Tribal Violence

"Forty two against one!" The cry spread like wildfire. The Presidential elections were only the following month and campaign fever had gripped the country from Mvita to Malaba, from Taveta to Lodwar.

In Kirinyaga there lived forty-three different ethnic groups, popularly known as tribes. The largest, accounting for thirty-five percent of the population was the Amumbi. As a function of statistics, most educated people, the richest and the prominent came from that tribe. By the same token, they were the majority among preachers as among thieves; among doctors as among butchers; even among the dead in the mortuaries they numbered the highest. It should come as no surprise to anyone, even those who know nothing about African societies, that the first president at independence was Amumbi. We can accept that it would be a surprise that the third and the fourth were also of that tribe. Three out of four.

This had brewed some discontent during previous elections but never had it boiled to the surface as it did during this election. The leader of the Nyangori tribe, in his campaigns, latched onto this fact, then blamed all the country's woes on the fact that in fifty years of independence, the government had been in the hands of this one tribe however inaccurate that may have been. He termed it unacceptable that only one tribe got to 'eat' at the expense of the other forty-two. "Forty two against one!" the cry went up.

Every so often the print media published the results of 'opinion polls' conducted by public relations companies. The two biggest ones seemed to concur closely every single time, showing the loose coalition around the Nyangori leader calling itself ROPE to be leading; "if the elections were to be held today, this is how Kirinyagans would vote," claimed the pollsters. President Goodluck Wiyathi was serving his first of two allowed terms making the election a 'two-horse race' between himself and ROPE's leader. ROPE constantly pushed for the perception that the president belonged to the 'one' and ROPE stood for the 'forty-two'.

But the president's party were not taking it lying down. They hired a publicist from Manchester, England to firstly fight back ROPE's assertions, but secondly, to create a media campaign for the 'JOGOO' party and its affiliates. Observers both inside the country and outside could see clearly that it would be a closely-run contest. The two horses would thunder down the home straight neck and neck, the winner taking it by a nose.

I watched and listened to these developments with growing dread. Campaign meetings quickly deteriorated into battlegrounds when young goons, hired by the opposing coalition attacked the gathering with well-aimed missiles. The violence would be replied to in the same fashion, confusing the politicians on the podium. They typically fled the scene very efficiently leaving the two groups of youths to battle it out. The aftermath would be a number whom the police would take straight to the mortuary, being beyond the ministrations of any doctor. Others, marginally luckier, would leave hospital with permanent injuries weeks later. At a campaign rally by the other coalition the same pattern would repeat itself.

A fury would seize me and I would write letters to the imaginary editor of a newspaper. I never sent any of them to the national newspapers, knowing they would very easily be regarded as inflammatory. In any case, lacking proper writing material, they were scribbled in old diaries and random pieces of paper. Hardly the medium to be taken seriously by anyone.

Said one, "I am the Kirinyaga voter. You are coming to me after five years, for my vote, telling me what you're gonna do. Pause a moment and let me tell you what I reject and what I want.

I want more and better roads, healthcare, education, and access to clean water. I want a climate in which I can operate my small restaurant, grocery, or other small business. I want to be able to build it into a large concern with the help of friendly banks who lend me the money. I want the freedom to worship or not, whatever or wherever I choose.

I reject revolution and upheaval. I reject politics based on the tribe that I come from or where you, the politician comes from. I stand against mass action, demonstrations, burning of other people's property, killing of others because they 'stole votes', as well as uprooting of railway lines, burning people alive inside a church. I stand against political rhetoric that causes anger and resentment towards a section of society. I will not tolerate threats of violence.

Assure me that the Government will not interfere in my law-abiding social and economic activities and you have my vote. Talk of going back to put right "historical injustices" and I will turn away. Make childish promises of bringing down commodity prices and I will stop listening to you, as I know it is not in your power to do so.

You want my vote? I don't really care whether you are JOGOO or ROPE (all current groupings have ethnic underpinnings). All you need is to start talking sense between now and election day."

These may have been the feelings of many around me, my drinking buddies Ayub, Freddie, Kamau, Tennyson and Kenneth. But we knew they would inflame others who wanted to indulge in those actions that we rejected. Opinions were sharply divided.

★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★

We listened avidly to the radio for results as they came in from the 224 constituencies around the country. The numbers, as expected, did not differ greatly between JOGOO and ROPE. At one point one would be in the lead and after a few more results had trickled in, the other would take the lead. ROPE's politicians came out with their own figures showing that they were so far ahead that they declared their candidate, the Nyangori leader, the winner of the election. They claimed to have access to the Electoral Commission's main computer where their figures came from; those the Electoral Commission was releasing were made up by JOGOO and the president at State House. "The election has been rigged," they yelled at the tops of their voices. "Our votes were stolen!" they told news conferences of journalists they had handpicked.

Three days after Election Day, in the late afternoon, the EC published the final result. JOGOO had won 51.1% of the total votes cast, while ROPE had 46.9%, with the few smaller parties carrying the rest. The constitution stipulated that the presidential candidate who garnered 50% plus-one-vote would be declared the winner. Accordingly the EC declared that the sitting president had successfully been reelected for a second term.

In the capital Iborian the violence erupted immediately. In the largest slum, called Nubian, supporters of both candidates had lived cheek by jowl for generations. Amumbi landlords were chased out of their houses by hordes of Nyangori. Amumbi roadside kiosks, where most of the inhabitants bought their provisions were looted and burned. Goons poured dirty soil into the water supply, terming it government and Amumbi. Because of the mayhem trucks from outlying areas, mainly Amumbi ones, could not bring vegetables and other supplies to the petty traders on whom the majority of the inhabitants relied. The resultant shortages brought suffering to innocent people and children.

The violence spread to other parts of the city, mainly the poorer ones. In the larger estates where lived the middle classes there were only sporadic skirmishes. In the slums people who had lived alongside each other for decades became instant enemies. Many parts of the city had become battlegrounds. People were fighting former friends, fellow church members, parents at the same schools, on behalf of a politician who did not so much as acknowledge they existed.

Reports coming from the farming areas in the Rift Valley showed that long-time neighbours had turned upon each other, killing and maiming perceived opponents. The charge on those being attacked was that they had 'stolen our votes'.

Then the picture abruptly changed. The Amumbi youths regrouped, armed with machettes, long butcher knives and other crude weapons, pouncing on the attackers. They regarded the Nyangori as so lowly as to deserve contempt because their men did not undergo circumcision. These militias embarked on a campaign of terror, chopping off the foreskins of their opponents in crude fashion. Of course many died of these inexpert surgeries, and others of infections arising from them. Mortuaries all over these areas became overcrowded with bodies, many of them rotting. The Nyangori leader went into the City Mortuary with a bevy of his carefully-picked journalists to see for himself. He was reported to have shed tears at how brutally 'his' people had been murdered. Of course some of the bodies he saw must have been of those murdered by his goons at the start of the violence, but none of the journalists present dared point that out, either to him, or to their readers.

Then came the greatest shock of all to me. On his way from work my friend Ayub had suddenly found his car surrounded by a marauding mob attacking and stoning cars on the highway. They were shouting slogans against the rich and the wealthy, terming them 'Amumbi thieves'. A group of a dozen or so was pounding their fists on the bonnet, the roof and on the back of the car. Suddenly one of them shouted, "Hii tunaweza kuinua (we can overturn this one)." Before Ayub could react they had lifted one side of the car and turned it on its side. A match was struck and before long the car was engulfed in flames, with Ayub still trapped inside. He died a slow, painful death.

This was the story as his family had heard it when I rushed there. They lived in Loresho Ridge, not far from another slum. His wife, Marilyn was very glad that I could get to them so quickly. Members of the family also arrived soon after. A funeral committee was immediately formed and I was asked by Ayub's eldest brother to take the chair. The rest of the week was taken up with the usual burial arrangements. Members of the committee would be tasked with jobs to do and to report the following evening. The casket, hearse, wreaths and public address system were sourced from Bellam Funeral Services as a package. Marilyn would make one his suits available on the day before the burial. My son who was in photography, was well-known in publishing circles and he handled all matters of preparing the funeral programme. Once the widow and her children, working with Ayub's siblings had put together the eulogy, they handed it to my son to be included in the programme.

The local church organized prayers for mourners every evening at the home. Marilyn always wanted me to sit with her and her daughters. The familiarity I had with all of them during Ayub's lifetime grew during this week to a warm friendship.

The day of the funeral dawned bright. A small group preceded the funeral party to the mortuary to make sure the charred body of our friend was prepared and laid in the coffin. From there we went to the All Hallows Cathedral for the funeral service. Fortunately we did not encounter the rioting mobs, probably because the police had the situation more in hand by now. The Provost conducted a very somber service before we took the body to the Cementery on Long Avenue. Ayub's two daughters and Marilyn stayed close by my side that whole day. As the casket was lowered into the ground they sobbed quietly in their grief, as I tried to hold them all close. The two girls took after their mother in their slim bodies. At one point my hand grazed the bottom of the breast of the younger daughter; it was almost insubstantial for being hardly more than a bee-sting. Neither of us made any movement that could be taken as acknowledgment of that fleeting contact. It was as if nothing had happened.

Back home the three women gave me their full attention. "You have been closer than a brother," Marilyn declared. Guests left one by one but they would not let me leave. "Don't go just yet."

Supper was served in the large ornate dining room, at a table seating eight, though on this evening only four of us did. It became a bit of a game of musical chairs when Marilyn insisted that I sit at the head of the table, which of course I was reluctant to do. I considered that to be the place for the head of the family, my late departed friend Ayub. Then each of the daughters wanted to sit at my left; I was given to understand that that was the next most important place, the most important being the right, where their mother sat. I solved that by moving from the head of the table to the right hand chair. I asked that Marilyn sit opposite me while the Ruth came to my right. The elder, Abigail one sat next to her mother. The meal progressed smoothly after this.

Looking at my watch, I begged to leave. "No, you must stay with us at least tonight," cried both young women. Ruth was holding my hand in her own very slender one under the table as if to reinforce the plea.

Added the mother, "You can have the upstairs guest wing. It would be comforting to have a man under our roof on this first night. The relatives who were here during the week have all left. It would be too lonely."

I acquiesced. "Let me show him up," piped Abigail. I saw Ruth's face fall. Then as if a bright idea had occurred to her she smiled at me. Abigail led me up the stairs, and turned right along a corridor. I tried to take my eyes from her hips flaring from her narrow waist. There was something of a curve on those slender hips.

"My parents' bedroom is down that way," pointing to the left. I could only see a corner. "We have our rooms on the ground floor." We came to a door, which she opened for us. We were in a kind of hall. To my left I saw two doors."That is the bathroom, and next is the toilet." She told me that the door on the right is the clothes closet. Straight ahead was the bedroom. She opened that door for me too. I walked into a large room with a dressing table against the right side. The bed was against the left. Between the door and those two, was a red patterned carpet. I thought to myself that I would spend a very comfortable night.

Abigail hugged me tightly. I was left with the impression that it was not so platonic, like it contained something vaguely erotic. As if to confirm my suspicions, she kissed me on the cheek.

"Let me fetch something. I am coming." She hurried out and I heard her footsteps recede down the corridor. Puzzled, I went into the bathroom to freshen myself up for bed. In the closet I found a nightgown that fit me over my underwear. I was just pulling back the covers to get under them when Abigail came back in a nightgown too.

"I won't be able to sleep alone. Allow me to get into your bed for a while..." and she looked at me with puppy eyes. I could not see my way to saying 'no'.

"Ok, you get in first. I will be on this side." My eyes bugged out when she peeled off the gown. Underneath she had a black negligée. Her black panty could be clearly seen.

"Do you like what you see?" The young woman was exhibiting herself to me! I could see her nipples on those small, perky breasts, peering at me like a pair of eyes. My cock lurched.

I swallowed in confusion. I could only nod mutely. My mind was saying that all this was inappropriate, but my cock was speaking the language of another tribe, stretching further under the robe. I was now in a dilemma. How will I get out of this robe without letting her see my rampant erection, I wondered. She got onto the bed, crawling to the far side leaving her black-clad ass wide open to my roving eyes. I could not help staring at how the pint-sized ass filled the panty, causing the black satiny material to plaster itself deliciously over her skin.

She fell over on her side with her face towards me. But now her young thighs were uncovered as her legs stretched out. Because one leg was over the other in this position it prevented me seeing her crotch area. I told myself that I should be glad about that, but another part of my mind could not help being a little disappointed.

The only strategy that occurred to me was to sit on the bed while taking off my gown. I could not reach the hanger to put it on, so I simply flung it on the floor near the foot of the bed. I lay back, pulled my legs under the covers and covered myself.

"Hold me for a bit, uncle!" came the soft request. My troubles, apparently, were far from over. How am I to be expected to behave myself with this delectable creature wrapped around me. I lay flat on my back, passed my arm under her neck, curling it towards her back. But she far braver than I. She moved her body closer, threw her leg onto my groin, putting her breasts on my upper arm and my chest. I caught my breath at this brazenness. She lay her arm on my tummy.

"Oh, this is so good!" My cock, if it had it in mind to deflate, was incited to stand even taller. I froze, wishing that leg of hers would not come anywhere near my now very hard cock. What would she think of me, if her inner thigh came in contact with my very erect cock, I could not help wondering.

Instead, her hand started making loose circles on my tummy. I lay mine on top of her to try and hinder her, without success because unexpectedly she went lower on my body. Suddenly she grabbed my cock firmly. The groan that escaped me was deep and long. Now I was her prisoner.

She got into a rhythm stroking me up and down. I was so lost to this world that when her command came, my defenses were down. "Suck my breasts, please! That have been aching all day." Now I was painfully aware of them as one of them was poking into my chest. Turning my head I tried to connect with the delicious flesh, but found I had to crane my neck lower. Sticking out my tongue, I licked around the foothills of the tit, then ran it over the mound, to the top and down the other side. She let out a loud breath. I explored all the terrain surrounding the two small peaks, occasionally taking in the peaks. I found that her nipples were stiff nubs, almost too big for the tit they sat on. I could push them with my tongue bending each one way and letting it spring back to position before taking it the other way, again letting it stand back up again. I was enjoying this play of the tip of my tongue with her peaks.

Too late I felt that her leg had been moving about over my groin and pressing against my erection. If she thought ill of me for sporting an erection for her, it was now too late to worry about that. In fact at that very moment her inner thigh was massaging my cock. As soon as I became conscious of it, I could not help groaning. She seemed to have found a rhythm to which she was rolling it.

It was broken when I inhaled one nipple into my mouth. I felt her body stiffen slightly at this. I let go and did the same to its partner. I heard a stifled, but desperate cry from her. To drive her even higher, I grazed my teeth across one nipple, then the other, then bit down without force. She jumped.

My hand moved to lay on her thigh. I found that due to her slimness I could actually reach between her buttocks and discovered some wetness between her thighs. That must mean she is very wet with desire, I thought. She brought her knee higher past my cock and even belly button. This only served to open her up all the more, allowing two of my fingers to reach her slit and feeling her true wetness.

"Take off your briefs," came her next command. Without any thought that I was almost in an incest position I raised my hips off the bed and drew them down my legs. But I took my revenge immediately by reaching behind her and pulling her panty down and off. Our hands crossed, each on its way to the other's genitals. I parted her slender lips, delving into her honeypot while at the same time feeling her fingers wrap around my cock. We started motions almost in unison; I was rubbing her oils all over her lips and she was stroking my cock to become even harder. As if our moves had been choreographed we turned towards each other bringing my cock head to nose her entrance. She opened her legs wider to welcome me inside her.