With a light touch: Why I would rather be away from home during protests

I have finally discovered to my dismay that, as an MCA, I am not as tough as I always thought I was. My Eureka moment occurred on the first day of maandamano last week. Being a down-to-earth leader, I had vowed to mingle with the people in the streets and monitor the situation.

“Supposing violence breaks out, what will you do?” Mama Hiro, daughter of my mom-in-law, asked as I was preparing to leave the house.

“No worries, that is part of our job,” I exuded confidence.

I had just driven out of my compound when I came across a truck full of grim-faced police officers. I can swear I saw one, who looked like their leader, point at me. The thought of my bones colliding with the cops’ tools of trade immediately made me long for the safety of my house. In a few minutes, I was back there.

“You are back so soon?” Mama Hiro asked, eyeing me curiously. There was no way I was going to reveal the truth. “I have changed my mind. I have thought it better that we spend our day together,” I said without batting an eyelid and added, “you have always complained that I don’t have time for you. Today, I am all yours.”

This earned me a so-you-think-I-am-so-daft look from her. That did not bother me: I was determined to spend the day indoors, whether she believed me or not.

To keep myself busy, I decided to scrutinize the bursary list of my ward. I needed to see how well my loyal supporters had gained, and whether there had been any unfairness. I called the ward administrator and asked him to send me the necessary lists. In a few minutes, I had them on my computer and got down to business.

“Dear, I thought this was our day,” came the voice of my soul mate.

“It is. I am here, and you are also here,” I retorted.

“But you look too busy for me.”

“No, darling. I am here for you.” I was doing my best to sound romantic.

“Then put aside your work and let us enjoy each other’s company,” Mama Hiro said uncategorically. I had no choice. After all, I was the one who had talked of quality time.

After a moment of awkward silence, she erupted: “Love, let me ask you something, and promise to tell me the truth.” I sensed danger and merely nodded.

“Why have you been unwilling to persuade the county government to pay our pending bills?” In case you are not in the know, my spouse supplies foodstuff to all the health facilities in our county.

Unwilling! How now? It is common knowledge that all counties have not cleared with suppliers of goods and services. I told her as much, but she remained unconvinced.

“Even if they can’t pay for the rest, why don’t they pay for mine?” I remained speechless. “If you really cared for me, I would have been paid long ago. Anyway, ni sawa tu.”

Just when I thought she was done with me, she unleashed another calm-shattering complaint. “For three years, I have been asking you to get my brother a job in the county government, na umekataa.”

I had not seen this coming. In my mind, the matter had been closed. I had categorically told her that, with a degree in music, there was no way her brother would get a job in the county treasury office. I reminded her of that.

“Then get him a job where he can fit,” she screeched.

In a desperate quest for a ceasefire, I promised to look into the matter. An uneasy calm followed. I was still groping for a safe topic to introduce, when she sprung up another issue - spouse allowance. Listen to her:

“You MCA’s don’t want us to get the money since you know we will be more popular than you.” This was too much for me to handle. I had to get out of this house. I took my phone and pretended to make a call. “
“Ok, mheshimiwa, where do we meet?….Fine. I will be there right away.” I then informed Mama Hiro I was going to meet the county secretary, and left the house.

No sooner had I left my compound than I came face to face with a crowd of protesters with police officers in hot pursuit. I immediately took an about turn and retreated to the safety of my house.

After all, Mama Hiro’s verbal torture was nothing compared to the sting of teargas. Bora Amani.