Jamo and the Damsels: A County That Keeps Marrying Promises

 So I have this friend — let’s call him Jamo. Yes, Jamo, not Jemo. Ghetto names, Msee wa Kayole -Eastlands edition. The kind of guy who didn’t chase women; women chased him. Not because he was trying too hard — the man just existed. Worked with an NGO as some data analyst wizard. Money ilikuwa mingi. Resources zilikuwa pletty. And as good friends — let’s be honest — we helped him “manage” those resources. Never benefitted him much, come to think of it. We mined his life like a quarry and built our own castles elsewhere. Not proud of it… but he never seemed to mind.

Then came 2013 or thereabout — the day my boy Jamo shocked me.

He called me:

“Bud, let’s meet at our favorite water spot.”

We weren’t goats, so I knew exactly where — Class 3. Found him there with a bottle of Yohana Mtembezi, the black one. We celebrate roots — not red coz we ain't Red Indians, we are black men with stories.

A drink or two after, is then he drops the bomb.

“I’m settling down… I’m devolving.”

Damn!! Devolving? Ati nini? Serikali gani hii?

Turns out my guy had met a Taveta engineer. Beautiful. Brilliant. She made my guy Jamo know backbones better than a medical student — thoracic spine, lumbar spine, sacral spine… foundations laid horizontally, sometimes vertically, that she did. Jamo even hinted he never knew a body  could bend or twist the ways she did. Suddenly Pa! I understood — matters below the belly can convert even the strongest man into a philosopher of love. Jamo was smitten. Kusimp officially activated.

He married. We gave him space. He grew a belly. We lost touch.

Five years later — call again.

“Bro, meet me now"

Am like "Where Bro?, you betrayed John the Walker for a damsel, My Guy!, and we cant go to a literal watering hole like goats!! So where?"

"Anywhere but not here.” He Replies

We met at Class 4 — Our new poverty-approved watering hole.  We had also betrayed John the Traveler. It was lemon bites, cheap drinks, creased faces. Devolution had happened — resources redirected. The engineer had redesigned the budget. My guy walked in looking like life had repossessed his soul. One glass — he almost swallowed it whole. Divorce had happened. Engineer had stopped engineering for Jamo.

But with a smile he says,

“I found someone else… and she sings.”

Jisos!! A singer from Werugha!!

Next thing we are at a Werugha wedding. This damsel sang like ancestors were harmonizing through her veins.

“Wele nani wadi wanga ndedi mmanyagha…Mara.....Iiii hebu sikirenyi… Olele ni omoni…”

Even the engineer came begging for a second chance — but the singer had Subaru boys. Not wale wa mambaru — real resource managers. Engineer disappeared like a bird with no available tree to perch. All this time Jamo was smiling like a man who had discovered a new religion.

Then silence.

Stories start circulating — Subaru boys booking Airbnbs, flying damsels from Kagame’s backyard. Resources flowing like a broken dam. My guy vanished again.

Five years later — my kadunda screams in my pocket while I’m drinking palm wine like Okonkwo from Things Fall Apart. I ignore the first call. Might be Tala collectors. Second call — it’s Jamo.

He arrives broken. Resources gone. Loans taken on his Volkswagen Beetle. Singer gone. Left him with empty pockets and a pregnant reality. She to was pregnant. Oh Yes! Subaru boys, Wamefanya ile kitu!

“Mimi silei mtoto wa mtu aki!! Haiwezi.” He kept saying.

But my guy smiles again —

“I found someone else.”

This time a Chawia damsel from Mwatate. Divorced after ten years, used previous resources wisely, did real community work. Jamo was hopeful again.

Only problem… she drinks. Damn this guy! He never disapoints.

And not small drinks. Nyangumi level drinking. Ten of me combined. Jamo now busy protecting her from palm wine philosophers like me, while watu wa mkono networks quietly chewed through his remaining resources like mughuka ya murume.

Five years later — we sit outside his house after carrying her home. My guy looks at me with tears.

“Bro… I’m done with marriage.”

I ask if he’s divorcing her.

He just stares. Silent. Broken. Older.

And as I walk away, I laugh — because that’s what we do. We laugh at Jamo. But halfway down the road, the laughter tastes bitter. Because the truth is heavy — we are all Jamo in one way or another. Repeating mistakes, chasing illusions, trusting old faces with old habits, blaming others while quietly building our own downfall.

We mine each other’s lives. We celebrate resources. We ignore lessons. Then we cry when the coffers are empty.

Maybe Jamo’s story isn’t about love. Maybe it’s about people who never learn — until the resources, the friends, and even the laughter run dry.

Maybe Jamo was never just a man — maybe Jamo is Taita Taveta itself.

A county that keeps falling for smooth-talking damsels dressed like saviors but leaving the house emptier than they found it. Roads stall, projects fade, promises evaporate, and yet every cycle we walk down the aisle again, hopeful but forgetful. The laughter is thinner now, the pockets lighter, the patience worn. But elections are coming — another chance to choose who we marry as a county. Will we finally pick a damsel who builds instead of bleeds us? One who restores the home instead of auctioning the furniture? Or will we repeat the vows of regret and call it tradition? The pen is in our hands this time. The future of Jamo — the future of Taita Taveta — depends on whether we choose wisdom over sweet words.

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.

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