Even Giants Fall — And Echoes Knock at Six

 Have you ever wondered what happened to the New Generation brothers?

The mall stands like a sore thumb. A reminder that all is vanity. A reminder that even giants fall. Goliath did. And when he fell, the Philistines were ruled by the Israelites. That’s how David became king.

It’s past midnight and I’m burning the proverbial midnight oil. I hear the sound of my buck intimately trying to ride the does… the sound of kids bleating. I have always wanted to own a ranch. I have watched Yellowstone from season one to the finale. The last episode was a kicker. I nearly shed tears. It pained me how they killed John Dalton. It was not how I envisioned it ending. And it happened in the first episode. I nearly stopped watching the damn series. But I felt I owed it to my Mr. Dalton to see it to the end — and with that curiosity, I learned something new, something so profound that it made me smile.

That was just an imaginative dream I have when I haven’t had a pint.

So where were we?

Jamo had just showed up.

Clean shaved. Troubled look. Just told me he wanted to get married.

And wicked me, I cursed — inside of course. Why the hell would this man, in all heavens, want to get married again?

But you know when you’re not the one buying the drinks, you agree and encourage every little thing. So we sit down. He asks what we’re having. Noticing a sense of wealth, I change my mind.

No more Pasha.

I tell Jamo let’s look for a classier watering hole. I hear there is class in Plus One. My old pal Nish — I hadn’t seen him in quite a while. We get into the car and ride off.

My mind is smoky. I can’t quite figure out the right words to say to this gentleman next to me. He looks troubled, blessed, but tired and worn out.

Look at me judging, I think to myself.

My thoughts wander.

To family values.

Who we are as a society — does the community mould us or do we mould the community? Community as a structure is made up of small clusters of structures we call families. That’s where we are.

Mistakes we make as parents in moulding our children most of the time come back to bite us. We experience the aftermath of the coddling — of creating what we termed an independent generation, based on how we were brought up.

But the shock on us.

One showed up at my doorstep the other day.

Knocked on my door six in the morning.

My mind was still a froth of brewery concoction. Couldn’t even bring myself to think where the door was. Got out of bed, turned around, hit a wall. Cursed so loud that the person knocking cursed too.

It sounded like a woman’s voice.

That jolted me.

A woman at my door? At six?

Shit.

My frothy mind tried to come up with the happenings of last night. All I remembered didn’t make sense — and no woman was involved.

I turn the door knob. The door jams. I curse again. She curses too.

I stop.

Why does it sound like my echo?

Then the door hits me so hard as she tries to push it from the other end. I curse so loud and with so much obscenity that my echo calls the name of the Lord in vain.

I’m still holding my forehead when she asks:

“Dad, can I come in?”

Dad?

Me?

Jesus!

This one has lost her mind.

I think so loud she hears and starts laughing. I turn, still holding my forehead — and there in front of me stands my echo.

Jesus.

Standing in front of me was a replica of me. Of course, the younger, sober version. I try touching, thinking it was a mirror.

“Tume fika, Cabron,” Jamo tells me — and I come back to reality.

I feel bad just thinking of that morning. For a moment I hesitate from getting out of the car. But the thought of a real drink…

I forget all about the kid.

To hell with her.

She has grown without me all her life. Why does she need me now? I can never be a Dad. I create them and let the world mould them.

I smile getting out of the car.

I think of how many of them might show up.

What a reunion.

But who cares? They ain’t my responsibility.

We enter the joint and my boy Nish is there. Genuinely he seems glad to see me — it had been a while.

Then I remember.

The last time I was there I drank a few and left, promising to clear the bill the next day. Never showed up.

He doesn’t remember, I think.

Then boom.

“Wee bro, ulienda bila kulipa bill last year man. Had to pay it myself,” he says smiling.

Echo.

He leads us to the table as I mumble some excuses I can’t even hear myself.

As we sit down, my thoughts linger just for a while to the echo — the daughter.

Does this mean a new beginning?

Or a past that has come to haunt my alcohol-ridden dream?

Jamo is planning on turning a new leaf, it seems.

So should I?

I think as I sit.

Now here is the hard truth.

Mwaruma cannot be an echo of the past that wants to change the future.

If he wanted to, he would have.

Two terms.
Two governors.

As oversight, he would have done so much. But because he was positioning himself to be governor, he sabotaged the two governors in ways we can’t see.

Echoes don’t reform themselves.

They only repeat what was said before.

And the question remains —

When the echo knocks again,

Will we pretend not to hear it?

Before I close, let’s talk about the Echo.

Is she the past we keep running from as voters?

Or is she the grown past — the consequence of our own choices — now standing at the door, asking to be acknowledged?

Because maybe that knock at 6 a.m. is not noise.

Maybe it is accountability.

Maybe the Echo reflects exactly what we voted for. The leaders we cheered. The handouts we accepted. The slogans we danced to. The silence we kept when we should have shouted.

Does our Echo reflect the choices we made for Jamo — our county?

Because Jamo did not wake up broke by accident.
He married who we clapped for.
He spent what we allowed him to spend.
He ignored what we ignored.

Now the daughter stands there. Not a mistake anymore. Not a secret. Not a rumor.

A full-grown reflection.

And here is the uncomfortable question:

Do we keep running from her — or do we embrace her?

Because if the Echo is the new generation, then maybe she is the one meant to take Jamo to a new Kanani. Maybe she is the one who can rebuild what we reduced to vanity. Maybe she is the discipline we lacked. Maybe she is the future that does not drink Pasha at midnight.

Singapoor was not built by drunk men arguing in bars. It was built by people who decided enough was enough.

So what are we?

Are we still the frothy mind hitting walls at 6 a.m.?

Or are we ready to open the door and say:

“Come in.”

Because the picture is real.

And this time, we cannot pretend we didn’t hear the knock.

As Chávez said, “Once you educate the people, you cannot make them unlearn.”
We have seen the future, and the future is ours.
They think we don’t see. But we are faceless, and yet, we see.

Gods of Taita Taveta, let’s make it in our own image.
Next Thursday, stay tuned for our next episode.

For any queries or information, reach out to us at Voice of Taita Taveta
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📧 Email: doctalve@gmail.com

— Voice of Taita Taveta.