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Sometimes I usually try to
kill a mosquito and it flies away acrobatically and I am left clapping on
imaginary creatures. It's undoubtedly piquing when it has just sucked the hell
out of your blood leaving you feeling like scratching the region after it has
drunk to its fill. The downside in the case of mosquito bites is that this
triggers an inflammatory response causing the bite region to swell into a nice
protruding bump on the skin.
So why does scratching the
mosquito bite make it worse? Because this irritates and inflames the area
even more, resulting in your immune system kicking into overdrive to try to get
rid of the foreign substance. So this means more inflammation for you,
resulting in an escalating swelling, itchy bump that just won’t go away.
Jaluo oksechi, A luo never
pleads. There are those times you usually feel like the world is not heading in
the direction that you wanted. You feel so low to a point you want to get out
of your skin and let the earth split open and swallow you alive. Frustrations
take the better of you and you develop antagonistic and withdrawal symptoms.
Albeit, to make it into that place you envisioned takes time. It involves
sacrifices, you need to constantly reflect on the progress you are making if
valid or you are just getting fagged.
The first time I saw the
inscription Jaluo oksechi, I was not aware of the significance of the
term till that point where I had internalized it. The words were engraved on
the t-shirt of a certain lady who I met in one of the many social places in
Nairobi. She was adorned in tight green pants that aptly signified she was a
'Gor Mahia' fan. The mix and match of a white t-shirt and green pants
never betrayed her.
“Nyako ber gi toke.”
Wacha nikusho. This was the
kind of lady who had a fuller bust heavily supported by a camera bra and a
heavily protruding derriere that only Saartjie Baartman could rival. The kind
that makes all men turn to take a glimpse at what her mama gave her. It looked
like her booty was kissing the pants and her hips tightly hugging it from the
sides. Her thick thighs gyrated seductively while strutting you surely had to
ogle if a lover of BBW. I was tempted, tempted to touch. To quench my thirst
for her fundamendos. She was not exquisitely pretty. Just average with heavy
make-up on her face and a River-Road like wig or weave that kind of made her
look like a Jezebel. This is what you call a high maintenance chic. Cheap but
very expensive. And volatile like a nuclear weapon.
Trust me, Luo joints with
buggers in their thirties to fifties are a hell full of boredom. That is for
the average bloke. Soft rhumba music accompanied by a live band rents the air
to assuage the aged patrons. Probably a musician like Johnny Junior or Emma
Jalamo will be on stage. Singing about some lady, as his languid dancers who
are rumored to be his clandes shake it nice and slow awaiting for the climax of
the song to twerk it real hard. There is no doubt that most are under ART.
Kuome kata ondilo. But they have embraced it. You never know they are living
positively. Until someone tells you they are. They however live recklessly. If
their lifestyle is anything to go by.
Obviously you will not fail
to see some mature ladies imbibing Guinness Kubwa as the men accompanying them
take Smirnoff Ice. But the crowd loves Tusker baridi. You will find a burly
fella with equally voluptuous damsels who are obviously gold digging in a
corner where ‘mesa otho rateng’. There are times they will kiss and dance to
the tune each lady trying to grab the attention of the man bankrolling the out.
Probably, a bottle of Jameson or a common whisky is on the table. He also has
his ‘star’ keys tightly clutched that he has to use when calling the waiter. A
brand loyal who has no house in the rurals.
Then there are hot ladies
who are scantily dressed whose aim is to ‘pita na’ an inebriated chap. Their
miniskirts are way too revealing. Yellow faces, pouty red lips, darkened
fingers and legs, boobs that struggle for attention with a cleavage that
almost bares it all and big tushes that are probably stuffed or hardened with
silicon or gikmakamago. Some have shaved like pugilist Mohamed Ali in his
heydays. They sip a single Schweppes or Snapp for long obviously looking at
their prey eyes set for incentives after engaging in the devil’s dance.
There are plenty of rascals
also. Either they have accompanied a person who sponsors them or just want to
‘yuo thing’ as one musician sang that ‘Tho Luro’. A middle aged man dazzles as
he cavorts in styles that captures one’s attention. ‘Oketo long ei third floor’.
You notice the way he
twirls his belt in slow motion as he convolutes himself to the rhythm. Then
there is a way he makes certain faces that make you think he is going to do
something queer then retorts into a meek position much to the applause of
revelers. He takes the stage where the resident musician is doing his thing.
You see, Luo musicians
never fail to hurl invectives once in a while as they sing. Plus they throw in names of people present who depart with big sums of money as they listen to
their names being sung to all and sundry.
In the gents there is this
guy who intimates, ‘Omera wuon bar ni yuto! Ineno kaka chwo ng’eny e choo ka to
lare ka dhako momonj.’
Surely, you can never beat
a River-lake Nilotic speaker when it comes to getting his act right in matters
pertaining to having a good time after a week full of pressure and meeting
deadlines.
Lakini, Jaluo Oksechga. And
I have to also go by that mantra, Okabisecho.
Till next time.
Hasta La Vista, Baby.
[Picture Source: Google
Images]
