TALES HOUR
There’s a story that is oft told in hushed tones in Moi University. Mashoka. He was Vlad the Impaler, sprinkled with a tinge of sadomasochism. He had an axe to grind, which is a problematic metaphor, considering an axe was what he’d use to terrorise students. I never met Mashoka, but his lore deterred us from the vicinity of girls’ hostels at night. Well, until we realized we could deal with Mashoka too. When freshers joined university, we, buoyed by unexplained anguish and general restlessness and the heave-ho of youth exuberance, also indoctrinated them to Mashoka, warning them about the vile-cuss-swearing-machete-wielding mad man who targeted students. If Mashoka was the devil’s roar, we were the voice of God. We’d ramble about the legend of Mashoka, mmhhing and aahhhing and weeeuuu-ing at Musese. Musese was the comrades’ corner. It was a diplomatic site. No man’s land. Here, there was no king or pawn, just comrades. Chapati kojoa was my go-to meal—Number 5. Five chapatis and s...