It is a truth universally acknowledged that songs are an essential part of a child’s education. Among the Maasai of Kenya, children's songs teach community values, tease fellow children, and are a great way to pass the time.

Formal education and rampant urbanisation have, however, seen an erosion of Maasai folk songs, and children now barely know them as much as the previous generations did. In the quest to preserve the memoirs of our time for posterity, I have, with the help of friends, compiled several versions of a song sung by Maasai children to flying birds and, more recently, passing aeroplanes. (The words change slightly with the message and outstanding geographical features in the subgroup’s environment.)

I try to provide summarized lessons of my deductions from each version.

1. The Maasai people of Olkejuado; Esilalei and Oloitoktok.

Mamurra- Secretary bird in Maa.

Child: Mamurra kaji ilo? / (Secretary bird where to?)
Mamurra: Kalo enkeleshe Enkai / (I am going to God’s share)
Child: Tanapaki sii nanu / (Carry me with you too)
Mamurra: Maanap enkayioni naata enkoyoti tenkuyum / (I won’t carry you, a boy with diarrhoea in his buttocks.)

The song is used to tease fellow children in the playfields and encourage personal hygiene. It emphasizes spirituality and Maasai belief in the supernatural through the mention of God. Enkeleshe means ‘meat share’; Enkai has a portion everywhere.

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2. The Maasai People of Narok; general Purko areas.

Child: Teeke kaji ilo / (Aeroplane, where to?)
Aeroplane: Entim e Naimina Enkiyo / (To the Forest of the Lost Child)
Child: Tanapaki sii nanu / (Carry me with you too)
Aeroplane: Maanap enkayioni naishopo enkila e menye (I won’t carry you, a boy who has worn his father’s garment.)

The Maasai know Loita Forest as Entim e Naimina Enkiyo (The Forest of the Lost Child) because in popular existing folklore, a child gets lost in it while looking after calves. Respect is an essential value instilled in children at a young age. 'Naishopo enkila e menye '; Wearing your father’s garment is not only a breach of privacy but is also considered very disrespectful. It could have a deeper vulgar meaning when used in a different context.

While the two versions of the song above differ in their message and the characters change, the tonalities and circumstances remain similar. The variations can therefore be attributed to geography.

This compilation is still a work in progress, and I am collecting Maasai children’s songs with the intention of preserving them in both audiovisual and written forms.

Ashe oleng.

"We hear voices from our ancestry say,
These ways when doom lurked it was read from old parchments,
To be gone back to, asking where ancient paths lay.”

From Our Ways A poem by Olomunyak Ole Marine, The Princess Crownland.

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I became a husband and a father within a few hours of birth. Yaani jamaa wenu nililand tu ivi, wakanibandika bonge la kofi kwenye mashavu ya kule Pakistani na nilipolia kwa ishara ya ulalamishi, wakashangilia na kunipachika jina la babu yangu.1 Names carry a lot in the African context. With that one, my grandmother got herself another husband; all her kids (including my own mother) started addressing me as ‘our dad,’ and to my siblings and cousins, I infallibly became ‘grandmother’s husband’ (olpayian le kokoo). Wangwana,2 I think this should be the part I ask in Adv. Ongoya’s voice: “…There are some wrongs you can commit to fellow citizens, and we can say man is to error and we may excuse you, but the big question is, is this one of the wrongs?…” I had been set up!

My wife, however, managed to endear me to herself and to the name over time through frequent bribes: I got the honor of roasting the first maize cobs of her farm’s produce, the best milk and ghee from her cows, and she occasionally managed to sneak in a few heavily folded green notes into my pockets whenever an opportunity presented itself. As we speak, I sit in the position of her husband and co-father of all my uncles and aunties, with utter pride and even slight arrogance. Tukubaliane tu1 some levels of gifting can actually unlock affection: Nairobi girls and your wababas2…I understand.

Back to our topic…Today’s disclaimer: this essay is done to record the memoirs of Maasai history for posterity. It is in no way a form of me validating or invalidating any opinions whatsoever. I take full responsibility for the ideas in it, whether agreeable or not.

Oleng’ae ira?3 Everything in Maasai society belongs. There is very little individuality; land belongs to everybody and their grandmother, children belong to their family and the community, mistakes belong to the perpetrator and his entire clansmen, even cars, tents, and cows are all communal too…as a matter of fact, the selflessness is so immense that even husbands and wives belong to an entire age set. Hold on, this is not about promiscuity. Hatujadunga mkuki kwa mlango bado!4

What is polygamy in the Maasai context? The straightforward answer is that we don’t even have a name for it. Naiterukop,5 the father of our nation, had two wives. The first one he married lived on the right side of the homestead, and the second one lived on its left. We all came from those two mothers. That’s it.

What is the structure of Maasai polygamy? To understand this, we have to look at the homestead. Maasai culture dictates how homesteads should be structured with the community in mind. Things like the direction from which the sun rises, the position of a grave, the size of livestock kraals, and even how a guest approaches it define the position of every house and how it will be built. The approach of the guest is the most significant relative to our subject. It gives the home a right and left side. We call them ntaloishi. The first wife builds her home on the right side, and her enkaini6 (there is also no word for co-wife in Maasai) builds hers on the left side.

What has been the significance of polygamy among the Maasai? This correlates with the higher number of kids that polygamy gives. The significance of that in the distant past could have been none other than custom, a sign of prestige, or responsibility. But in the recent past, having many kids has been a burning quest for survival by a people who have been on the verge of destruction. Less than a hundred years ago, the British wanted complete ablution of the Maasai people from the face of the earth. Sir Charles Eliot, the British Commissioner of the Kenyan Protectorate, wrote in his colonial report, “I have no desire to protect Maasaidom, it is a beastly bloody system founded on raiding and immorality, disastrous to both the Maasai and their neighbors. The sooner it disappears and is unknown, except in books of anthropology, the better.” Today, under every Kenyan government, the Maasai continue facing land dispossession and eviction from ancestral lands under the guise of CONservation, Maasailand faces total alienation and severe underallocation of resources. Children are a chance for continuity.

Where does ‘our husband and our wife’ come from? The centre of Maasai culture is the age-set system. The exact name for it in Maa is Olporror7. From it, we get our customs, our beliefs, and our traditions; everything stems from Olporror. Only men belong to an age set after initiation. When a man marries, his wife is married into his age set, and she becomes a part of it. The man becomes olpayian lang’8, and the woman becomes enkitok ang’9. The respect, the responsibility, and the expectations of that age set are accorded both fully.

Olomnyak sasa tunadunga mkuki kwa mlango ama bado? This claim largely portrays us as a promiscuous people by Christian standards. To make matters clear, spears are weapons, and men leaving them outside the house has nothing to do with sleeping with another man’s wife but everything to do with the safety of the inhabitants of that house and announcing their presence in the homestead. No one walks into a house of their choice unannounced in any culture across our globe, and that unspoken rule applies to the Maasai too.

Jealousy is a highly condemned vice, and that helps with navigating around ‘co-wife’ rivalry or any other rivalry that arises whatsoever. In most homesteads, harmony prevails.

To conclude, this essay begs two questions: whether polygamy is immoral or not, and whether being Maasai equates to being polygamous. The answer to the latter is that it doesn't, but the former remains a subject of personal preference and subject to a larger sociological debate. What are your thoughts?

*This essay is the original work of Olomnyak Ole Ashire and is subject to copyright. All IPR rules whatsoever apply to it.

Picture by Pishai Elchekuti.

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As a boy who grew up on a bed of olives, literally, I regard myself as privileged more often than not.

I have herded beasts, both wild and domesticated under the blue skies of the Maasai Mau.

I have taken shade under the canopy of a round cedar on a rainy morning.

I have watched my mothers and sisters, sometimes heavy with child, collect firewood and trail mules full of life across the pasturelands to as far as my eye could see.

I have swum in the brown waters of Ewaso Ngiro on a sunny afternoon, until they turned my brown skin ashy.

I have played the flute on an evening to signal timeout and scare flocks out of the bushes. 

I have lowered my strap and poured the remaining milk in my gourd and said “Nai Tobora” when lightning struck the next ridge as I pushed the last goat into the kraal. 

Now, I am a proud custodian of the ways of my ancestors, and I shall never shy away from speaking for my people. 

Yeyioo, atubulwa, meekure enya nkishu osina. Kemakua. 

~(Mother, I'm grown, the cows won't suffer anymore. It's unfitting.)

Kila mja ana hekaya. ♥️

Etejo apa yeyio:
“Tasayiai Olayio lai,
Nchoo kirikoo Enkai iyie,
Mikitamanya ina kisuma,
Nikiruk enkalamu.
Njuro teina kop oo layiok leikinga,
Nisul sii tena oo layiok lang’.
Mikitang’adie Enkai ntorok,
Nikintapaash enaimin.
Mikinchoo Enkai omom enkerai ai”

A photograph showcasing a Samburu mother cooling tea(olmajani) inside her hut while her child gazes fixedly outside. Courtesy of Pishai Elchekuti.

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When the sun’s vicious glare of Olodalu1 burned my brown skin,
Yeyio2 gave me esongoyo3 to soothe them,
And her soft kisses moistened my cheeks.

Kore te Arat, 4
As I traversed the uasins5 between the banks of the great Ewaso Ngiro and the mighty Siyapei,
The harsh winds of Kopkop6 blew on me loads of dust,
Yet in their howls, I heard her prayers of goodwill.

Nebau Oeni Oingok,7
Nailepakinye loingok le papa olkorio eirukokino nkipurot te ndooto,8
So I climbed her manyatta and shouted,
`Meiriki ntae Enkai neilep`9…
And she pointed at me jokingly with her cooking spoon.

Nedoyio Nkokua10,
The dark nights became longer,
So I brought the flocks home earlier everyday,
And resigned to her warm fireplace and a cup of cold milk.

Neilepu Nkokua,11
It’s heavy downpours found me tending Papaai' flocks beneath the canopies of the Maasai Mau,
Day by day, the rain seeped through my hair, drenched my shuka and wretched my faith in enanga12,
But in her gentle words I found the resolve to face each new day.

Nelotu Kujuorok13,
Tails went missing,
As vermin ruled the bushes,
But there she was, ever-present and corrective.

Nebau Morusasin14,
And she warned me not to whistle after sunset,
For the world now belonged to those who had gone before us,
And they were listening,
They’d come for me,
And I learned to respect the unseen.

Ore te Oloiborrare, 15
The plains became white under the merciless skies, The mirage in the distance blurred my hopes for rain, And my heels cracked under the ground’s stubbornness, But she consoled me that tomorrow belongs to none but Enkai, Commander of the heavens.

Kushin,16
And the hyenas ugly laughter became loudest in the dark nights,
I was grown and I couldn’t hide my head in her bosom like a child.
So she narrated the endurance stories of her youth,
Strong enough to stand by me.

Olgisan17
The month of greenery,
Grass triumphed over dust,
Calves stumbled into their first steps,
We enjoyed sikitok18 from her cow Ntotua,
And life meant something again.

Kore te Pushuka19,
The jacarandas bloomed,
And while their pink and violet flowers painted the plains better than any artist ever could,
She stitched new neck ornaments for us,
To match their glitter.

Ntung`us,20
Yaay, the festive month!
I joined other boys on the firesides outside the huts of ntalengo,
And as we counted stars, danced and sang the nights away,
The celebratory fires roared inside, scalding the fingers of our mothers,
Leaving marks and scars that shouted bravely,
‘We are Mothers, unbowed, relentless.”

The following year, I yearned for school. So mother sold Katuulei, our precious donkey, to buy me a metal box and a grey uniform. I remember her back almost cracking under the weight of water jerricans from the village springs and piles of firewood during the ensuing months; she now was, her own beast of labour.
But my life has never been the same again.

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Tonight she asked,” What are we?”. Sydney gazed into the heavens as if beseeching divine help. His gaze then rested fixedly on the moon as if the answer were written on it. ‘She must be really bored’, he thought. He would have told her; That he always wished all chapters of his life were in sync with hers in this duniya and the next, and that he forever hoped every page of him would speak of her beauty in the way it was in his eyes. He wanted to describe the suffocating longing that all his paragraphs would embody her deepest passions since his was only her in perfect words, beautiful clauses never written by any lover before him about their other.’ But tonight they were an unfinished manuscript, so he only said, “The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?”, and rose to go inside.

                   He that is down need fear no fall,
                    He that is low no pride;
                    He that is humble ever shall
                    Have God to be his guide.

                    I am content with what I have,
                    Little be it or much:
                    And, Lord, contentment still I crave,
                    Because thou savest such.

                    ~John Bunyan, The Shepherd Boy's Song.

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It is a New Year man, Happy New Year lovelies…how are you doing? I am so glad that we made it to big 2026! Mungu ni mkubwa na “Hii ndo mwaka yetu sasa!” ama namna gani? Hebu manifest that thing one more time…Thank you.

Back to the topic, New Year festivities will soon be done with and things will go back to ‘normal’. Some have actually, because people like myself have already left ‘ushago’ for our city cocoons (I actually got the idea for this piece when I was leaving). Yaani, tayari jamaa wenu huku mjini nikikumbuka nilikuwa natumia chapati kama serviette, natokwa na wazimu.

Before I proceed, I would like to give a disclaimer: I understand essays of this kind might carry a victimising tone and it will be easy to dismiss me as just another impassionate guy who believes that his community is a victim of unfavourable politics, and yes its always politics, but I do care enough not to mind at all.

”Nenkoko takwenya”1 I hurled my pleasantry as I adjusted the heavy briefcase seated on my shoulders while clutching the jerrycan containing milk I held on my other hand (which I was only carrying back to the city on my mother’s insistence). She answered “iko”2, as is custom. Then almost immediately she followed with, “Where do you go to school?” most likely surprised by how early I was, “Nairobi” I answered and continued walking as she murmured many thanksgiving to God and sent loads of blessings after me. Such a sweet soul!

This encounter with one of my grandmothers who was on her way to milk her goats as I left the Maasai Mau this morning, lost me in thought. I thought about the rarity of being a university student here and how graduates were less than I had fingers on my hands. I thought about the uncommonness of seeing a person skirting its pastures with a suitcase, and how actually owning one is unusual because trips that require them are even rarer. But then they are not rare because its residents are self-sufficient, no, matter of fact there is just about enough movement in and out of the Mau; overloaded lorries with brokers aboard ferry potatoes from the farms to cities far away and tradesmen drive livestocks to markets within, an occasional delegation of kinsmen in red cloth stuffed into a dusty Probox which a naughty kid has scribbled a pejorative about private parts is bound for their son’s bride price negotiation while another one (minus the kid’s silly aesthetics) brings in the sleeping (we Maasai don’t say dead) body of a relative to pay their final respects, some mothers being whooshed to deliver in maternities on rough bodabodas as the less pregnant ones throw old dusty coats on donkeys’ backs leaving children to older grandmas and into the forests to fetch firewood. And it dawned on me that people have just learned to live without access to many things: even the basics.

But it also dawned on me that this is not the average Kenyan experience, it is a Maasai experience. Look, I know there is inaccessibility of clean energy in Western Kenya, and there aren’t reliable transport systems in Northern Kenya, that there are collapsing education facilities in Eastern Kenya, I acknowledge the high youth unemployment in Central Kenya and flash floods killing livestocks in the coast but let us ask some more questions to better understand my sentiment.

Are there any areas in the country that have all these put together while also having cattle raiding bandits wielding government guns terrorising residents? Yes, the answer is Samburu North, which is Maasailand. Are there any areas that have all these put together while also losing land to countless CONservation agencies? Yes, the best answer could be Laikipia, Maasailand. Are there any places that experience all these put together while also having wild animals killing their school bound children? Yes, the best answer could be Kajiado, Maasailand. Are there any areas experiencing all these put together while also having children born under trees without access to vaccines and government records? Yes, Narok North in the Maasai Mau.

A debating point could arise that maybe we are living in areas categorised as “underserved”. But again, why is it that majority of those “underserved areas” 60 years after independence are those occupied majorly by the Maasai people? What made these areas marginalised and how is it still the status quo? The answer is the Kenyan state.

The Kenyan state depends on revenue collected from camera wielding tourists who take back to their countries pictures of the beautiful animals in our lands and also the poking ribs of our malnourished sisters as a depiction of the ‘real Africa’. It feeds on money from foreign agencies building very expensive private-owned hotels in animal paths that locals cannot afford and secretly funding trophy hunting by the elites. Herders have even been pushed out of huge ancestral grazing fields to allow European internationals to use them as animal sanctuaries for just two ‘rescued’ chimpanzees that don’t even feed on grass.

The situation in Maasailand is a humanitarian crisis and this is the ‘normal’ that Maasai kids like myself are going back to. So today, I will refrain from feeling Kenyan at all because it seems I am not part of the Kenyan vision, never been. Kenyamal Enkop.3

First thing tomorrow morning,
I want to throw away my pair of trousers,
And put on Ilkarash1,
My people’s ‘primitive’ fashion that is not associated with modern undergarments.

I want my earlobes pierced,
And red Ilmiintoni2 dangling on them,
Before breakfast.

After,
I will join a dance to the sweet melodic voices of nkanashera lmurran3,
As they sing praises to the richness of our land and the bravery of its warriors.

Then I will join my age-set at olpul4,
And exchange mean jokes to poke each other's egos,
As we wait for our lunch meat shares to be ready.

While there I want to hear lomon5,
From recent travellers and strangers akin,
About the rains and the peace prevailing in distant lands.

On my stroll back home,
I want to watch in nostalgia,
As small boys swim in the mighty Siyapei,
Then lie on their backs to dry by its sandy banks.

But I want to be in the warmth of yeyiolai’s6 hut in the evening,
On a stool nearest our mud-plastered fireplace,
And listen to stories about the ‘good old’ days of her youth as I down a cup of warm milk.

My city friends must have told you,
That I whistle at random cows on the roadside,
And speak passionately about the persistent itch on my hand,
To scratch their brown hides and caress their soft humps.

But why you ask?
Because.

Because I am a son of the people with the red ochre skin care routine,
The lanky balusters balancing on one leg against the harsh winds from Oloosaen7,
The unmatched fashionistas who enrobe red shukas and beaded ornamentals,
The pegs that equilibrate the undulating plains,
They who are one with God and beasts,
The son of Maasinta,
And I yearn to be nothing more,
Erisio Olmaasani o Enkai.8

~(The Maasai are equal to God.)

Kimani will wake up that day, a half-baked European, twatting in ‘English of the nose’ and tell his kids it is useless to know of Gikuyu and Mumbi's rich orature.

He will find Otieno in his braggadocio fully awake, filling someone on his latest phone with pompous talk on his Cosmopolitan profile; “Today,” says he,” I will have granola and cornflakes for breakfast in Brussels, a pizza for lunch in Rome and Bahn gan for dessert by the Caspian Sea. I will fly to New York for a bagel and cheesecake for my supper while a bed and slip-ons wait for me in my apartment in Melbourne. I pray the water hyacinth choking fish in Nam Lolwe will wither out soon. “

Wafula will be somewhere declaring his undying love for Kangemi. He will utter definitively that he wants nothing to do with the branches of his family tree from Kakamega. His premise: they are witches and “vienyejis".

Ole Sakuda will spit out the healthy bloody olpurda and order a bucket of KFC. “I am too civilised", he will rant.

Mutua will be upcountry, calling both his grandmother and her muthokoi " hii stuff” while face timing his city girlfriend who dons horse tail wigs. She will giggle and affirmatively say that she would never touch that ashy pile. Whether it's the grandmother in reference or her muthokoi will remain unclear.

Kiprop will lift his eyes from his phone for a second and go back to his brainrot TikToks. Ocassionally, he will sip his latte because “Mursik is not giving”.

The ancestors witnessing it all in the sky, will shake their heads in disappointment and look away to hide their shame. They had said “go and learn the ways of the white man”. We nodded and disappeared,fast, then went and aped him.

As they lay watching the stars on that evening's gay sky, she asked, “ so, where did you find God today?” And Sydney got lost in his head, trying to find Him.

5:00 am: Was God in the morning motivation surge that overpowered the forces pinning him on his bed and propelled him to the shower?

5:03 am: Was He in the cold water that run chills and rippled goosebumps over his black muscular body?

6:46 am: Was He in the touts fighting over him at the matatu stage,one eventually grabbing him by the hand and leading him to the least filled one?

7:07 am: Was He in the pitiful eyes of the watchman who bid him entry to the school without seeing his gate pass as if he sensed his urgency?

1:20 pm: Was He in the wry smile of the fruit vendor who called him “Kijana yangu" and handed him an extra pineapple piece?

1:21 pm: Was He in the whirlwind that picked up tiny bits of stick and dust which temporarily blinded him and soiled both pineapple pieces?

1:34 pm: Was He in the foul odor of a decaying animal that greeted his nose as he flew over the staircase to his afternoon class?

Maybe God watched him struggle with sleep for the better part of the lecture that followed.

3:13 pm: Was He in the mildly scotching 'its almost evening’ sun that formed petals of sweat on his skin as he walked back home?

Then he thought, maybe He was in these soothing and romantic evening rays that illuminated her face making it look heavenly.

First came a ripple of gratitude over him and then the realization that he didn't need to look for God no more: for He was there in the evening walk, with them. His presence in her questions was dubious though, for who even asks that?

Sydney is seated at his desk, a half-empty coffee mug at his side. His old laptop sat on a huge volume of books. He wasn't enjoying those medical YouTube videos and wished he had started preparing for his exams earlier.

Then it hit him that it was the final day of November, and he smiled; he was ready for the gift-giving month. They will go bowling, and he can later buy her that big doll they had seen at the mall. Slowly he felt a sliver of sadness engulf him, as he realized that they would never be that young again.

He sighed,and returned his headset, focused, as the night wasted away with his youth.

Sydney fakes a scowl at his happiest,
And smiles at his lowest.
She scolds him fondly when he makes her happy,
And smiles sheepishly when he makes her feel stupid.

This time they met during class rush hour, and she waved. Yes she waved, but he didn't respond, so she thought he didn't see. She walked off, her sundress swaying with the wind and a smile on her face. Sydney clasped his backpack tighter and looked back, then bounced off with a scowl.

The next time Sydney bumped into her was on a rainy day,
And they stood in the drizzle laughing at each other's stupid jokes,
The raindrops beat his back pack and he feared they will soak his books.

But that didn't matter then as,

The same rain had already formed puddles in his heart, and inexplicable emotions rippled through it.

When she finally walked away, he did too, but his heart remained there dancing to the sound of raindrops hitting the ground around the place they had stood at.

I haven't posted in a while now, yeah got caught up in the trimestral attempts to please a board of examiners. Before we delve into The BIG QUESTION, welcome back man. I'd've said I love you but I won't be the one to ruin your streak of not hearing that. How long has it been again? Seven months, eight…? Yeah, sorryyyy! (Now I'm fighting back my Pastor Ng'ang'a demons from blustering “Hata nasema soree ya nini na si mimi nimekosea?“)

The diversity of love is infinite. Think of it as an autonomous galaxy floating beyond the Milky Way with us as the elements and our actions as the embellishments. Now there are big and small embellishments translating to big and small actions, all pointing towards a nucleus, me and her…unadiglo? This week on The BIG QUESTION, I asked the pack, ‘WHAT IS LOVE IN IT'S PUREST FORM?’ Let's dissect some of their proclamations:

“It’s the longing in the eyes of someone trying to spot you in a crowd but hasn't seen you yet” We should give this lover boy a last warning. It's so apparent that Vishram Omondi didn't attend a public nursery school. Buana, in our legendary days at Oloisudori BoyChild Reform and GirlChild Daycare Primary School, I never sensed love when Mum came to pick me up during the “after-lunch-slumber-hours.” (They used to be compulsory, and I can't believe I hated them; felt like a punishment.) Instead, I discerned fear as she scanned every direction like Prime Iniesta never knowing what to expect. The ever-dusty boy could pull up from any direction in the “surprise surprise mfs" mode with a sock tied on his neck or donning two different shoes(sometimes both of them would be of the same foot.) This was after registering 5 goals and 7 assists on you guessed it, dusty play fields and agreeing to exchange pleasantries with other ‘players’ the way pros exchanged shirts on TV. We exchanged shoes! So yes, that Iron Woman could have had a longing in her eyes in attempting to spot me, but it wasn't just love; it was laced with a sprinkle of uncertainty and a fear of the unknown.

‘The two hundred shillings shosh smuggled into our hands as we parted ways after a Christmas school break with a disclaimer ‘usiambie mtu'. ( Nods in approval). Aaah, Socrates Mutua, my granny coincidentally used to do it too. It was her seasonal bribe so she could refer to me as 'my husband' all year. You be the judge; that's plaintiff tempering right? That disclaimer was unnecessary, shosh; I would never have told her. I needed that money to buy extra ‘mental toughness’ to endure another boarding high school term. It came in so many forms, ranging from bland school bread, banned noodles, sugar and even pilau masala that I could add to every meal; plain rice, githeri, cabbage stew, uji( I still wonder how that tasted)...Iron Man, directly and indirectly, financed my ‘mental toughness’ by buying a compulsory ‘dichotomous key’ every term!

'Kuna shati nimenunua na ni ndogo, unaweza pima?’ This is every Dad whenever they remember to take a break from pampering their daughters when it strikes them that they also have a son. Present dads, we get it; we understand your bias because we can't also wait to have a son so we can pull up to their ‘feasiting days' in school with water and the most recent newspaper. You'd say it's for the culture, and I'd say it's for the plot but we are both right! I'm just glad you didn't ‘go get some milk’ when I was born. I'd never have won any arguments against my diabolic friends man.

'The whispered ‘uko fiti?' from your better-prepared neighbour in the dying minutes of an exam' Shame! To begin with, my brother you went to Allayansss! You are confirming your rumoured surprise theatrics on seeing the national examination for the ’first time’ every November. Also, that is exam malpractice, and you should ‘shenj’ Dj give him the Lofi beats to Adele's Skyfall… Now hold your breath and 1,2,3…‘this is the end…’ it's over, my friend, and you raised the village's hope for nothing! Anyway, please point that ’ better-prepared exam neighbour' in my direction next semester.

What are some of the embellishments in the love galaxy that you happen to know?

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Today on The BIG QUESTION, I asked the pack to describe what they regarded as home. Quite an unhealthy portion outrightly quoted the toothless protester of the Housing Levy ati ‘nani hana kwao'. Yeah, unsalvageable imbeciles! Their villages better produce other emissaries juu hawa hawaezi tegemewa! And of course I dismissed the ones who answered ati... Home for the Aged, Home for this and Home for that because clearly that was not the question(please help me process their enrollment into a Home for the Illiterate). But the 'Harvey Specters' had these criticisable propositions:

’Home is where the heart is…’ slow clap ladies and gentlemen! What a start! First of all our guy has just dismissed the knowledge in every anatomy book and the mediastinum is now habitable! Eeii Vishram Omondi, Tortora reincarnated, Snell redefined…Second, write a letter to the DSA first thing tomorrow morning urudishiwe fees za iyo unit. Kamau wasted his time. This is a guy who is drunk in love btw. Sijui niwapee number mumsalimie?

’Home is where you trust the toilet seat‘ and she was backed by a ‘gurll that's on perioddttt!!!' Yeah,it be two dumb friends telling each other 'exactlyyyy'. This person clearly has not been a victim of “gari haisimami tena" when the driver stops at that kajoint near Burnt forest after you have indulged excessively in ugali and choma pale Kikopey(I am not speaking out of experience). Na watu ya Eltoret , that forest needs to be cleared.

’Home is not a place, home is the people ‘ Socrates Mutua, Alien, Shakespeare copied you, bro knows Victoria's secret, I am speechless! I must admit that almost touched me! Huyu anapendwa kwao. Halafu sasa there's you; 'the people' ni an annoying little brother who can't even spell his name correctly but still can't wait to tell on you because you brought a 'friend' over…’Mummmm...mummmm' boy if you don't shut up!!…

’Home is where I can run across the room to the bathroom naked' Aaaahh my brother, I know exactly what you are, and you, you better stop making that face. 'We all do that'. Aah, your type is not my type… stop the generalization. Naomba nijitoe kidooogo tu yaani. This is rock bottom. You get caught trying this in your parent's house and your next stop might be at a psychiatrist's or the church (the usual prayers to rebuke the devil who is using you.)

Anyway dear reader, yes home is all this and many more! Share your definitions of home down below.

They expect me;

To be a dusty herdsman trailing a herd of long-horned cows in the Mara

And perhaps, sharing in the bitter ligation between the pastoralist and nature

Wielding cutlasses, wreaking havoc on hyenas and serving hot PTSD for 'em savanna predators.

If not, then; I am the man at the gate

With capitalized imprintings of 'SECURITY' on my back,

A club tucked into my belt,

Ready to die before they get to my master:

The proprietor and issuer of my 5k monthly wage,

If he dies,how do I reimburse for my manyatta(they too have landlords), get food for my family, and fees for my twelve children?

Forget the savings part.

Or maybe that I am,the unlicensed pharmacist,

With archaic skills in phytotherapeutics,

Walking around towns dishing cups of boiled bean soup as mwarubaini

And to me, that jerrican of dark fluid is an entire pharmacopeia,

It is the cure for your cirrhosised liver, calculied kidney, your protracted scrotum…ouch!

Are you asking for the Good Doctor?

I'm the man for the job! Thumbs up!

That I see no use for trousers,

My old kitenge is enough innerwear for my checked shuka.

Extended earlobes are my durag,

Well, I could use them to pull some bitches you know!

Or maybe I could use the leather strap serving as my belt for that, it's tauter I guess!

That I infer not stylish entertainment

The only skill dance I know is the jump,

Ruka kama Maasai to JB's hip-hop, to Eminem's rap, to Burna Boy's Afro, Uncle Roger's country….

Growling rigorously to the beats, and ruining the tempo.

Anyway don’t they subside their expectations of me; a Maasai man,

I need them now and later,

Probably at the nation's meat commission as boss or;

In court, as the DCI dragging along their corrupt asses, or;

In KEMRI, as chief researcher using pharmacognosy to find a solution for their dysfunctional erection, or:

In the World of Dance, choreographer of the year, and;

All these I could do in my shuka and kitenge inner wears,

You don't define my sense of fashion!

So keep them up!

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