I rarely watch TV

In the village, you grew up with four things; work, mud (most of the year), close relatives and a Sunday Newspaper: The Sunday Nation. Work because there were cows to be fed, sheds to be washed and water to be fetched. Mud because it rained most of the year. Those days there was no global warming. The weather was predictable and certain. Relatives because you all belonged to the same clan. Brought together by blood relations. There was always a kasmall gate connecting the homesteads. If you had a quarrel, the gate will be locked up and opened when people reconciled. If they never did, they would grow live fence. Unlike today, you share neighborhoods with total strangers. Like my weed smoking neighbor- who does it twice a day- with the girlfriend who I barely know. And The Sunday Nation because of Whispers and Mutahi Nyunyi. Whispers did political satire and Mutahi Ngunyi before the tyranny of numbers had a column called ‘the last word, right?’. We’d read the newspaper in shifts, cover to cover.

However, if you had a TV at home, you were considered rich. In village gatherings, you were given a special seat. One reserved for the Nairobi folks when they visited. Who started this ‘watu wa Nairobi thing?” People believed you had perspective and had many stories to tell. But it is also meant you were a target from prowling young jobless guys. To conceal the presence of one, you never put the antenna outside. It was either on top of the TV or at the highest point in the house, normally the chimney. If you put the aerial outside, you became an easy target, they will break into the house, take the TV, climb up to the roof and take the antenna or some would simply steal the antenna.

So, growing up, we had two TVs, at different times. A black one which was stolen on a rainy day when thugs got into the house, huddled us in one corner and took everything. The second one was the famous great wall which we got when I was in class four. It was on a Tuesday. We set it up, and watched news. Remember Baadhim Hussein? The KBC Swahili anchor with a great voice and oversize coats? He did the news that day. We then watched wrestling. Perfect evening.

At 8:30, we’d switch off the TV, hang around for thirty of so minutes and then go to sleep. The TV was off at 8:30 because we’d use the car battery and it could last that long. Anything longer than that would drain the battery.

There was an extended period after the first one was stolen and when we acquired the second one. We’d spend most of over evenings talking, as normal families should. Since we lived with our grandfather, it was a prime time for him to tell us stories from his earlier days as a young man. Despite his age, he never told the same stories twice.

One evening after he had had his supper, -mashed potatoes and meat- he burst out laughing. He had remembered something -stories would occur to him at this time of the night, and once they did, he had to tell it. No matter what- as he usually did. He had this genuine laugh, coming from the lowest part of his heart. Heart and a laughter full of life. He was a man who had lived life. Now he was telling his story, as he had lived it. He never colored it, even the bad ones he’d tell it all.

I was the curious one, still am. I asked, “Guka, why did you laugh?” He straightened up, he always lied on his back after meals. He believed that one needed to allow the food settle. He was glowing and the wrinkles on his face had somehow evened out. When he was happy, a glimpse of his youthful days would appear on his face.

He started narrating of how when they were transporting beer (he drove a Leyland truck for twelve years and never drunk a single day. In fact, he never took alcohol all his life, but he smoked for eighty years.) from Ruaraka to Nyeri, guys would climb up the lorry and steal some bottles from the crates as they went up Kangocho’s- the long hill just before Karatina town. Together with his loader, they hatched a plan. They would teach those boys a lesson. So when they started going up, he told Matibo-that was his name- to go up with a machete. Matibo was to aim for the fingers. So when he they boys climbed up, matibo cut of some of the fingers (at this point, he laughs even harder with a great sense of accomplishment and pride), the guy jumped off growling in pain. When they were offloading, they found four fingers in one of the crates. Since that day, they never had such an incidence. In fact, no one every reported a similar case. Despite his seemingly wayward ways, he later repented, got born again, long before he died. He was a good man.

Some evenings, he would be in a good mood to tell stories. This meant we had to switch the TV earlier than usual. It didn’t matter what was on, when he started speaking, there was only one voice to be listened to. I suspect he loved to hear himself talk. This interrupted TV time was the beginning of my dislike for television. That and the fact that growing up, grasping English was a tall order.  I rarely watch TV. And when I do, I am always telling stories. Asking questions and annoying everyone around me. Nowadays, I find myself doing the same, thankfully, not because I don’t understand English, but because humans are products of conditioning.

Picture source: twitter.com