By the Idler-in-Chief
In the good old days of Nyagenke, the word harambee carried the weight of a grandmother’s walking stick: firm, purposeful, and occasionally used to correct behavior.
Those days, the people of Nyagenke said it with a straight back and a cleaner heart, for it meant we pull together, even when pulling was inconvenient and togetherness required tolerating your neighbor’s goat.
But as elections approach, Nyagenke’s politicians have discovered that harambee is a perfect punctuation mark, a decorative full stop.
Today, the word is a verbal air freshener sprayed liberally after speeches that smell suspiciously like division.
I attended one such rally, purely in my capacity as a permanent and pensionable idler, who, by virtue of experience, is the spokesperson of all idlers in Nyagenke and beyond.
The politician; a man whose promises are always taller than his achievements, began by dividing my kinsmen into categories so creative they deserve a museum.
By the time he was done, even I was unsure which side of Nyagenke I was sitting on, and he did not pass the microphone to me to ask.
Then, with the poise of a man washing his hands in public, he lifted his arms and declared: “Harambee!”
“Wantam!” shouted one side of the crowd, as if responding to a sacred chant.
“Twotam!” thundered the other.
And just like that, Nyagenke achieved the impossible: we turned unity into a competitive sport as my kinsmen looked at each other not as Nyagenkeans but as wantam and twotam followers.
You must be aware that my Kiswahili grade looks like a fork, and I am lucky it came anyway, largely due to my neat handwriting.
However, I am fairly certain harambee was never meant to be followed by wantam or twotam.
These responses sound less like calls for unity and more like betting options for teams whose players I have only seen on television.
A politician may spend forty-five minutes expertly and confidently insulting entire villages, questioning the intelligence of opponents, and distorting history and making promises that should only make sense to a goat.
But in the final three seconds, he will shout “Harambee!” — and suddenly, the Nyagenkeans are all expected to hold hands like a choir that has not just spent the rehearsal throwing stones at each other.
The people of Nyagenke possess the rare ability to forget selectively.
A man can insult your ancestors, your cattle, and your future grandchildren — but if he ends with harambee, you will respond with wantam/ twotam so loudly that your own ancestors will rise just to ask what exactly is going on.
Yesterday, I carelessly stepped on my neighbor’s chicken (purely accidental, though the chicken may disagree).
I looked him in the eye and declared, “Harambee!”
He did not say “wantam.” He did not say “twotam.”
He said things that cannot be disclosed here and this led me to conclude that harambee only works in Nyagenke when accompanied by a microphone, a convoy, and a generous supply of forgetfulness.
However, I fear that one day, politician will shout “Harambee!” — and the crowd will pause, look at one another, and ask the dangerous question: Pull together… for what, exactly?
Until then, we continue our Nyagenke exercise in forgetting.
“Harambee!” the politicians shout.
“Wantam!” replies one side of Nyagenke.
“Twotam!” answers the other.
And somewhere in the confusion, unity packs its bags and leaves Nyagenke without saying goodbye.
Ni hayo tu kwa sasa!
Email: babahezel@gmail.com