KOKWO AT NIGHT.      


In the night, when darkness scares light away to where it comes from, when danger looms in the dark a loner, when the sweetness of slumber reigns over the lazy bones and while others enjoy the terrible beauty of rebellion, the village is rent with eerie silence. The villagers, Kokwonites, in a semi chloroform sleep and their treasures in the cowsheds redoing the chewing process. 
The night is calm with minute noises of vociferous babies defying the will of their mothers to shut their eyelids for the darker part of the day , twittering birds wondering why light had abandoned them and of course the turbocharged mouth dogs making known their presence. Since nothing lasts forever, at one chance it has to surrender, silence put the village under siege. 
However, the silence was not the usual one, it was abnormal. Why?For one, insects could be heard sucking their share from the natural co-existence. Two, the minding brains could be heard thinking. And three, the sliding organs in situ, the eyes of course, could be heard rolling from a neighbor recovering from a nightmare. 
At that specific time, that precise moment, when the village was lost in an undiscovered piece of land named slumber, a blast was heard. It was not the normal blast of a misbehaving Chelsea Yokohama tyre, it was a blast similar to that of a metal stick excreting fire. Resurrecting from their beds lazily, probably unsure of their hearing ears, for even the coastal people are not worth your trust while watching the _embe dodo_ lying on the sand. Another blast went again. 
The living and those barely alive, the hunters and gatherers, the teachers and preachers, the blessed in pocket and the pocket unfriendly, old and young, all turned into a solid rock. Can’t move, won’t move. Can’t talk, won’t talk. Others however, went further for it is always advisable to go the extra mile and did urine expulsion on their clothes. However, the rare group, the so called  _classic men_, released molten food oxide, I can’t say it was yellow. 
With a cloud of terror hanging low, pregnant ready to deliver its unwanted gift ;calamity, all spoke at once, perhaps in some divine language, then remained silent. Those who wanted to cry, laughed. Most who wanted to laugh, cried. However, those with a glow courage in them, reached their phones only to hear

      _Samahani mteja wa nambari uliopiga hapatikani kwa siasa_

Another deliberate effort to reach the _nyumba kuni_ leader formally known as village headman was met with a message-full skiza tune _Shake yo bum bum, kwenda sukuma, shake yo bum bum……_
Almost losing hope, they fumbled their touch pads to reach the ward administrator but the call was forwarded. ‘The Beast,’  otherwise known as ‘Papa’s car’, the governor’s car had been spotted somewhere in the bush. What was it doing in the bush anyway? 
To rescue the villagers from great hands of fantasy, Narema, whose assets are famous for swaying from left to right generously, was heard screaming. It was not the normal screams, the frequently heard, it was a scream of terror. It is there that it dawned on every Kamau, Ali and Onyango, that the bandits had finally come to take what unlawfully belongs to them. 
The bandits were people feared more than death. In fact, as all came to search for their deaths here on earth, which we will eventually find, death seemed to flee the bandits at all times. This made me say that. One, they had nothing to befit the title of a cloth  ‘my dress my choice  is an understatement. Two, they survived for many days with soaked maize their repeated diet. And three, their mode of transport, the _Footsubishi Lancer_, never showed any sign of wearing or even breaking down. 
Only a knock accompanied by a refrain _Fungua wenye ngombe tumefika_(Open up,we the owners of the cows have arrived )  was enough to make one open all the doors and windows all together. Since we are all born politicians, in a democratic world, there had to be an opposition. The opposer’s otherwise known as the rebellious, were granted an unpaid ticket to heaven. 
After collecting and setting all the cows in motion, they fired the remaining bullets to disturb the air. The crescendo of moving cows breaking the earth with their hooves, made them weep. As they watched them go to I. C. C (Invisible Cattle Custody ), they observed a minute of silence to honor their departed treasures. 
Insecurity is not a secret anymore. It’s like a furious fire burning over dry grass. For this reason the teaching scheme should be changed from A for Attack, B for Bazooka. It is you who can bring it all to an end. Don’t breed a criminal. Refuse radicalization. Don’t shut that mouth. Report that suspect. Use all means to fight it. Let the pains of losing our loved ones be heard till the LMS(Last Man Sleeping ) Wake up to the call of joining hands in solidarity to fight Insecurity. 
                *©Kimaru_kim*

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