Kenyan Politics: The Dream Sequence

The motherland has had a breath-taking sense of history, victory and tragedy - read Kenyatta, Moi and Kibaki, obviously in that order of respect. I had a session of 'special moments of clarity and acknowledgement' a couple of days ago in which it was revealed to me that in retrospect - bar the legendary infamy - the great toothless dictator-for-a-quarter-century has to be my favourite Kenyan prezzo of all time.

Sure that's a little like saying that my wife is the most loyal woman in the world much in spite and malice of the fact that I found her tits up in someone else's trash, with a sign around her neck saying '50p or nearest offer', but then we're talking Politics - Kenyan Politics at that - and not reason. I say this with all due respect to Kamau wa Muigai - for I knew him not - none at all for Mr. Jackson Ngechu, and completely disregarding Mr. Lucy.

In all seriousness however, the man did rule for 24 solid years with what am sure Raila Odinga must recall as an iron boot, or at the very least a pair of Doc Marten's up his tender thendecular region - as one Basket Case I know would put it - Tr. i.e. posterior orifice for those that may not comprehend the most romantic language in the world as pioneered by G Kyuk and Mresh Mumbi.

You can keep all your Nyereres, Kuffuors and Annans; what Kenya has needed for the past 7-odd years is an aristocrat, a true leader and not Obakoo, a phantomesque persona whose greatest and most arbitrary achievement post-his-election has to be that he is somehow still alive despite having his not-much-better half on the one hand, and the full force of political impedimenta on the other. The only flaw in that logic of course being that were he a phantom, you might actually be tempted to fear him. I would to a great deal even posit that the man, since that accident whose nature and effect are as yet under wraps to anything but our eyes and ears [think any of Kibaki's speeches], has no ambitions whatsoever beyond wiping his thendecks after a stately visit to Waterloo. And that is a wide assumption in itself.

One man I have no doubt would have commanded chief terror the likes of which may have avoided -dare I say- the fardage that the post-election-violence contrived to dump on our laps, is one 'head-in-your-hands-with-delirious-fright' Michuki. Yes. Every serious Ministry he has graced with his aura has left any unfortunate offenders(in his eyes of course) so befuddled and dumbfounded that a select few, as was the case with the Mt Elgon slaughter of man, involuntarily choose to remain permanently in that blood clot state.

Let me state, clearly off the record in lieu of what is about to unfold, that no one will ever fill / feel up Mr Moi's managerial wellingtons again. I can imagine it, but it'll never happen. That said, this certainty hardly dents my imagination, though in all fairness she barely has to work overtime with the current political status quo. In my dream, Kibaki suffers a massive coronary, cause as yet unknown. For a time nobody even notices any difference with his unusual self, and unconfirmed reports suggest he had been cooped up in stately satins, smoking dried Omo with Schtundu foam plus, as he watched Ross Kemp's: A Kenya Special. Apparently, the many courses of action he could have but did not take to quell that iniquitous situation finally dawned on him with a ferocity the equivalent of Tyson's first round Knockout of Hector Mercedes (she was not a girl), and the rest is as they say, her story. Lucy's.

Subsequently, the Kenya Team - for this is how my vision interpreted the Cabinet - had to deliberate on a new manager. By unanimous vote, it was reached upon that they would only settle for a player-manager; the new tactician himself however - le boss - took less unanimity of ideology and expectation to choose. In fact the players present seem to grimace at each other so hard it is obvious in their expression that their enzymes, worms, burps and intestines are wielding placards screaming that popular if hackneyed refrain, 'Haki yetu!' But in the end two racehorses emerge from the rough and tumble: one Rod 'Ginger' and Don 'Mitch' .

Here the pick was eased by Rod's past history of getting majorly, if not royally screwed, and this being the default from which my dream draws its njuithez (juice), the dominant force emerges once more from the slopes of Mt Kenya, sending chills running along the Kano plains to Kano market in west Africa, summiting as you may imagine in the inclines of Mt Elgon.

Needless to say, which is why I say it, Rod is still working on renovating his global image, and decides that a fight for ‘Haki yangu!’ is in the long run more damaging to him than acceding to the rig and retaining his seat as Assistant Manager while working behind the scenes on a suitable rebuttal. As they hurriedly make McKarucy exit Stately Home (no mean feat by the way) and swear Don in before the incumbent awakes from his recently aggravated slumber, I wake up and stare back at myself in the mirror; scaffold at my bedside, fresh paint dripping off it, my eyes are all hazed up à la Isaac Mendez. As the fog clears up, I make out a rather strange looking ‘creature’ lying naked beside me in bed, but that – my good peeps – is a story for another day.

The canvas contains the picture of a man, elegantly dressed, clutching a club with a double-end – such that from the other end sprouts a fly whisk – waving triumphantly over his head to a small group of 'disciples' and flanked by one Marda Karwa à la Jesus and Magdalene in The Last Supper. The other painting is better displayed than described.

Beyond that, the only other detail I care to recall is MK4. The mystery that is MK4......

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