In the weest hours of the morning, overly loud voices in the dark permeated through the slits of my windows, reverberated on the walls of my house, rang like a peal in my ears, and kept me awake, tossing and turning in my bed.
From my balcony where I stood to find out the what and why, I saw two young men and two young women engaged in an affray that had ensued way before it occurred to me that they had stayed on my street for quite a while.
They rapped, not in the official language, not in the national language, not in anything I could, by any chance, decipher. They rapped in their different mother tongues.
When the light of day arrived, I asked Ndabuki – my neighbour, who had heard and been frustrated by the same – to help with the much needed translation.
She said they were from a discotheque. They were drunk. The young women had hurt the young men’s feelings. The young men had wanted to take the young women home but it was all in vain. The young women were angered, and resorted to reducing the young men to nothingness.
They said that all the men from the tribe of the young men had small pintles.
Ongata Rongai, Kajiado.