Mr Survivor: A December like no other at the Palace

Although I have not had a December worth writing home about, for the last one decade since I became a King to the Queen now christened Kamala, this year’s is the worst so far. You see, Kamala suffers from an incurable malady known as great expectations and it exacerbates during the Christmas season.

This year, it is worse and not because of Corona, as you would probably expect, but because of the local epidemic called reggae. You will remember that Kamala unceremoniously took me back to sender at marital Siberia, because some enemies of our marital bliss convinced her that I was supporting the dynasties in the reggae jig.

The long list of Christmas demands

So you can now add up great expectations plus an imagined dynasty husband plus a broken handshake and the sum is total chaos at the Palace. As is usual with her, in every other December, the long list of Christmas demands is deliberately meant to name and shame me as a dynasty who eats life with a big spoon at Happy Valley but feeds his family on ugali and rabbit feeds.  Her ready arsenal, when we are not in talking terms, is the future leaders whom she deploys with a relish to harass, nay, torture me.

Great expectations plus an imagined dynasty.

“Christmas imefika baba. You promised to take us to Chaka Ranch during Christmas,” said the first born of the twins. He is the family activist and is usually used by Kamala to humiliate me. “Yes, Chaka Ranch ni poa sana,” said the second born. This one is the family ombudsman and I rely on him to show sense to the others. “Mimi nataka bike ya engine,” said the last born.  This one is a joker and is usually used in peaceful times for light duty assignments. “Mum said we need Christmas clothes and shoes,” added he of the light duty. “Chaka Ranch is number one. Si ndio baba?” said the activist.

Queen of great expectations

Before I could think of an excuse, nay, reason, for the probability of not being in a position to honour my promise to them, Kamala rudely interrupted my train of thought with her taunts. “Haiya! Haiya! Haiya! You boys make me laugh!” She said derisively. I got tongue tied and the focus of the future leaders shifted from me to their mother. “Why do you say so mum?” asked the activist. “What are you travelling in? That tortoise? Count me out!” she shouted.

I hope you can now see why I do not require a professor of psychology to tell me that Kamala suffers from great expectations. Even before she was sure that the trip was confirmed, she had started raising the issue of the means of travelling. And just like that, the issue shifted from the trip, in a manner likely to suggest that it was a foregone conclusion, to my German machine, the age tested and proven Volkswagen Beetle, alias, Concorde.

“You said you would buy another good car,” said the activist. “Eee, I remember. You said it is called Volkswagen Golf,” said the ombudsman. “Miminapanda hiyo golf,” said the joker. It is at such moments that I realise folly of the promises and lies I give to the future leaders when there are other speakers in my head as a result of an extended evening at Happy Valley.

Road to Happy Valley

“Corona has brought problems. There is curfew so we cannot go out to a far place,” I started.  But I was rudely interrupted. “Hehehe! This corona does not know the road to Happy Valley! I pity children whose fathers are dynasties at evil valleys but hustlers at home. God help them!” taunted Kamala.

Now, there is a world of a difference between what I say when I have come from Happy Valley and the real situation on the ground. And as father of growing children will tell you, it would be poor fatherliness to give one’s children a stone when they ask for bread. Even the bible forbids that. I promised the future leaders a trip to Chaka Ranch with the whole intention of honouring the promise. Granted, I get very sweet dreams when I extend my contact hours at Happy Valley.

The bitter truth

The bitter truth is that I cannot afford a trip to Chaka Ranch even by public transport, which is not the classic thing to do, leave alone in the Concorde. As concerns a Volkswagen Golf, that is a dream I have of upgrading myself sometime in the future. The mzungu who sold me the Concorde frequents Happy Valley on his way to his flower farm. He calls me his younger brother and calls Concorde an elder sister to his Volkswagen Golf.  And that is all there is in the hope of driving a Golf.

For now, I am preoccupied with saving enough to pay the school fees for the future leaders come January. I would be so much embarrassed if I was not able to pay school fees but not because I was not able to take my family out for Christmas. This December should just go away so that the topic at the Palace changes from luxurious escapades to homework.