By Murimi Mwangi
I have on several occasions rejected requests from the Explosive department to decamp from the ethanol department and join them, or at least acquire membership in both departments.
At one point the HOD of the ethanol department even offered to step aside for me to head the department due to my astounding work at the Ethanol Department Executive Drinking Committee.
I have justifiable grounds upon which I have incessantly rebuffed the offers, and a historical ordeal is one such justification.
Before I decided to become totally devoted to a single brain bombardment catalyst, I attempted to join the Weed Bureau of the larger Explosives Department and the repercussions were unmentionably perilous.
It all happened in my remote village of Kajiji. Njiri (Bhang) the village think-tank that I recently mentioned in this column had advised me that since bhang smoking was harmful to your health, alternative means of ‘using’ it was the way to go.
He advised me that weed was harmless so long as you ‘used’ it by any other means other than inhaling it into your lungs.
Since we held Njiri on high esteem in the village for his astounding acumen, I bought into his idea and immediately signed a performance contract with the Weed Bureau.
I still recall how I once boiled water to cook ugali, and in the same water sprinkled grains of the holy herb and proceeded to cook a ‘consecrated ugali’. As the ugali cooked I rushed to the market to buy vegetables.
However, with my exit, my 4 years old brother tiptoed into my ‘cubicle’ and wolfed down a huge chunk of the ugali before escaping into the coffee bushes.
He left the door open and my dog Bosco sneaked in and took also his share by devouring a huge lump of the ‘consecrated ugali’.
As I walked into the homestead a horrendous laughter emanating from the coffee bushes grabbed my attention. Recognizing the young voice I rushed there.
Loo and behold the sight before my eyes there could only be described as a scene from a thriller comedy. My brother was wearing his Man U underwear on his head.
Bosco, my dog was dancing to a tune that only he could comprehend. And at every dance, my brother would chock with a satanic laughter.
I immediately resigned from the explosives department to become a fulltime bureaucrat in the Ethanol Department!
Long live Ruaraka and Keroche.
© Mwangi Murimi firstname.lastname@example.org