By the Idler-in-Chief
You already know that Nyagenke Technopolis has always been a place of experiments.
Long before your town discovered expressways and parking boys invented “Pay or I Scratch Your Car,” the Nyagenkeans had perfected the art of improvisation.
But even I, the certified Idler-in-Chief, was unprepared for the latest invention: the human waste economy.
Yes, dear reader. Where other towns arm their unemployed with placards and whistles, Nyagenke has gone premium.
Our mboys, those graduates of bogus promises and malfunctioning bursary schemes, now roam the streets of Nyagenke with freshly packaged deposits, direct from the biological bank.
You either part with your wallet or your dignity.
Picture me last Tuesday, strolling down Manengo Street.
The lights, of course, were not working because the mayor had long outsourced electricity to the moon, which only reports to duty occasionally.
Suddenly, a shadow jumped from nowhere.
He did not ask for my phone. He did not request my watch. Instead, he raised his weapon of mass disgust and whispered: “Chagua, mzee. Mpesa ama mbolea?”
I was frozen. Normally, a mugger’s ultimatum comes with knives or pangas.
This one came with the brown threat of eternal shame.
I thought of my financial status which included an empty wallet and phone whose screen is evidence that I bought it way before Emilio from Renyi vacated the house on the mountain.
I was worried that only my reputation as the spokesman of all law abiding idlers was at stake.
Something also tempted me to think that one bad smell would permanently earn me a brand new name, Odiurine.
The worst part? These boys know the economy better than Treasury technocrats.
They understand that, in this heat, deodorant is a luxury.
Who, after all, can afford body spray when unga is still at the price of a small wedding cow?
They know the Nyagenkeans fear embarrassment more than hunger.
You see, with hunger you can hide but shame announces itself loudly.
The mayor of Nyagenke, of course, denies everything with a smile that makes the potholes on the jaw parking wide enough to swallow a car that is popular for sniffing gas.
He says no such things happen in “his” town, which makes sense, because the only time he sees Nyagenke is when the king’s convoy passes by and he is allowed to wave from the roadside like a flower girl.
Meanwhile, the powerful forces shielding him claim that malfunctioning streetlights are part of a new conservation project called Darkness for Development.
Now, the streets belong to the boys with buckets and some are even branching out into franchising.
The one I met yesterday boasted of delivering “personalized harassment.”
For a small fee, he can smear your political opponent, literally, before the next rally.
Another is planning to brand his operation as Nyagenke Scented Security Solutions, and now swears the future of policing is brown, not blue.
As for me, I now walk the streets with the nervousness of a goat at a funeral.
My only strategy is to carry a decoy deodorant canister, empty but shiny, to bribe the boys if cornered.
The other day I even considered starting a “Save the Idler” campaign, but then remembered that everyone is saving themselves.
Still, I believe Nyagenke will survive. We always do. If nothing else, we shall at least contribute to global innovation: the world’s first crime wave run entirely on renewable resources.
So, should you visit us, my advice is simple: leave your perfume at home, carry cash, and walk fast.
Otherwise, you might leave Nyagenke not with memories, but with a smell that refuses to wash away.
-babahezel@gmail.com
Editor’s Note: This column comes to you on Sundays but due to our readers’ requests, we may occassionally break our own rules. Like today.