‘The greatness of any nation lies in its fidelity to the constitution, adherence to the rule of law, respect to God and above all the love for mutura,” Chief Justice David Maraga 2017 AD, The Year of the Lord.
If you want to treat me to a good meal in this economy, do not take me to a restaurant where I have to wait for an hour to be served something that does not even cover a quarter of my plate. Do not take me to those overrated places in town where I am offered a tea spoon, a regular spoon, fork, knife, a machete and an axe before food is brought to the table. At that level, the only meal I would expect served is a briefcase from the NYS loot. My Gusii self even gets troubled when I have to tie a piece of handkerchief on my neck( I was later informed it is called a napkin). All this trouble for you to only bring me a slice of chapati and an avocado seed. It reminds me of a time I lied to a voluptuous lass called Nyaboke for months on end about how strong my “bed-minton” game is. When I was finally given a chance to tour the coveted territories, I was done before she could say, “gaaki!” Those are not fun times to make a lad remember.
So if you want me to win the hunger games take me to a kibanda, or where us who come from the upper and fertile region of River Gucha call Villa Rosa Kibandaski.( Nyamira people are not allowed to say that; get your pronunciation from Matiang’i.)In those days of the year when I am extremely broke, I take my meals from a Kibandaski; and for someone whose streak in broke days is unbeaten, that is saying a lot. The Kibanda has always been a place of mystery due to its unwritten codes of conduct. The most important one is what has helped me survive my recent escapades as a newbie mutura enthusiast; Never be curious about the preparation process.
When I first dragged my village ass to the city, I was dropped at a place in downtown called Nyamakima which translates to “A person of Ugali.” I walked around tentatively expecting to see a kibanda that sells Ugali. Imagine the thorough disappointment when the only thing I saw was several barbeque stands that sold what I later came to know as mutura. Its resemblance bordered between a roast tapeworm and charred intestines of an elephant ailing from Obororo; a disease that terrorizes chicken in my village. Chicken that suffer from Obororo are known to pee a lot. Your city ass has not seen a chicken pee in your life but I have; so trust the terror that was the mutura first impression.
Have you ever asked yourself a question like, “Self, what the heck is happening here?!” That was my consistent reaction when I saw people from all crawls of life huddled over a chopping board along the streets, devouring something so vile I considered it to be a burnt sacrifice to the Shit gods. I mean, how do you eat something that is possibly colon that has been stuffed with excrement? I had to check my high school Biology to confirm that large intestines are right above that word Trump used on African countries. I also figured out longtime ago that the reason as to why mutura is sold in the evening hours was to allow everyone to have diarrhea at the comfort of their houses at night. There was no way I would partake in that nonsense. I confirmed I was the sane one. Well, at least until last week.
You see, we all have one life to live and no one has confirmed what happens to us on the other side after our air supply is cut off. On Monday last week, I got to deep thoughts about life after death. What if after I die God asks you,
“What did you do with the mutura that I gave you?”
I would stutter for the answer. In the corner of my eye, I would see Jesus producing a master key for my special room in purgatory . Mbugua, the mutura guy would be the one handling my torture in his white lab coat that has now turned brown with stains of large intestine juices.
“I had thought I should trust my gut instincts when around those pieces of guts,” I would answer the almighty.
Angel Gabriel giggles because he is the only when who saw what I did there. Cool guy that one.
“Oooh, Jesus Christ! Who told you to do that?” God shouts .
Looking up from the key-duplicating machine surprised, Jesus answers, “ummmmh, You did.”
“Aaah. Sorry son, I’m not talking to you,” God would reply, face to his palm.
Gabriel chuckles. I stifle mine and fist pump him real quick.
But I digress.
Where were we? Aaah, yeah, last week. Have you ever felt a rainbow that is salted exploding in your mouth? No? Then you have probably never eaten mutura because that should have been your first reaction to that awesomeness getting in contact with your mandible. Mbugua wa mutura didn’t even wash his hands after handling charcoal. He wiped real quick on his lab coat and progressed to cut me a piece of that roast tube-meat. I learnt that you don’t put salt unto the mutura. No,No. You roll the piece on a patch of salt that is on the chopping board.
When that awesomeness landed in my mouth, I had to close my eyes and feel it with every part of my body. It took the intervention of loving comrades to press me to the ground and prevent me from flying off the cosmos with orgasmic impulses that my brain was having, as a function of the contents in my mouth. I turned around and looked at people walking home peacefully and shook my head in sorrow. How can one just walk past a mutura stall and go to sleep in peace at night? Is that how they plan to spend their valuable time on earth?
Yesterday as I was rolling a piece on salt and exercising my jaws for the torture I was going to conduct on the product of my well-spent 20 shilling coin, a lass I had tagged along asked me whether I knew what was in the mutura. I paused for a moment and realized it had been six consecutive days since I started eating mutura and I had no idea what it was yet. It got me into a lot of soul-searching on what uncultured swine I had become . Do you now want to assume that as a sane, Gusii-bred and mannered adult I will continue eating something whose contents I have no knowledge of? Because if you did, you are damn right!