JIJI NDOGO: Village dreams through a girl

Small towns don’t get to celebrate much, and Jiji Ndogo is no different. Here, when Nyaguthii’s goat gets a kid, it’s a good enough reason for celebration. One time a pregnant goat gave birth to triplets. You should have seen the jubilation in the village. It was like we had been selected to host the second coming of the Messiah. We had to provide security as people visited the farm to see the small goats, some even bringing presents like sukuma wiki and cabbages.

A similar outpouring of joy happened when one of the pupils in our school topped a national exam. Okay, she didn’t top it the way you might think, but beating other students in schools, some even in Eldoret, was enough for us to bring out our party hats and dance all night. It was hard getting my partner Sgt Sophia to overlook all the muratina that was flowing like river Tana that night, but I managed to get her in a party mood, somewhat.

This time, the village was looking forward to getting its first police graduate. And a woman no less. You see, though I like identifying with Jiji Ndogo, I am not originally from here. Nor is Sgt Sophia or our boss Inspector Tembo. In fact, Tembo can’t wait to be done with this place. The only reason he’s here is that he knows he can’t secure a transfer because he’s supposed to have retired by now. No one knows why the powers that be haven’t caught up with that situation yet.

So when a homegrown girl secures admission to the Police College, the news spreads like wildfire. The day she left for college, everyone gathered at the town centre to bid her farewell. Women were in tears, some men waltzed around in pride, while some griped why it couldn’t have been a boy.

“Halafu atarudi aolewe tu, hiyo masomo ipotelee hivo.”

You know, the wisdom of men stuck in the Middle Ages. The young me wanted to make sure she had their numbers. They couldn’t all be lucky enough to date her, but if they could make her remember them at least, it was always a nice thing to know someone in a position of authority.

Sophia and I gave her some words of wisdom.

“Don’t let anyone put you down just because you’re a woman,” Sophia said. “Anything a man can do, a woman can do better. Right, Makini?”

“Yes, dear,” I say. It’s always better to agree with her, especially because she’s also my wife. On my part, I kept it simple. “Don’t practise your interrogation face in the mirror too long. You’ll scare yourself.”

Sophia gawked at me. “What? Like you have an interrogation face?”

I didn’t let her put me down. “If the suspect says, ‘You’ll never take me alive,’ start stretching. You’ll soon be in a foot race.”

Sophia smiled. “That I agree with.”

Off to college the girl went, and the villagers had another reason to drink illicit brews all night. So, why are we mourning, you ask?

The girl who went to police academy is back, booted out of school. Why? Because she became pregnant. This doesn’t sit well with the people of the village.

“Kwani alijipea mimba?” the girl’s mother asks. “Huyo mwanaume mwenye mimba ako wapi?”

I agree wholeheartedly. No one should lose a job or a position in school for getting pregnant. Pregnancy is not a disease or a disability. Women should be given maternity leave and allowed to continue with their education. But if we insist on staying barbaric, men should suffer similar consequences, too.