OLD MAN

I recently went to Baringo in search of a story. I wanted to interview him. I knew bits of his life that were insanely interesting. Like a time he stoned my late grandmother and almost killed her due to his stubborn nature. Or the times he locked his children in the house for a week. Or maybe bad things kept occurring because he was cursed? I don’t know.

I sat there in our compound on a plastic chair under a guava tree. I looked up checking if there was any ripe one insight but deep down my mind was far. How would I approach that old man? What if he tries to stone me or hit me with his crutches? You see he is one of those people who seem manic but are normal. Their joy is seeing someone withering in pain but again I know the other side of him. He loves reading.

When I was in high school, he used to borrow me the set books. He would sit there in his compound and read. He wanted to read everything that is there to be read. Upon completion he would borrow more books and I would gladly give him. He would thank me and then tell me a story about his education life. “My child, you see education is key and very important.” My mind would wander of and think “iweje elimu muhimu iwapo twaishi masikini?”

Pangs of poverty would kill him soon pherhaps. This seems mean but that’s what I thought. “I was a very smart chap in school. I was proud of my little successes. I was always on top of my class and my future seemed too bright to be looked at with naked eyes. In secondary the trend was the same. Smart pants. I did my A levels later and went to india like your uncle for further studies.” He said as I looked at him with mixture of emotions. I adored him because wow his life was a dream. His life was okay. But again as I looked at his state then I thought school is a struggle, education was a reconstruction of experience, process and goal of education doesn’t always align.

“I later became a professor, a lecturer in the University of Nairobi. My child when you get to school study hard.” He would then conclude and I would take my book home. The next time I would go pick the other book he borrowed he would repeat the same story over and over again.

Incase you are wondering if his story is true yes it is. He became a professor.

Now sitted in the shadow of a guava tree I wanted to ask him about the things he didn’t talk about. He didn’t talk about his family, his broken leg, how poor he is, where his wife was, how he lost his job, how lonely he is and so much more.

I pictured myself going to his compound with a mug of porridge as a peace treaty incase he doesn’t want to be disturbed and also am so sure he went a day or two without any meal. Changaa, some local brew, sustained him.

I’ve been stalking him for three days now. Baringo is in the highlands so where am sitted I could see his compound and everything he did. He would wake up at the crack of dawn (this I didn’t see but I knew!) and go out looking for changaa. At around 9am he would be back with a three litre jerican that contained his booze. He would sit on the verandah drink a little and from his coat pocket he would remove a newspaper. From a distance I could see it was old. Maybe he got it on the side of a road. He would then carefully read it immersed in the moment. From there he would sleep under a tree that was in the compound. I assume he did this everyday to pass time and skip lunch meals. In the evening he would go back to his small mud house and stay there and I would wait to see him the next day. On Thursdays he made changaa and only five people showed up. Or six. In other brewery places men and women showed up, even the ones from neighbouring villages.

If you’ve watched the series “YOU” you definitely know Joe. I felt like Joe. A stalker. FBI and devil’s incarnate. I mean it felt so wrong to dig deep into someone’s life like that. Soon I would know a secret I wasn’t supposed to know. I would know why the old man doesn’t shower and why he doesn’t shave his head and how his hair is so neat yet uncombed.

The man is in his mid-seventies. In earlier years of his life he had a wife but his pride nature took the best of him. He constantly beat her. After years of domestic abuse she ran away to her home, tungo hills in tugen land. They had three kids, one boy and two girls. He never cared about the wife or kids so he went back to Nairobi. In Nairobi he became an alcoholic. It was too much. He started missing classes. He wouldn’t teach for a month, then two, then three. He was later sacked. Addiction is an enemy. It like a banquet in the grave. A waste of everything you have. When the famous author Edward .T. Welch wrote the book on addictions “a banquet in the grave” I presume he thought it through because yes! Addiction was exactly that.

He went back to the village and found his wife had returned. He beat her and sent her away. The kids were locked in the house for a week only to be rescued by the villagers. All his money was used up in beer and changaa. The kids grew up in the hands of villagers and the firstborn son is a doctor in kitale. The two sisters are doing well too. One is a teacher and the other is a nurse.

I don’t know what happened to his leg but what I know is that he escaped out of hospital to look for changaa. He didn’t wait to be discharged. He is a man full of resentment. That’s why he would hit you out of nowhere. You can’t predict his next move. Kids are warned to stay away from him. Not to say he is a psycho but ooh well…….

The next time I’ll be in Baringo I will try to interview him. Would he still hit him if I give him a mug of porridge? Or should I share with him his booze? Ooh I know….get a three litre jerican full of changaa! Hope my pastor doesn’t see me lol. Stay tuned.