A GAME OF BULLS- A SONG MEAT AND FIRE
The season of festivities it is, and I am on my way to upcountry to celebrate with my folks. A journey that used to take a whole day now takes only four hours, what a relief.
Is it only my case where the folks in upcountry have this deluded mentality that we mint billions every month and that our Kra returns average in millions. It’s like I work in the Diaspora. So every time you land there you experience another kind of not-so friendly form of taxation. SO, as usual I land at the town center and some of my child hood friends “who didn’t make it “are there, I cough some notes and give them.I then rush out like a mad man before I am left with only my exo- skeleton
I am home just in time. The wazees are sitting in a circle with a pot full of changaa in the middle discussing the not so relevant things about life. I go there as humble as lamb and I greet them all.
There is this particular uncle of mine who was in the army. He has a not so hard spot for me (we can’t call it a soft spot). A hard ass of a man he is, rumor is that he was some drill sergeant of sorts who went to Israel for training and was once a hit man. I heard that he once killed three people with a single bullet. He is one of the most revered and feared man, some sort of kick ass Makmende.As kids, he used to make us do pushups as a form of punishment. He calls me and booms “ enda utafute Ngombe ya kuchinja”
I hear my Dad dissing me in the background” he hasn’t even chosen a wife, how will he manage that”, they all laugh.
Well played Dad.
I go out to the farm and I see 18 bulls. That makes it even harder. There is no way I will let drill sergent down or even give my dad an opportunity to throw jabs at me.
I assume I am Joeffrey Baratheon and the bulls are traitors, mutineers, witches and enemies of the throne. I walk in the field inspecting them one by one. Nature dictates that the strong will survive and the weak shall die but since I am an over indulged sadist and there is nothing more satisfying than screwing nature. I separated the weak from the herd. The weak will live to sing songs about my mercy. Now, 8 bulls remain. Now that the number has reduced I look deeply in the eyes of the remaining bulls trying to get a glimpse of their souls. Hopefully to get some insight as to who relishes to die by the kings hand. That doesn’t work; my next plan is to choose by their horns size. As a king I would not want some bimbo horned cow gaining all the attention, being more popular than me. I am now left with two attractive beasts. I now delegate to the farm boy to choose between the two, after all I am a king after all. The farm boy just goes, checks the behind the ear and choose one. Apparently drill sergeant (my uncle) had already chosen a bull by marking its ear.
The farm boy then leads the bull to the arena. The wazee are impressed but that does not stop my Kevin hart of a dad from throwing another jab at me,
“If only he would put all that effort in choosing a wife”, that basically leaves everyone in stitches
The wazees are psyched up and ready to do what arsenal did to Chelsea at the first leg of the season. I get the honor of drawing the first blood.
The moment I saw its head on a pike, I returned back to the real world. Thoughts started to stream in my head, I had just become an accomplice to a murder. That had to be someone’s dad right? A brother to someone or even worse somebody’s Sponsor. But then again, I seek absolution in the fact that Valar Moghulez No! scratch that, Bulls moghulez- All bulls must die, at a certain point in their lives.
I am sure the bull died happy being of service to the king.
NB: No bull were harmed in the writing of this article