What’s In a Name?
“What’s in a name, a bulb in a different name would still light, right?” So we call ourselves innocent names like The Base[*], The Youth/Boys[†], A Multitude/A United People[‡] among others. Such wusses we are!
Have you ever witnessed the renovatio of a butterfly, from a caterpillar of course? Well, we transform in vise-versa. Our mission is to protect our people; community… tribe per se. Money was the enticement. Machetes, bows and arrows, were our primary wives. Then the white men, wise men, invented a pipe with a chamber, a trigger and a license to kill. We took up arms and an attitude of Commando so as to trade our protection or be the tribe’s nightmare if they refused to part with the monies.
Monsters we metamorphosised to. Money, power and respect were our Frankenstein. We aimed to question the authority, control the people and their businesses so as to receive free money as we were busy lazing around with dry lips, tooth picks dangling from our input orifices while masquerading as sausage role sellers.
Fear & Greed
We rule, cowardly though, by manipulating the two motors that power humanity. Makes man do all in their will to acquire and/or safeguard. Have you ever wondered why insurance covers were innovated? Why a person would dump waste near human habitation or crash down investors’ buildings worth millions just because s/he wants that piece of land?
Terrorists we are called. Terror acts we, cowardly, commit so as to instill fear that our greedy objectives can be met.
This is a story of rebels wanting what’s not of theirs to keep, but still want.
We use jungle tactics to infringe the law and act lawless. Scuttle butting is one of them devices employed. Talk about coming to tax you with claims that we had banter with the Mzee wa Mtaa and he has approved that course of action. Snub and it’s like you’ve given us consent to take good care of your head since you are tired of it being on your body. Also, we would judge those we exercised supremacy on using sharia law and be callous at it.
Governments that try to bring us down hit the rocks, fortunate for us, pity to them. Oh yeah! Spartans we are, superpowers don’t lift fingers, not even pinkies, at us. We are their big clientele for their weapons, we the big kahunas, but do I say!
We venerate Apophis the god of fear and darkness yet allege we are of Allah…
Code name: Hermes.
I was this bloke who insufficient fund dictated that he pause the pursuance of education and in this part of the Sahara, academic papers equal job; no academic papers no job-o and no dough and that, mon ami, is tantamount to no life. But life as it is, even with the highest education, some languished in poorness and so, hustler’s mind was a requirement to survive. That hustler mind (and spirit) I had thus I survived, since my parents raised no fool!
“Hermes, our son, be a good boy don’t be a yobbo, okay?
Remember the virtues we’ve taught you, espouse them with passion.
Life is like a mirror, so always face it with a smile for it to reciprocate in kind.
Show kindness to all and loving kindness to those close to you; loyal love to those close to you.
Love dearly your wife and children if God bestows them to you and keep your marriage divan without defilement.” et cetra et cetra. The mantra my parents always recited.
If only those words were magic words for a Good-Life genie to materialize and shower one with the necessities (and lavishes, lots of opulent materials) of life.*sigh*
Odd jobs I did to keep up with the demands of life; demands that when neglected, the aftermath would resemble ozone layer depletion. My class mates are all flourishing, living aristocrat’s lifestyles; in storey domiciles, they reside, posh auto mobiles color their treks, in stylish schools, where a year’s school fees can maintain my plebian lifestyle a century, their progeny take in the world’s knowledge. Oh life, how unfair can you be, may be they just face it with bigger smiles than mine’s. There were scuttlebutts that they (my aristocrat class mates) were drug barons, but you know, people talk!
How was I to elevate myself from the abyss of poverty? Go to a witchdoctor? No. Be a petty swindler then established thief to an armed robber? Never! Vie for a parliamentary seat? May be. Join a terrorist group? Over my dead body! Then what should I do???
Apophis was making plans for me at his throne while savoring the scene of humans languishing in darkness and fear and destruction.
I was approached by a well kept gentleman with a job offer so irresistible, taking to mind the monetary benefits that followed it as ducklings follow Mama Duck. Jehovah Allah had answered my petitions, so I thought. The job entailed task that I had retorted I would engage in over my dead body. I guess I was dead at that time, murdered by life. Life had killed me and now it was a fugitive, a homicide fugitive. My hustler’s spirit was murdered; my will to live was cut short of its breath too. I had nothing else to lose, absolutely nothing to lose. So I thought, again. I, therefore, took to arm. I wish it was begging for alms that I took to. Despair is an excellent manipulator indeed.
Among humans is where the office was situated. Kalashnikovs, AK47s, grenades and the will to fight and lust for blood were our stationery. Human tendency, at times, is to hate what we can’t conquer. We fought a fight that wasn’t ours but the haters’ of development, most of us recruits were bought because of poverty. Inadequacy of jobs led us to get our hands dirty for others. Or were we making the jobs inadequacy issue a scapegoat?
“Chinja, chonga, fyeka.” Sample of the words we employed to reap fear where we planted none, brew turmoil without Mama Pima’s consent. Put amygdala to work, so to speak.
Operation Linda Nchi is aggressively whipping our back side thoroughly. We’ve employed a propaganda tactic but to no avail.
I can’t take it no more.
Apophis has made me do the ungraspable. I’ve helped in the writing of many eulogies. The reminiscences deny me slumber. My emotions have resurrected and the humane feelings are tearing me apart from within me. I’m denouncing this faith of terrorism, this cowardly, brazen act, this worship of Apophis. I want to be coward no more; I don’t want to live behind a gun, massaging the trigger, because only cowards do that in expressing themselves; as Biko’s friend here put it cowardice doesn’t live at the end of a gun but lives behind the barrel of the gun.
Even after turning around, will the society take me back with arms wide open? Will they look at me as a former terrorist who might have mood swings and decide to take up arms again or as a prodigal son who erred in taking a wrong turn in life and is now so remorseful about it? Will I be myself again? Will you be a friend in my presence and spew vitriol about me in my absence or be a supportive friend even in my absence? Will everything really be okay?
That’s it or almost…