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 soup. It was better than the messes’ food, because it was served from the heart. It was not a secret to skip class and meet your ‘Quantitative Skills 304’ lecturer there. Being neutral ground, we bantered. All were equal at Musese’s. No pulling rank. We called it international waters—with full diplomatic privileges. 

And who could forget the kamukunjis? Of warring warriors: Dikembe Disembe. Jeff Kinyatta. Edu Moen Some by just one name – like Sanchez, Omosh, Bush  — because they were that powerful, almost a monolith like Jesus. 

If you wanted to cook, you learned how to game the system: tulishikanisha mawaya. With the amount of electricity coursing through those naked wires, it was a shock none of us ever died. Engineers may not have been born that day — but they had been christened. 

Our love for that club, ile F1, the one with the Mazda Axela-red walls, the one where VIP was crowdfunding a mzinga. Or two. Or three. We drunk the nights away, and came out two-by-two like in Noah’s ark, like how Jesus and Judas did, when they both knew each other’s secret.

We were in a hurry to grow up, most of us having tasted freedom for the first time in university, like a child suddenly becoming a father and not knowing what to do. The concept of making it floated in the air like how lies, foreheads and wigs float in Nairobi’s air – and I swore to avoid it. So we had the usual student wild-hair servings: Broken, binge-drinking and impressionable—the hallmarks of a life still under construction. We were Naineji, wasee wa Nai, but with strong kienyeji vibes. 

We would shop in Turkey – if you loosened the definition of Turkey – which we called Mabatini, TikToked as ‘mabs’. Zungu Sounds. Kwa Chela. And HELB checked in and we’d feed on the chicken then chicken products then feed like chicken. Go to Falls after she had fallen for you. Room 31 — the DCI, the security grilling room. Moi university the tutor, us, the protégé. Moi University, a Greek tragedy masked as a Spartan rise. Campus for me smelled like bad bread and avocado, like condoms and conversations. 

Lest I forget. Man's (real) best friend: Bedbugs. Micro-comrades. That's the name we gave them. They were everywhere. You ask God for a companion, He gives you companions. You never killed a micro-comrade. They did their part in balancing the university eco-system. Micro-comrades were the bloodline, pardon the pun, of campus life. 

In a town that cares a little too much about education, I was in the School of Humanities. That means, I was hardly ever in class, except when I was. If you were in HR, as we used to call it, class was a leisure activity. It was something you did as a pastime rather than what took you there. 

Who cares? To be called a comrade was the highest honour bestowed upon a student. It implies – or at least not denies — belonging to a tribe, to a community. No matter where you are in life, you will always be, the Real Comrades of Moi University.