“You smell of a sheep sweat!” A rarely-built lady roar. Her harsh, wide set eyes, square, a heavy face, line and malevolently ugly glare at me. “You reek of an old rat!” She adds. She makes a face, moves her eyes – up and down like a pendulum and shakes her head.
“Whose woman is this?” I think audibly. Now, if you think Satan is ugly, you should see this woman. She is so ugly. That kind of ugliness that can make you sick. A variety of ugliness that can kill more people than Cholera and police brutality.
She has a rare skull. Sunken cheeks. Long dark lips that scratch her chin. “Are there people such as this in other countries?” I scratch my jaw thinkingly. This woman is a bad omen. Madam X has an extreme bosom. Her breasts are extra large. I can see their shape. They are like melons, up-tilted under her maroon shirt. Every time the car screetch, they scramble down like mountain goats.
“You Lugulu man?”She shouts. I know this accent. “How do they call you?” She asks. Many times I wish I didn’t know myself. My name sounds to me like an insult. Obiero Obegega. What’s that name? I’ve thought, for long, to sue my parents for choosing for me such an ugly name. Pronouncing it to people makes me very thirsty.
“A March in March, tomorrow, again?” She asks. I need a plastic surgery. I don’t like my complexion. How did she know that I am from the lake? I suspect my dark eyes, the big nose, and thick lips are talking on my behalf. That’s unfair.
Tomorrow is Monday. My people and supporters of Baba, the Kenyan Enigma have launched a demonstration. The battle of equity is of the interests of people. It isn’t built on personal or selfish interests. Hunger and taxes are making people to shiver like wet dogs.
There’s a problem. Things are insanely running out of control. This morning, someone thrust his or her black, I don’t know colourless butt out and dropped a mountainous shit at my doorstep. The hate that hate sired.
“How many people are you going to mangle or murder tomorrow?” She asks. Is that any way to talk? I don’t remember myself as a murderer. The demos are not for killing. Maiming. Or looting. They are for restoring sanity in an insanely led state.
I am a believer. I believe in peace. Unity. Understanding. I believe in all that with zealous as those who have religious faith believe in God. Must death come, that’s the way we will all finish. All men will one day end that way.