Secular and religious bashes: A comparison
“Steve Mbego is thought to have consumed the banana
leaves because no one traced the remains of his food. He tilted the mouth of a
Krest and the last thing I saw was bubbles. He drank carbon dioxide and the
ginger ale in a flash. And in the end he felt nothing. People joked that he
begged for more.
This past week I had the privilege of gracing two
totally different social gatherings. One was a journalism club end of year bash
and the other was a Christian union intercessors’ end of semester get together.
Two weeks ago, Journalism Club laid down elaborate and
ambitious plans to have a different sign out of the year. The members unanimously
agreed that days of picking biscuits and a crate of soda and heading for the
retreat are long gone. They agreed to part with KSh. 200 each so that they buy
a whole goat for the event. The only matter of contention was the venue and who
will cook. Everything else was running like clockwork until the moment of
putting action on a verb came.
And so a fortnight is not a long time given everyone
is in a perpetual mad rush to close the semester. What with looming exams and festivals?
Thus when I was reminded by the organizers that the others are in the field
playing hide and seek and other children games I was jolted to nostalgia. I had
to excuse myself by telling a believable lie until they get serious items to
undertake so that I sneak in.
It was on a Saturday and for the most part the sun shone.
But came the afternoon session the clouds threatened to dampen the otherwise excited
mood of the participants.
Common sense dictated that we exercise so that we ward
off cold. The children games were revisited. One game aped rugby only that the
runners were to run until they are caught then they stood still on the spot amid
the gasping of their captor who by now is catching a breath with sweat dripping
from forehead and other centers of action if you know what I mean. Without trying
I found that game so demanding and fit for those struggling to lose weight and
cut fat.
I stood and watched like a spectator. Soon another
item on the agenda was introduced. We sat on the lawn in a circle. A rope was
snaked out of a bag and instructions were issued. “I went shopping for a rope
until I could not get a seller. Is it you? Is it you? ” When the shopper drops
the rope at your back (remember you are seated), you are supposed to run in the
opposite direction full circle then the “seller” also runs in the opposite
direction. If the seller completes the round before the buyer, the buyer
continues shopping meaning you continue running until you found someone you
could defeat so that you get a chance to relax. Two runners did their circumference
and I laughed at how an endowed member can outrun a trim one. Without warning
the rope was dropped smack at my back. I was startled on which side to run. By now
the buyer is half the circle running like a night runner and I have no
clue. Before I did a quarter I was defeated
meaning I continue marathoning.
I had to use my head not heart. I jogged singing “I
went shopping to buy a rope/ It is not you/” times five. All of a sudden I dropped
the rope and ran wildly in the opposite direction. The person I thought I would
defeat finished the run at the same time as me. I crushed into his face with a
booming collision. I felt as if my skull was dented and my wrist joint got
dislocated. As if not to empathize with me the other players said curtly that I
am not done and I should dust myself and run again.
This time round I got an underdog unawares. I targeted
a lady whose hobby is walking like a chameleon. I dropped the rope smack at her
hips and run assured that the anticlockwise direction was a one long tape I can
cut anywhere with my sprinting scissors. I won. The earlier opponent was a man
and you can imagine how men cling to hopes even when they are hanging on a
string they always believe it will not snap. This was further complicated by
the massive turn out of ladies dressed in reclined costumes.
The mother of all plays came when most least expected.
Like manna from heaven, loaves were distributed to six competitors and each
given a bottle of soda. They were timed. All manner of tactics were employed including
working up salivary glands and compressing the 400 grams of wheat. My, you didn’t
tell me that it is air and holes. Eric Munene pressed his until it looked like
a fist before sinking his incisors. Zain got it rough. She wetted the loaf in
the false believe that it will be softer to her throat and grant her a win. Instead
her soda got exhausted midway. Someone had to chip in and refill her bottle with
water. Any wonder she finished last?
I wonder how Simon Ritho the topdog got knocked out of
the competition. After starting at high speed he slowed down and forgot he was
in a competition. He looked like he was eating breakfast. Oooh I see!
A few minutes ago, he had participated in a banana and soda competition
which he also lost. I came forth out of five. Anyway, I did not expect to win.
Steve Mbego is thought to have consumed the banana
leaves because no one traced the remains of his food. He tilted the mouth of a
Krest and the last thing I saw was bubbles. He drank carbon dioxide and the
ginger ale in a flash. And in the end he felt nothing. People joked that he
begged for more.
I hate hopping and jogging but could not resist the
creativity of donning a sack like a teacher on strike or the Biblical Mordecai
but this time round going with the sack to the finish line. Zain took a stab at
the sack. As if she was born on Monday, she bore all the bureaucracy of waking
up and cursing the sun against the reality that the boss is waiting for her at
the work place. She was frustrated by being given a sack half her size. She
could not fit. She was then given an oversize that she kept adjusting. Mwangangi,
the former Journalism Club Chair, was expected to win but I do not know what happened
at the finish line. Someone with a muscle of a frog edged him. Mwangangi looked
wowed like Kibaki when Usain Bolt flashed his trademark sign before him.
The spoon- potato race was unexciting and marred with
false starts. Vincent Kibet grabbed the potato and the steel and sped off leaving
those who patiently balanced the potatoes behind.
The referee complained and warned the offending
player. They got back to the starting line. As they ran the rains ran behind
them. We rushed to the pavilion to shelter. I guess behind our back, Kibet still
grabbed his potato and won. They later joined us at the pavilion.
We saved the best for the last. It was time to head to
Godka Restaurant and munch nyamachoma and ugali. The rains
subsided. Some walked others hired a cab. What matters is that we arrived
safely. Another striking difference is that there were more non-journalism club
friends than the insiders. The regulars will rue the day they decided to snub
the party.
Between four and six in the evening the jaws were
working hard. Chrispin Magak got a raw deal since as a vegetarian, I and Martin
Wachira offloaded his meats to our plates yet he paid KSh. 200. He only fed on
scattered sukuma wiki and waited forever for ugali to come. After he had
finished vegetables he was given ugali to “follow”.
Darkness arrived with drizzles and our wisdom demanded
that we take cab home.
The following night it was different cast and script. I
attended the CU intercessors get together in a quiet bedsitter labeled Number
13 at JK Hostels. I am not an intercessor myself. When Regina, my hostel mate
invited me to the party I told her I will be bored. Since admission I have
shied away from Christian events as I thought they were boring and conventionally
conservative. She had a game and a form.
She started by borrowing me plates and spoons and later chairs. I popped
in and out of number 13 with whetted appetite. They were cooking chapattis and
playing gospel hits.
By around 11 pm the music went quiet and the table was
crowded with foods and drinks. What fascinated me are their rules of
introduction. One had to state their full names, their home county, their likes
and dislikes and imagine: their marital status. The final one involved taking
the guest to task to explain what they meant by being single, complicated, on-it,
taken and/or out of the market.
The CU guys were more organized and sticker to protocols.
I learned a new lingo called Mungu ataongea(God will speak). This was
consolation for the virgins in the house to press on with their principles and
for the been theres and done thats to know that there is still life beyond heartbreaks
and sobs.
In terms of contribution, the CU friends contributed
only 50 bob and had all they wanted. They cooked for themselves and were disciplined. As for Journalism thugs, they were constantly
reminded to pay up the remaining bit of rwabe (200 shillings). But it
was not too much to ask since the treasures of Christians are at heaven and
they are not materialistic. The scribes wanted attention and look-at-me feel. They
wanted to be seen carrying big speakers, dancing and uploading pictures on the
social media.
The intercessors did it for God. They always addressed
each other as brother and sister amid countless amens.
In the final analysis both groups socialized and
bonded. That is the common denominator. In this festive season touch a person
with a message of peace and goodwill. Help the less fortunate. I wish you success in your examinations.
The
writer is a 3rd year student of Bachelors of Arts Degree in
Communication and Media at Chuka University. He blogs at
musyokangui.blogspot.com
Email
your thoughts to musyokangui02@gmail.com
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