The Day that I Nearly Died

Here is a story of the day that I nearly died.

Here is a story of the day that a cup of sugary, and over-boiled tea nearly had me a-knock knocking on Heaven's Door…
So, I am at Mama Múbii's Tea Kiosk.

As usual, at this time, the place is packed. And, please, don't be fooled. We are not here for the tea.

We are here to watch the 7 O'clock prime time news.

The tea, well, the tea is something else: plenty of water, plenty of sugar (I suspect it’s saccharine) and traces of milk. It is nothing to write about, but you have to buy a cup so as to watch news on the Village's one and only 42" Full HD Smart Digital Ultra HD 4K 1090 SonyAng Tv. These specs we know from the sticker that is still pristinely attached on one corner of the TV's screen.


We are all quiet for the bulletin.

We listen. It is important we listen – but there is always that irritating sound of Mzee Nyachote sipping his tea. Not really sipping but sucking. It is irritating, but no one can speak against Mzee – this elder is as old as the town, a fossil of our own (we should build a museum when he dies). So, we listen (amid Nyachote’s sssslllllluuurrppinng of tea), and we comment between the breaks, we cheer, we boo, we murmur, all according to the Village Tribal Inclinations (V.T.Is).

Our seating arrangement is mainly determined by age and, of course, who-is-who in the village schema.
When I say “who-is-who”, we do not recognise these as rich people because, after all, they should be in their own houses, watching their own TVs. They are ‘who-is-who’ because according to the Village's Poverty Index (V.P.I), these fellers are floating on driftwood, while the majority of us are the sedimentary soil at the very bottom – the wretched of the earth, the less miserable.

However, there is one character who flaunts these seating rules, that is Dr. Wambua. I think the reason he sits wherever he wants is for the free tea which he is bought as payment for past-working hour’s consultations.
Dr. Wambua is not really a Doctor, as in, a people's doctor. He is a Vet.
But he insists we call him Doc. We call him Doc. After all, he is the only person here who owns a crisp white dust coat and the doctor’s earphones (he has also been consulted on a few discreet cases of abortion and STIs)
Usually, after the news, there is a short period of commentary and debate. Today it is on Trump-Israel-Palestine-Syria-Russia-Japan thing. From the youthful corner, there is little comment. After all, none in this category knows anything about Jerusalem and Israel beyond what Mr. Mugambi, the Village Sunday-School teacher taught us from the Bible. None of us here knows anything about Russia beyond vodka and names ending with –vitch and –sky (Gatunduosky?)
After, the brief break, there is a segment on dairy cows from Egerton University.
Dr. Wambua takes the stage. He educates us on why we, in the village, cannot raise half a shadow of the cattle on the screen.
The cows have, big udders. They look wearisome.
Those udders would feed the village, I muse.
I sip my tea.

"Ndagítarí..." a voice from the elderly corner starts.
"Ndagítarí, do you know that my cow which we gave seed has failed again." An old man says.
We are all quiet.
"And this is the fourth time, ta imagini." The old man adds, as if addressing his neighbour and not Doc.
"Did you follow the instructions I gave you?" Doc asks.
I sip my tea knowingly. There is no way Doc would let his name be dragged alongside blank-bull-ets from his state owned refrigerator.

The old man does not reply. He stares at his cup of tea.

"Now...," Doc begins his lecture on effective ways of Artificial Insemination. He lectures the old man. He lectures us all.
"So you are saying if I do all those things you have said my cow will conceive?" The old man asks.
Yes, Vet nods.
I sip my tea.
"And that will be for the fifth time?" The man says, rather asks himself, without looking up.
Yes, Vet nods.
I sip my tea.
The old man looks at the Vet and asks, "If we do it again, I will still have to pay you, right?"
Yes, Vet nods.
I sip my tea.
"Ok," the man says with a tone of total resignation and finality.
I sip my tea.
"But note," the old man adds with passion, "if this time my cow does not conceive, I swear, you are the one who will be hoisting me and it will be my thing which will be stuffing into that….”

I did not hear what he said beyond this, I was busy choking on my tea and coughing.
My eyes were bulging out. I could almost see the picture...not the picture of the man-on-vet-on-cow, but of the Pearly Gates - the picture perfect heavenly gate.
I could have died!

The Day That I Nearly Died.
By Macaria Wa Gatundu.