

Copyright © Okang'a Ooko 2019

The right of Okang'a Ooko to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations em-bodied in critical articles or reviews.

Available in trade paperback.

info@obakunta.co.ke

This book is for my wife

MUKAMI

who has stood the turbulence

Of my rocking boat.

Table of contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

About the Author

Other Books by Okang'a Ooko

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#  ONE

"Shakespeare was right: death is a necessary evil."

UNEXPECTED expectation, it was

It came as a powerful and relentless beginning that was as limber as kamongo wriggling through your hands. Agwenge, my nogoodnik brother, finally died. Mama went to church and asked the pastor to pray for his soul.

Mama nyar gi nera announces that she is now ready to die too, herself. She keeps hoping Agwenge will walk in the door; she dreams he is still here beside her; while he is already gone away. Then she remembers how she found herself plagued by his terrifying ayaki. She clicks her tongue, hacks and spits.

"He's free at last," she says. "Free, yawa. Thu! Let him go and rest. I'm happy for him." Amazing how Agwenge's death quickly dissipated her concerns and worries.

I fear she will jump from the pier of Pandpieri one fine day and she shall find him confined to the bottom of the deep murkiness of Lake Victoria. Seriously; Agwenge's death sent me into a tizzy. And now he lives as is a frightening comic jigsaw puzzle of what he once was; memories made over; taken apart; thoughts that do not fit but are slammed together, wedged together making no sense. Memories of his once radiant face remain; the once seen kingdom of happiness that was as though a glade through his childhood long; nestled in networking of joys there used to be between us. Now those joys are a girdle of insubstantial thickness that surround me and cinch round my memories tightly.

Well, I grieved. I was devastated and solemn for all my twenty years in the land of white souls. I decided to kill myself instead of living a life blaming myself for my kid brother's death. People accused me, accused me and pointed fingers. My family, especially. I knew better. Like an average artist, I was not smart. Didn't I do things that put people in trouble and made me run out of town? Yeah, that nifty faux pas against Tosha Party in 1991? Admittedly so maybe people did have a point after all. I wasn't the best band leader. Perhaps I wasn't smart, but I always dreamt I would reach my life-peak as a guitarist and a bandleader standing outside a 48-track studio with my name on it in Kisumu one day. But when you're busy forging the future, there's always going to be some collateral damage. I had been blessed with a stout creative mind and an unyielding spirit... more than sufficient to see me through my Kisumu life.

I deed nothing at this point. I realise nothing in this juncture of life and death; my life is the darkness; from the murk of light of fishing mornings at Dunga. I weep for my brother as if there is nothing left to live for other than miracle ceding; as if that were a possibility. I remember how we used to read books with nyangile kerosene lamp at Fort Jesus in Pandpieri once upon a time; my countenance cloud and my eyes are rent with tears. Agwenge used bury his head in my chest while we slept on par reed mat. He sometimes peed on me and I scolded him; and he cried. He was always what he was... a little brother. When we ate omena and fulu with kuon bel on one single plate, he was slow in chewing and swallowing and Ouru and I chewed and swallowed all the food and ran to play outside while he cried to Mama and asked for more. We grew up and he followed me and I became his keeper and fended for him and fought for him and provided for him like a brother, knowing it would be a good thing of comfort, of sanity, of brotherly love. But he always made me mad wearing my clothes and following me around. He just followed me bolingo into void, into emptiness. Into nothingness. Then he died and I got a load of blames for leading him to his death. I was told by all the people who knew me that he believed in me more than a brother; with all the hopes that fell like flintlock caps at him, that reeled him with wreathes of powdery madness and screams in the night-time hours at our dead zones where nyawawa only prowls.

I was the smart one, I survived. He was the dumb one, he died. I was always the smart one. In Kisumu I was chosen along with a selection of benga masters of the guitar like Collela. And everywhere I went touring and playing in nightclubs with my band, Agwenge followed. He followed my footsteps with no foresight of his own, like a small dog running after a bigger dog. He joined me on stage at Olindas in Kondele, so we entertained this rotating smorgasbord of weird, random Kisumu guests. He sang in my band and vocalised my songs. We journeyed together in the voyage of music and performances during the good old days, sharing microphones, guitars, cigarettes, booze, and one very enchanting Kisumu girl called Mary-Goretti.

This girl is the one who killed him. She was my girl too. She was my girl first then she became his girl. And she killed him.

Omera, awacho ka ma, jothurwa, nyathini... argh, sorry.

This feeble-minded little brother followed me to damnation and disease and death. And he cries in our crib of a dead musical enterprise called Victoria and still holds to me,. He sings, for he has not sang any song since our musical voyages twenty years ago due to the nightmare of created insanity for him; as made from the beauty he once had, turned into dross. His once beautiful afro hair now looks as though greased with Kondele jua kali used motor oil, and his body emaciated to the point of almost without redemption. Now soaked in the earth.

These are the bewitched memories, like petals of black flowers in twilight. A year after I left Kisumu for UK (via Uganda in a leaking canoe through Lake Victoria in the dead of night), my brother was sicker than ondong' chodha, and they took him to Russia. Not that other Russia, not that old cold country up there in the atlas of the world: no, not that one. It's our own Russia in our Kisumu. It's really our biggest hospital.

Come the end of that year, I got the grief: my brother was dead. It was horrendous. I didn't take it too good. I tipped over. Tried to get a grip of myself but tipped over. A sickness welled up in the pit of my stomach; the same sickness I used to get when out on fishing boats at Rusinga-Kaksingri passage near Takawiri. My head swam in a tumultuous tide of pounding waves and thundering throws.

Getting a grip was elusive, at least for the time the news of his death hang close. I felt awful. Didn't really grieve, just felt rotten and awful. There were ways to deal with such happenings. Calmness was, first and foremost, necessary. Then; after that, everything else would fall into place. Bile stung my throat, and something warm trickled down my face. But I refused to break down. The calmness I sought after was being a little elusive; my vision was blurred as was my memory.

I spent the next twenty years of my life learning various aspects of self-control, defence against adversaries and elements; seeking my inner being and so on and so forth. Twenty years seemingly rolled over me like an avalanche of hot charcoals.

Can we say Oops?

Well. Here. Now. I'm sad. I am going to kill myself.

This all adds up to one fantastic, forward-looking benga record. For the next twenty years, it has remained in my head, and it has grown bigger. I know how I am going to kill myself. I am going to dunk in and swim away from Mbita Point passage and drown myself inside Lake Victoria. But first I am going to do one last great album. I am going to gather the best benga musicians still alive in Kisumu and do one last great album capable of uniting benga die-hards, stringing up my '80s and '90s fans, zilizopendwa-old-music-diggers plus boat-rocking enthusiasts. A tale of how Otis Dundos made it in the '80s is going to be told in a pricey production that was going to give Attamaxx Records their first new millennium East Africa No. 1, buying them another twenty years' shelf life after my death.

Then I am going to die. I am going to die before Attamaxx puts the record in the shops and in the air. This way, my name is going to be immortalised and my music is going to be alive after I am dead. My treasure is going to be tied up in a nifty package, a startling posthumous recognition as yours truly. You know that thing about art being above ordinary mortality, don't you? You heard of it, probably. About that paranoid fantasy we artists have about dying and living after we are dead. About art continuing to be alive and to function long after the artist is dead? Yeah, you know.

Art, once you create it, lives longer than you. Just look around you and see all the music that is alive whose creators are dead. My name is going to be immortalised in the hearts of people and on vinyl, and in my vanishing flashes; I am looking forward to an exciting rendezvous with all my dead siblings: big bro Keya, big sis Akong'o, bro Agwenge, and small bro Hawi. Or the dead singers and instrumentalists of my band Victoria. Or I am going to whirl away and meet my uncle, Brigadier Ratego Kwer. In death I am going to live and as the Nile perch and the crocs are going to make a meal with my leftovers, I am going to toss myself with the surging waters and wriggle myself inside the swirling ngeri currents and create music as I wait for Final Death to come get me under the lake in a place where there is no night and day when you sing to the fishes.

So as I walk with you in this journey, before I begin to take you into my colourful past (really? Yes, you will soon find out, hahaha...), it might be a good thing to introduce myself now. My name is Otieno. Yeah. Ordinarily. Otieno. Quite common too, nothing special. Well, it's just my default Luo name, anyway. I was born at night. But if you call me Otieno then you'll learn very fast how much I hate it. My father's name is Odundo son of Nyangao. My name is Otis O. Dundos. You can call me Dino too... My name is Dinosus Otieno Owiro. My real name is Otieno Owiro Odundo. That's what they have in my ID and passport.

I'm Dino or Dinos to everyone, only my mama calls me Owiro. And I've heard just about every Owiro twist there is. Owii or Owinye or Owish or Wire or Wyrie or Weir-D. Or Owaya! There had been maybe two or three women who called me Otii or Otis. The rest of them just called me Dino. Angelou used to call me Dinos while Mary-Goretti used to call me Didi. In high school in Kisumu Day I was Owinye or Owaye. In the phone directory, my name is Dinosus. Dinosus Otieno Odundo; but don't bother to look me up in that book. Even in the new Kisumu County Directory, there are five 'Dinosus Otieno' entries and three 'D. Odundos'. And, I'm telling you what town, county, city, I live in. Kisumu. Kenya. East Africa. Africa. The World.

Name issues aside, I'm an artiste. I love to do the things tied to art and creativity and music. Making music that pulls at my dreams and make people dance and be merry. Music that makes people happy; that made young lovers marry each other. Music that made people so sad they cried. Music that made people laugh at themselves. I made good money with music a long, long time ago when the sun shone and there was peace seemingly upon the land.

Currently, I'm in forced retirement here in Kisumu, and I've been trying to keep myself busy and sane and reminiscing about Riana, the woman who still haunts my dreams. If I can remember I'm about 5ft 10in with broad swimmer's shoulders. In my twenties, I had a pretty even build, and I was working out a lot during stage dances, but Leeds stashed so much fat in my back for the twenty years, so I have no waist. I'm starting to get the makings of a pretty good six-pack.

Well, I am the man, the musician, the guitarist. See, back in the day, I was a legend. In guitar. It was loud, it was not disco. It was real African music called Urban Benga. I was the solo-lead guitarist and the leader of this once-famous seminal benga band that stuck with this name I hated: Victoria. Yeah, I hate to talk but I love to tell my story... how I started out and got welcomed into upstart underground rat holes like Olindas Bar in Kondele; how I tried to wrestle this juvenile band called KDF (no, not the other KDF; Kisumu Delta Force, really) out of the hands of the feeble-minded first class idiot (add pathological womaniser) and fine singer called Nicholas Opija (add Dr. Nico Pedhos ja mach piere tindo), to turn it into a successful story.

There was a culture surrounding Urban Benga, and the cult-like following for the Victoria ODW Band in Kisumu was intense. Vending a commercially potent mix of hard benga and glossy rumba, Victoria's brand of music fell flat with the critics but ignited an entire generation of music fans. This was in the '80s. I ran the gauntlet and emerged on the other side with good music in my hands called Urban Benga.

The wacky disappointing thing is that my blossoming career was cut short when I went to prison at the age of twenty-nine at the peak of my career. Then I got out of prison and stole away to Britain to waste the best twenty years of my life.

Now; even if you didn't share my affinity for the Urban Benga ethos, most people live and die with their music still unplayed. They never dare to try.

I did try.

I really DID try.

Not sure if I'm a winner.

Now; today I can ask: what is your song? Those who may have thought I went underground and got burned out have missed my song. Nobody is going to steal my songs again; I am not going to play any. I am no longer young. I'm forty-seven, and I'm going to do other things here in Kisumu.

So...

Folks, before I go to sleep, I want to wish all a good night and may the Lord bring rest into your soul. May He protect all of you from evil and wicked people who walk through life hatching schemes of robbing hardworking men and women of art.

The best advice my father, Odundo son of Nyangao, gave me was to tell the truth always. People will always love you more if you bring your mistake to their faces as opposed to them finding it out on their own. For my dear good father, actions spoke louder than words. He taught me how to swing a hammer, how to cast a net and toe the line, how to swim, how to treat a woman like a lady the same way you tame a boat in strong wind. And that when you have talent... any talent, use it to make money. He also told me that matters between us, as father and son, stayed between us. We are brothers. Women are devils who are always going to confuse you, rearrange you. Listen to what my father told me: that all women except your mother are devils. But even your mother is your father's devil. Funny, don't you think? After all, don't we boys all want to protect our mothers?

So I will tell you the truth. My story may be a chilling grotesque drama and may even be frightening as a remorseless mimic of human frailty, but it's a true story. Victoria ended in tragedy. The music stopped playing. One cannot understand it; the whole bloody raucous story of Victoria. You go through something, and it changes you. I'll tell you about it shortly, and I'll slot in many random accounts as I go on, giving you a series of Kodachrome-sharp snapshots of my life in different stages and I beg you to see me as more an archetype than a flesh-and-blood guy. My mind is too bamboozled to even think. Here are some accounts, not in any particular order since I can't remember well. The devil is in the detail.

Mama says what a normal Luo mother will say to express profound shock and disbelief: "Wuololo. Mama yoo!"

She says she always heard of the victims of this terrible disease being thin, but not that thin. It must be the most painful way to die, she says. Mama still appears mostly gentle, able for much of the time to cope with everyday realities and even hold on to my little sister, Akinyi. Mama still refers to Akinyi, a married woman with four children of her own, as her baby. As nyare matin. Akinyi has grown into a strong young woman, a wife, and a mother; a very devoted Adventist. She sings in the church choir, wears sensible clothing, tithes weekly, gives offerings every Sabbath, donates to charity and donates her time at Mama Ngina Orphanage near Kibuye. Akinyi's good-for-nothing husband always wants to fork her money to go for beer rounds and to watch English Premier League as if he's a... damn. He long stopped caring for his family, Akinyi's had to work. So, she inherited Mama's shop (our family Rusinga Island General Store on the corner of Kendu Lane and Odera Street in downtown Kisumu).

Mama reacts with frightening paranoia to everything that colligates to Agwenge's death, and I don't understand why. Anxiety somehow makes her unnaturally polite and differential that she appears frightened and; thus, provokes fear.

My father retired from Ogongo Fishing, gave up drinking and opened a curio shop cum art gallery in a brownstone edifice at the end of Oginga Odinga Street near Obote Road, near the lake. From here he waddles around in slippers reading newspapers, arguing with artists, talking on the phone and piling cash in the tiller. The shop is neat and quiet, and occasionally a tourist who loses his bearing sneaks in to glare at the objets d'art. Perhaps it is the sullen mood of this little shop that has changed my father. In a subdued way, he appears an alienated man, prepared for vertigo and dislocations, seemingly asking himself, "How much longer do I keep living in this boring world?" But whatever my personal feelings about him, like all sons, I'm holding on to the fascination by my father as a symbolic figure. Just that and nothing else. Not the role model, no.

My parents seem to relax in the art shop as they get older, and I agree with Akinyi, that they are fairly relaxed near the end. Of course, my father still gets time to paint his queer acrylics and sit next to the colossal gramophone singing along with Rochereau. He has all the odd vinyl in 45s and LPs including Kallé's Afrikan Jazz, Nico's African Fiesta, OK Jazz, Vox Africa, Maquisards, Bantous, Le Négro Succès and Trio Madjesi (Orchestre Sosoliso). He still wants to surprise me all the time with facts I don't know regarding Zairean (I mean, Congolese) rumba. The latest? That Dibango, Brazzos and Longomba also played with African Jazz. And his favourite topic: the greatest brothers in music. Dewayon and Johnny Bokelo Isenge. Dechaud and Docteur Nico Kassanda wa Mikalayi. Franco and Tchongo Bavon Marie Marie. Faugus and Roger Izeidi Mokoy. Soki Vangu and Soki Dianzenza. To my father, music is always Zairean (arrggh, Congolese) music. Whenever my father talks about music, he means Congolese music.

One thing I didn't know for all my years in music is that (really) the brothers Nico and Dechaud set the standard for Congolese-style solo and rhythm guitar interplay that we enjoy and play all the time. That guitar god Nico actually created it! I (like most musicians who play rumbastic styles) take it all for granted, like somebody just came up with it. And after that disclosure, I have begun to really look... to really listen to the old music, and I begin to see a pattern.

Like my father, I am a huge-huge fan of the 1960s and 1970s Congolese rumba. They are old fashioned and of a time I cherished. I have been known to go well out of my way in pursuit of some combination or other of these things. My current worst lousy habit is sleeping and brooding. And feeling rotten about my imperfections. So lousy I long for self-flagellation and even death to wake again renewed. Like those nightmarish computer games my son Daudi used to play in UK where you play hard and sometimes survive, but most times you get yourself killed. Then you resurrect yourself and start over again. I long for a Bible-like revelation that explains to me why I'm a musician and not a professional athlete. And it keeps me humble. Very humble.

Mama's life; however, appears to be pressed down by sad memories than the real world. Along with Agwenge's long illness and death, three other tragedies had made unwelcome visitations to the family. In 1987 our big bro, Keya committed suicide. In 1997 my sister Akong'o died of AIDS. She had been married to 'The Poet' Willy Wilbarforce Opiyo, a composer and singer in my band, who died two years before her. In 2005 our last born brother, Hawi Odhiambo died. He had gone to the University to study law, and that was going to be another celebrated achievement for the family, but the sparkling glitter of his career was ended by a stray bullet. They shot him down during a student riot in his final year. He was only twenty-two. It was the most shattering experience for Mama. I think it's because Hawi had been her favourite, and she adored him. Agwenge (I'm I supposed to say RIP), like our eldest bro, booze-addled Keya (okay, RIP), had been a simpler case. An amiable drifter with a licentious moral fiber and I was not sympathetic to them. Agwenge had married a loathsome hotpants tart. He had married my ex-girlfriend, Mary-Goretti against my wishes, and she infected him with "the disease". Keya had messed up his own family and ruined his life. I had not been so close to the two of them as I had been to Hawi. But... I greatly mourned over the death of Akong'o, a very strong-willed girl who fell into the hands of a low-level crafty poet who gave her "the disease".

Poor Mama. She can't understand that the fickleness, the arbitrariness, the fleeting nature of life itself is on display daily throughout our world. As an artist, I see it. I feel it. In fact, I'm ready for it. Soon and very soon, we will whisk away to some unknown place. Shakespeare was right: death is a necessary evil. Amazing how we spend all our lives waiting for death... the way we do our stuff so-so quick in a race against time so that when death finally gets us, we won't be so badly off. Yet when Mr. Death finally knocks the door, we cannot accept it. Just cannot. We tense up and make a run for it.

I think the reason Death has to force us to die tragically through bizarrely painful means like deliberate poisoning, murder, boats capsizing or motor vehicles running us down or illness consuming us in hospital beds is because we defy his will. I just don't know why death brings loss and sadness, yet we know well it is inevitable. I wish we always had an appointment with death (like Tutuola imagined or like Sura Mbaya reckoned). So that we will know the day it comes so we can get ready to meet him (after running the full gamut of life and raising a family and putting stuff in place) and just walk away and disappear instead of being hit by a bus or a bullet. It's a hell of a thought, I know. I mean even if Death is in the business of killing people, he wouldn't need to find ugly and in-human ways to kill us like (imagine!) inventing incurable diseases like AIDS or cancer, or paying fellow men to kill us on his behalf. If we just cooperated with him.

I look back at my family and I feel sad. I look back at how hard Mama worked to bring us up straight by ripping us off the bad company in Pandpieri and trimming us with her iron fist and keeping us strictly focused on school and reading and learning, and I feel sad. Sad because I now see how terribly I let her down. I worry that Mama is losing her mind the same way I'm losing my grip.

Mama's face clouds and grows wary as she struggles to tell me about Agwenge's last moments. "His last words were, 'Set me free! Open the windows and let me go!' And his soul is indeed free now to continue his work of creating music in the winds. Welcoming him are his brothers Keya and Hawi and his sister Akong'o with open arms and other family members and friends who went before. Agwenge's reunion with his loved ones in the land of souls is a joyous event, and I can just imagine how beautiful it is."

With sadness, I feel awful that it really got me nowhere, that I had strayed from an acceptable course that my life went in the wrong direction. That I was a headstrong narcissist, who went against Mama's wishes and took matters into my own hands spinning my life into a kind of performance-art thing that I called Orchestra Victoria and through which I made some records and got fame. And also through which I messed people up, especially women. I was a mean-spirited bad man and a celebrated womaniser. I never married, not in the proper way. I never had a family... not a real one. Really it brings genuine tears into my eyes, my understanding of my inner life fuel-injects me with pure emotion.

This is something deeper and sadder: not just alienation, but a hard-won awareness of mortality and passing the time. I'm worried that I'm now forty-seven and I'm unaccomplished. I'm concerned that I have tumbled deep into a full-blown, existential crisis. I'm deeply sorrowful over the toll that my exile-life, mistakes, and misplaced dreams have taken on my life. I worked and made a name, alright, but what's the meaning of it. Hakuna maana yoyote. I lost twenty years doing nothing. Just doing nothing.

Nashikitika.

What do I do now?

Folks, where do I start now?

Walimwengu, where do I start now?

What do I do now? Folks, where do I start now? My worry and my sense of unworthiness now happen more often; some part of my brain is sign-posting its distress. Time to do something. Time to get my flimsy story the hell out of my noggin.

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#  TWO

"You only realize you're black when you're fed up of being told you're a black asshole and you only get told you're a black asshole in UK."

HOO—OME sweet home!

I came back home to Kenya a clogged-up chucklehead. Like all the other Africans who had lived and worked many years in the West (Nkrumah, Kenyatta, Banda, etc.) I came back penniless. In the precocious English Kingdom, I found myself in a harrowing predicament. I came close to becoming insane. To say the least, I was freaky freaked out, deranged, and just how long I was going to be suspended in the unknown, many many miles away from home only God knew. I tried to be normal. I repeatedly tried day after day, month after month, year after year, sometimes allowing a couple of years to pass before trying and each succeeding time I found the same clouds in my mind. I determined at length that the clouds would be there for a long, long time.

It was sure for some certainty that I was a long way from being myself. Memories flooded my frapped mind lambasting me until at length I screamed out in my mind and went hurtling into the so-so forest of mindless delusion longing to find a quiet place in which to try and gather myself.

That quiet place was none other than Kisumu.

In Kenya, East Africa.

In my mind.

A scene of a freshwater lake, a harbour with fishing boats, a pier spanning some huge bay inlet, a great vast land with vegetation and rolling hills covered with villages and homesteads was in my mind as I remembered Nyanza. A city with no skyscrapers but happy folks would be seen in my mind when I thought of Kisumu. My thoughts formed short verses such as this one:

My fair and lovely, I long and thirst for you

I long for sunlight in the waters of Nam Sango

Surrounded by Nandi Hills and Nyabondo plateau.

Take me to the lake, to the beach, to the deep waters,

And some quiet places to brood and reflect

Nifty Nyando river running amok down through the

villages and farmlands, thousands of feet long winding

Snake through a small town and the BIG Lake.

Find for me quiet beaches for naked skinny dipping

For making consummation underwater, your first time.

Find me choice spots along the shores in a quiet

place where Peace and Tranquility lasts

This was a piece I wrote for Kisumu. Yeah, Kisumo always filled my mind! There was no ticket to go home. Home? Kisumu had turned into a dream, no doubt. And I cherished it. And I was going to return to it by all means. That was for sure. Sure as an oasis that could well be a mirage.

The following years it was sure that traipsing out in the no-mans-land of indecision was a bad thing. I had to settle, somewhat. I had to live. Finally, with concord finding its place in my mind, I got accustomed to making my way back to the house in Western Yorkshire I was calling home. New friend, Dod Teddington, was deeply involved in trying to make me English. No, Scottish. He said he understood my sense of loss in the English countryside and that he felt very much the same. He was Scottish. Of course, he was Scottish, he rubbed it in... finished every sentence with, "...but you see I'm Scottish." Now there's a thing about being Scottish, Irish and English just the same way there's a thing being Kalenjin, Kikuyu, and Luo. Pam, who was English, had taken a lot of trouble to make me comfortable in the English country, reminding me all the time that I was Otis Dundos the big name, and she was English.

Rank has advantages. And tribes exist everywhere.

The sun rose, the sunset. The moon came, the moon went. Days rolled by languidly, turned into weeks, into months. Years. Seasons came and went, many Christmases and many holidays rolled on. Winters turned into hot summers. Thoughts of dread were inescapable. There was nothing to do, though, but wait. The contemplation of making for "home" filled me, but I knew that I was in no state of mind to seek Salvation. I changed gradually. I became a new person. In a pursuit for "home", I searched for peace and comfort in my Christianity. I sought peace in the SDA heritage fondly tucked away in my memory of childhood. I bought a KJV Bible and read and prayed. I prayed for redemption to come to me. I gave up smoking weed, drinking, and all other indescribable bad behaviour you pick along the dream-come-true road of life as a musician and an artist. And prayed. My prayer was simple: I wanted a regime change in Kenya so that I would go back home. The desire to be home in Kisumu was infuriating. The feeling of being stretched too thin was overwhelming. Where would it end? I wanted the Tosha Party out of power.

But changed I am still. Now that I'm home, I no longer want to be a good person anymore. I guess being holed up in cold Europe too long can dampen you right down to the skin. Because many of the personal pledges I had seriously made appeared to have fizzled out once I hit the real world in the African soil.

I think I am sober, more sober, and calm.

Just seem so.

I've learned better.

As a result of it, I am trying hard to forgive the Brits for almost driving me mad with their mean and shitty racist mindset which has a way reminding you that you are a hapless black asshole and you need to go back to your miserable country. Fellow Kisumuans, don't be fooled by good stories you hear about living abroad. The reality is for a time, the gooey feeling of new experience extends you into a level of exaltation that is almost impossible to describe.

Then you realise you're black.

You realise you're black because you're told you are black! Sample this: you only realise you're black when you're fed up of being told you're a black asshole and you only get told you're a black asshole in the UK.

I find the sense of loss I experienced hard to explain to my "black" brothers and sisters who are yearning to migrate to Britain in search of a "better life". Seriously, come to think of it: we are so comfortable in our lovable Kisumu that we believe the rest of humanity eats, loves and prays as we do. Then we go abroad and realise that our way of living is not necessarily understood or appreciated elsewhere. Which is not necessarily a bad thing (although painful to realise too). And when we realise that the way Britons or Americans live has so many lovely and wonderful things about it also, we can't help but come to terms with the fact that there is no one right way to live.

Then time takes us through the years, and we realise there are simply many right ways to live an African life in the West!

But the fact that you're a black African remains. You look at your hands and see that, yes, it really is black skin. Ah, really. Sort of makes you feel all the time you're second class.

Long, long time ago, I already knew (from Pam's stories) that England was a dull place but living in such a vibrant sunny town like Kisumu with such a fantastic culture with human warmth, jeer and carefree laughter abounding all around really brought it home that England is a very dull place to live in even if you have lived there all your life.

But alas!

Forget about the place being boring and start to see how those people treat you. That being black is bad is something we are not used to... we don't know it. I mean suddenly you realise you are black and you are reminded over and over that being black is such an awful thing. For twenty years, I lived and worked in that country and acquired citizenship and all the rights that went with it. I even married one of their women. Yet I was reminded over and again that I was a black guy from Kenyan and not British. I was only seen and regarded as a foreigner.

The question in those cold sneering looks was the same: when are you going back to Kenya? I never knew what to say. I think, in a way, the pink-skins were jealous of my African lifestyle, and I was jealous of their stability and routine. Yes, my life had many advantages as a famous musician, but it didn't help kick the mucky muck because my asylum condition required me never to engage in music.

I felt stuck, and that's why I was always making plans to return home. I was uncomfortable, and my sense of "not-belonging" was balanced with international and personal unsatisfactions. There were many ups and downs.

Let me tell you... more people need to understand this feeling of being suspended between cultures. Home is where the heart is, we all know. Long enough, I got used to the house in Western Yorkshire with my English wife and my half-black half-white son. Daudi was growing up, and watching him grow kept me busy. He was okay; lanky, goofy face, goofy face, lanky. Whenever the feelings of being a lonely black man began to rise in me, I looked at Daudi and they were suddenly obliterated to be replaced by calmness. In my mind, I smelled wild flowers in South Nyanza country. I tasted fish, and I sang to the fishes. I was in DreamScape, mid-December and fishes were about to start breeding, and I sang to them.

Surprise is why then did Nairobi culture-shock me, eh? Why? Reverse culture shock, they call it.

I think it's because while I was wasting away in the Kingdom of England all these twenty years, I had somehow gotten myself sucked into European high-society living and the customary benefits that came with it in the name of lifestyle. Somewhere between my tenth or eleventh year there, I reached a "point of no return" where I began to feel more at home in Leeds. Thatcherism was on the brink, and Britain had opened up to private enterprise. The Berlin wall had come down, and other eastern bloc countries craved western culture and liberation. I saw shopping malls springing up throughout Britain and wide roads (called motorways) with winding flyovers being built and people were flung on a consumerisation binge. Pam wanted me to study music because I needed a makeover, and music was the only thing I could do naturally. She always said that one should strive to achieve excellence in what they are usually good in naturally because it's what they love doing. She wanted me to teach African music to the pink-skins. I tried it, joined a small natty college in Leeds teaching classical music and stuff. But I soon dropped out because I realised I was a better guitarist than their guitar teacher. Besides, I had no money; my records were not selling much in the UK due to my tarnished name and my money was running thin, and there were other priorities. Daudi was in school.

What happened over the next long years is best described as a smorgasbord of odd jobs on the road to survival. My catchword was "whatever it takes." Instead, I did odd jobs here and there. I took on some film work in front of and behind the camera. I composed jingles and soundtracks. I drove a garbage truck, worked part-time in an African record store owned by Sterns, and a handful of other non-musical odd jobs. I worked nights in a McDonald store and did security jobs.

And everywhere I turned up for work people remembered the name Otis Dundos. I was already famous in the UK following Victoria's spectacular performances here in 1987 when African Dawn brought the band over. And thanks to African Dawn too, my records were available here. They loved Opiyo Willy's high-riding 'There's No Mathematics In Love' mainly because it had been covered by Eric Clapton. They were eager to hear my story. But part of my fame is that Tosha Party had succeeded in branding me a revolutionist element and called me a musician with dangerous messages. Here they put me in the class of Fela Kuti, and Bob Marley and the British press wrote unfunny stories about me.

Years earlier, the British Special Branch had questioned me for days on end in smoke-filled cubicles, and I convinced them that if they extradited me back to Kenya, I would be maimed and castrated in Nyayo House dungeons and thrown in prison to rot there. In the end, they believed my story and decided to give me political asylum and let me rust in peace in their snow. The deal was simple: I will not engage in music. I wanted to protest this, but my Indian lawyer shouted me down and reasoned that it was the best deal there was. Pam backed him up. He hurriedly filled the papers and gave me the pen and told me to sign. I was screwed. Really screwed. My wings were clipped for good. They photographed me, took my fingerprints, security-checked me and issued with an ID.

I was required to report at regular intervals to immigration reporting centres. I was issued with a letter that informed me that I could be detained at any point during the asylum process. But what choice did I have? Tosha had rigged itself back to power in 1992. And, since the odds are against you as a black man in England, it is no use trying to live another life. In Leeds, I learned that it paid to concentrate on what was going on around you than live in another world because when you are a free spirit like me in this cold country, you're really locked up.

Many evenings, bleary-eyed and bored, I mooched around in the vicinity of the bus depot in the company of other Africans with nothing else to do. We shared out our problems, and many of them had bigger problems. So I had the most profound encounters with these home fellows, especially lonely Nigerian women who looked like they hadn't talked to anyone in weeks, and we would get this beautiful moment of prolonged eye contacts being allowed in a city street, and we would sort of fall in love a little bit and hug each other awkwardly.

In UK they had a parallel system of welfare support that provided us with £36.62 a week, 52 percent of Job Seeker's Allowance. Surviving on £5.23 a day puts us asylum seekers well below the UK poverty line. You had to eat, and you had to send money home. You had to stay alive. We swapped ideas and shared survival tricks. On my own, I resolutely wandered the streets of Leeds in the hunt for anything in the name of work. I concentrated on meeting the new culture, language, foods, smells, sights. Instead of walking around Roundhay Park with my head down, I learned to love the show garden with its Chelsea flowers.

Time seemed not to move, and you didn't see sunshine. It got worse... I couldn't get omena or mbuta or ngégé (just my favourite fish) at Kirkgate Market. I couldn't get a good hairdresser for my afro. Pam hated dreadlocks. So I was forced to trim my beautiful wavy afro. It was difficult not to think about the things I was missing out on in the fringes of the outside world, but torturing myself worrying was making me miserable. It certainly wasn't getting me out of UK any faster. It dawned on me that I was going to live in Leeds forever. At first, the thought freaked me out. Being in one place forever sounded boring: the same friends, same house, same neighbours, etc.

In the end, Pam trained me to be really married to her, and I concentrated on raising Daudi and doing other things I could control in this country, not the things that were out of my reach outside the borders of the British Empire. I began the arduous task of seeking citizenship. I established roots and became affiliated to Leeds, its culture, and its people. I transferred all my savings to a Leeds bank and bought a three-bedroom house in Western Yorkshire where I lived with Pam, her ageing mother and our son Daudi for twenty years.

And as my years in Leeds increased and I grew older, it astounded me how much I loved the English history and Western civilisation. I spent a great many lonely months in the libraries and in the few scenic parts of the country such as Yorkshire Dales and in the parks. I learned to use computers, and it was the time when Word Perfect and MS-DOS were the in-thing in computing. I remember actually clicking (tkk) at the x when the tutor said to click on the x to close the window. In between increasing knowledge and doing odd jobs, I met many people who struggled with the same or at least similar challenges. It took me years, literally, to fully comprehend that what I was going through was the adventure of a lifetime. And after all these years I still seemed to fret about the weather and longed for the sunny summer, and when it came, I spent it at Park Square with the locals eating lunch and telling them about Kenya and about my music. I often took Daudi on walks and we were always discovering new places. Then Daudi grew into a teenager; into a young adult and joined the University of Reading.

Then Tosha Party was defeated and a new admin came into office in Kenya. This gave me hope. Pam lost her job at African Dawn due to ill health, and to me, it was about time that we moved back to Kenya. We would be closer to family, and it would be more affordable, she reckoned. "It's easier to work as a musician in Kenya, and that's what you love doing," she said to me.

Daudi was now a man and could take care of himself once he graduated. He was especially good with computers and had engaged a friend who had designed Victoria.com, my web site through which I had converted most of my songs into mp3 format and was trying to sell online.

I had also opened a Facebook page and was interacting with old fans and re-bridging my life and rebuilding alliances and contacts. My experience with Facebook is that it is like politics. Your ideas, philosophies, beliefs, and interests must be read and shared with your friends all the time. Failure to let your presence felt by your friends throws you to the periphery, making them forget about you altogether. Your friends only notice you through your regular contributions and comments. They will only identify with you when you share with them your news, sorrows, and predicaments. The friends are many and varied, yet you can only reach them through the network, and my experience is that you may never in your life meet most of them physically. In Facebook, everybody is equal. And when you die, you can still live inside Facebook, provided your Status isn't marked diseased. Just die and get it posted on your page and you will be amazed at the flow of condolences.

Pam changed her mind about relocating to Kenya, she had other ideas. Her brief gave me the grief: "Go to Kenya and sell DreamScape. We need the money for Daudi's college."

That was it. I left. For me, it was a happy bye-bye to the British. And that suddenly, for the life of me, Kenya was only mere hours away! I was biting my nails and couldn't wait.

I sighed. Even though my exile made me lose my time, I was deeply thankfulness for such a rich experience, and it was something I was going to carry for the remaining years of my life. What I expected to meet on the Other Side I had no idea. It was blacked-blanked out. The Kenya in my mind was the '80s Kenya. An amazing country where people were wearing more smiling faces than Britain. On the plane, I looked at the dark gray British clouds and reflected that the weather was definitely one of the reasons Africa was a happy place. I was looking at my window, and the European skies were gray and depressing. I hoped one of my new songs was going to do justice to the depth of feeling behind these cross-cultural experiences.

Nairobi. Nairobi? For real? This is Nairobi?

I find I hardly know it and I don't like it. There are sights, smells, and feelings to be disregarded as a mere dream. I see a city overcrowded by well-dressed people, a city not as arousing and romantic as the one I knew. This city is cagey and dense and moves too fast. Too fast chasing money and gobbling too much politics.

Hey! Just a thought: what about that really soulful phrase we loved way back in the '70s: No Hurry in Africa.

Look! The new skyscrapers are splendid, and the streets are more full and cleaner and packed with too many sleek Japanese cars, all seemingly hooting endlessly for a reprieve from the jam. I stare agape, it frightens me. So much I'm thrown into an emotional roller coaster. This place is ten times overcrowded than Leeds. Reminds me of London!

For a long blinker, I forget who I am.

In England, I had been the lonely African, now here I feel like the lonely Briton. Living in the West changes you forever. I think my shock is chiefly because of how I romanticised everything about home while being homesick and now that I've returned, I find that it isn't really that rosy. The bad thing about leaving a place and coming back is that you can't really relate and fit in, and it sometimes feels like your experience abroad is not valid or hasn't happened.

Thanks to my former producer Justin JB Bomboko, (that well-known JB of Attamaxx KRC) I have somewhere to stay, someone to take me around in their car and take me to the record shops and night clubs and even buy the stuff that I need. I have a new car hired for me to drive if I want.

It's been phenomenal, especially considering what a full-on assault-on-the-senses this Nairobi is. I repeat: I've been hugely culture-shocked in a way I had never expected, and if I didn't have JB to show me around I'd probably not have left my hotel room. Even after two days, I am still kind of helpless. I can't drive a car. In the UK I didn't drive at all since I didn't own a car. I was used to manual transmission engines and had forgotten how the clutch worked. It confuses me, but here they have automatic transmission engines in almost all cars, and this requires me to learn again! So, in short, I can't drive, but even if I could, can I find my way around? Can I remember the names of even the most common streets? I know there is a Kenyatta Avenue but don't know how to locate it. I have had to buy a map (I have to, really) instead of continually getting lost and asking for directions.

I need to walk, sometimes to clear my mind and find my bearing. To see things and blink and feel and adapt. Luckily places like Nairobi Cinema, Kenya Cinema, Archives, Uchumi, Ambassadeur, and Odeon haven't changed. Nevertheless, the matatus are like nothing I knew. In 1991, I left the yellow buses known as Kenya Bus. Now I see none, and this is like nothing I am prepared for. I'm even suspicious of the sudden patriotism displayed on matatus. Several matatus are adorning the Kenyan flag and the national colours. Could it be the display for Harambee Stars support or some new political thing?

On the other hand, Nairobi has kept pace with other world cities. I look with gloomy fascination at the well-dressed men and women and the youth. Especially the youth: the man-boys and girls behave the same way they do in Leeds. And they dress and talk the same. And I see sleek cars that reveal a steady middle class. I see advertisements on the walls of buildings and on huge billboards just like they are done in Leeds.

Twenty years have turned me into an alien, for sure. Really. As an alien, I have so much learning to do. But it is kind of like a tourist. I'm inclined to stake out on my own. To walk around (actually walk!) and get a sense of this city. To find clothing stalls and food kibandas on my own, to savour in cursory nyama choma or homely steamed fish with ugali. To get a Tusker and to be forced to savour the taste of Kenyan lager again. I eat some yummy food but can't even tell you their names.

Later, when am wandering around town with a stapled itinerary and some njugu karanga nuts in a Tuskys bag looking for a place to sit down and chew, I catch sight of my reflection in a shop window and am struck by the haunting hunk of the man I am at forty-seven, slightly overweight, a little bulky but not bald.

So startling it is I quickly look away. Women are too good looking, and there are far too many of them. They all carry big bags... where have the small bags and the kyondos gone? Alas, these women look much smaller! Not like the big-hipped big-buttock-with-madiaba-legs women I was used. However, I manage to find some old music stores, and I'm overwhelmed by the ugly copies of my pirated music on audio cassettes and cheap Chinese CDs. I pay to listen to my own music, and I'm feeling not flush but at least less crushingly uplifted in the quaking baritone of Biggy Tembo.

I visit some clubs and don't find the hell-may-care fun that characterised our time in the heydays of the '80s in the then invigorating and enlivened clubs with strobe lights. I find clubs dead to the characteristic boogies of our lives back then. I see million shilling clubs fitted with psychedelic lights and pricey music systems. The patrons are nearly all 20-something-or 30-year-olds whose only idea of fun was to chew gum, drink booze, talk noisily and endlessly gaze at giant screens watching English football clubs... Manchester United or Arsenal. What about Gor Mahia and AFC Leopards? They are still around, I'm told. Playing ananga.

Hm, for me, it will always be Gor Mahia. You can call me old-fashioned if you like. Really that's what I am. Gor K'Ogalo. In Leeds, I was an avid Manchester United supporter while Pam and Daudi were die-hard Arsenals.

Anyway, I'm looking for pole dancing. Forget it, I'm told to forget it. Instead, I am shown the new one with enticing sisters teasing male patrons out of their wits by vigorously and suggestively wriggling their scantily covered butts on their laps. It nearly makes my eyes pop out of their sockets each time I see it. Lap Dance, this one is called.

Hey, and what about gogo dance? Ah, spare me...

Call it culture shock again? You bet it is! Nairobi is in flux; ever changing. In 1991 when I left Kisumu, crime, corruption, bad politics and political dissent, tribalism, rotten economy, and over-fagged society with jobless youths was the order of things. I'm told the situation has worsened.

At a closer look; however, I find a city that cares for a new sophisticated and persnickety new middle class, with its sizable entertainment allowances and with zero sense of fun. The Nairobi that I knew and now miss was the soulfully artsy one loaded with dispensable income or misplaced priorities and crucial weekend outings and lots of live band fun. My kind of Nairobi was the one where the young, the moneyed old wazees and hot-blooded youth, the middle-aged, middle-class working class were naturally riotous. Naturally. The joints of the times were the sleazy clubs with an attention-screaming reputation for baseness and were generally packed out, rasping, party-laden and haughty, not particularly tasty for the faint-hearted.

Suddenly the romantic 1970s come tumbling back. And guess what comes to mind; Kuguru Noodles, Cinzano Bianco, Viva magazine, Pussy Cat and BigG chewing gums, Peregina Peremende, Starlight Club, Les Wanyika, Armstrong Kasuku's Garden Square, Ronald Ngala Street's notorious Imani Day & Night Club, the equally notorious Club Somberero, Lady Gay beauty lotion, Susana Pomade, Ambi perfume, Pressol hair gel, Abaluhyia Football Club, Luo Union, GEMA United Football Club, Orchestra Les Mangelepa, Maroon Commandoes, Ilunga wa Ilunga (Baba Gaston), Mercedes Benz 450 SLC, Renault 12, Tusker Export beer in stout green bottles, Voice of Kenya (VOK), Comedians Mzee Pembe, Mzee Ojwang, Mama Tofi, Amka Twende and Baba Zero, Kelly Brown and his hit song 'Higher', Air Fiesta Matata's 'Africa' featuring Steele Beauttah on the VOK radio. The Mighty Cavaliers, Ishmael Jingo, Hodi Boys, De Rocky, Saidi Travolta, and Fadhili William were the names that summed up music.

And of course with music comes some of the hottest VOK disc jockeys of the time, such as Mr. RRRrright Eddy Fondo, Elisabeth Obege, Sophie Clay, Gladys Erude, Mick Ndichu, Lenny Mwashegwa, Agawo Patrobers aka A Gang of Petty Robbers, John Obong'o Junior, Abdul Haq and the Sunday morning duo of Mahanja Mike (Mike Andrews) & Easy Lizzie (Elizabeth Omolo).

The year was 1979 rolling into the '80s and new times.

One nightclub features strongly in a variety of memoirs: the Florida Night Club. It was at the swanky end of Nairobi clubbing life. Informal dress was prohibited, and the clientele was drawn almost exclusively from "high society moneyed folks". The club also specialised in stunts. It had a whirling glass door and, depending on which account you read, a glass floor, a spinning dance-floor, professional strippers and/or a circling seats and tables. It was always dimly lit, all of which sounds like a recipe for disaster after a few swallows.

Florida has a special place in Nairobi club history for two reasons—the funky Kenyan artists who played there (like Steele Beauttah) and the golden heart of its owner Major Mark Hassey. Hassey, Like Robbie William Fisher Armstrong who ran the Starlight Club, was keen on Kenyan acts having done well out of booking Kelly Brown and Slim Ali, very cheaply, for an earlier club he ran, The QuaNairobi (on Kimathi Street, I think). They proved very popular and a new artist Ali de Rocky was still a Florida favourite by the time I left Kenya in 1991.

I believe that Florida represents the pinnacle of the lost era's decadence and creativity. Club Boomerang, perched upon Museum Hill, was a funk-house charging fifty bob in the early 1980s. Hallians, Equator, Starlight, Garden Square, Arcadia, Pasha Club, and Club Camey charged twenty bob because they were considered to have a modicum of class. Many funky Zairean bands performed at Garden Square in the earliest stages of their careers. I remember performing there in 1983, playing guitar on the Stukas song "Mandalala" in a makeshift band that had Kasongo Wa Kanema and John Ngereza.

I turn up at Garden Square hoping to find old friends and lost acquaintances, to compare diverging paths and find out where the groovy Zairean bands are now and remember what it was like then. Instead, I find it has now been turned into a meeting point for funeral planning. The music has long since stopped; the grand old Zairean music paradise is no more. Kasuku Armstrong, old guy, where are you? There were bands like Mangelepa, Super Mazembe, Ilunga Baba Gaston, Les Kinoir (later Virunga), Viva Makale and Les Wanyika.

The most popular pubs were Friends Corner, Matumbo, Kongoni, Karumaindo, Lidos, Green Corner, and Afro Unity. For a start, one would opt to go to Grogan Road or Muthurwa for chang'aa. You could choose to go to some backstreet chang'aa joints along Luthuli Avenue or parts of Tom Mboya Street. But the most interesting was Grogan Road where one would pay at the shop counter give the seller a few minutes to fill the glass, follow him, take a swig and leave by the back door then to the counter for another order. From Grogan one would opt for a bottle of beer at Matumbo Bar then proceed to get a prostitute at Imani Bar and Lodging where with five bob you could make your pick for a short one.

From here you would make your choice of a nightclub where you could opt to dance till morning or fall into a deep sleep and be woken up in the morning by the sweepers but find yourself with no shoes.

Tonight I stop by Florida to mooch around. But my appearance brings no hush to the crowd. I might have been a show-stopper but either I belong to the lost era or I belong to Kisumu.

It's the sixth day now, and I'm attuned to the new city. The random perils and deceptions of the old city are left for memory sharing, and I have spasms of panic triggered by news reports about Nairobi city getting bombed as it happened in 1998.

What have they done to music, dear friends? I listen to music and see no art or pattern. Too much keyboard and percussion, no melody. Just jizzy canned stuff.

I particularly hate ohangla, the overplayed monster that appears to have made the Luo artistes forget the lovable benga. What many people don't know is that in traditional Luo music, ohangla ranks lowest, lower than dodo, and is reserved for funerals. I can see somebody has cleverly added the keyboard to its known rapid energetic drumming and fooled people that it is the perfect recipe for modernized traditional music. What folks don't know is classical Luo music has used a variety of instruments from nyatiti to onanda (accordion) to orutu to the flute. It has produced heavyweights like Ogwang' Kakoth, the nyatiti player from Alego; Obudo Kamolo, the dodo singer; Oguta Lie Bobo, the accordion player; and the orutu virtuoso Ayany Jowi.

What with this crazy style they call ohangla? I'm told Jack Nyadundo started it and then his bro Tony added the keyboard and perfected the rhythm. Good enough, at least they have reserved our music in the console now. And ohangla is undoubtedly better than rumba the likes of Ochieng Kabaselle played and passed onto the new style pioneered by Musa Juma. I'm relieved. Ohangla is now more vibrant and soulful than it was during our time, but it's tight and packed and made with haste to make money. I think people are fooled with all this cheap mediocrity. I listen to some Luo-rumba music they have recorded recently, and I detect guitarists who need to return to school. Guitarists who can't hold a note and play intricate patterns are in the music business.

It irks me! Really gets me!

I'm inspired, and I'm miffed.

I'm going to raise my profile as an original artist. At least Musa Juma, the man who completely destroyed benga, music is an excellent guitarist.

#

#  THREE

"I am not a politician, but when people passionately asked me to record this song, I responded."

A GENTLE warm night; the bugs...

Mosquitoes and other pesky insects are at bay; there is the moon—not full, but it is shining down through the scattered clouds. In the distance, the rumblings of city life fill the air. It is a good night for hanky-panky.

However, it isn't turning out so well...

A sudden startle puts me wide alert.

A scream? It sounds like a scream.

Maybe a screech.

No, a scream.

A scream of terror?

Horror?

Fright?

It is far from daylight, only 1.30pm.

I am in this hotel room trying to work words in a song, a tune is in my head, and I am trying to work out a chord. I have this idea in my head about a post-Europe comeback song that is fighting for an outlet. Words stream in. I am trying to make a pick at chords. The acoustic guitar does not give me the feel and effect I have in mind. Hm, this is the danger of being hooked onto electric guitar. In Leeds, I stayed off touching the guitar. I learned that sometimes in life, it pays to keep a low profile and try to blend into the background. In the first six years of my "sojournment", I was a celebrity and was still very much regarded as a musician. I was offered an acoustic guitar, but I turned it away. Basically, I didn't want to draw attention to myself knowing too well that the British Special Branch does not sleep. I didn't want to be the nail that stands out; I didn't want to get hammered in.

This is why I find myself so rusty.

Wind from the toilet window has been rattling the toilet door shutter against the frame as if someone is trying to break into the room. A rat has been scurrying on the ceiling, and another one is gnawing and making gwar gwar noise inside the wooden wardrobe as if they are aware I am a celebrity who has to stay in a cheap hotel than the classy hotel as part of my wacky producer's business strategy. The door to the other room has been banging throughout the night and has kept on rattling me up. Even the clock on the wall tonight is ticking extraordinarily loud. The cats and rats on the roof are persistently running back and forth, making ungodly sounds that have kept me awake all these hours. Any slightest noise made by the metal gate due to wind rudely wakes me from my deep sleep as if burglars have struck. The alarm that I set on the Nokia keeps going off, cracking into my ears.

What a long scary night alone in a cheap hotel room. Cheap, indeed, is expensive. Oh... even the raindrops on the roof are actually pounding inside my skull.

It was the idea of JB Bomboko and Ochieng Kamau that I should lie low and stay out of sight until they had worked out the details of my "re-entry strategy."

Smart or not, these greedy Attamaxx men know better. They have their own ideas of making me into a star again. Me, I am as flappable as a new-born. Actually, I am devoid of a plan. I want them to pay me my royalties, and they seem to be coming up with excuses. I am impoverished having spent all my savings in UK, and you know Pam had supported my idea to come home to scoop up some money for our upkeep.

So here I am in this hole. I recline on the bed, and my mind searches for recollections and makes connections with things I'm now embarrassed about. Maybe not flustered, just frustrated, I think. I am breathing hard, a headache is coming on, and my mind is in virtual overload. Fighting the somnolent feeling that has snuck up on me, it is mind-boggling—pure and simple. A case of the nerves swarms within me.

Back to the beginning...

The year was 1991, going to the end of it. The phenomenal and probably ultimate end of the band Orchestra Victoria ODW came.

It was the time the gossips discussed yet another crisis in Victoria. Either the female singer 'Queen' Belinda Auma Aseela was leaving the band, or she was taking over. Something in that vein. Kisumu rumour mill went wish-wash with stories that I was being pushed out, and there was going to be a resounding fallout in the orchestra.

To put it correctly, I had distanced myself from the band artistically. I was looking for something else... I was evolving artistically. When I turned my style from raw Urban Benga into techno, I had no business being in Kisumu. My music had acquired a level of sophistication that my Kisumu fans couldn't understand and didn't like. In fact, I was on a journey toward fusion music and had embraced Congolese rumba. I was also experimenting with Afro and was also talking to the remaining members of the African Heritage band. Men like Sammy Kasule and BB MoFranck had influenced me. In Kisumu, there was, of course, the small matter of Victoria being a benga band, never mind Victoria being associated with Lake Victoria. The press might have done us.

We were wanted by Nairobi producers, but, uh, we didn't quite fit the official bill. Attamaxx was the first to throw the dice in the roulette. JB reckoned we were NOT needed to identify ourselves as a benga band from Kisumu. Just play and keep your mouth shut, that's what our promoters always said. Avoid Luo songs kabisa. That way the fans won't know you're not Nairobians. Wear your suits, sunglasses, keep your afro combed nicely, even have some guys in dreadlocks, no one will see the difference, just don't start singing in Luo.

I was mad.

I didn't want to go into that direction; it was not in my heart and certainly not in my band. Franco never betrayed his own rumba odemba. Manu Dibango never ditched his own makossa. Fela Kuti never couldn't play anything other than his own Afrobeat. I had my own Urban Benga. Had men and women who understood my logic? Men like Roki Fela, 'Queen' Aseela, Ayo, Roga Roga, Pajos, 'The Poet' Opiyo Willy, G-Chord, Mifupa Ya Zamani and Poposso. Hallmark of talent. My band was at its best and ready to take the world. I wanted to do what Fela Kuti had done with Afrobeat. The greatest inspiration I had at that time was BB Mofranck who had made Vunduma into a supergroup the world could listen to. I used to talk to BB and wanted to know how he had done it. He told me to try and be multi-instrumental; adopt English as a language for my songs and keeps everything African. He told me it was necessary to take various traditional rhythms and infuse an element of Jazz and soul. He told me to look within. He gave me the best example: Paul Simon. If he could do it, I could.

So, I was at the precipice of great inspiration, and there was an album in the works. I was talking to various musicians. I wanted to give Urban Benga an Afro shift.

Then it happened. That political song did us in.

My meddling with politics caused me to fall. I can't really call it politics but then I'm not sure what else to call it. Press put it that the song 'Yawa Tosha Tho' could be interpreted as expressing political dissent.

I remember the night Special Branch came for me. It was a mellowed night with the majestic sound of Victoria warming our lakeside town and waves licking and kissing the rocky shore and cool breeze wafting in. The club was outside the Railway docks yard, hidden in the trees off the Marine Drive, across the rail line and up a narrow lane next to the lake. It was a white-walled open-air enclosure with hanging light bulbs illuminating the dancers. This shoreline neighbourhood somehow transcended the ambiance of our cool lakeside town to draw to us an enthusiastic crowd that made Victoria look downright unbwogable. It had the colonial look and feel. It was built on the striated rocks that extended to the south of the estuary mouth on the Kavirondo Gulf. Plush with a dance hall environment, it was famous for being discreet on the shores and the discretion was all about married men hiding away here for fun with their lovers.

The ample parking lot was paraded by Mercedes, BMWs, Range Rovers, and all classy cars for rich Luo men. The men, big and prosperous, were accompanied by their dignified womenfolk in kitenge wrappers who rolled their buttocks on the dance floor.

Even today they have not changed that unpronounceable Luo name – Club Swagore Aswaga. I think it stood for loud and pounding music.

The troublesome bass guitarist, Mo Thwaka, was kicked out of this club many times for being drunk and misbehaving. He was later permanently banned from entering the club (although that never stopped him from trying). Not only was the club a hangout for Mo, but later in the '90s, he was known to sit in with bands here for late night jams. He didn't belong to any band then, Delta Force had just collapsed, and he didn't have a job.

People say it was Mo who set us up with the police and I believe it. He was trying to get back in the band, but I had shut the door for him. Since he was up about the group, he knew our secrets.

He played Judas.

Why do I say this?

It was to be a watershed year for Orchestra Victoria. It was an election year, and a disgraceful political reprisal was afoot on the part of the ruling class. We were in opposition. We were in the opposition as always. Being hot-blooded Nilotes, we were naturally on the other side. Looking back now, I wish I never involved my band with dirty politics. We were doing fine, and it was one week to the release of 'Power Voice' Poposso's debut album. This was also the time Pam had come around to Kisumu like an angel sent straight from heaven to save the band.

I'm not sure anything else made me agree to record this song except my greed for money. The band was against it from the word go. Band rules had always prohibited us from doing political songs knowing too well the damage they did to careers of men like Owino Ja Shirati. But the Second Liberation Party's operatives were so hard to say no to. It was widely believed at that time that SLP was going to beat the ruling Tosha.

At last, I gave in. For the love of money. Le compositeur extraordinare 'The Poet' Opiyo Willy wholeheartedly supplied the lyrics for the song. 'Queen' Aseela refused to participate in the recording and kicked my butt many times for going ahead with the devious deal; called me names. Called me a rogue. Said that I had signed my musical obituary.

We recorded the album at Lakeshore Studios, Kisumu. By November I was in Nairobi, mixing the tracks at Attamaxx.

'Yawa Tosha Tho' grabbed people's attention and proved to be the hottest selling record for several months in Kenya that year. You can remember it starting with a riff, before a loaded whisper, that went like "OO-YAWA-AH", announces it with a drum break. Then you hear faint sounds of water splashing, whoops, jeers and hollers, tom-toms, tambourines. Or, more precisely, half of one, and so concocted that it sounds as if Zadios' drums are banging together two quality reggae-style steel drums. It was what Pajos christened "raka taka rraka taka chhhh trrrrrrr chaaaaaaa", a drum sound that characterised our productions of that year.

'Yawa Tosha Tho'.

It was probably the well-known song of the band that year. A two-volume epic narrative, it is one of those songs that drives a rumba intro with a catchy tune and lyrics then suddenly its sebene flips into a groovy upbeat, high-speed benga tune. The music fitted the lyrics so well. Stretching the listener's attention span than before, I split the song over two album sides and released the record on two separate discs. At first, I had intended it as a maxi single then decided to make it into a double album due to the hit potential I saw in it. I released it in Kisumu in two parts within weeks of each other, with identical sleeves. The song gave many references to the collapsed economy, lack of democracy, corruption, injustice, the murder of Robert Ouko and references to God bringing justice to the world through His people. We made that song, with teaser sing-along verses, promise further revelations concerning arm-twisting moves being made by the barons in the ruling party. The song said that the ruling party Tosha was dying and people loved to hear that.

At Club Swagore Aswaga that night, we are well into it, belting it out to a crowd of jeering and dancing fans, literally drumming up support for the Second Liberation party trying to pawn off our responsibility to help SLP in their need to help them wrestle power from Tosha when the big boys came for us.

The band was in good form that night. The best fix was the unexpected appearance of Sam Ojua Kali Man (ex-Victoria vocalist now in Victoria Academy) to the vocal line. Halfway through the song with my talons doing their work on the guitar fretboard, I looked up and saw six men in black suits at the front of the stage. My finger pick slipped off and flew out into the middle of the dance floor, where there were about eighty or more people "boogying".

Without missing a beat, the band kept playing the rhythmic background beat while I climbed off the stage, guitar still strapped to me, looking around for my finger pick, moving people out of the way, hoping no one would step on it and crush it. People were laughing, watching me search for my needed finger pick. I found it and luckily it was still in good shape, hadn't been stepped on. I slipped it back on my finger, climbed back up onto the stage, and, jumped into the continuing beat. I needed my guitar screaming, tearing, gripping, amplified, and I felt it in my heart thumping out the chords from the back of my head. It was like three bands playing at the same time in the same square that would sound like a big punch.

The men in black inched closer. Six of them. I knew who they were. They were now standing at the front of the dance floor wearing those cold and ugly looks. Everybody saw them. First, don't panic: we will keep things concise. Second, ignore the monkeys and dance. We continued playing. People continued dancing. We had no axe to grind; this was just music that hit you with no pain. We kept playing. I powered up the sebene. Now came the riff, and oh what a riff it was. Distorted power chords as instantly recognisable as the six men in black. So one of them moved to the amp and ripped the wires off. The sound went waarrgghh like a dying bull.

"Otis Dundos?" the one who looked like the leader, who had a crisp cattle-rustler Kalenjin accent, called out. Now that was a man you'd like to meet only in a madman's nightmare. His face wrinkled with disdain when he saw my look of hate. Made my heart pound.

I stepped forward, guitar still ringing in my ears.

"You and your singing group are under arrest." And what a horrible accent. Some people should just speak their mother tongue and leave English alone.

A week later and I'm strung up in court with all the members of my band because that song coshed the political establishment in soft places and Tosha didn't enjoy listening to those words. Opinion poll plus Intelligence told them they were losing ground because of that damned song. SLP got me a brilliant lawyer who explained to me that if I swallowed this Tosha's injustice and let them win, they will skin us alive after they stole the elections. He assured me he was going to bust this case and needed my cooperation together with my musicians. I believed him. In a tense trial of ten musicians in a small Kisumu courtroom teeming with SLP supporters, the judge was assigned bodyguards after receiving death threats.

Police blocked off the street outside the courtroom with metal barriers, and black marias stood by. Many Kisumuans were detained by police in scuffles or for throwing stones and unfurling banners or donning green T-shirts in support of Second Liberation Party outside the courtroom.

Ten members of my band and I passed nights of unmingled wretchedness. The five days in remand had been about to go down with my health, and I was just beginning to fall ill from a cold or some other ailment. I could understand what Franco felt when he wrote that haunting song 'Pasi Ya Boloko'. I suffered living torture, putting my band through such a harrowing ordeal. In my heart, I endeavoured to bestow upon them adequate expressions of restraint and mercy, but words cannot convey an idea of the heart-sickening despair that they endured. I couldn't even pretend to describe what I felt about the whole thing. I had never had any problem with the law, and now I experienced sensations of horror.

Days later... precisely five days later, we were in court. Handcuffed, I threaded my eyes through the maze, nodding silently. The faces in the courtroom were members of my family, relatives, fans, business associates, and whatnot. So many people were praying and fighting to save me from going to prison that I loathed expressing any pessimism as if that was a betrayal to those supporting me.

Mama, sitting in the front row near me, so near I could hear her deep breaths, was tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently as constrained as her confusion which I adduced as fear. I smiled at her, and she worked up her mind and her face to an appearance of courage. She smiled stiffly. Pam came in shortly after I was brought in. When she walked into the court, she threw her eyes round it and quickly discovered where my family was seated. A tear quickly dimmed her eye when she saw me, but she quickly recovered herself, and a look of sorrowful affection seemed to attest her utter guiltlessness. Besides Pam, two of my other women, actually my exes (who had each me borne me a son) were present: Ayo Achieng Massikkinni and Angelou. While Ayo assumed an air of cheerfulness, she visibly had difficulty repressing her tears. She passionately embraced Angelou and said, in a voice of half-suppressed emotion, "Pole sana, dada Angelou, my beloved and good friend; may this be the last misfortune that you will ever suffer! Live, and be happy." Angelou had been inconsolable in court during the first two hours. Later she had gotten a grip of herself but still remained red-eyed sitting next to her mum in the mid-row. The two of them sat together side by side and wore worried looks. Angelou caught my attention the most. Even in her moment of deep sorrow, her countenance, always engaging, was rendered by the solemnity of her feelings, exquisite and beautiful.

The rest of the band, all ten of them, stood there in the chilly gloom of the spirit-fragrant courtroom, surrounded by enough headcount of supporters enough to fill a Gor Mahia-AFC Leopards match, all wearing the same gloomy faces.

The trial was heavily covered by the press. My lawyer made a tough case criticising the Government for lack of freedom of expression in Kenya while outside the courtroom, Victoria fans and SLP supporters were staging demos and carrying running battles with the riot cops. Tosha's fear was glaring. The song was making SLP frighteningly popular. Tosha was getting twitchy, they had to lock me up and ban the song.

For good or bad measure, we had this friendly-faced judge. My first unambiguous memory of seeing him was that of a gangly, knock-kneed elderly man in a saggy suit dancing badly in one of our Sunset VIP shows. He was a bulky, droopy-faced South Nyanzan whose dark suit with striped ties in the awful Kisumu sun made me think that they must have intercoolers in the courtroom beneath the bar. I pleaded with him to release the band and let me face the music alone.

He looked at me straight in the eye and asked, "Who wrote it... who wrote the song?"

'The Poet' Opiyo Willy, whimpering and throwing bleats like the kid of a goat, wanted to step forward but there was quick body communication amongst the band members, and he was pushed back.

I looked at the judge and wore a sad and wounded face. Hypocrite, I swore under my breath. I knew that my wounded-spaniel looks took on a new tier of unhappiness as I told him all this. "I wrote the song. Please your honour, this is my cup. Let me bear the cross on behalf of my musicians. This is my band, I started this thing in 1982, and it's me who's responsible for everything in the orchestra. They sing what I tell them to sing, and they play what I tell them to play. Please your honour, spare them and deal with me."

The judge looked confused. He was staring at me and unflinching, but I saw his confusion. "Who's the band leader?" he asked.

The band made room for Roki Fela. He pushed his way to the front and stuck his head and shoulders around the other side, providing an unambiguous visual cue to the fact that he still thought it paid to look humble in front of a judge. The judge's hawk eyes ate him up. All eyes were trained on him.

"You're the bandleader?" the judge asked.

Roki Fela nodded and grunted. Aseela prodded him. "Yes your honour," he said.

"Did you know the implications of recording a song like this during a political campaign period?"

"No, no, no." Roki Fela looked distressed at being imperfectly understood. He pointed a shaking finger at me and said, "Your honour, you just heard what he said. I didn't write the song, he did. He said he began this business in 1982. I joined this band in 1988. He's the band owner, who am I to tell him what to do."

"As the bandleader, you can advise him, can't you?"

"No, no, no," Roki Fela said again shaking his head with beads of sweat on his forehead and more sweat streaming down his temples. "I'm not allowed to do so. He has the last word on compositions. We follow the rules."

The judge's South Nyanzan eagle eyes settled on me, biro pen in his teeth. It became clear that he had made up his mind that I will bear the most enormous responsibility in this case.

Sweat rolled off of me in rivers; my mind was virtually obliterated. The judge said that in discourteously insulting the head of state in a song, I had gone too far and should be fined and even jailed. My lawyer stood and cautioned that the charges against Victoria raised grave concerns about freedom of speech in Kenya, barely months after the repeal of the oppressive section of the constitution that opened up democratic space for political parties competing for power.

The judge then did the incredible. He asked for the lyrics of the song to be read aloud in the courtroom and translated. When the words were read and heard, I knew my fate was sealed. He then had a cassette player brought in, and the song was played. There was a long silence after the nine-minute, forty-five-second song ended. The judge said, "It reads like incitement! It sounds like an incitement! What do you want to achieve with this?"

I swallowed, fumbled for words, found none. My lawyer jumped to my cue and put up a weak argument that it was a song with a conservative political feel, and it was the theme song for SLP's 1991 campaign. The song had not been written to express a negative agenda, it was meant to move people to take action in some way.

"To incite people to hate Tosha?" asked the judge.

Of course, there was no denying it: the message was simple: bury Tosha. Since this song uniquely touched people, it had stuck in people's heads. People remembered all the lyrics and could sing it all.

The judge turned to me, asked if I had anything to say. Anything? I had plenty. I knew I was going to pretty much get the book thrown at me. Through this song, I had quarreled with the Head of State. I knew what was coming for me, so I didn't hold my punches. I spoke in a tone, unlike my normal voice; made it sound deep and no-nonsense. "There is really nothing wrong with this song, and we all know it. The time has come for Tosha and the Government to be challenged in a free democratic process. You cannot force your will on people forever. We Kenyans are sick and tired of systems that have dominated us for so long and killed voices of reason like Ouko. We desire for a truly free democratic space as Kenyans. Times have changed. Times have come to a new order. Jailing me will not stop the will and determination of Kenyans for a regime change. I am not a politician, but when people asked me to record this song, I responded. I challenge you to listen to the words, not just the music. An important message for patriotic Kenyans is there for all to hear and apply in removing Tosha from power. Tosha is a monster we all hate."

I rested my case.

There was charged silence in the courtroom.

Looking pained at my expression and rubbing his chin with one hand, the judge looked tired. "Alright." He braced himself. His eyes narrowed. He clasped his hands under his suit-clad belly and worked his face into a serious expression. The body language told it all: he was about to pass judgement.

But with the prospects of jail time, loss of freedom, and my very dear world crumbling around me, I was eaten up with dread. I got six months with hard labour. I stood there next to the guard, dumbfounded and resoundingly stunned. Then I was feeling charged, alert, and justified again. I expected some ten years or more.

But my relief was short-lived. The song 'Yawa Tosha Tho' was banned. The verdict capped an intense week-long trial and left everybody stunned. They were taking me to Kodiaga. My sisters cried hysterically. The air erupted with shouts of anger accompanied by insults, weeping, spitting, heckling, jeering, screaming, shrieking... all manner of complaints, more high-pitched rude twits and strained booing, but that was hardly surprising in the circumstances.

Then they all broke into the song. Somebody supplied the call verse.

Ike ike? (Bury it, bury it!)

And the crowed supplied the response: Ike ike!

Crier: Ike ike?

Response: Ike ike!

Crier: Ike ike ike.....

(Everybody, everything freezes while drums holds

steady rumble of about twenty rapid beats)

Ike! (Drums) ike! (Drums)....

Response: Yawa Tosha tho! (People, Tosha is dying!)

Crier: Kata idhi kata Kisumo (Even if you go to Kisumu)

Response: Yawa Tosha tho! (People, Tosha is dying!)

Crier: Kata idhi kata buore (Even if you go to Nairobi)

Response: Yawa Tosha tho! (People, Tosha is dying!)

Crier: Yawa iringi idhi nam chumbi (Even if you go to

Mombasa)

Response: Yawa Tosha tho! (People, Tosha is dying!)

Crier: Kata idhi kata Ulaya (Even if you go to England)

Response: Yawa Tosha tho! (People, Tosha is dying!)

Crier: Kata iring ipondo kure (No matter where you hide)

Response: Yawa Tosha tho! (People, Tosha is dying!)

Crier: Kata itim ang'owa yawa (No Matter what you do)

Response: Yawa Tosha tho! (People, Tosha is dying!)

Crier: Ike ike?

Response: Ike ike!

My father, Odundo, left the courtroom abruptly, pausing momentarily to address the blockade of journalists. "My son will be alright," he said. "Tell everyone I said he'll be alright." My mother remained seated, mute and stunned. Uncle, sitting next to her, appeared stern but stricken as well. I saw Angelou crying hysterically while her mother tried to console her. Pam fainted and was carried out of the courtroom. From the tortures of my own heart, I turned to contemplate the deep and voiceless grief felt by my women. This also was my doing! My band members looked at me with a what-now-boss look.

I was taken to Kodiaga to begin my term in a dangerous prison overrun with no-gooders, murderers, rapists, derelicts of society, run of the mill dirtbags and assorted scum bums.

End of a chapter.

A lot was said. Protests in support of Victoria had been organised by Afrikan Dawn in UK and other major European cities. The British press said the case had put the ruling party's tolerance of dissent on trial. SLP portrayed the prosecution as part of a broader crackdown by Tosha to crush democracy. A lot was said.

Well, folks, that was how I parted ways with my brother when he went to the hospital, and I went to prison. When I left prison at the end of six months, I was paranoid about things. To begin with, I was leaving the country. I could no longer perform. Tosha had seized my equipment, and the musicians were scattered all over. Some were in Uganda, some were in hiding, and some were in Mombasa.

The next stop on the Route to Insanity was Takawiri Island in Lake Victoria where I lay low for a week. My business manager His Excellency Ambassador Okoth Ochot was in England, and together with Pam they arranged for me to flee to England via Uganda through Lake Victoria in a fishing canoe.

Next thing I heard, my brother died. I had barely been in Leeds for two months.

Well, they say home is best, east or west.

I am back in Kenya, and there is no ceremony. I was wrong. I didn't know that while I was in exile, my music had lived. Not that all my loved ones had left me, my family was always there.

The two Attamaxx gentlemen, JB Bomboko and Ochieng Kamau, had handled my music for years and knew my value. Ochieng Kamau is, of course, as Luo as a typical JaLuo can be. He was nicknamed Kamau in the music industry due to his love of money and a sharp knack for making it. You know here in Kenya, each tribe is known for something. Well, they say it brings out our uniqueness, really. Kikuyus are lovers of money and are industrious; are poor cooks; are lousy lovers. Luos read books; make good and influential music and are smart upstairs; are lovers and marry more than one wife; are flashy and love posh things; love old benga, rumba, soukous, play soccer, rugby, cricket; are the ugliest, uglier than Turkanas; are perennial pleasure seekers. Kalenjins are friendly, generous, and very ugly; are raiders and reckless looters and are hard drinkers. Luhyas are our lovable gluttony pudgy-daddies and mummies, who love sex, gobbling chicken, are physically well endowed, and play soccer, rugby, participate in break-neck traditional dances and are full of pettiness. Kambas are a lopsided group with little ambition; they are a superstitious pack, traditional dancers and are blessed with the most beautiful and sexiest women. The Maasai are primitive cattle-keepers who still turn their backs on civilisation and believe all the cows in the world belong to them They have some of the most beautiful women in Africa, second; perhaps, to Rwandese women. The Wa-Swahili gossip the whole day; are lazy; are crafty and excellent in matters sex. Kisiis are irritable, hot-tempered free-floaters and a tenacious lot with cute women too; have witches among them; are wife-beaters and also know how to make money. Merus and Kisiis are cousins and share in many things, including being hot-tempered; the Meru have low civility with impolite manners and can also be unpredictable.

The Attamaxx men, being the smart businessmen they were, had kept my homecoming date away from my family and the public. Instead they released (four weeks to the day I was to arrive) a series of CDs featuring my songs which were likely to intrigue the men and women who had grown up listening and dancing to the music of Victoria in the '80s. They had spent months in their Nairobi studio getting the songs digitally remastered in readiness for my comeback. Smart, eh?

It was a sweet surprise too because when I came out of the airport, they picked me up from JKIA, bought me a new acoustic guitar and hid me away in this hotel room.

Sweet surprise, eh?

I walked out of International Arrivals and found them waiting in this big dark Range Rover. They explained to me their strategy. I was to lay low, keep out of sight. That's how I found myself in this cheap hotel room. They asked me to name anything I needed. Woman, beer, any Kenyan thing I had missed. I chose none, I wanted to be alone. I had a lot of Britain in me and didn't want to feel at all like a Kenyan. I just wanted to be alone. Alone to think and bring back sanity. To put everything into one song, to write a song of freedom.

In the hotel room, I shaved. As I scraped my beard, I looked at myself in the mirror. And felt the way you feel bad about yourself deep in your heart about the way you appear when you look at your face in the mirror, and it tells you exactly how old you are. In the mirror, I can't see the person I know when I look at my haggard face. Winter has darkened my skin, and I don't look too good. I appear too puffed up, and my face looks too fleshy, my eyes stony and discoloured. I can't believe I am forty-seven. I don't look it. Think I look 55-ish. Don't forget the old tired adage: age is just but a number. Right now I'd wager a modest sum it is.

I shave and whistle and sing. Words of a new song: "Home To Kisumu."

No matter what they say, know that I still love you

They don't know that you also love me

The rumours you hear in Kisumu that I died

And was buried in a foreign land are not true

You gave me love and life and

You put the guitar in my hands

And songs in my heart

Yawa, yawa, yawa; Yawa, yawa, yawa;

Ura, ura, ura; Ura, ura, ura; please forgive me

Something yanks me out of my reverie. It's a dog barking hysterically.

#  FOUR

"I am a badass. I can never be a good man and have long stopped pretending to be one."

DUE time

After another week, I manage to do some crucial things, such as opening a new bank account. Then JB and Ochieng drive me into a TV station to record an interview. I enter the studio and the hush and the stares make me feel my own presence.

So, picture this: the news of my comeback from exile will be seen by my family and all the people who knew me on TV.

Deep inside, I don't like this. I don't like the strategy of these avid Attamaxx men. The sound of my music on the CDs; however, warm my tired soul. The four CDs draw a fascinating parallel between the rise of Urban Benga and Kisumu music culture. And it all comes back to me. My band, Victoria. And the talented men and women I worked with twenty years ago... 'Commando' Mo Thwaka, 'Goldfinger' Tégé Zoba, Biggy Tembo 'Mukubwa', 'Gentlemen's Gentleman' KSK Odongo (whose name KSK stood for Kisumu Sober Kisumu), Mawazo Ya Pesa, Ayo Achieng Massikkinni, Mzee Frank, Agwenge Odundo, Pajos Muana Kin, Belinda 'Queen of Victoria' Aseela, Roki Fela 'Ndugu Ya Kasuku', 'The Poet' Opiyo Willy, Sam Ouma aka Ojua Kali Man, Roga Roga, Ajuma G-Chord, Mzee Vicky Mifupa Ya Zamani, Rashid Odongo aka Kadima Flavien, Benz Benji Obat, Poli 'Power Voice' Poposso and Okach Biggy. Of course, it's easy to get stupidly nostalgic about the loss of real musicians playing real instruments and Orchestra Victoria was the last band standing. Everyone knows it, though. We were the best. They didn't put us at the top of Polygram's Top Ten list for three consecutive years for nothing.

Victoria e'er had our own jubilantly confidential traditions. The press always labelled us "home band from Kisumu shaping sounds in East Africa". It was enlightening to see how my music was able to focus on the final decade where bands influenced by our Urban Benga helped rule popular music. There were always worrywart and agnostic musicians who had better ideas. But most of these cannot be counted among those who would have you define benga from Western Kenya. You can't define benga. You feel benga. You are seized by benga. You are possessed by benga. Benga is music like football is a sport. And it comes packed with more: transcendence, an essence immeasurable and unspeakable. The heart and soul of Kisumu is the essence of benga music.

The early 1970s to mid-1980s were a veritable golden age for live nightclub music in Kenya. I grew up in Kisumu and saw people flocking live bands to dance to benga, so it's great to see it has held on and it's timeless. Rumba was there too for uptown folks, and it was big and powerful and influential, and it was imported from Zaire. It came with big money and led the pack. Soukous cavacha was economy class. It was designed for hard dance with little money.

But benga was the thing that was close to people's hearts. Benga told our stories, encouraged us to forget our troubles and sorrows and dance. Benga gave us sweet words to say to our women. Benga concentrated on the narration of folks from Nyanza country and cared more about entertaining the people with little money. See, the reason benga stayed forever in the rural provinces is that it was seen as a Luo thing and the '70s and '80s were really boom times for expatriate Zairean bands such as they were and it was damned difficult for a new benga band to break into a competitive urban market. Every club's calendar was full of known quantities of that imported stuff and these bands (which had been here since the days of Jean Bosco) were known to bring in guaranteed amounts of shillings for the club owners.

When I came up with my own brand of spiced benga and called it Urban Benga, major labels ignored it at first but became interested when they saw its potential for wealth. We were putting Urban Benga in place at a time when something awful happened: Disco came and set the new trend, complicated things for the big bands. Through new wave and power pop, everyone suddenly went the disco way. They watered it down and sold it to the masses. Just like big media now does with interactive tools and technology.

With disco came this American monster we all hated called funk. It took away all our young fans and bundled them inside stuffy disco halls where they romped all night long on canned music. It even inspired the name of Funkatec, one of our leading disco companies. South Africans like Pat Shange and Yvonne Chaka Chaka embraced it and carried the day. But older folks with real taste for music could never really listen to funk or soul or whatever it was and found it all kiddish noise. In the end, the disco and live band performance ran side by side.

This is not to say that Victoria, one-time paragons of youthful debauchery, was a killjoy. Back in the day when music was music, we were fun to be around. In one of Victoria's last shows for KBC Mambo Leo in 1990, the band, now all experienced men and women on an orchestra stage performed a spectacularly unforgettable show and outshone the Zaireans. Victoria did take after take after take because they couldn't do it without cracking up. "Mambo ya Victoria ni magumu," observed the scene director.

All this may sound awfully romantic or silly, but I knew my fans so well and knew the worlds that I inhabited so well (both the real music world in Kisumu in the 1980s and the elaborate Kisumu music world I had constructed in my head) that I somehow managed to make it feel palpable and haunting.

I created music that was both a witty meditation on the feedback loop between life and art. My music functioned as a moving portrait of a man seeking the love of a girl and also of a brother and sister and wife and husband who needed to be told to forget their everyday problems and sorrows and have a good time.

In the interview, I take pains to stress that the benga scene had given way to the disillusionments and vexations of struggle to survive. And I agreed with what the press always said that our problems stemmed from over-production and over-working, lack of innovation, lack of motivation, poor communication, personality cults, bad management, and piracy. The worst was piracy. Even walking across Kisumu I couldn't make this awful monster go away, it was like the sharks were always watching each time we stepped into the studio. Then as we produced, they produced. In 1990 I swore never to ever record again. Who wants to be this kind of a curmudgeon all the time? To be aged twenty-eight and get robbed all the time, we were not reaping the fruits of our sweat. Maybe His Excellency Ambassador Okoth Ochot was right. Droopy and drippy, but right? No one the world over could beat the sharks at their game.

The interview takes a break.

I stop talking for a breather, and they play Mawazo Ya Pesa's slow-burning classic 'Orondo'. This piece was done at the time Victoria was at its best. Attamaxx had not taken us up. I can feel Mawazo's emotionally touching voice seeping into my bones. The swooping backing vocals of Biggy Tembo and Ayo make tears well in my eyes and mucous sting in my nostrils.

Somewhere amid my haunted days here in Nairobi, Attamaxx is still counting twenty years' worth of my royalty. I have time, so I gather courage and call Angelou Adoyo. She is delighted. Her voice on the phone is sincere and gentle with a genuine eagerness that moves me. It is the voice of a woman no longer young. It is the voice of a mature African mama. Adoyo is more than just one of the many women I wrote songs about, I congratulate her for being the mother of my first son Junior. She used to come to see in prison every month during my six troublesome months at Kodiaga. Years later after I ran off to the UK, we lost touch. We couldn't afford to keep in touch, she was being watched.

So, now it's been ten days since I'm back in Nairobi after twenty years. I'm worked up enough now. I work myself to make the phone call. She says, "Yes, come." She accepts, asks me to go see her and Junior in the house I bought her in 1988 at Woodley near Adams Arcade.

I still have this tetchy anxiety. It's the thought of meeting my son that make me suffer delight, humility, hubris, despair, rhapsody—all the musical inward turnings. I spruce myself up. I pick a bar of chocolate at a supermarket and withdraw some money from my account. I board the Ngong-bound matatu and get a window seat where my eyes can absorb Nairobi through the dirty Impala glass. I stare at Ngong Road, and the way it is cleaner and wider makes me feel like I'm in another city far away from Africa. Too many attractive new buildings slowly flash past as the matatu crawls in thick and slow moving traffic. Housing along Ngong Road has had a dramatic makeover. I see a nice mix of new-build apartments, townhouses, malls, and an eclectic mix of monumental low-rise buildings. I feel like such an alien here... It's like I have missed all the action, man. Makes me feel jittery and awfully bad, almost jealous. My eyes are smarting with tiredness; I don't want to see more, so I close my eyes tinkering in my head with the Comeback song I've been working on as the matatu battles through the bedlam.

In forty minutes, I am in Adams Arcade. Forget Leeds, the beauty of Adams Arcade now leaves me gnashing my teeth with envy about what I had missed all these years. Talk of a walk down memory lane, but this place is fantastic. Guess I'm just too lonely. Can you imagine that I just feel I'm British and I'm not supposed to see anything good in this country? Absurd. I feel lost and confused and strangely long to be back in Leeds. Yeah. I want to be British when I'm in Kenya. Like I want to be African when I'm in Britain. Heck!

The sun warms my skin as I walk, my profound sense of displacement persists, and the old restlessness starts to return. Maybe I'm just over-dramatic and butt-hurt. But at the same time, I want to feel loved in this big city I helped create through art. Perhaps it is my need to feel loved that is taking me to Angelou.

Woodley is still climatically serene and leafy with clean air. My mind sparks, and I feel an instantaneous affinity with the surroundings. Hands thrust deep in my pockets; I walk along the clean pavements of the old estate's streets lined with large bungalows and little gardens with flowers in them. My eyes miss nothing. My passion for savoring each mouthful of freedom is something I simply relish ever since I stepped back on the African soil. I am connecting with my world, and I appreciate real humanity. There are a few people walking and sometimes a car cruises by. It is a beautiful and calm street. As I walk, I monitor the sensation in my legs, tracing its passage to my arms. I close my eyes for seconds and feel the wind slice across my muzzle.

Then I am in front of Adoyo's house. The black sheet clad iron gate is locked from inside, but the commonly used smaller gate set against the bigger gate isn't locked. The gate and the lock are both heavy, but the frame has rotted beneath its layers of paint over the years. I push it, squeeze myself in through the small opening, and slam it behind me. The compound has the same huge trees. The garden is unkempt and overrun by wild sukuma wiki, spinach, and nut grass. I gather they are using it as a dumping ground. It has a large pile of debris, an engine block and transmissions, Junior's old toys and a bicycle remain, cartons, soda crates, old tyres, boards, old sufurias and remains of a fridge. There is a tiny basketball court next to the garage. In the court stands a red Toyota Rav4.

I knock on the white door and wait patiently. It opens, and a young girl shows her face. She looks like a younger version of Angelou. She has Angelou's soft smile, and I deduce she is probably a niece; Angelou has no brother or sister.

I introduced myself and wait.

The girl is taken aback but recovers herself, and a small smile plays on her face, although it looks a little forced. She is looking at me with a strange expression, but I ignore it.

"Baba Junior," she whispers.

I grimace. I hate it when people call me Baba Junior. She continues to look at me curiously, comes to a decision and opens the door wider.

Angelou; perhaps, had forgotten to tell her family that I was coming. Or maybe she didn't believe I would come at all.

"Thank you," I say politely, follow her into the house. The room is wonderfully warm and cosy, so inviting. It is sunny and happy. The walls are creamy with several paintings hanging on them. The hardwood floor looks like it had been varnished and polished within the hour. There are two leather couches with bottle green cushions and a small wooden table in the middle with some books on top of it. A piano is placed in the corner of the room. There is a bookshelf filled with books covering one length of the wall. The pops of colour from the quilt on the couch is especially appealing. I love all of the cosy touches throughout and how she mixes up so many different colors and styles. As a designer, she has such a knack for arranging things and making neatness. I love the bookcase wall. The only thing that looks out of place is the large LED Samsung TV.

My eyes have fun running around seeing a lot of the old familiar things around. The broad mantelpiece is adorned with pictures of herself, her British father, her mother, our son Junior and me. And on the magazine rack next to the piano sit my albums, all of them. I count.

As I sit carefully on the couch, I suddenly notice that I haven't taken off my shoes. I wince at the thought that I have brought in all the dirt and dust onto the clean carpet. I can hear a radio or hi-fi playing groovy '80s Collela Mazee benga somewhere in the house. Too much brassy bass and diffused hi-hats. The lush, mellow reverberations of sharp solo and rhythm guitars are like Lake Victorian foghorns or inexplicable reflections of obscure steam engine silver bells. Old benga has a way of transporting you back in time and place to rural Nyanza of the yesteryears. The girl comes back with a glass of cold juice, looks at my dusty shoes, pulls a face and says a polite "Karibu". I smile a thank you. She withdraws silently. I fart. It isn't a big fart, but it is audible and slightly smell-able. The odour dissipates quickly enough, but the damage had been done. I gulp the juice, stand up, and walk to the piano. I can imagine Angelou playing the piano with a smile on her face. The thought makes me grin as my fingers run over the keys.

Suddenly the volume of Collela Mazee goes up. A door opens and slams. I hear a voice emanating from the hallway. Curious, I prickle my ears, listen, and pick out the familiar rich, thick guttural voice. It is a one-sided conversation. It is Angelou. She is talking on the phone.

"Junior, please come home right now and don't bring your friends with you. Your father... he's here. Ati? What? Sorry? No, no, it's not another lie, he's here. Njoo sasa hivi, tafadhali."

Suddenly old, aged forty-seven years in ten seconds, I am paranoid. I want to weep. I had always lied to my son about coming to see him, and I never got time to see him and he always called me a liar. Now I have exhausted my life, and while I have gotten old and gritty, he has grown into a man. Not a six-year-old boy any more.

Presently Angelou emerges from an inner room. My heart lifts implausibly and flutters as amazement blows my mind. Just a look at this woman and I realise how much I missed the beauty of a mature African woman. For a half-caste woman, she has aged well over the years and advanced from the sweet lissom thing I last saw in 1991 into a voluptuous and fleshy mama. Her skin is burnt ochre and she smells heavenly. We are the same age, and at forty-seven she looks vigorous and firm like a rural woman.

I get on my feet as I watch her come. "Adoyo." Pleasantly enough, she frowns. She hated it when I called her Adoyo the same way I hated it when she called me Baba Junior. I preferred Otis or Dino, but she never got it. She preferred Angelou.

She gives me a soft hug, looks at me deep in my eyes and mutters, "Let's pray." I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the carpet, taking a deep, purifying breath, trying to recover what is left of my equilibrium. Wow! She has grown into a born-again Bible-reading elderly spinster as well! Well, she prays, says all the right words and I listen, humbled. At Amen, we sit down side by side and exchanged pleasantries.

"I need Jesus Christ to give you grace, Baba Junior. For what happened to you in 1991," she says.

She doesn't object when I put my arm across her shoulders even though her mood visibly shifts. Her eyes soften, and her expression warms, and I see a trace of a smile on her beautifully chiselled lips. I let out the breath that I had been holding. Why is she so enchanting? I don't like what I begin to feel about her. My heart starts to tumble as torrid thoughts fill my mind; gamy thoughts I kept very deeply to myself. My innermost feelings begin to ebb. I squirm with a needy, achy discomfort. This is what it feels like to find yourself old and lonely. After twenty years, I've forgotten how quickly the warmth of an African woman seeps through even the most civilised of minds.

I hesitate then give her the chocolate. To say the least, she is a little awed. Not excessively appalled, just shocked. Not dismayed, just a little alarmed. At first, her gaze is unreadable. Without a moment's hesitation, she smiles. It is one broad and most beautiful of her smiles. Her mouth opens, her nostrils flare to define the bulbous nose. Faintly, I catch the words. "You never bought me chocolate all those years. This is the first. Thanks, Baba Junior."

I think I whimper.

We talk. She comments about my accent, like everyone. I frown at that at first, and then I shrug. The few Nairobians I have met half-despise my attitude, half-admire it. My voice is un-African. It's refined, quick, clipped. A British voice. And my English is vaguely upper-class and resolutely British.

My son Junior, I'm told, went for his music lessons. "He wrote me long emails. Said things I didn't like?"

She places her fingers on my arm and whispers, "He's your son, you have to deal with his anger. Nobody's blaming you for anything, but he has anger towards you. He says you abandoned him."

"I love him," I say.

She smiles triumphantly. "Of course, he's your son." Then she pulls my arm off her shoulder. "Let me get you something. Coffee? Tea?"

"Beer."

She giggles charmingly. "Sorry, I should have warned you. Alcohol is prohibited in this house. This is a Christian home, Baba Junior."

"And as comfortable as it looks."

She smiles. "The best thing you ever did for me was to buy me this house. We spend a lot of time here, it's our home." She adjusts herself more comfortably, leans forward slightly and says gently, "I realise it's difficult for me to talk about it Baba Junior, but I forgive you, and I want you to forgive me too. And... I simply have to learn to accept you, or I'll go mad. Can I make you some tea?"

It seems churlish to refuse, so I give a non-committal grunt, which she takes as permission to continue.

Twenty minutes later minutes, tea is ready. She serves, and we drink in silence. Nothing is said. Nothing needs to be said. Surreptitiously she begins about how life has been tough, sending me into euphoria. As we drink, while listening to old benga music, I prowl around her mind asking her leading questions and open doors to her inner soul. She is at first appalled at my intrusion. Slowly she opens up. Being a single mother had long taken her off the market. Make no bones about it, she liked fun-life, she loved partying and drinking and dating but learned to do without dating men after she gave birth. I changed her life, and she learned to do without the other assorted male hang-ups. She learned to appreciate all I had given her: the house, the car, and Junior. She lost the pissy graphic design job, had bills piling up and an empty bed. She was in her late twenties with a long future, no hope of getting another job, and a best friend. It was the best friend who helped her through the transition of a single life to "marriage". Yeah, she was taught to consider herself married to me all these years and she told people her husband was in Britain. That explained my framed picture on the mantelpiece. It was the best friend who was there for her—for empty evenings, for cryings, for bitchings, for going stark raving mad.

The best friend was her late mother.

She smiles and quashes her unease with downing her tea in one gulping. I find mixed emotions and feelings; I see Angelou as part of my real family. I am mildly amused at what I find lurking beyond. She never stopped loving me, never gave up. She was always my family. Funny.

She leans back in the cushion, pulls a worried frown, and then smiles softly. Her nostrils are flaring in and out in an even rhythm. "The problem I had with you was... you couldn't commit to one woman. You were hard to trust."

"I was young, wasn't I?"

I met Angelou here in Nairobi back in the cusp of those times when I was just starting out on my journey into professional music with the African Heritage Band in 1982. Our years neatly bracketed the good old days of Moi's Kenya when you could still do something else like art and succeed in it without it being politics. We were hearty-hearty artists: she was a graphic designer and I was a guitarist. We could have been a perfect match. Only we weren't. And for many reasons. We were both rebels with wild streaks and a zest for life.

She smiles sweetly, tucks her legs into the folds of the puffy footstool, wraps her arms around them and giggles softly, "What about your other women? Ayo is still around; the other day she had an exhibition of her paintings at the Goethe Institut. I read in Sunday Nation. Aren't you going to see your other women too? The way you've had to come and see me?"

I can tell from her tone she is making fun and it is a kind of reflex. The question is childish; I choose not to answer it. For at least five or six seconds, we are silent. It seems like she is attacking me in a more or less rational way. She mulls something over and then appears to speak. She apologises and starts to say, "There's something I want to tell me before Junior comes and don't beat me...."

Our chat is broken by a car horn.

The front door ruptures open to admit a tall, gangling youth followed by two other youths. The first youth gapes at me. I see him and I see myself some twenty years ago. He smiles with the politeness of those who have heard of the musician Otis Dundos before. It is astounding how much he looks like me. Same slightly square jaw, prominent cheekbones, full lips, dark brown complexion, and deep-set eyes under arched eyebrows, thick Luo neck, and broad swimmer's shoulders.

His brows go up, his mouth makes an 'O' and he draws in a breath. "Mom, ame-come." He booms, pumping his biceps energetically.

"Junior."

"Dad?"

I get on my feet, hold him by the shoulders. I give him a hard look. His eyes are level to mine, telling me he is as tall as me. "How have you been, my boy?"

To which he looks at me quizzically. Then he bursts into laughter. "Mom, did you hear that? He wants to know how I have been, Well, Dad, it's been twenty-four years." The two other kids laugh too.

"Junior!" Angelou shouts.

I shake my head and chuckle. There are many ways of playing this scene. I can understand his anger. I am not only a prodigal father, but I am also a badass. I can never be a good man and have long stopped pretending to be one.

"Yes, son, of course, it's been twenty-four years," I speak in the most ordinary of voices.

Angelou is miffed and embarrassed and definitely not into the mood to play dopey kiddie with her son. Her mouth hangs open in pure shock. Eyes blinking excessively, nostrils flaring, she comes to stand between us. To Junior, she says, "Is that the way to speak to your father? Aren't you happy he's finally here? You never believed he could ever come to see you!" She turns to me and says, almost implores. "Baba Junior, I'm sorry about this. Junior has a pretty good job at the bank where your brother Tom works. I'm very grateful to Tom for getting him that job. Tom has been very good to us. Junior plays bass guitar in a band during his time off. These two are his band-mates."

I know what she is trying to do, and her mediation tactics visibly have an effect on Junior. His tense face relaxes. He lowers his gaze.

I turn to look at the two fresh-looking kids, wondering what oddities their exteriors conceal. One is dread-locked and dressed loosely. "Boys, do you mind excusing us?"

The two man-boys grin, they bustle out.

To Junior, I say, "Sit down, boy."

"Dad...," Junior blurts. He remains standing.

Angelou is flummoxed. It isn't so much as explosive as I expected, just a little upsetting. Yeah, that is it; a bit upsetting. Determined not to waste energy and anger at what is beginning to look like some sort of comic family drama, I allow myself to look as irritated as I feel. "Son, I came here to ask for forgiveness from your mom and you. Your mom has already given her piece and forgiven me. Now, you?"

Excitement pool in Junior's eyes deep enough to drown in. Innocent effusion makes him laugh. I step back and look him up and down as if making a serious evaluation. Junior is tall, stringy, keen-eyed and topped by a shock of well-kept curly hair. He has taken a lot of his mother's genes and has 'natural lipstick' on his pronounced lips. I always wondered after my son's good looks... wondered how amazing it was that one drop of white blood could make black people look so good. His muscles will fill out in the next year or so and he'll become physically attractive, but facial bone structures are still not prominent, and it will take only a thin layer of fat to make his face shapeless. He looks fit and apt in his slate-gray jeans topped off with a black t-shirt.

He sits down on the footstool in front of us and says thoughtfully, "Dad, there's nothing wrong. Don't ask me for forgiveness, there's nothing wrong. Just be nice to mom, okay? She never stopped praying for you. As for me, I'm okay. Cool."

I sit down, look at him, and say nothing. His eyes shift from me to his mother sitting next to me then back to me. His smile is loaded with scorn, and he shakes his head. "What do you want from us, Dad? I know we are family... sort of. I mean..." His tone is accusative and gibe-like. My jaw clenches, but my face remains impassive. I feel Angelou's hand reaching for mine, holding it, squeezing it. I hear her sniffle next to me.

"Calm down, Junior," she says. "Please."

Numbly, he obeys his mother. He lifts himself off the footstool and sits on the edge of the couch. He closes his eyes, weariness etched on his lovely face, and he shudders slightly. He opens his eyes to glares at me. "I hate to think about what could have happened to you. That you were sent to prison for attacking the Government in a song. That it destroyed your career and you were forced to run away to Britain and forced to abandon music. Well, you aren't really my hero. In fact, I hate to think you are my dad. But, I guess I can't help it. Many times I sympathise with myself for being your son."

That's a mouthful.

I scowl at him, turn thoughts in my head and shrug. If I am not the father I should have been to him... well, it is too late. A part of me would like to be there for him now as he steps into adulthood. All at once it's quite clear: I'm not dealing with a boy but a fellow man. That insight pierces through the irritation I feel at his high-handed words. I shudder at the waywardness of my subconscious guilt. His mood swings remind me of my brother Ouru. I watch his eyes narrow, and then he grins mischievously. It's disarming. One minute, he's sarcastic and angry, the next I'm gazing at his gorgeous smile. Just like Ouru.

Still holding his gaze, he says, "So what are you doing with yourself? Form another band?"

Angelou clears her voice. "Junior stop it now. This is your father, the only father you have. I want you to respect him the way you respect Uncle Mboya. This is your family. If you don't tone down your attitude, I'll take it you want to break the promise you made to me." She turns to me and says, "Junior plays the guitar like you. He is into songwriting and appears to be full of ideas, but I want you to see if he has talent."

I ask, "What kind of music do you listen to?"

"Hip-hop."

And what's your band?"

"Quakes of Nairobi."

I gather that like all the kids of this day and age, he is a devout adherent of hip-hop. He talks long and passionately about his dreams and his plans. He shows me the music he had written on a music sheet. I study the sheet carefully. "Lots of strange chords, Junior."

I have a sneer on as I hand the sheet back to him, and he looks down. He seems to understand. He looks appropriately solemn for a moment, then grins. He glances sheepishly at his mum. "You think so? Well, if you say so... m-maybe I am learning, man."

Then I ask him which one of my songs he likes.

"There's No Mathematics In Love," comes the reply.

Of course. That is what everyone remembers. 'There's No Mathematics In Love' was the rutty anthem of the late '80s. It was really our platinum hit. That song will forever herald one of Urban Benga's strangest guitar breaks. There must be at least ten cover versions all over Africa by different artistes. Singer and composer 'The Poet' Opiyo Willy wrote it from personal experience. Roki Fela and Ojua Kali Man did lead vocals backed by 'Queen' Aseela and Mzee Frank. On rhythm guitar was 'Goldfinger' Tégé Zoba and G-Chord played bass. On drums was Zadios. It was compulsorily loved and purchased and made the 1988 Song of the Year. It won us our second gold disc. It was big on the radio, in bars, in people's lips, and in disco halls. Young men drew lines from it, which they used to seduce young women who became their wives. In the song, I made myself heard by tuning my guitar to sound like a massed rank of orutu violins. It was discordant, avant-garde, and every bit as brilliantly weird as Michelino and as robust and intricate as Dialungana.

I get Junior to demonstrate to me his skills on the guitar and on the piano. I track his progress on the instruments with relish. With slow progression and absolute determination, he eases his teen-hood onto the keys and tries to make sense. I want to know about his idols and where he gets his inspiration from. Then I ask him to seriously tell me why he wants to become a musician. I quickly see he has no talent. Except for the hopelessly burning ambition. He's trying to be like me, but he is not going to get there without talent. He's going to walk this path through gut perspiration. Problem is he believes in himself and thinks he is good.

When I called Angelou, and we arranged this melodramatic meeting at her house, the last thing on my mind was even the remotest possibility of us getting back close and friendly. As the evening of our re-acquaintance meeting progresses, she sets the dice rolling. She asks me to take her out to dance.

"Yeah, why not?"

"Okay, take a shower while I finish preparing the meal," she suggests, pointing to a door in the far wall. I raise my eyebrows at this. Obviously, I still can never underrate the power thing in women. She isn't even requesting; she is telling me like a wife commands her husband.

I make good use of toilet and shower, in that order, relieved at being able to ensure I'm going to smell ripe (or worse) at dinner. Clean and relaxed, I return to the living room. Dinner is served and we eat in silence. I chow down the delicious meal of fried liver and ugali. Later as Adoyo goes to shower and gets dressed, Junior asks me to help him perfect some chords. We work through his music and his eagerness to learn amazes me. We are deep into it, and he is picking some skill when his mother emerges from her bedroom all dressed in a white top and a bright red hula skirt.

"Junior," she calls, "mummy's going out."

Junior shrugs. "What can I say?" he says. He looks at his expensive-looking wide bling watch. "It's going to nine. Just take good care of her. I've never seen her go out since I was born."

I merely scowl at him.

I take her to a rumba club in Nairobi West. She is as happy as a child and dances a lot. The fun lights up, and before long she asks me to buy her one beer, only one beer. Well... one leads to two then to three. Then she pulls me once again into the dance floor and rolls her buttocks while I hold her waist.

Afterwards, we arrange ourselves comfortably in a darkened corner. I take the chance to compliment her. "I didn't tell you how beautiful you look. In a mature way."

She smiles at me, sniffling and rubbing her sleeve under her nose. "Oh, really," she breathes, her nostrils flaring and her voice hitching slightly. "And I didn't tell you how handsome you look. In a mature way."

I am entranced by that smile. I had missed Angelou's smile. I had entirely forgotten how warm and lovely this woman can be. It all comes back to me now... her zest for life, her rut, her appetite for a good time. All.

She nestles in my arms, and I play with her hair. We have so much to say. We talk about the past, dig up some things to blame each other about. Why didn't we do sensible things when we should have? Like becoming an item? All the pain we went through during our stormy relationship in 1983, wasn't that madness love? What stopped us from killing each other? Why did we fall apart and went separate ways yet whenever we met, we couldn't prevent our hands from touching each other. Like we're doing now after more than twenty years. Why are we necking openly with no shame like we are teenagers? She wants to know: was I the love of her life? Possible, I say. She had always wanted to tell her own story. A story of her love for a man she could never marry. A man she even had a child with. She wants to explain her formula for personal triumph and articulate the method she used to overcome the tragedies in her life. She is on her own now after her mother's death four years ago. Her finances are not in good shape since she quit her graphic design job. She's exhausted her savings and used her mother's savings to pay for Junior's BCom at the Uni.

I ask her about what she is doing now. "Hustling," she says. She works from her house. She has converted her garage into an office and has her own design firm with a staff of three. She feels if she could survive in the wake of her problems and raise her son alone, get salvation, she would go on to be a happy, sane, and accomplished woman. Her life story will positively inspire other single moms who suffer and continue to be in the category of women who remained single because they made one wrong move in the course of their early adult years.

Then she says it. "Dino I am lonely. I... honestly wish you were my husband."

My hands are running lightly up and down her backside—and down to her butt area. I search her face; her look of honest longing is unambiguous. I forthwith derive that her loneliness emanates from empty-nest syndrome, with a bit of mid-life crisis. I don't blame her, how can I when I might be experiencing that myself.

My reaction is equally generous. "My love, please know that I will always be there for you."

Angelou gives a delighted giggle. "Will you?

I nod.

"Are you sure?" Said in a stage whisper.

I nod again. "Unequivocally."

She asks me about my "other family". Yes, the clichés of Urban Benga stardom applied, I had many notable girlfriends back in the day when my music held sway. I did countless one-night stands. Dinked with hundreds of women. I dated Adoyo; Mary-Goretti, female singers in my band, Ayo. And a host of many more. I had three other boys with three different women. And more women come to mind: Mama Iva. Riana. Where are they? Especially Riana.

She lapses into the stillness of concentration—I into contemplating the dreadful prospect of confronting my demons in old age. She plays with my hair, wants to know why I cut my lovely afro. My once-large afro hair had disappeared in Leeds, had been cropped close to my skull. I tell her I don't like the way I look. I am fatter and more cumbersome. "It's okay," she says.

I take a deep breath and ask if she would come to my hotel for some wine and cookies. She would love to, but first, she wants me to spruce her up. She's broke like a tardy market woman.

So; of course, upon hearing of her desire to get into things like the old times, I volunteer to help her accomplish her financial goal. "I will give you part of what you and Junior are entitled to. You can use that to expand your business."

She smiles warmly. "Thank you, Baba Junior." It is a whisper.

Maybe somehow in my past, I had screwed up, and the future was already pre-programmed. But now? In the present, I have to be good and be in sync to exorcise my old demons. I have to kind and generous to people. I have to be abundantly responsible and support my family.

I don't know. It gives me good cheer.

#  FIVE

"I have a tear to give. I am watching a dead man walk away."

WHIRLWIND of Passages

The weekend comes, and Angelou and I finally succumb to our desires and spend a whole weekend in my hotel room. I find myself paying dearly for the previous years' syncopation. I can hardly open my eyes. My head is throbbing due to Angelou's insistence on playing Victoria's highly sensational 1984 Lake Victoria Breeze album close to my ears. These '80s songs sound so fresh, are obsessively laced with tradition and the past, yet they are timeless at the same time. This album had been people's favourite back then; back in the sunny benga days in Kisumu. Mawazo's vocals have a refreshingly unique tone, recognisable, inviting, and captivating. Tembo's style is both funky and graceful, bringing as much profundity in melody. These songs defy easy classification while pulling from hardcore benga. They are enhanced even further by a well-ploughed rhythm section that brings it all home. The playing in both the drums and the bass is good to listen to. So hard to believe the musicians who made this record twenty-five years ago were all novices in their early twenties playing exactly what talent gave them with great chops and such effortless style.

When she has played enough of it, Angelou gushes about how much she's enjoyed the weekend. I ask her how she can stand me still, after all. She shrugs and smiles. "You're such a rogue! But I'm more in love with you now. I love your music too. I love your old songs, they are so sweet. It's like talking to a living Mr. Love. You know what that means? I mean, I discovered your music after you left to Britain. And I never stopped playing."

"I think you're under obligation to like my music."

She nods. "I love the Biggy and Mawazo combination in the early records. Mawazo was always my favourite."

"Oh. Was he?" I think a moment. "I don't mind. It was probably good for his self-esteem or something. To be loved by women, I mean. And it amused me."

"He was a real star."

I sigh. "I just don't think you should've let him flirt you."

She frowns. "Are you telling me that you were jealous of him? Hm, Mr. Bandleader feels bad because his woman was amused by his star-rific friend in 1984? Ha! It was just a game. Maybe I was just trying to get back at you. I was a bad girl then, remember."

"Yah. Canabis sativa and all. Chang'aa at Whitehouse in Ondiek Estate."

She throws a pillow at me. "Oh, shut up, Indian Boy! He kissed me."

I stare at her. She laughs and sticks her tongue out. I chase her around the room and tackle her on the bed. She squeals.

"He kissed you?"

"Yes!"

"He kissed you?"

"Yes! And I let him."

I look at her sharply. She gives me a nod and wink. "Don't worry dear, nothing happened more than kisses. I was pregnant with Junior, that's why I didn't..."

"Well, for this you will have to be punished!" I spank her. I don't quit until she laughs so hard she threatens to pee.

Come Monday morning Angelou has to leave by six, so I can sleep and repair my damaged tissues. Sleeping in late is a futile exercise, anyway, as the hotel staff keeps knocking on the door and asking if they can make up the room. It's not even 11am for crying out loud! I have a major headache, I feel dizzy, and I need a shower. I sit on the edge of the bed for a long moment gathering myself. The need to pee overcomes me.

I do eventually drag myself out of bed, open the door, and I'm told I have a guest. An Achieng. Of course, it's Ayo. The woman who made me pull off the epic '87 European Tour. She is a pathetic shadow of herself now, and I nearly wept when I met her three days ago.

This is by no means a surprise. She first threw the shocker when we met last Thursday at Attamaxx (where she was picking her meagre royalty cheque), and she is here today by appointment to take me to meet the few surviving members of Victoria. I don't know who is dead and who is still alive. In Leeds, I heard so much about so-and-so reported to be dead only for them to turn up alive but losing in their heads. I always felt the weight of grief or sadness.

I shower and dress then I join Ayo in the reception. She pushes down the hem of her flowered dress disgustedly as she stands up. "Abonyo telo owadgi Odingo, sweetheart," she says feeding me with those dark cloudy eyes. Bewitching and sexy they'd been once. But Ayo, 54 now, has aged so badly. She is gawky and unkempt, looks too thin... smallish. Gone are her famous one litre Coca Cola madiaba legs. She is a spindle-legged bony woman. She is wearing a cheap wig, and her lips glisten with gloss lipstick or some facsimile thereof. The only thing that is left is her booming voice. But like a bird that cannot fly, she cannot sing. In the years following our European tour, we witnessed her decline. She left the band and followed a solo career. She lost her modesty and took to drinking and following other artistic pursuits. What followed was the disintegration of her wholesome diva image. But most upsetting were the changes that pop journalists noticed in her once-golden voice. I am seeing her here today after twenty years and what I'm seeing is a wreck of a thing I am ashamed of.

She wants to take me to find the singer Oroko Afelo aka Roki Fela 'Ndugu Ya Kasuku'. By now, I am so tired of having to make decisions I will go with whatever.

We leave the hotel just shy of midday. Walking and talking and huffing, we find ourselves outside what once used to be Assanands (they call it Tamasha now) on Moi Avenue where we pause to admire my CDs on display. Nairobi's most famous record shop does not open its doors on Sunday, so I'm relieved we are not poised to conduct the ceremony of shaking hands with old fans and grinning stupidly and answering questions. A turbaned Indian priest with white hair is distributing Britannia sweets and leading a crowd of rabid chokoras away from the locked doors of a temple. Ayo comments that such things fill her reservoir of ideas for her next painting. Which makes me recall that she is a painter.

I follow her into a gift shop where she conducts a fruitful quest for a doll while I allow my eyes to widen, a broad smile forming on my face. Doll? Whatever for? She is a grandmother, she tells me with a lewd wink as she pays and pushes the doll to be wrapped. Her granddaughter is four.

From Moi Avenue we visit pubs along Luthuli Avenue, as if that is a tradition. I have a chuckle at the fact that Ayo spends a fortune on booze at Nyanza Bar every weekend (this by her own admission). Roki Fela performs with a 5-piece band at another bar in this area, that's where we are going. Ayo can't remember the bar. So we will just have to look. Strangely, much of the area is cordoned off by police due to what might be an accident? No, Ayo says, today is the Chief's day. Whatever that means. We might be lucky to find Roki as most musicians will converge here. I can still remember the superb Classic Chomas on Munyu Road. We find it and enjoy some of their excellent house nyama chomas. The combination of the chomas, steaming ugali and kachumbari, and a cold Coke all do nothing to rid me of my hangover and; I'm in a hurry to leave the crowded place with loud Kikuyu music in the bar behind.

Ayo leads the way through a back street kichochoro, and we are at the rear of a bar called Kisumu Den. We go up a narrow winding staircase strewn with bottle tops, used condoms, miraa remains, match sticks and cigarette butts. She informs me that today is the final day of Chief's fundraising and is headlined by various bands taking turns on stage. Who's Chief? I now ask. The area councillor, she says. The fundraising area is quite generously proportioned, and there is plenty of space even after the band arrives at 3pm. My eyes follow people coming into the hall, the murmur of voices, the shuffle of feet and veils of light hung like curtains, looped and festooned on invisible hooks. But bits and pieces of what is left of the sun suddenly scatter as there is a living legend to see in the shape of Roki Fela. I recognize the one-time Victoria singer almost immediately; he is commanding a decent crowd on the stage and, even at 54, he has lost little energy. The sound his band makes is sometimes an ungodly racket (so to speak) and it's a real no-surprise that the Victoria classic 'There's No Mathematics In love,' with which he finishes the set, is a flat and feeble performance. His husky tenor is still intact, powered with a distinctively taught, quavering vibrato and the trademark low chuckle that peppered his singing style in Victoria. A lot lost; age has watered down Roki Fela. That's my opinion, though, certainly not the crowd who all leave happy and take up strategic positions to wait for the next song. Their sets come mostly from the 1990 Luopean album. The next song is the evergreen 'Shauri Yako' and it doesn't really resonate with a late-afternoon crowd intent on scoffing the mediocre band's pre-packed rumba-raha than clapping along to a band which may never escape the tag of rumba darlings.

Ayo goes on gazing down at him for a while, and he goes on gazing back up, neither of them saying anything. Then she pushes me forward, and Roki Fela seems shocked to see who it is, even though this is exactly what she'd suggested he should do. He lowers his head with a scowl, and then he smiles, big white teeth, splitting the neglected graying fur on his upper lip and his chin. The stubble is long enough, and some of his whiskers are starting to curl a bit, and his chin and cheeks are nicely filled in with a handsome, thick beard.

He doesn't look fifty-four.

I speak. "Ndugu Ya Kasuku, let's do it. Let's do 'Anyango Nyar Nam'."

A hush abruptly falls over the house. This is a victoriously private moment. Someone hands me a Yamaha guitar. I tune it. And I play gently a little opening figure, no beat yet, the sort of thing that could lead into a song or just as quickly fade away. I try to make it sound like Kisumu. Like old benga. Like happy lakeside bars, big piers extending long into the still waters of Lake Victoria. Like babble of ordinary elderly idlers playing ajua at the Kisumu Social Centre and I guess I'm thinking too of my father, the way I'd come into a room and see him on the sofa gazing at my record sleeve with its picture of some smiling fishermen, and the title reading Lake Victoria Breeze. Or maybe the slow-burning Tiacha! album showing the image of the guitarist and bandleader wearing a hefty afro hairdo sitting in a 1970s Cortina somewhere along Oginga Odinga Street.

At this moment, I play it so my soul would recognise it as coming from that old world in a city far away, the world on my record sleeve. Then before I realise it, before I've picked up any steady rhythm, Roki Fela starts to sing. His posture, standing in the tiny stage, is pretty steady, and I am wowed at his firm balance and grip. The lull, the hum of his valved voice is like I remembered it; a little sad and raspy as if he is crying, but husky-edged and hitting like a ton of bricks. His lips twitch and curl, and the metallic rasp of his voice echoes through the vocal chords accentuated with an enormous amount of body, wringing his huge tattooed hands together like mastiffs in a pit with energetic footwork like Rochereau in his '70s Kaful Mayay. He pitches his voice deliberately and provocatively to stress some verses. And like all fine African singers, there is sometimes that weariness in his voice, even a hint of hesitation, like he's not a man accustomed to laying open his heart this way. That's how all the greats do it. That's how Roki Fela does it. Too bad his backing singer, Ojua Kali Man is now dead.

We go soulfully through that song, full of traveling and goodbye of Luo man leaving his woman. He keeps thinking of her as he passes through the towns one by one, verse by verse. Migori, Awendo, Sori, Ndhiwa, Rongo, Homa Bay, driving down the long winding road to Mbita, taking a ferry to Luanda Kotieno and entering Siaya Ka Baba. If only we could leave things behind like that, we could make the world a romantic place in terms of moving on. I guess that's what Ayo (singing along with Roki Fela) always said in her songs. If only sadness could be left behind like that.

We drive the song through to the end of the second chorus now (song is 'Ja Hera Achieng Nyar Kendu Bay'). Suddenly it's the original Victoria in the house as Urban Benga nerds. Accompaniments include my lead guitar, Kisumu hand-made oyieke shakers, and double rhythm guitars and bass set to pound us into the realms of '80s benga pastiche (but not like that crappy medley that KDF used to do; try not to think of that).

We come to the end, and Roki Fela says: "Okay, Gor Mahia. Let's go!" And we segue straight into the overplayed Gor Mahia anthem.

This being my first time playing with Roki Fela in twenty years, I have to feel my way around everything, but we manage okay. After the way he gives such an exuberant interpretation to this song which I had written for Mzee Frank, I can only look at him in awe. There is silence; there is nothing from the band, no movement, no sound, nothing. We've finished, and quietness and the gloominess settle around us. Somewhere nearby, someone is sobbing. It is Ayo. She tried to sing 'Koth Biro', a song from the stunning 1986 Wend Osote album and her voice fell flat. Her voice has aged and suffered massive erosion from alcohol and weed. She is unable to hit the high notes. At her peak in 1986, Ayo's tone was the perfect combination of richness, intensity, and brilliance. Her range was powerful, deep, and effortless.

The rest of the afternoon is like old times. A burden has been lifted, guilt is dashed, and we relax in our friendship. Roki Fela is interested in my master tapes featuring his songs, and they are both thrilled that Victoria's vision is to be continued, at least for a time. I share their excitement about a proposed comeback tour. We laugh at memories of recording songs and performance, of the arguments and disagreements that had to be sorted before any artistic decision could be taken, and we marvel at how excellently the dreams turned out. They're still not very happy with the fact that everything stopped suddenly. So suddenly in 1991.

I order cold Tusker and Roki leans back against the dirty wall, raising his burly arms, clasping his hands behind his head. His furry armpits are damp, and I catch a choking whiff of stale sweat that somehow reminds me of how men smell in Kisumu. I don't like the tattoos on his muscular biceps and arms, and he has that soft, pudgy chest and belly, like a lot of elderly men, the men who drink too much and don't exercise and sit around on the sofa watching TV on the weekends.

"It's been long," Roki says. "We almost forgot you. See, I still sing. The power is still there. In my voice."

I say, "Time to celebrate, then."

The waiter brings our bottles, and we raise our glasses, toasting to the reunion of Victoria.

"Don't you miss our times together now?" asks Ayo. "You chose a different path." Her voice is loud, and her gestures skittish. She coughs, sniffs disgustedly and continues talking. "One would have to be pretty desperate to miss sharing a man with a white woman while she is carrying his son in her belly." She laughs in self-deprecation. This woman uses every opportunity to remind me that she is the mother of one of my sons. Okello, my second son, is finishing law at the University of Nairobi this year. There are so many things I cannot stand about her beginning with her smoking weed, her cheap wig, and her outlandish Ambi perfume, which reminds me of the '80s and dead dreams. Who can explain it to me? I've never really smoked, only smoked weed to relax. Like all artistes. Alcohol is bad for my reflex and balance. I drink, yeah, occasionally. Yah. But for Ayo... she has been beset with this addiction. That she has a drinking addiction and to say that it is killing her is an understatement. Because she clearly has an ongoing alcohol battle that has been too much to bear. She tells me how she survived a nasty car accident last year from drunken driving as a result of which she now walks with a limp.

"Do you still paint?" I venture to know.

"Yes, of course. I have all the time. I had my exhibition last month."

"Ah. You make a lot of money?"

With a sigh, she says, "Not much. I'm not a Sane Wadu or Katarikawe."

"Good for you. A picture is worth 1,000 words, not like singing songs."

She shrugs. "Hardly true. Uses up 1,000 times the memory. And requires all your imagination. It takes huge amounts of imagination to make a good painting. I just wonder why men like you who sire sons and walk away like they just pissed were created."

In that tone, she tells me about her kids. Mariko (Mark to his friends) is an art hound; he is smart but not too street smart and usually gets into trouble when he tries to leave Kakamega. He is, in some respects, too smart for his own good and he has shown remarkable artistic talent and can make some drawings and paintings. He also has the knowledge to fix devices, gadgets, goofy electronic things, and can even build things using metal and wood. But he is an okay guy to have around just the same. Then there is Okello. He is quirky, a little odd, socially challenged, academically brilliant, and a clutz. He is clumsy and almost whimpish. Last is her daughter, Jacklynn Akinyi. She is in her early twenties and is the exact opposite of Ayo. She is a model type and very popular with her peers. She is the one who's made Ayo a grandmother.

Awkward silence. I'm pissed. I want to say something positive, but I'm emotionally subdued. So I decide to butt her in the groin. "You were never sure you could trust me. Don't you think you've gotten a little too old for your rebel streak?"

I receive a long-long stare. "I need to remind you, Mr. Otis Dundos, that your son is a man now," she says simply. I'm not in any mood to open the Pandora box with Ayo right now. We had many arguments with her over my son last Friday. I am yet to meet the boy; I like what I'm told about him as a cool, sober laid-back young man.

Ayo almost gives me a smile, but it isn't her style. She is bugged by something. Something intangible. Something I cannot see it, but can only feel. Maybe she regrets living a long empty life as an artist to nothingness; perhaps she's going through a phase and is in a constant mental fix like all of us artists. Too bad for that, ma'am.

Roki speaks. "But, don't either of you get bored, just pottering around here most of the time? Surely, without day to day problems, life ceases to have meaning?" He breaks into a tearing cough.

Ayo looks up sharply. "Life has no meaning, Afelo Gweno Rayier. None at all. We can either accept it as a precious gift, enjoying it as much as possible or squander it on greed, lust, and drink as I did with mine. To look for meaning and purpose in nature is a form of insanity to which I am glad I have never succumbed. Look at Otis here, he wasted his best years in Britain, yet he can still come back and outsmart us. His exile led to the band collapsing, and we all wasted ourselves too probably waiting for him. People have different gifts, and he is a leader of men. That's his disposition. That's the way he is made... to be above. You are you, I am me and he is him."

"Gweno Rayier?" I ask.

Ayo laughs a rich, melodious laugh. "His new name. No longer Ndugu Ya Kasuku. Ha!"

Roki puts his red eyes on me. He closes one nostril with his thumb and sniffs noisily, makes a repulsive mucous-sucking sound, ending with a leering wink and a revolting clearing of throat as if ready to void a wad of phlegm onto the dirty floor. He swallows.

"Gweno Rayier." I'm thinking about it. His real name is Oroko Afelo anyway. I had repatised him Roki Fela. But what's the big deal? The party ended twenty years ago.

The beer tastes good and goes down pretty fast. I ask the waiter to bring us more bottles. In between sips and gulps and going to the urinal, we talk about Victoria, and songs and our Victorian colleagues. We are joking and laughing and carrying on like old friends, and twelve more bottles of beer come and go. The conversation becomes reminiscence, and that's only fun for a while. My two colleagues' heads are full of incredible junk. Each one wants to talk, and interruptions abound. Serious thinking only occurs when I interject or when I am explaining something. I think Ayo is probably right, but I hate it sometimes for being so smart. To be the one always looked up to. Many of my musicians were a lazy lot who shunned working hard, and that's why their careers dissipated when I went to prison. I resent being expected to respond intelligently without sufficient time to think. Like now everyone I have talked to expect me to resume making music. They want me to recreate Victoria, bring in the old guards and walk into Attamaxx and record another chartbuster.

It's easy to talk. Talk is cheap. Ecclesiastes 5 : 7.

Well, their hopes are misplaced.

A long silent pause. Ayo weeps and clutches at her chest like little kids sometimes do. Roki Fela holds her, lips pursed and none-too-happy about the situation. Later, much later and deep into booze, I seek to get an explanation from Roki on how my band fell apart and where everyone has gone.

He smiles, a secretive smile like he knows something I should know. "They're all ghosts. Everyone is dead. Started with KSK, followed by Mawazo and Ojua Kali Man in a car crash from Hippo Point. Then Biggy Tembo, Aseela, Tégé .... kila mtu."

Ayo sighs sadly. She says, "At the end, we're all ghosts."

Roki takes me back in time to 1994, three years into my exile and a year after the rhythm guitarist Tégé Zoba returned and partnered with Aseela to bring the band together to record the dense and heavily synthesised Tupa Mbao, Uma Njaro, Victoria's last album done as a complete band. Aseela was still in charge. But they could never match the success of Victoria's mid-80s era. After all the fluff and pomp of the mid-80s, the party came to an end somewhere in 1988 after KSK's great defection. No longer did the band have its magnificent hallmark of talent after KSK left with Mawazo, Mo, and Biggy. Even Ayo, then our sensational glamour girl, had left. In 1989 the band had new singers and instrumentalists. I recall there being more of an edge to what I had managed to create in the belle époque years of '84 – '87.

Towards the end of 1994, a Tanzanian promoter known as Kissi Kisombe took them to Germany against the wishes of Attamaxx. They played a well-attended summer show. On the return flight to Kenya, Kisombe, had a problem with customs and said that he would follow them on the next plane home, bringing cash from the tour with him. He never turned up. They heard later that he had moved to the USA.

With no leadership, no direction, and no instruments, Victoria fell apart. Several of them joined Victoria Academy and Kisumu Delta Force. Others wafted languidly about downtown Nairobi doing nzong nzing escapades with Zairean bands. Roki Fela cut his teeth in a solo career. He had a hit single with Attamaxx, but that was probably the best he could do and the longest he could go on his own. Later he tried to reform Victoria, but by 1999 he was not being seen or heard of. All his possessions were stolen in 1998, and he was ready to give up the ghost. He went down and fizzled out into oblivion. He became a stone alcoholic and even spent a short spell in prison for loitering and being disorderly. Luckily the children he had with his first wife, a Kikuyu woman, had acquired some education and gotten some good jobs in Nairobi. They turned him around and reunited him with the Kikuyu woman. He became religious, gave up the shenanigans and sambo, took to gospel music and found a job related to music in church. He explained he was doing rumba in this dingy club for the love of the only music he truly loved: rumba. His children and the Kikuyu woman should not find out lest he will be thrown into the cold.

Roki Fela had joined Victoria from Ochieng Kabaselle's Lunna Kiddi in 1988, shortly after Sam Ojua Kali Man and 'The Poet' Opiyo Willy. At first, I didn't like his combination with Ojua Kali because I believed he was a talented vocalist and didn't like him playing second fiddle to Ojua Kali Man whose voice was too strong, too much, too domineering. During the recording of 'There's No Mathematics In Love', I featured the two of them and discovered that two combative voices could be a perfect combination when complemented with a single shining soprano. That soprano was supplied by Mzee Frank.

The next day I am impatiently waiting for Roki Fela to bring the Victoria bassist G-Chord Ajuma Ouma to my hotel room. I sit in the hotel lobby and wait for several hours before they turn up. I always remembered G-Chord as a marvellously nimble bassist who created the fat bass for the band after taking over from Mo Thwaka. He was a stout dressy man who loved to stress the importance of G chord, hence his nickname. The man I see is a short little old man with bloodshot eyes, lots of missing teeth, and gray hair. Roki Fela apologises for being late and says G-Chord didn't have money for the bus fare and he walked for three hours from Dandora to get here.

They follow me to my room, and I order them some beer. G-Chord is in bad shape. He is also hooked to alcohol and seems unable to remember the songs he had played with Victoria. I take my guitar and play the notes of 'Shauri Yako' to him, and Roki Fela hums the bass line. But G-Chord can't remember it. I get a CD copy of the Luopean album and play some songs. This is the album that contains G-Chord's performance at his best. He can remember some songs, and he weeps.

Digging through the lot I recently hauled out of Attamaxx, I find an old photograph of Mambo Leo television show. Roki Fela is pictured singing a duet with Ojua Kali Man, while the rest of the band, including G-Chord, are putting up a spirited performance on their instruments. G-Chord can't call to mind the moment.

Afterwards, I give Roki Fela some money to share with him and I escort them out of the hotel. Twenty minutes later, G-Chord is back. He finds me still seated in the lobby and demands to know how much I gave Roki Fela to give him. "Why," I ask him.

"I don't trust that son of a mongrel," he answers.

Well, oh well. It turns out G-Chord is deliberately playing dumb. Actually, he has more information than Roki Fela can give me. We have dinner together and he eats like a man who has not eaten for days. Afterwards, we relax, and as he guzzles my beer, he tells me my musicians are not impossible to find. After the German tour fiasco, Mama Iva had taken over the band as their manager and gotten them a one year contract to play at Club Bomba Bomba. My brother-in-law, 'The Poet' Opiyo Willy, the composer who knew all the philosophical things to say about women... Lord have mercy... he had married my sister, Akong'o. He died of AIDS in 1997. The energetic, ever-genial Congolese drummer, Zadios Mwana Kin had also fallen into the gravest trouble: he got into visa problems and was charged, fined and deported to his home-country, Zaire. G-Chord was convinced that Zadios' removal from the club was almost simultaneous with the loss of Bomba Bomba's club rating. It also marked the apparent death of Victoria.

Mzee Frank joined Onyango Odol, Odongo, Jamapera, Rich Abandu and others in Bad Oula. In 1998 he quit music and went fishing in Ringiti Island. In 2000 Ugandan pirates attacked Ringiti and Mzee Frank quit fishing and went to work with Dr. Collela Maze in Victoria Kings B band. That same year Collela died, and the party came to an end in Victoria Kings B. Mzee Frank joined the Legio Maria and went to Got Kwer for two years. In 2003 he died of AIDS and all his three wives have since died too.

Vicky Mifupa Ya Zamani? I ask. Dead too, and is buried in Langata. I know about how Ojua Kali Man and Mawazo died in a road accident from Hippo Point, but I hear it from him, anyway. Mawazo had just gotten married. He and Ojua Kali Man had fired the dim-witted soloist Ominde Nyang' from Victoria Academy, taken over the band moved it from Olindas Bar in Kondele to Hippo Point. The two of them were drunk and sleeping in the back of a van driven by a fellow bandmate who fell asleep at the wheel. The car lost control and crashed into a lamp post, overturned and went into Lake Victoria. Both men had not reached thirty-five.

The fate of Aseela, 'the Queen of Victoria', saddens me most. I heard been told about it in 1996 in Leeds, but I wanted to hear it again. She was aged 31 years old when she was found dead in her Kisumu apartment two months after the death of Biggy Tembo. I still found it difficult to understand how a brilliantly talented and intelligent woman like her involved herself with a hop-head like Biggy Tembo who dragged her into the world of drugs and perverted sex.

G-Chord recounts her turbulent personal life and her struggles with addiction. Says she was found dead on the same couch Biggy was believed to have committed suicide with aspirin overdose. She had visited me in Leeds in 1995 when she accompanied the members of OKJ Odemba band which was touring Europe, the year she graced fame with two hits from her solo album, Mume Wangu. Her best-known song, 'My Life, Maisha Yangu', ranked high in the charts and was prominent on the radio. In the song, she sings:

My life a sweet mess and beauteous chaos

I give sex to a man so that I find love

But man... all he wants is to sleep with me

Can't give me love, only sleep with me

Only sleep with me... Only sleep with me

Alale na mimi tu.... Alale na mimi tu

Alale na mimi tu.... Alale na mimi tu

It was said that she and Biggy had a quarrel that resulted in his suicide. She was working on her second album and had attracted Attamaxx and now surrounded her life with VIP showbiz people. Biggy was jealous of her success and the fact that her sudden stardom was pulling her away from him. He took his own life in her apartment. After a romantic evening, they went to bed. When she woke in the morning, she found him dead on her couch in her living room. She went into depression and was in the Riat rehab for drug abuse. Her death attracted the press and ignited public outcry because her 5-year old son (her second child fathered by Biggy) was in the room when she drank poison. Then she said bye to her son and closed her eyes. When her son later heard her thrashing on the couch, he ran and hid in the wardrobe.

Aseela... Lord have mercy on her soul. Her second album, Shuu Wewe! was released posthumously and all proceeds went to her son and her mother. In our lifetime, there will be no other like her. There is no one alive in Kisumu music business who had been battling the dark forces of nature like Aseela. None. Not Ayo who, in all her uncontested greatness, has left only a small fraction of the blood that Aseela left on stage. Anyone else? I'll answer NO, there is not. Aseela was a true artist and carried the weight of the world upon her shoulders. She could sing, play the keyboards, bass, and rhythm, solo guitars, compose and arrange

G-Chord doesn't know why the dynamic singer Oroko Afelo aka Roki Fela changed his nickname 'Ndugu Ya Kasuku' to 'Gweno Rayier'. But I have my suspicions. I want to know about Roga Roga, the blind beggar I had picked from the streets of Nairobi; the gifted rhythm guitarist who lived to the task and amazed us with his incredible talent during the recording of Chris Tetemeko. He just disappeared, G-Chord told me.

'Power Voice' Poli Poposo had teamed up briefly with Okach Biggy in Heka Heka before he disappeared. Like Okach, he was sick with "the disease". His family later identified his body at Russia mortuary after he went missing for more than a week. Okach Biggy went on to ride on a successful career with Heka Heka Band till "the disease" consumed him towards the end of the '90s.

After that, the only person who remained of Victoria was Roki Fela and G-Chord. "But now," G-Chord says, "Nothing is left. Only the glorious past to remember."

Then there follows a long silence. I am literally observing a moments silence for 'The Queen of Victoria' Aseela.

Presently G-Chord fumbles for some words. "What will you do now, start the band up again?"

"No," I tell him. "I will go to Kisumu."

"To do what there?"

I face him and ponder his question. It's like he is saying there is nothing left in Kisumu. "To live again," I tell him.

I have more: to find Riana. To sell DreamScape. If I don't die there.

G-Chord empties his glass. As if he can read my thoughts, he says, "I think we're all supposed to be dead." And chills my blood.

He looks happy as we trudge back along the track of the story of Victoria. But he has enough problems of his own without having to worry about mine. I walk him to his matatu terminus and give him some money and promise to keep in touch.

The retired bassist is all smiles. "Thank you, Abonyo telo owadgi Odingo," he breathes laboriously.

Then I watch him walk away. A wiry, shadowy figure of a man descending into decline and death. I have a tear to give. I am watching a dead man walk away.

G-Chord died three days later.

He was found dead in his Dandora room. We buried him. And it wasn't much of a funeral; it was just me, Ayo and Roki accompanied by a hired Pentecostal pastor attending his funeral at Langata. We couldn't trace any family. There were only a handful of drinking buddies in his life that disappeared into thin air.

I thought of what Ayo had said about ghosts.

#  SIX

"D. O. Misiani,' I say, 'is a benga lunatic. My uncle was a lover of benga arts, he was a connoisseur in degenerates."

ESSENTIAL collections and recollections

Some people collect fish and dead animals (really, they do.) Some people collect coins, and some collect books. Some people collect rocks, paintings, and Kimbo tins.

JB Bomboko collects records.

Old vinyl.

He has a knack, a penchant, a determination.

He has a manner in which to make his "acquisitions" as well as a strong drive. His work is easy since he's been in the business of making music from the '70s working for EMI.

I have come to see him at Attamaxx about my rare Golden Horizon album. He has one of the few existing copies which they are remastering. Golden Horizon came out in September '85 and was not well received. I think Jojo (the producer) made only three thousand copies. That year we had fierce competition from the Zaireans: Franco had 'Mario', Youlou Mabiala had 'Motema Na Ngai Television', Mbilia Bel had 'Boya Ye' and 'Keyna', Tabu Ley had 'Ibeba' and 'Sarah', Zaïko Langa Langa had 'Intégralité' and Dindo Yogo's 'Mokili Echanger'.

I find him. Them.

I find JB and Ochieng Kamau in the studio where they reside, and JB comes to the subtle suggestion that I need to hunt out relaxation from the press and media that desires to get stories from me. He is a massive bulk of a man, dark turtleneck shirt, gray blazer, pug face. Rzzo, the workaholic sound engineer and digital remastering geek takes up another room to enjoy his mixed sound at the mixing bench doing a rattle-rattle-bang-bang with rolling tapes whose levels are pushed way into the red, their over-driven, ultra-distorted washed-out recording a reso saturated making my songs sound like they're buried under a storm of radio static. In another room, Chris, the distribution agent spends a few moments discussing family matters with his wife.

Attamaxx has indeed gone digital and cut down its staff and equipment. It is a small office with a thin staff. Far from being the colossus that its media prominence might lead one to expect, the Attamaxx of today is a surprisingly small outfit. It consists mainly of a recording studio, a website, a digital mixing room, a few hip, slightly dishevelled employees, a digital remastering room converting songs and videos into MP3s and MP4s, twenty or so computers connected as servers and a mass production room duplicating the discs. By connecting to these computers via special software, Attamaxx members can search one another's hard drives for music files, downloading gratis any songs they discover. Design, printing, and publishing are subcontracted.

Rzzo is starting to work on another of my songs off the ill-fated Golden Horizon album. 'Jessica' it is. I'm jazzed at its fine clarity and stereo quality. I had missed my old school real deal bengas! The song was written by KSK, who recorded it as part of a benga album with Victoria at Lakeshore Studio, Kisumu. The album failed to cut into the mainstream music market because it was hardcore benga, not Urban Benga. I invited Dr. Collela Mazee, Odongo Agwata and Onyango Odol on guitar and now as I listen, I think Colly's licks are toffee-sweet if you like that kind of old rural benga thing, but the album is a feeble throwaway compared to its predecessor, the grand-standing Lake Victoria Breeze. But 'Jessica' is soaring so sweetly. It's an anthem of loss and regret. Each line of the song carries an emotional wallop, from the opening:

Dhako ni yawa iola ma kata adera atho aa e piny;

Nee kaka imiya chandruok mangongo—ooh

Chalo na mana ka gima in e dichuo to an e dhako;

In ema inyuoma, an ema anyuomi—eeh?

In ema inyuoma, an ema anyuomi—eeh?

Which of us in the '80s can't remember being binned by a lover or wife and failing to find a way to express disappointment? It continues with a series of moods, from anguish, regrets through spitting anger and finally to something close to resignation and acceptance. It is a lifetime's emotion magically condensed into four minutes.

I ask Rzzo how he is going to ensure the delicate quality is preserved. I recall the time in 1985; we first recorded it on audio cassette from Lakeshore Studio's Technics 1200 with its perfect stylus and Stanton element.

Rzzo smiles. "Easy. I'll rip it in 320 kbps. I assure you, I will give quality you will appreciate."

JB bobs his head steadily to the beat of the song, relating it to his own life. He taps his fingers along the leather-chair he sits in, sways his body and tosses his head from side to side with the rhythm. Ochieng Kamau's beady eyes peer at Rzzo as he flips through press releases concerning the recording history.

"Which year was this one released?" he asks

"1985," I say.

My voice pulls Ochieng's eyes away from the paper he is holding. His eyes wander to Rzzo, confusion striking them. "Did you really have to do that digital remastering?" he whispers loudly, his focal point direction on me. Most of our early records are so lost in a lo-fi eight-track fug that magnetic tape is the most important instrument. Making lurid recreations of Victoria's '80s Urban Benga by a slow, unskilled, layer-by-layer approach, Rzzo makes cuts that bury pop hooks deep under a dark pall of tape-hiss, sounding like excavated, worn home-recorded remnants from a quarter of a century prior.

Rzzo swallows hard, leaning back into his seat. He looks questioningly at me. JB comes alive. "Is it good for you?"

I nod with a smile. "It's perfect," I declare without reservation.

JB sits back. "You like it then... what can I say? The mixing worried me." To Chris, he bellows, "Hey, you boy cut the damned family drama. I need some pre-sales figures pretty quick."

Chris' head jerks up, his eyes puffy and laced with red lines. He sniffs, his lips quivering. "Right away, boss." His wife hastily picks her bag and leaves.

Ochieng speaks again. "What now?" he asks me. He looks as if he hates what he just said when he said that. He sighs, adjusts the leather suit he is wearing as if it is scratching his skin and itching him, and is not quite a good fit. He has added a lot of weight, and he wears a demeanour that suggests to me that his old clothes have long since become useless. But he is an old fashioned miser who rarely buys new clothes.

JB says, "One last album. Eight songs."

Ochieng frowns. Then a burst of insight brings a smile to his businessman's face. "Of course, that's what you still owe us according to our contract."

And JB quickly adds, "Welcome back in business."

"Oh, welcome back in the business," amends Ochieng.

It must surely come to them as a surprise; therefore, when I announce it. "I am going back home. I'll find some good musicians there."

"Home... ," mouths JB.

"Home?" Ochieng repeats methodically.

I nod. "Kisumu." I give them my best professional smile, empty of meaning as a light bulb, but dazzling.

They stare at me. I take the opportunity to act and act smug.

Ochieng laughs, a wheezing snicker of a sound. JB slowly shakes his head. "Why Kisumu? We can get you some good musicians and rehearsal space. Right away."

"What are you going to do in Kisumu?" Ochieng asks.

What to do in Kisumu? Plenty. Interlude. Intermission. Insight. Points of view. Recollection. Fulfilment. Riana. Live again. Sell DreamScape. Die. (Not necessarily in that order).

Makes elephant sense to me!

I say this for the benefit of a good earful. "Well, I need to relax my mind and recharge my batteries."

Ochieng is in protest. "Wait... I don't get it. Didn't you get twenty years to do that? You came back charged! Stay here, record some music. Recreate the brand that you are. We can design the whole thing, manage you even. I'm the producer talking here."

I warm their stares with a smile. "I have no illusions about who I am. Making music isn't the most important thing for me right now. I need to find myself. All I need is right there in Kisumu."

Their stares turn into nasty grins. Thing is their hopes and plans are thrashed, greedy hyenas. Money is all they still think of after all these years. Haven't they made enough of it? Their sons have finished university and their daughters are now married. Look, here I am thinking of retiring, can't they do the same. Then it occurs to me that all they do is move bricks. They don't need any cerebral effort to compose songs and organise talented people around and make music. They don't compose songs, and they don't put bands together. But they're quick to fire an awful-sounding band. But they don't know that even putting that awful-sounding band together and composing that awful-sounding song takes sizable amounts of effort. That's why they cannot retire. Oh yeah. Their work is so easy. Well, I have news for you, old punks.

What I say next leaves the two smart businessmen in a state of funk and takes grins off their faces. Ooops. Thing is I'm tired of this racket. I am decided. I've had enough of this. Like a man, I'm tired.

With a smirk and a shrug, Ochieng says, "Somebody in Kisumu is pirating your music. Think you should know."

I pull myself up and get on my feet. "I'll give you the final product to mix and mass produce. Three months."

That returns grins on their faces in a hurry.

JB speaks. "Don't forget this."

It's a dog-eared copy of Golden Horizon. To that I'm grateful. I love vinyl.

Ee. Kisumo ka.

Coming back to my hometown opens up the doors I had forgotten. Emotions I had pushed out of memory. Bad memories, good memories. A beginning, but no end. Perhaps this is it, a return to somehow finish what I had begun. But that only returns my original confusion. The end of what? I had gone out of the country; hadn't become successful. Hadn't made any mark that would be memorable.

Born and bred in Kisumu, I missed my land. My people. My family. My roots. Yes. Kisumu is the place I need to be in search of my soul. I need to make a connection with my past. Thank you, my Lord. I have silently and unceremoniously made my entry into Kisumu in one piece. What I enjoyed most on the bus to Kisumu were the phone calls some of my fellow jangos were making, the extravagant conversations that spewed forth. One was saying that the only reason he was on the bus was that even though he had an air ticket, he couldn't come by air because the plane was full. Another one was rejecting a two million offer for a tender because that was too little. Ever heard of Jaluo in the Bus (JIB). There is no denying it: this is us. We are made like this, with big golden hearts. Our world is bigger than the real world.

That Kisumo is now called Kisumu City is an indictment. It's still Kisumu as I remembered and it's still as hot. And the sweltering oppressive heat still overwhelms me down to the skin. In my childhood in Pandpieri, I remember how the sun used to drive people and animals into houses, next to buildings, and under trees. Ryszard Kapuscinski was right, and I agree totally. Without shade, almost all of the creatures on the earth's surface will be dead. Humankind will be roasted to extinction. It's a hell of a thought.

The place The National Geographic forgot is Kisumu, although last year, living in Leeds, I saw a lot of Kisumu and surroundings in documentary channels and in Web pages. In fact, a few months ago, I was startled to see a picture of the docks at high tide. We used to go there during lunch break when I was in Pandpieri Primary, and it seemed to me that the water level was higher than I remembered. The documentary was about the water hyacinth weed chocking Lake Victoria, where fishermen in our home in Pandpieri were threatened with starvation. Folks could no longer go the lake to draw up water, the doc said.

Let me tell you about my home: it's in a place called Fort Jesus, inside Pandpieri here in Kisumu. Pandpieri in DhoLuo literally means hide your ass or hide your butts. The mere thought and mention of this word still draw inward smiles in me. We used to laugh a lot as kids. Who was the insane "name-giver" who used such a funny word to name a place they even built churches. One stupid fable has it that long ago there were lots of hyenas in that place and it happened to be bushy land. The people around used to go for nature calls in the bushes and sometimes someone would raise the alarm on seeing a hyena. Of course, you know what a hungry hyena is capable of once it sneaks up behind you. Those found in the act would scamper for safety and forget to hide the necessary, hence hide your ass. Another legend has it that pandpieri is a corruption and localisation into DhoLuo of the word pand pier. That the land made a connection with the lake in the form of a pier known as Pand Pier, and that, since for the locals, the word pand had another meaning in Luo; it meant hide. The other word pier meant buttocks in Luo and just needed an "i" at the end to form the word pieri to mean your buttocks.

Personally I don't know how this all came about; I was born and found myself in this place. I come from Pandpieri, it's my home. Final.

It is blazing hot, and the taxi has only that 2/60 air conditioning. At Junction Kochola and Hippo Bay Road, the driver eases the cab off the highway and onto the gravel road. It tumbles down the rough, narrow road past some boulders and lots of trees with bushes all around. The big city of Kisumu is twenty kilometres away, and Otis Dundos is "on a mission."

The rutty road gives way to another road that is as old as Independence. Bare-chested kids follow along the old meadow fence. The weeds and wild grass are about as tall as them! The road is apparently forgotten; huge ruts gouged in the dirt are now choked with weeds.

I give directions, and we are in the Lower Milimani area, a little past Hippo Point. I roll up the glass to see a sun-bleached sign reading Kisumu Resort Club, and I direct the driver to park outside its vast gates. The taxi pulls into a large gravel parking lot, the driver steps hard on the brake. I look the place over, and I'm eaten with dismay. Some things never change. Which is an astounding phenomenon to me because I expected to see a functioning club to rate. Astounding! I step out and scan the view and find my bearing. When I drag my foot into the rut, I disturb a great many sated bugs that fly up and then descend on, and the staring kids who had followed us shriek and then scuttle off.

It's 11.00am. I feel utterly exhausted. The sun feels good. The smell of Lake Victoria is soothing. I can't see any security person, the gate is not locked. There is no one at the guard house and, looking into the compound, there is no one about at all. This is strange. Or is it? I don't know. It makes me nervous. No vehicles about, either. Nothing but the buildings in the distance. Is there significance to this?

I enter. A cobblestoned driveway leads the way down to the left, goes down another three kilometres into the vast property. Slowly I begin trudging down the lane, it levels out and I can see buildings far off among the trees. The long and winding path and the long ten-minute walk takes me past the Resort Hotel building to what used to be the clubhouse. All the way to the waterfront. A dozen of so-so palm trees, rutty grass, lots of unkempt sand and tumbleweeds abound. There is something enchanting about the lake—it is still mesmerizing. I walk to the waterfront and gape at the dark green leaves and pleasant looking lavender flowers of the water hyacinth creeping like vipers and eating up water and space and wreaking havoc with deadly silence. The raging water hyacinth has grown menacingly until it blocks out parts of waterfront reducing it to a vast field of green weed that goes out as far as the eye can see completely covering what had once been water surface.

I take my time and look around. I am surrounded by what resembles forgotten old factories from the Colonial era of Kenyan history when they still cared enough about art and architecture to build monuments. Creepers are growing out of windows, and some brick walls are dangerously slanted, ready to fall apart at any minute. This is what remains of Uncle's famed "K-Resort". I'm disappointed it has not kept the waterfront club rating at all. I am shocked to find that it has fallen from the ranks altogether by the time these twenty years have folded over. Still, it is full of relics from its past, including the famous waterfront club which is a badly-kept crumbling structure.

I lower myself onto the rutty sand and sigh. How long I sit on the sorry beach I don't know, time is as fleeting to me as all else. I watch the mid-morning waves crash onto the shore then roll out again. On the horizon a tanker ship cruises listlessly by my view; a cargo ship it is.

Presently I move away from the waterfront and start exploring. I make my way up the hill to the residential house. It is a long walk to the bungalow. Slowly I advance, noting how still and quiet everything is. This unnerves me. Scanning the area all around, I note an absolute lack of human presence.

I hold my last position of cover before waltzing out into total exposure. I still can't see anyone about. No car in the gravely drive-way, the front yard is open with one bicycle; a beach ball and a tire swing from a questionable tree to support it. The house needs a serious coat of paint—but the dust storms from Kisumu town and the wind storms from the lake would rip the fresh new paint off in no time.

I heave and struggle with myself to get a grip. I gulp and lick my lips, trying to settle myself. I am at the front door, and I brace myself to knock. And just then I stiffen when I hear something that sounds like a door, a click of keys locking or unlocking then movement.

There are sounds around me like things banging, muffled. Then footsteps and the door is flung open. And here she is. Right in front of me. In the flesh! Her mouth flies open. Her eyes pop out. She winces, makes an unpleasant face, and struggles to cover herself.

"Hey!"

My sudden appearance startles her more. I have not come at the right time, she only has a khanga around, and I think I have caught her at her dirtiest and scantiest. She motions me to wait and disappears into the large bungalow.

I stand waiting and holding my breath. The air is still and quiet with a few birds chirping. Maria returns, wearing a frilly mid-thigh length pajama top covering. She strolls up to me in a near glide. She throws me a look, a smile, and a hand beckon.

"I've been waiting for you," she says in a grumbly-sleepy voice. "Since yesterday."

A minute passes my eyes are locked on this woman's curious face; I take in every nuance of detail on her physique. She is pretty. A sort of shapely body with dazzling eyes. Her mouth is quirky, almost receding inward but not by a deformity. She has a dainty nose, too. But gone is her sexless aura of the lady in charge and in its place is an appeal to a surrender of her modesty or even manners. Her body looks swarthy due to lack of care. Her hair, which is half plaited, looks rummy. One doesn't have to look close to see dandruff in them and on her forehead and neck. You just look at her and get the impression that she is very dirty. With large bloodshot eyes, you feel about her something very deeply engaging.

I stammer in my thoughts; my voice a bare whisper. "I missed my flight. I had to take a night bus. Didn't mean to budge you in, sorry."

She smiles, conveys an "all is well" shrug. And a "This way, come," head-toss. I receive the message, smile—but I'm still awed.

Silence. Confirming confirmation. "Is it appropriate?" I ask.

"What?"

"I need to stay for only a few days. Maybe weeks. There are things I need you to help me with."

She appears to battle with the answer, refusing to admit her nervousness. "Feel welcome, I'm your aunt. Come."

I blink my eyes, throwing my head back.

I walk with Maria side by side along the long winding gravel path and marvel at the beautiful landscaping and facilities that used to be impeccable once upon a time. The grounds are still beautifully maintained. There are bougainvillea and other assorted colourful garden flowering plants; roses of various colours, garden gnomes, bushes, shrubs.

My mind remains mostly voided, empty, solely centred on the task at hand. I look around the massive club that had once looked larger than the world for me, and a strong feeling of decay envelop me. The place looks horrible, rotting and crumbling, brings chill and mustiness into my hopes. The air is brisk, musty, and lifeless. Even the breeze from the lake has lost its refreshing, graceful aroma and now pierces into the club with a harsh ghostly frenzy.

In the garage, I gape at my uncle's stalled green Volvo. Its inside look as neat as Uncle himself. You wouldn't know that the car has stalled here for the last fifteen years since Uncle's death. Even though the club looks odder and devoid of life as the oldest church in a cemetery, I can't help thinking of my family and of the early days of my band Victoria. Of the two, there are remains, here in K-Resort.

Maria leads me to the store. We descend a short flight of stairs to the den. Her heels hit the bottom of the stairs, she pauses, looking very thoughtful, chews about it, and then she unlocks a door. "Here it is," she says. "Everything you need is here. I'll leave you to it, help yourself." She nods and turns, goes up the stairs to the doorway of the den.

They had shifted most things from Lakeshore to this place after the studio was sold. I spend hours digging into the debris, and I collect over 1000 records which I will use afterward in different ways in the making of new albums.

Maria rejoins me. This time she enters the den, traipsing inward slowly and quietly. "Done?" she asks.

I nod. "I've ploughed through and picked up what I need. I'll leave it all here for now, let's go."

She silently escorts me back to where the taxi is parked. I get in. She remains standing outside, waiting. I study her with a grudging appreciation. I am further depressed to notice that she looks even uglier in the sun. Her pale skin has an artificial brownness.

"You're such a beautiful woman, aunty" I chide her. "Why do you hide at such a shabby place?"

She gulps, blinks her eyes, and shakes her head. She smiles shyly. Some of her past sparkles come back faintly with the smile. She glances furtively over her shoulder at the property, looks self-consciously at herself, before saying, "It's the only home I've got." By rights of marriage, she inherited the K-Resort property plus every other property that had belonged to my uncle, including the 12-track Lakeshore Studio and my master tapes.

"That's true," I admit. "You look lovelier than ever."

She blushes like a virgin school girl. "Stop flattering me, please," she says.

"Honest," I say.

A little boldly, she asks, "Do you mean it?"

I nod. I don't know why, but I nod.

"Okay. Thanks for the compliment, Owiro," she says.

I look away; the breeze from the lake thrashes the air around. Then I say, "I'd like to take you for lunch."

I have confused her so much that she has no more reserves left to say no. She only takes a deep breath and asks, "Where?"

"Some decent hotel," I say. "I'm sure you know of a better place. I have not been to this town in the last twenty years."

"It's been ages before anyone from my husband's family took me out to explore Kisumu. By the way, it's a city these days, no longer a town."

"I'm sure you can take me to some cool places."

"You want us to go now?" she asks, still staring directly at me without blinking. She is thirteen years younger than me. That means that she is somewhere in her early or mid-thirties. When Uncle married her in 1991, she was a seventeen-year-old school girl. But her manner strangely disturbs me. She is not like a woman of good manners; she looks different. She looks like a loose woman, like an adequate and available mature woman harnessing deeply-held carnal appetite, very wild and untamed but with courteous reservations. Or something close to that. Woman. Loose Kisumu woman.

"Then wait, let me put something on," she says in an authoritative tone.

She turns and leaves. I stare at her and decide she has maintained great behinds. The beauty of an African woman, as they say. Then it comes to me that she was my uncle's wife and we are Luos, hey!

England had taught me bad manners.

She comes back dressed up in a brownish speckled tweed, a light blue blouse that is at least ten years out of fashion, and a purple neck scarf. Her black high heeled shoes suggest to me that she is eager to make an impression. Her skirt is short and tight, so she shows plenty of her legs. They are as perfect and as lovely as I always remembered them. Her black weave wig is glossy and fall low, almost hiding her earrings, and looks soft and invites a caress.

It turns out she knows more than she wants me to believe. She directs me to a discreet club somewhere on the waterfront known as Kiboko Bay Resort. We eat grilled tilapia.

Her fright (and concern) has decreased significantly, but there is still some left over. Blinking her dazzling eyes, licking her lips nervously, she speaks. "Well, Owiro, I saw you on TV and was beginning to wonder why you came back here. D. O. Misiani did a song in memory of your uncle."

I put a cigarette in my mouth and stare at her. She is getting a little bold, looks a little less pale and strained, but she now looks like a woman who can function under strain.

"D. O. Misiani," I say, "is a benga lunatic. My uncle was a lover of benga arts; he was a connoisseur in degenerates."

"Oh my goodness, how tasteless." She sits back in her chair. "Well, Owiro, your uncle is dead. Welcome home into his boudoir."

I smile then I began to feel differently, strangely. She can't figure it, let alone understand it. I regard her. And it comes to me how much I hate her. I feel like hacking phlegm and splashing it in her face. This woman has a few jeepers to hide. Many people didn't believe her cockeyed story that Uncle just collapsed and died in 1995. I had heard from my sister Akinyi how she frustrated Uncle's two older wives and how she left very little for Uncle's eleven children. She had a son and a daughter with Uncle.

She is "herself" for a moment. She offers a shrug and a grin. "Talk to me now, bwana. Tell me about England and Pam, your mzungu sweetheart."

We talk. Talk freely. And fill in the many gaps that form my story. She keeps on calling me Owiro, my forgotten name. The only other person who calls me that is my mother.

I sigh and check my watch, yawns, fart, and try to get comfy. Shortly afterwards, it starts. That rumble-in-the-Jungle, the growl of my intestines working their magic, moving things southbound.

#

#  SEVEN

"Dear Pandpieri; my cradle; my adventure playground.

What have they done to you?"

FAMILY explorations. Family bliss—ah!

It is hot, damn stifling hot. Little white puffy clouds hung listlessly in the sullen sky. The heat can be seen shimmering in the glare of the day.

Pandpieri has changed; it doesn't shock me that much. Twenty years has brought many tumble-downs; too many low-cost houses. Too many people too. It's not like I have been away for twenty years, it's as if these squat, ugly buildings silted up overnight in all the empty plots around our home. I can almost feel fear creeping in me; the place is rotting away into ghettoisation and discarding too much debris and too many waste plastic bags on the dusty roadsides and in all the vacant plots and empty spaces. As the gust blows cold off the lake, the low bleak tenements breathe decay. There is crazy overcrowding in a place that once had peace and was in perfect harmony with nature before the boots of Independence. The tarmac on the roads has worn off completely, and there are murram-filled patches and gory potholes and puddles of brown water. My beautiful neighbourhood is chocking in the peril of urbanization. Or ghettoisation? You are right.

I see too many people here. Overcrowding frightens me. Too many women frying fish on the roadsides. What about these flashy, gaunt-faced boys on these too many motorbikes? I am told they are called boda boda, Kenya's new cycle-taxi men. And what about the din? Why must they be so noisy? And come to think of it: the neighbourhood has its own soundtrack of street preachers' rants'n'raves, electric posho mills, jua kali welding machines, Nigerian movies and the occasional cluck of live chicken, grunt of pigs and bleating of goats.

What can you tell me now? Dear Pandpieri; my cradle; my adventure playground. What have they done to you? I walk on bare earth streets that have replaced grassy paths in fields and woods, recalling the fun I had with my childhood playmates in the fields and in the streams and swamps that are now housing developments.

Suddenly I don't like this place masked by unbearable heat waves and teeming with plastic bags stuffed with waste and scavenging goats and pigs and as many as one thousand noisy motorcyclists and dead dogs on the roadsides. We had paradise here once with clean sandy shores and birds and trees on the rim of no man's land where inhaling cool breeze from the lake and swimming on clean sandy shores and chasing gulls and wild ducks and geese made our days complete. Where has this rot suddenly come from? What about all these miserable, poor people who have suddenly put up low-cost houses and mud-walled shanties? And who has covered our beautiful freshwater shores with water hyacinth? And how can you explain this to me? An indictment of poor urban planning? Even if it's come to this, why take environmental pollution into the lake? Our only heritage and the single source of clean water and livelihood.

I ask questions, and the answer I get is that this water hyacinth "just happened". Wrong answer. Nothing just happens. The voracious Nile Perch didn't just happen. The swelling of Lake Victoria in the late '60s didn't just occur. What about the poor fisherman who used to fish these waters to feed their families and take their kids to school? I ask again. Nobody knows. Nobody is doing anything about it. What can you do about it? I'm asked. Me? Me? Why aren't the concerned authorities doing something on this tenacious water hyacinth weed covering the beautiful lake killing the fish? Why ask me? I'm not the Government, am I? I'm just me. The best thing I can do; perhaps, is to write a song about it, right?

But... to what gain? People already know about this thing. Why can't they tackle it?

Too many questions.

No answers.

There must be something that can be done. I believe. Crossing a familiar lane, I encountered a dead pig on the roadside. A definite hit-and-run victim. This is gut roiling, spurs shock and panic. It brings a strange buzzing in my ears. I feel a little faint. I turn back and look for a way out of the muck, go up past a matatu and boda boda terminus and a line of Mpesa stalls, cheap mobile phone shops, mobile phone charging kiosks, drug stores, movie pirate stalls, some clinics, a couple of noisy Pentecostal churches, butcheries, cycle repair sheds and fish stalls. Then across a slightly (repeat slightly) well-kept lane to the mixed neighbourhood of apartments and moderate-income bungalows. I remember the name of this neighbourhood, it used to be called Tunda, and it reminds me that I'm near Fort Jesus, my destination. I avoid the direct route into the square of old Government offices and go around to where there used to be a small path juxtaposed with a Colonial government salvage yard that contained the wreckage of a 1930s ship and Leyland trucks to one side and 1960s shopping blocks on the other. I see none of these. The salvage yard is now a scrap metal yard operated by Kikuyus. The field behind the shopping blocks where we used to play soccer is nothing but dirt and dirt mounds, sand and kokoto piles and cast-off construction debris. And—of course, illegal dumping. A chain-link fence encircles the park, but there are several places where one can pass through without a problem.

I squeeze myself through and head towards Fort Jesus.

It is a Sunday morning. I have come to Fort Jesus again; to our house... the place I grew in fighting with my brothers and sisters over food and space and attention. I have come to see Mama and whatever relatives who happen to be here still. Mama had summoned. Fort Jesus is nothing like I remembered; all I find is an old off-gray edifice on the side of a small hill facing the shanties that extend to Lake Victoria. This is home, had been home. It is my crib. How sweet Fort Jesus holds me and brings memories. Christ, how sweet. All my childhood memories of sharing space with seven brothers and three sisters and countless uncles and aunts and nephews and nieces and cousins are hidden behind these walls.

Growing up had been fun in the '70s.

That I found myself born in a large family that kept growing was phenomenal. In the '60s when I was a barefoot snotty-nosed wee-wee boy around and about Pandpieri, Mama was always giving birth. Behind me came Ouru then Agwenge then Tom then sis Akong'o later bro Timbe then sis Obera then sis Akinyi. By the time I was twenty, Mama was still at it, and our little brother Hawi was born before the Ministry of Health came up with family planning, and she was firmly told to stop. Last born Hawi came in 1980, and our first-born was born in the mid-1950s, I can't remember. In total Mama gave birth to eleven boys and five girls. She had sixteen maternities! In between, she lost and buried four boys and two girls. The surviving ones are seven boys and three girls. We had scores of relatives staying in our house at different times, most of them from my mother's side. For instance, when my uncle fled Uganda (when Idi Amin was toppled in 1979) he stayed in our house for close to a year before later establishing his clubbing business.

The big house is airy and sunny and cool. Not overly cool, not like air-conditioned cool, but suitable. The smell of the lake mixed with a faint fishy odour and humanity of the encroachment adds a soft, but loaded and fetid, and altogether identifying odour of a house well lived in. I stand awkwardly in the spacious sitting room looking with marvel at the same old furniture and the same old pictures on the walls. There is this picture that shows Mama holding a weedy boy in her arm. I can't believe that boy is me. Starring eyes, sticky legs, a snotty nose, round marasmus or kwashiorkor belly. I am not sure I love being in this place. These memories haunt me. I don't feel good about myself... I had always wanted to put a great distance between me and my past. In my music, I found solace. In music, I edited my life and created another world. A world I controlled. I begin snooping around the house opening closets, exploring remote unexplored places and reliving much of my childhood.

Presently Mama emerges from the kitchen with a tea kettle. She is now a tall woman with worried eyes, who had once possessed a fresh African loveliness. And though her features have hardened over the years; though she is now a great grandmother; though her right eye is slightly larger than her left one and is higher on her face, the fragile essence of her face has remained. I had never been one bit sensitive to it and was always surprised when people spoke of how pretty she had been, how they said only me and my sisters Obera and Akinyi were the ones who had inherited our mother's good looks. I had never been her favourite. There had always been an instinctive antipathy between us.

I spent some time with her here last week, just sitting in the kitchen and clutching a mug of tea. She has a couple of chicken feeders hanging right outside her kitchen window, and I had a moment where I was watching a bright royal rooster. We were separated by the window, but it was so close that I could see the mechanics of its beak breaking a nyugu mawe seed open. I was so blissfully happy to just be.

I am about to inquire about my father, and there he is coming from the inner bedroom in a clean shirt and tie, carrying his socks and his reading glasses. He sits methodically on his favourite sofa next to the gramophone and is silently putting on his socks. He says not a word to me, not a word of greeting.

I sit awkwardly avoiding looking at Mama's slow and seemingly painful steps.

The wind chime tinkles in the absence of moving air. Mama serves me hot tea from the familiar China ceramic kettle, which has been with the family before I was born. She tells me; while stirring, that older bro Odingo recently sent some money, and my father will be going home complete the house. Home? Yes, home. Pandpieri is not our ancestral home, my grandfather Nyangao K'Odundo inherited this land and this house from Mr. Patterson, a World War II veteran with whom my grandpa had worked during the war and later served as a cook for many years. We are just settlers here, as jodak. Our real home is in Rusinga Island in South Nyanza.

Mama is elated. Relieved. She will now have a place to rest and sleep in peace under the soil of Rusinga waiting for the Return of the Lord Jesus Christ. My father only so-so. He ventures to know what plans I have now. I look at him levelly and shrug. I don't want them to bring anything up about my exile life in Leeds and my troublesome life with Pam and my quarrels with my son Daudi. They sense this, so they avoid asking about it.

Mama changes the subject. She is looking at me keenly as she tells me about the police post the Government recently put up here in Pandpieri. To me, this only means one thing: measure to curb the increase in crime.

As I sip my tea, a bunch of preteen and teenage boys and girls walk in to shake my hand. Mama tells them that I am their uncle, and then asks them to say their names. But they are timid; they whisper some names while avoiding looking at my eyes. Only the young woman, Dorris appears bold. I know Dorris, she is Akongo's daughter. The other children then withdraw quietly away from the room. They are Mama's grand and great-grandchildren.

I sympathise with Mama. Her burden won't let. The place is always swarming with grandchildren, but it's such a happy place. Mama laughs softly. I wish I can experience that same joy and happiness in my lonely life of a hermit. You know, the back yard still has my swing set and Ouru's see-saw and Timbe's cement-filled tin weights for body-building. Timbe and Tom used to lift weights here until they grew older and went to Uni, but my parents haven't given the body-building equipment away much as they hated them and the crowd of boys Timbe brought into the compound to practice with. It wasn't long after the benefits of exercising for good health, and physical fitness filled the TVs and radios and magazines. Kisumuans discovered that their health could benefit from regular exercise and my father appreciated Timbe and Tom, and encouraged them to coach our wee bro Hawi too.

Mama's voice grows distant. "Many of us were surprised by the amount of flesh and muscle Hawi put on his body as a result of Tom's body-building training. Hawi was a big and strong rawuoyi... strong like a bull."

She is taking care of my big sis Akongo's four children. The death of Akong'o is another thing that depresses me. We had only three girls; Akong'o, Obera, and Akinyi. Of the three, Obera is the only one whose life turned good, she got married to a sober-minded, ambitious guy, and they are currently living and working in Australia. Akinyi is in a reasonably stable marriage. She had fallen for one of my singers, a shy dim-witted guy known as Oswaga. Though a bit vocally gifted, Oswaga was not much of a musician, and after marrying Akinyi, he had quit the business altogether and went into salaried employment.

My father asks me to buy him a newspaper, so I send one of the kids.

Mama's body shows some wear and tear with her dry skin, scattered wrinkles, and occasional black spots showing on her face and hands. Akinyi had been trying to tell her she cannot keep overworking herself and that Dorris was available to do the heavy work for her. Mama's suffers acute hypertension and she needs to take blood pressure medication daily, and she needs to do minor chores around the house to keep active, which is good for pressure. Her only vice is tea. Akinyi drove her to the town centre to see me the day I came to Kisumu two Saturdays ago, and we spent a few hours in a classy restaurant, eating, talking and catching up. By the time we got home, Mama was tired, and her legs were sore. It's very heartbreaking to see her struggling to walk and missing steps. Mama had always been an avid walker, walking twenty-four kilometres a day to and from Rusinga Island General Store. I told her she should stay a bit active and walk outside in the cool of the evenings and socialise with her friends.

I turn my eyes to my father to see the effects of ageing on him. While his black skin displays no wrinkles or creases, his increased instances of forgetfulness and propensity to repeat the same word or sentence over and over betrays his younger looking face and six-foot-tall physique. When I went to Britain twenty years ago, I left a strong man who wanted to marry a second wife. I look at him now, and I notice a look upon his face, here and there, that one sees on the elderly when they are confused or lost in reverie. It is the exact opposite kind of look that my younger father used to possess... the one that could scare me down to the bone because of its sternness.

What made me think of how my parents are really are ageing? We attended a funeral service for a relative two days ago. Not only was the man lying in the coffin close to my parents' age, my parents were the oldest couple among the other mourners paying their last respects. As I made my round of polite handshakes, I witnessed my father merely sitting in his chair lost in his own thoughts, although surrounded by people. Mama, sitting next to him, looked worn out than I had noticed before. Her bust area and shoulders were no longer striking compared to when she was younger.

Now, as we sit here in this warm room, Mama is talking. She is telling me that the reason she summoned me here today was to give me the sad news that Okoth was found dead yesterday at Pandpieri market. I look at her. The only Okoth in the family is my nephew, the son of my elder brother, Keya.

And here's a sad story.

Big brother Keya's real name was Orao Okomo or Orepe as Mama used to dendo him. Okomo was his default Luo name owing to the time of his birth: seed planting season. My father called him Tshombe, after the famous Congolese politician. Later when doing history in school, I learned that Keya was a corruption of KAR (Kings African Rifles). He was born in 1955, the time of the Emergency. The time the British were hunting down the Mau Mau through its battalion known as Kings African Rifles. It was common for children born around that time to be called Keya due to the popularity of the KAR. My brother grew to be a tall black handsome man, very obedient, very bright, a good role model big bro. But during adolescence, something snapped. He got rebellious due to influence from his bad friends; he abandoned school, rebelled, disagreed with my parents and fled home. He briefly took a job in a hotel in Kisumu. Then he disappeared.

We never saw him for the next six years. It was said that he disagreed with his employer forcing him to run off to Mombasa where he took up another hotel job. My father tracked him down and found him alive and well. According to his own words, he disagreed with the employer about lost cash which prompted him to run away to Mombasa where he took up work in a night club as a bouncer. One day he threw a customer out of a window from the second floor following an argument. He fled to Malindi, and from there he came back home. He had converted into Islam and adopted a swahili lifestyle and even adorned a Muslim rob and cap. I never understood him; thought he took his whole life as a joke. Why did he convert into Islam and what did he do with it? He never changed his name, I never saw him enter a mosque. He never had a Quran. He still drank alcohol.

He soon married a Luhya woman by name Rose Adisa who was better known as Nyamalo meaning the daughter of the upper side or daughter of the hills or highlands. Life was not all rosy after the marriage and frustrations led my brother into the business of selling chang'aa which Nyamalo became addicted to causing a lot of frustration to the husband who also took to drinking but preferring to go to Kondele for his beer which he loved.

We grew up and Odingo and I left home, went separate ways: Odingo for South Africa and me for Nairobi. In 1987 while I was touring Europe with my band, Mama called me to give me the news of my brother's death. I soon gathered the story of how it happened. One day Keya left as usual for Kondele for his drink but was never seen home alive again. On his way from Kondele at night he had bought rat poison which he drank straight from the bottle. Mama discovered his body at the back of our house. The police came that night in a Land Rover with cameras and flash lights. It was the first tragedy for our family. My brother Ouru was one of the people who went to see his body in the mortuary in Russia. The chest through to the stomach had been cut open by Onyango Otoyo, the mortuary attendant.

Keya was survived by his son, Petro Okoth Okomo, who had been born with cerebral palsy and walked around and about Pandpieri market places half naked.

I ask my mother about Nyamalo and she clicks her tongue, shakes her heads, and raises her palms up. Meaning she has nothing to say or she is fed up. It shows in her eyes. From what I know, Nyamalo had been inherited after my brother's death. I, on the other hand, know I have to look for my brother's wife. We have to give our nephew a decent burial.

It is something to think about.

In the meantime, I settle in the chair, contemplating the many mysteries that are life. I miss Agwenge. I miss Keya. I miss Hawi. I miss Akong'o. I need another sidekick. Maybe, someone I can trust and confide in. Akinyi? Odingo? Akinyi, maybe. Odingo, nope. I have regrets for Keya, I have to blame myself. Even if everything about him was trouble and disappointment, he didn't deserve to die. Now his son is dead, and his legacy has ended. Not that it was anything much.

Thinking of Keya brings to mind many things I don't want to think about. I have deep dark secrets in my closet. Scary. Gritty.

Fortune Man and his bag of bones.

I should be dead before it happens again.

I sigh and settle in the chair more as my mind picks the information from the family mind files.

It won't be too long; some thirty years or so, I'll get soppy and die also (and subsequently get my ass in a whole heap o' trouble when Christ returns).

Wait... thirty years?

The way I'm sickly and sickening? Fat chance.

I take out my phone and call the only siblings I can rely on in time of need: Odingo, Tom and Akinyi. Odingo seems pleased with my suggestion, and with his usual fine phrases and warm voice, he asks me to volunteer and foot the bulk of the funeral expenses.

As I leave Fort Jesus, it dawns on me that my parents are very old and that they're not going to be around forever like I once thought. Being home has come with its loads of burdens and responsibilities that affect my social control here in Kisumu. There are visits with the sick and dying in the hospitals, grave site visits, Mama's compulsory Sabbaths, a wedding, some family land dispute to preside over, some shopping at the new Pandpieri supermarket to stock the church's pantry. For two weeks, Mama has kept me busy. No particular day is a day to steal away, and every Saturday must be spent in the church. Saturday is the day for long hours of spiritual bliss for Mama; they have a new church nearby, and Mama is a deaconess. She tells me what blessings the church has brought.

I have to see it, she says.

I want to see the church. For my own reasons. The last chance for redemption. I am curious. Where will I go the day I die if there isn't any truth behind the existence of hell?

Maybe this isn't the truth after all?

If it isn't, then what the hell is it?

Some place in between perhaps?

Some people take the idea of everlasting fire as literally as the Bible tells it. Hell, they believe, is at the centre of Planet Earth and that it is hotter than the sun's surface. If you die in sin, you go there straight. Meaning that Keya who died in 1987 has been burning for the last twenty-two years. They say that the nail of your little finger alone burns for thousands and thousands of years. Picture this, you actually burn alive, and you're in excruciating pain, and yet you don't die. Years roll by, and one million years later you're told, "We've just begun". Isn't this bullshit designed to make you rush to seek Salvation? Or is God such cruel? Oh dear. What nonsense! You cannot burn forever, I don't think so. The Bible does not mean that when it says "forever". You can only live forever. Imagine you make it to Heaven and you see your son or your loved one burning forever in Hell. Won't you hate God?

The Catholics realised the error they had made when they made up this stupid doctrine, so they came up with another teaching to give relief to this lie. They invented the doctrine of Purgatory, and can you believe they actually believe in it? Purgatory? Nah, to me, Purgatory sounds to me like some hilarious hell. The Holy Bible affirms that Heaven and hell, as places, exist. Hell is a concept for eternal damnation, not physically. It means you're lost forever. You expire; you're no more forever. That's the meaning of the Biblical "forever". Catholics and other Christians profess belief in the State of Being, and this is not the belief in a place that the Catholics call "Purgatory." The Bible does not contain the term "purgatory;" it is a pagan doctrine just like the Everlasting Hell Fire doctrine and so on.

Well, it is as much as I understand.

I stand to look at the typical Africana type church. I hear singing within. This is Pandpieri SDA and it's modest enough, I tell myself. Of course, it's just as nondescript as most churches in Africa, basic white with steeple/bell tower. It is typically narrow as well as long the Colonial style. Mama tells me pastors have their offices upstairs where they work on their sermons and produce their weekly bulletins and monthly newsletters.

Sounds good.

At the Pandpieri SDA, several families eye Mama with glee. Odingo has aided some young boys and girls to complete their high school. Mama is trying to make an impression, and I feel at odds with myself. There is a disappointment (disappointment?) that when I kill myself, I will not (after all) end up in Limbo or Purgatory. I will be physically doomed in my grave waiting for the second death on the Day of the Lord. I believe in God, the Almighty. I believe in the Bible. But that is about it. I don't overly have the "faith." I'm working on it.

I stare at the new church, and my mind is in conflict concerning the teachings of Adventists which contradict those of the Charismatics, the Evangelicals, and the Roman Catholics. People want cheap Christianity, and that is why people want to desperately to believe the doctrine of Purgatory and hell fire. In Leeds, I had somehow considered Purgatory. Pam is Catholic. Folks, Satan knows that Salvation is not cheap, and the human heart is desperately wicked. That is why he is offering man a "cheap alternative," but which is not cheap in the long run.

The new pastor engages me, and in the end, I'm not too sure I want to kill myself. Can you imagine that I also want to desperately cling to the doctrine of Purgatory because I want a second chance when I am dead. It all comes back to bear in my mind that Purgatory is a dangerously misleading doctrine. I am still alive, and I still have a chance, I don't need shortcuts, the Probation is not yet closed. Satan brought the idea of Purgatory to give people false hope and keep them in sin. It's a fatal deception; you only have a chance to redeem yourself in this life.

Hello brother. Hello sister.

While you're alive, you have a chance.

When you die, it's all over.

#  EIGHT

"Good music died with the '80s."

PROSPECTIVE changes

My mind is whirling and bubbling. My mind wants to tell me there is no going back—no "going back to face the music." Of course, this sizable town still has people who still care for the name Otis Dundos, and it would complicate things for my retirement.

Nostalgia isn't what it used to be here in Kisumu.

It is blazing hot.

The sun is boiling and broiling, and there isn't a single cloud. Sunshine makes it another fine day in Kisumu, I like it. I take a long look around the bustling city. The people, cars, time, period all are enthralling. Lots of young people. Cute, young, pretty, well dressed. In a way, I always dreamed what life used to be like back in the good ol' days down here in Kisumu. Parts of my fantastic story begin to resurface.

In memories, smog...

I'm heading to the lakeshore, to the shacks at Lwang'ni where they make delicious fresh tilapia. A Kisumuan I met in Britain once told me how the food has been getting sweeter and sweeter and the drawl thicker and thicker in these shacks famously called Lwang'ni. Cool breeze from the lake gently kiss my arms. I think I hear what sounds like Lake Victoria gulls? There, too, is the unmistakable sound of water washing and kissing the sand. For real. It is just like the times my brothers and I used to go to the beach at Dunga to splash about the water and take some long inshore dips and whirls in the water. But now there is no fresh water to splash, no "fishy" smells.

Optimum word here: fishy.

Lunch is wondrous. After a hearty meal of fresh ngégé and well-made ugali, I walk about the town getting to feel it. It's like trying to retrace my steps.

I find myself at the small medical clinic I visited last week to check my sanity, my pressure (I'm hypertensive) and get my medication. According to the brass plaque on the sub door akin to the stoop of stairs to the clinic, there is a doctor in the house. Dismas Onywera Omodho, MD, Consultant Cardiologist & Nephrologist. Famous name. I only met him recently for the first time. I know his well-off, well-learned and numerous family. For a time back in the '80s, I dated a girl coming from their stable of conservative, bookish and well-mannered folk. Anyango was her name, and she lived in the "affluent" Milimani area. I hear she is working in Germany now. In the '80s when I was riding the musical scale of Victoria, I had no elbow grease accessing affluent locations or the people who resided in them so long as they didn't flaunt their affluence. Remember I lived in Milimani too, for a time. Being sneaky and self-enhanced by my famous name, it didn't take me any great effort to achieve my set objectives.

The doc is away, out of the country, the nurse says. My drugs arrived this morning from Nairobi. I'm served by the same nurse. I like her. She is charming, pretty, and young (enough). She is demure, quaint, kind of bashful, reserved. We talk and chat, and it is when she asks if I would like to check my creatinine too that I realise that I had not picked my lab results on my cholesterol. By staring at my reflection in the window of the examination room, I see that my hair has grown into small, rugged features, making me look older than I looked the last time. I have lost four kilos, and I now weigh ninety-eight.

Bravo!

The nurse wonders casually if I am 'invading' someone's body? She means I'm reverting back my original image. Her elder brother has some of my albums and pictures. Was I doing it again? What? Music. Hm. I don't know.

More questions spew forth from her regarding my health. Headaches? Do suicidal thoughts still come? The nightmares?

Tough question. Hard answers to give. But answers, nonetheless. I shrug. I'm embarrassed. Each and every day for six months, I've tried really hard to stay alive. I've been knocked sideways by a multitude of feelings, not just depression or burdened conscience, but agitation, anxiety, terror, panic, grief, desperation, despair and an almost irresistible desire to be dead and it's gone on for a very long time.

Our chatting continues. Then it comes. I blink five times. This is something to be concerned about.

I sigh and try to "let go."

The nurse looks at me with deep concern. But all that hurry is to let go a butt blasting fart followed by the incredible need to pee. So I rip the butt blast then swing my legs out and off the chair to the bathroom. There I burst into tears.

It takes a good five minutes of hard body-wrenching sobs.

I want to SCREAM.

To HOWL.

On one side of the wall, opposite the door, there is a bank of the window. They are angled down, small individual panes, and they open out to a grassy area that is twenty feet or so to the next building. It is a closed area, only open at one end that leads out to a football field. Through the window, I observe life out there in the street. A green VW bug has stalled in the middle of the road, and several other motorists are helping the elderly owner push it to the side of the road. A bus carrying students is rumbling impatiently behind them. A refuse truck going in the opposite direction rumbles past showering those poor sots standing in the bus cubicle with the foul smell. People shout and complain.

I chuckle and stretch. I walk out of the toilet. My mind is still deciphering my purpose for being back in my home town. I have yet to make it down to Victoria Music Store to continue to monitor my record sales. There have been cases of piracy, and I doubt that I will find any truth. In every music store I have turned up it's been the same reaction. It's like they're seeing a dead man walking. Rumours had swirled around that I died in Britain.

The nurse squints at my red eyes and asks if everything is okay. I decline to tell her that I detest the way my mood swings at times get the better of me. She gives me my medication. My pressure is not so good, so my daily dose of Plendil has been increased to 10mg and they've added a new drug called Nebicard-5.

I take my pack of medication and make my payment. "Take everything slow," she tells me. "Don't forget your exercises... evening jogs are good for pressure. Thank God you live in a good neighbourhood. The anti-depressants will work. You will live a normal life, Mr. Odundo."

I smile. "See you next week, miss."

She smiles back. "Don't worry too much if you pass too much wind. For the drugs you're using, you should do it about twenty times a day."

"I'm used to it. It's the headaches that are killing me."

"You have the best pain killers in the world."

"Expensive too, they are."

Her face is set. "Take things slow. Take the pain killers only when you are in pain. It's easy to get addicted to them."

"Of course," I say and wink at her. "They killed Hendrix and Elvis and Michael Jackson and Esperant Kisangani and others like me."

Nudge-nudge, wink-wink...

The nurse is at a loss and uncomfortable with my last statement. She nods stiffly, her face remains set. Obviously, she doesn't share my sense of humour.

Her parting shot is humbling. "May God forgive you."

If I'll still be alive, I say in my thoughts. I'm in a funk and barely can function through my day. Heavy thoughts weigh on my mind. It comes to me again that my future is uncertain, my past shambles. I know there is probably little time, and with what is being written about me in the newspapers, I have to do something. It isn't doing me any good lying low turning down interviews and not picking calls from journalists. I am a household name; a superstar.

For one thing, I am vaguely paranoid about running into my former friends. People think I have returned to pick up where I left things. Wandering around downtown, spending time at Victoria Music Store going through CDs I couldn't afford in Nairobi, too many old fans come up to me, asking how I am getting on since leaving them to "seek fame and fortune." I am chagrined to tell them I am back to do better things, but nowadays I'm too old to lie. Once you're a hitmaker, that's the way people see you and that's what they expect you to do. It's like you owe them. It's called "artistic allegiance" and it's a duty all artists carry. People see you and they expect output. Only a very few of them are capable of grasping the fact that we artists thrive on inspiration like food. And very few of them are capable of understanding what was it is and what isn't. Perhaps that is it, a return to somehow "end" what I had left unfinished. But this is now a return to my original confusion. The end of what? It isn't like I had a complicated life filled with a satisfying occupation as a band leader. Since I had gone out of the country, it appears my status suffered a blow; the mark that I made in the 1980s and '90s seems to be no longer memorable.

Maybe that is a blessing. Perhaps that is fate.

I have no qualms having to change my plans. I have said I returned to find peace and warmth and die. But this is not how stuff works in Kenya; the gossip is damning malicious, and the newspapers are fuelling things up. People expect a lot from me. That's why the newspapers are writing all that junk. The pressures are increasing exponentially.

Well, they say home is where the heart is. And while it sounds very cliché, I do have to agree. I have been in Kisumu for a blinking five weeks now since my recent comeback and feel I have to get started. Everything's so strange; there's so much emptiness. I find myself completely in a tailspin, wondering where I belong.

At first, I didn't feel connected to anything. At first, this hometown of mine felt too small, too simple. It wasn't from a sense of arrogance that I felt this way. It was a kind of longing for more experiences of newness and differentness. I felt very bored and lacked interest. I know it sounds corny and freakish, and perhaps it's the wrong choice of words, but I just can't think of anything else.

Is there a another way to describe this?

I see that things haven't changed much... people haven't changed. Of course, Kisumu's still a typical African affair with sunny low-rise buildings and restaurants and teeming just like I remembered it. Sitting bare and exposed to the sun, the town looks unauthentic, gritty, cringy, thrashed and weather-beaten with unbearable temps. Things are still as they were; hot and slow. And it's so dusty... much like Satan blew a cloud of dust on it and left it like that. The newness? The population has swelled, but the buildings... much of it is like it was in the '70s and '80s. There's a lot besides the two main streets, much-needed renovation. Quite frankly, I have been teeter-tottering between saying "Haizuru" and going back overseas to my comfort zone and staying to connect and live. You know, the Universe has dumped quite a hefty load on me and living abroad definitely changed me.

Britain can be an addiction, and living in the UK can fool any African. You quickly adapt to their culture and acquire many of their behavioural habits (lifestyle, food, art, politics, history, music, accent, attitude, preferences), and you do not want to change that because when you are back in Africa, you suddenly feel you are British. I still prefer tidiness and perfectly cooked meals. I long to be appropriately dressed at all times, and to be terribly-terribly English. I miss my favourite English tea (which is Kenyan, really). I miss my regular routine as I am a man of routine.

On the other hand, I want the Africa I had in mind than what I see here. I want to have the Kisumu in my dreams instead of this ugly filthy municipality with dirty cars and badly dressed people on the roadsides and open sewers and rowdy market women. Not forgetting thieving street children and beggars and the slums and people asking me for money.

To think this is home... suddenly the proverbial "green grass on the other side" becomes brown!

My home town, indeed! It's a new world, you blockhead. I hesitate to say this does not seem like the Kisumu that chartered me to adolescence and completed my accomplishments as a man and a musician. Yeah, Kisumu carries a lot for me. It's the town of many unfulfilled dreams. In Leeds, I was always combing the Net looking for vintage, and updated photos of the locations and venues featured in all of the Victoria shows around Kisumu. My Facebook accounts connected me with other Kisumuans, and we told all the exciting stories about ourselves. But it's a totally different place now, and I feel odd about it.

Frankly, I feel like a stranger here. I feel something different inside. The feeling crawls over me, and I can't help feeling like the big name I used to be... the guitar legend, the leader of Victoria. Without hesitation, I daresay it's still the Kisumu that gave me a start in life, good inspiration, heritage, family, pride, comfort, and belonging. I hesitate to say it now seems stifling and bereft of warmth. I move about my days feeling that something is missing, but I have no idea what it could be. There isn't any other way to describe this feeling, I don't think. You have to experience it yourself. It's a gooey funny little like floating in the air or free-falling.

Many who live or have lived here view it as a gilded cage; it's easy to stay in and accomplish nothing. Hesitation develops, whereas you think there never would be or could never be or should never be any hope. You're stuck in the muck! I don't mean to say this is always the trend in Kisumu and I hope it has changed. I'm still a local, I suppose, even though it's been twenty long years. It's easy to convince myself that this is my town where I truly belong. Sun is shining. Fine. The air is fresh and clean. Fine. You can do a lot with a hundred pounds. Okay. So? Thing is since I don't see myself "advancing" or backtracking further into history... into the 1980s, this Kisumu that made me and always filled me with rushing memories is nothing but a dream. When I was away, fading memories filled my head: images of home boys I can't rightly put a name to. Funny thing about memories, it's more like catching butterflies. You want to pin down your thoughts and sought things. Memories are made and stored. You have to have a memory to think about them. Something happens and the next minute, it becomes a memory. And as time goes, they get lost in your head and they become lost memories. But they are not actually lost. I recall some lost memories when I see familiar faces along Achieng Oneko Road. Isn't it an extremely baffling feeling, a lofty sense of being lost in familiar territory and a lack of comprehension from others?

For weeks I've kept my nose clean, which is hard to do seeing the many pretty young things they have in Kisumu these days, and my propensity to decadence is challenged. But I've managed and kept myself out of bars, though I'm strongly tempted. Seriously I want to avoid running into old friends and fans, so I avoid Oginga Odinga Street, Octopus Bottoms Up and Kondele. My uncle's wife, Maria is happy that I chose to stay with her at the Resort while repairmen are upgrading DreamScape, my dilapidated home in the hills. Nice to have a man around the big place, she says.

Now.

Settling down in my hometown gives me a weird sensation. It makes me think of the hobbits in The Lord of the Rings in Tolkien, how they are transformed by the journey. They always say they're missing home and want to return, but at the end of the journey, they finally return home, and that place doesn't feel like home any more (at least for Frodo and he can't do any other thing but keep travelling). I remember many years ago reading the story at Kisumu Area Library here in Kisumu. I'm wondering if I'm going to find it has more to do with my own sense of displacement.

What I continuously contend with now is the continual pull to go back. Yet when I am back in Leeds, I will feel the pull to return here. It's like I live in a kind of reality that's suspended, never really here and never really there ; restless. The truth is that my heart is here in Kisumu. Now, don't get me wrong, I love my hometown. Ninety percent of the people I love still live here in Kisumu. Kisumu is our big family where everyone knows everyone.

I think once you've lived Outside, you've ruined that simple definition of "home" for yourself. Because now you're working on making another home somewhere else, and the "home" concept gets confused. Home for us Luos is definitely where the family is... where the umbilical cord was buried, where your ancestors dwell and where you will finally be buried. It's where your heart dwells. It's where your spirit lives. It's where your people live and where you have the right connections. Yet the hardest thing I've had to recognise is my son Daudi's first home and birthplace is in a different country from mine. He knows he is Luo only from the name and from the fact that he's been told he's Luo and Barack Obama who is now ruling America is as much a Luo as he is. And funny to think that there are many kids like him in Britain from western Kenya. Sadly this means that now the definition of home has become even more discombobulated! (Great word, no?). You know what I mean: there are many Luos in all corners of the world, speaking English as their first language and there's nothing we can do about it.

That is the reason why this year, in this millennium, a lot of Luos are actually talking of coming back to their homeland to settle down.

But here and now it feels as if I'm floating aimlessly on restless waters. I feel distinctly ungrounded, and I can't shake the feeling. Maybe time will refresh my mind, and the good feelings will return. My reasoning will manifest to the reality that I was born and brought up in this town more than four decades ago. And I will experience happiness. A happiness that will come in different shades.

Really I just want to feel nostalgic.

It's always the same 'ol same 'ol down here in Kisumu, anyway. Now it's just politics and politics and Raila Odinga and ODM. During my youth in the '70s and the romantic music years in the '80s, it was Luo United and Gor Mahia and benga. Life was easy. During my teenage, I knew almost every young man and woman since the public and surrounding schools were few and shared by children from every estate in the town. We went to the same Nyanza cinema, the same Sikh Union, same stadium, same markets and same churches. In the evenings and weekends, we all ended up at Sosial to watch cartoons and VOK news on the only community TV in town.

There's a line in an unrecorded Victoria song 'Make Way Yawa Yo' that goes like:

Feel life, enjoy life... I'm telling you

Music is good for your body

Kisumu is good for your soul

Today I find myself in a small classy restaurant by the lake called Lakeshore Premium. This is another of the bars where my band would stop for a drink after a long day at Lakeshore Studio. Back in the mid-80s, the bar was known as Lakeshore Premier Dance Club, where none-live-band music was allowed. Not sure how they are marketing themselves today. Either way, it is a swell bar to stop in for a drink.

I've been sitting in this bar for hours. I make connections in thought. Now I can think and reflect in peace. Sometimes I forget how to be. I get really caught up in the daily routine of my life, and I can't sit still. My mind cannot rest. It's just the way I am, always working and thinking and creating. And occasionally I have these moments of clarity, where I almost feel as peaceful and calm as I did sitting in Mama's kitchen yesterday and watching her chicken.

What little things make you happy? Do you have a busy brain that won't shut up, like mine? Any tips for slowing down, taking a moment, and being grateful for what you do have? I think I now get it: what kills me is what I miss most. Badly. My music. I think about my musicians almost all the time. It's crazy, I know! I have to sigh, a big sigh. I knew my life would have been different (way different) had I not underestimated my freedom as a person.

I trudge out of Lakeshore Premium and wait at the roadside for a tuk tuk or a motorbike boda boda to taxi me to Pandpieri. A Prado zooms by sending a wave of dust covering a small tuk tuk. A middle-aged woman in the tuk tuk already chocked and partially submerged suddenly screams and fights her ways out. She slips and falls. She is alright, recovers but is now 100% covered with dirt. I begin to chuckle and change my mind to take a real taxi. Suddenly my dislike for tuk tuks and boda bodas go a notch higher, I'm convinced these things aren't safe. Besides they are a nuisance and real pollutants.

And being in no pressure to do anything or be some place, I chill out and wait. A new song is on my mind.

I am in a taxi tera

I am in a taxi swuoya

I am in a tuk tuk nega

I am in a tuk tuk tura

I am in a matatu konya

I am in a matatu chopa

Don't overtake eeh?

Don't overtake eeh? eeh?

Don't overtake eeh?

Don't overtake ee? eeh?

Ai! Ai! Ai! Ai! Ai!

Slow down, slow down. Slow down,

My baby is inside yeeh!

(CHORUS) Ride man ride heya!

Ride woman ride heya!

Ride brother ride heya!

Ride sister ride heya!

I sigh deeply and check on the woman. She is ambling about beating dust and dirt out of her kitenge.

I don't have much time, so I need to make the most of it. I cross the street, duck down an alley and enter the nearest bank. My Visa card is always a faithful friend. I don't make off with a lot, just a few extra thousand shillings.

Hm.

Tapping my fingers together, I am in thought.

And think. And think. And think.

And think some more.

Not easy with a pounding headache.

There has to be a way out. A way back from the void, the huge black emptiness. Even though I may not play guitar again, I know the thirst for it will always remain. I will ever play guitar for myself. I don't want to engage in whoring again or wallowing in senseless sentimentality and consummation.

I have a new thing in mind. A change of heart. This is what I have to do. I think and think and think some more then I decide to stick to my original plan. I conclude that I will make the new album, then die before it came out. Once the record serves its purpose of being a posthumous comeback blast, it will sell. If not, if this town will become overrun with beasties from Nairobi in the form of producers and pirates coming to rip me off, then I will continue down the road to my retirement until I give up the ghost.

Phew!

I can now think clearly. Given that my getting back is no ceremony now worries me not. What I honestly see myself doing is not starting where I left. My life is gone, and all I do is brooding and recounting the same memories of days gone by. Nothing changes, really, and it can be such a bore. I know I need to rethink.

A long nap is in order, after that...

Think I have to decide.

Think I've decided.

Seems like the thing to do.

Fortune Man.

Just as quickly, I chastise myself for such a thought.

Let's recap. No. Let's plan. Here I am. Where do I start? Slight hesitation—more hesitation or a sidekick! I feel fussy. It's as if emotions often thwart my creative inward turnings. It is just the way it is. I have some issues, personal and otherwise. Whatever the case, I have to get up and start working.

The thing is I don't want to end up a total, unrepentant slacker. What does a pop star say when a long-time fan (who also happens to blog at Victoria.com) calls to tell him that she can no longer listen to 'There's No Mathematics In Love' and she wants to hear something new (from Victoria) because she played that song nonstop on a loop for six weeks following a bad breakup during her University days?

I got the call yesterday, and it saddened me.

"Maybe you should listen to my new album," I had said to the lady.

"But I hope it will have something for mamas because I'm no longer young, bwana. That was more than twenty years ago. I'm almost a grandmother now. 'There's No Mathematics In Love' was used to seduce me by my husband and the girl I got as a result of my marriage is in University."

That gives me a smile.

At least my trousers still snug fit.

What does this make me feel? Older? Better? Trusted? Loved? Mature? Rusty? I think I'm too old and too tired for this thing. My emotions are wrecked. I'm confused. On the other hand, I feel overwhelmingly compelled to record. It amazes me that a musician like me who spent years working on my craft, sucking up to club owners and all kinds of ridiculousness to play in a real place before real people, would finally get there and work himself near to death figuring out ways to NOT play.

But... the call. It gives me hope. Inspiration.

I need to carefully plan this. People are waiting for it.

The media said so. The media, oh....

You know, there's been the nagging question of whether my refusal to engage in music would do anything to diminish the recluse mystique. If anything, the subject matter of my last recorded song "About Turn" (post-exile release in 1992) should serve to elicit more questions about me and my decision. The media posed this question: why has he not started playing shows? Is it a reaction to the almost universal plaudits heaped on the man and his work before his controversial imprisonment in 1991? I simply decided to lie low tailing some sort of semi-retirement? Kept them guessing and writing their gibberish junk, hehehe. I will not record again with an established band of my own again, as gleaned from the title of my last song. Contextual clues and photographic clues on this album suggested that I was abandoning my base in Kisumu and was going into more experimental styles that were designed to make the world recognise me as a significant contributor to the pop music of Africa. Perhaps I was unaware of the scope of my fandom.

At the time I was most creative and productive in mid-80s, I got to know the music of many artists who were achieving everything I hoped to do, musically, lyrically, and artistically. Today I have to face up to the fact that the world doesn't need my music. There will always be tunes to hum and sing without mine. Better, perhaps. Life goes on.

But what about my fans? What about loyalty?

It could be that I need to play more than the world needs to listen to me. But the music never goes away. Perhaps we do what we do because we have no choice. But... talking about loyalty: when African musicians started copying the West and adopting bass drums and drum machines, these bands kept human nature and sweet traditions away and forced people to listen to foreign sounds. Franco rebelled at first. But only for a time. The success of Rochereau's 'Sarah' made him break the loyalty the bestowed on his fans and use machine drums in the classic 'Candidat Na Biso Mobutu.'

The most radical turn in our musical patterns occurred in the early and mid-80s: the shift came from self-contained raw-boned bands and big band orchestras like TP OK Jazz who brought the sound of their road to records. This was in the wake of the disco, American rap, South African soul, zouk, reggae, soukous, breakdance, and other innovations in sampling and studio technology. And it effectively ended the sweet African rhythm tradition you could trace back through Kallé, Nico, Rochereau, Franco... all the way to DO Misiani, Zaïko, Nuta Jazz, Jamhuri Jazz, Tabora Jazz and Morogoro Jazz in the 60s and 70s. Of course, it's easy to get foolishly sentimental about the loss of "real African musicians playing real instruments" and it's not like Victoria has a good chance of being the last band standing as many African bands are now using percussion and keyboard to make better music than anyone else on the planet in the past quarter-century.

New musical styles such as my Urban Benga still has a way of taking people back in time, though not the way 70s soukous, benga, rumba, highlife, mbanqanga, juju, Afrobeat, and Tanzanian Swahili pop was so refreshingly established. Good music died with the 70s and 80s. That's a fact. So to get really good music, I always have to go back and start in the '60s till the end of the 80s. Don't ask me why.

Badaboom! I sigh and pause a bit before putting things into clear perspective. A silly grin is etched on my smug face as I come to a painful decision. I have to work to eat. I have to blend in the background. I have to be a normal Kisumuan. Unfortunately, slacking is just a piece of the puzzle. I know I have a genuine Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde thing going. I can be funny and uncanny at the same time when the mood strikes and I have a good and decent side as well as a horrifying side.

There's a way to do this. Gather courage, call a journalist and tell him what your return is all about. Sounds OK so far, right? Wrong. People, oh people, music, and performance is something that doesn't just happen. Artists know this. Any art thrives not on compulsion but inspiration. I recall myself getting smack shut during a performance in Mombasa and just refusing to go on during the show... the body just refused, and I put down my guitar and walked away to the dressing room. I was bored and irritable. I had no enthusiasm for performing. I was tired.

My slumber is disturbed with the boisterous voices of my uncle's family morning racket. Maria awakens me. It is mid-morning, the sudden urge to pee hits me, my body is sore, my mind is frapped with the past days' events. Maria wants to borrow some money to go out.

Thankfully, when I open my eyes, the room looks current, not like it had been the previous week. As I slip into a pair of shorts, I am relieved there are no headaches, no flashbacks, no fuzzy memory recalls. It is about nine-thirty, I notice on my iPhone before turning and opening the bedroom door. I sleepily make my way to the bathroom, accidentally bonking my head on the door frame. Someone is already in the bathroom, likely my cousin George Okoth. Around the corner, in the kitchen, I hear one of the servants chuckle and address Orwede the dog. Turning the corner and saying, "Good morning," I go to the back door and open it. Let some air in.

My "cousin" George rushes in branding a video camera. What is the cheeky boy up to? There are some weird fetishes, weird ones. This kid is just plain odd with his fetish. It isn't dangerous but is sided on the bizarre and is humorously sick.

George, equipped with his videocam, wander about the quaint home recording, for the most part, all the mementos, TV set, stereo, and all things important enough to be recorded for insurance purposes when I hear a voice from the kitchen talking and then singing.

The talking isn't unusual. The singing is... is... It's a dopey goofy voice mimicking the green frog from the 70s Muppet Show. It is the voice of George's older sister Christine, and it's coming from the kitchen. George smiles, armed with his vid camera! He tells me (he is sure) he could sell the clip to Kiss-UM-YU, that new television show some Kisumu enterprising kids started for broadcasting home videos that are supposedly "funny". He could win some money!

Maria's voice sends people scurrying.

She is an airhead, talks too fast and talks too much. She is a woman like any... and oohhh so charming, but she talks and talks and talks. And talks fast, too. Orutho-rutho-rutho-wach. And Maria has another problem: she is pushy. She is enticing and persuasive and pain on the gut. She emerges from her room dressed up, talks loud about going out as she walks into the kitchen to find fourteen-year-old George, "singing" to the night's dinner—a fish! It is a tilapia caught in the morning and, it's resting in the sink. George has the captive audience (Christine, the fish and I) and is singing to them and manipulating the tilapia, enabling the fish to do the singing! It is a form of odd ventriloquism. Maria can hardly contain herself and is hard-pressed to maintain stealth.

Nothing can prepare her for what her son is doing next. Of course, that was earlier in the kitchen... she had just turned to flee the hallway to the kitchen before she burst out laughing. She gave herself away; just missed when George took the fish out of the sink and filmed it.

Twenty minutes later, Maria has talked, talked, talked, and taaaaalked. And gotten four thousand bob from me and gone. George has taken his practical jokes elsewhere, and Christine is playing with a ball, tossing it around. I'm sitting down at the dining table. I've had my usual breakfast of kal porridge and groundnuts and tea with toasted bread.

Not much action at this time of the morning - like a graveyard at midnight. I sit down to plan my day.

I spend some time drafting a to-do list.

Acquire a guitar (acoustic)

Call Pam and Daudi

Call Adoyo Angelou & Junior

Eat supper

Take shower and get a hair cut

Go for a walk, swim, jog or mooch around outdoors

Read a book

See Fortune Man

I underline the last item, "See Fortune Man" and heave a heavy sigh. I hold my breath for a long while. I get a sudden bout of goosebumps at the thought of what I'm about to do. The contemplation is enormous. The architect of this evil thing was Mama Iva, whose memory is gawking and tugging about in my head. She is dead too, a dead super witch. I try in vain to keep the deep dark secret buried. This was all her idea. There have been enough adventures in my life, is there room for more? There are lingering issues, there always will be. But I will embrace them, not run away from them. Leastways that's what I decree. I don't know, not for sure. The devil is in control, not me. Life's an adventure. Or some clap-trap thing like that.

My mind flounders helplessly in an upset-like raging thick dark waves in the lake. Off I go to town, to the city centre, to Kisumu, to Wananchi Park. I am wandering aimlessly about the park. I see a forgotten seat, a small wrought iron bench next to a tree. I sit and sigh.

The heat doesn't matter.

Noisy birds, voices of humanity about, vehicles going by, nothing. Nothing matter to interrupt my tunnel vision. My focus is solely on Fortune Man and my bizarre musing.

I sit with no feelings of fear, indecision or perplexity

Extra Credit.

I can't believe what I am contemplating, but there is just no other way, no way could I get success the regular way. There is some apprehension, of course; furthering my pursuit into the wicked realm of wickedness meant to give me a certain future. I know I'm traipsing on dangerous, albeit enticing, ground.

Extra Credit.

I shake the uncanny thoughts out of my mind and steer my mind right into a proper perspective.

I am at my wit's end. I feel awful physically, and my mind is something else altogether. This could be the final breach of being Christian.

The day is getting on. I feel more like crawling under the park bench or climbing the tree than facing the day.

Next to face the demon...

Fortune Man used to live in the plains. A dirt road wanders here and there, down a hill, into a gully, up a hill, and out onto the flat of the open landscape. There are not many villages in the desert-like area. The main highway track is some forty kilometres behind us. The lone taxi huffs to a stop. A large boulder and a fallen tree lie on dirt crossroads, almost blocking it. The driver clicks his tongue and manoeuvres around it. The sorcerer watching us come can only see steady lights, bouncing or racing crazily and drawing steadily closer and closer.

The home of the sorcerer is here.

It's the same house, a rumbling mud-walled cottage with many demons in it. It is fenced with green ojuok. In the compound is a car, a nice car, a semi-expensive Lexus model. Fortune Man has customers as usual. They all come at night. The taxi parks beside the Lexus. We sit and wait. After about an hour, I hear voices. A pair of guys emerge from the house, both about 35ish, clad in business suits. Very nice tender businessmen, they make their way to the Lexus talking softly. I look at the curiously. Seem like the trend.

They drive off, and I remain thinking. Fortune Man is in good business, tapping souls in exchange for fortune. This is not just an African thing, in Leeds, I saw rock musicians visiting black sorcerers from West Indies.

A young woman comes from the house, approaches the taxi limping. She has one eye, where the other eye ought to be is a gory hole. I tell the taxi driver to wait and follow her into the dark house. I need to buy some credits from Fortune Man. This is the only insurance I know works in this business. I learned that in 1983.

Summoning all the courage I can muster, I follow the woman shuffling into the inky darkness. She takes me through a long passage into the familiar horrendous room. I sit on the same old sofa with awful-smelling upholstery. Actually, I don't sit, I perch myself on the edge of the seat. I catch wind of something, it smells god-awful! It makes my head giddy and my eyes water. There are small fragments of moonlight light emitted from the wall-critters. The chill of the still air is not kind, either. I wonder casually why old Fortune Man must keep me waiting.

To say it is spooky is an understatement. I recall the two times I have been here and each of those times I've thought of turning back in a battle of conscience. But there is never any will except for my own voice reverberating back to me in an odd manner.

Like now, there's a sudden decision to back up and try to retrace my steps when I contemplate the price I will have to pay. Last time he asked for one of my siblings, and I sacrificed my big bro Keya. That was a hell of a thing to do. I drew the rationale that Keya was a drunkard and a failure; thus, he was of no use to the society, not much less any use to himself and his own family. Talking to myself, I determine that since I've come this far, let me hear what he has to say. If it's one of my sons, I'll say a flat no and walk out.

Curiously I wonder if time passes at all within wherever hell I am suspended somewhere between heaven and earth buying credit for fame and fortune. I have to assume some sort of transition. How this malevolent habit had implanted itself into my noggin I don't know, but I have trusted in this power and its perks and idiosyncrasies. My thoughts return to Mama Iva, the transitional time she had brought me here for the installation of the powers in 1982. That episode in my life had been quite the turning point. Now more than twenty years later, I am enduring yet another.

An army of mosquitoes dive bomb me and I hardly notice. I sit straight like a pin on the edge of the seat, eyes staring at the perfect drawn numbers on the wall. Small thoughts begin to occur to me. Fortune Man chalks them up to match meaning. Numbers represent destinies in Fortune Man's methods. You choose a number, and he reads your destiny. He gives you three chances, and he gives you very accurate details about your past and what such episodes present in terms of your future.

Presently he enters the room. He glides in like a snake. I can make out his frail frame in the darkness. I can hear his wheezing. I can smell his awful sweaty body odour. Smells fetid like rotting fish. A cough. Shuffling about. More bad wheezing. More rustling in the dark. Then a tearing sound, a match striking. Light comes up, small light at first. Candle smell.

I tense up, gripping the edge of the sofa. I can see now. It's a red candle. As I watch, he uses the candles to light other candles, places them in two rows. Now I can see. I fear to look at his face, I look around. Many odd objects. The room is shrouded in a layer of wall-hugging crinkly moss like a curtain. I can swear I hear a bat flapping its wings, screeching.

Presently Fortune Man speaks. "I saw you coming. Two days ago. How are you my son?"

I am in awe. He can see things. Last time his juogi were all powered up, his ability to transmute his wishes through the thick insulation of times and void seem a little baffling. He says he gets his powers from his Master. He gives me a candle to hold. At that moment, I feel something drain out of me. I am "zapped". I am in a trance. I look at his face. Dark, ominous, shrouded with many dark shadows.

Now that I am under "control", what?

Compliance!

I know the drill. I read the numbers on the wall. I read at random the way he instructs me. He tells me to stop. The weariness in his voice worries me.

His voice is low and rumbling. "You have to pay a bigger price this time, my son."

I feel the air in my lungs suddenly sucked out. Whoosh! I am astounded. He raises an eyebrow, his eyes drill into my heart. I am engulfed by pain. I chock. He gets up, mutters slowly under his breath, humming an eerie song. Then he rears up suddenly and screeches a strange word in a loud voice.

Three times.

Then he speaks to me. Directs words into my psyche. I am mindless, only answering to the whim and the will of this queer.

"I need one of your sons now. Another ten years of fame. You have ten children, seven boys, and three girls. I need one."

I start. My mind whirs and I can scarcely breathe. "I have three sons!"

"You haven't met all your children. You will soon. Then you will choose the one you want to sacrifice. The one whose soul you want to mortgage. It's your decision to make. Give me a one thousand shilling note."

I fish out my wallet, extract a one thousand shilling note and pass it to him with trembling hands. He holds it, walks out of the room into an inner room for a good five minutes. Then he comes out and hands me the notes.

"Take this. You must give it to the son of your choice before four full moons. The rules haven't changed."

It is wet. I fold it into four and press it into my wallet.

"Can you take the one I haven't met?"

He shakes his head. "You must make the sacrifice yourself. It's you, not me. If you choose to spare the life of your son, well, you don't get what you want. You have four full moons to do this. If you do it, you get ten years of fame and fortunes or you face another twenty years of darkness. Then it's all over."

Twenty years of darkness? I break into a cold sweat. I am still enticed, I sigh tiredly. "How much will this cost me?"

"Two million."

I am aghast. I am enthralled and awed; it gives me cause to wonder and contemplate.

Two million! Where do I get that kind of money?

As if reading my thoughts, he speaks. "You will go back to Ulaya. That's where your fortune lies. You will make a great record there and it will sell. You will pick musicians from here, young people. You will make enough money to pay me. Go."

I still feel at odds about my new ability. It bugs me greatly. In some respects it is familiar, but in others it is new. Am I yet again evolving? I understand the ability of Fortune Man's juogi to render Invisibility, which isn't so much of a far-fetched venture to believe. Mind control, too, is another facet of his powers I can readily believe. But I know that by good results after taking a life, there are many other "facets" of this weirdo's schemes I do not know.

It takes me two good minutes to gather myself. But, in the interim, something comes along to take my mind off the agony of implementing this horrible deed.

As I leave, a dog is freaked out and barks its brains out sending night birds flapping their wings and night rodents and reptiles scurrying away.

#  NINE

"Franco was right. Women are the cause of men's problems."

ILLUSIONS down Oginga Odinga memory lane

My mind is abuzz with confusion; overwhelmed with Fortune Man's invocations. It isn't the most ideal situation, for sure; but my options are rather limited. Especially when I come to think about it. I come to a decision. I'm not going ahead with it. No way am I going forward with this craziness. Killing a person is sin; killing your own blood in exchange for richness is madness. It takes a little more time to unravel and get the gist of the ways stuff works in the realm of wickedness, and it is a lousy one. Blood in, blood out, and it is the blood of your kin! How on earth can I even contemplate this? And why is my heart so desperately wicked to trust in witches? Even if I sired so many bastards in mad moments of sinfulness and I will never get to meet all of them, my kids they remain. As clueless as they may be, they have not been brought along into this world "just because." No, they are entitled to their lives.

As evening begins to set in, I tell Maria that I want to sort my personal demons. I want to ease my mind of strife, concerns, and other pesky matters of morals and legalities. I'm going to take a room in town because I feel I am a different person with jumping emotions and I don't want to bag anyone with my stresses. Maria looks worried as if she knows something is wrong. She asks me to come back tomorrow and; perhaps, help her George with guitar lessons.

I say no problem and would be glad to. She smiles and says, "I know you're going through a lot, tomorrow I will make up a delicious dinner." She pauses, and then adds, "In your honour."

I chuckle thinking she's uncanny. She sounds as if she has an ace up her sleeve. Why does she sound like she's at her wits end? This is all spills down into a pool of shit. Right now, I am most nervous and worried. I'm in a big fix to worry about other people's concerns. A big one. And only Jesus Christ can help me. I try to relax, but with the din of Maria and her kids, it is a bit much. I need help.

I may not have met all my children, but-but-but...

But you see, Otis Dundos, proud parent/father, whacked stupid, you can't see yourself taking on such a large brood, can you? Do you have enough guts? You're doing well with what you have, bro. What do you still want in your age, bwana?

So?

So decide. I decide, at length, that in time I sooner or later I will ditch this earth. So what the hell with worry?

Fine.

Fine?

Yeah. Fine.

It costs me nothing to apologise to Maria; she grumbles something inappropriate and embarrassingly I scamper quickly out of the kitchen and hot foot it to the sitting room to say goodbyes and good nights to George and Christine. George flaunts his disappointment while Christine tries to be subtle; she makes faces of distress.

I amble off and wander out into the Pandpieri-scape towards Milimani. Seriously I have such mixed feelings tonight. I make the trek out to the darkness and out on the lone junction road to the same place where I usually find tuk tuks waiting. It is late in the night, but it's so deemed safe. No tuk tuk. I worry and take my time peeing while I scan the area—but it is the dead of night and not a soul in sight. Finally, I see headlight on the opposite side of the road. I whistle and wave. The lights bump, rock, and turn; the tuk tuk comes close. I give instructions to the driver. I don't want to go too far, I note in my mind. Just to the nearest hotel. I am so stricken with fear and distress I need to clear my mind. I long for a rowdy live band fun and cold beer tonight and enjoy Kisumu, at least to kill my distress.

Downtown in Wananchi, in the area behind the bus-stand, do I find myself among heavy beer drinkers listening to old Franco. I can just be content to be part of the transiting population which has invaded places like Wananchi, Beer Place and a few selected joints so popular with modern Nairobian-Kisumu yobs. The tuk tuk guy, who is accompanying me on this outing, tells me that in some places one would be mistaken to think they are in a Nairobi joint because the patronage will have turned to a Nairobi-people affair.

During the twenty years, Kisumu has transformed so much that new entertainment joints with fancy names are popping up everywhere with prices of things charged above bizarre. I see many people coming, going, going about their businesses and milling about listlessly. It's been twenty years, people have changed. At first, I recognize no one. I wonder casually if the western cut cowboy tuxedo I'm wearing is a bit too much. In a little while, I bump into former schoolmates, old friends, and old fans. Some folks are chatty and offer helloes and howdys, handshakes and smiles. Some of them come up along with their nosey husbands or enthralled wives to say, "This is Otis Dindos." Twenty years has turned former girlfriends into aged mamas surrounded by fully grown daughters and sons.

I want to enjoy myself and forget Fortune Man.

Kisumu bubbles with excitement. The drink takes me higher. Gossip flows with it. I'm told that these days, 'Commando' Mo Thwaka, 58, who accompanied me on my musical journey and played bass guitar for much of Orchestra Victoria's most productive period, is occasionally spotted performing in Kibos Road County Club and is in the midst of a new album project at a studio in Airport Road near Bandani. He survived the benga and rumba scene in the 1980s, continuing with 'Gentlemen's Gentleman' KSK Odongo in Kisumu Delta Force during the band's heyday and has since played in other groups, done sessions in the studio and pursued business ventures with his second wife, Elisabeth. Lisi, as he affectionately calls her.

What about Akumu, his wife of nearly 30 years?

Listen to this gossip: Akumu ran away twelve years ago to elope with another man. She recently came back with five children including the three she got with Mo before she left. That Mo's brothers forced him to take her back. As a result of which Lisi, who he is currently living with, has threatened to leave him.

Women.

When I think of such, I think of my own share of women troubles in the 80s. Franco was right. Women are the cause of men's problems. Women matters, really, is seemingly all we musicians sing about. To eat as a musician you need to sing about love and women. The secret behind 'The Poet' Opiyo Willy's success was his ability to compose songs that touched people's hearts regarding love, women, and marriages.

I always wonder why women were created with the ability to destroy men. Let's start from the beginning: Adam's peace in Eden was disrupted by Eve. Delilah used her sexual power to discover and reveal the secret behind Samson's strength and brought him down. Closer home our pre-Colonial war hero Lwanda Magere was killed by the Nandis when a charming lang'o woman he had been given by the enemy disclosed the source of his strength. Here in Kisumu, my former boss and mentor, Nicholas Opija, was poisoned by an unworthy married woman in a deadly game of adulterous stupidity and shame. In daily life, many men have been ruined financially by women with whom they romp and frolic, and it happens in broad daylight. Women have broken stable homes because of their insatiable hunger for money and lust rendering many men bankrupt and desolate.

My father once told me that a woman can confuse you, make you waste your entire life. You know, doling out words of wisdom has long been the province of dads. But my father knew best. I was too young and too busy to marry. He told me that as a musician, my life will be erratic, too erratic. As a musician, he said, I will spend my life in the studio, on the road, and on stage than at home and in bed. He said, "Son the best thing you probably can do is try and have some children." That was my father talking to me in 1984. This is something that always made me proud of my father: he could understand situations and give the correct advice. I think what he probably meant was that I will always be a lousy husband to a woman and a lousy father. The wisdom of fatherly counsel lives on. I do have some kids with different women. Yeah, my legacy is assured.

I had learned not to feel guilty. My father had said this to me: "Never regret the bad choices you make in life. Never be sorry for what you did yesterday; it was what you wanted, what you chose. Accept that fact, and move forward."

It changed my life.

Today I finally find Mo. He is still round-faced, but now it seems he is bald by choice. He can't be that old, seven or eight years older than me at most. It surprised me that on the phone, he was so persistent to have me agree to meet him here. He has aged until he is droopy, drippy, a nice but stupid man. He takes some time during a recording session to explain to me his new project, which thus far involves about 20 tracks of varying styles, all based on a quirky sort of heavy benga he's played throughout his career. I sit with him while he rants on making outrageous raspberry sounds. We are drinking sodas. I can find a couple songs that I can play back to back and say these are kind of similar to my own style or they are an obviously clever reworking of my material. I point this out. Mo frowns like he's going to box me. The whole album has variety, he says.

Relaxed and approachable as he can be, Mo Thwaka looks back on his past fondly, thinks he loves the laid-back feel of the current digital sessions as compared to the old days of strict bands.

In Mo's collection, I find a rare album that was a solo project for my long-time friend, the rhythm guitar player, Tégé Zoba. The piece was done in 1994. The saga of Tégé Zoba (1962 – 1994) in the late 80s as a fine rhythmist inspired him to break away from Victoria for a while in an attempt to dedicate his career to reggae music as a regular member of the Black Devils Makali. He broke away from the simple formula of Rastafarianism and Black Consciousness and emancipated his songs from around the same pruning and evolved a personal crusade to unite his Rasta philosophy with the Taitta culture of his people. A number of his reggae hits are in six Black Devils 90s albums. These albums today remain the finest and most complete works of Black Devils. But a year before he died, he called me in Leeds and requested me to allow him to return to Victoria. He gave a sensational interview on radio in which he said he was always a member of Victoria. And that he was back in Victoria to stay. The surreal chord-play of Victoria's last album, Tupa Mbao, Uma Njaro done in 1994, has Tégé Zoba at his finest. Two weeks after the recording was made, and before it was released, Tégé Zoba was dead.

I play the album, and I see Aseela's heavy hand in the artistic arrangement. Aseela always loved rich and dense instrumentation. Her style included using six or seven guitars, synthesisers, keyboard, reeds, violins, trombones, trumpets and saxophones, and an assortment of cowbells, shakers, tambourines, and double drums. She loved the slow blues-like bass, and she sometimes preferred to use bossa nova, which she would play herself. Her songs were never hits, they are hidden gold. They are songs rich in artistic input and will be played till the end of time. My tears won't run dry for my beloved 'Queen' Belinda Auma Aseela. To her, I cherish more illusions. Like any artist, she had a weakness of poor judgement. She gave her life to one dope-head called Biggy Tembo. And died a sad freaky death. She was an Olympian singer with a fierce personality. She was a multi-talented girl with drive and force. She thought herself quite the witty lover-girl, incredibly smart and brainy. But she lacked true feminine virtues of a woman, so she faked it. But other than that she was a good person; very dependable. She was the orchestra's artistic director, and she was my most loyal partner and my truest friend.

Let my mind dissect Biggy Tembo. Aseela gave her life to him. Nevertheless, what was he all about to warrant dying for? I tried to rationalise why he was in my line-up. Apart from his exceptional voice, he was messy and was a bad influence. He was possibly delusional. He began to loathe the repressions of not being a member of Victoria a few years after he and others decamped to the newly-formed Victoria Academy in Kondele. People found it odd about him. He began to hate things, just hate things. He loathed the crude formality of music, and let it get into his head. He hated the streetwise demeanour of their leader Ominde Nyang' with his nasty-man persona abetted by the old-guy style their promoter, Uncle. He hated the unrelenting repartee of men like Mawazo and Ojua Kali Man, and other bowing and scraping cohorts in that band. It caused Tembo particular revulsion when pals and fans got too close.

People who understood him said he was on the brink of depression. He was always a queer. You could talk to him only about the group's affairs and nothing else. His personal life was no-no. He was such cold and such private he was sometimes unpleasant to have around.

He was a hop head, to say the least. Drugs had increasingly become part of his life from the time he knew their use. Mawazo used drugs too, to alleviate the weary dullness of spells and to appease his body after a hard night's work. But unlike Biggy, marijuana and other drugs were not splitting him off his musical nest. To escape the barren reality of his lost self, Biggy sought avidly after the bizarrely distorted thraldom of fancy and fantasy that hard drugs provided.

I suppose we artists as creators certainly have not only the ability to immortalise ourselves through compositions, we love to destroy ourselves. Many of us mortgage our souls to wizards in exchange for fame, don't we? It's a queer business. How can we do the things we do to change the world and yet end up destroying ourselves with drugs and tear our souls and go as far as buying ourselves expensive headstones and expensive funerals, then joining the hundreds of millions of others on the way to the gates of hell? Yeah, we destroy ourselves to early graves and take the good ones along with us.

Biggy took the highly talented Aseela along with him, yet she adored him and sacrificed her life for him. Is this self-sacrifice? This bashing case of self-destruction, what's really the point? It's as if we soon come face to face with the reality that after a lifetime of music, we get bored and death starts knocking. We have done our bit, and we're still young and famous. We have lived our lives and done our work. And since we're going to die anyway, why hang around and wait for age to catch with you when you've recorded your songs and done your work and indulged in all the pleasures of this world.

We don't know a word, a thought, or a single expression like Mona Lisa's mysterious smile that can give us hope once we gain the world and lose our souls. KSK, Mawazo, Tégé, Aseela, Ojua Kali Man, 'The Poet' Opiyo Willy, G-Chord and the others will be with us until the end of time; vivid and existent because they are real. Drive the streets of Kisumu and you are driving their streets. Kondele is their town. Olindas Bar is their boudoir. Oginga Odinga Street is their street. The harbour, frequently displayed on Victorian.com and magazines, is their harbour; K-Resort is very much their club; the fog from Lake Victoria is their fog. The greatest songs sung to this day are their songs. They appeared on the scene for a blinker, created this fantastic music, entertained men and women, said true things about love and life through music.

Then they died.

But their music remains and will always be there.

In my journals, I love to refer to Victoria as "simple freaks of fame." We were magnificent, we held on, worked hard. We spent our entire time day and night either in clubs or in studios. We never had time for anything else, and we had no families. We were always working and working and working. The neat harmonies we contorted with our songs claimed unsullied goodness from an eternal contest, even rammed together completely different minds. Roki Fela with his relaxed but rambling style tersely cut back the fully gratifying-vocal-sweetness monopoly that Biggy had created. Ojua Kali Man cracked the lyrical threshold Mawazo was afraid of venturing into. Ayo and Aseela were two different minds. Both were fine female singers of the same range. Both were born to break the hearts of men. Then came in men like 'The Poet' Opiyo Willy who could write such heart-rending ballads. 'Power Voice' Poposso used to say that his voice could break glass. Yeah, really, he had a dangerous range... it could make women coo and weep and drool. Okach Biggy was our Madilu System.

It was like that in the 80s and 90s, I tell you.

You see, for many years I, like many African band owners, had a high turnover of musicians. At the beginning, it was phenomenal. Mawazo's fragile and acidic soprano went so well with Biggy's perilously high baritone that cut through the heart. Biggy's low-pitching growl had power and energy and dominated much of Victoria's early recordings. The second pair was Ayo's silky tenor that cut across like the morning star and went well with Mawazo's piercing soprano or Agwenge's somewhat lackluster but controlled tenor. Backing them was Mzee Frank, who was Mo Thwaka's father. The third pair and, maybe, the deadliest was the Roki Fela / Ojua Kali Man combination that had Mzee Frank's shrilly soprano ringing in the mix and created the song of all seasons, 'There's No Mathematics In Love.' Then in our last year, we had the short-lived Poposso / Okach Biggy combination.

This goes together with memories. Except for Roki Fela and Ayo, all my musicians are dead. I see myself as a man who has gone from rags to extremes of my existence, round and back, lost much, lost my face and my integrity and my work.

I was famous. I rocked this country, yes. Young mothers named their sons after me, yes. Our shows were characterised by mania and riot, yes. Bad things happened, yes. Young girls sneaked out of their high school dorms and from their homes to attend our shows. Young students got pregnant and I was blamed. Parents came to complain to me. Was I responsible? 'The Poet' Opiyo Willy wrote the song "Wasichana Wacha Tabia Mbaya," which was vocalised by Aseela and Agwenge, and backed by 'The Poet' Opiyo Willy who had a deep, and raspy alto, a little bit similar to Roki Fela but not heavy. That song was designed to show how responsible I could get. But people got it wrong. That song became an instant success, was bloody popular and was on everyone's lips for three good years. I had meant to pass a message, but perhaps it was G-Chord's leaping and singing bass that jarred it into a disco hit. My solo guitar had a techno edge to it, and the song introduced sing-a-long melody lines, minimised vocals, extended the sebene and had this memorable raise-your-hands chant with a clappy call-and-response part that sent everyone crazy. That song was a number one disco song and created bigger problems for me: school girls recorded more pregnancies. The media tore me into pieces.

Years and years from now, when I'm old and gray, when all those great songs are forgotten, I want to look back and reflect knowing that I gave Kisumu and music everything I had.

Some days I feel like I should ignore my damned personal principles, revive the band and start music again like "the good old days", even though I know it won't happen.

Anyway, I hope I haven't rambled too long. I really hope someone can relate. Better yet, someone should help me make up my mind.

I'm sick of thinking about it!

Like a man, I'm tired.

I'm tired of telling you how I spent the best part of my youth in the studio and in clubs and on the road and in exile. I don't want to be a nomad for the rest of my life. Fame came with perks, and I toured some countries and played well-attended concerts, and it was great because I enjoyed myself and made some decent money. But it all ended. I'm tired of telling you all these things. I want to be a normal person. Many chose the path I chose and are now sleeping the big sleep in graves. I can't say I was smarter than them. If it was HIV, wasn't I a worse womaniser? I was just lucky... lucky man.

Well, I'm not made to be a nomad; I like to have a place I can call home. I'm tired of telling you I am a compassionate and crafty person who needs an environment that inspires creativity. I, like every person, want to have a place where I can relax and fix things and make the world a better place. I'm tired of making people think I'm a person who likes whoring and adventure, I want to be around my family and retire and die with honour.

Family is family for a reason.

I think that at a deeper level, my reasoning that I should die is a better decision. So between you and me, to be here in Kisumu to retire and expire makes a lot of sense.

#  TEN

"God forbid! This is now a property of the church. You can't have it."

RELOADED sensations. Or just Sin-sations...

Lakeshore Premium, with its 1950s porch-type architecture, hasn't changed much. Except it is now 100% Indian café. I'm sitting outdoors on the sidewalk getting increasingly restless, bothered by the idea that I'm missing some crucial encounter out there somewhere. I sip my tea while giving my thoughts a carefree whirl. I am trying to browse the Net on my iPhone, and I'm only vaguely aware of my surroundings. To my left on the back by the brick wall is a businessman who is a multitasker—reading paper, sipping tea, doing something with his mobile phone, and conversing with a hot dame in a short black skirt sitting at the table with him. She, too, multitasks the same way holding her phone on her shoulder and yapping away while at the same time sipping cocoa, gobbling sausages and reading a book. I bet she will 'multitask' on the businessman's wallet!

To the far left against the short green wrought iron fence and the wall between the multitasking business people and me is an old man dressed in a suit complete with vest and kerchief. He is reading The Standard and sipping tea. Other patrons include a young couple occupying a space before me who are giggling and scraping up the remains of chipos in their plates. A serious-looking middle-aged businesswoman sits between them and me, juggling the keys of her cellphone, sipping cold juice.

Twenty years ago, if you exited from this room and took a left, you could go around the corner and look out over Lake-shore Premium on its porch-type area. Uncle closed off that section and made it into an open-air restaurant. Back in the mid-80s, we loved to hang out here after gruelling sessions at the nearby Lakeshore Studio. Back then it was called Lakeshore Premier Dance Club, and we staged many weekend boogies and weekday jamborees here, but it was also a boarding and lodging house with classy rooms. It was a cool place for breakfast and lunch, and we spent many hours here relaxing, meeting artists, arguing, exchanging ideas, discussing politics and sometimes composing songs. We loved to drink on the tiny veranda and you could hear the waves hitting the rocky shore from here in the late afternoons. In December 1989 on his birthday, 'The Poet' Opiyo Willy rented several hours of studio time to record his poetry here. He invited the singers Mzee Frank and Agwenge as well as Aseela to attend and take part in the sessions. Portions of those sessions that had verse done in acapella fashion were used in the 1989 Chris Tetemeko (La Ardhi) album.

With time Uncle closed off lodging rooms because while staying in one these rooms was rousing, you tended to get a lot of noise from the street, and there was a near-constant battering by live band music. Many times you had a woman!

What I personally did was stay in the rooms of the other hotel known as Nyumba Kubwa in Milimani near Mayfair Bakery, also owned by Uncle. I wouldn't recommend Room 22. I always told a cock-and-bull yarn that a man had committed suicide there. Truth is Rooms 22 was my special abode for weekend marathons with the debauched Mama Iva.

In the shadow of the restaurant's overhanging canopy is a young Indian woman breastfeeding her baby while her fidgety six-year-old daughter can't stay seated in her chair. She bounds out singing a child's song and races around to see the infant suckling, then she hops to the news-stand then skips inside the restaurant before popping back saying, "BOO!"

I'm thinking hard about money. Selling DreamScape is like selling my soul. I have an appointment with my bank manager in two hours but I know I wouldn't bring myself to go for the meeting.

I walk about and find myself in the vicinity of Lakeshore Studios near our family's Rusinga Island General Store which is on the same street opposite the studio, on the corner of Kendu Lane and Odera Street in a blue-collar neighbourhood about twenty years past its post-Colonial prime. Lower Oginga Odinga Street is now a trendy, sunny metropolis, undergoing the renaissance bestowed upon it by the construction of the new Kisumu town into a city after the Tosha/Second Liberation Party union which promised to bring 'development' rewards to the Luos for cooperating with the ruling party.

But Rusinga Island General Store has been in our family history for many years. In 1974 things were hot and slow; the name 'Rusinga Island' is found only in courthouse records after Mama won the contract to run it against an Indian who had lost the bid to operate it and took his battles to court. The court ruled in favour of Mama although what we didn't know was that my father had used his connections with Jaramogi Oginga Odinga's newly formed KPU, kapu. Eight years old, I vividly remember standing on the corner, peering through the thick glass and wire screen of the green wooden doors, through the stickers advertising KCC milk, imagining the plastic toy models in stock on the shelves inside could talk and hearing Mama exclaim, "Ayaye! Ma koro duka wa. This is our store."

Rusinga Island General Store is still run by our family. My sister Akinyi took over from Mama recently.

Lakeshore Studio, now known as Lakeshore City Recording and it is owned by Calvary Pentecostal Church. I visit the building today and discover that the studio space in the new church is still virtually intact, with soundproof double doors in the studio and original finishes untouched. The old mixing console itself was apparently only removed two years ago.

Maria didn't need much convincing to sell this property after the church offered forty million. She was in such a hurry to swindle Uncle's two older wives and his many children she said yes to the offer without considering the value of the land upon which the building stood. She didn't even consult a lawyer; she was only in a hurry to sell the property off before Uncle's family knew. She later sold three acres of the studio's back lots to housing developers. Now I'm told Uncle's eldest son, Moses is embroiled in a court battle with the church and the housing developers to revert the property back to the family. I don't support Maria's decision to sell, but I know it's not my business to meddle in Uncle's salacious family wrangles.

"I'm delighted to have handed this wonderful building to the church in the knowledge that it will remain a vital part of Kisumu's ongoing music heritage and church crusade," Maria told me.

I am almost shedding tears as I stand in the warming mid-morning sun looking at the church's banner proclaiming "Jesus Is Coming Soon". With its classical Victorian colonnades, the building is always a spectacle to behold. During its heyday, the studio cranked out an average of one album a week. At the zenith of the mania (to compete out Nairobi studios), Lakeshore attracted bands from Zaire.

Last week I made friends with the studio's new owner, a flamboyant Pentecostal pastor who is my age-mate and who danced to my music during his youth. Pastor John Oloo he is called. As he yapped on about his essential work in this neighbourhood and boasted about his six thousand followers, I wondered if he had an inkling of the history of this famous recording monument and the ghosts that roamed there. He appeared to read my mind with his sharp probing eyes, he stated that the recording facilities had become obsolete and attempting to continue as a functioning studio is not a viable option.

Today I'm here for more probing.

"The music scene is not the same," Pastor Oloo says after feeding me with another long look of suspicion. "I wasn't bothered about the cost of running at a loss since I was helping young people make their music here in Kisumu, but the board said no. Secular music is the work of the Devil. And our mission, you know, is to take souls to heaven."

"Can I have a look?" I ask.

"Follow me," he says.

I follow him into the studio not to do much, just to have a look around, smell and reminiscence. My favourite studio was Studio 2, which had an incredible view overlooking the corner of Oginga Odinga Road and Kendu Lane. As I look closely around all the nooks and crannies of the room, I'm able to recall and find traces of how we worked for years here in the mid-80s. Although many of the installations in the room have been replaced here since our last recording stint in 1991, some original lost-era recording equipment can still be seen. The control room is only 4 x 3 metres without any real acoustic treatment. It even has the Technics 1210 MK II turntable.

The studio now offers 24 track digital recording and mixing. You can see the Tascam DA-88 and DA-38 digital 16-track recorders, an improvement from the 8 tracks affair of our time. During the recording of the ground-breaking 1986 Wend Osote, Uncle expanded the studio and added more equipment. Ayo's vocal booth was situated in the lower-level bathroom of Studio 1. My recollections wouldn't be complete without humming a few verses of 'Mary Magdalene', which was recorded in the old vocal booth! Earlier on when recording Lake Victoria Breeze, we had no echo chamber, and I still remember how Ayo sang her heart out inside a toilet bowl to create the echo effect that the engineers and I insisted on.

I find myself in the mixing bench, smiling and touching. I notice they now have the 32 channel inline mixing console which is still unique since it's handmade. It is really reliable, not quite top of the range but still way better than all those semi-pro desks. And the 4-band semi-parametric with EQs and compressors on all channels look like they did twenty years ago when I sat in here last to record 'Yawa Tosha Tho!' This is where I ran the day-to-day creative tasks for the band. We worked hard recording music and taking all the master tapes to Attamaxx in Nairobi for mixing and mass production.

I gloat over into the room that used to be my office and see what used to be my desk. I used to sit here managing new Victoria recordings signing in new artists. I would host evening soirees with poets, politicians, students, University lecturers, producers, actors, and musicians. The desk looks crummy and is not in use now.

The pastor's hard voice yanks me out of my reverie.

"Bring back some good memories, Mr. Otis Dundos?"

I turn to him and sigh. "It has so many memories for me, Pastor," I tell him. "Not just recording sessions."

Then he leads me into the main studio where I find some kids at work. I quickly sum up great improvisation: they have a turntable which is plugged directly into an iMac computer.

The pastor introduces me to them, explains to them who I am. Their startled looks express the reaction I'm used to. The magic the name Otis Dundos, hehehe.

On the other hand, I am a little bit mesmerised. One of the kids is trying to explain to me how a 24 bit 2 channel wav file is created using his non-conventional method and converted to mp3. They are making good use of the studio's old Garrard Model RC 121 Mark II turntable, most likely from the early 1960s. We used it a lot in the 80s.

I continue to gape, thinking of my old songs in master tapes which I need to convert into digital. The kid explains to me how he is using Creative software to create the wav file, the MMJ to convert to mp3. Then he uses Roxio to transfer to CD or DVD. He keeps a separate DVD archive of the wav files, plus a separate external hard drive as an extra archive.

Pretty primitive, I can see, but it works like a charm!

The pastor then takes me to his office and explains that since opening the studio six years ago, artists looking to record everything from gospel to radio commercials have done so at Lakeshore City Recording.

I have contentment in mind. I'm drawn to an idle thought about how feasible it will be to comfortably compile Best of Victoria, maybe even sneaking in some previously unreleased tracks including the slower version of 'There's no Mathematics In Love' sang by 'The Poet' Opiyo Willy which, I predict, will become hugely popular.

I face the man of God. Teasing him a little is not bad. "I want this studio. I want to buy it."

"God forbid! This is now a property of the church. You can't have it."

"We'll see."

I walk away towards Rusinga Island General Store to talk to Akinyi.

Koch Koch Klub, perched on top of Mama's historied Rusinga Island General Store, should have closed long ago. Over time from early 1988 till 1991, I operated it and this is where the band bought most of their beverages before and after rehearsals, so that made it the obvious choice. Later on in 1990, after Uncle threw us out of the studio, I used the backrooms of the bar as Victoria's offices and meeting point. We rehearsed here too; it absolutely fitted the creative mould that cast a good number of compositions the band and I would eventually work on. It had dull-coloured walls and ceiling, black and white checkered linoleum floor, tightly-packed tables with red plastic checkered table clothes, tiny washrooms, a smoke-filled bar and waitresses who wore expressions that indicated they would prefer to be doing just about anything on this earth except taking your drink order.

Either way, Koch Koch was a superb bar to stop in for a quick drink. Aseela sat on the wide hanging balcony with her guitar on a bright August night and wrote the song "Roho Inakufa" in pencil on the back of an envelope while waiting for me to complete my interview with Omuga Kabisai at the VOK radio station.

I find the bar has changed ownership many times but not the name. The neon outside was classy and expensive, so none of the previous owners ever bothered to change the name. We are here watching soccer. Maria is screaming every so often, gripping madly at my arm. I am yelling with her and cheering. What a tense moment. Oh, no wonder it's said some people collapse in front of their televisions during soccer seizures. I'm not a fanatic fan of either Gor Mahia or AFC Leopards. But the tension created by this game is just too much to bear. I do not know how it feels in the stadium, but I'm almost angry at what I'm witnessing. It will be a bloodbath if the fans go amok like this. I am calming down seeing that the match is likely to continue as the Gor Mahia fans who were leaving the stadium in droves are coming back to watch the game which has been restarted. Beside me Maria is so angry she is weeping. I hope for the best with Gor playing with one man less after one of their players was slapped with a red card.

AFC Leopards fans are dancing wildly.

And amid this fever-pitch excitement, I am in thoughts. With no TVs or videos in the '70s, I'm wondering how the young women and men in the villages used to learn new dancing styles. I remember how people used to crowd Sosial during soccer matches or when there was news about Jaramogi Oginga Odinga or Luo Union or Safari Rally or a train derailment, which were great news those days. As young people, we would only occasionally attend a live show by a Zairean band from Nairobi. Interestingly, even without music videos to watch, we still had great dance styles, and we danced away. How did we do this? Whenever we saw a new dance by those Zairean bands, we copied the dance routines and committed everything to memory.

I think technology has made us lazy, too much.

Maria's sobs bring me back from the never-never land.

Gor Mahia has lost to AFC.

"Take me somewhere," she says. "I want to get drunk."

So we find found ourselves in this place. Shards of guitar and drum noise hit me in the face as I lead Maria in. I can't remember the club's name, it's a classy but semi-casual open-air makuti night spot located somewhere near old Kisumu dockyard, not far from Club Swagore and also on the shores of the lake just outside Railway works yard, off the Marine Drive, across the rail lines. It is messy, but good fun. It is full of drunken Kisumuans having a good ole' time. The later it gets, the fuller the place becomes. It never gets hot or muggy with bodies packed into each other; after all. It is an open-air spot next to the breezy lake. My claustrophobia is kicking into high gear already. And listening to mildly inebriated people laughing at sick jokes isn't my idea of entertainment.

This is another of the many nightspots Maria will have me visit on our nightly prowls down Oginga Odinga Street.

The woman grips the vinyl cushion of the bar and settles onto the padded stool. She waves at the bartender and mouths the word "Guinness."

I settle into the seat next to her. Her drink comes, and she doesn't drink; she sits with a long face.

"Not doing well, are we?"

The woman is lost in her own little world, fluttering her eyes. She mutters in halting words, rubs her cute tiny nose. "I've lost it all." And I note her rubbing the finger where her wedding ring once rested. The woman has an addiction; she is a hard drinker who just gets lost in the flow of raha, and she has squandered away her children's inheritance.

This isn't easy for me to stomach.

"Drink and be merry," she tells me. "Life is too short and this is Kisumu." I decline her uncanny hell-may-care attitude and opt for a low-alcohol lager. I need a clear head for my next coming days' rendezvous here in Kisumu. And I really have no clear idea as to what my moves are going to yield. Many things have already pulled me at the seams: the startling discovery that this woman actually sold Lakeshore, the desert beyond the ghosts and Fortune Man's bag of bones calling me to make a sacrifice, Pam's incessant phone calls, the valley of indecisions that I am stuck in, etc. Am I a marked man on the road to my destiny? Why do I feel a creeping shadow of dread?

"I know you won't forgive me for selling Lakeshore," Maria says meekly. "But I had to do it... had to. Moses will not have his way, no way."

"Well," I drawl, "maybe we can fix that."

"How?" she asks demandingly, her moist eyes pleading desperately. "How can you fix what I've done?"

"Oh, there's a way."

She shakes her head at me and takes a long sip of her drink. "Oh, you mean there could be a way, huh? No, it's gone, forget it." She almost slams the glass down on the counter. "I got so wrapped up in my problems from the last time Moses started threatening me. He never saw me as his mother... as his stepmother. I just thought I could do better, do more to help cushion my finances. I have children."

And now-now those finances are gone. Gone-gone-gone.

"How did you lose the money?"

"I don't know. Some risky ventures, I guess. I lost my good sense of judgment," she says almost whimsically but with a heaping helping of self-sarcasm. "Sixty million."

Ouch!

Plus Uncle's other houses, his Mercedes Benz 300 SE, his Rolex, his licensed firearms, wedding ring, necklaces, art collection, another ring, dignity, and good sense.

What a stupid woman.

She was stymied, and her deprivation led her to stray with near virtual hustlers in pursuing her lust. She had staved off engaging immorally with young boys for her lovers and slept and partied with them randomly like a cheap wench and they boinked her and dinked her and ripped her off and kicked her in the ass. Before she knew it, the money was finished and she started disposing of her cars to recover. She had dipped her paw into her personal savings, then family savings and finally the children's savings (college account). She had hit a losing streak that just ate her alive. Now she was down to her last fifty thousand shillings. There was a little left in the family account (but not much) and almost nothing in the college accounts. So far, no one knew. So far.

She sniffs and dries her eyes. "Owiro, hm-hm. Can we, uh, talk about something else? Please?"

"Okay."

"Yeah, that look on your face says it: you hate me. I feel so rotten, imagine."

I give a perceptible sneer. Hate? Not even loathe is enough to describe it. I fret about her lustful desires and unnatural lecherous pursuits unto seeking pleasure from randy boys who have now milked her dry. "Let me get you another drink." I wave at the waiter.

I am sweaty, my ears are ringing, and my lager keeps getting sweeter. The music is strictly hardcore, unadorned old rumba that thrills me to my core, and it comes in ear-busting surges of pounding noise topped by the ranting vocals of a bare-chested lead singer. I look at my watch. Quarter to eleven. I look at Maria. She is on her seventh or eighth Guinness and has been dancing a lot, dancing with anyone who cared to take her to the dance floor. The band is a tight piece and looks professional enough. It has two guitarists who share lines with a keyboardist; they crisscross three-part vocal harmonies with wondrous syncopation. It's three scantily clad dancing girls know how to move the crowd with suggestive gyrations which are actually sexy hip-sways and butt-shakes, and their sax player knows how to blow good funky wind, playing spattering jazzy spiels. Its style is more varied, with a hint of melancholy than the buoyant, three-chord Congolese groove. They can shift gears with bewildering flair, and their versions of Papa Wemba songs change tempo and texture. This youthful band is lilting and kinetic, a marvellous lattice of percussion and melody. Their fans are a collection of mild-mannered nerds, grizzled college preppies, young-at-heart wazees and infidelite married men and wives of men (from the looks and just the looks) and some weighty and well-moneyed VIPs. A quick attire check reveals two budas sweltering in Nigerian or Ghanian agbadas and some mamas in boubou brocade caftans or nice Congolese vitenges with massive head wraps. This looks like the way Kisumuans now choose their weekend wear: Gor Mahia football jerseys, designers, dashikis, linens, some vitenges and Kenyan "National" designer wears (the in-thing with Kenyan colours, not the flag but just the strips of black, green and red I had seen in Nairobi), and lots of short-sleeved double pocket button-ups.

The song ends, and Maria shows herself with beads of perspiration dotting her round face. She sits down heavily next to me, puts her beak into her Guinness. There is a look of excitement of her face that I have never seen before. Clearly, she is enjoying herself to the maximum. The bass player, who, apparently, is a close friend of hers comes over to say hello to me. Says he knows me from my music. He is a kid of no more than twenty–five. Maria says he is a part-time member of this group that is called Mambas. The man (well... the boy) himself looks so skinny you wonder if he's ever eaten ugali to get some flesh and stamina. He is wearing an ill-fitting light blue silky shirt that looks positively huge on his frail frame, with dark pants hitched up a few notches too low. He has a narrow waist and no buttocks. His jeans are belted with a huge metal-studded black leather belt somewhere across his upper thigh, down past the place his buttocks ought to have been. His neck, head, and especially his hands look oddly disproportionate as if someone jammed normal-sized parts onto a small mannequin. He wants to know what I am doing, why I'm not performing. He says the best song he ever from Victoria's repertoire is 'Wasichana Wacha Tabia Mbaya.' That makes me glad, so I tell him I am retired. I buy him Guinness and invite him to sit down with us. He sits there looking at me with open wonder, while Maria drinks him up with bedroom eyes. Eyes that have passion and fire in them. Eyes of a shameless harlot. I ask him his name. Lang'o, he says. I can see talent in him, I have always loved the 'Maseke Ya Meme' bass, and he did it well, with great spontaneity. Good bass, as Mangelepa showed us, is a real strength in a band.

Lang'o again asks why I have stopped performing. I should be performing, he says. In a single day, he becomes the second man to ask me to play lead guitar on his next recording (the first being Mo Thwaka earlier on). I don't tell the boy that my reclusiveness is going to be perhaps more legendary than my music... no interviews, no live performances, no contact with the outside world.

Over the speakers, a voice booms. "Bass, come back on stage."

I ask Lang'o to confirm to me what I am seeing: he and my uncle's wife? Is it...? In answer, he put his arms around Maria, touches her face and strides back to join his colleagues on the stage. Maria feeds me with a warm look, her face flushed in her drunken state, her small nostrils dilating.

Maria, as I have said, is a hustler and a player. She has as many as four young lover boys standing in line. Oh, I forgot to tell you she cute bimbo knows it. To each boy, she has tugged her heartstrings, and usually, she gets what she wants. And if she doesn't, she'd pout and go on to some other lover boy who would give it to her.

The drums roll and cymbals crash. They begin playing an oldies medley. Oh, it is cool African Jazz. I almost take a knee as they start with Dechaud's 'Africa Mokili Mobimba.' There is a gentle dreaminess to the sound, first-class honking sax solos, and guitar occasionally in the style of Dr. Nico.

Like me, Maria loves old Congolese rumba. The 60s and 70s Francos and Nicos and Rochereaus, especially. She goes more for the up-tempo numbers, like Dennis Bonyeme's 'Namiswi Misapi' and M'Bilia Bel's 'Twende Nairobi,' while I lean towards the bitter-sweet ballads like Rochereau's 'Mokolo Nakokufa' or Verkys' 'Nakomitunaka' or Les Bantous' 'Even'. Their version of 'Marie Jose Wa Bolingo' is so sweet. It charms me so much I fight the urge to go up that stage and grab the guitar and make those solos scream the way Bavon did in the original recording.

After about three whiskeys with Schweppes chasers, I am none the wiser about what is happening, I find myself swamped in the glory of 'Nadendela Mibali.' As the soloist plays the solo guitar parts, I play along with him, strumming an imaginary guitar and whistling out the chords. As Lang'o plays the huge bass parts, blue backlight throws a thirty-foot silhouette of the man against one of the club's tan, raffia walls. The image that sends me scrambling to the mental rolodex, trying like hell to remember the name of the Négro Succès bassist from the cluster I have in guesses as who played bass in the original recording. Some said it was Celi Bitchou, others asserted it was Alphonse 'Le Brun' Epayo. A quick mental scan (no dice) reveals that Négro were a decade younger than the members of OK Jazz, And they shackled in the metaphorical cavern thinking that OK Jazz were the real giants since Vicky Longomba and Brazzos did have a hand in the creation of the band. Négro was formed in 1961 and Franco himself aided Léon 'Bholen' Bombolo revive it in 1964 and provided material support to ensure that his brother Bavon Marie Marie didn't play in inferior bands. These were the likes of Orchestre Jamel and Cubana Jazz and were the training schools of talented men such as (guess who?) Empompo Loway and Bumba Massa. Bholen and Bavon didn't know their luck that Franco was the invisible hand guiding the successful journey of Négro Succès. OK Jazz was influential in determining which band stayed small by undercutting smaller bands, swallowing talented players from them and frustrating their gigs. And, indeed ironically, while Négro was, in fact, a smaller and tighter OK Jazz, they threatened to unseat the supremacy of Franco with street-slang lyrics, a hip fashion sense, and prolific recording. That's why Franco was blamed for the death of his brother Bavon in 1970 and the decline of Négro in 1973. And since it's a known fact that Bavon could play like his brother Franco and that Franco and Bavon made guest appearances on each others' sessions, I believe that the youthful, charismatic and restless Celi Bitchoumanou (bassist with OK Jazz at the time) played bass guitar on this classic song 'Nadendela Mibali'.

#  ELEVEN

"If you hear rumors about my death, check things

out for yourself, don't rush to conclusions "

CHANGEABLE Happenstance and other circumstances

For the next couple of days, then the weekend, my sense of misdirection mounts. I find myself more confused than ever. Come the weekend, I wake with a bitch of a headache. It is dark outside and dark in the bedroom. I feel ill and a cascade of images lambast and plague my mind. Taking a giant breath, I leave the room, fart, and find the bathroom to empty my bladder.

I feel awfully awful. A buzzing sound is in my ears, in my head. A nice cold bath usually helps and I keep stepping into the shower. It works. Always had before, many times. Sometimes it didn't help. It would be hours before the hard throbbing wears off. No one is home. I don't worry where anyone is. Maria probably gave the maid her day off, took the kids to her sister's. At least George and his cohorts are not rough-housing in the house and making my head pound. Maria will be out all night and will only show up mid-day tomorrow damaged like a tart, bleary-eyed, sniffing snot disgustedly and battling a hangover.

The sick feeling ebbs the throbbing in my head ceases. When my stomach growls, I rummage the refrigerator; find some cold milk and brown bread. Whenever I'm confused or in a terrible state, I get horned. But the fright and confusion overwhelm me now. Even after getting my rocks off at Anne, the busty woman Maria connected me with the other day, I feel utterly unfulfilled. It's hilarious; I don't think it's because I don't want to see Anne again. Even when we'd hit the storm last night, it seemed like something was missing. Sure, it felt good. I hadn't felt so connected to anyone that way in years. But I don't want it to be an addiction, and that's why I hesitate. I'm unsure, apprehensive, concerned, worried. Stepping over the boundary line means there would no going back. Kisumu women can be witches in bed. They can be insufferably bad addictions too.

Well, now... the lilting solos of Simaro's 'Vaccination Ya Ba Soucis' lull me. My mind and my body (mostly my mind) still fights with turmoil and confusion. I try not to let it get to me. I don't like my life so soiled with complexity. Not that it peppers my outward appearance; I care less a hoot what people think of me.

There is more to it than that. A call from Pam rattles me; she wants answers. Answers I can't give. I can NOT sell DreamScape. I'm a firm believer in nature. Nature always finds a way in all situations including our current financial crisis. DreamScape is a priceless monument. The smart thing to do will be to lay low, possibly move to some remote locale and become a hermit. It would be the only way to relieve myself of Pam's incessant rattle-rattle of the phone and the pesky Kisumuans that want to drown me with their problems.

Awakening around noon with a hammering in my head, and my body on fire, I don't listen to my subconscious leaking into my conscious. The hell with that. After showering, downing a six-pack (a SIX pack) along with some microwave snacks, I initialise the DVD player, feed in another Congolese rumba and return to the world of snooping.

But my salmagundi is not to be. Tonight, it had been different. And not just the ending, everything. I'm definitely still attracted to Anne, but is it really anything deeper than that? Or is it just that she's the second woman I've allowed myself to boink since Adoyo in Nairobi six weeks ago? And Anne will definitely blow her top when she learns it was just a one-night thing. She's been calling me almost non-stop. I've just blocked her number, and I know she is going to start using other numbers unknown to me. She's the least of my worries. And to be honest, I want to put her out of my mind. But it doesn't feel... incomplete. Some things are better left, no matter how sweet they are. Sweet things can get bittersweet.

It's a stupid weakness I have to use sex to ward off fear and confusion. A fog of uncertainty continues to plague me when I contemplate implementing Fortune Man's directive, but as I shower, that fog is lifted and I want to fool myself that I had dreamt it all up. I eventually convince myself that I conjured up in my dreams what happened four nights ago because my mind is warped regarding the sacrifice I may have to make. It is no less frightful, and the clock is ticking. I'm on the brink. My mind has gone to work overtime and is putting together a plan filled with moral turpitude most high.

I get a nasty headache as a result; a nose bleed, wobbly knees, and heart palpitations. The whole situation with Fortune Man is odd, very odd. So one odder thing doesn't matter.

Driven by panic and fear and untethered emotions with sweat bathing my face, I trek to Junction Kochola and make for other parts of Kisumu unknown or forgotten. I take a taxi to Ondiek Estate to face another demon.

A voice answers on my first knock.

"Donji."

It's a voice with not debonair... not delightful and not cheerful. Not even enthusiastic; just a simple greeting. It is the voice of a mature and tired Luo woman. It's Mary-Goretti's voice.

"Mary-Go," I say, trying to sound friendly and respectful.

"Get in, Didi. I've been waiting."

All in good time.

The door is not locked, I push it. It is a dank single sub-let room in a rundown two bedroom house in Ondiek Estate, small, squat and gray; from the 1960s era, just well used and well lived in. A dull-coloured Butterfly sofa that has evidently seen better days is the room's best thing. A privacy khanga screen, a stool and a few odds and ends make the room her living room as well as bedroom. The blue metallic Vono bed, of course, is way older than the Butterfly sofa but small and from the 1970s era. It looks comfy and inviting owing to the fact that it's well made.

She stands there. The woman is huge. Obese, sort of, not really fat-fat as far as "fat" is concerned but she is super massive, extra-extra large. A somewhat pretty face. Big thighs, big arms, big udders. She doesn't look bad as I imagined or the way her emails expressed; she looks fine... very much unlike a sick person. Her hair is done in small braids, making her seem that much more severe to me although she is looking attractive in a light green dress.

I don't care. I just want to get this over with.

She offers me a seat and observes that it's more than six weeks since I got back and I haven't faced up to one of my most fearsome demons: her. I wonder after her dark sense of humour. Well, at least she's as chatty as I'd always known her. The night is dark, warm, and full of mosquitoes. Regardless, I sit on the cheap sofa and take a good look at her. Her mood seems sullen like the humid air.

"You've been here three weeks, shemeji?" she asks sitting next to me.

I shrug, slap at a mosquito on my neck, sigh saying, "I've been busy, shemeji. Lots of things to do."

"First of all my thanks for the money you sent me for Agwenge's funeral."

I shrug. "It is well. He was my brother." A mosquito sings past my face, I slap it away. "The bugs, the heat, it's all different."

"Too sad. Utazoea tu. This is same old Kisumu."

We sit in silence for a few minutes more. Then she says with a sigh, "I hear your msungu wife wants you to go back," she pauses and struggles to get the words out, "and your parents want you to marry a Luo girl."

"Oh." She heard it. News travel fast in here Kisumu.

She gets up to sit opposite me as if to get a look at me. She shifts and pushes the hem of her dress to cover her knees. She smells good, and stifles a yawn. I stifle a fart.

"You really have your ear to the ground?"

"I'm part of the family."

"Yes, of course."

"You can't go back. It's better you marry a Luo girl. You need to come home finally."

I smile.

"What about you?" I ask curiously.

There is a quiver at the corners of her lips and a brightness to her eyes. "Stop jokes, bwana. I have a man-friend. HIV complicates things. I can't have a normal life, I'm used."

I nod. "I Know Mary-Go. ARVs? Good?"

"You can see, Didi. Let me make you some tea, shemeji."

She goes out of the room. Moments later, I hear things rattling in the kitchen. I feel a sickness well at the bottom of my stomach. Hours ago I was still gathering courage to come see to see her here at Ondiek and it just ate me away. I look at her dwellings and I see poverty. I hate poverty; I always want to run away from it. In Leeds I met many white guys who'd rather die in prison than stay in poverty. Listen to how my childhood friend Magak (RIP) used to describe poverty: if you are staying in a permanent house, the walls start cracking. The house starts sinking and the metal windows and doors begin to jam. The roof leaks and the ceiling boards start to fall off. The roof's iron sheets turn brown and ugly. The fridge is broken down. The gas cooker's out of order. All the cups are broken. The Thermos flask was broken ages ago. The sufurias are leaking and you cannot afford to replace them. The once beautiful bed sheets and blankets are all torn. The sofa set is old and falling apart and is supported by bricks. Your children are jobless and their mother has become sick. The vehicle is a shell. You have lost all your friends because you cannot repay them when they lend you money. If you're in a town away from your rural home, you can hardly afford transport to go to attend funerals of relatives. Age has caught up with you very fast and no one seems to remember that you exist. You are in a rut and you're hated by everyone.

Poverty sucks!

My sister-in-law Mary-Goretti comes back with a metallic kettle and two old cups. She pours out what smells like herbal tea then she sits herself next to me. As we take the herbal tea, she tells me how she has managed to keep paying the rent, by the simple expediency of taking the tailoring job her dead boyfriend had left behind. There is a church nearby that has a nursery school in it and has positions that are reserved for women in her exact situation—extremely poor and HIV-positive. She has no good income, no savings. Her possessions are mainly clothes and few furnishings and utensils. She has managed to work, pay her rent and pay her teenage son's high school fees. Rent, utilities and food are taking every cent she can get her hands on. That means she's had to be "innovative" at finding ways to do things that most of her HIV colleagues find disgraceful in order to live. She washes clothes and utensils for other people in the estate and gets paid. At one time, she used to wash beddings at the boarding and lodging brothel near Kaloleni.

I know that poverty is man-made. But to resign oneself to a defeatist attitude that you cannot fight your way out of it makes a mockery of all those who did claw their way out with blood, sweat and tears. It can take you your whole life fighting poverty here in Kisumu, fine. Granted. But Kisumu does offer opportunities to those nimble outgoing men and women willing to work real hard and make sacrifices. Sad, the dragnets of poverty prevail. I thought I kicked it in 1987 after Victoria's European Tour and the successes following the bestselling albums like There's No Mathematics in Love, Chris Tetemeko and Luopean. But I consumed all my savings in UK. Now I survive from meager record sales and the four rental houses I constructed in the '80s. Am I any better? Looks to me like poverty's rushing back and I must think of a way to butt it in and bash it hard on the head before it rattles me down to the ground.

Mary-Goretti is silent for a long moment. Then she says she misses Agwenge.

"When did you start loving him?" I want to know.

"After he died," she says. "No, no... when he fell sick."

I chuckle.

I'm tearing up hearing what she has just said.

I'm stunned.

She asks, "You think there could've been a future between Agwenge and I?" She looks at me and sees me struggling. I'm thinking about asking her something. Was she always going to cheat on my brother? Would she have left him?

She speaks. "Early in 1984 when you dated me, you taught me something. You taught me to fight and take whatever life gives. You taught me other things later on too but I wouldn't be sitting where I am now if it wasn't for the first thing you taught me."

Ours was a romantic love affair full of youth and innocence. From '84 till '86, Mary-Goretti was my number one. We were both young. I was about twenty-two and she was eighteen or nineteen. I was a young dynamic guitarist and every girl's idol. She was a dazzling beauty. We were in love... for real. Then I dumped her... I dumped shortly before the European Tour. Just lost interest as my hunger for fame and power increased. She stuck with me. When I came back from Europe at the end of the Tour, I found my brother Agwenge was dating her. Or, to put it correctly, she was sleeping with him. For her it was as a way to get back at me, I knew. But Agwenge was dead serious and married her. But even after they were married, she never quite got over me. She continued to sneak into my bed. When I realized she was doing the same whoring thing with other men in the band like Mawazo and Flavien, I firmly dumped her. I'm quite convinced she's the one who brought the disease into their marriage.

I try to remind her of those times. She says nothing, no emotions, no smiles, no sadness, nothing.

I weigh my thoughts carefully, choosing just how much to divulge. She leans forward and says, "I loved Agwenge. We were in love with each other. Deeply in love. But I always told him a day would come when I would have to leave, and when that day comes he would have to let me go and finally look for his second true love. I could never measure up to him after what you taught me and I knew I'd never be able to make my husband happy even if I spent every second of every day trying. From early on I knew I wasn't in love with him no matter how deeply he loved me. But there was one thing I knew with every fiber in me; I knew he would find someone else, someone better than me. Someone who would finally heal the hurt that he had inside him from the time he learned that I was cheating on him. I would help him find that person even if it would be my sister. I know how you feel about your brother but you were my first and only love. To me, loving him was an extension to loving you. I mean, as long as I had him and he was your little brother, I had you."

I'm still stunned, even more so. This woman is still hiding something, I can see that, but I won't push her. She isn't telling me this tale now because twenty years ago it wouldn't have come from her mouth but Agwenge's. I sit reflecting on my brother's sad and short life and I realize that he was such a nice guy to have put up with this. In my old-age wisdom, I realize how strong and level-headed he was. True mature love is when you can overlook a woman's weaknesses and love her with patience until she realizes you truly love her and reciprocate the love. Agwenge was a real man who was so focussed on his family that his wife's infidelity was a non-issue. I'm sitting with his wife who learned to love him and be faithful to him after he died and I see bitter regrets lambasting her mind.

She fetches a small radio cassette player and feeds it with a battered Maxel audio cassette. A benga song comes alive. It's 'Mpenzi Nisamehe' from Agwenge's 1989 You Came Too Soon album. And it is one of those songs with a syncopated beat that doesn't ever seem to want to end. It goes on and on and on and on. But in a sweet rumbastic way. But the lyrics... the words are haunting.

You went to the Manyata Flamingo,

You left me here in Manyata Gonda

And you were gone, ran back to him.

You lied to me but I loved you more

You ran to him but you were going to come back

You went searching for him in Manyata Flamingo,

Wearing a mini skirt, and you kissed him shamelessly.

And he pushed you away.

I love you but you don't love me

You love him but he doesn't love you

He loves another woman

CHORUS

This song will keep playing and the children will grow,

Stop the music; put the record back in the sleeve

It's for me and for you for our love forever

You wore a nice dress and put on strong perfume.

With money in your purse in a borrowed jacket

And a took a Mercedes Benz taxi from Kondele

You went to the Manyata Flamingo,

Dada, I'm waiting for you crying in this hot sun

Like a defeated hopeless romantic.

I'm here for you, crying here in Manyata Gonda

You say the pain was all imagined.

You don't love me and he doesn't love you

Many years on, you will cry and wait for his love

But it won't come because he won't love you

I will be gone and you will look for me

And you will love me, forever into death

For eight long minutes the song plays, the words are repeated over and over. Agwenge's metallic voice is in anguish. He always had a crying voice, that brother of mine. And Mary-Goretti sobs. Music is a time machine for men and women of a certain age. For aged people like us whose lives have gone full circle, music brings back memories, good and bad. Agwenge's questions even now, are difficult to answer. So this is always a guilty pleasure for me. I never wanted to hear that song, its message was too direct.

The death of Agwenge still haunt me. I wish beyond wishes that I could have known and possibly stopped him from getting into the nefarious world of music. Maybe it would've been essential to turn his life around and shape his destiny. I honestly didn't think much of him as a musician, anyway. As my younger brother, he looked up to me. He idolized me and followed me. As an older brother, it was my duty to take care of him. There was a brotherly love thing at play all the time and I tried as much as possible to make life easy for him in the band. His position in Victoria as a vocalist, indeed his career, was safe and sound all thanks to me. He followed me around blindly and sometimes it annoyed me that he was leaning too much on me. So much so he couldn't even find a girl for himself. He had to pick up a woman I had dumped and still had issues with! This still riles me. Why, it's long since he expired from this life after a life lived so freakishly and my regrets won't ever bring him back to life.

As quitting time approaches, I'm beginning to think I should just get out of here and forget everything. But I know I have to accomplish my mission. Mary-Goretti clears her throat and sniffs. Life's not easy for her without a man, she says. I have to be around and support her too. I'm half listening. I know it very well I cannot trust her. If she wants me to help once in a while, I will do so only as an in-law. I'm truly worried about her. What puzzles me about women is that once you sleep with them, your lives become intertwined and they make the biggest deal out of it. Even if there is no love in it.

I let out my breath; stifle a yawn along with a troublesome fart. Then: "Is it true, Mary-Go? What you said?"

She sent me this disturbing text message a week ago: I hear you're around. Who cares about a poor worthless hag? At least know have a son. The boy is your son.

She gives a subtle nod.

Well, oh well. There is a momentary pause.

"He's your son, Didi. Dan is your son. But don't worry, I'm not going to tell him. I know all you've been through and you don't have money. I just feel you should know before I die."

It feels like I had known it.

It is quietly presumptuous and subversively condescending. The conversation quickly derails. For a minute I sit still with rivers of sweat cascading down my back when the woman hits me with this: "I need a big favour, shemeji."

"What?"

"I need one hundred thousand shillings from you. I need to complete Agwenge's house at home. I need to start a small business selling fruits and vegetables."

She describes how being forced to survive has put her in a position to make short-sighted and, usually destructive choices. Chronic stress, she contends, wears a person down to where they just don't, or can't think. I agree with her. I have been there.

"Sometimes when you're a woman like me in my situation, you are forced to do what you have to do. Anything to survive. You have no idea how seeing you here gives me hope."

She's right.

When you live from hand to mouth, when you're a single woman trying to keep food in your kid's belly, pay his high school education and maintain a roof over your heads, it forces you to make short term decisions, without ever contemplating the possibility of saving for a rainy day. Every day is a rainy day, and it never ends. And it doesn't end even when the child grows up and leaves the house. After twenty years of short-term fixes, robbing Peter to pay Paul, worrying about where the next meal is coming from, it's impossible to get into any other mode. You find yourself used to a life with no hope.

I fart. Big and loud and stinky. It zombiefies my sister-in-law. I began to sweat. Sweat more than I have already.

Loose ends are surprising easy to tighten.

My estranged son Daniel Otieno Agwenge, Mary-Goretti's son: he wants to see me. For no other reason than "just to talk to Uncle anisort". Curiosity to see my son burns in my heart. So I say to Mary-Goretti, "Tell the boy to call me."

He calls me, calls me uncle.

I'm just as eager to meet him; he's another of my bastards.

So we meet.

We meet at Hippo Point for lunch. He comes in a tuk tuk. He has his mother's big bones, hardly looks nineteen. He is a pumped up kid who wears tight tee-shirts and dwarfs me. I'm six feet, remember. I'm awed. But Dan Otieno Agwenge is an alright Kisumu kid; a little quirky, kind of bubbly, but likeable. I see nice personality in him, an almost "happy-go-lucky" attitude and a "go-getter" in concerns outlook. I wonder about his core character and drive.

We bubble-gum about and get acquainted, and after about a week, I get to know why he is so eager to be close to me: he wants to leave Kisumu, and he's thinking of going to UK. He wants me to help him, he already has a passport.

To be befuddled would be an understatement.

"How can I help?" I ask.

He gives me a jeering smile. "You're British, uncle."

Yeah. Right. Of course, he is my son, it's not just in our close likeness. Not only does he have my hooked Indian nose or my height, or even my deep booming voice and self-assuredness. Like me, he's an egomaniac, talks a lot about himself. I just look at him and I see myself over twenty years ago when I had just finished my high school at Kisumu Day. At his age, I too knew what I wanted in life.

As we forage awkwardly on the issue he has put before me, he tells me he wants the contact of his cousin, Daudi.

"Just what good thing do you think you will find in Britain that you can't get here?"

"My friend Bob went there immediately we "cleared" high school. His uncle took him. He already has a part-time job and he attends college. I see his pictures on Facebook, and he is doing good. I want to be like him, I want to go, uncle. I have to!" Obviously, he has many friends, and he is very popular in his circles here in Kisumu. Well, most kids are pals with him; many are won over by his personality.

I look at him hard.

Well, I quickly deduce that his thoughts are partly not of his own. I see Mary-Goretti in this. Remorse? Anger? Or maybe nothing at all. He is my son and now I'm confronted with his problem. I have to bear it. This is my new responsibility.

He is still very young and battling with the hooplas and hysterics of growing into an adult. But I can already see he is going to be a brilliant young man. He has energy, drive, and focus. Just like me. Well, the thing is we all want to leave Africa when we are young, that's why many Africans swamp Britain looking for opportunities and better lives. Being British, it will be no brainer for me to take him across. But I will do nothing of the sort, no way.

My thoughts are on Pam and Daudi. Pam believes Kenya is a better place and won't support this one bit. Daudi will just sneer and walk away. I cannot do anything without involving Pam, she always finds out. I don't want any of her rantings.

"I have to digest this, Dan. Give me time, okay?"

Looking dejected, Dan nods.

A little later on, he tells me he wouldn't mind sticking by me, running errands for his uncle. For starters, he needs a new phone. Not just a phone, a smartphone. What for? I ask. WhatsApp. Oh yeah. And Facebook. I forgot. Then he would want to move in with me once I move to DreamScape.

The befuddlement continues. And now! Moving in with me? No sonny, I like my space alone. Money I can give you. Smartphone for your WhatsApp, yes. But sorry, my space is mine alone.

Slowly but with determination, this boy is painting for me his grim world. Eventually, the picture is complete in all tones and hues. I have little trouble touching his mind as I uncover his world. Lots of talks, lots of food, Dan and I have sort of hit it off.

He rarely has money, and he has no night outs, little fun to the parties for sure. No dates, not much doing in the home with no TV and with no money. He has not any household accoutrements; nothing around him is his own. The one room he shares with his mother in Ondiek Estate is rented and paying rent is a nightmare. He needs a laptop too. He wants a bed of his own and new bedding. Is it so much to ask to die and stop being a burden to society even after he has grown up and is ready to be a man? He was raised with the sole purpose that he would take care of his mother until he died. His father died, and there is not much coming to the family from the proceeds of his father's only "investment", the album, You Came Too Soon. His mother is sickling, and that really gets to him sometimes.

I look reflectively at his young adolescent face and realise that his sadness has really alienated him from everyone and everything that he could love. This is an attribute to my own failures. For the most part, I never raised any of my children except Daudi. But Daudi's good manners are attributed to his mother who brought him up straight. Pam was determined to be a good mother in her second marriage. She and Daudi are pretty close.

Getting into various teenage troubles is a way of life in Leeds. But Pam would have none of that, she chastised Daudi for any wrong thing he did. Daudi grew up well-disciplined and with a moral purpose. His mother destined for him to be a doctor. He loved English literature and was always embroiled in discussing Dickens and Shaw, and analysing the metaphors and allegories of Shakespeare. He is in Reading doing medicine because Pam always has her way, though literature remains his passion.

In time, though, in a month, Dan and I have grown close as can be. He is a little wishy-washy. He needs a job but isn't so enthused about starting at the bottom. This son of mine is a naive player in the unemployment game here in Kisumu. Unemployment has always plagued Kisumu youth. Kisumu is a county of one million people, yet there are virtually no employers because we have very few factories and enterprises, some non-Governmental organisations, a few Government departments, Indian stores and some scattered small and micro African-owned businesses in the jua kali sector. Many of us go into low wage self-employment after high school. During my time, it was already a popular trend. People with a high school certificate, a paltry primary education or less were always disproportionately gang-banged in the informal sector. Many of us went into self-employment occupations with no business skills. I saw my colleagues getting into selling mitumba, hustling at the bus stop, starting little shops, selling wares at Kibuye market, opening barber shops, getting into sporting occupations (with the hope of being discovered by talent scouts), getting into carpentry and mechanics in jua kali. I remember, as a young man who had finished high school and having no skills, I had minimal options and followed my heart into music. For me, luck smiled, and I succeeded. I made it because I was tough, focused, and level-headed. How many weak ones got sucked into crime and pettiness and ended up locked up in Kodiaga or in the jaws of HIV/AIDS? It's such a sad thing: unemployment has made a dent on the self-esteem of young Kisumuans, but it has also strengthened their resolve to struggle and succeed.

Years ago, running amok to Nairobi was a perfect solution. Young Kisumuans always wanted to go to Nairobi. Today they want to go to Britain and the USA.

Hm. That somewhat justifies Dan's ambition. His mind is in constant turmoil, and he just wants to leave Kenya to go hustle where his heart desires and start a life. He wants to help his mom. Makes me wonder: UK is a very attractive country for many immigrants from Africa. Many African immigrants can and will do anything to stay in Britain permanently. As a result, according to the latest 2009 statistics, over 13 percent of the population in the country is immigrant. Britain is a beautiful world with a well-organized system of social security that is available to all, without exception to its high standard of living. Many people just have no idea how Britons detest the dominance of immigrants. I saw it.

But the Brits have no idea how smart black immigrants are. Many get into bogus marriages with EU citizens to allow them to legally stay in the UK. Many forge their way into receiving social benefits. I knew many elderly Africans who were boastful of how they'd acquired British citizenship by marrying lonely British women. One used to brag loudly about how he had duped his new bride and her dimwit backwards family into giving him money. He had little intention of keeping the matrimony going; he had two honies on the side in two different cities and was married to none of them! And what of African women immigrants who deliberately have babies with a low-life mzungu to gain mileage in securing asylums.

The flip-side is even tougher: once you secure asylum, it's even harder to find employment. Africans are always more unlikely to get jobs. Despite being legally married to Pam, I had labour issues that were always bugging me at my own jobs, and I didn't know quite what to do. It's a tough world out there for young Africans who think it is all rosy in the West.

I give Dan this entire dossier and more, but it's no use. He is not going to change his mind; this is something that has been nagging at him for a long time. He'd rather die; he's going to keep trying. His encounter with me is a plus—and his hopes are more alive.

The only thing that makes sense in this restless, streetwise kid is the fact that he is my son. Crazy nerdy Fortune Man had said I have seven sons and three daughters. I wonder how many more like Dan will crawl out of the woodwork.

#  TWELVE

"DreamScape with its size and grandeur is my

pop star's boudoir. It is my equivalent of

Fela Kuti's Shrine. Or Michael Jackson's

Neverland."

ON a hill far away...

The soft morning rain has left the air fresh, clean, and a little damp. Birds chirp, squirrels run amok the branches of the cypress, monkeys leap about the branches.

Finally, I have moved back to DreamScape, my home on the great escarpment. No one has been here in a long, long time. In the air, there is smoke, not a forest fire but fireplace smoke. The peoples back at one of the nearby villages are up and about. DreamScape is juxtaposed between the Wi-Got Reservation and the vastness of escarpment. It sits on a major thoroughfare of motorists heading up and down the highway to Western Province. The remoteness of the highland community in the rustic area in the shadows of the escarpment is unique to the lakeside surroundings. You get cool here. I love it up here in the cool highlands because it's so detached from Kisumu town. No laws, no government, no land-grabbers, no interlopers or pesky bothersome neighbours snitching on you.

The house has a suitable makeover and rustic colour choices. It looks disgruntled, quite aged and rambling. Timber had rotted away in most parts; the walls were covered by wild creepers and crumbling.

Putting it in shape took a lot of breath.

Took weeks.

Endless weeks. Today the inside smells clean although it's cold and creepy. Rustic and musty smelling, too. The rooms are awash with soft smells of fresh new paint, varnish, and new timber. It's a lot cooler in the bedrooms; the drapes are drawn, the rug brand new and still has manufacturer tagging!

The house dates back to pre-Colonial days; there are oddly placed columns here and there about; dark wooden floors, off-white walls, wide spaces. Furniture and accessories include moderate handmade seats, potted plants, a sizeable wood-carved giraffe in one corner and an elephant in the other. The bar set is new, the glass backing behind the bar, the glass shelving, the bar stool—all new. In the sitting room hang my expensive art collection and cow skin table drums and heads of stuffed animals: buffaloes, antelopes, tortoise shells, and traditional musical instruments.

Even after striping and mopping and cleaning, there is a dankness that is hard to dismiss. But it is tolerable.

The two old men who take care of the place are busy, one is hanging my clothes on the line, and the other is using a cutter to trim down the grass on the extensive compound. I summon them, make greetings, and we shake hands cordially like humble Africans. Okwach, the housekeeper cum cook is a big brute, smokes tobacco, makes infamous chili, and knows incredible offensive jokes. He has been with me since 1988 when I occupied this property. The other one, Onduru, is the gardener. They are nice old guys; humble and respectful.

DreamScape with its size and grandeur is my pop star's boudoir. It is my equivalent of Fela Kuti's Shrine. Or Michael Jackson's Neverland. A place of convergence, a perfect setting for a recluse to fire inspiration and creativity. Many of my good songs were written here. Victoria rehearsed here from 1988 till the end in 1991. When I bought the ranch in 1988 before the Euro-African Tour, I had dreams of hosting famous musicians here once I became a celebrity. It still suits me even more now in my old age.

Living with Brits has taught me to value the concept of personal space... to the extent I detest crowds. There is that compelling side of me that is hard pressed to be silent. To be calm and be alone and brood. As a creative person, I'm compelled to be friendless and selfish at times. Many times I desire a quiet, peaceful life with intermittent bouts of music. I enjoy reading and seeing and listening without opening my mouth. Mostly I just need to ease my mind of concerns and other pesky matters that get in the way of my inner peace. I have things that keep me company: my acoustic guitar, books, magazines, music, DSTV, the Internet. Not people.

I shower and scarcely pay any attention to my scraggly beard. After drying off, I keep my head bowed while shaving. My legs feel weak, rubbery as I pull on my clothes and make my way to the kitchen. I walk about listlessly... roaming and smelling the place, getting accustomed and fighting nostalgia. I have to have clarity. Natural lighting fills the house; there is the hum of a soft wind. I stifle a yawn and fart loudly. A nice stretch, and I feel better. The thick musty air is quickly refreshed by Mother Nature. My breakfast consists of tea and baked beans and brown bread. Thoughtfully I tug on my chin, rub my arms and backside, contemplating my fate.

Then I step outside in the warming air to inspect the place. The house has a typical styling of 1950s architecture with a barn nearby. It is a quaint house of off-yellow stucco and timber, a nice front yard with shrubs and trees. Out the back door, morning sunlight is already ascending, encroaching upon the tallest pines. It is cool, the buzz and bustle of the day is beginning. The area has been serene and undisturbed for many years. The barn is off to one side, almost falling down. The remains of a chicken coop stand nearby. The yard to the home is not fenced, just a line of nyabende shrubs make the enclosure. Painted wooden posts that make the fence is here and there, and a little over there, but it has all fallen off. My old Massey Ferguson tractor from the 60s stands in the shade next to the barn. Scattered about near the barn are milk cans, crates and a rocked well.

I stroll over to the well, most of it is caving in on itself, and the wooden structure is already gone to the wayside. It isn't very deep; I can see the dirt and wood debris merely some ten feet below.

The repairs and renovations are not completed. I have had to move in, nonetheless, because I need to make a start. I need to have the freedom and make a connection with my past and gain balance and rhythm. I need to feel and connect.

I needed to get away from Maria.

She has graduated from a parasite to a pest. She has been draining my account; I have been financing virtually all her outings (and she goes out four times a week and parties hard).

I have had enough. I like Maria, really. And not merely for the fact that she is my late uncle's wife, but that is a part of it. She is lively, fun to be around, and she has enlightened my heart. Of course, there are the common complications with that.

But her extravagant lifestyle is too much.

She may be my aunt, but she is a conniving soft hustler, and she is a dangerous gold digger.

Got all that? Well, on the other hand, I need a place to practice with the band. The rest of the area is vast land and bush, all the ten acres of it.

I wander out into the woods. Not far, just to the nearest boulder within my ten acres still. Up to where there is a small ring of misplaced eucalyptus trees and some cypress. I need to clear my mind. I find somewhere to sit, I sit.

At some good hundreds of feet, the air is crisp, clear, and most of all, clean. The oaks and cedars are thick, and the sanctity of it all is amazingly breathtaking. I spot a gray hare, along with a woodpecker pecking away somewhere high up in the knotty pines. It is all quiet and serene. The grass is dry and yellow.

Time passes.

Some wisps of thin layered clouds lazily cross the blue sky. Pam used to love it out here. I sigh and think of how much I miss her. When I was in Leeds, I used to sigh and think of home. Home-home-home was all in my mind. But how can I do without the fine English culture, foods, Roundhay Park and lovely show gardens and Kirkgate Market and my beautiful house at Western Yorkshire? Well, home is home and DreamScape is another piece of paradise. I miss Pam's affectionate hugs and love.

It all fills my mind.

My childhood in Pandpieri, Riana, Nicholas Opija and KDF in Olindas Bar, Kondele, Mama Iva, African Heritage, Angelou, Nairobi in 1983, forming Victoria with Tege Zoba, Mary-Goretti and youthful love, Ayo, Mawazo, Biggy, music and songs, the 1980s, Euro-African Tour—all fill my mind. These images fill me as my mind makes words about "Home To Kisumu", a new song in my mind.

No matter what they say,

know that I still love you

They don't know that you also love me

The rumours you hear in Kisumu that I died

And was buried in a foreign land are not true

You gave me love and life and

You put the guitar in my hands

And songs in my heart

Yawa, yawa, yawa; Yawa, yawa, yawa;

Ura, ura, ura; Ura, ura, ura;

please forgive me

I wonder where this new album will lead me to next. Another song is a poetic discussion of things that have impacted me since getting back here in Kisumu. One of them is the behavior of women like Maria. I am still somewhat infuriated with Maria, pissed off and mad. She is now enamoured with Lang'o, the tall, musically gifted bass guitarist with pleasing looks, and possibly destined to, most likely, work on my album and be somebody. Maria wants to be part of that somebody. When I returned to DreamScape six days ago, she was put through the paces starting with her son, George and her daughter Christine. The kids had begun to call me "uncle." They were somewhat conditioned; no less embarrassed but submissive to the horrors decreed upon them by lack of a man upon their lives. I think my presence in their home for the last one month and two weeks had filled the void. They knew what would befall them if I left. It was a reality their minds couldn't dare contemplate.

I stick off for more adventure, hustling further into the woods. Close to the boundaries of my property is as close as I can get. I smell campfires and hear voices singing. Peeking around the corner of my eyes, I can just see, through the boughs of the trees, women, and children gathering firewood. The smell of wild flowers fills the sullen near-October air. Bugs and insects make their noises—so do the meandering cattle. Those meandering cattle also bring in the delightful smell of their manure. Mixed together with the wild flowers, wild herbs, the odour of cow dung makes the remote area less wild.

A perimeter check is a good thing for security purposes just to see who the neighbours are and what they are up to. The closest neighbour is over four kilometres away, an old couple living a quiet retired life. Their four kids are living and working abroad. I met one in London some years back with a gypsy-like Dutch woman. A middle-aged couple is at some angle from DreamScape's front gate and also at about two hundred metres. Other homes are further out at differing angles. No one seems to visit the other, everyone keeps to themselves, and that's just the way it is preferred! Like I saw in UK.

Suits me just fine.

Of course, the small community isn't too awfully far; not really in "walking" distance per se, but if you are a kid visiting your grandparents or your uncle, wandering the woods beyond the community might be an awakening experience. Like my son, Dan experienced when he was here briefly in 1991.

I'm walking about through the bush many metres past my land headed for the Stream with tall trees in a small valley some ten kilometres from my place. It is the place I loved to go to for my morning rituals. It's so peaceful in that valley. I wrote at least five songs there. Pam used to love it out here a lot... to make love in the Stream. But from DreamScape to the Stream is a helluva walk, ten kilometres! Normally it's not really a good walk; the highland landscape is rocky and pretty bad. About four kilometres I decide to go back. You need a four-wheel vehicle to reach there. Not the best walk for a forty-seven-year-old either.

I gulp, sweat, huff, and fart.

Luckily the air has cooled and although that isn't helping; the clouds have dispersed and I begin to think that I just might not make the trek after all. My head throbs, my body wracks with hurts and, oh, I need a beer.

I pull my weight up against the flat of a boulder, behind a rustic old fence and pine trees giving thankful tranquil shade to the serene area. Stretched out below, I have a fantastic view of Lake Victoria and Kisumu. The lake is a glittering sheet in the mid-morning sun and stretches to the edge of the world.

After an hour, I bounce back down a rutted hidden path. This leads to a paved road, segue to a better road, then onto the highway. About a hundred kilometres below is Kong'er. The hum of the highway is loud. Last time I was here, it was a small shopping centre which just sprung up. Now it has grown into a town. Houses, shopping blocks, a few schools, a general store, a petrol station, some NGOs, a hospital, two banks, a church, a small police post make it. And now a shopping mall is coming up. It's called Kong'er after the first white man who settled here at the close of the 19th century. Actually, he's the one who sold me the ten-acre land upon which my home stands. His name was O'nerr. He had come from Tennessee, America, was a father and a farmer. He had several hundred acres of orchards; a cattle ranch and nectarines. He was a single father raising two kids, Abe and Kristine.

And for the most part, he was a good dad. A little strict, he expected a lot from Abe, whom he was molding to take over the business reigns when the time came.

Abe had other plans.

They butted heads a lot and Abe often sought the solace of the farm somewhere. His favourite spot was a little hill; he loved to rest in the shade of a peach tree overlooking a small quadrant of the orchard valley below. Here he could play his guitar, read Raymond Chandler and think. It was there under the shade of the peach tree that he often wanked his organ. Being out in the farming and ranch community area, there weren't a lot of African friends to hang out with, not without a lot of bike peddling to get to see them. And in the nearby African villages, there weren't that many Luo girls, and the girls that were there weren't highly desirable.

And there were other things. Abe was 19. He missed his mother. He was stuck out on an orchard farm he didn't care anything about. He had dreams and aspirations his father didn't share. So in the end, Abe and his sister left their father and went to Nairobi where they hooked up with other whites in the Happy Valley. Abe was poisoned in a freak love triangle while Kristine got married and migrated with her husband to New Zealand. In frustration, O'nerr sold his land in small patches before his death in 1989. DreamScape used to be his home.

I find my way through the thicket and entangled grass and rough footpaths back to my place. I spend the rest of the morning fixing things in the barn. Twenty years ago I had a horse, two dairy cows, a good herd of local cattle, some goats and about 300 chickens here.

I am raking some muck when I see Dan coming in. He has his shirt off and is sweating (boy howdy!) "You got everything done?" I ask him with a strict-man attitude. I had assigned him to sweep, clean and tidy up the rooms and fix the windows.

"No uncle, n-not everything," he stammers.

"Oh, great. What didn't you get done and why? You know the duties I set for you."

"W-well I started on the windows, and then the dogs suddenly started barking weird-like. I thought I'd better check it out. Turns out there are some snakes."

"Snakes?"

He nods. "In the house. The big dog killed one, took an ugly bite."

Onduru joins us. "Yes, jatelo. And I called the vet from Kong'er. The dog is out of danger. But we need an exterminator."

I shrug and curse inwardly. Turning to Onduru, I ask, "You fixed the water problem?"

"We need a new water pump."

"Can we afford it? Can't you fix the pump?"

"I got it started, anyhow, it grumbled a lot but the cistern filled with water and it's running fine now. The timer is stuck again. I used some lube on it and I think it'll be alright for now."

"For now? I need a long term plan. Get somebody to clean up the well."

I turn to go in when I hear Dan say something. "The electrical contractor was here."

"All lights are working?"

He shakes his head. "The wiring is messed up pretty bad. He says he will need at least a week to fix everything. He needs lots of new cables. He fixed the solar panels which we are going to use for a while."

I nod at Dan. "Get ready to go to Kong'er. I need some supplies for the car. Finish up here and come on into the house for lunch."

"Yes, uncle," Dan wipes his brow.

I am about to get into the house when I see a Naivas Supermarkets truck coming into the compound. Dan and Onduru go over to unload supplies. The bungalow is being re-stocked with food, bedding, toiletries, detergents. Stuff that will make the country life liveable. They are stocking the cabinets, freezers, and the kitchen.

I enter the house. The scent of fried chicken reminds me that I am a hungry man. Okwach welcomes me beaming and sneaks a plate of chicken, ugali, spinach, and fresh orange juice. I devoured the orange juice in one gulp and tear up the kitchen.

After the nosh, I decide to fix my car. It is a Land Cruiser station wagon. Early 70s model type. It looks a little thrashed, but it's strong and sturdy. It runs good, isn't worn out, doesn't smoke, sputter or shake. I was always very proud of the truck. In 1990, I had fully restored it and then customised it to make it "cool." I look it over, open the bonnet and find the engine covered with dust. A minor faux pas. I won't moan about the knicks and dings and scratches. So I spend the next two hours blowing it, cleaning the engine, adding oil and water. Both wing mirrors are broken, side window was broken too. The tyres are flat and the battery is dead. Along with wheels, tyres, paint, upholstery, I need new pistons, brakes, springs and shock absorbers.

I need to see if the vehicle is roadworthy... lights, brakes, signals, horn etc-etc. And would it even start? I call Dan and tell him what I need for the car: two pairs of new tyres, oil, lubricants, shock absorbers, springs, plugs, and a new battery. I also need two mechanics.

One hour later Dan is back from Kondele with the mechs and the supplies. And five hours later, the truck is ready. I climb in and push the key in the ignition, start the engine while pressing my foot on the accelerator pedal. The truck makes noises, rattles, and shimmies—not a good sign. It's hard to start, so they get an electrician who fixes the starter, the ignition, and the lights. Takes a helluva long time, but with push and foot to the floorboard, it finally cranks to life. I decide to take it on a test drive, taking Dan and the mechs with me. There is some basic test to be done first and I crank it, rev it up and rattle it to feel the power of the engine. It sounds good and feels right. I drive it around doing braking and parking routines to align the manual transmission gear and test the clutch. I make parallel and diagonal swoops to test the steering wheel, negotiate and make the in-the-parking-lot turns and stops before pulling out onto the dirt road towards Kong'er and then to real traffic situations.

"We're just going around in Kong'er," one mechanic tells me. "Not Kisumu yet, the car has no insurance."

That is good.

I'm happy I have wheels now. I drop off the mechanics, pay them, and look for a petrol station to fill my car. I want to stay late at Kong'er getting drunk and being lonely. But I have my son with me.

After filling the truck, I nonchalantly enter the rustic roadside building to pay for the fuel and get a few goodies. Sodas, some milk and orange juice, Malta Guinness, and other assorted treats including a large box of cereals. Dan, too, picks a few things he needs. The Luhya proprietor of the store/restaurant smiles and makes some sort of polite conversation. I'm not in the chatting mood and don't reply much. I pay for his fuel and stuff then leave with Dan in tow. At the junction that segue onto the main highway that goes through the escarpment towards Western Province, I turned in the opposite direction and drive towards Kondele.

Towards Kisumu.

#  THIRTEEN

"Give a man a fish, and he will eat for a day; give a man a beer, and he'll sit in a boat drinking beer all day."

DECISIONS, decisions

Interruptions, interruptions.

Three more weeks of silence; my money's running thin. I'm stuck in a rut. Can't get started. Getting to feel lopsided like a normal Kisumuan isn't working either.

A handful of 'friends', rummy-eyed old fans, and family come to pester me day after day. In a way, it is welcomed. It gives me relief from the dreadful thought of being musically bankrupt. I need to live again. I need to re-socialise with old friends and fans and family to feel the weight of responsibility and crank my social status.

But it is kind of hard to tell why I can't shake the smuck and move. I realise that my life is a stopwatch which not only had elapsed time from when Victoria was most actively making music here in Kisumu.

Maybe they're right... everything has its time.

Well, everyone has their time.

I doubt that a lack of creativity is the problem; the problem is essentially me.

Mindlocked.

Wow! I don't handle pressure very well; it tips me over the edge. Not all the time, but I have to do something fast. Thing is, I'm getting deeper and deeper into desperate financial straits, and I don't like Daudi's tone of voice each time he calls me. Now I'm even getting ultimatums from his mother.

I put a call to JB; I need to know my royalty status. "Forty thousand after taxes," comes the answer.

"What?"

"Your music no longer sells, mzee-kijana. Do you need an advance? I will charge you the same interest: thirty percent."

I sigh and mop my brow. "I'll take it. Twenty percent."

"Are you having money problems down there?"

"Sort of. You know how enormous my pressures can be. I can't get started."

"I don't believe it, Dundos," he says. "You're a guitarist, buy an acoustic guitar and play solo. You can even record."

As if I haven't thought of that. No biggie.

Every modern artiste knows it: economics often dictate the size of the band. Makes elephant sense why a guy with an acoustic and some vocals probably does better financially in the long run. You know, this is kind of a fun bag in and of itself. I differ. Call me old fashioned if you like, but I prefer the push and pull of a big band... solo guitar, couple of rhythm guitars, sax, bass, reeds, drums, singers and dancers. They reckon it is arduous and costly to really make anything that way and play what you want. But it worked for us in the olden days when music was music. Many were the hard times with poorly attended shows; I always skipped getting paid myself and let the others divide the cash collected just to keep the players and singers. I actually find guitarists who change the rules of the game to survive. Kind of funny and annoying mainly because it is not artistically correct. I call it insanity? Doing art for art's sake has great benefits in the long run. It made men like Franco wealthy, didn't it? I guess ASK shows were historically pretty good paying gigs and we made some decent dough on that route in the 80s but never really tapped into it well enough to really bank like some groups have. I was too ambitious after the Euro-African Tour.

JB continues. "You, you're a polygamist. Look around there and find a good band you can record with. The market is ready for good Luo music."

"Do you really want me to do this?"

"Do you have a choice?"

Yes. Sell DreamScape. Go back to Leeds. Jump into Lake Victoria and drown the hell out.

As if reading my thoughts, JB continues, "And don't tell me you're going to sell your beautiful home in the hills. That will be insane. Your well-known name alone is enough to make you millions instead of... but... wait, if you really must sell, sell it to me."

I'm going to hang up when he quips, "Dundos, there's something you should know."

Here it comes.

Today I'm in Kondele, our sand-coloured and awfully dusty community. The place hasn't changed one bit in twenty years! It isn't too 'un-planned' but there are a lot of vacant plots, and mostly the area is low income/rundown covering thousands of blocks in all directions. Probably not a single tree. The place is a haven for hot sun and scum bugs. Not all Kondele is villagish; there are some good houses, huge shopping blocks, nice apartments. There are modern-look small corner stores and hardware stores with exorbitantly high prices. And over one hundred bars! Not a lot of modern cars, only older model cars, dusty matatus, pickups, and motorcycles. Oh my, it's a sea of boda bodas. Our diva Susana Owiyo observed it well when she sang, "Boda boda swoya Kondele." Yeah, in 1999, 'Kisumu 100' was the best thing we had. Can you imagine they still have those 404s making matatu business?

Kondele is The Slum from the beginning...

In particular areas of Kondele is a particular creature of habit. This peculiar creature is as noted as the area is so very conducive for its habitation!

Got that?

Hooking is the game; Hooker is the creature.

Hookers nearly line the streets, they hung out of the bars, they sit on parked cars, bus benches, and the curbs displaying their ready and available wares. Along with them is debris of all sorts littering the dusty streets, along with various leftovers from drug stores in the form of used condoms and their wrappers. Bars and soccer betting shops and lodging houses are the main (and only) business at night. The area is rundown and a shambles, a blight on the community surrounding, a festering boil on the buttocks of the City.

But, be that as it may, it keeps the riff-raff from soiling the better areas of the City and is a dump for pent up souls. Strip clubs, porno video stores, massage parlours, hair salons, sports betting shops and lodging rooms... run one hundred blocks of the place, two hundred blocks deep. The Slums. It is a dense and packed area you find interesting and entertaining, even as a tourist attraction.

Today it is hot, humid and muggy as usual. I need to make a connection with solo guitarist Benz Benji Obat. I trek through the dust and find myself back in the familiar territory. This 'city-within-a-city' that has contributed towards our glorious history and culture today still incorporate all the perils of urban pollution: dust. I'm flatly appalled they haven't tarmacked the roads here after all these years. Dust is still everywhere... on trees, on old ramshackle vehicles, on goats and dogs, on pigs. And on bars blaring loud music, on people selling wares. It coats your skin and paints a neat brown sheet on your eyebrows and all over your hair. It gets into your nose and covers the hair jutting out of nostrils.

The buildings are squat and caked brown by dust blown by passing vehicles. Everything is wrapped in a timeless brown cocoon. The sudden gusts and whirlpools of dust, the blinding sun, the ear piercing ohangla music and the ranting street preachers are the welcoming elements. Apartment buildings are mostly of two, three, and four stories, with porches. Bars, churches, mosques, drugstores, and clinics stand next to one another, together with NGOs, schools, and general stores.

Olindas Bar is no secret place here in Kondele. It's right in the inner limits of Kondele social scene.

Not far away—

Keep walking.

After wallowing through a complex mix of narrow streets, I reach the Post Office. You keep walking down from the Post Office towards Arina Scrap Metal Yard. Down each side of this slowly moving parade is a line of slightly run-down two-storey brick bars with garish neon signs. Every single one of them for block after block has either an ohangla ensemble or a benga band playing live on a stage and a bar serving alcoholic drinks. You will soon come to a red and white building called Mzee Obunga & Sons (Since 1935). Back in the 80s, this was a hot spot here in Kondele, a favourite spot for fun lovers because of one thing: it was the home of Kisumu Delta Force, Nicholas Opija's benga and rumba band which was my training school. Mo Thwaka was with me when I began it here with KDF and Benz Benji Obat was the man who put the first electric guitar in my hands. That makes Benz my mentor, but Mo? What does it make him?

But bandleader Nicholas Opija... Lord have mercy.

Stories are still floating around of Opija's rendezvous with random women who killed him at this location. Many of his girlfriends are still around in Kondele. The numerous bastards he sired abound. In the early 80s, Opija opened a boutique for his Norwegian wife and soul mate, Lotta, which she named Lottas Boutique. The store contained fashion items from all over the world and became a popular hangout for musicians, fans and Lotta's friends. The boutique is still located in the same building. I can see the sign and I wonder if she still runs it.

I'm standing outside Olindas Bar with melancholy, a bit of lingering headache and some dizziness. In mid-1982, Opija was poisoned in this very bar. Its familiar surrounding remains what I always remembered, nothing has changed. They have the same Coca Cola neon sign. The time Coke had this slogan Coke Is It Coca Cola Is It; it's up there on the sign, badly beaten by the sun with the sheet metal badly rusted. My eyes play, I peek in. Not so much, the same set-up as in the 80s. It's decent enough, doesn't have the 'too narrow' problem that a lot of bars in Kondele have. Even with a pool table and a dartboard section and large plasma screen TVs on its walls, it's fairly spacious and airy; I walk around the horseshoe bar trying to squeeze between walls, tables, and people to get to view more of the place.

But old Musa Counterman the bartender, who has aged nicely enough, doesn't remember me. And neither does he know what a whiskey smash is. So I have to settle for a Diet Coke whose price sets me aback: KShs. 80. I sit, look around, and get a few looks, some good smiles.

Do I look new or foreign? Two cold-eyed hookers are whispering, their sultry eyes on me. Men like me who come around once every hundred years are hard to forget. I am dressed in a crumpled beige linen suit with white shoes, a white shirt, and a white hat. The suit is designer and crumpled by design. I take off my Ray Ban shades and blow air on my chest and look around.

Most of the seats are hand-crafted wooden things, long bench seats of some old style African craft, along with a mix mash of 1970s dining tables and chairs. The back hall where we used to perform was always the area of interest. Bands played on the tiny stage in the back, with a bit of room for dancing in front of it but the stage wasn't high enough so that people sitting at the few scattered tables couldn't see the performances even through the dancing men and women. I can see they have raised the stage and I hope this has solved the problem of dancers pushing onto the front and into the band that characterised our performances here back in the day.

The new back hall is small and requires little if any, amplification. It's a multi-use space, really, and somebody has equipped it with concert-hall sound. I approach it carefully; it treats me very well. It is highly bass-responsive, so the large bass amps they have here are unnecessary and cannot muddy their sound. It makes me want to play here, I imagine myself turning up the bass EQ on the amps or on the PA.

The equipment on the tiny stage is standard and modern: house P.A., three mics and three stands, one keyboard stand, bass amp, one guitar amp, a drum kit that includes bass drum, throne, cymbal stands, floor congas, snare, cymbals (including hi-hat), foot pedal. Some band. The sound system has speakers for the room and a floor monitor. The mics are of reasonable quality. The banner behind the stage reads Shake A Leg with Kisumu Delta Force. Performing Live Yaye!

As I look around, it appears word has spread around that Dinos Otis Dundos (himself) is in the house. I get a welcome anthem sung to me. Speakers come alive, music wafts forth. 'There's No Mathematics In Love,' the original version. The combination of Roki Fela's tremulous vibrato and Ojua Kali Man's piercing tenor sharpened with Mzee Frank's soprano warms my soul.

What a rousing welcome, I feel honoured. Greatly so. Humbled. I know most people here, they know me too. Small wonder they can still recall most of my songs, even the little known songs. Some folks are chatty, offer hellos and idhi nades, hand shakes and smiles.

Ladies... women run up along to greet me; they are overjoyed and want to be nosy and noisy and talkative. A lot of funny-looking chaps offer handshakes, claiming they know me. Harlots and barmaids are introduced to me. Yeah, when you are the King of Urban Benga, you're also the king of office workers and suit-clad businessmen and students and wimps and commercial sex workers and thugs and scum bums and dirtbags. It is a no brainer that I would find myself at home and at ease in Sam Olindas' humble abode. The drinks are a rip-off, though. I pay KShs. 460 for a rum and coke and it isn't even punchy. Musa Counterman is as rude as I remember. No tip for you, mzee.

In time I find Sam Olindas.

I find him in what appears to his office with two pot-bellied men in the banter of ODM talk. His eyes fall on me, and he cuts short his laughter, his eyes almost fly out of their sockets. Sam is as happy-faced as I remembered him. Fat, with a sweaty, smiley face and large sweaty hands. My hand still disappears in them. He is a little under tall now and a little overweight; just a little. He isn't physically fit but not overly out of shape, either. There is more fat than muscle, and he looks all but a soft pod. He must be nearing seventy now. More than weight at stake, there must be something else causing the man to sweat. Ageing puts a hard bargain on a man's health. But what the heck, he has always been an Amin. And there has always been this pesky image of a fat smiley-faced man lingering in the front of my mind whenever I think of Sam.

He is leering. His belly looks like a drum. He has a bad foot and hobbles a lot, but he is still nice and friendly. He still laughs a lot and appears to be in good spirits, but the laughter isn't lasting and he gets bored; bonhomie is gone and his face looks worrisome. First up, though, are introductions and pleasantries.

Sam conducts me around the bar, and we eventually settle ourselves in an open area in the back hall near the stage. We spend a few minutes chatting about pretty much everything—even talking about Nicholas Opija and we are in the thick of it when Sam pulls a fast one. He asks me about my plans. What am I up to? Am I going to regroup Victoria. I tell him I'm planning to do some recordings... make some albums. Hanging around him, whispering things into his ears is a fattish boy he introduces as his son. South Nyanzan features; robust, rugged, thick short cropped black hair.

Sam follows my gaze at the band gear crammed up in the tiny stage and smiles. "KDF is still in action," he says.

I turn to him and say matter-of-factly. "This is where it all began. Right here."

Sam shrugs and giggles. "We still miss him. KDF is still alive." He means Opija.

My mind goes into sudden uproar with recollections of my awkward apprenticeship here in 1980 - 1982 with the Kisumu Delta Force band. There are images of Nicholas Opija. And men like the late Spark Onyango Otoyo (bass), Kasule Opete 'Para Para' (rhythm), the late 'Gentlemen's Gentleman' KSK Odongo (our drummer whose name KSK stood for Kisumu Sober Kisumu), Benz Benji Obat (solo guitar). And the singers Paul Harrington McDonald Onyata 'Pong' Bando,' and the late Mark Pascal Omondi aka Mawazo Ya Pesa.

Sam gives me a hearty laugh. As I watch him chuckle, a strange, extraordinary sensory perception comes upon me.

It is stifling.

Damn hot. A headache is coming on and I am hungry like a python. I need (require) real food. There is nyama choma to eat, fried fish, brown bel ugali and plenty of beer. All on my tab, of course. When a man is from England he is a loaded man. There are women too, as always in Olindas. But they appear reserved; no disgusting engaging bedside manners like the 80s and this is a relief. Even the polite "kitchen mama" who comes to take our order hardly even speak to us. She delivers the food and drink, looks everyone over to say, "Karibuni," then goes away among the abominable drunks. Good grief! I can see Kondele finally has manners.

We eat. Sam always loved food. We eat.

My mind is not my own; I'm too confounded with an overload of pressures coupled with how good it is to shift aside your problems for one good moment of happiness along with your old buddies. With a casual glance over my shoulder, I catch somebody staring. Benz, my mentor. My teacher. I hastily wave him in to join us. He is more than pleased. He is still as sneaky as he used to be. An amiable chap, a little nervous and shifty, small eyes, wiry frame. Benz always kept to himself, with his creepy 'primitive' wife, Lydia.

He always knew how to "time" food like a hungry Luhya. I congratulate him on the quality instruments on the stage, and he tells me they are owned by the new owners of KDF. Who? Some haughty kids. I want to meet them. "You'll meet them soon," he assures me. We eat and catch up on things. They have more questions than I do. Afterwards, Sam sits back with a toothpick. I fart loudly in the wind—the deadly repose. Benz and Sam laugh heartily. Then Benz sits quietly with thoughts to his own.

I catch some vibes. Aseela's son is now in charge of KDF, and he has the full backing of Lotta so any negotiations with the band will have to be done through him. Sam's son, Erick, is running the bar now. Sam's retiring soon.

Erick wants to be a singer. Ha, it's all the same with kids now. All want to be musicians. During our time, everyone wanted to go to university and get Government or bank jobs and be 'working class'. It was cool. Two decades ago all kids wanted to do computing and IT, you know, programming and mastering skills of using computer apps. Jobs were guaranteed and you were seen to be smart and modern when you were .com. Skills like accounting, architecture, design, and others all went into the computer and to stay relevant, you had to be 'computer literate' which meant you had to learn Windows and master software applications in your area of skill training. Then a while ago, soccer and associated sports became big business, and all kids wanted to go into sports. Shortly after that doing business and becoming self-employed became a fashion and young men were quitting their jobs, with some taking 'golden-handshakes' from the Government and venturing into entrepreneurship with zero business skills. Now suddenly they have realised talent pays, talent bordering on performance art and they either want to be actors on TV and musicians. At least Daudi has some kindergarten talent on the acoustic guitar. Junior? Zero talent. Erick wants to sing and play guitar. It appears either there's some good money to be made making music or there are no jobs.

I take the second guess.

In the wake of his twenty-sixth year, Erick Olindas finds the prospect of getting a job one hell of a challenge here in Kisumu. All the usual places are either scaling back or simply not hiring, or the pay is ridiculously too low to consider.

He wouldn't mind going to Britain or the USA. They no longer go to Nairobi. Times have changed. Instead, Nairobians are swamping here. In the meantime he is Olindas' handyman: fixes what needs to be fixed (and he has his own tools), works as the club's deejay, keep paperwork and records, files tax returns and manages the bar. He's picked all the tricks from his father. The job pays him enough to buy his clothes, pay for his stuff, and keep his many girlfriends in check. Better than average and he gets a bunk in the bunkhouse (he has a room here at Olindas), three meals a day, Sunday off. The work isn't hard, either; playing canned music from USB flash drives on laptops is good fun. He does roof/door/window repairs, yells at barmaids, smiles at regulars, keeps debtors in trim. The salary is not good, but the perks that come with the job (free beer, marupurupu, and an occasional girl) make it good. He generates revenues... Significant revenues. Working for the next day.

Sam then shoes his son off, orders him to go and man the bar with Musa. After Erick goes off, Sam leans close and asks me to help his son go away to Britain and get a job there. A real job. Office job, clerical. He'll pay me what I need.

Man, oh, man. I wish they knew.

What's a little over-indulgence among friends? I'll buy him beers for now. We can talk about Erick's job another day.

Beer comes.

They say that the problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind. Give a man a fish, and he will eat for a day; give a man a beer, and he'll sit in a boat drinking all day. It is said that the greatest invention in the history of mankind is beer. Oh, the wheel was also a fine invention, but the wheel does not go nearly as well with getting tipsy.

Beer is the root cause of... well, the fear that some people are legally able to drink and reproduce does not make getting drunk legitimate, does it?

Hours later, sweating, gulping, feeling a little dizzy, I make my demand to Benz. I want him to participate in a series of recordings. Roki Fela and Ayo are in. (Mo Thwaka had said no). Benz says nothing. Which means he has no problem with my proposal. At the time I left Kisumu in 1991, Benz was a regular member of Victoria, accompanying me on mi-solo or rhythm guitar. Being my mentor gives him a high ranking. He was not like other chuckleheads who were sucked into the wayward lifestyle of drinking and womanising. He was level-headed and took his work seriously; he played then went home to his wife and kids. The thing that made him tick wasn't unknown: not to him even. He decided not to drink and play and womanise; not to dwell on the psychological ramifications drink and women and other related vices of his fellow music buddies. He blamed, of course, the accursed eccentric and erratic lifestyle of musicians on lack of principles. Like music is the last option for dregs. Like creativity and performance is historically an illegal drug or a lethal virus in men.

Case in point... Nicholas 'Pedhos' Opija. He was an excellent singer and a bandleader who was brought down by a woman. A cheap excuse to die. Yeah, it's normal if you're a perverted musician. Kisumu always had many of them. Nico was just one of them. Like all lowbrow musicians I have worked with, he was always at odds with himself. His history is missing from my memory. What makes us behave odd and weird? Art. Effing A.R.T. Period. There are flashes of memories but I'm not sure for certain what they are.

I decided six weeks ago not to let the fact that I am Otis Dundos (the big name) get the better of me and concentrate on feeling like a normal Kisumuan.

That seems more significant.

Some of my brilliant musicians like Sam Ojua Kali Man and Mawazo got to a point where their celebrity positions got the better of them. They no longer acted like normal Kisumuans. They acted like pop stars of the world; in dress, speech, and manner. They lived on stages and in clubs and between the thighs of women. They had faith in their garish lifestyles, in their fans who adored them and in the hordes of women who loved them. Insanity. For their most active years, they never went far beyond the boundaries of the Luo nation, and they were behaving like they were the talented pop stars of the world. They had names to compare themselves with... Fela Kuti, Elvis, James Brown, Jimmi Hendrix, Marvin Gaye. Big names they only read in magazines. I believe there is a place in the cosmos where all artistes meet regardless of where they are.

Sam's sweaty face unpacks cold shower thoughts in my head. Calmness comes over him, helped by the flowing beer. After a big sigh, a fart, he settles in the chair and promptly slips off into a welcomed nap. Benz leans in and whispers something in his ears.

Sam sits up. "Delta Force," he says.

Our eyes immediately shift to the stage where six or so guys are mooching around instruments and conversing in low tones. It's an odd mix. There is some chit-chat, typical josh between band-mates as they prime themselves and their instruments. The sound system is checked and tested, guitars are tuned and strummed and tuned and strummed, and drum rolls and rolls and cymbals are hit.

I lean forward, eyes transfixed on the magic moment. It seems like KDF has grown younger... all players I see on stage are rugged swashbucklers of this age. Tight fitting tees, hip-hugging trousers, expensive-looking jackets, shades, ripped jeans. Feeling uncomfortable with all the people swarming around our table, I get myself up and bounce voluntarily towards the stage. The band looks over at me with a reservation. Lang'o approaches me, and I'm taken aback.

"How many bands do you play in?" I ask him.

He grins. "Several. I play rhythm guitar and bass. Mostly bass."

Introductions are made. I get to know the band. There is a fat antsy young guy who plays keyboard and sings called Orwa MojaOne. Then there is this guy: overalls, spotty afro hair of dyed crimson red and something else, mouth hanging open, HUGE thick glass, some day's growth of beard, a bit of a pudge, sandals on his feet. On the back of his shirt are printed in shiny gold: I Love To Boogie In Kisumu! His name is Ozidi. I know the name. Aseela's son! Something about him holds me. I reminiscence the moment in 1991; Aseela tearfully confided in me that she was pregnant with Biggy (again!) and she wanted to fool Biggy with a made-up story that I was the one responsible for the pregnancy. That was the only way she could convince Biggy to let her keep the baby.

In that year, Biggy forced Aseela to undergo two abortions that nearly killed her. I remember refusing to let her use me, and I don't know how she fooled Biggy, but here is the product of that pregnancy: all grown. The resemblance is not striking, he is not as big-boned as Biggy, and neither is he as tall as Aseela. Only the eyes are Biggy's; the rest is Aseela including the tight smile that pulls the lips one side of the face. With cold, unflinching stare behind the thick glasses, mouth and eyes set eyes, he exudes some kind of authority. Just like his mother.

The solo guitar player is a smallish boy-man who looks like he's sixteen. He has dreadlocks that have gone all kaput leaving a patch of odd kinky-black locks of hair in its wake on top of his head. The rest of the head is tapered off like a badly-stepped-on grass field. He wears a black vest and tight leather pants. His name? Kenge Ben Bettito, a Congolese for sure.

Lang'o Sundu, in styled shaggy hair and over-sized vintage sweater, plays bass. Rhythm is supplied by (guess who) Kasule Para Para. He is old and portly now. Still dressy as he had always been. His trousers are hitched up and belted across his chest in the style popularised by Loketo Group and Kanda Bingo Man in 1990s.

As I make acquaintance with the new KDF, I see a Subject of Interest. KSK's son. He's the drummer, and he is called KSK Junior. He is a tall dark guy, very tall, skinny, black tee-shirt, black sports jacket, black jeans, and red tennis shoes, a bit of 'gold' in his ear lobes. He looks good, well groomed, and all serious. And he is fine-looking, very handsome with dark hair dyed in a style of his own (long and with an unkempt appearance). He has KSK's incredibly dark eyes like pools of shinning oil. And like 'Gentlemen's Gentleman' KSK Odongo, he is, groomed and semi-athletic, complete with a dashing whimsical smile. He looks like an all-around 'nice guy.'

Looking at him, I recall something. One of his father's wishes was that I take care of him, but at that time I was in bad books with KSK following our bitter fallout in 1988 when he took three of my musicians to reform KDF. We remained sworn enemies and were only united again when he died in 1991. Pride and hatred blocked my optimum view. Now I'm old—old and wise. And here is his son, all grown up. KSK Junior. We talk a bit. He knows my story. He knows my beef with his father. He won't be part of it, he promises me. Even his English is fine like his father's. For him, the name KSK has a new meaning: Kisumu Sweet Kisumu. It had always been Kisumu Sober Kisumu for the senior KSK who hated alcohol and was sober-minded like Benz.

And then the kid who had been testing the system comes to me wearing a toothy smile extending a handshake. A little dorky and sometimes geeky. His name? Onyango Adidas, the son of Spark Onyango, the old KDF bass player who died in which year? 1989, I think. The younger Onyango speaks with a strong Luo accent. He sings, tenor or alto. He is also KDF's electrician. Just like his father. While Spark accompanied me on numerous occasions on my recording and live performance, he was always a member of KDF.

Assela's son, Ozidi, clearly, is the leader. I don't like the way he looks at me hard and hideous. He is the one who hasn't given me any recognition. He impresses me with his effortless ability to play things cool.

I'm eager to know what this new KDF is made of. There is no preamble; no announcements. Drums roll, and they kick it off. Immediately Olindas is abuzz and the patrons began to assume their positions on the dance floor. There is the initial audience warmer with a rippling jazzy instrumental for about thirty minutes where Kenge lays some intricate patterns on the guitar on a lovely rumba score. I recognise the instrumental, it's Koffi Olomide's 'Cauchemars'. They extend it for well over ten minutes, and I feel the gladness in my veins. The sound is rich and good. The bass is solid and holds it together. Kenge has room to improvise in florid rock slide style which falls neat like falling leaves and cascades like the ripples caused by drops of water drops on a pool. His plucking technique is that of a master. Next, the front-line singers come on stage, and I'm surprised to see Dan among them carrying shakers. Dressed comfortably but uniformly in blue jeans, running shoes, and Guinness t-shirts, the three singers, a young girl among them entertain the crowd for the next hour to interpretations of Victoria's hit songs like 'Roho Inakufa' and 'Kisumu Girl.' Appearing chic, Ozidi takes the reins of the evening's amorous coach ride. There is a highly-charged crowd with everybody dancing hard trying to match the vocalists. The dance floor is full and even the girls behind the bar are rocking and gyrating, (and that's not an uncommon sight in Kondele). The band is great. Their repertoire and choice of songs are such that I find myself dancing with people I don't even know. And it's a musical journey. Kenge plays incredibly well—hard fast and long piercing solos. He is going to be successful someday, no doubt. He's clearly destined to become the next Japonnais, Alain Makaba or Maître Fi-Carre in the next few years.

For a while, I merely sit back and watch. It is quite a scene watching the kids make this fantastic performance and I'm magic-held. These kids (well, men) make my lofty Urban Benga punchy and hardboiled. Their interpretation of 'Anyango Nyar Nam' is rich and intricate, and their well jury-rigged vocal arrangements are clearly their calling card in this song. The vocal leadership skills of lead singer Ozidi is a sealed-in-wax mark of excellence. In 'There's no Mathematics In Love', he carries through with an eclectic stage presence and versatile performing ability. My breath is held with amazement as I hear their youthful take on this song. They make it their own, the guitars sound differently... soft and fluid, often lilting, sometimes tender. Ozidi not only carries the show in this, but he also leaves his audience breathless.

Alongside Ozidi are the impressive tenor Onyango Adidas and the baritone Orwa alternating between songs. Adidas gives a marvellous reworking of 'Wasichana Wacha Tabia Mbaya' while Orwa (playing the parts of Biggy Tembo) sings 'Ja Hera Achieng Nyar Kendu Bay' and 'Gor Mahia Pek Pile' before Ozidi closes the ranks with his mother's 'My Life, Maisha Yangu'. They are able to add the extra excitement and energy of Congolese vocal animation during sebene and this is a good flavor. The rapping animateurs are KSK Junior and Dan, and together they lead the dance portion of the songs. They employ a series of trademark chants, shouts, and toasts. Tonight's show has my name added into the mix. Dan (surprisingly to me) can excite and energise, without resorting to unnecessary repetition, loudness or drowning out of the other singers.

Songs come fast and in heart-warming fashion. The song lines are spaced, varied, and appropriate for the mood, whether arranged as solos, chime-ins, or soukous-strong exclamations. Each singer and animateur seizes the opportunity to display his personality and musical speciality. The instrumentalists are in harmony with the singers: potent yet subtle, and never even distorted. Everyone sings; everyone in the room. Also me and the drunks.

Dan takes lead vocals on 'Hera Mar Mbese,' and I can see (with pity) the dire determination there is on his face. He attempts to sing in the correct octave on the intro and his voice cracks. A lot. Ozidi grabs the mic from him and saves the song.

The first part of the show ends.

Three hours timed and perfected. Then they take a break. This has been a truly, truly humbling special dedication to Victoria. A pittance, free beer, and, hopefully, a good time. Right now down here in Kisumu, I live in the sticks, but I can afford to buy these kids free beer for an excellent show. Even with the break, nothing cools down. Even with the ceiling fans on, it is hotter than Hell's nether regions.

The following sets are a mixture of Musa Juma, Makadem, Achieng Idi, Owiyo, Werra Son, Wenge BCBG, Koffi, Bana OK, Papa Wemba, Emeneya, Wanyika, and Ochieng Kabaselle (yeah, 'Millicento' and 'Princess Lako'). No more than two songs from any one group except for the JB M'Piana opening set.

The second part is even more loaded. The audience is kept at it; they are walloped good. But it's like the band has a rule. Just when they are exhausted and ready to sit down, you hit them with something even better to make them stay.

And now it gets weird.

There is no stopping between songs, only once when Kenge breaks a string. It is mainly a soukous and rumba party, and they pull off some of the tunes with combined strong vocals and hard guitar solos, and it takes a lot of dedication and inter-band discipline.

Another two hours. What a freaking blast!

At this point I must be drunk too, almost dipping. So when it's finally over, it's well past midnight. I'm played out.

My thoughts are dramatically interrupted by, "You want to play, boss?"

"Ei yawa, what?"

It's Kenge. And in the spine-tingling moment, he hugs me and hands me his guitar. My head clears. I experience an emotion I'm not comfortable with nervousness. It is a new unique sensation, and I know it has something to do with not having played for some years. I won't need much encouragement once I start.

With my mind racing trying to engulf and decipher what I am made of, I summon Ozidi over and check their set-list for any old numbers. I want to do only one song, and I make a pick from Franco's 'Tosambi Bapesi Yo Raison Na Quartier', Ndombe's 'Voyage Na Bandundu' and Lola's 'Baninga Tokola Balingaka Ngai Te'. These are the songs that will make the guitar solo shine. Old style rumba for wazee.

Old guards Benz and Kasule step up with me on the stage, and we strap guitars on. And there is somebody else: the singer Onyata Pong Bando! Full name? Paul Harrington McDonald Onyata 'Pong Bando.' I hide my surprise. Look at him; scrawny, long arms, longs legs, no muscle, a many-days growth of beard, straggly gray hair! Just a typical Kisumu washed-out old man wearing an ordinary old man tee-shirt with a message on the backside reading Lakeside Paradise!

Indeed!

Using finesse (and a general heaping of mastery), I first take time to tune my guitar to Franco's style. I adjust the sound of my guitar with the capo on the fourth fret. We have no saxophone, so we will make do with Orwa's improvisation on the keyboard. We kick it off with 'Tosambi Bapesi Yo Raison Na Quartier'. The rhythm, supplied by Benz, and the mi-solo, supplied by Kasule, are subtle and KSK Junior plays hi-hat most of the time). Dan is on maracas. Ozidi and Adidas sing together with Onyata.

It is quintessential rumba. Sweat ran down my back ; I don't use the plectrum and the guitar has the tight ring I desire. I pluck the strings with fingers like talons. I don't dampen the notes, I press the strings down in the centre of the frets. My sharp solos create quite the crying festival for the audience.

I'm just gloriously out of my mind at what I hear. The instruments are fantastic and the vocals are pure. You think this is 1975 and OK Jazz has just stepped into the room. It is cool, mellow and vintage. Among the dancers at the front of the stage is a white woman, motherly type figure. She is dancing, twirling, jumping up and down.

We play different sets until after 2:00am, closing with 'There's No Mathematics In Love'. My solo isn't quite as orgasmic as it used to be in the 80s and 90s, but it gets the crowd off. In the end, the band takes a break. Time out and a 'feel out'. I unhook my instrument and make a bow. To say I'm exhausted is to say the least. I'm eager to get some fresh air, so I fight my way out of the bar to the street outside.

Ozidi has followed me.

"Great show," I tell him.

"Poa. Ni vile tuna-play." He shrugs and lights a cigarette. He passes me the pack. Tobacco smells swirls close. Gulping, holding my breath, my mind in a virtual blur, I turn down the offer. "Sorry, I don't smoke. Thanks."

He pockets the pack and blows up smoke. "Nice guitar on the Franco songs."

I roll my eyes and eye the boy with disregard. What? Kid, I'm the master. This is me. Guitar is my toy.

Anyway, I want to brew a partnership here.

We sit side by side on the bonnet of a parked saloon car and get into an awkward conversation. Mostly I talk and he listens. No verbal response as he has gone into overload and does not answer; so the definitive answers are wholehearted affirmed Ehs and Mms! But I pick bits and pieces about him. Ozidi is the most serious of the KDF gang; he is the organiser, he makes the way for the group, talks to promoters, and selects music.

He sits still, calm and quite serious.

His eyes stare straight ahead. From his throat comes a voice. "I want my music to do much more than just entertain. I want it to bring solidarity, especially here in Kisumu. I want to create and make music with strong messages of hope and inspiration." If this is his mission statement, it sounds good.

Then, facing me, he continues. "I know your story. I know how you tried to transform KDF. I know why you left. I think your success should inspire all of us. I know how you helped my mum... how you tried to save her from drugs. And I thank you for that, my mother may be dead, but her spirit lives in me."

For a long time, he is silent. There is something he wants to say, which I'm waiting for him to say. He doesn't say it. I turn my head, look at him questioningly. He bites his upper lip down inside his mouth and pauses to ponder and give serious thought to what is going on in his mind. His eyes tell me he has decided not to confide in me.

I ask the question then. "Can you get together a good team. We meet tomorrow?"

The question is sneaky and off track; the answer is another overload. He stays mum, so I put it another way. Okay, refinement. "Do you want to make a name and make some good money?"

That is meant with more confidence and a solid "WHY NOT?"

I smile. I'm enthused, and I'm pleased.

There is plenty of time to get cool air here in the Kondele night. Ozidi doesn't seem too happy; arms folded, sighing, kicking small stones to one side with his impatient feet. "Can we go back?" is what he says.

I shrug. He is holding back something. Then I remember how clammed up Aseela used to be at first. It took her long to uncoil and get chummy. Like mother like son. But being a deviant holds him fast, and that is enough.

So I hold back too what I should tell him.

His stage persona and unique-sounding voice are bound to catch the attention promoters like Attamaxx. This boy, Ozidi, if he is singing run-of-the-mill bar material, he's wasting time and talent and he should either transform the band to be his vehicle to stardom or leave the band so one of the guys should sack up and take the vocals. He is a super frontman, get-the-crowd-going kind of guy. That's why he might be worth my attention. Him and the guitarist Kenge.

"Be sure to meet me tomorrow. Get the best team. I want Kenge in it."

He has to drink that all in and digest it. Slowly. Another breather, a drink of beer, then he goes to rejoin his colleagues on stage to pack their instruments.

I find that I can't quite connect with this kid, and that could be a drawback. I feel incredible senses I can't describe.

A little later, the white woman I had seen on the dancing floor comes to our table, bearing an armload of shopping bags. I recognise her right away: Lotta, Opija's widow. Sweat trickles down the nape of my neck; I can feel more sweat bathing the back of my shirt.

She comes direct at me and says, "You look good. Healthy. Grown-up. For years I've been thinking: you must be doing good in the bosom of that English woman. You have to see me soon. I have something important to tell you." She speaks with an odd accent. "The look in your eyes, it's just a look of total despair."

I'm amused by her icy and cynical leer. I don't tell her she is haggard and thrashed by Kisumu sun and worn out like an old coin. I'm not in the mood to spill my guts. It pays to be polite. Wrinkling my mouth, I shrug and say simply, "It's just that I have a hard time finding my balance since I got back here."

"I know. Sky's always blue in Africa."

Not quite. But poetic. True, yes.

"I'm enjoying the fine weather."

"You belong here, Dinos. This is where you belong. Like me."

I must say I find the amount of disparaging ridicule from her a bit coarse. There must be something personal here. I don't answer her. There is nothing more to say, so she makes a slow exit straight to her car in the dusty street.

Suddenly I feel light-headed. I don't know what it is, but I feel disenchanted, or discombobulated or something like. As in there is a sudden rash of sickness in my body consuming me. It doesn't last long, thankfully, and when it has passed, I can see Lotta leaving.

I have seen enough sad white women, Lotta is one. Sad and lonely. She's a bitchy old tont whose artificial world looks redolent of flavourings and her unpleasant, cheerless snobbery sound like an orchestra which has no rhythm instrument, summing up the sadness and suggestiveness of life in sad tunes.

I blink my eyes, the hour is late. I need a bath, something to eat, and a little clarity. Back in DreamScape for the remainder of the night as I lie in bed, guitars scream and the alarming growls of the hopeless comments of the ageing Norwegian woman disturb my piece right inside my dreams.

A cold-cold shower is going to feel great. Some lemonade, something from the kitchen, then maybe a drive away from the lull of DreamScape through the bedlam of Kondele to the city centre.

I'm about to call Ozidi when my bank manager beats me to it. I head to Kisumu city centre hoping for better prospects. Meeting with the bank manager is the least of my priorities. I have time and I have no axe to grind, so I'm going to listen to the guy's tired yarn.

And at the bank, it's same old, same old. Of course, the manager advises me to sell to a developer. With his grim face like a carved mask, he calls one on his desk phone, gives out my address. I play along just fine. I smile and nod. Then the meeting is over. More toothy smiles and firm handshakes, and I am out of that gloomy place.

I go looking for pizza.

Of all the foods the English taught me to love, the best of all is a pizza. Pam and Daudi so-so loved pizza; so many styles, depths, widths, and toppings! I like them plain or loaded. There was always a nice Irish Stout or simple beer accompanying the oval (or square) delight. On good days, mostly on Sundays, I loved enjoying a Hawaiian Pizza and an Irish Stout in an Italian pizzeria in downtown Leeds.

I find one KFC where high schoolers and collegers are gathered. Pizzas are a delight here in Kisumu too. I pay and wait for almost half an hour before it comes.

It comes, and I'm enamoured with it. It isn't the best in terms of taste, and the Coke tastes like it has too much sugar, but I have to settle for what I can get. I consume my pizza and Coke, first priorities. Then my eyes wander after a well-dressed middle-aged lady with a biggish physique who had caught my eye when she gave me a soft smile. She looks very much like Riana. As she eats, she keeps giving me glances, and when she gets up to leave, she gives me another warming smile. She leaves with her takeaway and enters a jewellery shop next door to the pizza place. There are typical mini shops or "stalls" of sorts about the place; a large chain grocery store is centre of attraction.

I drink, eat, use the washroom, pay the cashier/order taker, and then scurry out to find the curious lady with a soft smile in the jewellery.

At that moment my sister Akinyi calls me.

She says it's important. I begin making my way along the city streets to Akinyi's home. I cross the street to continue my trek south along Ondiek Highway and branch over on Nyerere Road. This is a nice neighbourhood. Akinyi stays here, at Okore Estate. Okore is part of a large residential complex located at the northeast periphery of old Kisumu and the continuous built-up area borders with Robert Ouko, USAID, Mountain View, and Tom Mboya estates, whose constructions were completed in the 70s and 80s. Okore and Robert Ouko settlements were designed for the middle class of the 70s, very similar to Tom Mboya Estate and carry the same characteristics. Urbanistic composition of the housing developments in Kisumu now seems very embarrassed and often is referred to by knowledgeable Kisumuans as evidence of the worst era of communist planning. The units in places such as Ondiek, Anderson, Lumumba, Arina, Makasembo, Pembe Tatu, Shauri Moyo, Mosko, Patel Flats, and Kibuye estates are now seen to belong to the lower middle class and too near to the city centre. But at the time of their constructions in the 60s and 70s, they well fitted the bill for a growing urban middle class. To me, these tiny two-bedroom drab and squat shoe boxes are repulsive and an eyesore in the City: they should be demolished. Locations like Anderson, Nyalenda, Kaloleni, Nyawita, and Obunga have always been salubrious sinkholes where Kisumu Municipality Council dumped problem families since the 1960s. Locations remote from the city centre like Kondele, Manyatta, Nubian, Migosi and the hillsides, Kandege, Bandani, Otonglo, lower Milimani, Nyamasaria, and Nairobi Road still feature village characteristics but have the advantage of the high-quality environment only if the developments can be planned. On the other hand, they have a big disadvantage aspect of accessibility, especially public transport.

Some blocks down a quiet street, I cross the railway tracks and began cutting across a large park that has an intermediate school anchored at one end.

The walk is tiresome for a forty-plus fat pod who rarely exercises; I still wrestle with the BIG question: what do I do next? What do with the person I am? The music. My Past. My Present. The music is still most of it, a great deal of it. I still wrestle with the plausibility of What is Real/What is Fantasy. There are too many variables and unanswered questions.

I have a new vocabulary from the developed world of Leeds. The Comfort Zone. It is an addictive slumberland. Kisumu is the real world. I struggle through it. Making music here wasn't that tiresome. It was fun because it was the only thing I knew in the only place I knew. Why would I want to feel out of place now? Didn't I come back because the Comfort Zone proved to be inhospitable? There are no guarantees about anything. I already knew this by my experience; music had been unreliable and failed me a few times when sales dropped. I got convinced it's easier to survive in Africa. But then again, why can't I get started? Why is it so hard? I have to sigh, a big sigh. I know (well, knew) my life would have been different (way different) had I not left Kisumu. Perhaps a little drab, but fine. At least I wouldn't be wracking my brain with complexities I know very little about!

Many people who depended on me would still be alive. Many families that depended directly and indirectly on me would be eating. Now I am Mzee Wa Kazi to a gaggle of fading dreams. That is okay, but I am sure it has its limits. For one, I feel that my guitar playing is going to fall off the scale if I don't practice! Seeing a kid like Kenge Ben Bettito playing intricate soukous patterns so neatly render my style old and so out-of-place. Sometimes you have to face your own limitations, especially when you're up against modernity, youth, fresh vitality, and technology.

At my sister's at last. There are stoop-steps in front and a decent back yard. Lots of trees, old style quaintness of having both a Lakeside ambiance along with suburban subtitles.

Regina is her name.

I find her in Akinyi's living room. And the house is still clean, too. The interior décor is Kisumuan, many pictures on the wall; a family of six with many relatives. Nice moderate furniture, well maintained and kept up. Something is cooking in the kitchen. The kids seem well mannered, but they are a tad bit strange, to begin with. Akinyi's daughter is a little more 'mannered' than usual, unable to look at her uncle direct in the eyes. Her name is Yvonne. Adam, a boy, is the oldest, and then there is Moffat a scant year behind. Yvonne comes next, then Gina lastly. Wholesome Christian family! I guess that in the trying times of the new age of political depravity for the Luo nation, Akinyi has begun to seriously worry and wonder about the future of her children and the sanctity of the family unit. How far will she actually trust her husband to help her carry the burden of raising her children to her best satisfaction? He is a good man, but so are the many other "Kisumu men" who are now statistics!

Regina sounds fine. A name that rings soft warmth of home. Her default Luo name? Adhiambo. Hm. Motherly. She is a so-so friend of Akinyi's; both of them worship at Kisumu Central. They share Sabbath School classes and are on the same Lesson team. She is tall, has a wondrous smile with a gap in her front teeth, near perfect long face, pleasant personality (obviously).

I see Akinyi fiddling with her phone. In a minute, my phone beeps. It's a short message from Akinyi:

Dhako ee amiyi, kaw.

Wow. Direct translation? You bet. Wife here, I've given you, take. How crude. I look at Akinyi and she gives me a subtle nod, her face is unreadable. Well, I know it's Mama's idea that I get a fine Luo girl and marry. So Akinyi takes matters in her own hands as a sister. And invites me to her place to meet this girl.

What a rude surprise!

I sum the girl up, she is a little more than a kid. A nice weekend dress, short to about mid-thigh, nice clean almost brand new tennis shoes with dainty ankle socks, a different layered top, no earrings, and no lip gloss make her a very-very nice girl. She has a nice body, long limbs.

Apparently, there is a discussion in progress; and looks like Akinyi and this young woman are in a minor conflict over a choice of cake to buy. Akinyi is planning a birthday party for her youngest daughter, Gina. After introductions, Regina settles down to chat with Akinyi, typical women gossip stuff. She is trying to make a good impression by not turning down Akinyi's invitation to her daughter's birthday party.

She is a cutey, in a cocky sense; the long narrow face that sees nothing but enlightenment and a smile. Dazzling brilliant large eyes, a sweet person she is. She has a lovely sing-song voice of a church choir girl. Actually, she is a proud member of the church, instilling God and virtue throughout the town; gunning at young Kisumuans all worked up about the brothels, sports betting shops, salons, and blatant debauchery. And she has a message: there is no time. Satan tells Christians that there is no hurry and while he says that, he is closing the trap door on disobedient Christians.

I recognise her as an upstanding member of the church congregation, she plays the organ, teaches piano lessons and bakes cakes for the Sabbath School community, leads a prayer group during the week, is an usher, teaches an adult Sabbath School Lesson.

A proud-proud upstanding Christian!

She is totally clueless; she sits back a bit on the sofa, crosses her legs, and looks about nonchalant-like.

Akinyi gets bolder; she explains to Regina that she would like her to meet her older brother. Regina is totally blitzed, a little naïve about the situation, "Well?" she quips. She tries getting into a polite conversation with me. "I know you." She knows the name Otis Dundos and she is awed.

"I hear you were in England?" she continues. "My aunty was there too."

I continue to remain steadfast, sitting. "There is nothing good about England. It's much better here."

She is seriously convinced. "My aunty says the same thing; she came back. She came back and had to start over."

In an instant, her worrisome thoughts are expunged, and she is happily contented to chat. We talk.

"So," she says, "Do you still sing?"

I shrug. Akinyi quickly jumps in. "My bro is not a singer," she says. "He plays the guitar."

"Where is your band now?" Regina asks. "Your group... what was it called?"

"Victoria," I tell her. "It was disbanded in 1996. I left the group in 1991. Many of us are dead, we are scattered all over."

She looks deeply moved. "Well, I was too young to enjoy your music. My mum played your albums and cassettes all the time. I think she still has them. She really loved you guys. She knew everyone in the band. She knew most of the songs."

"Which song do you know?" I venture to ask.

"No, not any. Ask me about a gospel song. I work for Jesus. About secular music? Ah-ah."

And the ice is broken. Regina is chatty and lively. She reminds me of Riana, that dear sweet Riana. She is firmly religious, which is good, too good. Riana was, too, but I knew that a good number of the women in the church failed on the adultery scorecard.

The fullness of what is in store for her becomes apparent. She can't hide from that. I can see her weighing things in her head. Definitely, she's single and searching. Me, I'm too old for this sort of thing. I'm just utterly mixed up right now.

I love the way her lips purse, the way she holds her smile of impending laughter to herself while she talks.

Then she ventures to know why I'm not married.

Well, surprisingly, Regina as staunch and uppity as she seems to be would actually tolerate such a narly thoughts. She notes that I'm good looking. She keeps saying that her mother liked me and my music.

I'm awed; in essence, I really don't have to do anything. I merely have to make it resolved for Akinyi, allow her to deal with it. Regina's disdain for secular life and frivolity is apparent. So, in essence, she is not easy to flirt with. We chat on, talk about my music, Facebook, the Bible, Adventism, love... life. And how to live it.

She concurs with me that we all need the love of God.

Her mood is enlightening, er, lightning up. She isn't so glum. Akinyi needs some milk and sends her to the shops. I volunteer to take her after getting a wink from Akinyi. In the general store, she gets a packet of milk and says (with a smile) that we should go back. I try my damndest not to admire her when she stands near me and I gaze upon her. But nope, doesn't work. Amazing height... close to six feet. She stands with her arms akimbo, holds a confident pose like Riana used to do. Apparently, the new nuance only allows me to be a voyeur. Well, for now, I feel reasonably certain of a possibility soon that would change. She can't look at me, looks down at her feet, a half smile on her face. I prob her with little effort. She isn't in a current relationship or in the hunt for one. I take a moment to marvel at her dazzling beauty. She blinks her eyes and tosses her head; she becomes instantly flush.

I try to concentrate on feeling, but there is no sensation of being able to love anything and feel it, nothing seems tangible. What do I see in her? Innocence? It's funny. I can see a young woman, young enough to be my daughter, who needs NOT an old sucker like me; who deserves better. How old could she be, anyway... twenty-one?

"Let's go," she says.

I walk up alongside her as she walks carrying the packet of milk on her right hand. Her left hand is swinging free, so I offer to hold it. She slaps away the offering perhaps fearing the "wrong" message it may convey. She stops and looks like she's bitten into something rotten. "I don't get it, what's going on here?"

I look away knowing I have blown it.

"I know how old guys like you love seducing young girls like me here in Kisumu and how the girls love it, but..."

"Hey, stop it," I say getting miffed.

"Sir, did you just try to hold my hand in public? Did your sister put you up to this? To seduce me? Oh my gosh. You're old enough to be my father!"

She resumes walking, but her mood is now fired up. I follow her. Two blocks from Akinyi's home and we take a detour to avoid road construction and some youth lingering at a stoop of a townhouse on the same street of Akinyi's house. The detour takes us to Mountain View Estate on Mission Road where there are some regular homely marionettes rather than the regular Kisumu single-story townhouses. Modern two story homes occupy a block space. They have nice yards, long driveways, garages, the works, and some with pools in the backyard even!

She stops to say something. "Can I get your number, sir?"

I give it to her. She promises to call me soon.

Two days later she calls me.

"Sir, I think there's something I should tell you."

"What?"

"Your sister has confessed and I have forgiven her. She wanted to set us up for marriage, and I believe you too were not informed of her plans. Right?"

"Well, what if? Go on, child."

"I understand that her intentions were good being your sister, but she should have discussed it with me first. Marriage is not something you set up, so I find her intentions selfish and defilement to my principles."

I venture to ask why. She immediately sets the record straight and gives me a whacking of my Kisumu daylights. She is an only child, not well brought up. She cannot stand sexual improprieties. She is a fierce follower of Jesus Christ. She does not engage immorally overly willingly, and won't let me talk to her or walk her into it.

I am speechless. She goes on. "I can't compromise on my relationship with Christ, and I have no apologies. If there is going to be any friendship between us, it will be purely me ministering to you."

I don't answer.

She continues with her bashing. "I know you're struggling with something deadly in your life... a spirit. I can see it. I can help, it's my duty."

"To pray for me?"

"Pray? That I can do on the phone, right now. What we need is a scheduled program. I can't allow you to get lost, I will account for that on the Day of Judgement."

Did you hear that?

"Do you want me to give you a Chapter to read?"

I shrug, "Okay."

"Romans 12:2. Read it right now. I will pray for you."

She hangs up. She sounds elated—overjoyed—relieved. Me only so-so. And she reminds me of Riana.

#  FOURTEEN

"Religion is actively evil."

MIDWEEK Melodies

It is midweek; my mind is in high gear, still. We are in the height of December; full strong. I had gone down the hillside to one of the villages. The women folk of West Konyango were busy with their daily chores. I had gone over to buy some of their goats and chicken, which I have left with Okwach and Dan to kill, cut up and stuff in the freezer.

I drive to Pandpieri.

I need supplies for DreamScape, water tanks, and other necessities. My father has some old stuff I can use. He helps me load the stuff on my truck. He surprises me; he seems to be strong sort today, grizzled a little bit like an old brawny fisherman, but he is strong. He is wearing faded/well-worn overalls, I wear similar overalls, XXL size, pants to the knees, not quite faded but well worn. We get chummy, and dad has a lot to talk about. I have a lot to laugh about.

One hour of it and I drive across town, past Kondele, up the hill back to DreamScape. There's a white Range Rover in my yard. Inside it is an Indian man of about fifty. As I approach, he opens the door and steps out.

"Mistrr Odoundo?" he asks in Indian accent.

The man is smallish and round, wears a ball cap with a long pony tail out the back. He is very tan, a little over five foot tall, cowboy boots, and quite like a small hard nail. He has a bit of a beard and a confident swagger in his walk—albeit a short walk to where we meet in the centre of the compound.

He smiles big chuckling, and a swath of horrendous garlic breath hits me as he grips my hand. He looks around and takes a deep, rustling breath. "Vat do we hev here-rr? Ten erkes?"

The bank, this is. The curse word is shit and I hate to say it.

"The bank sent you?" I ask.

He nods and takes out his wallet. "Ajay Gupta is my name." He gives me a card. New Kisumu Development Company Limited, the card says. "You're selling at the right time. The property market is good. Werry good. Luos are buying and buying, and we are building. I vant to put nice condos... units..."

"I'm not selling the house, I have ten acres here. Only six acres are for sale."

That brings a squint in his eyes. "The benk sed ten erkes."

"The bank does not own the property, I do. Come on, let me show you." We get into my truck.

I take him down the vast hillside land. Bright sunlight fills the truck; my mouth is dry, a ringing persistent in my ears. Four different types of birds I can determine tweet noisily in the woods. The air is fresh, clean, clear, brought in via a roof mounted vent, a modification. The road isn't well used, but it is well established. Clouds begin to form, and the air cools dramatically. The scent of rain can be detected in the stirred up air.

I ease the truck down the rough road crossing an old wooden bridge and then up a small hill.

Below is a fantastic view of Kisumu and the broad Lake Victoria.

This is a good selling point.

I hear Ajay gasp. "This?" he says.

I look at him out of the corner of my eyes. "Six acres."

"Mistrr Odoundo, I vant the 'hole, the 'hole of this lend. My boss sed..."

"Only this Mr Ajay. Come on; follow me and see the rest of it."

We drive on. Once over the hill, the landscape changes dramatically into a flat grassland with a huge almost unseen rock bed and then into woodland. The small trees change to eucalyptus and cedars. An old wooden fence encircles the meadow. The road splits going straight along the meadow and another hill and left into the woods. Just before the forest entrance and at the foot of the hill is an old oak.

"That oak mark the boundary of my land. This is it, Mr. Ajay."

Mr. Ajay steps out of the car, takes walks, stands, looks around. Then he fishes out his cellphone and calls. Talks and talks and talks.

Meanwhile, I think and think and think. In 1990 we signed a memorandum as the entire Kong'er hillside community not to sell our property to private developers who will put flats or apartments or churches or schools or secret societies. We wanted to keep the hillside as the community of homeowners in the old setting. Pam knew about this. Ranching is a good idea, not selling to scrappy Indians who split the land into small parcels and squeeze in thousands of apartments, build housing estates and bring in filth and pollution.

Minutes later, Ajay has taken photos of the property. We've gone back to my home. He has accepted my whiskey and asks about the price. I give it to him, and it shocks him. His face crumples into an almost comical expression of sceptical dismissal.

"It ez tou mech out in therr in the oupen to cost thet mech," he protests. "Werry expensive. Therr is tou mech to be done on the property biforr divelupm'nt cen stet."

I say nothing. My price truly does not suit his plan, he says. It is kind of high but there are possibilities reducing it (are there?) once valuers have done their job.

I remain adamant. I have done my homework: no one is selling. The property is prime, could make modest homes for the refined Kisumuans. Developers are desperate. If I choose to sale, they will have no choice but to pay my price. In the end, he says it's not his job to negotiate the price, his work is on the development bit. Someone will get in touch with me soon, and he is sure we will agree.

I watch the large Rover roll out of the compound further encrusting my upscale Land Cruiser with more dust. Someday I will be able to buy one like that.

Someday. Some dream. Still dreaming at forty-seven, ha! The curse of artists.

The next bit.

Ozidi.

I contemplate meeting him.

I call him. Can we meet somewhere? He wants somewhere "cool". Kids today! He suggests Kiboko Bay. Kiboko Bay? Why not Hippo Point or Yatch Club? Kiboko is definitely not the place I would go if I have an hour or two to kill on my own. I'd rather be home, reading a book, or tapping my foot to old rumba.

I pack my acoustic guitar and drive over and I'm at least an hour ahead of our scheduled meeting. I fill in the time reading Norman Philip.

Kiboko Bay on our shores is a cool place to be. Many outsiders who've come to Kisumu have never heard of it. It's so quiet, so settling with the gentle waves lapping at the shores. You can hear yourself thinking. The water is incredibly cool at this time of the day, much to the delight of the numerous folks who've escaped the sun and bustle of the city. They can strip off their clothes and soak their feet in the relieving water.

Looking at the gulf, I can see past rocks jutting out of the water to the side of the town, the Kandege side. One or two fishing canoes dot the water surface. The gulf is slightly deep and good for water sports. We used to have speed boats at Yatch Club in the 70s and the 80s, whatever happened to them.

I scoop up some chilled water and sprinkle it on my face. It tastes good.

There's a girl at the bar. I feel more than see her eyeing me. I think nothing of it, it's usual to be remembered, to be looked at. You're remembered from a TV show or newspaper articles. I call Ozidi. He's approaching the city centre from Kondele, and there's been an accident holding traffic up for thirty minutes before he would get to Manyatta and past MTC and make a break for it.

I decide to get a drink and go back to Norman Philip. I turn. The girl. Again.

I catch her staring at me. Her eyes are wide, she stares blankly, but she's calm.

I push my dark sunglasses to my forehead and give her a stern look. On her face is some glitter. I get up and stroll to the waterfront where an Indian mother and her kids are having some kind of a party sitting on the grass. The sun feels good. It is still muggy, but there are wafts of cool breezes. The air is heavily laden with mixed scents of lake weed. I move along the beach to the end of the club's grounds where no clearing has been done. The water hyacinth weed runs amok. All along the limbs could be thorns, like rose thorns. The leaves are like stinging nettles with bean-like pods that could be explosive when touched. The pods explode and blossom into beautiful flowers.

I gaze at the gulf for a minute. The water is very refreshing, and strangely, I feel relaxed.

I can feel the girl's eyes on my back.

Is she an old fan? But it is a gambit I've heard before. An old fan who turns up to be a hooker. They are pretty and educated and smart and dangerous. They know how to hold a spirited conversation. They say they love your music and indeed they know your music. You soften and they wheedle you into granted attention and into inviting them to sit with you. It's like a vampire asking for permission to enter your house. So typical. They have no manners, they just butt you in.

I turn my thoughts back to the lake. The sound of the waves is soothing, and I watch the water lap against the stones and wash over the black sand. I sigh and think. Here I am again, washed ashore and all wet and cold. Eager to start again. Start again? I'm not too sure. Thing to do is make a bed and retire. I don't know why I invited Ozidi here to ask him to lead my recording project. I have no real plan, only sketches in memory and in my notebook. I can't go into much for the "theories" issues, I'm more of a "hands on" kind of guy. I will need two, three weeks to have enough songs written for two albums. I suddenly realise how much I miss the songwriting method I had created in Victoria. Everyone participated, songs were formed quickly. Many songs were created during live rehearsals. With creative geeks like 'The Poet' Opiyo Willy and Aseela, we could have a song composed in less than a day. My method of creating music was one where I let other musicians get on with things. I always knew what the basic structure of the music will be like, I knew how the rhythm would sound like, but I let others put in flesh and flavour. I did not formally arrange parts for others. Most of our good compositions were worked out as a group.

To begin with, I selected the musicians to play on a particular song once the lyrics (the poetic content) were read to me. We called it The Story. We would start with rehearsing the singers through it and not until the vocal parts were perfected did we add the instrumentation. It was this method of music construction that made a composer like 'The Poet' Opiyo Willy so popular. Because in that method of creating and working out music, the composer's style shone brighter.

For my own compositions, I always relied on Lake Victoria to inspire me.

However... heck!

I feel a presence. Slowly I turn around. Here is she is. Quite close.

Blinking her eyes, cocking her head just a little, she says, "You like the water?"

The voice is young and innocent, softer than the washing waves.

I frown. "I love the lake. It inspires me. Have we met?" It is a no-nonsense question, more than a speck hostile too. I'm too old and too busy for childish games. Regina taught me to act my age and respect young women, young as she is.

"Maybe." She smiles sweetly, too sweetly for a hooker. She has this elaborate drink in her petite hand and what looks like a laptop bag. She is a pretty thing; trim body, well poised, and definitely shouldn't be out on her own. Not pretty in a club kid way, vaguely well-off. Hm, looks Kikuyuish.

"Since I know you, I decided to say hello. Otis Dundos, right?"

I nod. My smile is guarded. She wouldn't be twenty-five, even twenty-four. I look away from her. "I'm waiting for someone and he's running late."

"Makes the two of us," she smiles again. I know what she has in mind, a race for the table.

A minute passes; my eyes are still locked on the lovely kid. I don't get it, is this seduction? Being seduced by a young woman in broad daylight like this anywhere else in Kisumu isn't a premium joke if you're a musician or somebody of the essence with an admirable past like Otis Dundos. I know I look dashing good in white linen and white tennis shoes, but I don't need to be hit into. I call this a rude interruption even, one I detest. If an old guy is to be waylaid by a curious young girl waiting for a young musician, this might as well be the best way to kill time. What is her purpose; for her own personal gain, own personal use? Not a single mental spark. She is not here with designated appointments; she is a kid and will waste my day and increase my pressure. The only thing I see is that she is a funny kid who is physically attractive to me.

"My name's Karen," she says, extending her arm and breaking me from my thoughts. Just when I am already edgy with the ritual of this lake throwing my internal rhythms off-kilter to make a song form, I have to stop midway and find out what the heck this kid is upto. It looks important to her, clearly from the expression on her face. The awkward name exchange ritual is likely to be followed by forced conversation, and then one of us getting bounced from the table.

"You know my name." I grasp her delicate hand. She turns away and leads me to a secluded table in the interior, away from the breeze. My itchiness has not left me. I'm annoyed; my eyes scan the well-laid restaurant looking for Ozidi or any of his companions.

We sit and make ourselves comfortable. I take off my sunglasses and my phone, puts them on the tables. She does likewise, takes her feminine and modern-looking sunglasses, her phone and places them on the table. I notice it's an iPhone! Like mine... no, hers is a newer model. She pulls her laptop from her bag, places it gingerly in front of her. It's a MacBook Pro!

I'm awed and intrigued. She says it... what an honour it is to meet Otis Dundos in the flesh. She's too young to have witnessed my Urban Benga manifestation. But she loves my music; people in her family... dad, big bros are my fans. Twenty-three years old, she is. She has on a simple pull-over beige top with matching shorts. Big legged open walking shorts. She is a dish; prime. She is not from Kisumu; she has no relatives here, just friends. She lives in Nairobi. She's attending Great Lakes University here in Kisumu, third-year journalism student.

"One of the musicians you're meeting is my friend. He told me you'll be here, so I made a dash for it."

Without a word of hesitation, I ask her what she is about. "Want a beer?" It is out of my mouth before I really thought about it.

"Sure!" quips back Karen.

I realise with some guilt my screwy habit of blurting out something so impolite to such a kid before giving it thought; I just wanted to break the ice and be the typical kind elderly guy but offering to buy her a beer is "pilfering" into those things I should term as irresponsible. I know well and understand it all comes down to the fact that I'm not feeling too well and my head is bamboozled with stuff, and I don't feel my balance. I'm trying hard to make a connection without much success and pressure is enormous. I'm wafting about Kisumu without making sense. The people I meet are uninteresting freeloaders with hefty problems that they want to bag on me. I want to keep away from people to get things straight and be a normal Kisumuan. It all looked too good in my head and in my plans, but now.... things, in theory, are always so perfect, so simple. Twenty unpleasant years in Britain had taught me that it pays to plan. Plan, plan, plan. Then focus. It even looks easy flogging myself planning—like an ascetic, like a horned-up old man. But there are things you can't control if your plan involves other people who either don't share your vision or who you haven't connected with.

But in the meantime, there are surprises. Nature finds its own rhythm.

Karen or whatever her name is wrinkles her nose and nods. "I just want to talk to you about your music, sir."

I sigh. That could be a relief. A therapy. It's long since I told my story.

I look at her. She is a sweet little bugger, a lovely chick with budding breasts, an incredibly sweet smile, dazzling eyes, a sweet face, and quite the little charmer. And you probably know my roaring weakness for attractive girls. My watch clocks Ozidi as being twenty-five minutes late. Five more minutes and I will gracefully surrender the battle and woo this curious kid.

Our drinks come, Tusker for her, Pilsner for me.

"Do you want to interview me?" I put it to her.

She smiles sombrely. "Not really, just talk. I'm writing my thesis and it's based on your group."

Now I'm glaring at her. My look miffs her; make her look timid, frightened, and a little confused. So we try intermittently to start a conversation. Forced conversation is high on my list of offences that should be made capital crimes. Talking on a cell phone while driving is another. Britain taught me such.

She sits up, takes the iPhone, and sets it on Record, pulls down the screen of her MacBook. Then she pushes the iPhone to the centre of the table and sits back in her chair. She begins with, "I read in Nation... that you want to call your new album what?"

Without hesitation or forethought, I tell her. "Transition World."

As we talk, she makes me search the ground for possible aid to my itchy plight. The ease with which she moves me and gets me talking is baffling. She throws in the simple questions that confound weighty matters. Like, "Any personal tragedies?" It makes me face my down-sides. My demons, really. My brothers died and I blame myself for the two tragedies. I had nominated the soul of my brother. Fortune Man had said that was the only way to make the exchange have value. Keya had paid the price for my fortunes. And no one knows about it.

"My personal life is full of too many conflicts," I supply. "Let's leave it at that."

Her babyish shy face is incredulous. After gazing upon me for two-three minutes, she is up against me for more groping. I sit motionless with my mind going into obliteration. Twenty, thirty, forty minutes she engages me on my music, politics, religion, my wealth, my health and rumours, culture... sex.

We go through it, and she is hanging on my every word like it is gospel. Tosha sent me away to waste twenty years from mainstream society into exile. Am I remorseful? Am I shedding any tears? What do I think of the President? Do I think he's a disappointment? The questions are so bizarre and off track, and the answers are another overload. I try to be unflinching and speak my mind, say what I know and what I think. I don't understand the President's ideologies if he has any. On the surface, he is a nice guy. But like all sub-Saharan presidents, he's obviously having a load of jeepers to hide. Tribe is no longer an advantage to the President even if you're on his side, it's a burden. It's an open secret the President stole SLP's victory two years ago. Do I think Kenya has a more opened democratic space? The SLP leader has done a tremendous job, is my answer. We all know SLP has done a pretty good job in opening Kenya's democratic space.

"But the President is a nice guy, right?'

"The President is a nice guy? So was Hitler."

She looks sad, maybe it's because the President is from her tribe.

"Do you think there is the role of a musician in a cultural change to, kind of, help the people through and set them free through music, not particularly evangelizing?"

"Yes, yes. Oh yes. I think musicians have done a lot to make the world a better place, although composers need to be very careful about exploiting artistic freedom. It is easy for composers to overstate the influence music has on society. I think our jobs should be to do with reflecting more than leading. I mean we do a good job teaching people how to express love, we inaugurate presidents, we entertain people, we make them sad, we write songs to give the dead a warm send-off, and we also write songs to make people fall in love and get married. So every sphere of life, every situation is backed by music. I think the role of music is to bring forth good virtues for the human condition, not to evangelise and befuddle or influence people badly and corrupt minds like rock music which pushes kids into drugs and death, and can be Satanic. Sometimes good products come out of derailed minds. After all, musicians are artists, aren't they? Yes, musicians are drug addicts, they smoke bhang, and many of them in the West are gay. But you need to overlook these things at times and listen to the music. Forget that Bob Marley smoked marijuana for one moment and listen to his music, and you will be moved, if not transformed."

"Is it true what musicians do? Selling their souls to the Devil?"

The question is so bombastic that no answer can possibly be formed. I think I'm tired now. My beer is being watered down by all the ice, yuck.

"Most people will do anything to get fame and fortune."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Man is desperately wicked and evil. Religion is actively evil. Worshipping evil is a religion too, don't forget. And you know, religion is man-made. God did not create religion. God created man in His likeness to worship Him and take care of His creation. That was the brief given to man in Eden: to take charge of God's creations, multiply and fill the earth. It was very simple. Man was given freewill, and Satan was permitted to tempt him. Satan still has authority here on Earth. So, since man was created in God's likeness, he still possesses that quality. That's why man created religion, which is basically an attempt to link himself back to God or with a god, a deity, and find answers to the many problems that baffle us here on earth. In other words, evil has alienated man from his creator, but since God's mandate remains, man seeks God through religion."

She asks me to be specific, and we jaw about it for ten minutes. I tell her the things I know and see... that religion is a comfort institution to people. That I see a false comfort and smart leaders of the Church actually capitalise on people's fears and troubles and create comfort for themselves while feeding people's fear of God. I could be wrong, I cannot imagine how life on this earth will be if religion was taken away. I could be wrong, and God have mercy on me, but Jesus said that many people who profess to follow Him and manifest His power will not make it. You can't just help thinking like this if you're a thinking person and you're watching the world's end-time events with all this talk about the anti-Christ already here with us in the form of a man sitting at the helm of a prominent Christian organisation. Religion is exposed to reason and rationality, and we see evil in it. For centuries man killed and enslaved his fellow men on the basis of religion.

In Europe, there were many religious wars like the Crusades, and many believers were tortured to death by being burnt alive at the stake. The dreaded Inquisition was a Papal project which was organised and executed by the Roman Catholic Church. It ran from the 13th Century to the 18th Century and saw the brutal murder of millions of people. People were tried by church tribunals as suspected heretics and tortured to death. The Holy Bible was also used by slave runners who came to Africa and kidnapped millions of Africans, pried them away from their families and sold them as slaves for 400 years. The Slave Trade caused great disruptions of families and communities on a large scale. Many people were murdered, and many communities were displaced in the process.

Here in Africa, the Christian missionaries were the people who paved the way for the grabbing and pillage of our continent. The colourisation of Africa, which effected conquests, murders, and displacements of populations and plundering of our wealth, was precipitated by Christian missionaries who made it easy for the grabbers to come and seize and loot the continent. In fact, Stanley's second trip to Congo was actually commissioned by King Leopold of Belgium II. The brief for Stanley was: buy every inch of the Congo for the king. Millions of Africans were slaughtered in the process.

Either Karen can't believe what she is hearing, or she is acting. It is mind-boggling and almost more than she can cope with. She shifts gear and opens the door for the subject of sex. The quirky girl has a good knowledge of sex. Sex acts, sexual positions, anything regarding sex. I want to think that at twenty-three, she really should know only the basics. There are embarrassments to deal with, giddiness, and mild curiosity that are healthy and legal. We discuss issues like extramarital relationships, why musicians often have failed marriages, bone people's wives, father bastards all over and die of AIDS.

I don't hold back. She wants to know every detail. When I'm explaining how Dorothy, in primary school, socialised me into early sex, she wants to know precisely what the girl did to set me off. How did she do it? How long did it take? On and on and on and on. It wouldn't have been ridiculous if half the stories had been far-fetched as to appear real. But they seem too giddy to be real. I feel like cruising off to sleep, but I'm still talking while she listens. As was the first sex, so was the first death. I can still hear Oliver's terrifying scream as he fell through the rotten wooden flooring into the dark cavern of the old railway station at Casablanca in Nanga. I can still see his white brain matter and the one eye that was knocked out of its socket. Growing up in Pandpieri in the early 70s was laced with deadly adventure. Why the memories of my childhood plague me, I don't know. For so long, I've had many narly times of my life buried and locked away.

I go on and on for minutes about anything I can think of, which is apparently limited to sex. As a successful musician, you make a loop around the place, finding the nubile flesh abundantly on display, all in the name of looking for a good time. And since 90% of the stuff we sing about is love and relationships, it becomes a bloody jerky women business, isn't it? And most performances are done at night! Women lure you. The yarn is about old loved-starved sugar mummies, fun-girls, one-night stand slay queens, flirtation and seduction techniques and a whole lot more. The dirtiest and nastiest things I've done and a long oration on how women are naturally subservient to music men are part of the story. Karen is at first amused, then a little grossed out, then bored, and finally exhausted. I excuse myself eventually. She says she's satisfied, but she wants to know if I'm into women and more sex now that I'm back. Who am I seeing? There must be.

Very perceptive!

Seeing my reluctance, she checks her watch and quickly switches gear to the other pertinent matter: my health. I suffer from something? Yes. What is it? Am I on medication? Yes. Yes? What could be the answer to my having suicidal thoughts? I think I'm tired and depressed. Pressure, delusion, and personal conflicts... things I cannot deal with regarding my life. I experience dizziness, nausea, incarceration, headaches, erotic lustfulness, loss of motor control, loss of self-esteem, delusions of grandeur and a desire to die and rest in peace than revive my band Victoria. And she cuts deeper into it till she cuts the core.

Then—

"Are you a Christian?"

"Yes, I am."

Yes, sure. Currently, I'm an inactive Christian. But as a thinking person, sometimes I question and rationalise things. I have done some things here which are unforgivable. I'm on therapy now with Regina, and we are in Bible study. We've studied the book of Genesis.

She sits back in total disbelief shaking her head. I can't be serious. I can't be; I shouldn't be; I wouldn't be. "Aren't you afraid of going to be some serious hell to pay for your sins? To burn forever?"

"Frankly, I know the world is coming to an end soon and very soon. We are living in perilous times now that we are in the final days of this Earth's history. The End now looms, no doubt about it. Hell as a physical place for eternal damnation is real but doesn't yet exist. Its current physical existence is pagan teaching. Hell is a Biblical concept to mean punishment and perishing, and 'burning forever' equate 'perishing forever."

That sounds crude, rude, and lewd. No morals, no hang-ups, no concerns. I was baptised at thirteen, but I have lived away from active devotion to Christianity for many years. No worshipping, no serving, no fellowship, no tithing, and offering. I know it's wrong. That I'm living on the dangerous age and we don't have time, and the devil is closing the trap doors. But I just won't turn around.

Finally, I see Ozidi.

Karen senses the party is over. She hastens to throw in a few quick questions. "People want to know Otis Dundos the man, not the musician. This is an opportunity to set the record straight."

"I'm misunderstood."

"The better reason you need to set the record straight. Do you sometimes wish you were more assertive?"

"Yes. Everyone who is an optimist does"

"Do you have feelings of inadequacy?"

"Yes. Sometimes... I'm an artist."

"Do you suffer from shyness?"

"Shyness and awkwardness are for dummies and a thing of the past, and when I discovered my talents and created power, I stopped hiding and started living."

"One last question, Mister, what's your life's mission?"

I hold my mouth open at the intrusive question. "Are you kidding me? I haven't recorded a song in twenty years?"

"You're the king of Urban Benga."

"No. That ended in 1991 when they jailed me and took my life away. I've been a dead man walking for the last twenty years."

Her questions make my mind soggy and inundated. I must get rid of her. I wave at Ozidi. He doesn't seem to see me. I wave again. He eventually sees me. He is accompanied by some kids. Karen has stopped trying to chat and started gulping her beer or whatever is left in her glass.

Ozidi comes over. His hard eyes behind dark-rimmed specs are on Karen. I make the appropriate gurgling noise to suggest I'm interested in his attention.

"Sorry, I'm late." His eyes are still on Karen.

The look from Ozidi is unsettling and scares the young girl. She gets up, gathers her things, excuses herself and leaves. We watch her walk away and get into a black Mercedes Kompressor. Some things juggle the murk in my mind. Very smart kid. A little on the attractive side, somewhat bookable. And she is very affirmed in her convictions. Her female sexuality and burgeoning womanness are not a drag; she will be a bright woman in whatever her career is.

"Shit," I breathe.

Ozidi is beside me, and together we watch the Merc drive off. Then we face each other. He is beside himself, he blurts out, "Let me get my friends karibu here, and then I'll get a drink." He moves over to where his friends stand. I recognize the guitarist Kenge. The other one is a tall droopy-eyed bird that I haven't seen before. They converse in low tones. Then they all make for my table and settle themselves. A waiter hovers around, and they all ask for beers. I watch them silently, give them time. They converse among themselves in low tones, make small giggles and fidget around with their mobile phones. Then their beers are brought.

Ozidi looks at me and says, "This is a nice place, man. I dig it." He is staring out at the lake, sitting comfortably on the seat previously occupied by Karen. He casually tips his beer back and downs most of it straight from the bottle.

"We're proud of you, Papa Otis Dundos," offers the new kid. "Ozidi, can I ask you for a favour?"

Ozidi glanced over at him. "Sure, mazee."

"I hate to get things off on a bad note, but could you tell him about our own plans?"

Ozidi gets kind of upset about stuff like that. "Why can't you keep your mouth shut, Jimmy."

"Who are you?" I ask the new talkative bird.

"My name's Owacha Jimmy, I'm the assistant bandleader of KDF."

"Ah. I see. You two are the kingpins of KDF. What are you two blinching about then."

The boy called Jimmy says, "Buda, Ozidi told us you want to meet us to participate in making your album, and it's best you know we're in the middle of another recording."

He wants to sound like he is an accomplished performer, but I see he is another sorry ass.

I look at Ozidi. He grins and avoids eye contact with me. "Mo Thwaka hired us," he tells me. "We're in the middle of rehearsals. It doesn't stop us from working with you."

"But it brings conflict. You can't work on two recording projects."

He sighs and shakes his head. "He's already engaged us and paid us a quarter."

"How about this: I'm too tired for any real negotiations today. I'd rather just get a feel of you guys. Then I give you time to finish your engagements."

Ozidi nods. "That sounds fair. Thanks, man. I thought we could split the band."

Jimmy cracks open his next beer. "No band to split, KDF hands together. We have a deal. We do one thing at a time."

Ozidi shakes his head sadly. He takes off his specs, peers at Jimmy, his lips trembling lightly.

Gulp.

Double gulp.

I smile. And I see the picture. Jimmy looks the smart one. "I want the best musicians. I will make the selections," I tell them.

Ozidi puts on a grimace, puts back his specs, and shoots Jimmy another look of hate. He looks almost apologetic that he is unable to control the situation. Undoubtedly, he finds himself in an awkward position. He is constrained and not in control.

I ask Ozidi to get his team together. I give them time to sort themselves up. I walk to the waterfront to brood.

When I return to the table, the tension has diminished; no more bitching. There are four newcomers, so in total it's a band of seven. There's bassist Lang'o in his shaggy hair and another of his oversized vintage sweaters. Sitting next to him is KSK Junior, and next to him is the dorky and geeky Onyango Adidas. Across the table on the other side next to Kenge is the fat Orwa MojaOne.

They have to recognise that the table is mine; they stand up when I approach. I sit and sip my overwrought drink. A martini with a slice of apple in it.

Before anything is said, a svelte young girl joins us. The guys look somewhat acquainted with her. They make little jokes, exchange affectionate hugs, hearty laughs, and suggestive touches. She speaks funny Luo She has a striking face, wondrous eyes, lovely hair, busty chest, a genuine smile. She is pretty; mid-twenties, not too tall, slender, wears lots of layer clothing... long flowing things, smells good and is of the Luhya fare. Not full bloodied like the Maragolis the way we know them, but a mix of Mrama or Bukusu or even a trace of Banyala and Luo.

"Buda, this is Pamadi," Jimmy explains. "She and her sister sing with us." A straight respectful girl, she almost falls to her knees when she extends her hand for me to hold in greeting.

"My name is Alimasi. Pamadi Alimasi Namalwa. Namalwa is a family name. I'm really a choreographer, not much a singer."

I decide to ease things up; I ask questions that encourage a conversation among the random pack. I chat with them, making rude kiddish jokes, laughing with them, urging them to get more drinks, while Ozidi looks at me from across the table. Definitely, I wouldn't be marching them in the chummy direction; I will drive them hard and wear them to get what I want. It's necessary for me to create the camaraderie I will lean on to grasp unity. Pamadi does most of the talking. She is an interesting girl. Outside of her Luhya heritage, she is mostly Kisumunised.

Before they get tipsy, I invite their attention. With reasonable effort and dire determination, I bring kids' minds to bear on real issues.

"Hi guys, have you asked yourself why I want to work with you? I can get any musician I want. I can just post an ad on Facebook and get who I want. I can get Lokasa Ya Mbongo, Boss Mattuta, Solo Gabriel... Dally. I can get Bopol or even Rigo. I can get the best voices... Nyboma and Wuta Mayi. I want this to be a Kisumu thing. I want to pull something big working with the locals. And I want Urban Benga at its best."

I tell them that the problem I find with most local musicians is that they are extremely lazy. It's so frustrating being a smart guitarist with a band of lazy musicians. It's part of the reason I'm even toying with the idea of doing my own electronic stuff instead; musicians are so damn flaky and unreliable these days and let their egos get in the way of any real progress.

As I talk, they make curious oohs, mmhs and aahs.

Ozidi has something to say. "I want to do what my mom would have done. She followed you." He is more enthusiastic than the rest. He blinks, pulls his specs off his sweaty face, sighs, and repositions himself up against the rattan seat. He asks. "What kind of music do you want us to play?"

"Urban Benga."

Their nyama choma and grilled tilapia are brought in large servings with lots of kachumbari, fresh steamed sukuma wiki and steaming ugali. To them, it's a party at the so-so popular eatery, here at Kiboko Bay.

"Time to party," Jimmy speaks up. Feeling entertained, they start tearing into the food.

Though I'm much older, I feel like a teenager (and a clumsy one) sitting here with this band of ne'er-do-well kids, bleary-eyed as I am, half unconscious, not too much in the care mode and having snarly thoughts on how to capitalise on the talents of the kids. They look watered up and impervious to all things going on about them in my mind. Jimmy and Pamadi are doing most of the yapping and laughing. Despite being skinny, Jimmy is a headstrong man-boy. His thick dark ruff-afro hair looks right to a new world that has come to accept the young people's overzealous style in dressing and hair-do.

Twenty minutes later, the waiters are clearing up the mess. People are holding toothpicks and belching and rubbing their bellies.

I conclude. "Guys, I want two records, the first will be a fine Urban Benga megamix of the Best of Victoria, the second album will be new material to be called Transition World."

Jimmy speaks. "I really wish I wasn't in 'hear' mode. I can't wait to be in the studio. I have never been in a studio since I started music."

"None of us has been in a studio," a new girl who had joined us while we ate says. Everybody laughs. She laughs loudest. Her face is captivating and captures me greatly. Black and white striped short zippered top, not so tight short-legged jeans, bare arms.

"Who're you?" I ask her.

"Ayesha," she says. "Ayesha Atieno Namalwa." She pats the other girl, Pamadi. "Her younger sister. I'm a singer. I also dance and play the keyboard."

Ozidi whispers in my ear that she is an excellent vocalist. "Like mum," he whispers. I eye the girl. She is a cutey despite wearing glasses. Green earrings, no watch, shoulder-length braids, straight perfect teeth, lovely dark chocolate skin... a lovely girl! She speaks funny too; she has her sister's Luhya-Luo accent.

Seeing their eagerness and nervousness, I shake my head and chuckle. "I was like you too one time. There was the day I first entered a studio. It frightened me too. We all do something for the first time in our lives. After that, we get better and pass on the experience to others. Look, I want you to see for yourselves an avenue of opportunity here. You don't really know where you are. And bolting out into the darkness of unknown territory working with Otis Dindos? That's a wise thing to do. We all want something in this nipe nikupe world we live in. I give you the opportunity to be real musicians and you give me a solid backing for my records. If this works out well, I may revive Victoria, and do you know what that means?"

"No," they all said in unison.

"It means you all have jobs. Jobs, doing what you love."

There are jeers and cheers and smiles sighs and good feelings. The singer Ayesha, sitting next to her sister Pamadi, starts a ruckus. She starts clapping. Everybody joins. She looks aggressive; the tomboy of the gang.

I call a stop to the noise. "Rehearsal starts in two weeks at my place in the hills. Two or three albums. Ozidi is my assistant. Roki Fela will join us later."

Pamadi asks, "What about Ayo?"

"Ayo is sickening and may not participate," I inform them. "Now, I want to see some talent. All the singers get ready. I have a little song here. I will play my acoustic guitar, I want one of you to read it and sing it, okay?"

I pick up my guitar case, unzip it, and remove my Yamaha acoustic. From my pocket, I remove a folded piece of paper.

"Ayesha, here take this. I start with you. Listen to my guitar then sing what my guitar sounds like, okay?"

Ayesha rears her head back. "ME?"

"Yes. Who else? Who?" I look around. The others encourage Ayesha. She braces herself and beholds a very mischievous grin. Tapping KSK Junior shoulder, she whispers, "Back me up."

Oh no!

KSK, though, merely smiles, nods his head and grins. But Ayesha appears like she doesn't know what to think. Either she is shy or isn't too much thrilled or in the mood. At length, she stands up, stretches, and sighs. She moves forward, takes the piece of paper from my hand, and studies the words.

"Ready?" I ask.

She clears her throats, sniffs, and nods.

(Guitar solo, Urban Benga theme)

No matter what they say,

Know that I still love you

They don't know that you also love me

The rumours you hear in Kisumu that I died

And was buried in a foreign land are not true

You gave me love and life and

You put the guitar in my hands

And songs in my heart

(snickering, pitching)

Yawa, yawa, yawa; Yawa, yawa, yawa;

Ura, ura, ura; Ura, ura, ura;

please forgive me

#

#  FIFTEEN

"Old age has taught me to take things cool no matter

how serious. The beauty of ageing? You get wise."

THE GOOD Son

It comes to pass that I find myself getting jiggy with my son, Dan. I had been sick, and he had to come live with me at DreamScape. It had been one thing putting up with him during my illness, but now I've gotten better, and it appears like he has acquired his own space in my home. In the sanctity of his own room, he is free to have his own space and I feel some joy in giving him access to some basic things he had lacked in his life. I know the next best thing for him: a job.

So I struggle to find him a job, make phone calls to some people I know.

"Does he have a college degree? Diploma?" I'm asked.

"Give him anything he can do, he needs to save money for his college," is my reply.

"Okay, wait, we will contact you soon."

I wait. Dan waits too.

Days of work in the swelter doing chores at DreamScape is supposedly good for him; 'builds character' or some funny logic like that I heard the old people say. Keeps him busy and keeps him off odd company and idleness and stupidity. I've been a youth in Kisumu and I know how idle and bored you can be. Long empty days hanging with people of no value can be an indulgence. I mostly spent time with my father—fishing, mending nets, repairing the boat. My father, Odundo, hated days of just 'hanging loose'; no physical activity whatsoever and you turned to girls and alcohol and crime and pettiness and stupidity. I came to understand that you could be a hell of a drunkard and girl-chaser, a petty thief, a really good thief, and robber. End up dead or locked up in Kodiaga.

Weird.

I didn't go that route, thankfully.

Can't really say I was smart or even lucky, I knew what I wanted. Now, for Dan, I want the garage cleaned up in readiness for rehearsals. I'd hired the instruments that belonged to my uncle and Maria had arranged for them to be brought over. At 9.00 pm I'm at Pandpieri visiting my parents. Dan calls me. He wants to borrow some money. Mary-Goretti sick or something? I ask. Yes, she is, I'm told. She just called him. He's leaving the work half done and going to Ondiek.

It's 10:45pm; by the time he'd get to Ondiek, it would be close to 12:30 or 1.15. Sleep there, wake up in the morning and get back to DreamScape will chew another five hours. He figures he could squeeze another hour, but that would be about it. He'll need a shower, breakfast, and get (maybe) two hours of sleep then he'll be up and about. He wouldn't make it to arrange the instruments into the garage. So I will have to find a way to have them sorted. I will probably call Onyango Adidas and Jimmy, though I know they will want to be paid and that's something I'm trying to avoid.

But now his mother is sick, and he wants money. I have to find an Mpesa place.

I sigh and enjoy the air conditioning they've recently fixed in the truck, another modification. I've repainted it gray-silver and added high chromes. The rattling it makes as it moves over the potholes in the road doesn't worry me. It's not the car, it's the bad road. The overload the highway gets every day from trailers and heavy container loaders is unnerving, so I am thankful when I finally come to the turning I had missed earlier, the shortcut to Kong'er.

Minutes later the Luhya shopkeeper at Kong'er has loaded KShs. 3,300 in my Mpesa account and I have sent Dan the money. I'm back in the truck and making for home.

A couple of kilometres before entering the turning into the rough road leading to DreamScape, the headlights of the truck fall on a lone person walking along the edge of the road bearing a backpack of sorts on his back. For no other reason than 'just because' I pull over.

"Need a lift?" I ask through the open passenger window.

"Yes, thank you." says the lone highway walker, who turns out to be a teenage girl.

Oh no!

Dan's girlfriend, Tabitha. I ask her what she is doing out here in this ungodly hour.

"Dan told me to come and wait for him here. He's picking me, I lost my phone. He's taking me out."

I call Dan and his phone is not picked. I call twice and he sends me a text saying something about possibly having to go back to work after all but it isn't definite. That he's with his mom.

So I call Mary-Goretti.

Turns out Dan is lying. Mary-Goretti is not ill and hasn't spoken to him today. She is confused. Hysterical even. It is annoying that Dan can have the audacity to play cat and mouse with me and con me money when I'm trying to help him. Her mind is tormented and confused. "Help your son!" she yells out in anguish, "Help your son!"

I sigh, I am amused.

Then something comes to my mind. Dan is SUCH a sneak! I call Ozidi. Is Dan there at Olindas? No. Was he there today? No. I think a beat then I call Erick Olindas. Of course, Dan is at Olindas.

I turn to Tabi. She is blank, expressionless.

I grill her and she reaffirms her earlier statement that Dan is taking her out. How do I deal with this? My mind is overwhelmed by this kid's sheer shock tactics.

First of all, he is having sexual relations with this girl, Tabi. She's not a good person, she's a loose cannon. Any young girl her age and type in Kisumu these days is a loose cannon. No morals.

Tabi has boy trouble, er—teen troubles. More than one boy seeks her affections. She is obviously trying to play her cards right. She isn't sure about her morals, and her aspirations for college are waning. She wants to relocate to Britain and wants Dan to help her out once I assist him to go over. That's why she's sticking with Dan. As far as I know, she's had a bad influence over Dan and makes him lose his mind. She's stuffed him in her love pot and put him under a lot of pressure.

The pressure finale came with Dan coming to his mother asking about his cash entitlement from his family. He also wanted details about his father. He wanted details (apparently Tabi had caught a whiff of some rumours from I-don't-know-who in Mary-Goretti's chama mamas) that Agwenge was not his real father. It was too much for Mary-Goretti and in her frustration of trying to explain 'the truth' to Dan, she advised him to talk to Uncle Otis. No new hope coming, dreams not fulfilled, cash short, and no social life, and indeed no clear prospects of going to Britain soon, girlfriend Tabi threatened to dump him.

I had picked all this yarn from Erick Olindas recently.

So tonight I find Tabi on her way to see him when he should be out at his mom's place 'nursing' her. At least that's why I sent him the money.

I ask Tabi to get in the truck; we're going for a drive. She pauses a moment, makes a 'what?' face. Then she smiles indifferently and climbs in. I turn the truck around and head back to Kondele.

Twenty odd kilometres later, we are in Kondele. It is another warm night, buzzing and pulsating. Bars are booming a cacophony of strident din. I pack the truck a few metres from Olindas and wait. I don't want to set Tabi free because I know she is going to tip Dan off. When the timing is right; when the music stops, Tabi and I will be put through our paces.

Tonight I'm going to come to a new direction on how to handle my bastard son's problems. Suddenly I hear Dan and his friends ripping on some crap and applauding themselves about the success of their plan. Even Tabi, who is in the gag, but only in allowing her boyfriend's ruse draws her breath. I'm parked in the shadows about ten metres from Olindas.

Dan, Lang'o, Orwa, Jimmy and Ozidi emerge from Olindas' entrance and are urinating on the wall outside, their long shadows cast by the street lamp stretch over the high wall.

"My uncle mustn't know I'm here," Dan says. "And Tabi must be looking for me."

Oh yeah?

"You ma-falla don't know how this works?" It's Jimmy.

Dan and Lang'o look nervous as they stand holding 'high quality exported' beer.

"Who's the jama you got this from?"

There is an exchange of looks between the two manboys.

"Uh, the Muindi kid... er, he sort of..."

"He sort of WHAT?" Ozidi spits.

"Bring it, we'll sell it," Jimmy supplies. "In exchange he wants Ayesha."

"Ayesha? No!"

"Reptile! Stop being melodramatic. Ther nyang!"

"We need cash, Ozidi," Jimmy says in defence, "we don't have any money coming till we start rehearsals on Papa Otis records. Besides, Ayesha has no problem with soft hustling."

"Yeahs, Ayesha's cool with it."

"How much?" screams Jimmy. Dan steps back jolted by the hot snarling breath of fury.

"About twenty thao!" Shit. The truth is out of his mouth before he knows. Tripped up by Ozidi the pro at getting the truth.

I feel my bowels loosening.

Ozidi takes one bottle from Dan, holds it up. "How many cartons of this stuff did you get?"

"Eighteen."

"Plus twenty K, that's how much, mazee? Hey, give me the money."

Dan slowly pulled out a wad of cash and hands it over; nearly getting whacked by Ozidi.

"It's short."

"We had to hire a tuk tuk to bring the stuff here," Jimmy explains.

"How much in total?"

"The booze will cost about sixty thao."

"And the mobile phone?"

Jimmy sucks his breath. "Who told you about that?"

"I have it," says Lang'o.

"Sell it too. Guys, look... we made a deal. We are late with our monthly instalments. I need us to own these instruments then we will buy our freedom and move KDF out of Olindas. I want you guys to focus. We need all the money." He turns to Dan and says, "You, I gave you a job to do. Where's the money? Did you say 3K?"

Dan pulls more money from his pocket, hands over to Ozidi.

Ozidi stuffs the money in his jeans. "Good. Now I can guarantee you Tabi will give you a date. Cool. A real one, just get some studded CDs. Which reminds me... the porno."

Tabi's mouth hangs open. She tenses, sucks air under her breath. Her facial expression changes to that of someone being curious or hearing something they're not sure of hearing—like your name being called that you're a winner of a lottery, but you're not sure it is your name. Her arms come down, her mouth hangs opens, tongue licking her lips, and I see an even more gruesome facial change. She looks faint.

"Ayesha says she can't do it now. I think this recording deal with Papa Otis has made her change her mind. She says she's not a prostitute. Ako tu na psyche ya ngoma."

"Then get another girl to do it. Sharrif has already paid the 50%, and we have no time. Don't mind about the quality, just film the thing and give me the CD in two days. Jimmy! Improvise and finish the damn filim."

Dan is in severe a quandary, he wants to flee, he rolls his shoulders, "I needed the money for Tabi. Look, guys, I'm tired of this gang business. My uncle is getting suspicious; I need to be cool for him to take me to Britain."

"Hey, you keep your nose clean and you will get what you want!" Ozidi bitches. "Even if you don't go to Britain, you have your place in the band as our bouncer. Vipi, bwana!"

Dan slowly eases over to his leader, faces the skinny rat as if he's ready to punch him. "No way, I have to go to Britain."

Ozidi gazes coolly at Dan and chuckles. "We're all tired. We're all quitting the gang business and working on music full time. Your uncle is helping us all, right? Otis Dundos will get us out of this, he's a nice guy. We all want honest work."

Then someone sings:

Yeh, yeh, work, make the sun shine brightly,

Make my Boss kiss me, keep tabs on my manzi!

And keeping up on my social life is cool

Aha-aha, Dame yangu, siku hizi niko very busy

O'yeah, tufanye kazi leo; Sato nikupeleke out

Aha-aha, Sunday unipeleke church

O'yeah, I like it like that;

Vile nawa-entertain na hizi vibes zangu

Ae aee, Mama yangu quenched some of my

Bad, bad, BAAD tabias.

Yoyoyo! Likes, desires, obsessions.

Yoyoyo! Something had to be done soon!

Yoyoyo! Obsessions obsessively obsessed

Yeh, yeh, work, make the sun shine brightly,

"Stop it," Ozidi takes a swig of his beer, cuts in. "We will sell the booze here in the club, the waiters know how to switch them with real stuff. By the end of the week, we will have about eighty-five k. Our loan with Victoria Music Store is one hundred and forty. Between now and then we should've raised the money. Let's go back." To Dan, he says, "You make a run for your uncle's place before he gets back there and find you're not there."

With that said and done, they bundle back into the club.

Leaving me in thought. My mind is in overload.

Tabi fumes.

And fumes.

And gets pissed. Then she bursts into tears. Begins to retch and loses full composure. She begins to freak, to pound her feet against the floorboard.

Tabi sits with a 'mad face', arms folded across her chest. She sits in a funk, her body and mind raging. A jillion thoughts are exploding in her mind. She had come raring for a date, but it never happened. This evening she had decided to give Dan a chance. She wore good make-up, had a finger ring, earrings, necklace, watch. She wore perfume and smelled good and posed the figure of an all-around nice looking Kisumu girl. She was in a nice dress outfit, too.

Still eaten up with some aggression, Tabi starts speaking softly, so softly I can hardly hear. "I'm tired of this life, tired, tired, tired. You have to help me. Dan can't help me. I trusted him; I even started to love him. He gave me hope when you showed up here and I started to love him."

"Porn, tell me about the porn."

Her face bathed with tears, she sighs and frowns. "Ozidi is really evil. He's made me make some pornos, and he's now blackmailing me into having sex with Dan on camera. He targets students and innocent girls with no money. He sells the master tapes to his muindi friends for mass production. They are sold in India, and there's a big market for them."

"Who does he use in the films?"

"Everybody," she says, smiling meekly.... "Dan, Jimmy, Pamadi, Ayesha, everybody. It's KSK, Adidas and Kenge who have refused."

Goats! Donkeys! Dogs!

Oh my! I'm scarcely able to contain myself.

It is madness! Madness!

Tabi has her eyes closed. I have an idea of what is raging in her mind. She is looking for a way to get even. She's been duped into giving free love. There are more pissed-offness than hurt, but there is hurt there, too. It should be clear to her she's Ozidi's tool. Expressing a befuddled look, she takes a deep breath and sits staring straight ahead at the teeming Kondele night. Her story spews forth. She's a student at the University studying social anthropology. She wants to go to Britain. Her mother can't afford it. Her father is useless. She is determined to make it, and Dan was her only hope. But now... she's not sure.

Another awkward moment lingers; a gentle breeze is coming in through the window. A bath is what I need. A shower, my bed, and some good sleep... that is what I want.

What a day.

Change your mind, wisdom tells me. Old age has taught me to take things cool no matter how serious. The beauty of ageing? You get wise.

I wake up earlier than usual with a startle. A million bugs have bitten me, mosquitoes and gnats mostly. My thoughts are muddled and I can't think clearly. I try to concentrate on the music I'm writing and everything I can conjure up (to put out of my mind the constant itching.)

The day is getting on, daylight is coming. I can't believe what I witnessed last night! It is still dark outside and cooler, too. After getting refreshment from the fridge, I gather myself, brace my unsettled mind and throw myself into my work.

Strumming guitar.

Humming songs under my breath.

Thinking.

The thought of 'sending' my son Dan to Britain for some damn fool notion begins to fill me; I need to get him out of Kisumu. In the first place, I have to send him back to his mother.

My mood is still sour; I'm on the phone with Pam.

Her voice on the phone is level and firm. "Is the pastor selling Lakeshore?"

"He will, I'm working on it."

"Right. Any good offers on DreamScape?"

I hate to lie, but, "Yeah. I have somebody really interested in buying. We're at the negotiating stage." Which is probably the truth: Ajay the Indian.

There is a pause, slight, then, "Okay, honey. Try and hurry things up. Call Daudi tomorrow."

And she hangs up.

Whew! I am chagrined mostly and overwhelmed by my wife's modesty, decency, and other mitigating factors, including morality. I long to see her and be with her more than anything now. I am in consummate guilt and can hardly react to the deed assigned to me by her.

After another day of frivolity, it's time to get some relaxation. I am in so much guilt and befuddlement I need to see Regina. She usually makes me feel satiated. She hasn't called though I know she must be thinking about me and wondering. I called her two days ago, and she was bold enough to want to know if I understood the true meaning of being Saved That made me a bit confused. I asked her what came first, Grace or Salvation, and she told me Grace is free for all and by it we receive Salvation through Faith.

We are on Faith and Works.

"This makes Salvation free. Jesus paid for all our sins on the cross; thus he made it possible for us to have Salvation. We are saved by grace, but it's our job to accept that Salvation by Faith."

"I think that is where I get confused," I said to her. "The best thing is I meet you."

"Okay, come over to my place but don't come so late, please."

Regina lives in a two-bedroom house in Makasembo. Like all Makasembo houses, the modest edifice has a front and back door. On wise suggestion from her friend and my sister Akinyi, she has sublet the second bedroom to a young lady who works with an NGO.

I have no problem finding the house since the houses are numbered. It is at the extreme end of the estate. I stop at the dead end and find the estate is closed up. Like most typical Kisumu residential, inter-estate streets roll through, and there are no boundaries or fences. Trying to squeeze my truck on the tiny sidewalk, I faintly recall that the road used to run through into the open field on the outskirts and through a bush land called Kaburini towards Nubian Estate and Manyatta. Many of our childhood adventures led us to this backside of the town where a creepy cemetery was butting up against some equally creepy woods. A moderate income neighbourhood was on one side of the cemetery land planted with expired people. Really (and mercifully) Kaburini had been a cemetery, and when passing through going to Manyatta, we could see graves with rotting wooden crosses and white flowers. At Kaburini we used to hunt aluru (quails) with dogs. I was about twelve. After the people of the cemetery departed and the undertakers and caretakers too; Muspal (Kisumu Municipality) was motivated to move the creepy graveyard to Mambo Leo, and all that remained of the cemetery were some small caretaker buildings and rotting wooden crosses and flowers. This is what I expect to see; instead, there is a new housing estate called Polyview, no bushland, no graves.

My mind is all a jumble with what I see. Oh, mercy of mercies, they have constructed some modest economy apartments on human remains!

I sit in the car, turn off the ignition. Something burgeons, no—burbles into my already frapped mind.

Wibao used to be just behind the stadium where we used to trap tunda birds, and there were the tall jacaranda trees that were planted by the Colonialists at the beginning of the century. When I think of Wibao, what immediately comes to my mind are the searing temps of the early '70s. Kisumu isn't the same, it's cooler now. Back then, in the middle of August, the weather was all crappy. It's all gone now, all folded into history. Ah, and what about those impalas? Those impalas we used to chase during the dry seasons (which are now confined to the Impala park) all year around. They used to come to graze on our football field in Kisumu Day, and our school badge emblem was an impala.

Nothing is the same any more. The hyenas have descended in the name of developers and investors. Grabbing every space and putting up housing units and shopping malls. Nothing a small man like me can do about it.

But it's fine with me. What Kisumu did for me so far in the good yesteryears is good enough to last me a lifetime. The passage of time is not meaningless. I have no destination, currently or in a future life; memories of the old Kisumu suit me fine. I have a lot to reminisce over. You know, Kisumu has always tried to maintain its small-town appeal, keeping out urban riff-raff and maintaining a clean atmosphere. I'm talking about the municipal dumpsite, well-known as kataka, where we used to rummage through the rubbish dump scavenging for edibles. Well, it has been pushed aside to give way for a modern shopping mall. Kataka was more than a good experience, it was food paradise. Those days they used to dump some good things at kataka. That's where I ate the first and the only canned meat and the first and only canned beans I ever tasted in my life. We used to find rocks of sweets which we would break up with stones and devour. The first queen cakes I ever ate in my life I ate at kataka. Those days we used to gobble them up, including the paper they were cased in. In fact, the only other time I ate queen cakes was when I was in my adulthood. As for canned meat and beans, I have never eaten them again since kataka.

So thusly, there came the greatest adventure of my life—even more so than my trekking in the hot sun to discover. Most of my time was trail & error, fumbling, discovering, and uncovering just what the town had to offer besides it possessing me; its fun zones and it's limits and all that. I realised early on the extraordinary potential for adventure our town had, and the dangers. I recall Kisumu had only one posho mill (Kabade Ochot) on the road presently known as Obote owned by an Asian. We would be rewarded with all sorts of bakshish each time we took millet there for milling which was charged in otongo and nduru. In cents. (5cts, 25cts, etc). There were two cinema halls, Nyanza Cinema, and Kenview Cinema, which later changed its name to Tivoli. There was only one hospital, the Nyanza General Hospital, which was charging only 1kshs for adults to get treatment. The only restaurant I can remember was the Mona Lisa, a very romantic name at the time. Kisumu Stadium had a live fence, and I remember we dug trenches under the fence through which we would gain entrance into the stadium on tournament days. Kisumu Social Centre had the only telly which attracted viewers from almost the whole town and its environs.

Kataka was at first located at the place where the National Library is presently built before relocation to space near the stadium. At Independence, the only shopkeepers in the town were Indians with Arabs mostly operating in the first African settlement areas like Manyatta Arab, Bandani, Kaloleni and Kibos. The only existing estates were Nyalenda Railway, Obaria, Anderson, Shauri Moyo, Nubian, Upper, and Lower Railways. Railway estates were no-go zones for non-residents. Kisumu Boys and Kisumu Girls schools were the only high schools, and back then they were secondary schools offering Ordinary Level education. Advanced Level, which was known as "higher" came later to qualify them to be high schools. Later came Kisumu Day. I knew (in those days) that my being in Kisumu Day Secondary School and calling it "high school" had taken me into a Parallel Universe. Not by choice. Kisumu Day had no 'A' Level, only reached Form Four.

Well, maybe by choice. Dumbass choice, bold-and-blind choice. It was "compulsory" to make it to the only two Universities our country had and passing 'A' Level was harder than climbing a mountain. In the backdrop of the 1970s, attempting to go to form five was like allowing the rebel to go where he willed. It was a blacked-blanked-out idea. It was like jumping in the lake. And about the time that I was about to sit my 'O' Level exam to garner the crucial marks to take me to "high school" in form five, I was in that bizarre point in life that got me those nifty moments of madness. It was a good excuse to drop off at 'O' Level and find something to do than to go forward to face the dreaded 'A' Level. Even with 'O' Level, one became more and more cognizant of his being as an "educated person", though not his purpose. How naive, hm.

Serious contemplation is needed here—the consummation of connecting with your past can have severe detrimental changes in your future. As a kid, when helping Mama out in our store (school holiday time period), I occasionally got the task of taking our bike to go fetch some stock goods and supplies in Kibuye or Kamas. It was while on one of these runs that I encountered many adventures. I always seemed to blend in with my environs no matter what they were.

And I knew Kisumu... knew all the parts. Kabakran, Kasale, Kamas, Obaria, Kichinjio, Dho Chiro, Nyawita, Mamboleo, Kodiaga, Obunga, Nyalenda, Pandpieri, Pap Ndege, Kibuye, Dunga, Dho Nam, Kamakoha, Kondele and Manyatta Gonda. These are the oldest landmarks and names in Kisumu town. The sensation of breaking yet into new areas was spectacular. It was more than I could imagine. I particularly remember Kamas because that is where I used to go and buy sikari nguru for my grandmother to make chang'aa. Obaria was a railway estate for low class, and I remember going to visit my uncle in his one-roomed hut. I remember Kabakran in Kaloleni where we used to buy ice and gubit.

Kosolole was a shop in the nearby Nyalenda where we bought sugar, unga, bread, match sticks, salt, etc. Dho Nam was famous because it embraced the lake and it was bustling with boats landing onto the beach with fresh fish every morning. A stiff breeze was here, and the smell more akin to being at a regular fresh fish market. And, indeed, the activities of noisy women fish traders made Dho Nam a typical fish market. It also drew in tourists and fed the town's coffers. The BIG Lake also used to wash in huge dhows from Tanganyika which used to bring maembe dodo every season near Kichinjio.

I wasn't interested in the lake; I wasn't a fisherman type of person. My choice spots were in secluded remote areas of Pandpieri where Peace and Tranquillity beat out worms and flies.

Chiro Mbero is still the municipal market, which mostly still sells Indian vegetables. Back in the day, it was only known to serve the Indians. Obunga Ok Rach has been what Kisumuans still know it for dangerous zone overrun with deadly crime and illicit brew. The first man to settle there was a Luhya by the name Obunga. His neighbour was Makokha also a Luhya. Manyatta Gonda may have been inhabited by Ugenya and Gem men who, after serving in the Second World War, decided not to go back to their Siaya homes. Nyalenda was populated mostly by the people from South Nyanza and Nyakach and Sagam people from Maseno all after the World Wars.

Living close to the centre of Kisumu town in the late '60s and early '70s, we had many dangerous skirmishes. It was an adventure of a lifetime. I miss it now. But I don't want to remember any of it! The tragic death of Oliver still terrifies me. I only know that it happened and it's taken years to actually figure out the how and the why.

The How: by being a dumbass teenager with WAY too much curious. Oliver, not me.

The Why: only God knows.

All I know is that we regularly did things that were special occasion stuff for kids our age. Walks to Kisumu Municipal Stadium to watch our beloved Hot Stars clash with Black Stars were an almost weekly event, especially the year Kiwiro played for them to avoid the MLB strike. We often went to the Kisumu Yatch Club, which was also a walking distance. I can still smell the sweet aroma of Indian food and hear the shrieking laughter of Indians and white people as they skated on the lake, pulled by powerful motor boats. Visits to Kandege, the airport, were also regular events thanks to our father working in Ogongo Fisheries. I think I still have a few of the pictures of seaplanes 'landing' on the lake and taxing up a long track to the huge hangers built close by.

Then there are things we enjoyed doing for fun but which were really bad and even dangerous. Like stoning Safari Rally cars. Like climbing over the Stadium walls to watch football matches free. But I think the most dangerous was raiding the Indian homes in Milimani to steal fruits. Seriously, believe me, this one was dangerous. Our closest neighbours in Pandpieri those days were Kisumu Indians and a few Europeans mostly living in Milimani Estate. Those days the Africans, apart from the home workers, were not allowed anywhere near Milimani and its environs. Many people got arrested for trespass which those days was known as kanyaga. I can't remember seeing many whites in daily life, but once in a while a white man or woman on horseback would pass through the village attracting a large number of villagers both children and adults who tried to follow them but would not manage to keep pace due to the fast moving animals.

Safari Rally was another ceremony to carry in memory each year. We would retain all Kimbo, Blue Band, Cowboy and Haria tins in the house waiting for Easter holidays when they would be joined by scissors or any other cutting instruments, nails and hammers or stones. Sheet metal was skilfully made into Safari Rally cars. Not toys, Safari Rally cars!

All over Kisumu now, I see people of this age roaming the puffed up streets teeming with honking motorists, tuks tuks, motorcycles, hanging at overcrowded shopping arcades, or at the overcrowded supermarkets. I wonder if they know or even care about the rich history I cherish so much. I moan... I moan because the perils of urbanization have caught up this clean town. Will Kisumu accommodate the many millions of (mostly) poor rural migrants and Somali traders streaming in? Planners have failed to prevail in establishing a grid. And in the meantime, private developers have a field day.

The door to the Makasembo house opens and there is a preliminary look-see at the woman, the Chevy's interior light is switched back on to "ON" and I take a better look at my prize. The kitchen light is on, dinner is in the making. The door opens and there she is. She is hauling out a black garbage polythene bag, places it on the concrete slab covering a manhole, and wipes her hands. She is about to get inside when sixth sense tells her she is being watched. She turns, and at first, there is a mild surprise on her face when she notices the truck.

She approaches the truck. "Otis? You didn't tell me you were coming so late." She looks a little pale and not well at all. But her beauty burns so intently beneath the surface. Beautiful face, shapely form from head to toe. Nice, very nice.

"I was waiting for you to call. You never called." It sounds like the usual rhetoric women give their tardy men. She sees the open door of the truck. "Oh," she says. "Well, I can't go anywhere with you now; it's late and tomorrow is a working day."

She, however, tells me she's elated to see me in as much I am happy to see her. She is wearing skin-tight black jeans; kind of inappropriate for Kisumu wear, but, oh well. Too much. I don't know why she reminds me of Riana. There is something in her smile and the way she holds her gaze that is definitely Riana.

I find something to say. "How was school?"

"Fine." She gets a breath of air and leans against the car. "It is late and I have students' homework to mark."

"Aren't you going to invite me in, maybe?"

She hesitates. Then she smiles. "Only twenty minutes. Please, I don't feel too comfortable with you coming at this hour. You have a burning issue?"

"I told you on the phone,"

"Yes, you did. Come in then."

Once inside, she tells me to feel comfortable and goes into an inner room, very much her bedroom. Minutes pass. More minutes pass. I hear water running. Then silence. Long silence. I am about to get up and turn on small telly when she comes into the room. . She is fresh from a bath, in a long night robe of light pink.

She hesitates long enough before saying, "Let's pray first. I need to invite the Holy Spirit into our discussion."

#

#  SIXTEEN

"People like Dorry will always be bad chapters in my book."

MOMENTUM is everything.

Since that nasty encounter with Ozidi and his comrades, my mind has dwelt unnaturally on the scene whereas he (Ozidi) is extorting money from innocent Indians and pushing young girls into soft porn and my mind is abuzz with maddening thoughts. What weird impetus does he have? Unnatural disposition because this is Kisumu and I'm concerned about morality and decency. I hate shortcuts. No matter how sinful and wicked I am, I have never taken any shortcut in my life. I understand the plight of the youth in Kisumu. That in the blink of limited opportunities, anything (ANYTHING) is possible. But, then again, his motivation isn't all that inexplicable. Yeah? He needs money. And to what end? To think that this is the son of Aseela!

Then it dawns on me that he is an obstacle to my plans, and I have to maintain momentum and concentrate on what I need to do in lieu of my planned recording. So I think. I make calls. I make consultations. Then I get into my truck and drive over to Olindas. KDF gang is there. I mean personnel.

Minus Ozidi.

He is taking care of some business, I'm told.

General chit-chat in the greetings. The guys are amused to see me wearing a shirt and tie. Jimmy wants to say something witty, but it doesn't come out. So Junior finds it convenient to finish it for him. Thing is Jimmy's written a song he wants me to look at. I politely advise him to bring it up during the rehearsals. He merely nods and moves to shuffle his feet in a dance routine. The sisters Pamadi and Ayesha offer me cold sodas and ask me to buy them lunch. It's early afternoon. Not improbable, just that it isn't noon type time, so it is unlikely. People don't start flocking Olindas until late afternoon. I order food, and the entire band sits and drinks, munch on chips and ugali and fried fish and engage in their usual lively repartee.

In the heavy air, there is a slight pungent lingering smell of marijuana. I figure Olindas Bar is probably stuck with some of its old bad habits. Back in the day, things were always getting stenchy as Spark and Kasule couldn't hold ahead without a whiff of the herb. Too largely I suppose, Urban Benga is a product of the twisted mind. All music is.

My thoughts are interrupted by the presence of Ozidi.

"Hey, mzee, you're here. A bit early," the bandleader says. "Nice to see you."

"Yes, just sitting here taking it in."

He sits down next to me and beckons a waiter, asks for a soda. He is clothed as usual in dark skin-tight pants and vest with a white cotton jacket.

For a long few moments, silence rages supreme. After that the boys and girls want to discuss the plan about how to get my recordings to make their careers.

"So, what then?" asks Ozidi.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you said you want to KDF to be part of your recording. We want to pick on the yarn of what we discussed recently at Kiboko."

I wrinkle my nose, fart, and stir the ice in my soda. The waitress who served us the food hovers around eyeing me with a funny smile. I beckon her over and make payment.

Then I face Ozidi. "I want to propose a deal." There is the unspoken stipulation that he is preparing himself for a major announcement from me. My face must tell him that if he blabs one word about his objection to what my plans are, he risks tipping off the deal. He'd kiss my deal goodbye.

He assures me that he is cool. Says that he likes what I'm trying to do and won't want to do anything to mess it up.

I wait until his drink is more than halfway down then I lean over and propose new changes in our deal. I want to hire his group. I want to have the recording done under the name of Victoria.

"Why?" he asks giving me a long cold look.

"Because I know you're a mkora and I also know your motivation. At the time Victoria collapsed, your mom was the highest paid artiste and assistant band leader. So loyal she was to me that when she did her two solo albums, she did them under the name of Victoria. But you have your own agenda. I want to deal with each artiste in this group independently. I'm paying per day, and we have only three weeks for rehearsals. Starting now."

Before Ozidi has time to react, I call the others, and they swarm closer. I explain the new arrangement for them.

"I'm no longer working with you as a group," I conclude. "Since you're Kisumuans, I will give you the first opportunity to audition. My lawyer is drafting a contract; I will need every artiste who is willing to work with me to sign."

I watch them absorb it. Pamadi and Ayesha snivel, sigh. The boys gasp, blink, stand with mouths agape. All around me mouths are open, eyes are wide. Clearly, it appears they didn't even understand the terms in the first arrangement where they were to own rights in the recordings. None except Ozidi and Jimmy. Turning his head, Jimmy glares at Ozidi. "I don't believe this," he says. The crestfallen look on his face is amusing. But the look on Ozidi's face is hard to decipher.

Then I put the kibosh in. "Tomorrow afternoon, come to my place at DreamScape. If you don't know it, get for directions from tuk tuk or boda boda riders. I will have the contracts ready, and my lawyer will be there."

Then I leave Olindas.

My heart bleeds for the naïve talented kids.

The Next Thing I Know...

Ozidi accompanied by Jimmy and the rest of the KDF gang are all at DreamScape by three in the afternoon. I look them over one by one, nodding my head thoughtfully.

The team looks appreciative of my approving them. The boys and girls stand shoulder to shoulder with mild befuddlement in their sweet young faces.

Just to be sure that my money is not going to waste, I decide to test them. But before that can be done, I want them to clean the garage and set up the equipment. They quickly sling their daypacks and kick off their shoes. The guys peel off their shirts and tees. In an hour, the garage is clean and the equipment is arranged and plugged into power. Later on, I put them through rigorous auditions. Each artiste gets a good thirty minutes.

At the end of it, and for good measure, I drop Ozidi and Jimmy.

Darn! Done!

Jimmy frowns and is in total absolute befuddlement. He is shocked and flabbergasted. Ozidi shrugs and purses his lips. He is completely mystified, stupefied. I can see thunder in his mind.

BLAST OFF!

As if to absorb the bad news, the two of them traipse down into the woods in my hillside property. I watch them go with no regrets. My plan is working; has to work. It is sealed. In the end, I will remain with the seven obedient musicians and have a band. Victoria. This is my plan. It is all for shock value. At some minutes to five, after slaving the day away sweltering in the garage, the remaining seven are off to various parts of the hillside, some are bar-hopping on my beer, watching TV.

A little after five, after the boys and girls have left to go to Olindas, Ozidi and Jimmy are back.

Ozidi wants to talk.

An idea comes into my head. I ask Ozidi to excuse me and take Jimmy some paces away for his earshot.

Jimmy is sparked-up. "Hey," he says, "Buda, what's going on here?"

I shrug. "Don't play dumb with me, kid."

"Well," he drawls.

"Well, what? Don't keep it to yourself and don't play dumb with me. The whole of Kisumu knows."

"Well, I-I am not part of it, not by choice."

"Hey, don't do that, you'll hurt yourself, mazee!" joshes Ozidi, who has silently joined us.

"Wise ass," spits Jimmy, "Anyway, buda... Ozidi's in the biz of making movies. I don't know how much he makes, but he makes good money, right?"

"Right," Ozidi put in, "it's like some sort of big ass secret biz or something, but it's not illegal fireworks. I don't want to say it is. Anyway, you're in it too, man?"

"How did you start this sick business?" I want to know from Jimmy.

"Well, I didn't start it, buda. Just know it's kind of not easy to understand how... si you just ask him."

"Are you part of it?"

Jimmy is silent, but he looks like a wounded young leopard. I decide to leave him alone.

It is a pause for reflection or something. I want to speak to Ozidi alone. I ask him to wind down and with a large ice cold Tusker and we sit on the far dock of the barn where it is quiet and cool. The hour is late, going to six. The air is filled with the heavy scent of sunflower and mangoes; the noises of the hillside community abound: shrill laughter of herds-boys and moos of cows, bleats of goats and cowbells tinkering.

I wait for Ozidi to speak his mind. His eyes avoid mine, and he has a look of despair over him. In the distance near the dilapidated wooden fence, I can see Jimmy looking at us. I try not to sympathize. The message has been passed, and I have cracked a nasty racket. And I have not been deliberately unfair. I am doing the right thing here. And I'm the responsible senior adult here.

Ozidi says, "Why put me through the embarrassment? You know I'm the boss of KDF. I have my heshima and my influence among the boys and girls in the band. Now, you've just come in from Britain to spoil my party here in Kisumu because you are Otis Dundos. Why?"

I shrug. I have no sins to confess. I know my plan is to cut them off. The pair of them. And for a good cause. I don't want chaff in my beans. Then, off-handedly, he puts a funny query. "How old was my mother when she joined Victoria?"

"About twenty-three."

"I'm twenty-three now. Tell me, how would you describe my mother?"

"Amazing. Smart. Bold. Carefree. Daring. Artistic. Super talented. Took charge of things and was a natural leader. Didn't need to be supervised." I leave out one of Aseela's fantastic qualities: sexually independent.

A long awkward silence follows. He opens his mouth to speak, stops himself. He bites at the flesh at the inside of his lips. He has pulled his punch short. The second guess is more like it. I've come to know Ozidi as a very secretive young man. Secretive to the point of being hideously dangerous and hard to trust.

I ask him, "What is this "business" you are doing, Ozidi? Makes my hair stand on end."

"What business?"

"I want to hear from you."

"Nothing, I have nothing to tell you. Nothing."

"Oh, there's a lot. Don't underestimate me. Tell me."

It is his turn to fall silent. "Sorry," I say, realising I'm intruding too deep in a personal (business) matter. I can get the info one way or another, but I don't want to pursue it that way. Not yet.

"Like you don't know?" Ozidi says. He draws one leg up and rests his chin on his knee. "We make movies."

Movies. Kiddie porn. Seems like a growing trend.

"Great," I say. "And it pays better than music; helps fatten the wallet, huh?"

He doesn't reply. He seems suddenly uncharacteristically nervous.

I furl my lips and sit back. I have more questions for him.

I ask him how it feels to make money at others' overpriced depravity and moral loss. As young as he is.

"Money worries, buda. Si kitu poa, najua. Lakini...." he mutters. He smiles wryly. The kid obviously doesn't have a justification. Where does his money come from, and where does it go? Are there bills on the bar counter? Does he drive a car? Yeah, he needs some food, nice clothes, and some toys. And that means he needs a few thousands of shillings in his wallet every day. From what I saw in the last few days, Ozidi and Jimmy know how to make money here in Kisumu. The only thing they don't do is killing people. But crime has a way of growing and becoming contagious like a deadly virus.

This is the horrific tale I beat out of Erick Olindas a few days ago: Ozidi's has a 'business', filming young people having sex with each other as well as himself involved, along with his cousin and members of KDF. They don't mass produce, they make a few copies of pornos which they sell to Indian weirdos. They sell hard master copies to the perverts. They also supply the pervs with young girls for paid sex. In the beginning, it had just been Ozidi and his cousin Biti making adult pornos. Meaning they were having sex and filming themselves! This led to other forms of porn, which were more lucrative.

Erick Olindas had more to share. "Ozidi messed up his brain to come with this idea. It's started as a cranky idea for his own amusement with his girl. When the chic flipped her beak, he slapped her and beat her so bad she had a black eye for weeks. Beat her real bad. Then Yahya The Dirty Indian got into the picture, and the thing took a different route as many broke chics came in, not maprostis, not bad girls, not hustlers... just nice fresh Kisumu girls?"

Then, "He got the idea from the Internet... he found an idea to sort our money troubles, but I tell you making pornos is not doing any good to our morality."

"How did it start?"

"Well, he didn't have a camera of any kind except his smartphone. He couldn't get himself one, couldn't even hire. Then the Yahya The Dirty Indian got wind of it. So he came in with his camera. That's how they started the thing... with Yahya's camera and Ozidi's girl, then his cousin. "

Details, details...

I am not bummed or even glummed; I can't figure it out. The sickness of the disgusting thing is banging in my mind. Ozidi is a twisted boy with no morals, that's for sure. But he must be stopped. You never can tell what else he is capable of. And I doubt if he is doing this alone.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask.

"I need money for my equipment. I'm alone in this world. My mother died."

"Where do you get the girls?"

No answer.

"How much can you sell me one master?"

"Ten K."

Great, just great.

"I think you think you're very smart," I tell him.

Would he have robbed me outright if he got the chance? Given his total lack of morals? I don't know. I search for answers but can't achieve anything that rightly rights his right.

"You want to know where I get them?" he asks suddenly.

I nod.

"I wonder why that's so important to you. You will never know, so stop asking. I can't tell my sources." Maybe this is a dream. Yeah, a dream. And if it is a dream, then by all means it is!

I ask, "What's your dream, Ozidi?"

His voice is a bare whisper. "To make money and kick poverty. Nothing is right; I've lived with disorder all my life. I'm a child born to suffer. Trouble follows me like a virus. My mother slept with a drug addict and killed herself. When she was dying, I was watching. She was lying on the couch and holding my hand as she died. I felt her dying. I felt life seeping from her into me. My mother was the most beautiful woman in Kisumu, very talented. But she was weak. I'm not."

He laughs hideously. I have a chuckle. He continues. "Now, at twenty-three years of age, things are changing. I have a band, and I have savings. I'm richer than my mom. I'm a smart businessman. I have connections."

He tells me how he rates himself as a star and he wants no trouble. He wants troublesome chics off his back before they possibly come snooping or getting into his biz. He also has dreams and desires (the tangible inanimate types); a Dunga beach home, a nice-nice car; Merc or fancy SUV. Filming the girls and boys is something soon passing; the next best thing to do is buy his instruments and go legal into full-time music.

The tide of vileness surges up into my psyche as I come face to face with a psycho. Ozidi brazenly casts forth vileness that constitutes an eagerness to be more horrendous than he already is; more than a monster. Is there any incontestable feeling of supreme wickedness to sweep away any possible "caring" for those he used and raped in the name of making money?

What he needs to know is that the feeling to sail over his usual demeanour of being conceited is being dashed. Does he know anything about crime and punishment?

It is a little after seven when Ozidi and Jimmy decide to head for Kondele, though there isn't really any possibility that KDF will perform tonight. Work begins at promptly at 7pm. The boys and girls seem keyed up about my recording. They are poised to rebel against Ozidi. He figures this out.

Maybe his buddies will still be at the Olindas; maybe he'll join them.

Maybe he doesn't have a band any more.

A minute or so is needed to regain my composure. I feel flush, ill. Something terrible is going on in my belly; my intestines. The taste of a good whiskey would be necessary now. A bottle later, I feel better. I'm faced with the question: why do people here in Kisumu do the rum things they do? One thing I know is that try as we might, life's problems often lead us down a path we're not sure of. Lack of faith in God, pressure and overextension, age-old poverty, greed, misplaced priorities, uncertainty, contemplation, wishy-washy and a host of other assorted adjectives applied to drive us into dangerous zones.

But there's no excuse. I didn't take the easy route through crime; I had dignity and integrity to uphold. I worked hard and beat the odds. I loved my life despite its near-constant problems. I worked hard. There was always something and usually that 'something' cost time and money. So I toiled.

Ozidi's luck is good and bad.

A couple of days later and a set of circumstances come about when Tabi calls me. "Sasa buda? Uko poa? Kuna kitu inafaa niku-show. There's something else I should tell you, sir," she says.

"OK. Take a taxi and come right to my home."

"Na-come saa 'ii, buda. Saa 'ii, saa 'ii. I'm coming, sir. I need to trade in this information with something I need from you."

And in less than an hour, she's at DreamScape. I ask the taxi to wait for her, then I take her to the terrace.

"Lotta is the one pirating your records," she tells me. "She's now taking over the porno business. I've been approached to be their actress. Super Porn Star is the position they're offering. That's what they call it. They turn us into porn stars. The pay is a cool 70K per month with allowances for encore performances."

My entire mouth feels on fire; like a seriously hot pepper explosion. Then I swallow. It comes clearly in my mind what Ochieng Kamau told me in Nairobi four months ago about somebody pirating my music here in Kisumu.

"Where does Ozidi get the girls?" I ask

Tabi takes a ragged breath. "I met him on Facebook. He has a cool page where he makes friends with lonely Kisumu ladies who want cash. You know here in Kisumu girls like I are forever broke and can do anything to get cash."

"He used you too? In the film?"

"Yes, sir." She grins big! Her eyes are dazzling! "Paid me 5K for one hour. Later they put my photo in their web site. He turned me into a soft hustler."

And I suspected that. Due to the constant need for money, she might have slipped into prostitution. Trying to protect her also in those surroundings, Dan might have taken their pet game of working at Olindas as an act. Porn was the real deal. There were things Erick couldn't tell me.

"What's the website?"

"Kisumulonelyhearts.com. It's a dating site on the surface."

"You could have sued."

She shakes her head. "Si kitu easy, buda. They make you sign things without knowing what you're signing. Either you're drunk or too much in love or badly in need of money. You just sign then go to bed. They drugged me or something. The sex was good, and I was doing it with Dan, so it didn't seem bad. I was high on something I didn't notice the hidden cameras."

Minutes pass. I have an awful headache. Tabi is in thought. She lightens up and becomes a little friendlier. She tells me about her love affair with Dan. They were swimming on the shallow shore of the lake until they got involved in Ozidi's fiercely twisted games. Dan is a good kid, but she pushed him too hard. It's not Dan's mistake or anybody's, it's just that everybody needs money. Everybody. She has tried everything including joining a church group. I agree totally: money is the root of evil, the Bible tells us. It is a lure; it is the embodiment of power, the crux of those who deem themselves as superior to all others. Mostly it is a lure; leastways, that is how Ozidi, Lang'o, Jimmy and other Kisumu bad boys use it.

Even a shilling is something of great value and too many Kisumu youngsters with some dreams to kick out poverty, a shilling is very worthy and quite the treasure.

For Ozidi, giving up the filthy money-making racket he has devised is going to be a toughie. I want to help, but I don't know how. Kids like Ozidi are loose canons who can do things bordering on gang activities to stay on top. He is an admirer of Fifty Cent who had once stated: Get Rich Or Die Trying. He can be dangerous to handle. I don't know his connections, but the entry of Lotta into this racket makes it now something I must handle with great caution.

End result?

Tabi has more news. Some months later and Ozidi's cousin and some girls; one, two, three, plus his own girlfriend came up pregnant.

Wow.

Overwhelming feelings swath consume me. A thousand mosquitoes buzz in my ears, but I don't feel them. My dogs are barking, but I don't hear them; thunder could be rumbling, but I wouldn't hear it; and even though my world will be turning upside down, it wouldn't move me.

A moment comes between us. I can see Tabi's mind is in turmoil. She closes her eyes and sighs deeply. It is off her chest; her conscience is clean. At length, she gets on her feet. "I need to go now, sir,"

"What do you want in exchange for this info, Tabi?"

"Sir, I want to go to Britain."

Great, yah. Right. Of course.

"And I want you to record a statement with the police. I want you to get other girls he's done this to and charge him in court. My lawyer will coach you. Then I want you to testify in court."

"Then you take me to Britain."

"Yes, Tabi."

I fish out my wallet and pull out five thousand shillings. Tabi takes the offering, nodding her head with glee. She has a slight mischievous appeal about her; then, bowing her head, she says, "Sir, you owe me. You still owe me. I just turned down an offer to earn 70K per month this morning. 70K, plus allowances."

Not quite, Tabi.

Chambers of Horrors

I stand at the doorway of Lotta's office at Lottas Boutique at Mzee Obunga & Sons Building, two blocks away from Olindas Bar. The room looks sunny and twinkly. It is adorned in a nautical theme: fish netting on the walls along with life preservers, paddles, a ship's wheel, and a stuffed Nile perch. On the ornate cherry-oak sideboard are more nautical things; a brass compass for one.

Lotta is sitting behind a table cluttered with books and many more odd things and layers of dust. She greets me cheerfully. What her offence is isn't known, but her charm and wit and humour and good nature will soon fall to the wayside when the drama begins.

She sees Ozidi coming in behind me in handcuffs and her smile quickly evaporates. Then there are more people entering. Sam Olindas, the two sons of Mzee Obunga (owners of the building) and policemen. She goes into a fit. She takes a screech. "What's going on!" she screams.

Hearing her scream, some of her staff bundles into the room. The beefy, well-armed and well-trained but uncouth and impolite Inspector of Police makes a slow sweep of the room's outer area and then pauses at the entrance to the inner offices. One of his corporals emerges from the interior of the place. "Is the place completely surrounded?" he asks the corporal.

"The place is sealed, sir," answers the corporal. "Nimefunga kabisa, Afande."

"Aya. Arrest 'uyu. Sika yeye!"

Lotta is speechless. She looks a little dazed, but there is a good reason for that. On hearing the word "arrest", the breath is sucked right out of her.

"Why are you arresting me? What have I done? I need to see a search warrant," she demands.

The Inspector of Police trembles with mounting madness. "Sach warrant?" he shouts. "Eh? Sach warrant mar meru, ogwangni! Look at you! The way you're using our young African girls to make your dati filims, you silly msungu malaya! Senji! What do you mean? Look at you. This is Kisumo! Look at you!" To his officers, "Omera, sach the place! Sach, sach, saaach..."

I move over to the area between the bar stools and the secretarial pool. Two officers push me aside, pushing Ozidi in between them. "Where? Wapi?" they ask him. A work desk cluttered with papers and dying plants is set against the warped panelled wall. At the far end is a bar/kitchen counter. The floor behind the counter is covered by a well-worn dark forest green carpet. Ozidi peels back the rug and the underlying vinyl to reveal what appears to be a trap door. An interior light flickers to life, revealing wrought iron stairs. Ozidi leads and we follow him down some ten feet. A "room" is here, corrugated walls, tiled floor. There is a toilet against a wall, dangling lights, a fan circulating air, a small television set with VCR, about twenty computers with rows and rows of DVD duplicating machines and tons of DVDs in cartons.

Two men are busy working on a labelling machine, labelling, and packing DVDs. A third man is working on an iMac computer whose screen shows imaging software. Running in the software is filth.

I side-step to the rear exist out to the covered patio area where I suddenly see someone. A man, not too tall, with short hair. Short sleeved white shirt and blue jeans. He makes to run and find the escape barred.

He is an Indian!

Suddenly out from an inner room comes the second wave of hysteria: we rush in there and find some kind of a movie studio. Cameras, lights, lots of fans, equipment of this and that; all alluding to something of a movie set. No windows... well, there are windows on the ceiling, but they are covered by large pieces of cotton sheets; like ship's sails. The room is drab and almost lifeless. The only piece of furniture is a full sized bed. It is decorated to look like a comfortable bedroom with mirrors and cabinets and a TV set. Naked humans are standing, some sitting watching a scene of action. Sitting on a chair with them is a serious-looking man carrying a notebook. The chair is marked Director. Describing what is around us would take a while longer. At the centre of the action is a twenty-year-old girl with badly-kept weave kneeling on the bed. Her white cotton shirt with blue flowers is hiked up over her shoulders. Her blue skirt is over her waist, nice-looking high heel shoes on her feet. Working on her is a sweating man. Behind him is a man with a camera.

For a breakdown: there are four man-boys (men included) and several young girls (women included). There are different categories of sex- trading and filming going on. The Inspector grimaces, shaking his head sadly. Then he sucks the air in his teeth and orders everybody to get dressed, and his men swing into action.

Back to Lotta's office, I pull out a DVD from my shirt pocket; the one Ozidi had given me. Lotta stands her ground at the door, pursing her lips cocking her head. She is also clenching her fist. "It's okay, nyamazeni." She smiles at her weeping workers. "We'll clear this in a day or two. Relax."

Ozidi, though, isn't so reassured. "This is a set a setup," he says. He points at me and says, "You will pay for this." One of the officers slaps him hard across the face sending him falling.

The Inspector has struck a nerve. Lotta bursts into tears. "Call my lawyer," she calls. Nobody moves. She makes to get her mobile phone, but the officer near her slaps it out of her hands. She drops her mass on the table heaving and weeping. There is more to weep and heave over as I hand over the DVD to the Inspector. Lotta's attention is drawn. She has an ugly look on her face and looks like she is about to scream. Holding his breath, the Inspector makes to put the DVD into the player. He pauses to speak, "You filthy msungu you will go to Kodiaga, ogwang ma dhako. I will make sure. Don't worry. Kodiaga to nyaka wang'ni. And you're not the first msungu I have put in that place. Look at you. Don't worry. Aya, sasa angalia 'ii."

He feeds the DVD into the player and presses play on the remote. Everybody holds their breath and tenses up waiting. And then watching, they all freeze.

A man and a woman are engaged in a swath of sober sex. Fondling and caressing. Then a very intense "sex act" takes place. There is nothing out of place if this is any normal porn like the stuff one sees on the Internet. The only out-of-place thing is that one of the characters is Ozidi and the other is one of Lotta's half-caste daughters.

Shaking my head in disbelief, I'm fighting to keep the pending bile down my throat.

Lotta is speechless.

She shakes her head like a nervous twitch. She is shaking her head pretty bad with an unintelligible "NO! NO! NO!" trying to fight back the horrid nightmare that just keeps going and going and going. "Where is this from? It's my daughter!" Screwing up her face, she tries to reprimand the ongoing horror; the film starring her youngest daughter Maselina.

"I made it," Ozidi says softly.

Lotta hisses. Furling her lips and finding herself strangely unable NOT to look, she says in a harsh stage whisper, "You had sex with my daughter, you ape?"

The Inspector steps forward. "Aya, sasa, sikia, sura mbaya. All the girls here in your filims are some people's children. My brother's daughter Ajwang just did her form four and passed very well. Si passed with a C plus, and we want to take her to do nursing. Si is there inside one of your dati filims."

Lotta can't breathe. "You animal, that girl is only twenty-two," she screams. "This is serious. It is unbelievable! How could you do this to me! You're an animal. More than some disgusting bastard. Imprisonment will not be too good for you; I will personally totally castrate you, rip off your balls with my bare hands!"

I can see her mind whir into a frenzy of what she would do in retribution. Suddenly she goes into a fit like she is having a stroke! She flings herself at Ozidi, aiming at his neck with her claws. But before somebody can hold her to restrain her, she freezes mid-air. She loses all color, sinks, and her expression tells us she knows her fate. She falls with a heavy pratfall on the dirty floor of the office. For a moment, nobody moves. Then an officer squats beside her, checks her pulse, feels her heartbeat, and pulls her eyelids. "I think she's dead," he says.

The Inspector is silent for a long time. He is horrified beyond comprehension or English words could describe. He didn't want Lotta dead; he wanted her humiliated through a lengthy court process and then imprisoned at Kodiaga.

At that moment, Ozidi melts as his energy is immediately depleted. "Oh, no, no." He is muttering to himself, shaking his head. "No, no, no, no. What am I going to do now? She has my money!"

"Rot in Kodiaga, rawera," murmurs the Inspector. "Die there even and, if you like, go straight to hell where your likes belong. You have no money to bribe the judge, ha ha ha haaa, heheheheee hohohohoo. Ionge pesa, ojana!"

Outside in the sun and dust, chaos reigns supreme. Security guards and workers are trying to get a hand-hold of the situation. A badly beaten thing of a man is pushed into the room. It is Owacha Jimmy.

I need to have some comp(sensation). Flopping onto my bed, I lie brooding.

Then I'm on my feet. I long for a joint and lots of beer. I decide to go for a walk, a long walk. I find a hidden club somewhere in Migosi that has some nice rumba. I don't even want to know what kind of a club it is as long as it's a quiet and perfect getaway. They don't have a plasma screen on walls and noisy football gazers and screamers. I make my way to the lounge. Hardly anyone in here. Settling down at a table in a corner where it's nice and gloomy, I brood. I have enough money to fix up the truck, and there is a good reason to get out of Kisumu for a while, maybe for a week or two. Rusinga Island can be a nice excursion... well, not nice-nice but it would do. Actually, there is some sort of calling, something somewhere else beckons me. I feel at times it is the yearning for the tranquillity of Lake Victoria, but I really don't know why or what part. Rusinga Island is always the place to go when I'm in doubt.

One drink; three; five! My head is swimming and I still brood. I traipse through the club, and I see a woman who (from the back) looks like Riana. My first response is to resist and let her be, she is probably better off on her own. Then I am flanking her down to find out that she is not Riana.

Hm. Think I'm drunk.

I last an hour chatting her up. A bottle of whiskey, a lot of laughter with the woman, some fondling and groping and I am out the door. Two men come out from the darkness.

I feel my bowels loosening.

My life is, in all probability, saved when they realise it's Otis Dundos. Before they rough me and steal my wallet with my British passport in it. Miracle is how they missed my iPhone. Next, I come to in bed in a hospital shivering uncontrollably as pain ravages my body. White walls, blue bedding, and a nurse checking my temperature confirms that. I've been thoroughly chewed and spat out.

Regina is at my bedside holding my hand.

"You were attacked and badly beaten," she says, "but you're in good care."

Of course, I lie shivering, feeling the grasp of death. Dr. Orinda of Lake Care, however, would have none of that—no one dies in his hospital! (That isn't to say; no one had never died under his care, though.)

Anyway, I drift in and out of consciousness; a feeling I don't care for not to mention the inability to be in control of myself. It is a little upsetting, to say the least. Finally, though, sleep (restful sleep) comes to me. When I awaken hours later, I am refreshed and feel a little less a dying man. My head and my ribs still throb, but I am no longer experiencing the tingling sensation. I feel better but in need of a good hot soak in a tub.

A week later Regina comes for me and takes me to her tiny house in Makasembo. She tucks me in on her couch, I'm drowsy with painkillers and tranquilisers and conk off. When I wake up, it is Saturday, near noon. A note is left for me:

Help yourself to the kitchen. Gone to church and later

some home visitations. Be back in the evening. Regina.

I take a quick shower and prepare to go to DreamScape. Then I find some tasty Tuskys cold fried chicken in the fridge. I love frozen fried chicken! Brits taught that too. Cold chicken makes me long for fudge brownies and roast beef and ham and ice cream. Luckily Regina has some brown bread and ice cream in the freezer. The note said, "Help yourself!"

After the hefty meal, I long for a beer.

Two days later, I am at the police station to identify a thug and pick my stolen passport. On the stuffy corridor, as I come out of the Interrogation Room, I meet someone. Or rather I see someone being dragged out of a cell. Two things strike me at once. The first is the confirmation of my original feeling. I do know her. Or at least, I had known her, a long, long time ago. Primary school, to be exact. And Dorothy had been the love of my glum kid life. She'd been skinny, then. Long, soft face, she always had exquisitely full lips. On the outside, she was so polite, so demure! Soft features, lovely to look at and talk with. She had a polite smile and was a pleasant person to be around, and I had never heard her fart!

But under the cover of blankets and bed sheets and deep in the caverns where her heart dwelt, Dorry was a stark raving wild girl. She socialised me into sex at the early age of ten. Boinking Dorry was a blast; I was most invigorated and wanted more. Sooo, I got more. Dorry was always willing, was always giving.

How many times did I kiss those full lips? The memory of good times in 1971 when I was in class six blows across my brain at light speed.

"Dorothy..." I say.

"Owiro?"

Her red, cloudy drunken slutty eyes light up. The female officer handling her is surprised. "You know this catchpenny Kondele prostitute?" she asks, and I suddenly want to kick her ass across the squad room.

I politely ask the officer to let me talk to Dorry for a minute. When she feeds me with a startling questioning stare, I say, "She could be my cousin."

The officer feeds me with a wry smile. I know what she is thinking, and I hate her for it. "Five minutes, Dundos," she tells me. "She's due to be taken to court in two hours. Use the Interrogation Room." I learn that Dorry was arrested last night in Kondele not for being drunk, drabby or disorderly but for stealing a mobile phone.

The female officer opens the door of the Interrogation room and shoves Dorry in. She nods at me. "Five minutes." She stretches her hand. I know it; I take the cue amiably and dig into my pockets, fish out a crumpled hundred shilling note and thrust it in her hand. I enter the room and find the harassed woman standing looking badly shaken. Once inside, I take a moment to gawk at this woman who took my virginity at such a tender age. She looks relieved like she is getting bailed out of here or something. She paces about the room, and then turns on me, disbelief written all over her face like a cheap bar-room painting.

"Owiro? Get me out of here? Please, these cops respect you... just get me out of here... my children... my little girl was sick." She looks twitchy enough.

I nod.

"Dorry..." I start undecided and then think I've screwed it. I have to play the official line in order not to give this bitch wrong ideas. "Dorothy Adhiambo."

My face must tell her how much I hate her for what she has become. Her face falls; she buries her head in her hands. Long, wracking sobs come from between her arms, and I let her cry. I don't want to touch her, don't want her to get wrong ideas. She still looks good even if she is in the drabby body-selling business. She is a victim like many Kisumuans, and she is trying her best to manage her situation. I can't condemn her; this is all Kisumu offered her.

After a good five minutes, she pulls herself together. She dries her eyes, extracts a compact from the purse, and fixes her makeup. Looking across at me, she gives me a rueful smile.

"So," she says. "You know me Dorry. Hustler and prostitute. Malaya. Ochot ma Kisumo ka. Will you help me, baba?"

I just grin. "Dorry. How long?"

"It's been years, Owiro owadgi Ouru."

"How is life taking you?"

She shakes her head. "Not so good. Not good at all, not like you. How've you been? I last saw you at Olindas in Kondele in 1991. Osiepa that was a good show."

I fetch the memory of our numerous meetings in Kisumu throughout the '70s, through the '80s till the '90s. I watched her grow into a bold bad girl about town, and I ran into her on many occasions during my performances. I think I mentioned her name in one of my early recordings, 'Mond Kisumo' in the 1985 Golden Horizon album. Dorry always wanted it to be known that she had been my first girlfriend; it kind-of gave her pride, a good status boost. But I must say she was a devoted fan of Victoria.

I am still staring at her. She was a lovely girl back in the day, now she is an ugly tart with watery red eyes, sniffy nose, and swarthy bulky body. She pops the question. "Owadgi Ouru, tell me, just between us old friends will you help me? I'm begging you. I know you hate me, but help me for the sake of my kids. I can't stay here. I don't have any money for bail or fine, and I know they will take me to court and the magistrate knows me. The last time he gave me three months and warned me. This time... oh my God."

Oh my God. That is a good prayer. Crying to God in a moment of distress.

"No one can condemn you in the current world, Dorry. Commercial sex work is now legitimate."

She timidly takes my hand. "Life didn't turn out so good for me here in Kisumu as you can see. This is what I have become. Prostitution is ugly, I don't like it. I'm forced to do it, Owiro. To sell my body to survive with my kids. If it makes me a bad person, Owiro, it's not my fault. I made terrible mistakes, and now this is all I have. Not that I like what I'm doing, I need money for my kids. For my things. To survive."

"I'm sure you don't like it, Dorry. Prostitution gives you many scars."

My voice is hard, my face harder still. I know her game. I know it like the back of my own hand. She loved sex. She became a hooker as soon as she cleared her high school. At Lake Girls High, she was a popular girl in town. Once she was in the hockey team, and she was popular for giving out her cherry so generously. Hm, Dorry loved sex. She loved life, she loved fun. Boogying, dancing, disco, Omega One, Funkatec, male company... and fun. But she was too hot to handle, a nymph on clouds, a fish dancing in water, lost in happiness. Stories abounded of her numerous lovers and her lack of scruples. Her many abortions also filled the whispers. Small wonder she became a hooker. And as a hooker, I know she's going to try and seduce me, promise me the world between her legs, if only I would get her out of here. See, it's good for business for a low-class whore like this to get friendly with Otis Dundos. Especially if she had been my first girlfriend. There it is. Out in the open. I stand back and look at her. Her face is a mask of self-hatred, self-pity, and despair. She hates herself to offer herself to me, the cheap whore she is, but needs to. She needs to have to keep it going. Keep the ride going.

"You into drugs, Dorry?"

She shakes her head. Seeing my look of pity, she smiles. She stands, one hand on the rickety wooden table, moving towards me slowly. "Remember how we used to neck in our bedroom in Ondiek? How my brother caught us and canned us?" I nod, my mouth suddenly to dry to speak. "Remember the love letters you wrote me? How you used to touch me, with your sweaty, shaking hands?" As she talks, she mimics my actions. Cupping her breasts through the blouse, she takes two more steps towards me.

I just stare at her, feeling the hot insensibility punching through my guts.

"Remember the time I let you touch my naked tits? What were we eight? Nine"

"Ten," I manage to choke out. Another step. She almost smiles, the corners of her lips curl up just so, there is a brief twinkle in her mischievous eyes of darkness.

"Well, remember when I made you do it? You didn't want to do it, Owiro. I wanted you to touch me all afternoon." Her face is six inches from mine; I can feel the fusty breath on my face. The blood is pounding behind my eardrums.

"Do you know how I have managed to keep alive, Dorry? I ask her.

"How?"

"I keep off dirty women like you. When we were kids, you were innocent..."

Now you're thrashed and thoroughly chewed crudely smashed, my mind completes.

She doesn't blink or rear her head back at my rebuking her. She sighs, smiles. Once a prostitute always a prostitute. I will help her, get her out of here. Then she will ask me to buy her a drink, and then she will seduce me. There are lingering emotions, there always would be. But I would embrace them, not run away from them. Leastways that's what I decree. I don't know, not for sure, the thing about first loves. Old habits die hard—or some clap-trap thing like that.

"Wait, Dorry," I tell her. I'm doing this just for her kids. I leave the room and cross over to the OCS's office. People like Dorry will always be bad chapters in my book.

#  SEVENTEEN

"Riana is healthier, fleshier and her beauty sparkle in

shades and tones in the mid morning sun."

THE WEEK that was

Phew! What a week! I am on my way to have breakfast at Imperial. At the foyer before the clutch of business offices near the hotel, I catch sight of Riana.

Unimaginable imagination imaged.

Real and in the flesh. And happening in a blink of an eye. It is a wonder to be sure; like so many of the other 'oddities' and peculiarities of living in this same old Kisumu. It is 'just one of those amazing things Like our omena fishermen's 'city of lights' across the lake at Dunga. I am still damned curious about it and someday, some way, I will write a song about it. If I live long, that is. But this one...

It is a small world after all...

My heart lurches.

My delight. My joy. My desire. I smile and get soft inside) as I fondly (faintly) recall our brief reunion in 1991 whereupon we consummated our love and celebrated her birthday. That was our last time together. She never came to court during my trials.

Time seems to stop.

And she's been in my mind and in my dreams for twenty years. And since I got back here in Kisumu, I've known I'm going to find her. I have been holding myself waiting for the right time. Meeting her like this... suddenly seeing her on the street? This is not the way I envisaged it.

She is in the company of another woman. I have the optimum view of the two of them as they walk briskly and sway towards my way. Both are hefty middle age mamas who can still tread and roll and bounce, and get admiration and a flirt from a man. They come my way, and I see the extra flesh on their tummies jiggling. They are well dressed and carry expensive bags and baubles and jingly things. They are in high spirits, holding a lively conversation with lots of little shrieks and squeals. Riana is healthier, fleshier, and her beauty sparkles in shades and tones in the mid-morning sun. Her face has ripened up; it's bland and cheerful. And she is a BIG girl; a plus-sized mama. In 1991, she had a pretty face and good-good-sized melons. Well, that pretty face has ruptured, and the Luhya in her has clearly come out. It shows. It shows in her bouncy walk too. Her friend appears older and has a bit of an overbite. She is slightly taller and darker and looks every inch Luo.

I'm standing at the corner of Imperial, and I begin to brace myself. I put a wide smile on my face, and I'm about to make a step from the shade of the hotel into the sunlight when they turn the corner and head towards Ardhi House. They do not see me, they continue with their older women's chatter and banter. Once they round the corner, the pair stride along the brick walkway, pass a flagpole, a cafeteria, down some steps, past the parking lot then onto the sidewalk in front of the building. I watch them, watch them enter Ardhi House.

Just like that.

I half-walk half-run to Ardhi House; reach the entrance just in time to see them get into the elevator. A hungry-looking security guard is looking curiously at me. I beckon him over, push a hundred shilling note in his pocket, and he gives me the information I need. Riana and her friend are working for Kachok Construction on the 4th floor.

On the 4th floor, I walk into her office and there she is at the front desk. Her face crumples up in a motion of bafflement. At first glance, it looks odd, second and third glances confirm that it is indeed Otis Dundos that makes me worthy of a long hard and unbelieving stare. The stare slowly turns into a frown. Then a rash of memory washes over the face. She is speechless. She gets up, goes around the desk, comes over, and walks past me. I follow her outside to the clean and airy passage. It is awkward, to say the least.

"Oh my God!" she utters. "Otis!"

She is stunned and cocks her head unbelievingly. She is a little apprehensive. It is a special moment. I have a big beaming smile and I'm somewhat embarrassed. I'm trying to hide the embarrassment. There is a thing about this woman still: she is breathtakingly beauteous! Twenty years ago she wasn't overly fantastically pretty but beautiful; she had a little split in her front teeth, wore glasses, was demure in nature, had a delightful laugh, and smelled strangely of oranges! She is still totally enthralling. I feel a small moderation of remorse. Or maybe loss.

She is smiling and; oh, she is so beautiful! The mbanya split in her front teeth... the gap! It has widened. The pleasant smile is of a mature woman with wrinkles on her forehead and on the corners of her eyes, dimples on her cheeks.

"Riana." That is all I can say. I ask for clarity sensing there is something out of place by the way she is frowning. Isn't she happy to see me?

She speaks. "Otis, I'm not Riana any more. How many years are they?" She always called me Otis. She's the only person who has ever called me Otis. Ever since I introduced myself to her as Otis in 1979, it seems to have stuck in her head, and she never called me anything else.

"Twenty years."

"Twenty years and you just went,"

"You know what happened."

"Okay. Welcome back then."

"When was the last time?"

"1991."

"Yes. 1991."

She blinks her eyes, flares her nose, and backs up a couple paces. She shakes her head. Not NO but HELL NO! "I can't believe it's you, mister."

I really begin to lose it. "Yes, dear, it's me. How are you?"

"How am I? As you can see; I'm well. I went through heartbreak and hell and tried to kill myself. You have no idea how many times." She speaks well with no discernible accent; she enunciates her words nicely with her characteristic beaming smile. The smile disappears as soon as words come to her lips, and it dips some words as her mind is manipulated.

"Do I have to justify myself to you?"

She sighs. "WHY?!" is etched on her lips and on the lines on her forehead "You don't have to, I have responsibilities. I have a family." She nods her head repeatedly, she isn't saying: "I'm married." I hope not.

I've never been good on "figuring things out" that are left unsaid. I'm not in a proverbial "spot" but I feel like I am.

It comes out. "You're married?"

"Do you mind?" She seems serious. She wrinkles her nose and looks at me thoughtfully. I still don't get it. She rolls her eyes.

"Are you married?" This I need to know.

"Why the hell do you want to know? It's been twenty years, bwana. Enough time to turn me into a grandmother."

"Okay. You moved on, I get it."

"Yes. You moved on before I did. How's your mzungu?"

I think and think... still, don't get it. I think I know this woman too well.

"Yeah. Go on."

She adds, "Yes. You're more married than anybody else in Kisumu, am I wrong to say that?"

The most obvious answer is the most elusive one.

I'm flustered, and I try to occupy my mind with something else other than reliving my past with this gorgeous woman. And I'm all flustered and abashed. Maybe I should just leave.

To be overwhelmed would be an understatement. A hazy cloud befuddles my mind and I abruptly feel faint. Dryness comes to my mouth, a buzzing in my ears, dizziness, light-headed, and a general feeling of emptiness. The more I try to shrug it off the more 'worse-than-unwell' the feeling becomes, especially the ear noise and dizziness.

Then—

It comes. At first, it is like a heat wave, something very much like a hot breath of air-breathing over my entire body as if I were naked. Then I am dizzy and light-headed. So much so that I very nearly collapse off onto the floor. (And I'm not so sure that I don't!) I try shaking off the happening and then as suddenly as it had come, it stops. A new sensation arrives and I can't explain that, either.

I hastily excuse myself and stagger into the gents. Luckily they have clean lavatories here. And sink too. I run cold water on my face. Then I throw up. After nausea and retching and frantic hurling in the sink, I wash my face, and then I stagger into the toilet, lock the door and sit on the toilet seat. My heart is hammering and my body is wracked by little tiny convulsions and electric jolts and palpitations. There is no relief. I want to stay here till this world ends and the new world comes around.

Suddenly I feel more than hear her.

Heavy footsteps, heavy breathing. "Otis?" she calls out.

The door pushes open, and there she is. "What's happening to you?" She then tugs in her left lower lip, giving me a 'scared' look. She stares at me and stares and stares. Then she smiles—she is in less shock.

"What's the matter?" she asks.

I can't reply. I can barely breathe, let alone think. Without waiting for an answer, she comes over, holds my head, and feels my temple, then she walks out of the toilet. She comes back with a cup of cold water which I gulp. With a quick glitz just to show she understands, she asks me if I have my drugs. I fumble in my pockets, and she helps me, pulls out the small plastic bottle from my pocket.

"How many?"

I manage to hold out two fingers; don't know how I manage to do that.

She feeds the medicine into my mouth, and I swallow them down with the water. After a couple of minutes or so, I feel the cloud lift. She helps me to my feet. "Pressure?" she asks.

I shrug discomfiture before nodding.

"Me, too," she provides. "Come."

I follow her to her office. She sits me down on the visitors' chair seat, and she sits next to me. After small introductions and explanations to her colleague, she paves the way into a healthy chat by inquiring whether I should go see a doctor. The curiosity of what has happened prompts her to be cool a bit until she understands why what happened happened.

As a small child, I take advantage.

"Do you have any painkillers?" I ask her.

She has some in her bag.

"You're going to be alright?" she assures me after she feeds me two yellow tablets. The concern is genuine and accepted.

Time passes. The water cooler gurgles, the air conditioner-heater kicks on. Time passes. Riana sighs and makes a sound as if to say something. She wants to ask if I'm feeling better, I guess.

Some mighty minutes later, I tell her I want to leave. She leads the way out of the office. At the lift, we stand. We stand awkwardly facing each other.

"Do you stay at your place? In the hills?"

I nod.

"You stay alone?"

"Yes."

Riana licks her lips and regards me thoughtfully. Shaking her head, she says, "I don't think that's such a good thing."

"Why?"

"Ati why? I'm concerned. bwana."

"I manage well on my own. I've been here for almost three months."

She raises an eyebrow, "Really? Three months? And you didn't ?" She trails off. "I thought I was special to you."

"You are. Still."

"Well, thanks for coming to see me. I think there may be a lot to discuss if you create time. Your daughter is a big girl now, almost twenty-three."

I sigh; a bazillion thoughts roam my noggin, my past, present, and future. She tells me that she doesn't expect me to take her down the difficult path of her past. Turning her back on her past is one thing; she can't see me in her future, and as for her present, well...

"So tell me, did you move on?"

She gives me a look I know. A look that tells me a lot. She doesn't want to say it, but I sum it up; a life of true love with any man after I left was an impossibility.

"Don't ask me, bwana," she says. "Take my number and call me. These are not things we can't discuss at a moment like this in a place like this. Pare ni wan joma dongo tinde. Three months you've been here? I think I have serious issues with you, osiepa."

Family Disruptions

I am a little distraught. I have to be in Nairobi to see JB. I have some singles I want to be digitally remastered and put on the market. But I can't go just yet; I have to be here for at least a few days: Odingo has come home: Odingo my brother. He will keep me occupied and the week is going to be short with most of it gone already. He is less a foreigner in Kisumu than I, he knows his way around. And he doesn't like Kisumu. He's visiting for one week, it's December. Like most well-off Luos working outside Kenya, he comes every December for one week to see our parents. This time around, he has left his family.

Mama is at her happiest. It's another family jamboree! I'm home and so is Odingo. This year God has remembered her, she testifies. Whenever Odingo is around, it's a big ceremony. Mama has invited so many people over and sis Akinyi and her friends from the church are at their best cooking chapatis.

I picked Odingo from the Kisumu International Airport at four yesterday, and we first went to Akinyi's then we had to visit an auntie in Bandani. We got to Pandpieri late and didn't stay much because he is staying at DreamScape. It's going to midday, and we've just gotten here in Pandpieri.

Odingo was born in 1958 and did his BSc and MBA in South African Universities. At a mere three years older than me, he looks quite well-kept quite the handsome gent and groomed to a tee and well mannered.

In the living room, we are sitting side by side on the old sofa. Defused sunlight seeps in through grime-stained window panes. Odingo certainly looks foreign, not tanned but richly dark-skinned. I size him up. He looks well-groomed; the jacket is designer and not cheap. Crocodile skin shoes, a white undershirt, and dark jeans. We get into pleasant family chit-chat, and he asks me about music; whether I've regrouped my band, whether I'm doing a major comeback concert. I tell him putting up a major concert requires millions and I don't have a group yet, let alone a promoter. All I have is the name Otis Dundos and the old songs.

What am I doing then? Odingo always asks about my music before he can ask me about anything else. He's always in touch with Pam and Daudi. His son Mark and Daudi are good friends, and Mark once visited us in Leeds during summer.

The smell of chapatis disrupts our chat. Clearing my mind, I look down into the face of Mama. There seem to be too many shadowy figures in our midst, too. She advises me not to give anybody money. Mama is very superstitious. She believes that my money can land in the hands of a witch who will use it to tie my luck, and I will be financially impoverished. What is going on isn't making sense, not for certain. Some of the people she doesn't want me or Odingo to give money is her own sister Agnes! She believes it's Agnes who bewitched Keya and Agwenge, killing them. I am to identify with them as a family and nothing more. I'm still lost on why she wants me to marry a Luo woman, yet she knows I have a wife. One by one the family members (and they are many) came around, and we shake hands and exchange nice words.

Growing up here in Pandpieri, I never understood Mama. There was always drama and she was always imposing her rules. Mama was always punishing me for going with my friends and my agemates to Dunga to swim or kataka garbage dump to scavenge for edibles. Why she punish me by making me sleep hungry because I had accompanied other boys to swim at Dunga? Why did she always insist that I don't accompany others to the village night dances and tea parties? I still do not understand Mama to date. During my early twenties, I was starting in music, and I had my freedom, yet she always insisted that I must be home by nightfall. When I came of age, it was Mama and not my father who bothered to find out the kind of girl who had come to visit me, and that used to make me mad. Mama would know when there was a visitor because she was the only one I would give the information so that my younger sisters would be given enough food to bring to me and the visitor. The following morning she would grill the visitor. She is the one who disapproved of the first girl Keya wanted to marry when my father had already given her flying marks. Keya had left her in the house to go to Dunga but never found her when he came back. During Keya's absence, Mama had interrogated the girl and discovered she was a distant relative from her birthplace. She had requested the girl to consult her mother if she would accept the bride price from a sister. We never saw that girl again. And even today, I still cannot comprehend why she so readily accepted the girls my brothers Odingo and Ouru wanted to marry. But when it came to my case, she had issues. Either it was that this one is too old for you. Or this one is a Kikuyu, you can't marry a Kikuyu. Or this woman you brought here can't even cook. And so on. My father was understanding, never voiced his thoughts. It was Mama who called the shots. She played the biggest role in the marriages of my brothers and my sisters.

Mama had the last word. I remember the time Odingo had completed University and had found a fine Luo girl from Kano who was also a University graduate. I remember this girl being coached by my sisters on how to please Mama and pass the tests.

Mama, indeed, had power over us. She ruled our home with an iron fist. She always took it upon herself to keep us boys on the straight and narrow.

But for me, it appeared I was the one who was continually defying her rules and causing her most headaches. As I grew older, I joined a group of boys Mama termed to be bad. We would go to open air cinemas, and this was something that didn't go well with Mama who believed I would get spoiled. Her fears materialised when, in Std 7, I told her I was old enough to go to cinemas, and she tried all she could to discourage me from attending them. I remember she would deny me food every time I went to those cinemas, but my grandmother would have hidden some food for me. When Mama discovered this, she began to inspect grandma's house for any hidden edibles which she would carry and keep in her house. Fortunately for me, she would always forget to carry the milk gourd, which would be a blessing to me. As good as my grandmother was to me, she didn't escape some of my early childhood mischiefs. She was a pipe smoker and I remember incidents when I would neatly wrap a live frog in a piece of oboke leaf and give it to her lying that it was tobacco.

Nerve? Mischief? You can call it so. Whatever.

Mama sits taut closely monitoring everything. Her emotions are checked, and regardless of her silence, there is a weighty message: she must protect her children. Our father, sitting next to her, is talking. He is giving out some fatherly advice. He takes longer to explain things we must do and things we must not do. One, each one must practice being his/her brother's keeper. Two, I must respect Odingo. Three, each person must take good care of his family. I glance at Odingo. Truth is Odingo is now the senior-most member of this quintessential Luo family, and I come second. And we are different in every way; while I may have more money, I'm erratic, vain and turbulent. While Odingo may have less money, he is stable and reliable.

The two of us sit side by side. It is a touchy moment, and he wants to know so much about England and Leeds. He intends to go there for his PhD in about three years. Then he might even end up working there. He isn't happy with his present job as a senior chemical analyst with Orange Cereals.

His ultimate goal is to be somewhere really-really safe and racism in South Africa isn't helping him advance his career. Odingo has always been an unfamiliar member of our family, an outsider. I don't remember much of when he was still living with us during his schooling years. I was only thirteen when he moved out to go to Uni. But he was always different. His self-professed hobby was to watch people and read books. I remember there were times when he would pick me up from school, and, as we walked home in the afternoon sun. We would see a group of children walking home bare feet and in their ragged uniforms, and other little mundane scenes like old ladies walking their goats home, young women selling fish or mandazis on the roadside, tailors sitting behind their sewing machines under extended roofs in front of shops, people hustling to live for the next day. All these were heartbreaking to Odingo. He made comments of seemingly innocuous things. He was very particular about things and about the way he didn't want his life to go. Poverty and the low life we lived in Pandpieri saddened him.

Really, culturally Odingo never really belonged with us. I distinctly remember that every weekend, he would sit in the corner of our cramped room and scribble notes into an old notebook that he used for school. Sometimes I would ask him what he was writing, and he would give me a stern look. He kept it well-hidden when he wasn't writing. I looked for it while he wasn't home and never found it. I later discovered it was his journal. He was planning his future.

I remember not a whole lot else about my brother. He mostly kept to himself during our childhood and was only willing to oblige when I asked him to help me with my homework. He wasn't very much for sports, and he had a small but recurring circle of friends. They were generally as reserved and odd as he and Mama didn't like them around the house. But much as he was unsocial and odd, he got good marks, and generally, he appeared satisfied with his life. He was the opposite of our elder bro, Keya, who was socially adaptable, fun-loving, self-confident and outgoing. Whenever Odingo went out of the house, it was not to languish in the seedier parts of Pandpieri country like me or to attend tea parties like Keya, it was to head straight to a friend's house to borrow or return books. He was big on books, especially anything that touched on sciences, i.e., Mathematics, physics, and chemistry.

After a hearty lunch, Akinyi suggests that we take a family photo. She proceeds to take some shots with my iPhone. She seems cheerful in her expensive kitenge, and she is having fun telling us to smile. She takes a little to many photos, parades the entire family then Mama and Odundo then Odingo and me, then she pushes forth the entire family anew and goes snapping away. She switches people around and takes many selfies too.

"Having fun, sis?" Odingo surmises.

"Yes. Here, take this." She hands me the iPhone and asks mom and dad to step forward; she darts up to stand between them, stretches her arms across their shoulders and tosses her head with a wide smile on her face. "Okay, shoot."

A little after three in the afternoon, Odingo decides to go to Dunga and asks me to accompany him. He wants to buy 'more' property at Dunga. So we take a walk. I tag along with him, by his side. At the 2-way stop at Sky Way; a distribution centre is to one side, a petrol station on the corner, a bar across the street, an olwenda (read matatu), boda boda and tuk tuk stop. Next to it are the rail tracks leading to Cassablanca. Across the tracks is a kindergarten and a small crappy general store (Kikuyu type) and then there's a low-income housing estate—full of jo-Kisumo with a mixture of South Nyanzans, Kisiis, Somalis and a few Indians.

Just passing the kindergarten and the stucco green 50-year-old corner store and a mechanic yard with car shells, engine blocks and tyre stacks, we are walking along the broken sidewalk that is next to the main road. There are some ndege trees and an odd assortment of bushes and shrubs. Some of the rundown homes (not village-type) have fences, brick, and stone along with chain link and iron gates. Cars are in some yards. Pandpieri doesn't shock Odingo as it shocked me; he's a regular visitor here. In fact, he has invested here in land and now he wants to put up a fish processing factory at Dunga. He wants to sun-dry and pack omena 'at source.' He wants to make wealth from the small fish with silvery eyes, make animal feed and stuff.

We look banged-up together like brothers, and we're deemed 'happy-go-lucky' in any event. Wherever we go, curious looks and whispers follow us. After lots and lots of handshakes, re-introductions, rounds of small talk with people who know us, gnawing on the sweet sugarcane and guavas at Dunga open-air market, we are struck off for more adventures. We take a more investigative looksee about this fishing 'town' with a strong smell of sun-dried omena and its hungry-looking folk.

Well-weathered with most of the buildings having red brickworks and rusty iron sheet roofs, Dunga is old and looks thrashed. Old but cared for like all Lake Victoria fishing 'towns'. The shopping centre serves multiple purposes— fuel stations selling petrol, diesel, and kerosene, post office, the place for social gathering, market place, fish landing beach, polling place, drinking and leisure place as well as living place. Names or indications of what years the buildings were put up line up most shop fronts and, together with them are signs indicating the name of the town. Fading New Blue Omo and Cowboy cooking fat advertisements adorn walls of shops. In essence, it looks a lot like any old African town, much like those one-street towns in old cowboy movies. Just gray in color. The street (of murram and mud) is ample. Familiar sounds? Old Collela Mazee benga blasting the air away, boda boda and tuk tuk honking, men whistling, market women laughing, children jeering, dogs barking, goats bleating.

The buildings on the left and right sides of the road vary in size with none being more than two floors. Directly behind us are mounds of dirt and filth and dung and fish remains and polythene debris. On one side are one-storey buildings, smaller, with open fields directly behind them that offer a thousand yards or so of coarse and gritty grass that empty out onto desertscapes where women dry their omena in the sun.

Walk-walk-walk.

Talk-talk-talk.

Munch-munch-munch.

Then walk, talk, laugh, and munch some more.

Then, on the second day...

Some buildings.

Some buildings came into scrutiny for a bargain. Odingo wants to buy a house. We get to view some old edifices among trees, shrubs, and something of a gravel road. More buildings, more trees, but not much more than that. It's like walking nakedly along Dunga shores in 1973 the way everything quickly appears old or rather odd and dull. We used to go out far into the depths of Pandpieri wetlands, into the depths of some bush and trees hunting for wild fruits and the beautiful trees could have made a fine arboretum with nice grass and birds chirping. There were lots of trees with acres of parkland, the overgrown glen, the view of the Lake Victoria and tall reeds standing between land and water like a great wall.

Some recollection.

We walk away. We walk some more.

When we get tired, we rest and drink sodas. Then we find the building. It is colourless... er, has only two basic colours: white and black. Images on its murals are like trees and walls are outlined in white while the rest is coal black. On further investigation, though, we find a "garage" complete with a tow truck parked inside. The garage is complete with all the things needed for the repairing of 1960s cars. The tow truck is circa 1950s. It is all very musty smelling and looking. Odingo thinks he can turn the place into a fish cannery. But we can't find the owner or caretaker. A tired-looking old man gives us a number which, when we call, is "temporarily" out of service.

There is no one about, but we see more derelict buildings like this one; rows of old, worn warehouses. The place looks like a downgraded industrial area where old commercial and medium industry once reigned but had fallen on hard times recently.

Another building houses a restaurant, not at all like an old African hotel but more in tune with an ordinary eatery with smiling waiters and resembles a food place on some two-lane highway in near-post-Colonial Africa. Its name is Nyar Kajulu Best Dishes. A thick layer of dust is everywhere. Time has graced the place well since 1973. The only thing safe to eat here is a soda, and they don't have a fridge. It feels like you're drinking boiled soda, have you ever tried that?

We sit and drink and talk. Talk shifts to the good old days gone by since this eating house was started: 1973. In 1973, families were still families; they ate together, had one radio, one dog, one cat, and no TV, got along for the most part and were a well-blended congenial unit. After a pleasing dinner, the kids wandered off to do their homework, chat with their friends outside, and play in the moonlight in the backyard. Life ended at dusk. Many birds that could be seen are now extinct. Butterflies and other insects, even the pesky bothersome kind like mosquitoes, lice, bed bugs and jiggers were in business. There were a great many species of fish in the Lake and fishermen didn't have to work so hard and go too far in the lake to "hunt" like they do these days. In our backyard, small game (squirrel/rabbit/fowl) abounded, and it wasn't plausible that they were there.

In 1973,

Ten cents (otonglo) was good money.

Five cents (nduru) was very much in use.

A mandazi and a cup of tea cost fifteen cents.

A packet of KCC milk cost twenty-five cents.

It was the golden age of African dictators: Idi Amin had just taken over Uganda. Mobutu, Bokassa, and Gadhaffi were at their prime

The cost of a stamp was twenty cents!

Kisumu Hot Stars were still playing.

Peugeot 404 was a decent car. So were Cortinas, Renaults, VWs, and Citroens.

Regular petrol was an unbelievable KSh. 2 per litre!

A matatu fare was thirty cents, hence the name matatu.

A new home was KShs. 50,000!

TV was far beyond the reach of most people.

With the information, especially in the finance field, it suddenly seems like people have been "sleeping" and that's why the shilling was strong in 1973. In reality, people were not really "sleeping", people were just ignorant and backward and not so smart!

It is a HELL of a thought.

And come to think of it: money economy has only been with us in Kenya for barely sixty years, and that's the main reason why many senior people in Government steal it without conceptualising the effect their actions would bring upon the country's economy. People in offices steal money that has been budgeted for development purposes, not knowing the consequences. Monies meant for education, health, roads are stolen by individuals who keep that money for themselves denying the whole country the benefits of such services. As always, the country's economy will suffer until such a time that our leaders will have a better understanding of the money economy vis-a-vis batter economy that African used to know before the introduction of money. They believe it is capitalism. If that is the word for it, then it is primitive capitalism. Maybe Independence came too early.

At the end of the dirt road, there is nothing. The road just empties into an open meadow. The day is just about done but there is still light enough. There are no sounds, no air, no sensations. It is a very peculiar place, there is even something that looks like an animal, but it is not moving. It is lifeless and still. The water is black. The sky black, the horizon, all black.

Time seems meaningless.

Next afternoon we are at Dunga beach. It's late in the day. The stench of fish suggests to us that we are by the fish processing factory by the waterway that leads out to the lake.

There is the Lake.

Makes me feel like I'm just a hippopotamus seeking a rhymencerous. The lake, bright and sparkling right out in the open, is a sight to behold! Lake Victoria is good; keeps you clean, gives you food, quenches your thirst, refreshes a parched body, and brings back fond memories. The closest trees are a hundred yards away. There is a signboard with faded chipped lettering leaning on a pile of old discarded tyres: Dunga Point.

It isn't a tumultuous lake any more, there are no waves. No gulls. No sublime serenity of peacefulness that would last perpetually. There is hardly a quiet calm on the water like 1973. There is an eagle; no actually it's a red-tailed hawk. It screeches in the hot listlessly afternoon sky. Nothing else moves. The hawk soars on an updraft, spreading out its wings and making large circles before lightly landing on a stretched-out limb of a leaning dead tree. The sun is battering, but it isn't such a brightly shining orb. No splendid lake, but a darkening mass of gray and odd gleaming in the sun.

Due to the oppressive heat, the rewarding water is welcoming, and I want to strip down to skin then check into it to refresh and cool off. The water is warm for skinny dipping, so we seek the shelter of small strands of trees growing up at the shoreline. Suddenly the water is tempestuous and not at all friendly. But right at the very edge is safe enough to dip in.

Eventually, I slip in and let the lake cover me. I dunk my entire burning body in and swim far out. Staying right close to the shore, not venturing out more than thirty metres is good. I'm surprised at how far my long languid strokes take me. I go out and keep going, feeling the water pull me while Odingo watches me from the shore. I go out as far as I can then turn back and propel myself and partly let the waves push me towards the shore.

Pulling myself up out of the water and back onto the rocky shore I watch as Odingo prepare to do likewise

"Are there any fishy chaps in there?" He means crocs.

"I've haven't seen any flopping around, it's pretty deep in this part of the lake, so I guess it's highly unlikely to find some big ones in there."

Odingo thinks as he stands on the water's edge, pissing into it. Then he says, "Coming in?"

"Not after you've pissed in it!" I say watching him strip off his clothes and make a little dive into the water.

I dunk in too and we swim long and languidly along the length of shoreline heading for famous derelict Pand Pier, and the water is cold and getting colder. All along the shoreline, there are large clumps of water grass, towering hyacinth weeds, lake debris containing tyres and parts of boats, huge old trees leaning far over the rocks jutting above the water on the rugged shoreline, and so on. Odingo keeps to the one side of the pier where there are stalks of something like reeds, togo clumps, and cattails. I swim out past a small floating hyacinth weed piling known as abuoro to the other side of the old wharf with its rotting railings and wooden planks. There is a rope serving as some sort of guide that makes a large circle tied from the piling to a stake embedded on shore. Good thing, a fisherman's new innovation for trapping fish.

Moments after reaching the abuoro I suddenly feel a strong current grab my legs. It feels like someone's hands. If not for the rope I would have been gone. I try not to look desperate or panicky, but it is close. Clinging to the rope, I pull myself to up.

"That's never happened before," I think to myself. I had been out to the abuoro piling a few times recently, about three times but never felt the undercurrents try to drown me. Water comes to my parched mouth, I feel liquid in my ears.

Odingo is waist deep in among the hyacinth weed; I swim over to him (still I am a little panicky) saying "Let's get out of here, owadgi Akong'o."

Odingo grins. "What, omera?"

I'm concerned, I know in part that Odingo wouldn't go out to the abuoro piling, but we are out about a hundred feet from the shore. Lake Victoria can also hide hazards creatures and drown your ass.

Odingo looks at my frightened face, moves slowly about pushing away small waves. We make a swim for it. Reaching the shallow water, I stand behind a rock still recovering from the near mishap. Slowly we move to the muddy shore where I lie down not so thrilled with the 'mud' but it is easily and handily washed off.

Suddenly, there are noises like rushes of running waters. Our mouths dry, our hearts hurting, we watch a great dark croc with dragon eyes swim away from beneath the abuoro piling to the rotting pier. I immediately become dizzy.

Nairobi, again

Things have moved right along to a proper perspective; I find myself in Nairobi. Odingo boarded the 4.00pm Kenya Airways plane for Johannesburg. I'm sitting with JB in my hired car fumbling with his bags and looking forward to the money that he should give me.

The only problem is that he has diabetes, and he can't see well at night. He needs me to drop him at his house in Kileleshwa. It is a considerable distance, especially in Nairobi rush hour traffic, but I figure it might be worth the trouble. It took me two hours to get here from JKIA, on the godforsaken Mombasa Road! Then I waited for JB for close to another one hour just sitting in the car. I took a look around the bustling city, the people, cars, time, period all were enthralling. The old geezer jumped into the car with his laptop bag and a Tuskys shopping bag containing what will have to be goodies to last a month.

JB lives alone, his wife and children are in Germany. He explains that he has to have food available in case his blood sugar gets low. An hour later we are at Kasuku Shopping Centre in Kileleshwa. He asks me to stop at a drug store and he goes hunting for throat lozenges. We stop and he tries to strike up a conversation with a post-teen cashier. As we leave, he brags that he could have had her if he really wanted her. Okay, old man, I'm damn sure you can have her. After all, these Nairobi kids of nowadays love old guys don't they. You don't get lucky, it's just the in-thing, and it's all about money, tumbafu.

Finally, we get to his house. He opens his laptop bag and takes out two loaded syringes and puts them on the counter. "Come here", he says. "If I pass out from diabetic shock, stick this in my left arm and inject me with my insulin." Okay, no problem. He then opens the Tuskys bag, unwraps a stinking vegetable thing and eats it, spilling lettuce and oil all over and making a general mess. I watch him with distaste. He then sticks the needles in his arm and sits back breathing hard, so hard I'm scared he is going to pass out or drop dead on me.

Twenty minutes later, I'm still waiting for him to "come around". Finally, I'm relieved to hear his voice. After a bottle of whiskey, some congenial chit-chat, he throws the bombshell.

"I told you not to give any interviews."

I sit up. "I didn't."

He opens his eyes and sits up wearily. "Do you happen to know a journalist by the name Karen Kiongo?"

I shake my head. He gets up and hobbles like a sick man out of the room. He comes back with a copy of Music Today which he tosses across the table.

"Page six," he mutters, turns and heads for his kitchen. "It's all over the Internet too."

With my mind racing trying to engulf and decipher what new surprise is in store for me, I peruse the paper. Finding page six, I suddenly come face to face with my picture. It's a fine print in full colour; a very recent take. Below it in bold print is a an article that bangs up my shin and it smarts dizzyingly.

BANG!

BOOM!

KA-BOOM!

This is how it goes.

A Highly Overrated Atheist Musician with

Invented Memories and a Pose of a Tough Man

By Karen Karimi Kiongo

The article almost gives me a coronary. I read and as I read, I fight a rising a tumultuous rage. In the writer's assertion, I am not 100% aware of what is happening around me since I'm a self-absorbed introvert who is more concerned about me than anything else. My entire career as Victoria's leader is essentially over, and what remains is a little episode of dream and fantasy. I could have disbanded a long time ago. Trying to reform the band is akin to a hungry man scrapping left-overs from a plate.

This piece of garbage assails me into something of a wizard! My eyes dart across the print, and my response to the desolation of reality is so gruesomely paltry as to exclude any notion of the tragic. Faced with the reality that the writer is obviously right in her abstract of me as a cold-hearted artist, nothing that I can do to control my crumbling world and nothing that I can do about the nothing engulfs me. I am overwhelmed by the wintry blast of abstract language that pitches into my decaying, blood-sodden muck heap hurtling through the noisy, reverberating and pulsating environment of music. The writer asks: Why does Otis Dundos lose himself in the stagy antics of hyper-masculine strutting and fetishised Nairobi producers like Attamaxx. She dismisses my music as the vanity of human emotions and the seaminess of human destinies.

This girl Karen had struck me like a stick in the mud. No sinister motives at all, only concerned with her thesis, and I was led to believe that she was promoting my music. She was a nice kid, really 100% nice, brilliant in a manner of speaking, and she was incapable of hurting a fly, and that was all I saw. Mature-minded, healthy 23-year-old innocent college girl, she was talking well and was very apt and very smart. Her mind was staunch and not open for narly business. Even her Point Blank questions got me no suspicious; she wasn't giving any clues about her motives.

Look how she 'dinked' with my mind, put images and notions and created a demeanour of innocence and a genuine love of my music and whatnot, stuffed all into her noggin and got me to buy her narly image of the smart suburban college student.

I read through, and I'm thrashed. In essence, I really don't understand how she twisted my answers so much, gave them such damaging personal glimpses and interpretations. She delved so deep into my inner world, so deep she merely had to persuade me to resolve my feelings for the likes of Dorothy and drug-addicted musicians like Ayo who smoked weed to enhance sex. My, oh my, I allowed her to deal with my hidden feelings regarding sex and frivolity. Perverted sex and my other kinky fantasies. So in essence in the article, I am an easy-to-"dink"-with rogue, not so much the tough guy I want people to see.

Then she goes even further to give me a good whacking and smacking in all the soft and private places. She attacks my political and religious beliefs. Draws a shallow verdict that I am an atheist. Writes so much junk about it. True, like any and every serious artist, I have questioned the existence of God. Not that I don't believe in God, it's an idle indictment, really. It's what Paul described in the book of Timothy as "having a form of godliness but denying its power". Like, yeah, we believe in God and the story ends there. We don't give God a chance to operate fully in our lives. We still take charge of our own lives and do our stuff with our human strength. What with so much chaos on the planet—wars are one thing, but the corruption of societies on a global level (not only Africa) is unbelievable. Pollution, corruption, good people going bad, bad peoples going worse, sick and disturbed peoples—all living under one roof. In today's hard times, crime is still one of the few things that still pay, but even criminals are forced to make cut-backs. Who is in charge of Planet Earth? Sure, God is watching. Atheists believe the Bible, Koran, Torah, and other forms of edict are a means of living and keeping peoples beliefs 'inline'. I am not an atheist. I believe in God, plain and simple. He takes care of me even in my Sin.

This is not such a new thing, we artists do silly things all the time to express ourselves and idealise ourselves to create some images of the mystic. The way Rastafarians actually proclaim that their god, Jah, is a black man in the form of the deposed and murdered Ethiopian leader, Emperor Haile Selassie. Yet these shaggy-haired, bhang-smoking rustic hermits and clueless ragamuffins die and are buried either as Catholics or Lutherans or Anglicans... as Christians! Not as Rastafarians!

After a brief respite, I fold the paper and look up to find JB standing, staring at me. "This whole thing is bullshit."

"Yeah. But who's going to believe you? People have read it. Our emails are streaming with comments. Look, you're a big name. Being famous comes with a price tag."

I'm shocked, I gulp and don't know what to say (or do.)

As if reading my mind, JB says, "When you're under attack, you strike back."

I don't have an email address; otherwise, I would be in for some bashing too. "What do I do?"

JB sits. "Two things: go back to Britain and never return. Or..." he stops looking as if he's taking a pause in his thinking.

"Or?" I prompt.

"Do what you do best."

Yeah, right. You probably have a point, but...

Nairobi can frighten, can make you go stark raving mad. My watch checking begins to happen more often; some part of my brain is sign-posting its distress. Time to leave again. Time to make up a flimsy story and get the hell out. Go back to Kisumu. JB is right: there's only one way to deal with this.

Walking around Nairobi West, I can't make this awful shit go away, it tracks me wherever I go. Who wants to be this kind of a wet blanket all the time? To be forty-seven and an old damaged machine, it's not a good thing. JB is right. Droopy and drippy, but right? Being famous comes with a price tag. When you're under attack, you strike back.

No stray thoughts whatsoever have me thinking that such a sweet girl could have done this! My remorse and regret infuriate me, and it also makes me ill. A strange sickness fills my tummy. A warming sensation I don't think I have had before. After chewing anti-acids, it begins to wane.

Finally, I put a call to Karen. It's late in the night, and the call has obviously wakened her, the way she sounds, yawning, mumbling and all. Her soft voice nearly melts my heart.

At first, I hear her sigh softly. "I was wondering when you were going to call."

My immediate reaction is to confront her, but she sounds distressed, pissed, and a bit worried.

"Why did you do this?" I ask.

Again softly, so softly, with an over-bearing innocence, she says, "Exercising my journalistic rights, sir. I wanted to do an engaging article, Mr. Otis. You should read between the lines. You should read the online commentaries."

I'm blown apart. I expected to hear her begin to freak, rant, and rave and try to kick ass. I put it to her this way: "My personal life has nothing to do with you and is none of your business unless you make it your business, which makes you a busy body."

Karen chuckles. "You seemed to be a man's man... a true asshole. I thought you're independent minded. Sorry then."

I don't know what to say to her. There is a weighty silence between us. Then she clears her voice and says, "This kind of article is good for you, Mr. Dundos. It creates a new flame in your career. Bad image works well for musicians who have built a name like you. People are curious. Your career is essentially over but if you manage to nail the current wave of bad-man publicity my article has created, then maybe this would be a good time to make an announcement about your forthcoming album. 'Transition World', isn't that the title?"

Suddenly I can see through this. I can clearly see where she is coming from. I can see the hand of JB in this.

# 

#  EIGHTEEN

"I'm not comfortable with what I begin to feel for you."

MORNING glories and other riveting stories

The sun comes brightly stabbing its piercing rays of "Hey, I Want to Burn You" across Kisumu. What the new day will bring is anyone's guess. My plan is to soak in the lake... this isn't a spoken word but an idle thought to be twirled around the head to ward off potential distress. There aren't many excuses to cover for my usually constant tardiness down here in Kisumu and sometimes writing another new song has to make a timely appearance in my mind to throw any snoopy devilish thoughts out of my head. Like they say, and idle mind is the Devil's workshop.

But now... writing songs appear to have lost meaning.

Suddenly, just suddenly.

The scribblings, sneezings, fartings, daydreaming, all have stopped. I really need to work, I know. To be active. I need to meet the members of Bondo Stars Band to discuss the feasibly of having them work on one of my songs. This is crucial. I want them to make the brass section and percussions. I also want intricate guitar work, and I've been talking with many fine guitarists around.

I don't feel pressured, though. Music makes the rounds in my soul and all is well. It is almost my fourth month in Kisumu and I know I haven't really connected with my Birth World, and that's pretty sad. I've had slight twinges of "missing" Pam and Daudi in the other world, but it is well.

Till we meet again.

Till I met Riana again!

As the sun fully ascends into the sky bringing a little heat to the parched lakeside town and the surrounding Nandi Escarpment and Nyabondo Plateau, Kisumuans gear up to make the most of their day. The morning is getting on, and this is known by the enlightenment on the encroaching sun on the horizon. I still have lots to do. My head is occupied. I'm trying hard with very little success to increase effort in my compositions. I don't have much time, and I'm worried. Hell knows I don't have much time.

Well... oh well.

More of the same and then some...

Riana.

Love, love, love.

I am inspired.

She has been on my mind, oh my. Folks, you know, Riana is (really) about a long story of true love and perfect soulmates. A festering desire there always was, solely for her. The recent reunion is rather lame in comparison to our times in the '80s and early '90s? We've now feverishly connected like old friends, and we're chatting and texting and learning all of what had been going on in our lives since 1991. It has come to my heart that I want this woman more than ever and by all means, and I will not be denied!

But I've wondered, fretted, and worried. Is it right?

Should I not try to see if there is a possibility of an open communication before rushing her into romance? Wait: we've hugged. We've not kissed! She is not demure like I knew her; instead, she appears to be bold and willing to be submissive only on her own terms. She just can't stop making me feel good about myself. I have opened that portion of her psyche she had deemed unfit for social graces. Like an old lover, I have easily pried open her deepest dankness and set free the immorality of her past.

But there is a small portion of her psyche that is grateful.

My phone beeps. It's a text from Riana. Would you mind terribly to take a sick and dying old woman to the hospital? Next week on Thursday.

Sick and dying? You must be kidding me.

For the next few days, it is hectic. Almost agony. Sick and dying? What comes to my mind immediately is HIV/AIDS.

At the hospital, she looks cheerful.

"Hello Mr. Musician, you're looking strong for a forty-seven-year-old."

Did you hear that? Am I?

"Not as good as you."

"I didn't tell you don't know how good you look. Bwana, you're ageing well, hehehee."

That smile. Look the way those nostrils flare, undulating as that gorgeous mouth hangs open. The perfect white teeth. Oh, mama yangu, that mbanya gap in the front teeth.

"You're more than beautiful too."

"Otis! As old as I am? With my Jojo-tank pot? My big bust? Hapana, wewe. Stop."

I nod. "You're looking wonderful. Old age is good."

"Thank you, then. You look handsome too."

We are sitting side by side in her doctor's waiting room.

She is the only patient today, and the doctor is late. Even though her marvellous scent of oranges fills the room, she has a slightly confused and hurt look on her face. I put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and she smiles shyly. I let my hand linger on the shoulder. It is soft and warm; almost subconsciously, I let my hand slide gently across her shoulder towards her neck. Is that a tremble? I feel my hand trace downward along the root of the magnificent woman's breast, and I give it a gentle squeeze. It is firm and warm.

"Oh, please! What are you doing?" she says, giving me soft furtive glances, pushing my hand away. She drops my hand firmly on my lap. I laugh at her, but she has a curious look on her face that I can't quite place. But I've seen it before. Ah, yes. I'd seen Riana wear that same expression on those occasions when she'd decided she wasn't in the mood to play. A little hurt. Frustrated? Annoyed.

"Is everything fine?" I ask.

"How fine can they be? Where are we?"

"Oh, forgive me; I was getting carried away,"

"Otis," she says, her expression solemn and undeviating. "I try to put you off, but you keep on trying. How can you keep on trying when you know how stubborn I am. Thing is you have to let me go because...," she peters off, I presume to search for the best way to put it. I sit calmly, having sensed the worst but hoping it's something I can deal with.

She takes a deep breath. "Otis, I'm not the same person. I'm afraid there is something wrong. Mid this year, my boss introduced medical insurance in an effort to reward the staff. The insurance company asked the staff to go for mandatory tests before they could cover each employee." She stops sniffs. Her eyes cloud and a tear roll down her cheek.

A cold grip of tightness appears in my stomach, I begin to breathe hard blowing hot air through my nose. Somehow, I know. I feel like crying. The only reason Riana would want to push me away is to protect me from getting hurt... she's sick and dying. Is it HIV?

"They found something," Riana says, searching my face. There is pure fright in the woman's face. She peers into my eyes, clenching her fist. She looks sideways, takes another deep breath. She presses her index finger against her forehead. "They called it "a mass". That's what they call it. It is a tumour, really. About the size of a small tomato."

"What?"

She feeds me with a warming smile. "It hit me like a bullet the day I was given the news."

"Cancer?"

She nods, looking directly into my eyes.

"God have mercy."

She nods and purses her lips. "Cancer." A whisper.

"What treatment is your doctor proposing?"

"None."

"What do you mean?"

"It's inoperable."

"It's inoperable? Can't be... no; what about chemotherapy? Radiation treatment?" I protest, fear dripping from my every word.

She touches my arm with a reassuring nod. "Haiwezekani. Tried and failed. The only thing remaining is to wait and pray."

I swallow. "Where is it?"

She places her hand at the top of her head. "It's in my hemispheric bridge."

"Brain cancer?"

She nods. "That's the word," she says with a sigh.

Long pin-drop silence.

Eventually, I take a breath and say, "I'm sorry."

She turns, gives me a puzzled look. "You're sorry?" I can see a sharp frown creasing the skin between her eyes. I cringe, I take a deep breath like I'm about to swim away under water.

Then she says, "Don't worry, all is well." Tense, but well. Hm. Know that feeling when every fiber in your being hurts? Multiply that number by ten, and you get to know how Dinos Otis Dundos feels on a scale of 0-infinity of how much pain and sadness (well, madness, actually) you feel after waiting to see the woman close to your heart for twenty years only to find her sick and dying.

Succumbing to despair is not an option. I ask what she probably expects me to ask. "How long?"

Her smile is perhaps the saddest one I've ever seen in a woman. Sadder than Mary-Goretti's. Sadder than Angelou's. Sadder than Ayo's. It weeps of dreams destroyed and hopes dashed, and makes my bowels do a somersault. "You want to know how long I have got to live? Ama? I was diagnosed six months ago. And I think I just begin to feel it. My hair is just getting loose. My body is not mine. The tumour is getting bigger. It's now about the size of an orange. A small orange. And it's put the kibosh in for me, Otis. I'm a dead woman."

I sigh, all thoughts of having sweet personal moments with her has gone from my mind. Cancer so horrified me in Britain when it vanquished Pam's ex-husband from the face of the planet. I learned so much about it. It's basically uncontrolled cell growth. The cells have gone bonkers and keep dividing and growing. The rate at which that happens, the rate of growth of the mass... the tumour, is called the metesis rate.

"Do you know how fast it's growing. How... long...?"

"I don't know the metesis rate but I feel it advancing and it's deadly, Otis. The doc told me I have less than six months. That was three months ago. And I should expect horrible symptoms. And as I draw nearer my time... I'll get warped up and flabby. I'll become a weak sickly wreck, Otis. My vision will go, my hair will fall. I will lose weight and my body is going to be ravaged by all sorts of things, Otis... Otis..."

I'm literally weeping with her.

Back in the good old 80s, Riana was the sweetest girl I knew. I spent many a night whispering to the pillow that I'd have given 30 IQ points to be a genius enough to match her beauty, that I'd have given almost anything to be Riana's hero. She was a magnificent beauty. Short hair, a sweetish face, a sweet smile, intelligent eyes. And she always had a ravishing smell!

She had poise and good manners. She had given me a birthday card when no one in Kisumu even knew my birthday or what birthday presents meant. She introduced me to an entirely new world; a world of politeness and decency and good manners. She was special to me, and when she sat next to me in the church I felt God truly loved me for giving such a delightful lover.

When I did something... anything, it was to impress her. When I put any words on paper, it was the only expression of my love for her in silly poems or love letters. When I first learned the guitar, I spent many hours perfecting my skills so that I'll play for her. My best-unrecorded song is called 'Riana'. It's in my heart, all the lyrics, all the instrumental arrangements, all the sweet melodies. And only Riana's ever heard it. When I was in Leeds and any time I wanted to remember something good about home, it was Riana that came to my mind. She's a woman I really loved, and the search for true love ended with her. I would have done anything (repeat anything) to save her from some horrible demon, just to see the look of gratitude and love on her face. Just to see her finally acknowledge that I was the man for her. And now, here in Kisumu, a few days since we recently reconnected, Riana is telling me that the cruellest, baddest demon of this age is slowly wrapping his cold, smelly hands around her neck and squeezing, and all I can do is watch.

Riana seems more serious than jovial. "Otis, I know this is hard for you but me, I've accepted it. There are worse things that happen every day, worse than cancer, but life goes on. I'm not the most important thing in this world; life has to go on without me."

Philosophical but true. Me? No way can I accept that? NO.

With the loathsome business of strange diseases invading modern-day Africana... cancer, heart diseases, diabetes, arthritis popping everywhere and sucking in people to other worlds, traipsing out from reality is generally curbed.

Generally.

Africana who has always been a generous prostitute and taken in all from whoever now appears to open her legs to the diseases of the West as well.

And it's no mere fallacy. Life still has to go on?

It is deemed unconscionable to be frightened and still remain hopeful. Life still has to go on, risk or not. Prior to the cancers and heart diseases plus many more in the bag of bones, one had to fear gangs and muggers, poisoning, avalanches of military coups and bad political governance, stupidly looted economies, tribalism and not belonging to the president's tribe, joblessness, bad motorists, car accidents, or simply dying of malaria and cholera due to lack of medication and care!

The day wears itself out and I take her to town to get a matatu home, and the cover of darkness eats up the day. We're standing at the stage like some elderly couple, and it feels so good I wish we belong together, going the same direction. Going home. I remember the day we stole away to Mfang'ano Island more than twenty years ago to consummate our love in a perfect natural environment and how it felt great. Everything seemed perfect, it was a cool sunny June and the onslaught of cool and dry July was at the helm. Mfang'ano is an exotic sleepy island in Lake Victoria. The wind was blowing, constantly rattling and rolling dry leaves that covered the brown earth. Obviously in this perfect hideout, maybe the fine weather... maybe some combination of that and some other trifling but still exciting details, like the wonder in the faces of the lowly Islanders who were seeing Otis Dundos in flesh, love was made. Maybe there was some presentiment that what she and I had come to do in this hideaway wasn't going to heal any wounds of longing, wasn't going to last more than the week. Was going to last only slightly a bit longer than the waves crashing on the island's sandy shores; wasn't going to make us an item. Was just consummation of physical love. Well, love was made.

As we stand here at the stage waiting for her matatu, with a handful of other Kisumuans, I venture to know where she stays.

"Same place I used to live."

"Milimani?"

She nods. "Not the same house, not my aunt's house."

Then she drops a bombshell.

She turns to face me. "Otieno, sir. Listen."

I can take any shock from her, nothing can be worse than the knowledge that she is dying.

"Otis, I can see in your eyes," she starts. She sighs, looks down. "I know you, Otis. I don't think it can..." Her voice dims into a light sob. She curls her broad lips, sniffs, shakes her head rapidly, blinks rapidly, blinks back her tears, making the kind of noises old women make when they don't want to sound like little girls. She turns up her head, looks at me. "Spare me, Otis. I'm a sick.... sick woman. Please don't tempt me... please."

I gulp and look away. She turns her attention back to watching for her matatu. She spares me only occasional glances after this. There is a long moment of silence. Her matatu comes, and she doesn't board. It goes and another one comes. And another. The screeching tyres blow dirt and dust and grit at us.

"I'll go with the next mat if you have nothing to say," she says eventually.

Think I have to find something to say. "You and I are always...," I don't finish.

"Ndiyo, najua. Lakini, it can't... I don't want to hurt you, my friend. It's all in the past."

I'm only wondering why she doesn't dare to board a matatu and go. She was always stubborn and hard-headed, she has never changed.

"You mean it?"

"That's how I feel, Otis. It's the right thing, isn't it?"

"How stupid I was to keep you in my dreams for twenty years."

She's silent for a while, then she says, "How do you feel, Otis? Tell me the truth."

"Same way I felt twenty years ago."

"No, it can't be the same way. I mean, I was never really sure what your feelings were. I mean, I didn't know. Couldn't tell. At first, before you became what you became with your music, you were okay, sweet even. I could trust you. But later, the way I saw you treat women, ah-ah. You can't convince me. That's why I wonder. And now here you are with the same story. Oh no, it can't work. Unless you really don't know yourself." She gulps and coughs. "I think I need to go."

I shrug. What a mouthful. "So?"

"I need to go. Gini ok nyalre, yawa. Parie ni ok onyalre."

"Okay," I say. "Okay."

A matatu wheels close, and I watch her squeeze herself in. The matatu roars off. I think I see her trying to wave.

I think, maybe, I know the game Riana wants me to play. She had always remained largely predictable. I can see she hasn't changed.

A few days later, I call her. I don't know her moods but I'm peeved about the startling knowledge of her cancer a week ago, and my weak emotional mind has taken things too hard, but Riana is fine, even cheerful. We walk side by side to get a taxi, and she wants to know where I'm taking her. I have missed such moments: walking side by side with her. I always loved to watch her walk with her because she is bow-legged and has the bouncy walk of an athlete. I was always waiting for such rare moments when she looked less beautiful when she looked ordinary and engaged in an activity that brought the seriousness of concentration on her face like when walking, arguing, stressing a point.

But Riana is a different woman. On the street, she walks differently, holds herself less familiarly. She never used hung her head down to one side as she does now. Her expression is frowning; her steps somewhat lurchy like a tired mama, not the bouncy and attention-drawing swagger it used to be. She now rolls with gauche, but her great ass is still a sight to see. People still turn to look at her after she has passed. In 1980, there was never a shortage of male eyes turning in her direction.

We take a taxi to Kiboko Bay and get there early enough to find a choice table to view the lake and the sunset. She has a sad look and tries to shake off her magical cloak of semi-invisibility, and suddenly she is here. Joy, laughter, cheerfulness. We drink sodas and mineral water and munch on cookies, and I watch her face, sample her beauty. And I do a mental comparison with my other women. Angelou: her beauty was dynamic and came alive like a switch tipped on. Whatever beauty I found in Angelou was animated; a function. Wasn't part of her, it came alive at events. She was made that way to be a natural beauty. Ayo... I couldn't really call her beautiful. She had something topsy-turvy, a brazen animal quality in her... a wildness and zest I truly ached for. She was also very practical about her sexuality, which is rare in African women. Pam, I'm not sure what it was, maybe it was an unlikely conquest. But Riana, her beauty ran deep, deep and never-ending like a spring. She did not have to turn it on or use expressions and make-up to show it. You saw it while she was asleep or awake. You saw it when she was mad and enraged or when she was happy and in laughter. It's not a question of eyes of the beholder; her beauty is there and runs deep beneath her velvety-soft skin, in her bones. In her death, her beauty will still be a marvel to many men.

We talk. The subject of her illness is not an issue. Instead we talk about other things; the times we shared together in 1982 at Gloryland Choir. We talk about the Nyanza Cinema or Tivoli movies we can still remember, the crazy moments like when their dog nearly mauled me when I stood outside her window singing my love song for her and strumming my guitar. We talk about how we were rained on the first time she wore high heels, and I took her to the ASK show. For the first time (for her and for me) it feels like a romantic date, and we are experiencing adolescent amusements again. But this is not about youth. It is about trying to forget the world of doctors and chemicals and tests and cancer and mangy consequences. Death. Riana, who has been severely tortured for the past few months, slowly comes around to be all right. I have to spend quite some time dinking with her mind—destroying dark recessed images that have soiled her mind and caused her to be 'zombiefied.' We are trying to kick the ugly monster into it's grotty hole.

We know there is no hope; no surgery and no redemption save for that which only Jesus Christ can give. In the interim, she is trying to live her life as normally as she best possibly can till it comes. That would be hard for me to bear the next few months. In my somewhat frenetic attempt to learn about cancer, I did a thirty-minute search on the Net last evening and learned that the only thing Riana needs now is somebody to comfort her and walk to her death.

Now I see the way she looks cheerful and I wonder if she is emotionally ready for me and her doing some adult coupling, and I want to bring it up.

I don't know why I feel that I should give Riana something good to carry home with her, and I don't know why I'm trying to open a window of sexual opportunity.

She laughs heartily. "Otis, this is not the way I want to go, I have Jesus and I'm okay. Okay. OKAY."

Okay.

Of course, I know how hard it will be to convince her to embrace this neediness, even if it will be less to give pleasure than to lift her from pain. Every kind of love is accompanied by an emotional burden and, usually, this burden is hypothetical, too far in the future to worry about. And really, do I love her still?

As we sit at Kiboko chatting, thoughts keep entering my mind, and I keep picturing what intimacy with Riana would be like. Deep down, I know it is harmful to give this dying woman any kind of love even if it is idyllic. And I would be the first to wager a modest sum that giving her "love" (really) is less important compared with the mortal threat hanging over her like an ugly beast. I can't just pretend the beast doesn't exist, can I? Stevie Wonder always contends that love is beautiful and is supposed to overcome life's many obstacles. But does it happen for real? What about the cases where it imposes a verdict of frustration and burdens? I can't be foolish to the fact that all couples deal with transience at some point.

We were perfect soulmates without realising, and our love grew without being influenced by that initial period of carefree sensuality. It surprises me that as I edge closer to middle age, I still want passion with her just as much as I did when I was twenty. I was always a romantic. Yet again at my advanced age, even as the markets for romantic relationships dwindle, I still want to imagine and fantasise about passionate rendezvous of meeting exciting women. Yes, this is normal for musicians and artists. But with Riana, I think I'm in love with the idea of love, as 'The Poet' Opiyo Willy would say. And I've always been in love with the waiting for that love than with love consuming it. I guess that's why I've been so patient. That's why I feel so bad inside that she is dying. I can't pretend otherwise. I know what I will do. Quite apart from the phantom of cancer, I still lust after Riana. For good measure, I will forget that she has cancer and believe we are just on a date, and this is just a preface to a night of passion.

As we sit gazing over Lake Victoria and watching the sun go down; as we bask in the tranquillity of the evening feeling the evening breeze, our feelings take us back to our old times, and we get into hearty conversations and fetch memories that bring fondness and laughter. One remark about a bookshop we used to visit lead to talk about high school in the 1980s, which branches out to various dialogue tangents. Our times in SDA's Gloryland Choir is a loved thing we keep turning about. We talk about career miscalculations and the exact moment each of us discovered the "real world". The conversation peters out to a few occasional remarks; our eyes are sidetracked by the prospect that our eyes might miss the exact moment when the earth would swallow the sun.

There are only two couples in the restaurant; the chatter has reduced because we have run out of things to say. The silence is pleasant and satisfying; it is sufficient to sit and wait for an ordinary event that happens every day without notice. In the fading light, Riana's face still looks exciting; yet her beauty which was once self-evident is now easy to overlook. She still laughs like before; it is the laughter not of a young girl but a sick woman who knows her time on earth is restricted.

During her youth in the 80s, she was a strong girl whose blemishes were becoming harder to disguise. And after twenty years and under the fading light, she still looks enthralling. While she gazes at the skyline, I marvel at the way the lowering of the sun holds her attention. I look at her with giddy anticipation. Still; though, an ulterior motive lurks. This is a woman who neither found pleasures in nature nor in love. As I admire her, I can't help imagine how that beautiful face would look as it would experience a jillion excitements with one touch of a finger caressing her body. Taking Riana would be glorious.

A wild goose starts flapping its wings as if to announce sundown, and people at nearby tables start leaving. Riana looks over at me, amused to find me admiring her.

It is darkening.

The sunset is splendid across the lake. We find ourselves silently, staring at it. "Isn't it beautiful?" I say.

"Hm. Beautiful," she says, turning around in her chair for a better view. In the distance, we can see two fishing canoes with white sails moving in the water, but from their vantage point, the boats hardly seem to move. The sun is lowering and bathing the quiet lake with a rich array of colours, decorating the sky and the dancing waters, even though to our eyes, the incredible transformation is hardly noticeable.

"Shouldn't we leave now?" she asks. "Take me to my house."

She gets up and I hold her arm. She looks at me with a quizzical look. Then she puts her arm around my neck and her heavyweight drops on my chest. I hold her tightly.

"Thanks for a nice evening, Otis."

I say, "I got you a laptop."

"You're kidding me!"

"It's a nice one." When we come to the car, I show her the HP laptop. Her eyes glow when she sees it.

"Heck," I say in anger. "I forgot to pick its bag."

"Don't worry. You can always go back for it if you have the receipt. Anyway, it was the thought that counts," she says, giving me a quick hug.

"I couldn't decide whether to get you this or a dress."

"Specs for my fading eyesight would have been ideal," she says admiring the laptop.

"I figured this laptop and Internet might help reconnect with you with all the info you need deal with the pain."

"True."

"If you want, I could get you the specs tomorrow, but you have to see an optometrist."

She smiles. "Take your time and do it sometime in the coming days, no hurry."

As I start driving, the words 'sometime in the coming days' hangs in the air. You know that feeling you get when a woman you're trying to nip finally says a word that is so full of hope and so inviting.

"So can we make it next week?"

"Make what next week, Otis?"

"Please," I say. "I just want to see you again."

She gives me a look of warmth. "You can see me any time."

"Come one, you know what I mean?"

"I do and it's stupid and silly and selfish."

We are in Milimani, she gives directions. Milimani has the smoothest of streets and makes a fantastic drive. Riana's house is the third one from the park street end where a fenced park with a sunken sports field is. The only street lights are the ones at the next street up from the target street and the other one south of it. A front street is at the opposite end; the area is comprised of modest mid-level moderate-income housing. I park the truck alongside the curb. Riana pushes open the gate, welcomes me in.

The apartment is roomy and well furnished. It's in partial disarray, with shopping bags beside the refrigerator and papers on her living room table. Riana opens the laptop. "Do you have a modem? I need to search for some medical information."

"Yes, here. I'll Google."

"And I'll make some tea."

I jam the modem in and log onto Google on Mozilla while Riana goes to the kitchen. I look around and let my eyes play. There's a warm, homely feel about the place. The furnishings are tasteful. Thrown in here and there are traditional African knickknacks and framed photos of people on her bookshelf.

"Turn on the TV if you like," Riana calls from the kitchen.

"No, it's okay. I'm not a fan of TV. Music, maybe."

"Music, obviously."

She was always a rumba girl, but she loved reggae too, plus a bit of old R&B, that lovely Mowtown stuff: Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, Lionel Richie, Gladys Knight, Aretha, Dolly Parton, Kenny Rogers. I agree, there was a time we all fancied Lionel Richie. Her albums look platinum new. I find Debarge and set it to play, then quickly skip tracks looking for the Rhythm Of The Night. Then I find a rare disc, it's Manana Antoine, and 'Amour Chercher Amour' sounds groovy and superfine. Not to mention silky. Next album. Bob Marley & The Wailers; what's this one? Survival. Very good, brings back memories. Then Mangelepa: 'Walter'. This is fantastic, just fantastic. But wait, there is something even more fantastic: it's a hot pink album that screams Franco et le T.P.O.K Jazz - En Colere. I've been looking for this one, it's the second volume of the En Colere series Franco did on the VISA 1980 label. My favourite on this album is the very rare 'Peuch Del Sol' which Franco wrote passionately for his friend Mukadi. Looking at the back of the sleeve I'm surprised to learn that Simaro's 'Mbawu (Na Ko Recuperer Yo)', Mayaula's evergreen 'Nabali Misere' and Diatho's haunting "Bolingo Ya Moite Moite" were actually born on this 1980 OK Jazz project.

Play and replay. 'Peuch Del Sol'. Beautiful rumba.

Riana reappears minus her flowing office fleece, with a yellow tee that hugs her large tits well. "You still love Franco?"

"We always love Franco."

She places the tea Thermos on the table. "Why don't you play one of yours. I have all your albums. I have been playing Luopean a lot since you showed up."

As we drink cinnamon herbal tea with honey, she goes over the medical info online with me. So many websites to visit. One hour passes. We talk as we work, she gets tired and rests her head briefly on my shoulder. The next move is mine. My attraction to her is no longer unstructured but something I must seek and have (without really trying). In her weakening state and deteriorating health, she is receptive to being held but cagey. For a moment, I ponder about just being a good friend to her; not such a bad idea? Looking at things from a justifiable point of view, friendship and company are what this woman needs. We have tried the romance path before, even consummated the friendship. We keep falling apart. We know too well the kinds of risks in romance like over-exertion, pain, rejection, and loss of respect. Riana is a quietly motivated person, an introvert who loves her life and space. She is never quite good at maintaining a relationship. What can I give that she deserves? Romance? Passion? Or simply be together with the older version of the woman who once stole my heart away? The thought of it still appeals to me even though I have no idea how it would happen now that we are alone.

Facing her, I take her arms and try to pull her to me, she pulls away. "This is not the night to start something like this," she says.

"Forgive me, maybe I should go."

"No, I didn't say you go. Please stay with me. That's all I want. Stay close to me. I don't want to be alone." She leans heavily against me, falls into my arms. And she suddenly grimaces, sharply. almost painful. "I feel ill."

"Oh." I make to hold her, but she pushes my hands away. "It's nothing. I've had problems sleeping," she says. "I think it's nervousness. I get up in the middle of the night sweating. It's depressing, it's scary."

"Why don't you find someone to live with? A relative."

"No, I'm okay. My daughter's the only person I can invite. But she's too hard-headed."

"Where is she?"

"She lives in Makasembo."

"You mean she's here in Kisumu?"

She nods. "Otis, I want you to go now."

I get up. "Okay."

"I enjoyed your company. You've brightened my last few days. I just don't want to get used to having you around me too much."

"Why?"

"I could get used. I could lose my balance. I am managing well alone."

"I can see. I think you're used to having me around."

"I beg your pardon?"

"My music."

I expect her to laugh, instead, she shrugs. "Yes, your music. Sorry, there's no invitation to stay."

"Don't be sorry, and don't be silly. How do you expect me to invade your privacy?"

"With my permission, you can. You've been very good to me, bwana."

"Oh."

She doesn't speak aloud but shrugs and rolls her shoulders. Her intoxicating smile begins and enlightens me. "It's not like we've never been close before. Only that we are never so much in sync."

"Beg your pardon?"

"I-I've been in love with you for years!" she suddenly blurts out.

I nearly pass out. I feel my heart once more beating strongly in my chest. I can scarcely blink or think. I take a deep breath and stare at her. Riana feels uneasy and has lost the "glow" in her face. She shrugs, "Yeah, well, I have. When you're in love, I'm not. And when I'm in love you're not. It's been like this since 1980. Do you agree."

I have to agree. I say nothing. She continues. "Otis, let me tell you this before I die. The only time I really wanted you was in 1988 when I gave myself to you in Kakamega, and you became the first man. Otis, you're the only man. When I got pregnant, I did so because I wanted to. It was a choice I made to trap you. When you took me to Mfang'ano Island, I knew we were finally going to be an item and I prepared myself for it. You don't know how disappointed I was when you turned me down. For the first time in my life during that outing, I fought for you and I cried. I totally and completely gave my self to you. And... now I begin to feel the same. And I fear."

"You fear you might give in to what your feelings really want?"

She nods. "I fear."

"Don't fear, that's your body compelling you, Riana."

She looks at me. "Meaning?"

"Make the most of the remaining time."

She ponders that for a moment. "I know what you mean. I just have no idea what it will be like if and when I give in to you. A few weeks ago, the future seemed boring and freakish. But now you're around and about me, and everything seems melodramatic. What is my life going to be like next week or the next month? I worry; doctors are controlling my life now. I worry that my worry brings me no sense of self-control or self-worth. Self-pity comes to me. I know not who I am. I worry that I'll end up agreeing to whatever you propose, no matter how heinous. Yet I recently got rebaptised in church and took a vow to die in Christ and wake up when He comes again soon and go to Heaven. This is good. Perfect. But seeing you here, I lose my grip and it scares me. How can you have such strong control over my feelings? How can I stay sane?"

As she talks, she is gesticulating haphazardly like an insane person. She seems high-strung.

I take her hand and hold it.

"Otis, spare me if you really love me as you say in your songs. You should know that I forgot sex many years ago. I have no desire... I... I'm not comfortable with what I begin to feel for you. I know when you sleep with someone, there is a soul tie. We are one at some deep level in the spirit. I don't want to do this; I made a testimony in church."

I'm not comfortable with what I begin to feel for you. For a split second, I think she hadn't said it and am about to repeat it, but Riana is trying to suppress it. Of course, she enjoys a good seduction as any woman, I have totally eliminated her previous concerns; her preceding moral fibers.

I know one or two things that will work. Getting Riana into my bed is no brainer if I follow the old familiar route.

Romance.

Nyanza Cinema.

We make our way to this old movie theatre that had been our favourite in the 70s and the 80s. We get our tickets and settle into a back row in the not-so-crowded screening room of the movie house that has been around forever. The movie is Mother of My Son. It was not Riana's idea, I had played her into the idea of watching a movie and she bought it; now it looks like she's just going along for the ride.

The lights dim. It takes a few minutes for the trailers to zip past and for the audience to quiet down. The theater is hushed by the time the feature is underway. Mother of My Son is a romance. I had picked it out, of course. It is filled with steamy romantic scenes, lingering moments of love, and tight embraces. I become aware, little by little, of Riana subtle scent of oranges. I bend closer to her; yes, it is not her perfume, it's her scent.

I hear a sigh, she snorts, sucks in her breath. I notice the movement and bend toward her, let her rest her head on my shoulder. I watch as the light from the screen casts a flickering halo around her dark weave. Each strand of human hair catches the light a different way, lending a sultry sheen to her appearance. On the screen, it grows cold and wintry as the lovers struggle to make a go of it. A harsh sound of the wind rushing through the cracks in their hovel seems to fill the theater, and soon everyone in the audience is shivering along with the actors. I put his arm around Riana's shoulder and draw her close. She burrows into my side. I feel her heart thump loudly, and she's sucking in. She gasps like she's sobbing (or swooning) so loudly and when my lips touch hers, she lets it go. She is gasping so loud I'm amazed that everyone else in the theater don't turn around and tell us to shush.

Later on, we are in my car; she feeds me with a look of longing. She's clearly miffed or perplexed.

"Where are we off to, now?" she asks softly as I make the turns on Milimani streets.

"Wherever fate takes us," I return.

I almost don't hear it. "My place."

At her place, we have wine and dance to some lofty old rumba. Riana lasts only a few minutes more, and it is time for her to be a woman for a night of love. She does what must be her usual routine of prepping for bed: teeth, hair, and a pee, then she disappears into her bedroom to reappear wearing a short night dress. I go over to the hi-fi and put on Luopean album. Might as well initiate her good and proper. All the while, I keep questioning myself if I can go through with this... or if I should go through with this. Oh well, I have to admit I have succeeded in making her game for it. The "if" has no chance of resistance.

"Must we?" she asks with her serious face set.

I shrug. "It's not too late to back off. Your body induces you, I know you want it."

"It's not right even if," she says. "You've played me right into your game, Otis."

"If I said we stop, would it make you happy?"

"Of course," she says. "You can save me from my battle of conscience."

I reach for her, stroke her hair. From the speakers, Sam Ojua Kali Man's voice is wailing out some touching rhapsody:

Why-why-why-why do you say no when you want it

Being sad and angry and bitter when you can love

It's torture, ah-ah-ah; it destroys you uh-uh-uh

Let it go, and don't say no, let it goooo...

And now the harmony chorus:

You're always the woman of my dreams

If we make it, if we do it, that's fine;

If not, that's fine too.

If we do it, just know I'll be doing it for you

Just for you

The song is "Deep Deep Desire." I wrote it in 1990. The song is as relevant today as it was more than twenty years ago. There's something to be said for desire. What exactly it is isn't quite known. But then again, it is more than overindulgence, even more than an obsession. Back in the days when true heartfelt romance was used to express true love, sex had no place; sex was used as a means of enacting desires deeply set within the heart. Sex was not dirty like it is today; it was beautiful and was used to express deep-seated things of love and followed only after an embrace, a look, a kiss, a caress. The desires that came with romance were deep but weren't twisted. But today the darkened manner of twisted desires have become supremely lucid or trapped in the minds of depravity and lustful pervasion.

The first part, sung by Ojua Kali Man and his favourite backing vocalist Roki Fela, is a slow rumbastic intro and the second part, composed of long conversational lyrics in the form of a monologue, was sung by Mawazo and finally, the great harmonious call-and-response chorus was sung by Aseela and Mzee Frank. This song, which also has nice-nice paddings by 'The Poet' Opiyo Willy, was an excellent addition to the successful Luopean project. Our fans gobbled it right off. The words are right, just right. Sneaky, underhanded and very-very naughty but right. Great diction, great similes, nice hooks, and punches.

"Is it true?" she asks. "What the song says."

"The song is always right. Experienced mind wrote it."

"Otis, tell me. I know you never lie: are you really in love with me?"

"That's a silly question. You know my feelings."

"Feeling are feeling and they are different from love. Are you even sure of what you feel? Because I know what I feel."

For a moment I'm lost for words. "Riana, you've always been the woman of my dreams. My only true love."

She sighs and turns to me with a hapless expression. "Woman of your dreams. Your only true love. I hope you're honest. You loved me once, I know. Times have changed bwana." She moves closer, her eyes search mine intently. "You're driving me to the edge."

I say nothing, wait. She takes my hands. She gulps and the corners of her lips quiver. "Aren't you legally married?"

"Yes."

I move forward and close in; she closes her eyes and parts her lips. It's a rush and a fervent crush. It is a hard and frenetic kiss. She trembles and holds my neck so hard with her arm; she grinds her lips hard and pushes her tongue deep.

Then she pulls away. She is dashed, flashed, and glazed; her breathing is voluminous and raspy.

"I needed that," she says in between deep breaths.

"So you can still kiss. You're bold," I tell her. "You were never like this."

"Don't say. It's been like ages since I touched a man." She laces her hefty arm around my neck, her eyes searching mine intently with hot arousal. "You're the only man I have touched and trusted and given myself completely to." She tries to relax, and even appears to enjoy the sensations. As I hold her, I am instantly tanalised and feel an odd stirring of satisfaction straight away!

She pulls back and searches my face. "You know I feared that my cancer was going to screw up my sex drive," she says. "For a dying woman like me, I guess sex is now a destination, not a process."

Under different circumstances, her ambivalence would've made me spare her. But after the way she has unconcealed to me her aching need with that kiss, I know she can stand the gaff. She has a greater need than I. Her acting like a sick old woman is an ignoble cover; she still can hold a good kiss and a caress. Hm. Captivates me.

I try to pull her down, but she pushes me away. "There's something I need you to tell me first. If you really love me, there's a way you can prove it."

I attempt to hold her. "Come here, this isn't the time to ask questions."

She fights me off. "And why not? You're taking advantage of me and you're hurting me. Otis iinya!"

I let her go and pull myself together. "I'm doing this for you," I pant.

"No." She sits on the sofa breathless, seemingly gasping. "I'm sorry it can't happen this way, please. This is what you wanted all along since you showed up. I know you. This is what you've always wanted since 1980. It's been a mistake and I've tried to resist. But you've always known my weakness. You're too strong, and things have always been done on your terms. I gave in to you in 1988 and had a baby with you so that you could marry me, but you didn't. You haven't asked me about your daughter. You're only after my body. Well. I'm weak and sick, but my body is now for the Lord."

I sigh and meltdown like jelly. "Stop being melodramatic and forgive me."

"Yeah? I know your game. You're always quick to ask for forgiveness. Well, I forgive you. Do you know why I asked you about your marriage?"

"No."

"Hm, it's about my health, I need insurance," she says after a moment's reflection. "I can feel death creeping up on me." She looks up at me. "I know you're not legally married to her, so please do me a special favour, marry me in the church so that you can bury me. I need to die in love, and I need a decent burial as a married woman. You can do that for me if you love me, and I know you do. It's easy; we can marry in a private ceremony. No one will know. Then in two months, I will be dead and you will bury me then you will be free to go on with your life. But you will have proved to me that you love me."

She pulls herself up to her feet and walks away from me. She stops, tosses up her head and gazes at me, a stern look. Her eyes are a cold-cold mystery. "Do you understand?"

I shrug. "Yes."

"Do I make myself clear."

"Uh-huh."

"Uh-huh. Did I insult you?"

"No, no," I say, "not at all, Riana. I understand."

She turns and walks up to me in a near glide. She stands before me and takes my hand and holds in her warm hands, raises it to her check, cocking her head to one side. All the while, her eyes are softly probing mine. "Otis, I'm glad you understand me now. Listen, my condition's hopeless. This is what you must do for me, my love. Tomorrow I'll call my pastor and repent. Then I will arrange the marriage. You can make love to me after you marry me. Then I will die as your wife. Have I been brutally frank? Otis?"

Yes, you have. And I will bury you in love. Tough call, Riana.

#

#  NINETEEN

"Siku Nitakufa...the Day I die, how's it going to be?"

OVERWHELMING the odds, fitting ends

Nothing makes sense. Not Mary-Goretti's herbal teas, not Mama's long prayers, not Angelou's endless text messages. Not Pam's naggings and rantings over the wire and; unequivocally, not Daudi's well-primed emails and hunky-dory words of advice. With Dan back in DreamScape again (this after I helped him get a job at Lakeshore Studio recently), Mary-Goretti and the armoured Tabi gleefully went from elated to exhilarated. Dan was none the wiser for the effort I made in getting him the job. He knew as much as his mother and I knew that my action of securing him the job at Lakeshore was my way of thwarting his hopes and plans of going to Britain.

"I don't know what or who I have to sacrifice that's so-so-so important to my mother and you, uncle, in this town!" bitches Dan.

"Well, unrealistic dreams and the bad boys of Olindas Bar..." I tell him.

"Kondele mischief!" Mary-Goretti spits.

Dan gives his mother a bad look.

"That's not funny," he snaps.

"You have to be a man," his mother tells him.

"Eh?" Dan sneers. "What didn't I do that you didn't love? Boy scout leader, high school head boy, football team captain..."

"Getting a C-minus and lying to your uncle and keeping bad Kondele company!" charges Mary-Goretti.

I feel sorry for Dan that I can't help him with his dream of going to Britain. When I find him in the house I sit with him; we talk, discuss the new job. But Dan is trying to instil upon "his Uncle" to "not just go with the flow" but read the script as is. Our conversation is light; Dan has stuck to his guns and won't stop pestering me to take him to Britain. He hates poverty and hardships his mother is going through, he must go to Britain to make some money and help her. He is working so hard around DreamScape, keeping the place and I'm moved to think he has changed. However, his wily wiles are failing to impress me. And there is a reason. I'm undecided; I don't like seeing Mary-Goretti hurt or to feel the hurt myself.

Mary-Goretti has not stopped rubbing it in that he is my son. But as for trying to warm-warm up to him? No-go. I must keep my distance. I must not give him false hopes.

Ajay Gupta, the Indian developer or broker, comes around with his small party of goofy Indians to try to persuade me to sell DreamScape. It makes no sense; in fact, it makes me realise how much I hate these pesky Kisumu Indians especially after the porn syndicate I busted a few weeks ago.

More things make no sense.

Regina. She has been on my case.

I'm steeling myself for rehearsals to start in a month. And now I'm starting to feel a little sad. I'm not exclusively sure why. Women. I make one mistake and a woman finds out. I only consider Regina as my spiritual guide and nothing more. Apparently, she has taken a bigger bite and now wants to do more than just 'ministering' to me. To the point, she feels she has rights. She engaged me in a bitter beef a few days ago; accused me of driving around town with 'a woman old enough to be her mother'. How on earth she found out, I have no idea. Who told her? Akinyi? Possible. I told Akinyi about Riana and I think I told her about my feelings. I want to honour Riana's last wish, and I don't think that should be a problem to Regina. Riana is sick and dying. If I'm going to bring a new life into the last weeks of her world, she'd at least feel I respect her. She deserves the right to me giving her comfort and happiness.

One thing particularly makes no sense.

Riana. No, I haven't "married her" yet.

There is no rationalising it, no coming to terms. Or is there the coming to terms bit? We've sent each other text messages. She still firmly believes wholeheartedly that she is unsure of her emotions about me. She is simply tripping or what happened between us two weeks ago was due to the two glasses of wine she took. I try to remind her that in the Nyanza Cinema auditorium (where we necked like silly teenagers) she was under no influence and she is silent. She is unsure.

There is yearning to "move on" into another place to leave the warmth of her house and her independence and this world. No, she isn't afraid of dying; she is waiting for it. She has resigned from her job and is now giving out her stuff. I visit her every two days and observe her health deteriorating rapidly. She has lost a half of her weight in two weeks.

Nevertheless, she goes through life as though it is normal. She dresses well, she shops, she visits her hairdresser, and she loves evenings at Kiboko. She loves freedom, and she loves to wine and dine. She loves the freedom of freely waltzing about in her house and does not bother about anyone noticing her and disapproving. When she is hungry and thirsty, she helps herself without care. She makes chapatis at midnight, she wears no underwear and sits with her feet up, and she hangs her underwear in the bathroom.

She doesn't relish the notion of having me around her still. She is not used to it, and she has never tolerated it. There are hazards, so she has packed her love for me and thrown it out of the window. Love is dangerous; it has the danger of stumbling, falling, being banged and hurt and then possibly dumped and destroyed. She makes herself dizzy with woe trying to justify. I have to agree with her. I remind her that we have had sex only a few times in forty years; the first in 1988, the second time in 1991. Surely, she cannot accuse me of batting her in and taking advantage of her. Truth is she has been stuck up and never bent her rules. I was always very understanding, I think. I have to contend with the fact that she is an odd egg. I have given her space. I know she will come around. After how long? She has less than two months to live.

As she continues to deteriorate, she wanders about Kisumu brooding. She goes to her pastor to be prayed for and tells me about it. Then she wants me around her all the time, to drive her around and take her to do shopping. Her hair has all fallen, and she wears caps. She especially loves quiet evenings at DreamScape when she nestles in my arms, and we watch movies. She always falls asleep, purring softly like nyar mbura.

Recently she asked me to accompany her to a funeral home and help her choose a coffin for herself. She wants to be buried in her father's home in Kakamega. She chose a very expensive mahogany design with chrome silver handles and velvet lining. She scared the living daylights out of the attendant and me when she said that she wanted to know how her "new house" would feel like. She took off her shoes, and I helped her climb in. She lay her frail self in the coffin and slowly made herself comfortable in the soft velvet. She pulled the cover shut—as if saying her fate was sealed.

The attendant was freaked. He gasped and tensed, his eyes rolling. Then he quickly made the "cross-the-heart" thing Catholics do of touching forehead, heart, and shoulders. Me, I wasn't so enthused.

As Riana lay in the coffin, I took the attendant to one side. "Is it hers?" he asked trembling.

I nodded. "How much is it?"

"Seventy plus Vat. It's solid Meru oak, not veneer."

"What else goes with it?"

"The complete package? A 14-seater hearse, outfit, lowering gear and catering service for three hundred people."

"Okay, arrange all that plus anything else you might have forgotten and put it on my tab."

The attendant nodded, his beady eyes moistening. He glanced over at Riana's coffin and took out his handkerchief. Riana had opened the top and was sitting up watching us.

"And order a lot of flowers," I added. "And the most expensive photo frame you have."

After another month of many unforgettable get-togethers with Riana, my life picks up when something new seems to be happening.

Still, nothing makes sense, not even the feeble attempts to finally put a band in place and start rehearsals.

At Kisumu Social Centre, I saunter to the front entrance. It is our historical monument from the heydays of the town. I look around surreptitiously. That Sosial encompasses a great deal of real Kisumu is an understatement, this social centre is our very heart and soul here in Kisumu. All the way around the great monumental building, childhood nostalgia and the freewheeling 1970s always make a comeback.

Today I'm doing real business here: rehearsals. The band has bassist Lang'o, KSK, the singer Adidas, soloist Kenge, keyboardist MojaOne and the two charm sisters Ayesha and Pamadi. This is the band.

It is evening time. Voices aplenty are in the hall. I am adding in things, I want a formidable horn section for big band effect: trombone, trumpet, tenor sax, alto sax. Reminds me of Aseela.

The boys and have munched their treats, listened to their music, danced to their music, then settled down to gossip. Typical youth party. Each kid has a uniqueness about him/her; hairstyle, smile, attire, poise. At my home, DreamScape, they sit haphazardly on the sofas in the living room; party music lowly playing in the background; tummies full of fish balls, chips, crisps, sodas, beer. The discussion turns from gossip to 'Truth or Dare.'

Loving and making money are their subjects.

Pamadi is dating some boy named Kevo.

Ayesha likes Kenge and is not ashamed.

Lang'o is in a troublesome affair with a sugar mummy.

Junior loves soccer and is feverishly looking for a loan to buy his own musical equipment.

Orwa MojaOne prefers some chile named Tanya.

Kenge is starting a classy kinyozi on the side. He is the only one who appears sober; who appears as if he knows where he is going. He wears a dark tee-shirt with a skull emblazoned on the front, dark jeans, an earring in one ear—the only one that can be seen. Now he has all his hair and beard dyed white. But he seems nicer looking other than the clothing and hair.

This gang is the perfect vehicle I need for the album, granted. I am contented. They are compliant, docile, accepting. And what have they done in respect to their own compositions? Pamadi has a piece I really love. It is slow and moving with punchy lyrics. It goes like this:

Sleeping soundly

Dreamless sleep at dawn

No thought of deed or misdeed

No fear, no panic, no sorrow, no sadness

The light streaming into the room

From the open blind.

Don't hear no sound

No noise from nearby Kondele night

No honking boda boda

No honking tuk tuk

No honking matatus

Don't hear your call to wake me up

To wake me up to see you and long for you

The alarm clock

I hit the snooze and drop exhausted on my bed

A dream, a wonderful dream.

I'm melting a girl, melting for a man

For a kiss and a hug

She calls it 'New Day'.

I am inspired, and already I'm dreaming this is going to be a real band. Though the boys and girls are comfortable with stripping their soul bare and writing songs based on dreams and personal experiences, they still lack the experience to write good original songs and much as they deny it, hip-hop influence is heavy in their lives. It is a social thing inbred upon them. They can't help it. They are young kids growing up in this globalised world. I still worry about hip-hop being 'seen' or noticed or possibly recognised in what they claim to be Kenyan African songs written in their lop-sided English and Sheng. No, folks, there is nothing wrong with African music. Real Africans still love real homegrown African music.

I am trying to spruce them up and get them to dress a bit decently. However, with changes of hairstyles, hats, specs, and being of a carefree spirit wandering about town, they must look different from the public to get a second glance.

Everything is on me:

Clothes, bedding, foodstuffs.

Brooms, pots/pans/skillets.

Books, magazines, cleaning supplies.

CDs, DVDs, Video recorders, Internet.

Can't really complain, can I? Making good music is expensive, and this is my personal project, isn't it? And don't I have plans to transform them into a band if this project works. Attamaxx isn't supportive of my ideas, and that irks me a little, just a little. I know that Attamaxx of this age isn't really much of a recording studio. I know that JB and Ochieng Kamau these days make their living selling digitally remastering old music in MP3s or MP4s, I am cool with that. But I have had a sneaky suspicion that there is indeed more to it than that.

First of all, they are legally pirates. Secondly, they want to own my project: provide the band, hire songwriters, rehearsal space, label, promotion, marketing, and distribution. I am not cool with that. I have made some sacrifices here in Kisumu to own this project, trading off my own Victoria to KDF and fighting away the likes of Ozidi. Experience tells me that having a good band is a long shot. I've even had to turn my home into a Big Brother Africa house to accommodate these kids. I've had to put up with outlandish habits too. When one of them needs to use the bathroom, they are videotaped doing that, too! Shit happens, and sex happens too! Only I do not know.

One at a time, the Band is secured and reloaded.

Finally, after three weeks, it appears the Band is getting to be in great shape. The songs sound wonderful.

With the band now "composed", I am ready to walk into studio and record. One thing remains, I need some hands of experience. I have Benz, Kasule, and Onyata. I need Ayo and Roki Fela real quick.

In a few days, Ayo and Roki Fela come to Kisumu, and the last pieces of the jigsaw fall into place. Ayo wears shades, tight jeans, and a white top. She has worked hard to try to look pretty and nice looking with an afro wig and large round earrings. We sit down and go through the material together, and there is heavy stripping to be done. Some instruments need to be dropped, some instruments need to be added.

It isn't until we take a break and I throw in a party at Hippo Point to get the youngsters to get acquainted with the old guards that I realise a minor faux pas. Ayo is not well.

"Guys, aren't we supposed to be going back to Kondele?" That's Pamadi.

Ayo looks around. She isn't the one that is supposed to be sick, she says. It was supposed to be Roki Fela who had complained of malaria. The youngsters have no way back, the mini they had hired has not come for them. My truck can only carry Roki Fela and Ayo.

"So," Ayesha muses after a double serving of chocolate/ strawberry malts, "how do we get back to Kondele?"

"No, the party's not over," asserts Pamadi.

I am thinking hard who should be the leader of this team. It's Roki Fela who looks sober and alert.

"Guys, we are here to make music, let's just get busy," drawls Kenge.

Lang'o looks at him, "No, we aren't supposed to be out tootin around in free booze here in Hippo Point in the first place. We have work to do, I need to step inside a studio."

"Perfect," supplies KSK Junior.

Pamadi gives up. "Sawa then." She sits by Ayo and grabs a beer. "Hallo sister."

"Hallo sister."

"Hell, no... they'll think I'm a lesbian. I say sister, you say brother, okay? Hallo sister."

"Hallo brother," Ayo replies.

Ayesha whoops with laughter. "That actually sounds lesbian. Sis, don't tell me you're a faggot!"

"Cut the clowning, ladies," bitches Junior. "Respect Ayo Achieng Massikkinni. Mama yetu."

"Well, anyway," Orwa says changing the subject, "we have a big problem. The minibus broke down on the way. I've just been called."

Lang'o shrugs, "Don't worry about it, we're safe."

"The six of you will fit in the back of my truck," I say. "Can we unwind and hit the road?"

"I need a drink before we leave, guys," says Ayo mirthlessly. She still does not look too good.

Roki and I exchange knowing glances. It's only the two of us who know that when says Ayo says drink, she means hard drink. Spirit, not lager.

Earlier on Roki was jinxed and had a beef to pick with me because of too many songs written for Ayo, but he lets it go after we sorted him out by me allowing him to bring on his compositions. Ayo has a free reign here, and I let her; more significantly, because I want to repeat what we achieved with Wend Osote in 1986. She, on the other hand, feels my guitar part on the songs selected for her are dumpy. I listen to her keenly. She is eating a lot of lemons and drinks hot water, and her voice has improved.

Roki, too, has issues with my solo guitar parts and he strongly feels I should personally play all the lead parts and create a consistent and harmonised old-style 80s feel. I had worked an arrangement where Kenge and Benz were to play the solo guitar parts, and I wanted to play rhythm and mi-solo.

In the last two years of my music business in the late 80s and early 90s, many people saw my guitar role as mi-solo because I liked to use many different soloists, to the point the mi referred to the range of my playing. Lower in the ranks, we usually had the resident rhythm guitar (Roga Roga), and under that, the bass (G-Chord), above the mi-solo was the solo (mostly Benz). But usually, my guitar part was the free part.

On this project, however, Ayo and Roki Fela insist that solo guitar should be the very basis of the album, so seemingly not really free at all. My riff is what the whole project should be built on.

I disagree. I want variety. In the chequered past, I always wanted variety. I used Bookerlose of Super Mazembe and other soloists. I did this several times in my career, for instance on Tiacha! Album in late 1986, I employed expatriate Zairean guitarists.

Nevertheless, they may be right. In respect of this recording, the tune people want to hear is most certainly mine. People will want to hear the subtle variations I play in the excruciating riffs. The effect worked magic in 'There's No Mathematics In Love.' Nevertheless, it is very, very easy to miss how wonderfully I do that. People who know my music know my well-defined hard plucking; they love the melodic ring of my style.

In the 80s, my music was best heard in the stereo mix, because in mono it was even harder to take notice. I remember the VOK deejays telling listeners to play our music in stereo! "Just for once," they used to say, "ignore everything else and concentrate on listening all the way through to the guitar that you hear from the intro to the climax."

We are working through it, and on the fifth night Ayo gets up, tells me she is not feeling well and excuses herself. The two of them are staying at DreamScape. We work with Roki throughout the night.

The next morning we all sleep late and when Roki and I finally go to her room to wake her up. There is a change in her. I know she is tripping. Drugs (that evil folly of musicians of all ages) are hard to shake off.

The strong fragrance of something atrocious fills her room. It is familiar, very familiar. It is warm, and the air is scented with the familiar "odor." The odor is marijuana, hemp, hash, njaga, nyasore. Slowly Ayo opens her eyes. She is no longer the same person; she is visibly sick, and she is shivering and has a running nose. She wants me to book her for pap smear. She is bleeding, she says.

She attempts to giggle; she farts. More giggling follows. She takes some time to adjust herself, turns herself inside her blanket. I can see her mind is not her own; neither is her body.

We take her to hospital, and she is admitted. A few days later, she is discharged, but her condition is no better. I do the right thing and call her family. Her two sisters Judith and Adega come, and I bungle them with the responsibility of caring for their sister. Then I put my teeth on polishing the pre-recording material and Roki, and I are now joined by Benz, Kenge, Lang'o, Onyata, Kasule, and the others. We are working like nerds as Ayo sleeps through her illness. Her bleeding has stopped and she is weak and drained from losing two pints of blood.

A week later, just when she appears to be pulling through, she tips over. I come home one evening and find Judith in a foul mood. I know something is wrong. Judith speaks without looking at me; she talks nonchalantly in a low voice as she takes the dry laundry from the line. "She went to her room a couple of hours ago. I haven't heard her crying or complaining since, but she has refused to eat. Everything was quiet in her room when I put the sheets in the linen closet one hour ago, but she is apparently not asleep. Unless she's learned not to snore."

"What's the matter then?" I ask.

Judith looks at me with red eyes. "I fear, Baba Okello. I have a bad feeling."

The words sound as if they have been lifted from a sitcom or a Nigerian movie. I opt to ignore and not argue with her. I have better things to worry about than just "bad feeling."

Anyway being a bitch and grumpy is part of the attitude with women, but if anyone can survive around my pride of life and well, hard-boiled music, it's Ayo. I want her to be well soon, her voice must be in the recording.

Judith glances at the direction of Ayo's room. "She's too busy with her guy," she surmises as she begins folding the bed sheets. They had started referring to the liquor in the house as "Ayo's guy." She has drunk more than half of my stock.

Adega, who resembles Ayo more but with a bigger frame, joins us. She has a few polite words of greeting, gives me a big, warm, motherly hug. Then her opinion. "Her sickness is over. She will live now. Very long, I might add. Mum wants to take her away for a few months." She bends and helps her sister fold the bed sheets. "Listen, I didn't know you'd be here so early, we're just starting to cook now. You're working so hard, I want Achieng to be well soon and help you with your songs."

Adega is very concerned and easily blown over by emotions. Judith holds her when she starts to rise. "Adega... tafadhali usili. Tafdhali. I... well, I mean... oh, good grief. Why am I at a loss for words? Okello called to thank his father here." She looks at me. "For taking care of his mum. Thanks, Baba Okello."

Adega calms down, and together they carry the two laundry baskets into the house. I follow them awkwardly. Judith looks back at me, winks and nods. As she turns the corner in the kitchen, she wipes her eyes. Adega echoes the action as she turns and heads towards the guest rooms. I hear her scream. I rush towards the guest room. Ayo's door is open. The bitch is lying face down on the hall floor, unconscious, with her feet just inside her doorway. She is stark naked. An almost empty bottle of Vodka lies beside her, its neck in her loose grip. That does not validate Judith's fears.

It surprises me. Ayo is a heavy drinker, drinks like a man, and I have never seen her pass out. Judith wouldn't be astonished to learn the bitch normally drinks straight from the bottle and hardly gets drunk, she can go a whole night. If she'd been using grass, I might have concluded she tripped. That might be a problem. She'd have probably gone down in a controlled fall, knees first and then toppling forward because none of the remaining ounce or so of Vodka had sloshed out of the bottle. Trust the booze-addled Dandora bitch to take care of her beloved liquor first. Her booze is far more precious to her than her kids.

She collapsed!

The two sisters grab their older sister, carry her into the room and place her on the bed. They cover her up and sit down to whine and sob. I ransack the room and remove a four-ounce squeeze bottle of liquor from its hiding place in the closet.

Ayo is breathing in shallow gasps, grunting slightly as she exhales. She stinks of the vomit on her bed, its stains fouling parts of her bed cover. Her eyes are partially open, one showing parts of the iris and the other all white. Judith, sitting on the edge of the bed, probably knows she should feel pity for the wretched drinker she calls her sister. I can even feel her overwhelming hatred. Unlike Adega, all of her emotions have evaporated into a dark hole of cold indifference.

Adega, on the other hand, is deeply moved. She is beside herself with grief as she pries off the dirty bed cover and covers Ayo with a clean one. After tucking her in, she picks up the soiled bed cover and bed sheets and takes them to the bathroom. I follow her. A half-empty bottle sits atop the lid of the bidet. Ayo had put it there when she vomited. She had not flushed the toilet afterward. Adega pours the remainder of the Vodka into the bowl and pulls down the handle.

She turns to look at me with foggy eyes. I catch a thought. It isn't a panicked thought. She is calm, orderly, fast, analytical, and thorough. The look takes less than a second. But I'm able to fully decipher it to ascertain the peculiarities of the mind of the woman. She and Ayo have a strange connection.

"They are twins," Judith says as if reading my thoughts.

Well, of course. But there is something more.

Silence.

Later, when Judith and I leave Ayo's room, Adega stays.

I try to work on a song, but I cannot think straight. There's an eerie silence I don't care for. It is as if something terrible is about to happen. This rankles me deep into my bones, and it demands I should only think of the worst, death. Other things are normal. Roki comes drunk with a woman and disappears into his room, leaving me to pay the taxi. Judith sits down to watch telly and is soon absorbed into her soap. Dan comes late fumbling with excuses for working late. I become annoyed.

Smashed.

And speaking of Dan—

For a few days, Dan's predicament subtly infuses into my mind, and his unquenchable desire to go to Britain has made him sell his soul. He is frantically looking for openings that are available online.

Then, two days later, things worsen. Ayo trips and her condition worsens. I had seen some of her bad trips before—but this one is dangerous! Again, as before, I flounder helplessly in an upset raging and call an ambulance and take her to Russia in the midnight hour. She clutches my arm in a strong grip and says, "You've done your best, Dino. You have work to do. Me, let me go and rest."

It is too real to be a dream. Ayo is speaking so loud it scares me. "Let Pamadi sing my songs in my funeral. Siku Nitakufa."

Famous last words.

Adega removes her glasses and scarf. "What's she saying?"

There are people in the private wardroom: Okello and another man-boy I don't know (who is introduced as Mark, Ayo's eldest son), and Jacklynn Akinyi, Ayo's daughter, and her daughter, a cute four-year-old who made Ayo a grandmother. And other family members. Sniffy nosed mamas and frail-looking men. Family. The two brothers Mark and Okello don't know what to do for their mother; they don't get along, but it isn't for egos, neither is it due to the fact that Mark is about six years older, but for the simple fact that Okello is my son and the family's primary interest. And Mark (though older than Okello) has not done much with his life while Okello is studying law and is Ayo's favourite!

Okello tells me how determined he is to do anything and everything in his power to save his mom's life. Well...

Ayo gets into a fit and throws everybody into a tizzy. Cries and prayers erupt. Her two sisters together with Ayesha and Pamadi wrestle her; restrain her. She calms down and starts murmuring. Her eyes flicker open, wide enough for her to recognise her three children (and call them by their names). Her eyes glibly sum her family members around her and three church members, including a pastor who is droning endlessly in prayer. It comes to me: we're staring death in the face. Ayo darts her eyes rapidly around and it appears she is not so much "at odds" with herself but more with the surroundings. She is in unfamiliar surroundings and barely can make sense of anything.

"There is no music to speak of here in this place," she says suddenly. "I'm seeing dark old men and wooden things, but no music. No music! It's so cold here!"

It hits me.

IT HITS US!

Ayo is dying.

Dying as we watch. Curiously I wonder if times passes at all within—within—within wherever the hell she is. Her eyes are wide open, looking straight up, glued to the ceiling and we can all see she has assumed some sort of Transition. Her eyes see not a thing that we can see, only what she can see. A ghastly rustle in the sheets and I see her twitching, we hear a warbling from a distance. Everyone, including the droning pastor, falls silent. We see her getting taut, jerking. It's so grisly everyone moves back, takes quick steps back, retreats to watch from a distance. No one says a word, no one breathes, no one cries.

We are all held as we watch this woman take her last breathe. Then she is singing. At first, I don't believe it. She sings 'Siku Nitakufa' from her 1989 Dawn of A New Era album.

The Day I die, how's it going to be?

How is it going to feel like to die?

Fleeing away from this life to another life?

Where will I go? How will it feel like dying?

Am I just going to walk away from my body

She is singing, stumbles on the lyrics, and starts crying. A low guttural sob, sometimes a whimper. She stops. Time stops. Everything stops. The last breath leaves her voice lingering in the air.

And I know (as everybody else in the room) that she is dying. My mind is a whirl.

She is dying!

Her hand reaches gruesomely out for someone to hold it. There is a ghastly gasping, she gives sudden hoots, something like a groan or a muffled scream, sucks in air throatily, a long shrill scream. She jerks once and stays still.

She stays still, her eyes staring.

She dies singing. She dies crying. She dies talking and crying! I'm dizzy... and nauseous. My ears throb, my veins pop. Distorted images run across the screen of my mind... my favourite moments with Ayo are rapidly replayed... European tour, smoking weed on lonely nights sitting in a room with my Ayo. Now I see a beautiful woman; almost cartoonish. She appears above me like an angel; concern in her eyes. She must be here to guide me to the next life...

Ayo had bought herself a small farm in Kitale and built a neat three bedroom bungalow. We bring her here one week later to be buried. All the remaining members of Victoria and KDF are in attendance: Mo Thwaka, Roki, Benz, Kasule, Onyata. It is a given. The band gets ready to play.

After Okello reads a moving eulogy, written by me, we play 'Siku Nitakufa' amid tears. We play it soulfully, plaintive and moving as it is. Pamadi gives a spirited interpretation of the song Ayo recorded more than twenty years ago to celebrate death.

The Day I die, how's it going to be?

How is it going to feel like to die?

Fleeing away from this life to another life?

Where will I go? How will it feel like dying?

Am I just going to walk away from my body

And watch my two boys Mariko and Okello

And my mum

And Otis Dundos and my fans and all those who love me

To sleep the big sleep waiting for the Day of the Lord

Till that day Jesus Christ come for me.

To awaken me with trumpets of fire and the angels

Am I going to be lying there dead and rotting

And feeling sorry, feeling lonely, alone and lonely

Like a carcass to a feast for vultures

Like forgotten carrion, mangy tricks, maggots

The coffin will hold me, will be my bed

The grave is this the castle where

I'm going to sleep out all my days and get rest?

To sleep the big sleep waiting for the Day of the Lord

Till that day Jesus Christ come for me.

To awaken me with trumpets of fire and the angels

I have gone the way of the earth,

My atonement fulfilled.

When your tears have dried

And you look up at the sky,

Allow yourself to smile when you think of me,

I am free, free, free at last.

Though I have departed my physical vehicle,

Know that my soul; timeless, boundless and eternal;

Soars joyfully among the stars.

RIP. Ayo Achieng Massikkinni. 1964 – 2009. Singer, painter, musician, mother. Hard working African woman. Thanks fora dear life, many battles brilliantly won. I mean it if I say to you I have lost a friend.

For some reason tonight I am tired; very tired, even though I've done nothing all day except sit down on the chair and ponder. Ayo's passing has brought a dark cloud over things. I have shelved the recording, scuttled the project and disbanded. Roki has gone back to Nairobi, the other new musicians are scattered, but they keep calling me to know when we can regroup. Ayesha, in particular, has been very persuasive. I understand this is their career; I know how this is important to them.

Nevertheless, Ayo was invaluable to me. I am surprised by how her passing has affected me. I mean she came from Nairobi to participate and accompany me on the recordings, not to die.

Ayo was very much part of Victoria. We had been together right from the beginning. It's as if her passing signals the very end of Victoria, perhaps the very end of my musical career. Ayo was weird, no doubt. Sex was her was more practical than intimate. There were more weird peculiarities like smoking pot, fingering stuff not hers, her love of art and music... hers was a loaded journey in this life. But she was still a good friend regardless. As a true artist, she was not in the weirdness tango by choice. She was having regular sex with me and other men; a lesbo tryst with her Nairobi friends, and then there were some incidences of abortions, being caught and charged in court with 'being in possession'. Little incidences...

Ours is a small story.

Perhaps it is time to write my memoir.

We released only ten albums, and perhaps our biggest event was our tour of Europe, which we never replicated again. We never did a song for the President. Looking back, I think I hustled a lot, but in the end, I am grateful I survived. After all, for a kid from Pandpieri, I think life rewarded me a lot. I made my name, and Kisumu made me their own.

The benefits of musical talent can make you great and dine with kings and mighty men. What perks came with my being rich? In Kenya, I am proud to have made my millions on stage like sportsmen. I created soulful love songs, I wrote songs about politicians and business people, I recorded educative songs. I discussed issues affecting ordinary poor people in most of my songs. I recorded a political song. Music pop journalists loved us, gave me the publicity I deserved. I made a name.

Ayo made me do it.

Together with massive grassroots support and a handful of well-received VOK radio sessions, Victoria's ubiquity in the music papers helped our LPs enter the tops of charts. In the February 1985 issue of Men Only, the editor declared our debut album Lake Victoria Breeze to be more than "a complete signal post in the history of popular music". It was this sort of comment that drew accusations of arrogance from sections of the pop press. Yet Lake Victoria Breeze was a genuinely revolutionary record, which, in one brilliant stroke, revitalised Kisumu guitar music and reshaped Urban Benga as the new pop lexicon. The album was largely regarded as one of the year's most promising releases.

Throughout 1985 and 1986 before the European Tour, Victoria maintained a ticklish presence in the charts, scoring two Top 20 hits with 'Anyango Nyar Nam' and 'Unanichoma Ndani Ya Roho'. But when both songs found themselves in the Attamaxx compilation LP Funga Virago, released in '86, alongside radio versions of the album tracks on B-side, there was speculation about Victoria's apparent musical stagnation. Moreover, my introspection and the prevailing sense of self-doubt had begun to wear thin, while over-exposure in the pop press and on television threatened to turn my carefully cultivated pop persona into something of an irritation.

My imperfections? I wasn't the most perfect bandleader. I was the bandleader who could not keep his musicians, lost all but myself. I never had any inner circle. The closest people I could rely on Tégé, Biggy, Mo, and Ayo, the people who made me, I screwed them all. I see myself now as a self-loving cold-hearted opportunist. I didn't preach love and unity; I showed competition and selfishness. I never held the band together, and my musicians wanted to be like me. I failed to offer an inspiring, dependable role model. Instead, I showed them to be selfish jerks. That was why they all wanted to be stars. That was why they left me at the earliest opportunity. Yet since they were not leaders of bands, they kept failing and kept trying to find their way back to me. Back into the bosom of the cruel, selfish, greedy, bad-hearted leader. Yeah, they wanted to be like me. However, since they couldn't be like me, they failed and died or wasted away.

I should have known it that I had a duty to keep this band together and build an institution... a school like Grand Kallé. I should have adopted Franco's On Entre OK On Sort KO mantra and kept the door of Victoria open instead of being so damned mean-gutted and I could have kept my team together and given my musicians life and an opportunity to grow the way Franco created room for growth in OK Jazz. Rebellions are normal in any band and mine shouldn't have threatened me. I shouldn't have taken so personally the rebellions of men like KSK when I well knew they were going nowhere. I should have persuaded them to stay, invited them back, and offered better incentives instead of keeping the door shut for them.

I shouldn't have broken up with Uncle, who was our manager. What was my problem? It was my band, and he wasn't a threat. Besides, he was family and, being my uncle, it was natural for him to be so damned domineering. Why did I want so much freedom? I was always a loner and a solo voyager and was used to doing things my way. Working alone was my forte, so I should have made an adjustment and let somebody else be the bandleader. Oh yeah, since KSK, who was my deputy, was so ambitious to be a bandleader, I should have let him be, why not? Contain him the way Franco contained Simaro by making him the vice president of OK Jazz to exploit his leadership and songwriting talents. KSK was well educated and had class. His presence in the band gave Victoria class and status because he was handsome, well-spoken, well-read and always well-dressed. He was so visible. I was so damned selfish I didn't let my musicians exercise the freedom they yearned for as artists. I was only interested in what I was gaining from them personally.

I look with deep sadness at the careers of Ayo, Tégé, Biggy, Mo, KSK, Benz, Mawazo, Mzee Frank, Aseela, Agwenge, Roki, Ojua Kali Man, Roga Roga, G-Chord, Zadios... all of the men and women who accompanied me on my musical journey. These were human beings with needs and whose destinies were upon my shoulders. My own selfishness wrecked the band and robbed Kisumu of a great artistic legacy. Why didn't I study the example of Franco who, despite being as greedy as I was a bamaster ba monarchy, kept his team and built a great orchestra that churned great hits that swayed the African continent for thirty years.

My mind plays a more colourful vista of our times together as a band with Ayo in our midst. One particular event comes to the fore. We had just finished the European Tour and there were peanut issues among the band members that the press was cashing on for a story. A sniffy journalist was engaging us with leading questions regarding rumours of impending fall-outs and defections.

Rumours were ripe that Ayo was leaving the band. Tégé Zoba had said, "Ayo is part and parcel of Victoria."

And Flavien had said, "Ayo is with us for life."

Then Ayo said, "The day I die, Victoria will sing songs at my funeral."

At that time, Ayo was pregnant with Okello.

Suddenly I feel so empty inside I long for salvation. I long for Jesus Christ and the Biblical realities that sweet Regina has been giving me now make elephant sense. I want to be a good person. I guess we've all reached there; a time you find you've lived such a long and empty life that the only thing that makes sense is religion. A time your heart yearns for truth and goodness. Not really a religion, Christianity. The time you edge up and pick up the Holy Bible. Now I long for the goodness and the glory of God in my SDA upbringing.

While I have been lost in my grieving, Dan has been "keeping the family warm". Unknown to me, he badly needs money to take Tabi out but he doesn't know how to ask me because he knows I will turn him down. I have frequently told him to plan with his money and live within his means, but Dan is a showy kid who loves good clothes and all the standards props adorned by the youth of his age: a good smartphone, perfume, wallet, etc. To cover it all, he has to impress Tabi, who he takes out every weekend.

One Friday afternoon while I am lying in bed, he comes into my bedroom and asks for money.

"I don't have," I tell him. "I need some peace now, and I need to sleep."

"Perfect," he says unrelentingly. Then he stalked out, his back stiff and vibrating with energy like a plucked guitar string. About six hours later, I receive a call from the police to go and identify a body.

About six hours later, I receive a call from the police to go and identify a body.

I wake up cursing and take my truck all the way to Usoma. It's from Dan! I feel a deep pain in the pit of my stomach. I blink my eyes wanting to wake up from this nightmare. I see him lying prone to the ground and I recognise him not from his red shirt but from his bulky physique. That is about it. A horrible buzzing sound persists incessantly in my ears. Huge black swirls intermix with brilliant flashes of bright greenish lights exploding in my head.

But I am calm; I follow the cops down a path on the steep cliff to the rocky shore below.

They have been told I'm the father, so they let me touch my boy, turn my boy around. In his mouth, it is as if he had attempted to swallow sand. It's as if he wanted to choke, to vomit, to roll his tongue about his mouth, but that wasn't happening either. His tongue hangs out long and weird-like.

The tips of my fingers tingle, and not a good tingle; it is akin to an acute electrical jolt. The rest of his body isn't hurt. I flip him over and make him lie still; it is about all I can do.

Eventually, though, the roaring piercing noise in my ears and head clear. A gratifying breeze sweeps over me. I feel the pressure that had been weighing me down leaves me, and I can, at last, take a deep breath. Afterward, I feel tears rolling down my cheeks. My only worry is what this will do to Mary-Goretti.

I examine Dan more. His neck is broken, and his eyes are staring. It's as if the moment his life ebbed away with the lake surging into his body and pushing him onto the small beach, his eyes fell upon something shimmering in the morning light.

I can't breathe, I can't think.

I want to treat this as a murder, and I examine him for any clues. I can see a pair of common soldier identity tags hanging on the rock wall near his head. Squinting, I read the name as a surge of foamy waters jingles them around, turning them just so: Tabitha A. Omino.

A chill runs through my busted body; a thunderous noise fills my head as darkness clouds my eyes. Could it be Dan was murdered? How did he fall down here? And where is Tabi? Whatever the case, Dan's asleep... forever. He isn't going to pester me to take him to Britain again, and he isn't going to make Monday morning formation, either. That's a bit of bad thing right there...

I throw up. Dizziness abounds, and I begin to retch. I fall and claw my way about in high disorientation. Uncontrollable retchings, heavings, etc. My mind goes into a whir and a blur, and I slump to the ground.

Dan is pulled up and taken to Russia mortuary. Another week of mourning and funeral preparations sweep me over, and the expenses eat massively on my account. Tabi is inconsolable; Mary-Goretti is taken ill for two days. I don't know what they give her in the hospital, but when she comes out, she is a zombie. Three days after the funeral, I gather bits and pieces. Tabitha never saw Dan that evening, and she has alibis. She was at her father's house waiting, waited the whole night. It is learned from call logs and texts on Dan's phone that some Joe or Jojo would come along and give him a ride.

The next day I am thinking of hiring a private investigator to find out who murdered my son. I get a phone call that chills my blood.

Fortune Man.

The presence of him comes upon me, I know almost instantly it is someone foreboding—evil. Frozen in fear or some other paralysis, I can only stand while the evil caresses me, runs his vile fingers through me.

"You did it. If you don't use the powers after three months, they will kill you. Now you can make your millions and pay me."

I recall Fortune Man had cast a spell on a thousand shilling note, which I was to give my son to make the sacrifice. I hastily check my wallet.

The note is missing.

A brief think-over, and everything makes sense. Dan had stolen the note from where I had hidden it in my wallet to take Tabi out! I remember I had no other money in my wallet; I had hidden the note in my wallet among business cards, small pieces of paper, and credit cards. How did Dan find it?

A strange feeling overcomes me, my vision blurs, and I develop a sharp piercing headache. I sling my head and feel like I'm going to vomit. I rush into my bedroom, shut and lock the door, double locking it. I slide down the door and weep.

I am deathly ill. I am dizzy, and I'm falling apart. I can barely hear, hardly walk. I have been drained and filled and drained and filled and drained. There is only horrendous pain seething throughout my body. I heave, retch, and feel as if a million tiny pinpricks are pricking me. Even my teeth and hair hurt!

Days roll by. I'm feverish at most times, then freezing and clammy. I am feeling blazingly feverish and battling a headache one evening when Mzee Okwach knocks on my bedroom to tell me that I have a visitor. Regina walks in.

"Mr. Otieno?"

"Help me," is all I can say.

I am cold, half-naked, sweating. She drops her bag down on the floor and quickly pulls the bedcover over me. "What do I do? What can I do?"

"I-I can't move, I'm sick, very sick."

Regina stares at me, cocking her head. "Huh?" She feels my temple. "What's the problem?"

"Please! I want to be alone; I think you need to leave me alone."

She stands there looking at me with worried eyes. She is nervously trying not to appear so. Her eyes dart around. The room is large, desk, double bed, bedside tables with lamps, full-length wardrobe wall, bathroom, couch. She sits on the couch and places her face in her hands. "So, how am I supposed to leave you like this? What am I supposed to do? My mum's sick and here you are sick too. What's happening to me?"

And she bursts into tears. And as she cries, she prays.

"Then come here beside me and help me go to sleep."

She scrambles up from her sitting place and moves to the bedside without hesitation.

She looks confused, blinks her eyes, and becomes nervous. "Sir, it's not right for me to..."

"Just do it, I think I need you to stay with me a bit. I think you will help me."

"Help you? I don't understand."

"Don't argue, just lie here next to me and give me warmth."

"Okay."

She looks forlorn for a moment, frowns. Then she pulls her sweater tightly around her, kicks off her shoes, and lies next to me. Oh, sister, oh brother. I know it sounds hokey (and it is), but the REAL adventure of Otis Dundos is just beginning. I have to die for real now. Evil walks among us—he has a name (no, not that one).

Fortune Man.

#

#  TWENTY

There's being in trouble and then there is

BEING IN TROUBLE!

CONSEQUENCES and other flubs

It's January, and I can't believe it's almost one year since I came back to Kisumu. Life is still screwy. I'm still mulled over the past two month's unfortunate events. There's no syncopation. Nothing makes sense still. Not even a chance at redemption offered by Regina. I have been thoroughly chewed and spat out. I feel that from the moment I stepped into Kisumu, I was thrown into a nightmare of intrigue, frustrations, and stark terror.

I worry and worry and worry.

I am placed in a dilemma ten-fold. I know that my world is heading down a perilous road to destruction and death, biological obliteration, even. There is danger. Mania, Depression, and the like are just headings on the outline of my flummoxed mindset. I think I've mentioned my ego. Yeah, my damn blasted Ego. You probably summed me up as an egotistical fellow. Granted, I am a delusional egomaniac... self-absorbed, disconnected... bossy, impatient, stubborn. But now, after the past year's bashing, I have anger, desperation, and frustration, all cemented together with vicissitudes of fate. I am not in control and it drives me nuts. I have no sense of what is real, no self-confidence.

I thirst for humility. I pant for it. To be a good man.

The Dark Side is the ticket, or is it? I am still trying to figure myself; an outlier Christian, with ego and baggage. Baggage? I had long teetered on the see-saw of pursuing my Dark Side. I had staved off engaging in wickedness, now look at the price.

There are perils there, too; unknown as well as those that I have already experienced. But I'm not sure; the deal with the Devil Factor in Dan's death has been quite the turning point. So how does that compare to the realism of actually trading my son's soul for fame and fortune?

I am engulfed with apprehension; of course, furthering my pursuit into the dark domain of wickedness moving into an uncertain future. I'm traipsing on the unknown ground—albeit it is enticing. Seeing how well the Devil's system works through men like Fortune Man, I am highly enthused into "traipsing" into unknown territory. To do what? Be the Devil slayer?

Mama Iva, the enchanting witch who put me into this Sin in 1982 said, "Do it just once. Maybe twice. Depends."

Then what happens after you get fame and fortune? Run? Live with the guilt? Perish?

It depends on the benefits it can bring. Right now, I do not want this benefit. Once you make a pact with the Devil, you can't go back. You can't undo it, you're rutted in, and it gets from bad to worse until it lastly consumes you. Is Dan's death a prelude, a preview of what is to come?

I am mired in a sea of turmoil.

I am in trouble. Folks, you know, there's being in trouble and then there is BEING IN TROUBLE!

So it comes to pass that I have to encounter Mary-Goretti in this January. And I'm in a funk, my mood borderline. I visit her at her drab room in Ondiek. It is drizzling slightly outside, and the air is warm with humidity.

She says not a word; she sits still slinging her head side to side. She has a bad fever, but she has yet to stop grieving and come to her senses. She is still dazed and confused, and I don't feel quite right about her; there's something sinister brewing. Her confusion, though, reigns supreme and disables her abilities to comprehend her situation. There are some women with her, and they are in just about the same frame of being; paralysed with confusion. Discombobulation riddles my mind too. There are also many images to make sense of, and it seems as if what Mary-Goretti and I are both experiencing is a dream. But it isn't a dream.

Her friends get up one by one and leave. We are alone.

Her famous herbal tea, which has always been my favourite, somehow tastes bland. She stares at me with an expressionless face as she gathers her thoughts of the past few months.

She is slowly expressing to me how much she regrets her decision of revealing to me that Dan was my son. But now she cannot help it. Had she not made that revelation to me, Dan wouldn't have died. Her Legio Maria seer told her that I am an abomination. A walking, living sin that will burn in hell. She can't have anything more to do with me, or she will burn too.

Hearing her talk, her weary, broken, and tired voice makes my heart ache with pity, and I feel awful. I feel deeply for her. What can I do? She was just trying to help her son gain mileage in his future life, and she reckoned she could trust me with my son. Her Legio Maria seer is dead-right.

She believes Dan found one of those 'doorways' into the New Heaven. Being the curious and superstitious type and all, she is convinced Dan was a sinless soul that stepped through the gates of judgement, and whoever killed him will carry the burden of his sins.

For this, she is suffering. When Agwenge was sick and near death, they had a long talk, and she ended up convincing him that whatever happened, she will always be his wife. She will bring up Dan, and she will never change her marital status. Dan will grow and will always be there for her, take care of her in old age, and bury her one day when she gives up the ghost. After Agwenge's death, her family wanted her to leave my family and re-marry. She had promised Agwenge that she would be married to him even in death. Her bizarre choices left her family with shock. They left her alone with not as much as a pleading. They turned their backs on her, never helped her one single time through the years she struggled to bring up her son. She remained focused on educating her son so that he will take care of her in old age.

I am filled with sorrow. I put myself in Mary-Goretti's position. Her choice was unexpected and remain unacceptable to me. She needs to wake up from the stupid pact she made with her husband and emancipate herself from that vow. Agwenge was always jealous and emotionally unstable, but why did he have to tie this poor woman down in a dead marriage, even when she had the choice to move on and rebuild her life. Before anything else, I want to talk to her, to tell her that it's not too late to start a new life. Or else she will worry herself to death in this hell-hole here in Ondiek. Even more surprising is the fact that the rest of her family didn't support her during Dan's funeral because of the decision she made.

"I am right, am I?" she says.

I shake my head. "I want you to move on, Mary-Go. No matter how hard it is. Get a life. Dan is dead, so is Agwenge. You're on your own now. Move on."

She lifts her head and looks at me for the first time. "You loved me once, Didi. Is this the way you think you can help me? Just give me the money I need to complete my husband's house."

There are still some issues, too, Dan is not dead: Tabi is pregnant. I don't understand. Oh, wait a minute. I get what it means, hey! Wait! What? WHAT? This is a new issue for me.

"You're so much still part of us," she states (in reference to the Tabi's pregnancy. I am going to be a grandfather).

"Perhaps," I reply.

"You have to care for your daughter-in-law now, Didi."

I recant my earlier decision to exorcise Agwenge's ghost out of her. This new development can be more advantageous. "It just seems that with such a new development I may help you with the money after all and you may forgive me."

"I know, it couldn't have been more shocking, but it will make things better between you and me."

My eyes wander. There is a confusion that is inner-mixed with the awkward position she is putting me in. Is there any proof? And has she verified the truth? Isn't Tabi embroidering some lie?

"Didi, it wasn't exactly pre-planned—or planned at all."

"I suppose it wasn't, Mary-Go...," (big sigh). "Have you confirmed? Tabi could be lying to rip me off."

"Well, hardly. I have confirmed it, I have my ways."

Yeah, I know. The Legio Maria seer confirmed it! I know. Superstitions. Perversions.

Blimey!

"I can understand."

And I can't believe this crazy bullshit is being given to me. Piqued and vexed by that first incident (by accident) in which I learned about Tabi's explicit role in Ozidi's porn ring (by her own admission), and after she peddled information to have me assist her in relocating to Britain, I had been on a whirlwind adventure ever since. I canNOT, for one blinking moment, trust the girl. She is a gold digger, and she's trying to be smart and obviously Mary-Goretti (desperate to preserve her lineage) has fallen for her jive.

"And now you have to accept our grandchild, Didi," Mary-Goretti says with a little "I'm still pissed at you" sneer.

"The unborn child will make things right for you?" I ask.

"Will make me forget," she almost scoffs.

Well. I still cannot believe I'm even considering this. "Is that a guarantee? Will you finally forgive me?"

"No, not exactly. I don't want any chance of remembering what trouble you put me through. That I trusted you with my son, and you let me down. I have this against you, Didi. The only way to give me peace and hope is to help Tabi bring forth our grandchild. Then I will forgive you."

Obviously, she has issues. She turns away, tosses up her hands in resignation. She sighs tiredly. "That's the deal, Didi," she says, sounding long-sufferingly affectionate. "You just have to forgive yourself in the meantime."

My mind is already blitzed, and upon hearing the remark forgive yourself, I go further into oblivion.

It comes back, the remorse. After suffering severe smackdowns I feel cloudy, confused, detached, and want to go this time. I am convinced.

Next stop, the lake. To penance.

To Dunga, or thereabouts. Some remote shoreline beach. I move on. I am barefooted and as I move, I take off my shirt, throw it away.

Carefully I pick my way along suddenly emerging into an open scene. Behind me is some extensive bushland with trees. Before me, and side to side is a vast expanse of meadows and pastures. Cattle graze listlessly in the roadside pastures. Ducks fly up from the meadows. The shoreline land has no homes about. The landscape is not exactly 'flat'; it dips and stumbles towards the lake nearby. It is rustic, very "in the country", and semi countryside. Case in point, a flock of tittering children herding their cattle in a shady area with a grassy knoll as a backdrop, wild flowers aplenty.

It is another warm January day. The voice of reason calls out as I trudge and stumble to the unknown-unseen. "Repent your sins first." I don't know how, it seems strange, very strange. I am no longer 'walking' per se, just 'moving.' It is weird and totally unexplainable. It is effortless. I have no direction, but I think I have a place in mind. I probably could 'appear' there very easily.

So, without direction, my movements are aimless.

Psychosis. I am a depressed artist. Delusional. Frightened so bad that my mind has gone into overload and into the red with dredges of all kinds of goofy shit. Nearly 99% of suicidal deviancy surmount me. I don't believe myself to be a suicidal deviant, a small list of minor indiscretions; surely, don't mar me into a life of incredulous penance?

I believe that when it dawned on me that I will not play again, with music bubbling in my head fighting for an outlet, I had gone over the edge in Britain and had spent some six months in a psychiatrist hospital due to severe depression, and I had escaped going completely over the edge and was treated. But in so going over the edge somewhere by the rocky beach in one of my songs, I had tripped and fallen clunking my head and; thusly, ensuing the long enduring trek I am in. Sounds odd to me! Sounds like a common destiny for artists.

Of course, there are those other things that could be true, too, somehow. Somehow I have come to the stark truth that my journey here has ended, and I must leave, go to some place to rest, Limbo or Purgatory, whatever. Some other quiet place. My mind is dredging up all the people I know, all who died and now beckon me. I am reminded time and again about all the horrible things I did. All the deaths I caused.

But this is just a hellacious push, I guess.

I have come to a new awareness.

Bright day it is. Bright sunlight.

Not really warm, bright.

A natural path goes over the field of green grass and green herbs and meanders through the grass. In the 1970s we had forests of deep banana and bamboo on these shores. I have a lingering thought about what it took to clear the banana trees on a more foreboding recollection. Not overly or subjectively spooky recollection, but dark thought kind of along the lines of dark ominous. Though the green bananas on the shores seemed inasmuch as any other bananas, (green, sweet and thick) they seemed to be somewhat lifeless.

Giant ferns and odundu reeds are rampant everywhere. I find a path leading to the shoreline. Seeing no one about, I move away from the shelter/enclosure. I squeeze in shoving aside the odundu reeds. The shore is near. There is suddenly the scent of water. Moreover, I can hear the lake. I can hear the gentle sucking of waves, I can smell Lake Victoria. The air is overly scented with unpleasant odours that not only offend the nostrils but cringe the eyes, too. Mosquitoes, buzzing flies, bugs, heat all around (mostly due to the thick black humidity) fills all spaces.

Serenity.

Lake Victoria, this time, is a crumpled, gray landscape fading slowly away into the gloom.

I am in a swath of sweat.

Though I feel as if I am in a new form, I have no sins to confess. I'm done with trying to sort out the whole neat mess that has been my life. Done with trying to determine where I am, or even who! I don't care. This life has been unfair. I'm just going to to this and let it be that. No more analysing the whys and hows or anything of the like.

In a few minutes, hypnotically over the drowned trees and trash lining the waterfront, I come to the shoreline, where the earth and the water meet. The waterfront is formed by a built up of debris; a dead snake, dead plants, reeds, rotting fish, plastic containers, polythene bags, driftwood and more. The old tree stumps have poked up through the mud, flat eruptions of drowned life. Rotten and rotting reeds give way under my feet as I make my way to the waterfront.

The drowned waterfront is shrouded with weeds and mud, like tendrils of some solid, cloying mist. I stop briefly, treading over the muddied tracks, raising bubbles of soft grime beneath me making them sizzle and fizz up like clouds of bubbles, like frenzied bubbles of Coke drink in a cup. I sink my feet deeper into the water, into the murk, into the dark clay-like sand, into the void watching the bubbles wobble their way to the surface.

This is the spot. This was the place, the pool of penance, these waters. I walk back and forth through the warm waters of the lake, to the muddy floor and trample the stumps of the long-dead trees.

Suddenly I feel my stomach heave. No-no. No. This can't be happening. I mean this is not the way I planned my death. I imagined my death many times as happening in my deathbed in a comforting home with Pam holding my hand and Daudi standing by in my great old age. Well, we all want to die in love with some warmth. But now, sorry it has to happen this way. To be found dead and badly bloated washed ashore, what a shame. Probably half eaten by predator fish and crocs. I want my death to be painless. Go to sleep and don't get up. To die without pain. To wake up and find yourself in another place so good. To be out of the insane madness of this world is a relief, and I don't want to be in another world like this one. To be back in this world? No way. I have thought long about it, I must go.

Who will eulogise me, and what will they say?

Lord have mercy. I can't cope with my pain, nobody can understand.

But before it happens, prayer. Prayer is important. To have a word with the Creator before I go. This is hardly a suitable ritual for an inactive Christian. I have done some rum things here on this Earth which are unforgivable. I have done things that could well not qualify me to ask for redemption.

Instead, I bring to my mind some fond things to carry with me. Roman Catholics define purgatory as a state of being, the on-going process of purgation or purification of the soul after human death. They say it is a state of perfection which begun in baptism and is faith-consummated after death.

Purgatory (I so desperately want to believe now!) is a sign of God's mercy on those who have honestly sought to know God and to do His will in this life and yet die in some degree of bondage to sin or the effects of sin.

At length, I dip myself in. The water is surprisingly cold. Cold as the hand of death.

The water threatens to not only chill me to my bones but to drown me. The crashing waves from the lake beyond do not reach to shore but send their rippling waves to thwart my attempts to push myself into the deeper out-shore.

A big wave comes crashing over some nearby rocks, I am in deep water and floundering, swallowing water and scarcely able to keep afloat.

Suddenly I change my mind: I don't want to drown.

Nevertheless, I can't see the shore now, and I know that I have swum out far. About three hundred metres. I have swum until my limbs are on fire. This was the plan; to swim until I can't swim any more and sink and drown naturally. When I try to get a balance, a wave ripple comes and surges me some place else. This simply isn't working. I try to make back to the shore, which isn't too hard to do, but the huge waves only strive to thwart that action.

I hit into the rear of something hard with a terrific thud. I nearly lose consciousness. Before I can make a feeble dive attempt, a surge wave sucks me out, nearly drowning me and very nearly killing me. In a panic, I swim with hard strokes to make for some jutting rocks. Then I am once more sucked and tossed about and finally sent somewhat violently into one wave after another. Hurled about like a piece of wood. The pitiful creature that I am clings tenaciously to the spar as the roaring waters toss me about. How long has it been? I don't know. My mind is 'waterlogged', and I hope beyond hopes that God will save me.

A blinding rush of waters obscure my vision, but for a moment I think I see what appears to be cliffs, shore!

I remember that there would always be dangerous rocks to contend with in the Gulf of Lake Victoria. The waves are relentless and cast me above the freezing foam, dashing me into the next watery valley. Lake water aplenty fills my mouth, and the thrashing lake lashes across my face.

"Don't kill me!" I scream out to the lake demons. Though it seems as my life is near its end, I still have enough faith to decree that I WILL live. I WILL survive if only long enough to see sick Fortune Man hang from my church's belfry, with his balls dangling from his wicked mouth!

"God help me!"

Again, the cliffs zoom near; the waves begin to become more and more intense, and I fear that though the lake may not take my life, it will surely dash me to bits on the rocks!

Suddenly, all consciousness is beaten from me; an object bashes me against the back of my head. Obscured by the boiling clouds and the tumultuous maelstrom of the lake, not even the crocs or Nile perch or the pesky lake creatures I prayed to feed on my remains during this ending fate show up. I am truly lost in the depths of the water mass. Alone.

Something tosses me up, and I gasp madly for air. Topside, there are surging swells, not large ones, but enough to make white caps. To the far horizon, there is a long dark grayness. A huge wave pummels me just then, knocking out of my senses aloft. Consciousness evades me and I wake sometime later on a sandy beach. Sputtering and coughing, I'm still covered in mud and had swallowed the silvery gunk from the lakeshore debris. I stagger to a knee sitting position. My vision is not clear, and neither is my mind, but I have the presence of mind to know I need to stay alive. I need to be some place better than water. I have a throbbing headache, lungs full of Lake Victoria, frozen to the bone, my joints smarting, and my bones utterly bashed.

It is still daylight, but I fear I'm going to get caught out in the middle of wherever the hell this is. I am butt naked and I have caught flu. My legs hurt terribly, and it is some doing just to stand.

The sandy shore leads to a rolling hill of lush green grass. It seems to me like this is a good place to start my way back to humanity. Where I am I don't know, but I am relieved that I am alive and in some place on earth, not in water.

Even walking disturbs the ground that has never seen foot tread on it in forever.

Fresh air suddenly sweeps over my fevered brow, and I take a deep in-draw of breath. The dimensions of the new land are a lot wider and emptier than the world I'm used to. For real, I feel that the time of day is getting on, but there still seems to be plenty of daylight. No roads, though. Not even footpaths. No trails or signs or anything. I half limp and stagger back to the beach and decide to lie low. If I'm not found, I will die here on dry land, not in water. So I reckon.

I find part of a wrecked ship, a ship hull, and a decaying deck structure. Nothing of any use, it is long since picked over. Still no road, though. I think I hear what sounds like singing. It is different if it is what it is, very melodic and odd. It is someone singing directly in tune with a high pitched instrument.

Trying to determine where the sound is coming is most difficult. It seems to be everywhere. And as soon as I think I have marked its directions, it narrows down. It stops. I stop and look around. I listen, scratching myself. I wait.

Strangely, it returns. It's Ayo singing so beautifully.

Time passes. A Fraction of Insight

"You okay?"

Sunlight fills my eyes. I cough. Something bitter comes out of my mouth, like blood! Every fibre of my being seems to be on fire. Images flash through my mind, and a pounding surf crashes in my head. The sun is glorious! The air sublime! The scenery and all that surrounds me is lovely and without strife. It can't be better. Gently I rest my hand on my firm-tender butts. Have my wildest dreams of whimsy been attained? It has been rough going and nearly drowned me. Coming to the new world is tough. Expecting solace is futile.

Then someone taps my shoulder.

"Hey, what are you doing?" I sit up, so I think, halfway propping myself on my elbows. I fall back. Riana stares at me and repeats, "You okay?"

"What happened?"

"I don't know," she replies, "you nearly died."

"How long have I been here?"

"You are very lucky. You were shipwrecked and everybody perished."

She vanishes. Minutes and then nearly an hour pass. I lie out naked on the odundu reeds and the muddy sand, asleep. It comes, a dream. Everyone within weep silently to themselves. They are horrified at such a tragedy. It is a cool day, despite the lack of clouds and blazing sun.

Riana hands me a letter. The paper is white and glowing. The handwriting is fine and the lettering is in gold.

Hello My beloved Otis,

Despite my many flaws on Earth, I was blessed to be loved by so many special souls who saw past my feet of clay and into my heart. Know that in my final hours, it was your love that sustained my spirit and brought me peace. Love, like our souls, is eternal and forever binds us, and in due time it will surely draw us all back together again. Until then, godspeed to you and all who have loved me!

Light & Love, Riana

So?

She is dead? No, she walks away among some dark, faceless men.

How? When? Where?

She's dead, I'm told.

I don't remember her dying?

Did it happen here on this beach? Did she die in Russia? I surely have no recollection of pain or transference from Living to Dead. Maybe... maybe there isn't any. Maybe between this life and the next life is just emptiness.

Maybe. Possibly. I don't know.

So she died. Somehow. Somewhere. And in doing so she was given an "E" ticket to Heaven, but it was dog-eared, her fare would only carry her so far. To Purgatory, not to Heaven. Past indiscretions (solely on her part) dishonoured her Full Fare. She was not a bad sinner, but a sinner nonetheless. Fortunately, she had been 'saved' and so had her ticket to Heaven already punched, Hell couldn't get her.

Heaven wouldn't accept her, either.

It makes me a little sad. A little pissed off, too. Mostly (and mainly) at myself.

Well, now... there is someone else. She scuffs the ground, hands stuffed into her pockets. She is singing a hymn. I can't make out the hymn being sung. She flings her head to clear loose wisps of long hair from her face. I see her face then: Ayo. Behind me somewhere I hear what sounds like 1980s benga music. Off in the distance, there is that curious sound that had haunted me earlier.

Now, though, it fills my mind as being none other than a ship's foghorn, a church bell, a whistle or whatever it is called. One of those old timely sounds.

The choir and congregation's hymn singing overwhelms and drowns out the horn, the bell, and the whistle. Ayo runs across the street towards a church door. "Let me repent," she pleads. "Let me in."

Can she be accepted? Forgiven? Can she? Is it too late?

Riana stands at the great doors of the Church. It is a Catholic Church. She sings loudly. She is wearing a dazzling white. The Church has lots of ornate architecture and design. She goes down the steps—but at the last of the cement step she stops, pauses and bounds back up the steps and into the Church.

It is dark inside; electrical candelabra strategically placed provide the only illumination. It is a non-church attendance day so the interior of the Church is mostly vacant. Mostly but not quite.

What is Riana up to?

Ayo lingers about almost listlessly. Something about the Church bothers her. She is distracted by others wandering into the nave, a small group of women and some young men all in alter clothing practice doing some ritual involving candles.

Suddenly there is the sound of wind and the door of the confessional snaps open, and Riana emerges followed by a priest. The priest is tall, frail, and bald. Riana and the Priest makes a slight once-over looksee at who is about to be permitted to go into the Sanctuary. Riana looks to the priest, she waits with awe and concern, if not wonderment. The priest looks at the direction of Ayo and shakes his head sadly.

Riana looks concerned. "Forgive her. Forgiveness is for all.

The priest shakes his head. "Probation is over now. There is no grace. No redemption."

I stare in awe. I stand profile-like. Ayo continues pacing on the street, yawns and looks tired and famished. No expression is on her face. Maybe a little concern, but not much else.

I feel better after reading Riana's letter. There is no pain in my chest; my memory is somewhat clouded and uncertain. I look around, all is as it was, or had been. I do NOT understand.

"Curse you, Lake Victoria demons!" I say under my breath.

Ayo looks to me with a curious, "Huh?"

Riana starts singing happily. "I saved you, Otis," she says. "Go back and repent. You've been given a Second Chance."

It's all a dream. What a relief, it's only a freaky nightmare.

I lie still for a long time—unable to move for one, too frightened to move for two. Every fibre of my being is on fire. I can't get my breath, I can't hear, see, smell, anything. I feel numb and on fire at the same time. I hope that this will pass.

Slowly my senses began to return to me, and my body settles. There is a lingering whine in my ears, I taste salt in my mouth, and my vision is a bit blurry. These things, too, decrease to allow me to look around at my new surroundings.

"He's coming around," a voice says.

Sort of. I'm not sure. I feel awful. Just awful. Again I can't think straight. Again I can't detect much—only that I am in pain. My toes curl as I struggle to send the pain elsewhere. A fire burns in my shoulders and another in my head.

"Easy Mr. Otieno, just rest now," comes a soothing voice. Very familiar. Regina? I try to focus; there is a steady ringing in my ears, a burning in my nose. I try to speak but only sputter.

The first thing I need to do is to find some water, I am parched. "Water," I mumble.

A hand comes to my neck, raising me up and offering me a drink from a glass.

Slowly I begin to see that I am in the company of a man, well dressed in a long-sleeved dress jacket, white shirt with an odd bow tie at his throat. He is not an old man; he's in his forties. He looks rugged but with kind eyes. With him are two women, one in a nurse uniform.

"Hello, I'm Doctor Onyango," the man says, segueing into a broad smile.

I try to speak once more but can't.

"You're at New Nyanaza General Hospital, you were badly dehydrated but I think you're going to be all right, now."

Russia! What?

I gave him that, "Huh?" look. Dehydrated?

Then I recognise Regina. Story unfolds that I was found unconscious on some remote shore by fishermen. I had been unconscious for some days and severely dehydrated. I nearly died.

"Do you remember anything?" the doctor asks me.

I try, I really try, but all that fills my mind are images I can't make sense of. Images of drowning and battling with water and drowning and meeting Ayo and Riana—followed by the images of the Riana saving me and sending me back to Earth.

The doc says, "It's all right, you are yet to fully recover. Your memory will come back in a few days. I have given you good medication. You're out of danger and what you need now is plenty of rest. "

The nurse refills the glass and I take more gulps. Then she sets the glass down on an antique off-white nightstand. The doctor says, "You just rest easy now, I've got some other things to do. Drink plenty of sugary fluids." He seems cheerful enough, and I have no cause to fear him. Given also that Regina is here too.

The doctor and the nurse leave followed by Regina and I look at my newest surroundings: painted off-white clapboards make up the room's white walls. A plain ceiling, some broad windows, another small bed and a couple of dressers sandwiching a long table with doctor-like instruments and books on it.

I am in the private wing of Russia; this one looks like the one reserved for staff. I am in my own room. I try moving my head—bad idea. My whole world makes me ill and I lie back onto the cool fluffy pillow. I think I hear what sounds like muffled voices, from outside? Another room? I can't be sure. I reach for the water glass and lose my grip, the glass falls and breaks onto the floor.

Seconds later, the door whisks open and the nurse comes in, followed by Regina and two elderly men. One is bald and resembles a storekeeper of some primary school, the other wears an old suit, rugged broad-shouldered; a church person no doubt.

"Sorry," I manage to blurt out.

"Don't worry about it." The nurse smiles as she quickly cleans up the mess. Catching the eye of Regina and the other two men, I manage a bleak smile.

"Hello," speaks the bald-head, "I'm Pastor Joannes Oyoo," he sticks out his hand and smiles big, and introduces the other man as Elder Nyakundi.

My handshake is weak; I then catch the delightful scent of something wondrous. My senses frantically seek to bring to mind what that wondrous smell is. Nothing comes to mind but I don't care—it is food!

And food it is. There are voices from the outer room, the men make way and a tall woman in a full dress outfit comes ushering in two other women, all wearing smiles. The tall woman carries a rustic antique picnic basket that she sets down. From within the blue-checkered cloth hiding the contents comes fresh home-made food.

First, prayers. My mouth drools and I scarcely can pay attention to the prayers that are said by the pastor, Regina, and Elder Nyakundi. My focus is on the food and the newcomers, who happen to be Elder Nyakundi's wife, Mrs. Petrigona Nyakundi and some deaconesses from their church.

Then I'm encouraged to eat.

The conversation seems to be about the doctor's concern for my ability to eat just yet after my harrowing experience. To which Regina replies, "He is a strong man." The food, (chicken, rice and brown chapatis), is placed on some small cloths, a glass of Delmonte fresh juice is poured. There are also servings of watermelon and oranges!

I smile and devour every morsel. I don't care about the stares; I'm a man who hasn't eaten in days.

As I eat, they conduct a Bible study.

I accept a copy of the Bible from Pastor Oyoo.

Going to church now will be the only logical thing, Regina reckons. I think she's very right. How much time exactly elapsed from the time I took myself into the lake to give in to death to the time I was found is not known. I have no concept of 'time', the day or month or season or anything. Time is absolutely meaningless!

After the shuddery debacle with Riana and Ayo in that horrible episode, I cannot account for the next segment and even how many days passed. A week? And Riana fed me daily! It is certainly inconceivable. I figure actually a week, or two.

Days later, I am discharged.

"We're going to church, Mr. Otieno," Regina says. I'm not feeling strong, I've lost almost five kilos, and I feel awful in body and mind.

I can't argue with Regina, though. Church is certainly the only place of comfort now. There is a bold expression on Regina's face, she is unusually stoic, full of expression, and it takes some doing to get her to smile. She does so occasionally exhibiting child-like qualities that are normal, but today the twenty-two-year-old woman is bold and in charge. Way too mature for her age suddenly. I agree to accompany her to the service. How can I continue forward in life with life's pursuits and obvious dangerous encounters when everything I try goes wrong?

"All you want to do now is to dwell in the House of the Lord and pray for forgiveness?" she tells me.

Well, I have skeletons in the closet, don't I? Fortune Man, to begin with.

Regina is right. She says, "You can't hide after what God has done to you, come on, we're going to church. No buts."

The sermon is quite moving. Pastor Oyoo goes on and on and on. He speaks well and is on the topic of forgiveness and God's grace. He is often times off subject as he interjects life applications. At times, he is lost (and so are the laity). Finally, though, he picks up and concludes the sermon calling up on cue the choir who would sing one final song, then there would be the ever-popular final announcements and the calling for anyone who needs prayer and/or saving of their souls, then the final-final song.

At the final event, I make myself scarce. Regina looks me in the eye and pleads with me to go in front to be prayed for. No, I won't do it. Guess I'm afraid, I am convinced I'm beyond redemption. Beyond help and beyond hope. Beyond Salvation.

My dark side as being human has always been curbed. This is the same for the majority of people in this world. The dark side is always there waiting. Whether you go to church and cry your heart out in prayer, it's always waiting. Waiting outside the gates of the church to take you in. Most times, the dark side of humanity is easily accessible, and it doesn't take much for Evil to break through and present itself.

Many times it's the pursuit of money that takes us down the winding path of Evil and destruction. Jealousy of brazenness, revenge, anger, pride, envy, taking offense, passing judgement, defrauding others, selfish motivations, bad mouthing fellow men, backbiting others, taking revenge for being jilted, rubbing people the wrong way or cutting them off unfairly in business deals, bribing people for self-justification, seducing your friend's wife or husband and a heap more. Most of us can brush off the anger of another, but sometimes we as mere humans just snap.

Evil has many faces and exhibits itself in many forms; vengeance is only a small facet of Evil. Some people are just inherently evil and go beyond their way to perpetuate their dark sides. I think, in a way, I'm like that. The way I've hurt people and made them suffer, my actions sometimes baffle me.

There isn't much time, the choir will sing a two-minute song; announcements would be short; just the highlights and refresher for those who came to services late. Pastor Oyoo would give the call for soul saving, last prayer requests and finally dismiss his flock. I figure I have ten minutes to decide. Seven on the inside but no more than ten minutes. I freak out. I need help on how to break Fortune Man's curse. For that matter, I will need a special audience with the pastor.

Time enough, I make a date with the pastor. I find him alone in his office one afternoon. The office is out the main doors, down along the long side of the main building. It is not small; it's loaded with books all on the theological lines and themes. The furnishing consists of two desks, computers, sofas, and filing cabinets. All kinds of awards and certificates of achievement adorn the walls.

I give him the horrifying confession about my involvement with Fortune Man for the last twenty years and the deep dark fingermarks and deaths of my brother Keya and my son Dan. To my surprise, he smiles. "There's nothing impossible with Jesus," he assures me. Then we go into deep prayer, and he breaks off the "curse". Just like that. Can you believe that? Well, he tells me I have to believe with faith that the curse is broken.

Everything is going well. I'm working at the church fixing what needs fixing and playing the guitar during services. One evening, Pastor Oyoo calls me. One thing remains, he wants to meet Fortune Man. God told him to go squash the wicked man. One look at my face and he shakes his head.

"I need to work on your faith, brother Otieno."

The twelve kilometres of rough, unsealed, and winding road from Kong'er seems shorter. The long sweeping turn goes through the landscape (that always looks devastating) to DreamScape. It is always a gruelling marathon of bumps, crunches, and gear-changes, but today I glide over it. The municipal council must have upgraded it in the last twenty-four hours, I think.

I see smoke as soon as I pass the crest of the final rise, a thin gray column rising straight up into the sullen air. One of the neighbours is probably burning their rubbish. I am lucky to have some kindred spirits in the neighbourhood, but I would insist on burning all my waste, including plastic bags. They usually save plastics and polythene bags to sell at Kondele.

Getting a searing headache from the woolgathering that I am doing, I turn on the radio and place it on some random station, hoping that it would play something soothing. Something Victorian.

I have no new thoughts and decided to do nothing about the new development. I'm tired. Pam called me with the news that she had found a buyer for DreamScape in London, and for some reason, I was relieved. She was tired of all the silent wars and all the blame that was placed on her by Daudi. It was time to take some action. She was sending someone from Nairobi to see the property on behalf of the buyer.

I sit up from the kitchen table and grab the cordless phone in the hallway on my way up to the master bedroom. I need time to recover; my mind needs time to ponder.

Poinder-ponder-ponder.

But my mind is made. I dial for information, jotting down a number, and dial again.

"Hello. Yes, I would like to ask if there are any available flights to England tomorrow. Heathrow, yes. 8:45? Economy? Tomorrow night? Sure, I'll take it."

I walk around with the receiver, going to the bedroom to start packing. I don't have time. I will have to drive across town to my parents in Pandpieri to visit, say goodbye, and give out stuff. Then I will go to see Akinyi. I have a lot of household items to give out.

There's a song in my mind. 'Siku Nitakufa'. Strange. I am about to get a cold beer from the fridge when my mobile rings. It's Regina. "Mr. Otieno, I have some bad news. My mother died this morning."

"What?"

"Yes."

She had mentioned something about her mother being ill, not anything much about her family. She isn't acting out, crying, or even snivelling. Makes me wonder. "Oh. You don't sound too sad."

"What did you say?"

"You don't sound broken up like a girl who's just learned her mother is dead."

"I'm not. As a matter of fact, I'm happy. We had sort of quarrelled and didn't visit each other for months. My mother was so weirdly strong-headed. I couldn't stand her. No one could. But I knew she was sick and dying."

"Pole. Accept my condolences."

"It's okay. We long accepted it... she had cancer."

Long long long silence. My heart is beating and beating.

"Mr. Otieno, sir, are you there, hello?"

"Regina, who is your mother?"

"Riana. Her name was Riana."

"Riana?"

"Yes, daddy."

#

#  About the Author

Okang'a Ooko was born in Rusinga Island, Lake Victoria in Kenya and grew up in the seventies and eighties in Kisumu. He is the author of Kisumu, Businesswoman's Fault and Tandawuoya. is a collection of seven stories. These books mostly feature stories of scandalous vices, human and folly, and peopled by men and women struggling to succeed

in the new African renaissance.

Find out more about Okang'a Ooko by

looking at his own author website

www.okangaooko.com

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#  Other Books by Okang'a Ooko

Businesswoman's Fault

These seven stories deal with a diversity of issues and show emerging challenges facing Africans today especially in their struggle to survive.

The stories mainly feature strong woman-led characters

in their businesses and other work places.

In Businesswoman's Fault a designer-turned-marketer must save her company from the schemes of a shrewd competitor. In Moni Afinda, a middle-aged designer manager carries the memories of her father's failures into her business. She must win a contract at all costs and succeed because she cannot repeat her father's mistakes. In Kichorchoro, a tumult of personal tragedies push a young social worker into the frontier of doom without a back-up plan. She throws herself into her work of reshaping the lives of ragamuffin homeless boys in a dangerous Nairobi slum. The haunting cinema-esque Happy 9th Birthday is about a nine-year-old girl who is sexually abused by her father and its horrific aftermath. She throws the spanner into the works and into a nightmare of suspense and stark terror. The two last stories are about elderly musicians in a changing world. Kiss Ya Bangongi demonstrates that chasing greatness spurs doubt, self-hatred, failure, and pain especially when the conditions for greatness are deemed by the sort of egotistical man the protagonist is. In First and Second Rhythm Guitars In an Old Benga Song, an old benga guitarist must drop his personal principles and give benga music a facelift to save it from extinction. The two stories are linked inextricably to innovation in the guitar music, to chord changes, and voiced heartaches.

GET IT HERE

http://www.okangaooko.com/businesswomans-fault.html

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KISUMU

A 1980s Far Echo of African music noir.

Pandpieri, Kisumu. The 1970s. Otis Dundos is a shy and awkward kid. In the '80s as a man-boy he tries to fit in. But he is more an archetype than flesh-and-blood youth. Performing with Nico Opija and KDF in Kondele gives him a beginning and a journey into music.

As a guitar student hitting all the required notes, Otis is the haunted genius. And KDF in Kondele is a training ground for demonology. He is desperate to leave Kondele dingy clubs to reach for the future. He seems to realise he is not accomplished until he moves to Nairobi. But the cold, cold heart of Nairobi's nefarious pop culture schools him into becoming a more spoiled artist. Returning to Kisumu with a new band, accompanied by queasy bandmates in the ranks of villainous neer-do-wells, he spirals down into the heart of Kisumu's darkness, encountering upsurging whirlpools of struggle, survival, greed, envy, revenge, and exploitation. How does he wind down the hysteria; somewhat, and make a fairly good case for extraordinary achievement backmasking in heavy benga music? That's not the issue, the issue is that as famous as he is, Otis Dundos has more problems than a normal Kisumuan.

Providing a catharsis through comedy, lancing the Kenyan lakeside city's moral boil with satire, KISUMU tells the story of ordinary men and women trying to live the Kenyan African dream. It is a story of humble beginning, awkward and misdirected fumbling and miraculous accomplishment.

GET IT HERE

http://www.okangaooko.com/kisumu.html

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