Now that interested parties are abandoning their Karen land titles like rats jumping from a sinking ship, I have a feeling that at the rate at which this is happening, there might not be bona fide claimants by the time this thing blows over and I have informed my better half that we are next in line to claiming ownership of the land.
“Timbuktu, whatever it is you are smoking should be washed down with milk as a rule. I mean, they should not let you continue embarrassing yourself like this,” was her reply.
I explained to her that, especially now that Old Swazuri and Madam Ngilu have agreed to merge documents, all claimants might be disqualified and that is when we make our move.
“We have to argue that Karen is the ancestral dwelling of our forefathers before they were brutally displaced by grabbers soon after the country attained her independence 50 years ago.
It should not be too difficult to prove that the land registry has been the den of thieves who have perfected the art of grabbing public and ancestral parcels of land.
“The judge will have no problem dismissing the professor’s documents in favour of Da Gama Rose or any of the other claimants.”
“And how do you intend to achieve such a feat?” she wanted to know.
“First of all, everyone knows that minority tribes like mine were discriminated against in what they refer to as historical injustices,” I reminded her.
“And since the digital government of Ole Jomo is determined to make things right, it is the duty of every Kenyan to claim a piece of the country, especially parcels of land that have been reclaimed,” it made sense to her.
And since the idea was so hot, we decided to enlist some people to prove that indeed we were third generation Karen land victims, now living as squatters.
“Actually, a part of a clan that is represented in various slums in the city,” I informed Michelle. I even admitted to myself that that was the best idea I had come up. Everyone who heard it wanted a piece of the action.
The secret
At Mama Fatuma’s, patrons were falling over each other to enlist as members of the lost tribe evicted from Karen many years ago.
“It is our time to eat,” claimed one who looked like his ancestors could do with an eviction from places that sell illegal brews. “As Deputy President Ruto said, you cannot stop an idea whose time has come. We are heading back to our roots,” he declared as the rest of the drunkards cheered.
I then took the opportunity to inform those losers that before we invade the land as squatters reclaiming their ancestral land, it was in order to make a formal complaint. “Otherwise they will deal with us the with us like trespassers.”
“That is when the idea to first of all generate as much publicity about our plight as much. We have to announce this tsunami long before we swamp the place,” they cheered at this announcement and even before I could contact the press, my conservative estimates indicated that there would be a million-man march to the land in Karen after word had spread.
Some claimed that the 134-acre disputed Karen land would be subjected to a Kenyan practice which goes by the name of Wetemere. This means that you simply hive off a parcel of the land on a first come first serve basis.
It has happened in Mpeketoni where we have a settlement by the same name and other parts of our republic.
The mood in the ghettos was electric. “We are finally going to own a piece of the real Kenya.” Others claimed that they were going to live in close proximity to Jakom.
Imagine me knocking at Mama Fidel’s to borrow some salt?” that was Mama Fatuma when the frenzy was fully distilled.
Come the D-Day we were headed to Karen waving branches, placards and all manner of crude farming implements to wetemere our land.
The coverage was amazing. Besides local media, we had correspondents from across the Atlantic. Imagine! They wanted to only speak to one man, leader of the nationalists. Timbuktu. Therefore, due to great public demand, I allowed them to shove half a dozen mics under my nose and basked in my moment of glory.
After hemming and hawing, I delivered my prepared speech extolling the virtues of nationalism and vehemently condemning land grabbing.
“Hii shamba ni yetu,”I concluded and disappeared among the people.
The squatters were all chased away, and news that the combined force of Ngilu and Swazuri, as well as AG Kimaiyo were looking for me made me lock myself up in my bathroom.
“Open up the door so that I can remind you I told you so,” it was my wife Michelle. What man cannot be allowed to lick his wounds of defeat in peace in the privacy of his own toilet, I wondered to myself. “You big baby, open so that I can take a picture of you crying and post it in my Facebook account. The mamas in Nyeri might even give me a special mention when they convene next time,” she said laughing.
