Mr Survivor: My new normal survival tactic to escape the 'dynasty' tag
Giving Omosh the Concorde has come with miscellaneous expenses... To kill boredom at Happy Valley, I have found myself keeping my hands busy and my head sane by carousing several bottles of beer.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, so they say. And a time has come for me to take radical measures to survive through the hard times of the profiling of dynasties. Luckily for me, I am what they call a master in Happy Valley lingo, a survivor.
You see, the last few months felt, looked and smelt like a whole year. The odour of the month is still pervasive in the air. And the month was not that colourless simply because it was a ‘cold July and August’. It was because some fellas decided to make my life and that of my Queen difficult by maliciously labelling us dynasties. In Happy Valley, being a dynasty is now a criminal offence punishable by ‘isolate then attack’ law of the jungle.
You will remember that the fellas started by writing 'dynasty' graffiti on my Concorde. At that time, I dismissed it as the work of idleness and a product of sterile imagination. But one week later, they brought the graffiti to Queen’s Slopes Supermarket, making her slide into stress. I had to act fast to save her from the torture because when she is stressed, I am doubly stressed and our marital bliss turns to marital Siberia.
In my new strategy, I decided to apply the mantra that the medicine for fire is fire. Omosh would immediately take over the Concorde taxi business. I was well aware that he has always looked for the slightest opportunity to bring me to financial ruin but there is that little matter of a dormant volcano: his secretive liaison with Makena, our comptroller of palace affairs (CPA). Any silly mistake would provoke me to alert his wife. And, knowing Omosh’s wife, she would roast him whole and alive.
That is why from last week, I have been divorced from my second love, Concorde, the withdrawal symptoms notwithstanding. The idea is to delete my relationship with Concorde from the sights and memories of the hustlers. What incites them is not the knowledge that I own the car but seeing me behind the wheel. With Omosh behind the wheel, my security would be guaranteed.
I had never seen Omosh so excited. He had reached his father’s kingdom. His time to make a name had come. “This car knows me,” he said. “And it knows that I love it,” he added, laughing derisively. For him, it was not so much about getting a chance to make good money, seeing that a thousand per day was better than what he gets waiting for cars at a garage; it was more about a chance to ride in the Concorde alone. This was going to promote him in the eyes of his numerous women in general and Makena in particular.
But if Omosh thinks that I was surrendering my sentimental attachment to the Concorde to him, he is being extravagantly optimistic. I am aware he does not credit me with an intelligent quotient better than that of chicken but sometimes it is safe to close one eye. Concorde is my second love and is so close to my heart that I cannot just hand it over to another man. I was just giving him a chance to take care of it, not take it over.
And so from last week, I have been permanently perched on a high legged stool in Mumbi House at Happy Valley from where I have been running my taxi business through my phone. This life-saving survival tactic, however, has come with miscellaneous expenses. I know you know my weakness. My spirit is strong but my body is weak. To kill boredom at Happy Valley, I have found myself keeping my hands busy and my head sane by carousing several bottles of beer.
Also read: MR SURVIVOR: Why Nairobians' mass migration home for Christmas is welcome at Happy Valley
The days of carousal have, unfortunately, brought me right into Queen’s flight and fighting path. You see, I had recently considerably lowered my drinking capacity which made her very happy. To register her appreciation, she had welcomed me back to her queenly fold. But with many idle hours in my hands, I have gone back to the real ‘wetting’ days.
“You have gone back to the evil valley?” Queen asked. “You want to show our enemies how much money you have to waste!” she continued.
These were very soft words about beer, particularly where it concerns me, coming from her. If it were not for the fact that she is currently living in fear of the hustlers and therefore requiring my constant and uninterrupted company at the palace, in whatever level of intoxication, I would long have been banished to marital Siberia.
And that is the predicament that the hustlers have thrown me into. For the time being, Omosh will be the front for my numerous entrepreneurial exploits in these hard times.
