Rose

3
You have to be a luo to really understand the feeling of going back to Kisumu. It’s our mecca, a halfway house between pride and nostalgia. It’s hard to imagine that there are those who have never been to Kisumu, and that they imagine it to be a squat tin town with one street, one bank, a dark mad naked man with unshaved pubes, and three Mpesa shops. They are convinced that the grandiosity of Kisumu is forged on hype. It’s not, at least not all of it, because we have an International Airport for the love of Mike. You roll your eyes all you want but we do, and it’s towards this international airport that our plane bore last Friday in the beautiful early morning light. From the air, the plane curves as if doing a small dance before the great city. The  silo-like buildings of downtown Kisumu catch the light and blush. There is the green lawn of the golf course where Kisumu’s elite tee off, big Amin-like men with big hands clutched on clubs. Normally you’d see a sparkling Lake Victoria from above running into the city, but not this morning, this morning you see heartbreak in the form of hyacinth that has run over the lake. It’s like an unattended field of weed. As the plane curls again, you see the mountain that frames the city, Mambo Leo somewhere beyond. The mountain is turning into a metropolis of constructions; massives houses, small fenced out estates, single constructions on the lips of valleys and half finished houses. The mountain is being taken over by the rich who now want to see the city below from their lofty perch on the hills. I have always loved those hills. Not more than seven years ago, those hills called Kajulu hills, if I’m not mistaken, were green and untouched; now the long ugly hands of capitalism or development have touched it and its promises, turning it into an uncontrolled eyesore with deep-pocketed folks who can afford to pay for a view. I told my brother this and he said, “It was inevitable, change is change. It’s eventually going to be like the Santa Monica’s Hollywood Hill, maybe complete with a massive signage, who knows?” Whatever it is, that hill is becoming ugly. Then the plane lands and you have this feeling of belonging. You know how you can be away from Nairobi for a week and when you land at JKIA, walk out of the International Arrivals gate and into the bright Nairobi sun, you feel Nairobi – strong, urgent, hungry, aggressive – come at you like a long dear friend who doesn’t understand personal space? Although you are happy to be back to your soil, you feel like your whole body is poised and coiled for something, your senses awakened, your heartbeat galloping and you just want to do something, and you want to do it now…well, as soon as you beat Mombasa road’s ghastly traffic jam. Nairobi doesn’t know how to let you breathe because Nairobi itself is a city with it’s breath held. Mombasa is different; you land at Moi International Airport and you just feel horny. (Or does that happen to me alone?) I think it’s the musky heavy, salty-smelling air and the sea. There is something about that Indian Ocean. I have never landed at Moi – even for work – and thought, “Hmm, now now to get some biashara out of the way.” I land at Moi or Diani and I instantly want a drink and to see a fleeting revelation of a thigh, a curtain into nirvana. Kisumu is different. Kisumu is like our mother; it takes us for who we are, who we want to be, who we pretend to be and who we have failed to be. You land at the international airport and you feel like you are understood, that unlike Nairobi, you don’t need a mask. In Kisumu you are unclothed before the universe. You are amongst people who understand your struggles. I walked out of the airport and ran into Charlie, my official Kisumu cabbie who was there to pick someone else, and he happily said that I had gained weight, and I said “Nonsense. It’s muscle, not weight, you old goop,” then I added, “Mul’ ane kaa” and he felt my guns which is the gayest thing I have done in Kisumu, stand in the busy lobby of the airport and let another man feel my biceps. “Onge gimoro kaa, Biko,” he said laughing. Just two small boys comparing their biceps. Do we ever grow up? We were down to bury my aunt Rozie, who was like a massive mango tree that birds and animals lived on. She had these massive branches where people hanged on, and her roots went so deep in the ground that I didn’t imagine that death would uproot her from life, a lady so gentle and lovely. But death is death, and the Bible says somewhere that we shall eventually sleep longer than we lived. And so it came to pass, the big mango tree tumbled and hundreds of us flocked to a place called Obambo, just as you are going to Bondo, the dustiest place I have been to outside northern Kenya. All the dust in Kenya comes from Obambo, that’s their shags. First, if you can, book yourself into a hotel in Kisumu unless you plan to spend the night sitting up in the wrathful midnight cold of Nyanza. Book yourself into Imperial Express hotel smack in the middle of the city because it’s a budget hotel, a small offshoot of the impervious Imperial hotel, one of Kisumu’s longstanding institutional landmarks. Imperial Express is the place for those who want to touch and go, those in town for a jiffy. You get very white sheets, a very comfortable bed, a pillow, a desk, AC, clean shower, TV, Wi-Fi and a dust-bin. There is no lunch or dinner, neither is there a view really because you won’t be there long enough to enjoy it. It’s the epitome of functional and it’s where the doctor said you should stay in. Throw your bags in the room and go for your funeral, like I did. Let’s handle a few things about our funerals, things that I didn’t handle in my old article How To Bury A Luo here.  People still cry in luo funerals. If you are the kind to be spooked easily, don’t go the moment the body is taken home because there is a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth; people running all over the place, crying and falling down, and sometimes even pretending to faint. You will know they have never fainted before in their lives otherwise they would not be whispering, “Yawa, dwuonda otwo…Fanta, Fanta!” We the luos are as dramatic in funerals as we are in bars. Let us be. Should you be there when the body is brought home, don’t be scared because crying in Luo funerals is political. It isn’t even always a cry of pain, but a cry of support. The people who cry the loudest often do so to be noticed that they came and they grieved with the family. Genuine tears belong to close family and friends. That woman you see there, the one wailing like a banshee? She doesn’t know the full names of the deceased. But she understands that wailing means access. Don’t wear high heels. Funerals are not a catwalk opportunity. Our villages are not paved with cabro. Wear flat comfortable shoes for crying out loud. But you can wear a hat for the sun. We need more floppy hats in our funerals. Food. There is food, lots of food at a luo funeral, but then again there is never enough food at a luo funeral. There always seems to be cartels that control food. There is food for the special guests (read in-laws) then food for the watus (jo’dala). Don’t be surprised to find proper kachumbari  and guacamole in a luo funeral, that’s how abundant we can get. At my aunt’s funeral I saw chilli sauce. Chilli sauce for crying out loud! I mean, it’s only at a luo funeral that a mourner might be served food and we are afraid they might ask for chilli sauce. “Of course, ma’am, do you also need black pepper with your porchetta sandwich?” (I think I need to be congratulated, I have successfully resisted talking about food at a funeral without  mentioning two words; Kikuyu and cabbages.) My pal called me the day of the burial. (She’s Kuyu). I suspect she called so that she could hear wailing but there was none. “Kwani guys are not crying?” she demanded with some level of disappointment and suspicion. I wanted to say, “Hang on, let me gather a few mourners and ask them to wail for your benefit, there were some professional mourners we hired and they should be able to put up an expedition for you. Call me back in 10?” I told her we only wail the day the body arrives, or when a new group comes in wailing and so we all have to stop eating and meet them at the gate and join in the wailing. She has never been to Nyanza, and doesn’t have close luo friends. I asked her what she imagines luo funerals are like and she said, “I hear you guys dance around the grave.” Which brings me to another point, We. Do. Not. Dance. Around. Or. IN. The. Grave! Open casket policy. Because we are visual. We want to see our dead. If we didn’t see it, it didn’t happen. I guess that’s why we struggled to accept the past president when Kibaki was sworn in at night. Drunks Alcoholism is not only a province of a particular region. It’s nationwide. I have seen it in Lelan West Pokot, and in Londiani in Kericho, I have seen it in HomaBay as well as in Mathioya in Muranga. You will see them at a luo funeral; zombie, wonky, and emaciated – and when you see them, don’t look at them as failed individuals but as sick ones that are a direct product of poor governance. Oh the dogs. There are no funerals in this country that attract as many mangy looking mongrels like a luo funeral because there is lots of food, bones and music. They are the unseen beneficiaries of funerals, ugly looking things with ribs lining their sides. They come from far flung villages and sometimes they mate there, bringing forth life as we bury one. They are unsightly and have little to no self esteem because people keep kicking it out of them. Or lobbing stuff at them. Or insulting them with raised hands, “Guog’ni! dhi kucho!” Which is not an insult because someone who calls you with your name hasn’t insulted you, have they? It’s like saying, “You human! Get out of here.” These dogs never look you in the eye because they feel unworthy and filthy. A dog isn’t man’s best friend at a luo funeral, it’s just a dog. Most have a limp from being stoned, but still go out on a limb to get food. But one thing is for sure, a luo funeral will never be complete without a mongrel. I was standing waiting outside one of the mobile loos written “VIP” when this guy, obviously not from around our neck of woods asked me lightheartedly, “Who qualifies to use this VIP loo, does that mean anyone with an iPhone?” I chuckled because he obviously spent a whole day thinking up the joke and looking for someone to try it on. Encouraged by his triumphant and promising comedy career, he forged on towards a (weak) punchline and said, “I have been seeing many people use this particular loo, so does this mean almost everyone here has an Iphone?” I grinned and said, “No, it’s means that every luo is convinced that a VIP lives in them.” Boom! At my aunt’s funeral they hauled in a mobile cash bar. (Er, yawa, tek a little). This night I found myself seated next to this Kuyu chic whom I found drinking Guarana. Now I normally wouldn’t care what anyone brings to their lips, you can drink whatever you please, but this was my aunt’s red letter day. I don’t even know who had authorised Guarana to be sold at my aunt’s funeral. (Job, was that you?) It seemed insulting to her memory – a fine and learned luo woman with unquestionable taste and poise – to have a supplier sell Guarana at her funeral! It was sacrilegious, profane and embarrassing not only to the good people of Obambo, Kisumu, but to the very integrity of the luo nation at large. Selling Guarana at our funerals is the reason we never win elections. I thought that if God grants you beauty, surely, you should work with him. Nevertheless (you know you are growing old when you use words like that), she was our guest and we treat all our guests with utmost respect. We were sharing a bottle of Jack Daniels with some chaps, so I offered her a whisky instead in order to free her from the bony hands of the Guarana. She declined. She said whisky was too strong for her, besides she wanted to keep her wits together. So I offered to make her a whisky cocktail, instead, which she agreed to. I made her my very own Pacho-Special: two parts Jack Daniels, four parts soda water and a dash of Chocolate Man. At some point in the night she said she could hear something moving in the bushes behind us. I assured her it was nothing, that no night runners were dying to jump over the thicket and give her a lapdance. (Oh the things you have to tell Kyuks at our funerals to reassure them of their safety). She continued to furtively turn back to stare at the dark bushes, as if there was a hyena in there, ironically not recognising the hyenas seated all around her, with their drinks in their hands. I wasn’t hearing these movements in the bush, save for the music from the main arena. So I asked, “So this thing you keep hearing, this beast that is lurking in darkness, is it going to leap out and leave all these people seated around here, some with more meat than us, and come right at you because, what, it knows there is a Kikuyu amongst us and their meat taste better?” She laughed and said, “Yeah, they can smell waru meat.” I’m happy to report that no animal jumped from the bushes and mauled her leg. I suspect that it was only a mild case of Guarana-induced paranoia. (Rest in peace Rose Tindi)

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171 Comments

    2. Totally worth it. The part that cracked me- She continued to furtively turn back to stare at the dark bushes, as if there was a hyena in there, ironically not recognising the hyenas seated all around her, with their drinks in their hands.

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  4. I wont say what number I am on the comment list because Biko hates it. seriously though Bikozulu is the to go to site when morning blues have the better part of me. Keep doing this and be blessed.!!!!!

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  8. My condolences for your loss, Biko.

    And stop picking on Kyuks. Leave us with our cabbages.

    https://thispostisabout.wordpress.com

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  10. “If we didn’t see it, it didn’t happen. I guess that’s why we struggled to accept the past president when Kibaki was sworn in at night”. wawa that shade..:-D

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  11. ‘(I think I need to be congratulated, I have successfully resisted talking about food at a funeral without mentioning two words; Kikuyu and cabbages.)’
    LOL!

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  15. I had some bomb chicken at a funeral deep in the heart of Kochia so I feel you on the food bit. The wailing took a little getting used to.
    Pole sana on the loss of your aunt.

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  16. Ooooh Chocolate man. Did you say “two parts Jack Daniels, four parts soda water and a dash of Chocolate Man” Ha ha ha. May Aunt Rozie RIP

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  17. Poleni sana chocolate man, may her soul rest in eternal peace. You should have upgraded yourself to Acacia Premier instead of Imperial Express.. (also mention that speeches are in English during the funeral … 🙂

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    1. I’ve found a Kikuyu who actually knows Western and Nyanza are distinct.
      Kikuyus are the white people of Kenya though.
      Big up yourself Njoro.

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  24. My condolences for your loss.

    Awesome read, the humor always off the hook!
    You should probably write about a kuyu funeral

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  26. Embarrassed for laughing so hard on reading a piece about a funeral. Biko that cash bar killed it, very creative and yes, Luos rock at this funeral manenos. That Pacho special is a must try, definitely without a dash of chocolate man.

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  27. Hehehe Biko my friend, you are silly.
    This cracked me up a good one. “Yawa, dwuonda otwo…Fanta, Fanta!” I pictured the moaner rolling on the ground while doing that and ‘wailing’ mayooo! mayooo! among other words.
    I think the so called ‘VIP’ toilets are always meant for the city chaps. The rest of the ninjaz are always ‘ bungu’ battalion hehe.

    May Auntie Rose sleep well.

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  29. Pole for you loss Biko.

    “Yawa, dwuonda otwo…Fanta, Fanta!” this is a killer…. seen it once and couldn’t believe the sight!

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  30. Nairobi is stifling, overcrowded, the hustle is real, the traffic is much..and most times you have to endure the thick grey fumes from trucks and mathrees…the air quality is very poor…and even if you get off work early, at some point the traffic will catch up with you.
    Love Kisumu though I’ve almost always just passed by. Need to spend time there for sure.
    “At some point in the night she said she could hear something moving in the bushes behind us. I assured her it was nothing, that no night runners were dying to jump over the thicket and give her a lapdance.”
    Oh no you didn’t…hahahaaaaa

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  35. Oh the dogs. There are no funerals in this country that attract as many mangy looking mongrels like a luo funeral because there is lots of food, bones and music. They are the unseen beneficiaries of funerals, ugly looking things with ribs lining their sides. They come from far flung villages and sometimes they mate there, bringing forth life as we bury one. They are unsightly and have little to no self esteem because people keep kicking it out of them. Or lobbing stuff at them. Or insulting them with raised hands, “Guog’ni! dhi kucho!” Which is not an insult because someone who calls you with your name hasn’t insulted you, have they? It’s like saying, “You human! Get out of here.”
    These dogs never look you in the eye because they feel unworthy and filthy. A dog isn’t man’s best friend at a luo funeral, it’s just a dog. Most have a limp from being stoned, but still go out on a limb to get food. But one thing is for sure, a luo funeral will never be complete without a mongrel.
    I swear this bit almost killed me!

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  38. Good read Biko.
    But I have to ask. What exactly do you mean by “I have successfully resisted talking about food at a funeral without mentioning two words; Kikuyu and cabbages.” ?

    I mean it’s a funny statement obviously, what with the tribal stereotype that it assumes. And the humour probably pays off twice, once with the obvious tribal humour and again with the logical loop – in mentioning that you have resisted the urge to mention Kikuyus and cabbages, while in truth you haven’t (because you actually mention them).
    But if you read the statement again, there’s a shining semantic ambiguity (error) in the first part. I think what you meant to say was, “I have successfully talked about food in funerals without mentioning Kikuyus and cabbages.”
    Thank you.

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  39. How do you make me laugh as you write about your aunt’s demise and interment? Nice read! Luo funerals are definitely the ultimate send off!

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  41. First off, Kisumu is hot as hell. And I don’t say this is a bad Moses Kuria way, nah, I simply think Kisumu needs one big ass fan for people who visit over funerals and graduations all the way from Mathioya and cold city Limuru. I have never been to a Luo funeral but the way they scream at football matches in Nyayo I can almost feel how the burial went down. And the food. Do your people Biko ever have enough food? Ama nyi huchoka tu badala ya kushiba? Hehe and I am tempted to thin the sound in the bush was a Kuyu guy peeing after taking too much of what he’ll later say he drank ‘alilo’ beer. May your aunt rest in peace.

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  42. “…She continued to furtively turn back to stare at the dark bushes, as if there was a hyena in there, ironically not recognising the hyenas seated all around her….” I love that bit of the story; but what did the hyena around her do after no animal jumped from the bushes and mauled her leg.

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  46. ….you land at Moi International Airport and you just feel horny. (Or does that happen to me alone?) happens to me all the time

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  47. My condolences Biko.
    And I feel for the Kiuk chick who could not recognize the hyenas seated next to her with drinks in their hands.

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  48. Something else after the dogs….’Golo Neno is another Trademark of Luo funerals.Can be really annoying coz that’s where whatever is said gets interpreted by the locals.

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  50. “as if there was a hyena in there, ironically not recognising the hyenas seated all around her, with their drinks in their hands.”
    hahaaa!

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  53. I love it!
    Pole for losing Auntiε,may she rest in peace. I like how you described her:a deep rooted mango tree, you never thought death would uproot her.

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  54. Dancing around the grave is soo Luhya. We dance Isukuti around the grave. In some instances, we let bulls fight at the grave yard after the burial.

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  55. So the first thing when one lands at Moi International Airport is feeling horny? This one cracked me up.
    RIP auntie.

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  56. You made her a cocktail uh? I bet you also told her you were staying at the imperial express too, put two and two together. May your aunt rest in peace

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  60. Next time Facetime me when around…As the chairman of our beach, I could have DM’d you a tonne of ngege and mbuta for Kim and Tams as JJ Willis’ products

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  61. Kisumu is different. Kisumu is like our mother; it takes us for who we are, who we want to be, who we pretend to be and who we have failed to be.
    hahahaha from now on am changing guarana as my drink if that is how people describe me

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  62. Mombasa is different; you land at Moi International Airport and you just feel horny.
    hehehe…May Auntie rest in peace

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  64. “Selling Guarana at our funerals is the reason we never win elections.” look what you did there! You will be stoned Biko. You always win.

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  68. RIP Rose
    “Wear flat comfortable shoes for crying out loud” Is the double meaning intentional?
    Good read Chocolate man. Have a Pacho-Special on me

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  70. Biko you have to leave us, the Okuyus (together with our warus and cabbages) alone. Hahaha, I can bet on my waru meat that you think the words Kuyus and waru form a compound word

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  72. haha “All the dust in Kenya comes from Obambo, that’s their shags..” till the next one…before then, ata billboard siezi soma

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  73. “If we didn’t see it, it didn’t happen. I guess that’s why we struggled to accept the past president when Kibaki was sworn in at night”
    Biko really….

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  75. She was a force to reckon with, the angel that lived among us and yes the mango tree is an acurate analogy of what she was. She would have loved this piece. She always talked about the one you wrote of your late mum. Rest in peace osiepa Nyar Kendu

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  77. I am so sorry at laughing at this rather sad story. Aki the Guarana bit! The animals lurking ! May your aunt rest in peace.I hope angels read too because she needs to reads this

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  80. May the Lord rest aunty’s souls. I hope this methali (that the Jamison says is a kale saying ) doesn’t work this time. ” Mti mkuu ukigwa wana wa nyuni huyumba (kale);”

    Hehehe… It is funny the girl was looking for a hyena in the bush while she had a couple in hand.

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  90. Mombasa…the very air is naughty! If you dont feel like Biko when you land there a crane or long tongued giraffe cant help you

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  93. Sorry for your loss Biko. Lakini duonda otwo, Fanta Fanta has made my day. As for the Guarana girl, you should have just told her that the noise she was hearing was a jajuok (night runner) and that they are harmless. They get a kick out of scaring folks. We had one jump over us as we sat around a magenga (fireplace) and scared the daylights out of us. As for kiuks tell folks to relax, you’re married to one and familiar with kitgi gi timbegi – waru na cabbage, minji na karati 🙂

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  95. I come from Seme just a bit of a distance from Obambo and I am at home this very moment can relate to this piece.
    Fenurals are more of weddings I bet from the food and preparations.
    In case you dont know,the dogs you are talking about stay at the funeral till hooves and tails of the slaughtered animals are all gone.

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  97. You will know they have never fainted before in their lives otherwise they would not be whispering, “Yawa, dwuonda otwo…Fanta, Fanta!” Hahahaha Biko! Great read as usual. Made my morning

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  99. How do you come up with all this?..wish I could figure it out. The humour here is just perfecto. My condolences to your entire family and RIP to your auntie.

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  100. Please leave us Guarana people alone.
    Someone has to sustain the business anyway.

    My condolences. Rose must have been a pillar in your family.

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  108. Its very noisy at imperial express. Being smack in the middle of town and right next to the bars. I wouldnt recommend it

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  111. ‘Out on a limb’ – Loved that, and everything else really.
    May the good Lord rest the soul of Mrs. Tindi in eternal peace.

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  113. “They are the unseen beneficiaries of funerals, ugly looking things with ribs lining their sides. They come from far flung villages and sometimes they mate there, bringing forth life as we bury one.”Biko Biko Biko! Happy New Year Gang!

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  117. This captivating narrative makes one want to become a luo….I however am proud of being Bukusu – we have many similarities….well done Biko!

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  118. I went to a luo funeral in seme. Stop sugarcoating things you people are crazy. But am sure the dead appreciate the circus. May your aunt rest in piece.

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  119. ‘… ironically not recognising the hyenas seated all around her, with their drinks in their hands.’ Hahaha well in Chocolate Man. May your aunt rest in peace.

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  120. Hehehe hilarious article. Biko leave us and our cabbages and warus alone. They are the combination which makes us astute entrepreneurs. Try them

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  121. Poleni sana!

    BUT….what kind of kuyu friends do u have Biko?? waaaaaa…..hehehehehe….pleaase organise a tourist excursion for all of them to western kenya!!

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    2. You do walk out of international arrivals cos its an international airport! DUH!!
      Don’t display your ignorance ovyo

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    Who looks forward to comments by Peter Welsh like me. Ulterior motives just

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  133. Luo things. Biko how do you manage to turn such a sad event into a humorous piece,?very entertaining though. May auntie rip

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  134. Hilarious read! Loved the dholuoness… you’ve got to understand just how those statements sound to really enjoy the story. Meanwhile Chocolate Man, ask Belva Digital to choro year to 2017 yaye jago ni! 🙂 🙂

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  135. I caught feelings after the attacks on summer bunnies. Havent been here in a while but still funny as ever! Ujaluo ishakumaliza

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