Number 2

The death sentence in Arkansas is very much like the one we have in Kenya. It doesn’t work. Instead, you sit in jail doing nothing as you wait for your human system to cave in from all the weevil infested meals. I hear in Kenya the death sentence means you get exempted from doing any community work and so I assume the criminals who are meant to go under the rope must be really bored in there, and that they’re the ones who keep sending fake jackpot text messages to the rest of us free birds.

Apparently, after the death sentence was ruled out of the justice system in Arkansas, the chemicals that were used to put these vagabonds to sleep were all stored in a shelf and forgotten. Only recently did they discover that the drugs were about to expire.

And the prison officials thought, “Why let all these chemicals go to waste?”

So what they did was, they rounded up all the prisoners with death sentences, strapped them on gurneys and injected them with the chemicals. One by one those poor souls were wiped off the face of the earth. And it’s not like they were given memos prior to this. One minute you’re seated in a small cell playing poker with your fellow convict and the next minute the warden is leading you to the death chamber.

You see, I’m slowly recovering from a case of constipation. I noticed the bugger about four days ago. I was in the shower scrubbing away at my pits with a lathered towel when I felt an uncomfortable ball in my belly. So I started to think back, to try and recall the last time I was on a toilet seat. And I simply couldn’t. I also can’t remember much of what happened in school on Tuesday because one time I was in an Ethics class jotting down some notes and the other half I was propped up on a toilet seat.

I was feeling good about Tuesday. It was day 2 of school. I had woken up with a start, just with enough time to sneak in a cold shower and some writing. It was drizzling outside. So what I did was, I put on my favorite black sweater and went to push the wheels of academia. Only, I didn’t know that I would spend a lot of time propped up on a goddamn toilet seat.

You know it’s funny. You wake up in a good mood one day and just when you think the day is going great you get a surge in your gut and you can no longer participate in the day’s events because you’re wedged inside a smelly little boy’s room propped up on a goddamn toilet seat.

There’s nothing as tormenting as putting on a straight face when you have to urgently defecate.

Anyway it was in the afternoon when I got the call. I was having a soda or some such thing when I felt a slight bulge in my tummy. I had to go.

And so I found myself on a goddamn toilet seat. I was on the fifth floor of the building, those washrooms are my favorite because nobody ever goes there and they smell less of ammonia. While whistling to a tune, I went into a stall, locked the door and removed my sweater because I didn’t want the smell of toilet hanging on its threads. Plus it’s really the most uncomfortable thing, to take a dump in heavy clothing.

I knew I was going to be there for a while, so I did what any constipated bloke would do. I fished out my phone and resumed reading a story about a fool and his gold.

Meanwhile, the gates of heaven were opening under me. It was loud as hell and I almost couldn’t believe all that was coming out of me. By that time my forehead was sweating. It was like being inside a sock. I felt light headed and I even toyed with the idea that I might possibly pass out from all the straining and no one would know because nobody ever goes to those toilets. And if they do they probably never stay long enough to think: Hold on a minute, this stall has been occupied a rather long time. Someone must have died in there; I better notify the school administration.

I was all alone.

And, while nature was taking place, I might have also let out a few grunts to aid with the pushing. What I didn’t realize was that there was someone in the next stall and he was likely to be pinching his nose. Whoever was in there –God bless his soul- hadn’t made a sound since I came in and I figured he must have been getting a good kick out of my bowel misery. I mean, I would too if I was in a toilet and I could hear someone splashing toilet water on his bum with his own excrement.

It was really awkward, to tell you the truth. The whole time I kept thinking: Can he see my shoes from under the partition?

Someone should really find a way to take the weirdness away from the washrooms; maybe have some music playing to cover the sound of splashing feces. And while they’re at it they should make the stall a bit taller so there just isn’t enough space for a grown man to crawl under.

I had to wait until the guy left so I could continue with my grunting.

In my stall there were some markings on the wall. Someone had apparently used a biro to write the words IP Address and random numbers below it. The numbers didn’t follow any particular order. I tried to find a pattern but I couldn’t. And I remember making a point that, if I wasn’t done with my business after ten minutes I would try to find the LCM of those numbers. I quickly figured that maybe this was also IT guy’s favorite toilet and he comes here when he needs some quiet time to sharpen his computer coding skills.

And then as I was getting up to grab the roll of tissue paper my phone buzzed. It was a text message from a number I didn’t recognize. It was one of those phony messages saying that I have just won a lot of money and that I should send the code name SWIFTLET to another number upon which I will be able to get my winnings. I fancied it was just some bored jailbird with a lot of time on his hands. So I replied and told him to stick the money up his swiftlet and forgot all about it by the time I was washing my hands. But it made me think, what if we tried the Arkansas method in Kenya?

I imagine that, instead of chemicals we’d still be using those swinging blades that go right through someone’s neck. A haughty prison guard would be walking among the dungeons having a cigarette and he would notice the blade is gathering a bit of rust. He would then adjust his belt and waddle down to the warden and say that there was a problem. And then the warden would give an order to get those machines back to work. I think, in that moment we’ll have solved the problem of these phonies, and no one would have to be bothered while propped up on a goddamn toilet seat.

Anyway, happy Madaraka day friends.



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