Who remembers this phrase,?
*”fanya haraka, mamangu anakuja. ..”* (be quick, my mom is coming?)
I do.
I remember. Do not judge me. I knew no better.
I remember the plain fields. The clouds at that time; sometimes they got orange like a fiery ball. We thought God was burning sinners. I remember the evenings, mostly weekends after taking a group shower. Sometimes we could play in the rain and got beaten for it. Sometimes, we stood, when rain was pouring down the gutter of the roof, naked as we Showered.
I remember the faces. I remember the games. All seem like yesterday, though ages ago. It all leaves me pregnant with poignant memories, thinking of who we once were. We were kids at that time. We knew no better, but played games as we taught ourselves the ways of the world. I was always the father, she was always the mother. We shared a bedroom like our parents did. So we had to play. Pretend that we had kids of our own. We could mould some from clay.. sometimes, we had to make them too.
“Fanya haraka, mamangu anakuja….” Silly, right?
Long before this. It was in the hideout, during one of those hide and seek moments. We were always the last to come out. They never asked why. I guess they never figured out. Or maybe they knew and kept it a secret. Laughing on our backs. Always made sure that we hid in our favorite spot. Till one day they caught us in the act. They threatened at first that they would tell on us. But they were cowards, no one had the guts to say what we did. ‘Cause they did it too, we knew about it, and kept it a secret. They called it, “bad behaviour”. It didn’t matter if we got a few strokes behind. It only mattered that it was a rite of passage. And we were so done with it. Coming from the hide out, you had this feeling of heroism. Forgive me, I’m a grown up now. I know better.
But time moved so fast, you know? Maybe it was me who chose to rush. But soon, my voice started breaking. My chest broaden and I became more cautious of myself. She became more pretty. Her breasts begun to enlarge, at first I used to wonder, “What are those mangoes, doing there?”. Her hips broadened. I guess she was becoming a woman as I became a man. Soon we were in high school, and in form one, we were just school wheelbarrows, there to be seen nor to be heard. In form two, we learnt of things, we heard of things from our elder brothers. Adolescence was right there, it never knocked, it just came in and sat on our seats. There were some guys preaching salvation and rapture. Back seat, I sat, reading some erotica magazine.
And during school outs, when we met with girls. It was a culture to take them to the desolate classroom, it was called “theatre of dreams”. You were only a man if you kissed one. You qualified to sit at the High table if you “dipped” your fingers in. You were a cock if you kissed one and touched a bust. And when you’ll be done, guys will ask you, “did you dip your fingers?”. If yes, they’d want to smell it. Gross!?? At that time it wasn’t.
So I became accustomed to the lifestyle. During a holiday, I paid her a visit. On the first day, we talked. We sat on the same couch, so I kissed her. Touched her even. Could’ve dipped my fingers in, but we were all shy about it. Second day I dipped my fingers. After seconds, she said it, “fanya haraka, mamangu anakuja…” and I stopped. She said, “bado endelea”. So I Went on till it was done. Then I knew, it was just a signal for climaxing.
On the third day it was the same.
“Fanya haraka, mamangu anakuja. .”
I kept on going fast and hard on her. She kept on saying. I kept on going. And when she opened the door none of us heard. I didn’t hear anything, cause in my ears it was all,
“fanya haraka, mamangu anakuja…”
when she came in, she stood there and stared till we finished. Even when she casted a gigantic shadow, we never noticed, cause our heart beats responded to the rhythm of, “fanya haraka, mamangu anakuja. ..”.
As I turned around, my sweaty face met with her sharp stares, and I swear, I was looking for an escape route. But found none. The sitting room became small.
She said, “vaaeni siruali….”
The next part when she said, “nawapeleka Kwa polisi…” hit me hard. As I remember her telling me that her father was the worst of them all.
She sat us down. And the conversation, between the girl, the boy and the mother, begun with,
“Sasa wewe kijana mzuri, mbona unataka kuniharibia msichana. .?”
Silence. I couldn’t even look her in the eyes. “This thing you struggle for, you’ll have it in the future, and itawachosha hata…. nawaambia ukweli. ..”
A series of talks followed then she let me go. Later I asked the girl about it, she said, she only told her to be careful with the boys, and put her education first. Because these boys tend to lie all the time. Right now, the girl is not in the picture. Maybe turned out, I was a boy, so I lied that I’ll always be her boyfriend. I often wonder how she turned out to be.
Sometimes I think about her mother, and wonder, if she meets me along the street will she remember me? And certainly she made sense, turned my life a lil bit. More than once, I think about that phrase,
“Fanya haraka, mamangu anakuja. ..”
I chuckle at myself. Can’t help but wonder, what does it mean to you?
“Fanya haraka, mamangu anakuja. ..”
I am a man now. I know better. I know what maketh me.
***
As written by Phill Ibsen
( Master Of Descriptions )
A Heart_Art_Poetics productions
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