the phone aside and disappointed that his scheme had hit a snag. He didn't buy the story his wife gave him about the deal. His suspicious were now at a morbidly elevated level. He also knew there was no current upgrade to the phone she now had in her possession - not in the next few months anyway. And had there been one, he still wouldn't afford it. His Trojan horse had been repulsed.

He went to sleep but found himself insomniac around 2am. He watched his wife's silhouette, sleeping peacefully, breathing quietly. He thought of what his reaction would have been, had he gotten the proof that she was cheating. Would he asphyxiate her in her sleep? Would he hit her with a blunt object? Or would he just walk away, wounded but determined to rebuild himself? He had no idea what his reaction would have been.

Everything appeared so grim. His peace of mind was compromised. His scheme of digging the truth had hit a dead end. 

What options did he have? He thought of his 22-year-old girlfriend, a 3rd year at the University of Nairobi. It was really a transactional relationship where he provided partly for her financial needs while getting sexual favors and drinking company. He didn't even know if she was exclusive to him or had other lovers. Maybe he needed to get another young girl. And despite his own cheating, he still couldn't fathom his wife receiving strokes from another man. He thought of his 3 children, who he loved more than anything in this world. Giving them a peaceful environment for growth was what he purposed to offer them. It would be a challenge though with all these insecurities eating him.

The demons in his head held a conference that very night, as the rest of his household slept, and agreed the best option was to not disrupt the status quo. He'd abandon his investigation. He rationalized about the financial inflows he suspected were coming in, seeing it as an opportunity to help them achieve their financial goals. For she lately appeared to be quite liquid financially. The fact that she was acting discreetly, he reasoned, showed that she still wanted the marriage to work. He had his 22-year-old university lass, and potentially several others that would take care of his emotional and physical needs. After all his wife appeared totally uninterested in any form of intimacy. He would let her be.

 He tossed around, counted a few sheep and then went into a peaceful slumber.

A few minutes later his wife woke to obey the call of nature. Sleep evaded her for a while, and she lay there listening to her husband's snoring. She thought of Malong, the only man to have seduced her since her marriage.

 She has met him in the basement parking of her workplace as she was struggling to get her car from a rather narrow parking, when he offered to help. She had thanked him profusely, and he had taken the opportunity to introduce himself to her, while handing her his business card which read:

 

Malong Kirr

Deputy Governor,

Blue Nile State

Republic of South Sudan

+21104565635

Shortly afterwards he'd gotten into a massive Land Cruiser and left. She was fascinated by his title and inherent political power but didn't really give it much thought.

It was during one of their domestic run-ins with her husband that, while seated on her usual couch, that she had contacted Malong. She had, on the previous night, found a love message in her husband's phone from a young girl - which had led to a protracted confrontation. This had left her angry and vengeful. And that is when she had remembered Malong, his act of kindness and allure of power, and decided to WhatsApp him, 'just to say hi and to thank him for being such a gentleman'

Malong had responded almost immediately birthing a ping-pong of WhatsApp conversations that went late into every night thereafter. One night, despite her weak protests, he sent her 100k shillings into her account 'as a Christmas gift'. By the time he was asking her out for coffee, she was smitten, both by his attention and financial generosity. In her account sat 900k shillings that he'd been sending her on frivolous grounds like "buy yourself some nice outfits and send me a picture" to "have lunch with your friends", from him. She'd never handled such money and found herself understandably excited.

In a moment of excitement and indiscretion she had found herself suggesting to her husband that they move to a bigger house. “Do you have the money? “He’d enquired sarcastically. Coming back to her senses she’d retracted and instead suggested that it was possible if he became more frugal in his spending – “like you could reduce your alcohol intake or” continued caustically, “cut down on the stipend you keep sending to that bitch of yours”. The conversation ended there. She was sure he had become suspicious after this conversation.

 Besides the money, she had expensive jewelry tucked in her office desk to avoid further suspicion. Malong had surprised her with the iPhone 12 Pro and she’d had to cook a story to her unbelieving husband. Things were getting risky. Everything was hurtling fast to an inevitable moment of truth. She would either get caught if she did not act fast

She recalled that day when Malong had picked her at work and they were driving towards their love nest, while passing through an area populated by open air pubs. She'd involuntarily exchanged eye contact with her husband who was seated outside one of drinking shacks facing the road. What saved her was the mask she was wearing which introduced some reasonable doubt. That was a close shave! She’d seen his call immediately thereafter and ignored it, while begging Malong to take her back to her workplace in case her husband showed up. She knew he was getting more and more suspicious and wondered what he could be plotting. Her fear was that he might act viciously and irrationally, which scared her.

 The affair and the attempts to keep appearances were taking a toll on her and she'd decided to broach the subject with Malong, apprehensive of what the endgame would be.

Malong had assured her that he intended to make her his 3rd wife and that she needed to start seeking a divorce. He taken her to meet one of his lawyers, who had given her guidance on how to initiate the divorce, and the grounds she could cite in court. 

She had so far had not gathered the courage to discuss the subject with her husband. She needed to think through what it all implied. Besides the money and their lustful romance, Malong was married to two other women - one living in Juba, another in Nairobi. She weighed her prospects in a polygamous relationship with a rich man, against her current lower-middle income earning monogamous marriage, with a few sidechics. The former freedom fighter was willing to take care of her and the kids. However, she'd be fighting for his attention with two other women, and probably several other single women that he could be dating.

Eventually, the allure of wealth took the day and she started plotting for her divorce.

Her plan was to catch her husband in one of his many trysts, after which she would ask for a divorce. Once the divorce was finalized, she would marry Malong Kirr as his third wife. She went back to sleep, with everything much clearer in her mind.

In the morning, while her husband was showering, she quickly took his phone, like she used to do before, hoping to retrieve some further incriminating texts and nudes from his girlfriends. To her surprise, it was password protected, something her husband has never been keen to do previously. Disappointed, she began to consider either hiring a private investigator to dig dirt on him that would strengthen her impending divorce case or gifting him new phone but installed with one of those snooping apps she kept seeing on online advertisements.

Smiling, she made a mental note to buy and gift him an upgrade of his current Oppo smartphone, while using the opportunity to install the snooping software.

Bingo. Or so she thought.

On the same night, Malong was also deep in his happy thoughts. Lying next to him was his new 22-year-old girlfriend in a deep drunken slumber. They’d been out on their first date and ended in one of his tastefully furnished apartments that he had dubbed ‘The Love Nest’. They had met as she was working, promoting drinks in a high-end bar that he patronized. She was young and pretty, a third-year student at the University of Nairobi. She approached his table trying to get him to buy a newly-launched drink and he took the opportunity to buy drinks and extract her mobile number in the process. A couple of WhatsApp conversations and money transfers later - as was his modus operandi- he had managed to convince her to go out with him on a date. And this was the culmination of that night of carousal, at his apartment.

He marveled at how Nairobi girls were seemingly so easily available especially if one had the resources - unlike in his homeland where the society was deeply conservative. He had had uncountable conquests in the 3 years since he made his move here, ostensibly as a political refugee, but in reality, a connected man of means looking to invest petroleum money with few questions asked. The political elite in his country, which he was part of, were having it easy as long as the right palms were greased. Nairobi also offered unfettered access to many privileges -including beautiful girls, police protection, exclusive clubs and deep connections which made everything feel like a fantasy world for this liberation veteran, when compared to his home country. A far cry from his rough days in the bush during the liberation struggle, under the venerable General Demabior.

Unbeknown to him though, they shared a lot more in common with the young, naked girl with whom he was locked in post-coital embrace.

She also happened to be the 22-year old university student mentioned earlier. And thus the paths of the three in the love triangle were crossing in more ways than one.