It has been a long time since people in my village, Gitegi, walked with as much fear as they are now, weighed down by pessimism and a resignation to their fate. For the first time in a long time, shoppers engaged in idle talk in the village shopping centre can find something positive to say about Harold. Suddenly, he does not look all that bad.
We watched, on that wee TV that keeps pews inside Harold Assemblies of Holy Associates (HAHA) church company, the happenings of June 25 with muted stupefaction.
Protesters emerging out of a cloud of teargas like artistes taking to the stage, bloodied boys and girls who had stood in the way of innocent bullets, and untidy city goons wielding batons and walloping young terrorists who were intent on burning the country.
In the evening, we assembled at Githendu’s house to hear from one of his sons who lives in Juja, the heart of the city, and who had had a chilling experience. “As we speak, I am actually homeless. They have bombed our houses,” he said, his voice shaky. “Tonight, I am sleeping on a tree branch.”
Harold suddenly organized a small fundraiser to help the boy out, and we raised about Sh430, which both excited him (due to his excellent mobilization skills) and angered him (the last time he collected that much in tithes was years ago).
As you might expect, that money never reached Githendu’s son. In a competition of cons, my Uncle Harold won. You see, there was no way Githendu’s son was sleeping on a tree branch in a neighbourhood that lacked vegetation, and there was no way such a colossal amount of money was going to leave Harold’s coffers with ease.
We have been in mourning all week, pained at happenings far away from our village as well as those inside it, including Harold’s great gluttony.
Today, Sunday, at HAHA, we have a mega service to pray for our police to miss the trigger whenever they reach for it, and for the sycamore tree to just fall because Zaccheaus is never coming down from that very lofty perch.
In realization that every June might turn out to be as bloody as the last two have been, we are petitioning the Judiciary, as well as making a prayer in earnest, to have June excluded from the calendar altogether.
This means shorter years, and a smaller reign for the government. June also happens to be my birthday month, and Harold plans to collect enough in church today to throw a birthday in his honour.
It has been a long time since people in my village, Gitegi, walked with as much fear as they are now, weighed down by pessimism and a resignation to their fate. For the first time in a long time, shoppers engaged in idle talk in the village shopping centre can find something positive to say about Harold. Suddenly, he does not look all that bad.
We watched, on that wee TV that keeps pews inside Harold Assemblies of Holy Associates (HAHA) church company, the happenings of June 25 with muted stupefaction.
Protesters emerging out of a cloud of teargas like artistes taking to the stage, bloodied boys and girls who had stood in the way of innocent bullets, and untidy city goons wielding batons and walloping young terrorists who were intent on burning the country.
In the evening, we assembled at Githendu’s house to hear from one of his sons who lives in Juja, the heart of the city, and who had had a chilling experience. “As we speak, I am actually homeless. They have bombed our houses,” he said, his voice shaky. “Tonight, I am sleeping on a tree branch.”
Harold suddenly organized a small fundraiser to help the boy out, and we raised about Sh430, which both excited him (due to his excellent mobilization skills) and angered him (the last time he collected that much in tithes was years ago).
As you might expect, that money never reached Githendu’s son. In a competition of cons, my Uncle Harold won. You see, there was no way Githendu’s son was sleeping on a tree branch in a neighbourhood that lacked vegetation, and there was no way such a colossal amount of money was going to leave Harold’s coffers with ease.
We have been in mourning all week, pained at happenings far away from our village as well as those inside it, including Harold’s great gluttony.
Today, Sunday, at HAHA, we have a mega service to pray for our police to miss the trigger whenever they reach for it, and for the sycamore tree to just fall because Zaccheaus is never coming down from that very lofty perch.
In realization that every June might turn out to be as bloody as the last two have been, we are petitioning the Judiciary, as well as making a prayer in earnest, to have June excluded from the calendar altogether.
This means shorter years, and a smaller reign for the government. June also happens to be my birthday month, and Harold plans to collect enough in church today to throw a birthday in his honour.
By Peter Theuri