JKS Makokha
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JKS Makokha (b.1979) is a Kenyan writer
living in Berlin, Germany. He is the author of
Reading M.G. Vassanji: A Contextual
Approach to Asian African Fiction (2009) and
co-editor of a new volume on African literary
criticism, Negotiating Afropolitanism: Essays
on Borders and Spaces in Contemporary
African Literature and Folklore (2010) with
Jennifer Wawrzinek.His poetry has appeared in
Atonal Poetry Review, African Writing,
Egophobia, Journal of New Poetry, New
Contrast, Palapala, Postcolonial Text and
Stylus Poetry Journal.
living in Berlin, Germany. He is the author of
Reading M.G. Vassanji: A Contextual
Approach to Asian African Fiction (2009) and
co-editor of a new volume on African literary
criticism, Negotiating Afropolitanism: Essays
on Borders and Spaces in Contemporary
African Literature and Folklore (2010) with
Jennifer Wawrzinek.His poetry has appeared in
Atonal Poetry Review, African Writing,
Egophobia, Journal of New Poetry, New
Contrast, Palapala, Postcolonial Text and
Stylus Poetry Journal.
Short Story: The Late Chief M
Let us call him Mr Matchstick. Or Chief Matchstick for that was his official title. Or simply
Chief M.
I remember him very well although it has been 11 years since we last worked together. I had
been commissioned by the government of a republic somewhere in Africa as an Enumerator in
the National Housing and Population Census process. The census has been conducted in this
republic every 10 years since 1949. The British colonial government, faced by the imminent
war of independence by the natives, had thought it wise to find out actually how many heads
and huts were there in the colony. This statistical strategy could come in handy in case the
restless natives made good their threat and rose in rebellion against the Crown. Of course they
did but the British eventually won the long and dirty war in 1958. In spite of the resounding
victory for the new Queen, the colony was lost in the winter of '63. The rest is history. The
census endures. The recent one was conducted last year. The nation awaits the results. Some
say they are still being (prepared) cooked or in local palaver: "The results are still in the
kitchen".
For 14 nights, Chief M and I had roamed the narrow slum paths visiting homesteads under his
dominion. They were 144 in total. Home after home. Head after head. Door after door. The
process progressed smoothly albeit with minor occurrences here and there. The 74-year-old
war veteran-turned-long-serving chief with his crooked walking stick and I ensured that the
government got what it employed us to do - offer a comprehensive bilingual tabular of the
total numbers of people and hovels under Chief Matchstick's dangerous dominion of Location
N. He had earned my admiration for his stamina and ability to explain some of the paranormal
events and activities that spiced our joint exercise.
One of these occurrences stood out and makes him a memorable part of my history. So when
I received an SMS from his office last Thursday that the poor old fellow had passed on, it is
not the name but this past event that brought his image to my freezing mind on a street in
downtown Berlin.
We had counted 117 homes and were proceeding well at a steady pace. The North-western
and North-north western quarter of the location had been covered. They were highly
cooperative. And this was part of the overall strategy. To start from the cooperative and
Islamic quarters before proceeding to the animists. The latter still rebel against ANY
government effort to "develop" their lives, ever since their forefather did the same against the
Brits. They had not made it a secret that they will release all sorts of magic and spirits of
sorcery on any khaki-dressed government fellow or his underling who appeared at their
doorsteps carrying the flag of the ruling independence party, the official government census
ID. One docile chap had, in fact, erected a banner of iron sheet with the clear message written
in jeep oil and faeces:
NOWADAYS TO DIE IS EASY. ASK ME TO SHOW YOU JUST HOW.
Of course, the message was in the widely-spoken urban slang, just in case....
The night of the memorable event, we started from the abandoned slum butchery, by the
abandoned Hindu crematorium. A woman had given birth to quadruplets. She wanted us to
count them just in case one or two perish before the census. She had sent a powerful
emissary. The new slum voodoo sorcerer, an unregistered refugee from DR Congo. We could
not turn her request down although it was not part of our plan for the night. We then
proceeded off schedule and decided to count all the remaining graveyard quarters. So you
possibly understand that most of the locals in this area were caught unawares for they were
not prepared for us that particular night. They thought we would be with them after two days
or so per the schedule. Not this night. No.
We entered the strange home of memory at exactly three and a half minutes to midnight. The
pattern was the same. The chief walked ahead. I was always behind him at the strictly
recommended two feet apart distance. I was also usually armed with the voluminous scroll of
fill-in-the-blank-spaces government spreadsheet protected by a plastic gunny sack. While I
was on duty, the sack never left my head at all. Never. In it were other precious national
materials bought with the tax-payer's money. I had two kilos of pencils, ten grams of razor
blades to help sharpen blunt pencils, a quarter kilo of Ever Ready batteries, and a pink plastic
spotlight that took three batteries at a time. My over-size gumboots were heavy with black
river mud stuck like demons on their soles. The left one was torn on the sole near the main toe
and made a splotchy sound as I trudged behind the staggering old chief.
Presently, he started the familiar introductory ritual strictly given him by our pre-Census
workshop facilitator.
Chief M stood at military attention. So did I right behind him. He cleared his cancerous throat
six times and in his croaky alto voice announced the arrival of His Excellency the Junior
Officer of the Government of K National Housing and Population Census Exercise at
homestead Number 119 of Ghetto G, Sub-location 55, of Location 715, of Division A/715, of
District T/A/715, of Province W of the Republic of K, Africa, Earth.
He did this little preamble using a microphone powered by a jeep battery that he always carried
in a canvas rucksack on his frail and bent back. He then hummed the first stanza of the
national anthem as we stood waiting for the head of the homestead to tie or lock up his
mongrels or genies that offered common home security around these parts of the capital city.
Then came the silence. Silence. More silence.
The head of the homestead (lets call him Mr Y) came out, finally. He was armed with his bone-
bladed scimitar, a shield made of bricks and cap with a miner's torch on its foreside. His
naked body, covered only with torn knickers, was painted with the colours of our flag. He
proceeded with a small war dance, stabbing right and left in the air and yodelling in an archaic
form of our vernacular. It went something like this:
“Horeeeeaa hai! Horrrraaaeee hia!” Repeated about seven or six times.
The chief whispered that I should dare not bolt away at all. Of course his whisper came at a
good time. We stood our ground. Mr Y jumped over his gate of broken beer bottles cemented
together with asphalt, and stood a metre above us in the air. Silence. More silence. More
Silence. More Silence. More Silence. More Silence. Silence.
Then I found my voice. I asked irate Mr Y if we could conduct our government business after
apologising for coming to his home unexpected. All this time Chief M kept quiet. The chief
just stood there smoking his marijuana from a wooden pipe and ignoring the irate Mr Y.
Mr Y, a suspected hermaphrodite, came close to me. He opened the infant albino palm in his
war pouch covered with cobwebs and let me smell the darkness in it. I did. He looked at me
with one raised eyebrow straight into my bespectacled eyes. We understood each other. It
smelt of that alien plant without a name. The one we normally use in secret rites I cannot
reveal here. I understood his war antics and urged the chief that we leave the good Mr Y alone
for tonight.....Silence.
"We should come back tomorrow night or on a day specially set aside for his homestead," I
said, raising my voice to a loud whisper. Silence. Chief? Silence. ChieEEF? More silence.
Chief Matchstick only came around from his ganja reverie and recognised my presence after
we arrived at the next homestead. Panting. He exclaimed that I had counted the last homestead
so fast.
"Remind me, young man, to include a paragraph on your persuasive and arithmetic skills in my
letter of recommendation any time you need one from my good office," he said with a lop-
sided smile.
*****
I remember him now upon his demise miles upon miles away from Location N. His eyes still
bear in me that lost look they had on that unforgettable night.....RIP dear colleague.
Let us call him Mr Matchstick. Or Chief Matchstick for that was his official title. Or simply
Chief M.
I remember him very well although it has been 11 years since we last worked together. I had
been commissioned by the government of a republic somewhere in Africa as an Enumerator in
the National Housing and Population Census process. The census has been conducted in this
republic every 10 years since 1949. The British colonial government, faced by the imminent
war of independence by the natives, had thought it wise to find out actually how many heads
and huts were there in the colony. This statistical strategy could come in handy in case the
restless natives made good their threat and rose in rebellion against the Crown. Of course they
did but the British eventually won the long and dirty war in 1958. In spite of the resounding
victory for the new Queen, the colony was lost in the winter of '63. The rest is history. The
census endures. The recent one was conducted last year. The nation awaits the results. Some
say they are still being (prepared) cooked or in local palaver: "The results are still in the
kitchen".
For 14 nights, Chief M and I had roamed the narrow slum paths visiting homesteads under his
dominion. They were 144 in total. Home after home. Head after head. Door after door. The
process progressed smoothly albeit with minor occurrences here and there. The 74-year-old
war veteran-turned-long-serving chief with his crooked walking stick and I ensured that the
government got what it employed us to do - offer a comprehensive bilingual tabular of the
total numbers of people and hovels under Chief Matchstick's dangerous dominion of Location
N. He had earned my admiration for his stamina and ability to explain some of the paranormal
events and activities that spiced our joint exercise.
One of these occurrences stood out and makes him a memorable part of my history. So when
I received an SMS from his office last Thursday that the poor old fellow had passed on, it is
not the name but this past event that brought his image to my freezing mind on a street in
downtown Berlin.
We had counted 117 homes and were proceeding well at a steady pace. The North-western
and North-north western quarter of the location had been covered. They were highly
cooperative. And this was part of the overall strategy. To start from the cooperative and
Islamic quarters before proceeding to the animists. The latter still rebel against ANY
government effort to "develop" their lives, ever since their forefather did the same against the
Brits. They had not made it a secret that they will release all sorts of magic and spirits of
sorcery on any khaki-dressed government fellow or his underling who appeared at their
doorsteps carrying the flag of the ruling independence party, the official government census
ID. One docile chap had, in fact, erected a banner of iron sheet with the clear message written
in jeep oil and faeces:
NOWADAYS TO DIE IS EASY. ASK ME TO SHOW YOU JUST HOW.
Of course, the message was in the widely-spoken urban slang, just in case....
The night of the memorable event, we started from the abandoned slum butchery, by the
abandoned Hindu crematorium. A woman had given birth to quadruplets. She wanted us to
count them just in case one or two perish before the census. She had sent a powerful
emissary. The new slum voodoo sorcerer, an unregistered refugee from DR Congo. We could
not turn her request down although it was not part of our plan for the night. We then
proceeded off schedule and decided to count all the remaining graveyard quarters. So you
possibly understand that most of the locals in this area were caught unawares for they were
not prepared for us that particular night. They thought we would be with them after two days
or so per the schedule. Not this night. No.
We entered the strange home of memory at exactly three and a half minutes to midnight. The
pattern was the same. The chief walked ahead. I was always behind him at the strictly
recommended two feet apart distance. I was also usually armed with the voluminous scroll of
fill-in-the-blank-spaces government spreadsheet protected by a plastic gunny sack. While I
was on duty, the sack never left my head at all. Never. In it were other precious national
materials bought with the tax-payer's money. I had two kilos of pencils, ten grams of razor
blades to help sharpen blunt pencils, a quarter kilo of Ever Ready batteries, and a pink plastic
spotlight that took three batteries at a time. My over-size gumboots were heavy with black
river mud stuck like demons on their soles. The left one was torn on the sole near the main toe
and made a splotchy sound as I trudged behind the staggering old chief.
Presently, he started the familiar introductory ritual strictly given him by our pre-Census
workshop facilitator.
Chief M stood at military attention. So did I right behind him. He cleared his cancerous throat
six times and in his croaky alto voice announced the arrival of His Excellency the Junior
Officer of the Government of K National Housing and Population Census Exercise at
homestead Number 119 of Ghetto G, Sub-location 55, of Location 715, of Division A/715, of
District T/A/715, of Province W of the Republic of K, Africa, Earth.
He did this little preamble using a microphone powered by a jeep battery that he always carried
in a canvas rucksack on his frail and bent back. He then hummed the first stanza of the
national anthem as we stood waiting for the head of the homestead to tie or lock up his
mongrels or genies that offered common home security around these parts of the capital city.
Then came the silence. Silence. More silence.
The head of the homestead (lets call him Mr Y) came out, finally. He was armed with his bone-
bladed scimitar, a shield made of bricks and cap with a miner's torch on its foreside. His
naked body, covered only with torn knickers, was painted with the colours of our flag. He
proceeded with a small war dance, stabbing right and left in the air and yodelling in an archaic
form of our vernacular. It went something like this:
“Horeeeeaa hai! Horrrraaaeee hia!” Repeated about seven or six times.
The chief whispered that I should dare not bolt away at all. Of course his whisper came at a
good time. We stood our ground. Mr Y jumped over his gate of broken beer bottles cemented
together with asphalt, and stood a metre above us in the air. Silence. More silence. More
Silence. More Silence. More Silence. More Silence. Silence.
Then I found my voice. I asked irate Mr Y if we could conduct our government business after
apologising for coming to his home unexpected. All this time Chief M kept quiet. The chief
just stood there smoking his marijuana from a wooden pipe and ignoring the irate Mr Y.
Mr Y, a suspected hermaphrodite, came close to me. He opened the infant albino palm in his
war pouch covered with cobwebs and let me smell the darkness in it. I did. He looked at me
with one raised eyebrow straight into my bespectacled eyes. We understood each other. It
smelt of that alien plant without a name. The one we normally use in secret rites I cannot
reveal here. I understood his war antics and urged the chief that we leave the good Mr Y alone
for tonight.....Silence.
"We should come back tomorrow night or on a day specially set aside for his homestead," I
said, raising my voice to a loud whisper. Silence. Chief? Silence. ChieEEF? More silence.
Chief Matchstick only came around from his ganja reverie and recognised my presence after
we arrived at the next homestead. Panting. He exclaimed that I had counted the last homestead
so fast.
"Remind me, young man, to include a paragraph on your persuasive and arithmetic skills in my
letter of recommendation any time you need one from my good office," he said with a lop-
sided smile.
*****
I remember him now upon his demise miles upon miles away from Location N. His eyes still
bear in me that lost look they had on that unforgettable night.....RIP dear colleague.