Baby Drago's diary: My mummy, mirrors and poetry

One morning in ushago, shortly after 10 o’clock in the morning, as me and we are drinking shosho’s ‘uji ya wimbi,’ my mummy just walks in.

Before I go there, let me, three-year-old Baby Drago, tell you a joke I hear my Aunt Fayie say.

Ati a ‘city chicken wents to ushago, and when she saw her granma making a pot with smokes coming out, she said – shosho, you are sooo cool! Kumbe pia wewe uvuta shisha? Ha ha ha.’

I am so shocked to see my mummy I just freeze with the kijiko of uji ya wimbi half to mouth!

Only when my mummy hugs me is when I realise she is really here.

And I start to cry so hard, because I haven’t seen her for so many a time because of ‘lock down’ country by u-president Kenyanya and Minister of ‘Nineteen’ called Kaggi.

Let me tell you another story of my Ntagu (Grandpa).

Across the road, he has another big farm of mirrors! And mirrors, like the hot culture of flowers (that Kenyanya send to biscuit country, Britannia), are called essence services.

This is what has helped my mummy to come to me in Meru country.

My mummy at her job they have been sent on three month un-pay leaf, because of Nineteen.

Meanwhile, my mummy she has say she be the ‘turn boy’ of the mirror business of my ntagu.

Every morning at five in morning, when I am being asleep, my mummy leave with convoy of pick-ups that take two and a half hours to reach airport called Will Sun, where they unload mirrors.

Somalians, it seems, they like to look at themselves in the mirrors, but must break so many because they ordered more and more mirrors from Meru, every Monday till Friday.

They also call the mirrors ‘cut’ because they break them, and CUT themselves.

At eight, mummy, the ‘turned lady’ and the cut driver fly back across counties to ushago. As we eat our breakfast of ‘uji ya wimbi’ at 10am, my mummy now always walks in. Yippeee!

But until she does, I always feel my heart in so much fear. Now only my daddy and my nine-year-old sister Milan are left in Nairobi.

Milan likes music so much, so the other day when she call, I tell her a song I sing to my three-year-also-old cousin Laila (who is the baby of Auntie Fayie).

‘Nani ananyamba? Ni Laila, ni Lailaaa! Anataka ku-ha-ra, ha ha ha ha ha!’

Kumbe Milan is on speaker, and I hear my Daddy laugh and clap his hand, and he say: ‘My boy, you’re a rhyme genius.’

My mummy, who has come into room as I sing my own song, is very sour with me, like porrij.

Taking phone from me by force, she says: ‘Baba Drago, how can you encourage him to sing bad songs?’

A pause, then mummy says: ‘That’s not poetry, unless you want him to end in a gangsta-tone group like Ethics.’