By the Idler-in-Chief
Dear reader,
Allow me to disclose that the person who said there is a time and season for everything was a Nyagenkean—and he was not high on weed.
You see, life has shown me things.
One of the things is that there comes a time in every Nyagenkean’s life when one must stand tall, hold their head high, and declare that they are broke.
It is the season of the Poverty Declaration, a noble ritual that is slowly replacing the old, dusty tradition of wealth declaration.
For years, public officers, also called civil sufferers have been compelled to list their plots, rental flats, secret herds of cattle, and the occasional suspicious apartment block in foreign lands.
But in today’s economy, where taxes rise faster than anger and corruption thrives like a weed in the rainy season, the real courage lies in admitting that one is surviving purely on faith and leftover ugali.
After all, even the economically “thriving” are an endangered species and nobody quite understands how they manage.
Some Nyagenkeans whisper that they have special breathing techniques that allow them to inhale debts and exhale optimism.
I am in the category of those who say that they have mastered the ancient art of seeing money where none exists.
There is another category that has reliably been spotted smiling at petrol stations and is about to run bananas because the emptiness of their pockets is no longer a secret.
Meanwhile, our beloved medical cover has evolved into a funny creature.
There were days when one would present their card at any hospital, including Nyagenke Teaching and Referral Hospital and receive treatment.
Nowadays, when one falls sick, he is very likely to be the subject of a WhatsApp group as the hospital bills swell.
I now live at time when hospitals are not treating patients but uncovering them, and if one is unfortunate enough to fall ill, he must either mobilise funds, sell ancestral land which is already the size of a goat’s tongue, or accept his fate with the dignity of one who knows the bill will outlive them.
And now Christmas is here, though it tiptoes in shyly, like a guest who knows the host has not been paid.
In the old days, the Nyagenkeans would buy new clothes, scrub their children into shining angels, and reduce the number of chickens at home in festive defiance.
But this year, the December spirit is subdued as my kinsmen are eyeing Njaanuary the way one eyes a debt collector approaching from Nyagenke Group of Hills.
School fees, rent, transport, uniforms, and all the other costs lying in ambush have reduced Christmas shopping lists to three items: rice, a borrowed smile, and hope.
The King of Nyagenke has been doing his rounds, promising the Nyagenkeans heaven while delivering hell.
The closest most citizens come to heaven these days is in slumberland, where at least the taxman cannot follow.
In dreams, salaries arrive on time, water flows, and electricity does not behave like an occasional visitor who might or might not turn up.
As the King speaks, the Nyagenkeans listen, nodding as they calculate how many meals remain before Njaanuary.
Even the cows now seem to know something is amiss, producing just enough milk to remind my kinsmen what abundance once felt like.
Thus, this year’s Poverty Declaration is being taken with seriousness as citizens line up, each preparing to reveal the exact state of their pockets: empty, nearly empty, or containing a solitary coin whose purpose is still under contestation.
And so, as the sun sets on Nyagenke and the economy continues its enthusiastic misbehaviour, we embrace the new season with resilience.
We may be cash-strapped, overstretched, and traumatised if not dramatised, but we are honest.
And sometimes, in a city like Nyagenke, honesty is the only wealth we can still afford, and if we dare declare it, we will be confusing ourselves.
-babahezel@gmail.com