Running Mate

I had always thought of Mr. Makokha – his Christian name is Peter but he has always been known by his traditional name, perhaps because he evokes an austere and dignified demeanor associated with Wanga royalty – as a straightforward man. He has just resigned as the Principal of Kakamega High School in order to run for Governor of Kakamega County. This move, though shocking to fellow teachers who know him, is not entirely so for me. In fact, the more I think of our first meeting ten years ago, the more I realize that this should quite be expected. I recall meeting him at an inter-school drama festival to which I had accompanied my lead drama teacher and our students whose performance, despite our best efforts, was poor. Mr. Makokha’s students on the other hand had performed beyond expectations, including his own – much to his delight of course – as he admitted to me then.

I had approached him to offer my congratulations on such a stirring performance of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. I wasn’t the only one vying for his attention, I recall, and he struck me as a restrained man, unused to the gushing scrutiny he suddenly faced. He had the sort of face which one could tell didn’t smile often, and thus, having to smile to endless accolades coming his way, it looked strained. He stood out from among the hoard of teachers, almost six-foot tall, and with a complexion darker than most – it seemed to me the result of many younger years in the sun tending to vast fields of land and crop. As I gently pushed my way towards him, I noticed that his grey suit jacket was a tad too large, its collar worn and sporting a faint shade of brown, and hung heavy on him, perhaps weighed down by a large bunch of keys in its pockets.

‘Congratulations, Mr. Makokha!’ I intoned in a reverent voice as soon as I reached him. He turned to face me, and his eyes, although I am not so sure now due to the passage of time, unsettled me for a fleeting moment: they seemed to burn with an intensity I could not place immediately. I have thought more about it in recent times, and now I believe it to be something akin to ambition. In hindsight, had I reflected more on the cause of this fleeting unsettling, I would have been more circumspect in my impressions of him. I suppose I forgot about it as soon as he spoke to me with his rich, baritone voice that possessed surprising warmth.

‘Thank you my brother, I didn’t expect them to do so well myself. I am truly proud of them, I must say,’ he said as he grabbed my hand to deliver that typical strong and enthusiastic Luhya handshake, typified more by his hard, callused hands. Towering above me – I am just five-foot-six tall – he was a little wiry for his height. He wore a short but untidy beard that skirted around his thin, hardened lips. His accent confirmed him as a thoroughbred Luhya.

‘How did you inspire them? Mr. Lutta and I tried quite hard with our students,’ I asked.

‘Ah! But it’s easy my brother, just believe in the story. All you have to do is believe in the story, they will catch the inspiration too.’ As he spoke these words, his affected smile disappeared, and his eyes misted a little in fervency. I was at once inspired by his remarkable commitment, as it seemed to me, which went beyond understanding the play. Indeed, I later tried to make this point to Mr. Lutta, my lead drama teacher, but he appeared not to fully understand its import. Mr. Makokha recovered almost immediately, and yet another felicitating teacher seized his attention.

I recall contacting Mr. Makokha more and more in the months following our first meeting, and a friendship of sorts developed between us. I say of sorts because, as straightforward as I have thought him to be, I still do not know much about Mr. Makokha’s past beyond our first meeting. I know that he is married to two wives and has numerous children, as can be expected of such a traditional man. I know his home village is Nyapora in Mumias, just neighboring St. Peter’s Mumias High School where I am the Principal. I have had numerous occasions therefore to pay him courtesy calls over the years, and I have come to be on good terms with his family. However, I have always sensed a certain limit to Mr. Makokha’s friendship, a certain reluctance to reveal more than is necessary. I haven’t particularly had a problem with this – in fact, his well-known candor in our teaching profession more than made up for this deficiency – but now that I think of it, it strikes me as a little odd.

Of course, Mr. Makokha has made quite a remarkable transformation since this rather inauspicious first encounter. If one meets him today, one would have trouble reconciling his image from ten years ago to the one he cuts now. I have heard glowing remarks on his immaculate suits, his Toyota Camry, and his two houses, one for each wife. I have seen him embrace the publicity that he seemed to eschew on our first encounter, and slowly begin to cultivate it to endear himself. I haven’t had a problem with this either. I have come to think of it as a natural transformation of an ambitious man who is well known for his prodigious concern for the welfare of teachers. I was not surprised at all when he was elected to the National Executive Council of the Kenya National Union of Teachers about three years ago.

I remember that those heady days of the campaign were made easier by our strike then in protest against our appalling salaries. I was particularly involved in the mobilization in our County, as was Mr. Makokha, who was a rising star in the County structures. His election was most natural – I am not trying to belittle his achievements. However, that clear-skied day three years ago has stuck in a chamber of my memory, hidden and lurking as a wild dog would in the dark.

The long strike was still on, and I had whiled the afternoon with a couple of colleagues at Ekero Club. I might have consumed a couple of beers too many, perhaps, and my senses may have been lulled further by copious amounts of nyama choma. I recall humming a happy tune as I walked on the dusty road towards the school, where my house was. Often I was forced to stand on the side for a sugarcane-laden tractor to pass, spewing smoke and dust in my wake. Dusty children with tattered clothes often gave chase, grabbing canes, giggling and chuckling in delight as the drivers swore obscenities. The wind whipped up more dust in the hot and dry January late afternoon, creating little tornadoes as if portending a gathering storm. Bicycle and motorbike taxis ferried people back and forth, many of who carried foodstuffs and a few struggled with live chicken. An older man, wearing what I thought looked like new jeans trousers, a sweatshirt with FILA emblazoned on the front, and equally matching FILA sneakers, obviously flush with sugarcane money, walked hand in hand with a young girl I thought to be his daughter, but from the way he was looking at her, I wasn’t sure.

I was contemplating this when I heard guttural noises coming from a thatched hut to my left. I might have been alarmed – I am not quite sure why I made my way through the small guava thicket, through grass and leaves covered with brown dust, to investigate. As I approached a small window came into my view, and through it I saw Mr. Makokha sprawled on the floor, facing up, his body jerking and the whites of his eyes showing. An old woman, her back hunched, and wearing a sisal skirt and her torso crisscrossed by a bright red, flowery kanga as well as laces of beads and bones, walked around him, dipping a flywhisk in an open gourd and sprinkling some liquid on him, talking a strange language in that guttural voice.

‘Kukhu! Someone is looking!’ A shrill child’s voice called out to her grandmother, cutting through my dazed transfixion, and the old woman suddenly turned her head from her reverie and her terrible eyes settled on mine. I am quite sure she had a bad case of cataracts, but growing up I had heard tales of such kinds of eyes throwing invisible bad omens. I turned away, swift, but not before I realized Mr. Makokha too had noticed me.

This particular incident has since remained unspoken, even as Mr. Makokha paid me a courtesy call earlier today to make a profound request, which has compelled me to recall it. Mr. Makokha was quite genial today, and was straightforward as usual regarding the ills that faced Kakamega County.

‘You know Wekesa, my brother,’ he started as soon as our longwinded pleasantries had come to an end. ‘We need to revive our County. Too much time has been wasted on politics and not much development has happened. Look at this dusty road,’ he referred to the road leading to my school. It had the inadvertent effect of bringing to life that incident buried from long ago.

‘For how long has it remained like this? Dusty in the dry season, muddy in the rainy season? How many roads in Kakamega County are like this? How many hospitals are poorly managed, how many schools are falling apart? This County is a laughing stock! As Shakespeare says: confusion now hath made its masterpiece. Right here in our County!’ Mr. Makokha sounded indignant.

‘Indeed, so much more can be done. We need better leadership to move our County forward. Look at Governor Wafula and his team. Total idiots! No sense of direction at all!’ I shared his indignation, as I truly believe our current leadership is atrocious.

‘Yes, my brother, this is why, as you are already aware, I am running for Governor. And I want you to be my running mate.’

I suppose I was nonplussed, for he continued, insistent, excited. ‘Think about it! Two non-politicians, well-known teachers, KNUT officials, squeaky clean, fresh ideas! We both have great reputations, brother! We have the networks, and there is sufficient time to mobilize our people. It’s our time!’

He paused to catch his breath, and his eyes shone with the same unsettling intensity as ten years ago. I regarded him with an uncertain wariness, which I tried to hide, although I am not sure I was successful.

‘I don’t know, Mr. Makokha, I’ll have to think about it.’ I offered in a tight voice.

‘Sure! We have plenty of time, no pressure, my brother. Remember Shakespeare!’ He proceeded to quote from Macbeth in quite dramatic fashion:

“I have no spur

To prick the sides of my intent, but only

Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself

And falls on the other.”

So, as you can surmise, I have been compelled to reflect upon Mr. Makokha because of his request that I be his running mate. I am not quite sure. Being Deputy Governor would of course not be a modest achievement. I imagine it comes with a lot of power and fair measure of glory, not to mention considerably greater financial means, although this, I suppose, shouldn’t be a major preoccupation. Most important would be the opportunity to contribute meaningfully to this County, the land of my birth, and of my ancestors. Mr. Makokha seems sufficiently popular – it appears, barring some monumental machinations by Governor Wafula’s unpopular regime, he will easily become the next Governor. It would be a welcome breath of fresh intellectual vigor to have a Shakespeare-quoting, development minded and charismatic Governor, and even better to work with one.

Yet this unsettling feeling is hard to ignore. Mr. Makokha, standing there on my doorway as he departed, a resolute chin struck forward, made it quite clear that he wasn’t turning back by delivering yet another quote:

“I am in blood

Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more,

Returning were as tedious as go o'er.”

I have studied Macbeth again since his visit earlier today, and it appears to me that Mr. Makokha’s fervent obsession with this tragedy is altogether alarming. The more I reflect on this matter, the more a mission unfolds before me, one weightier than our wars with the government over our salaries, one greater than the mobilization and networking that we have undertaken over the years.

I have to stop him.

Picture Credit: chriscormieranimation