Storymoja

Celebrating East African Writing!

One Moment by Alex Mutua

In Europe they eat to be satisfied but in Africa we eat to finish.

Nations like Kenya were born in 1960s and I’m told, those years, citizens knew the meaning of freedom, valued society and kept family albums safeguarded like holy artifact of moments. Togetherness was worth. In togetherness they fought colonialism setting themselves free from chains of slavery. They made it; my fore fathers and mothers.

I listen to the voice that silently creeps out of my soul, and over the year’s soul searching, have realized that we are estranged off the true course of our cultural foundation; upbringing that ensured women were decent and men responsible in moments. Meaningless and vanity.

Like, in a mass choir of eighty four beautiful girls there is no single virgin and in their vanity bags there are bottles of illicit brews spiked in an innocent fanta bottle going for festivities in the capital town. Beneath are packets of condoms that paint a picture of how free we are; a society that condones hype and free will. The choirmaster is a little secret that these girls cannot say; they gave in to him to secure a place in the crowd of songsters.  What kills them in their closets is sin and guilt in continental disgrace where vultures are giving the food meant for children to dogs and threatens young minds in civilization foolishness.

My mama taught me the African values and gave me a black man’s wisdom. A woman is a builder and the man is a cockerel.  How? I do not know but I eye voices of hardcore women heard fighting for gender equity and equality, mostly who are career harpies who suddenly find that all their girlfriends have gotten married and have kids and they have no one to go on holiday with except themselves or maybe a small purchased boy hidden in their private life just like a piece of dishonorable pity which they cannot admit. Where is the loyal African woman?

Often times these prominent women can be found stuck by themselves in weird bars with strange men, past midnight, afraid of going home to their over furnished bungalows  which makes a family of three, them, their pets and then the large screen television. Bottles of red wine, reading senseless many versions of relationship books which say one same stupid thing, men.

After many nights of single loneliness they wake up trying to narrow gender definition to equal Foolishness, talking about defining the position of women in the society. They call it the timely evolution of the female mindset.

Marriage was seen as one ultimate thing a woman strived for a symbol of achievement but it is a surprise that many career women have been forced to comfortably cruise the family minefields solo. They make their own decisions leaving us no option but to respect this breed of women, and their education.

Modern woman say men can not handle the level of feminine liberation as we adjust to new world codes born on eternal accident of religion and race and nationality. Really?

Often it’s in the middle of the nights that a woman realizes she is a woman and it’s in the morning you can tell what a woman really looks like. Those in the street are an illusion, their faces painted with mascara and lipstick, their bodies decorated with jewelry and clothes.

Men are frightened by women who insist on carrying their maiden name and education into their marriage. Men fall in fear.

And in fear we march on.

I remember some years ago I was seated worrying about my nagging woman plus my pressurized relationship at the jobless corner circle unaware that a mercenary was in town, wanted alive. Kenya was on the look out, baying for his blood and I was with my packet of Njugu Karanga enjoying them mercilessly, when the villain was spotted in Mfangano Street.

Every body rushed to the scene locating a small pebble that would cause enough damage to a wanted man. I was one of them.

But some people in this place are invincible and the only way to fight them is just by mere words and if no one listens to you, you turn your fury to innocent motorists, crush a few windscreens until the police come, you have been heard.

We were arrested.

‘Honey…!  Who will pay your bail?’  She walked out on me.

©Alex Mutua 2010

If you would like this piece to be the Story of the Week, please vote below on a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being weak, and 10 being excellent. The numbers will be tallied on Friday and the story with the highest figure shall be Crowned Story of the Week. Be sure to fill in your name and verifiable email. You can include your critique/comment after the vote.

One comment on “One Moment by Alex Mutua

  1. Teacher Douglas
    June 10, 2010

    An engaging write up that promises to be interesting and sophisticated.But for now it sounds like a philosophical beginning of a story that is yet to be told.I give it 6.

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