People grow mad. Yeah? But not all people. How can
people whom you dearly love grow mad? It is not possible. God cannot allow
that, can He? Your father, your mother, your child, your sister, your brother,
your cousin, your grand ma, your grand pa, your friend cannot march the streets
naked in the name of madness, can they? Did I say that your aunt and your uncle
cannot be found foraging the town dustbins because their mental center bolt can
no longer hold? – Too bad for me, if I have not told you that naked fact. Oh! I
hope you don’t imagine your dear wife or your dear husband being laughed at by
strangers because of talking to themselves loudly. Sweethearts or ‘honey’ as they are known in
some quotas do not loose their mind – they are too good and too loving to roam
the village swearing to undress in the full public glare – courtesy of madness.
Wait a minute, there is another caliber of people that are absolutely immune to
insanity. Have you ever seen beautiful daughters or wealthy sons in dirty
attires because someone has arbitrarily pronounced them as desperate mental
cases? Did I hear a “Noooooo!”? It is
they – “they” who matter less – that grow mad. And it is not an issue because
it is only “them” that grow mad. As long as those people “who matter” to me are
O.K. why fuss about the rest? Correct? How naive I have been; I now know best.
No one is immune to mental break down. 17th February 2015 will remain
a historic day. Generations will narrate it with new vigor and some
exaggerations. Ten years from now, the original story will have been distorted
such that it will be hard to tell which version of the story will be authentic.
In the drunkards circle, I know it will remain a quagmire. In fact to him, he
alone, it will remain a mystery.
Catechist Kigotho continued to beseech him,
“please don’t destroy it.” His pleas fell on deaf ears. The owner of the ears
seemed not to care but continued, this time with some rejuvenated energy.
“I am speaking to you and you answer not. For how
long will you refuse to listen to my prayer? Tell me? Yes tell me. Am I not a
man, and you a woman? Tell me. What does a woman need to treat her man good if
not nicely? Am I asking too much? Tell me?” the statue of Our Lady continued to
stare at him. He held it firmly by the shoulders and shouted “please, if you
see I – your suffering servant, then kindly answer me. Is it bad to take one
for the road? But how many had I taken? One, two, three, four, five…nine, yes
nine for that hot crude rod? Jesus!” He bowed down and his forehead touched her
foot. He, with a lot of pain went on “let me ask you, when liquor got finished
in Cana of Galilee, what did your son do? Don’t answer me that. We all know he
made them a sweeter concoction. He was happy to see happy people under the
influence of that concoction. Now, why is she – you know who I am referring to;
yes my wife, you are right – or rather, why did she do this to me simply
because I was happy after intoxicating myself with what we all love?” During all this time, spectators were clinging
on the windows – one would only see the inside of the church through the glass
windows since the victim had locked himself from inside. A Holy Ground
which initially had only me and Catechist Kigotho, was soon becoming a
market place; you know how magnetic weird things can be as far as pulling a gathering
of idlers is concerned, don’t you?
“Kariakoo, please open the door,” Catechist
Kigotho beseeched him even more. “And please avoid tampering with it. You know
it is a sacramental.”
Wamuthoni, the choir mistress – God bless her –
was the one who saved the situation. Where she got the spare key to the side
door, no one knows but we were able to access the house of God through it.
Kariakoo had advanced his theatrical prayers and he was now kissing the light
blue statue. Everybody present was in agreement that Kariakoo was not praying –
something was amiss. When we approached close – very close to him – he became
silent but he maintained the firm grip of Our Lady. He looked up in earnest. Was he in another
spiritual world? Was he reading the inscription ‘AVE MARIA’ above the statue?
Was he admiring something about her? Was he simply dead? – It will take years
or centuries to unravel the Pandora’s Box. At this time, news had reached Mwere
Primary School where Professor was lecturing Standard four scholars on ‘Artificial Sources of Light’. He found
us escorting our ‘sick’ friend out of the church who was limping despite his
fruitless efforts to hide that fact. How Marianna got the news, I know not,
what I know is that I saw her about five minutes later after Professor’s
arrival. Joshua and Siddie had already arrived earlier.
“What is
wrong with you Karias?” Siddie asked in a concerned tone.
“As your eyes can see!”Kariakoo responded.
We too could see that all was not well. His face
was a scaring sight to look at. A big lump had formed above his left eye. A conspicuous
mark was still there as a witness that a furious crude rungu had trespassed
that head. Stains of blood were evidenced on his right jaw. Blood was still
gushing out from the fresh cut on his left hand. His eyes were bleeding fire;
very red in deed. He needed some professional medical attention. Marianna took
hold of the bleeding hand, “What happened to your hand Karias?”
“Am I not the man in the house? Tell me. You are a
woman. Why kill me? Why do you want to kill me? Tell me.” Kariakoo agonized.
“Who am I? Am I not Kariakoo?” he looked at the bewildered on lookers “who are
you? What do you want? Mutiri na wira wa
kuruta mang’ethia ici?”
Different groups had started to form in front of St
Joseph Cafasso Catholic Church. Some comprised of three people, others six, yet
others two. “But how did he gain access to the church?” asked one lady in a
group comprising two other ladies and a man.
“His wife came back yesterday and found him drunk
silly. Some people say that there were heated disagreements between him and
her. Other people say that she attacked him when he was asleep. I don’t know,”
another woman in another group continued to narrate the ordeal to two other
women and three men “but what I know, and swear to know, is that his wife beat
him up with a piece of firewood that was burning. He wanted to roast him like a potato.”
“I heard ‘Twa! Twa! Twa!” and I heard a cry….No! A
child cannot cry like that. I knew it was he. I know his voice .I knew his head
was in danger. I rushed quickly, only
to meet with him at his main gate. He asked me, panting and with fury ‘where
has that devil run to?’He did not wait for my reply.Little did I know that his frenzied chase would land him into the
temple where he would stain the statue of Mother of Jesus with blood.” The man, yet in another group
of six comprising other six – all women – continued “he should thank God that
his private parts were not chopped off –“
“And fed to the dogs!” thus concluded one of the
women who seemed to be in a celebratory mood.
As he continued receiving first aid from Marianna
and Siddie, away from the unhelpful crowd, Joshua and I organized for a means
of transport to rush him to the hospital. There are people whom we will forever
be indebted to; Mr. Sylvester is one of them. He allowed us to use his car –it
is people like Sylvester that God will keep blessing more.
In hospital, we: Siddie, Joshua and me, tried to inquire more from Kariakoo after he regained some senses. Were it not for
Marianna, who insisted that we had to give him a rest, he was ready to narrate a
pathetic story which he had begun on a courageous note, “what I had all along
associated with other people, and never thought that I could become a victim
one day, finally happened to me. 17th February 2015 will remain
etched in my mind –.”
"Yes but first have a rest dear Karias, you have all the time to tell it to us once you are the real Kariakoo."Marianna interrupted.
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