When the Future Stood at the Door, My Echo, Jamo.

I once talked about the Butterfly Effect.
That small flap of a butterfly wing in Africa — insignificant as it may seem — causing a tornado in Brazil.
Small action. Massive consequence.
One vote.
Your vote.
We keep pretending it is small. It is not. It is the tornado.
I am appealing to the youth.

We need your votes in large numbers. Not noise. Not hashtags. Votes.
Can we, just this once, be the generation that forces change?
Can we educate our people on the consequences of bad political choices?
Because bad choices don’t disappear.
They mature.
They knock.

As I sit here with my pal Jamo, still a bit hesitant about this “new leaf” he wants to turn, I can feel something brewing in him. An eruption of change maybe. Or indigestion. Hard to tell with Jamo.
We make our order and sit.
The music fills the air — quiet, cold ambience. Classy. Elegant. The kind of place where mistakes are made politely.
We take small sips of this tasty whiskey. I feel it burn my tongue. That raw barrel feel. For a moment, it feels good. Dangerous, but good.
We don’t speak.
Just sit side by side at the counter watching young revelers enter the club.
It feels elegant.
It feels hopeful.
I turn to face Jamo.
And at that very moment — like a lingering shadow —
I see her.
I freeze.
A hot sweat breaks across my skin. Panic grips me. Drink still in hand. Jamo looks at me, and I see fear in his eyes.
My mind, always dramatic, whispers: heart attack.
I nearly spit out my drink.
The thought of spitting it brings me back.
My Echo.
She doesn’t see me.
“What’s up, man?” Jamo asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
I see her turn, scanning the room. She doesn’t see me. She finds what she’s looking for and moves in the opposite direction.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
Turn back to Jamo.
Sip my drink.
Like nothing happened.
“Thought you were having a heart attack,” Jamo says.
“So did I,” I reply. “Enough about me bro. Tell me what’s new.”
He leans closer.
“I think I’ve found the one.”
This time she is the one who will change my fortune.

But how does one ever know that?
That this is it? That this is the one?
The whiskey courage makes me turn again. Just to be sure.
And behind me — my Echo stands.
“Jesus!” I shout, nearly dropping my whiskey.
I curse.
This time she doesn’t curse back.
She just stands there.
Jamo calls her… I don’t even catch the name. Calcy? Nancy? It doesn’t matter.
I hear words forming between them but they don’t register. My brain refuses to translate.
Jamo shakes me.

“Bro, you guys meet before?”

Heat rises in my trousers and I genuinely wonder if I have disgraced myself in public.
Then it happens.
They hug.
And they kiss.
On the mouth.
They kiss!!
And suddenly—

I can’t breathe.
The noise in the room fades.
The glasses, the laughter,my whiskey on the counter…
I feel myself float.
Like I’ve stepped into another world.
But it’s not another world.
It’s this one.
This moment.
This season.
The season when we must choose leaders.
And that’s when it hits me.
I realise now —
we are not just Jamos story unfolding at the door.
We are standing at the edge of a decision.
We keep recycling leaders because we are afraid of new beginnings.
We cling to what is familiar, even when it has failed us.
But the future doesn’t wait inside with us.
It stands at the doorway.
And it is watching.
And still yet.
Same faces. Different slogans. Same promises. Fresh posters.
We complain. We curse. We write long Facebook posts.
But when new leadership stands in front of us — educated, bold, unafraid — we freeze.
We panic.
We don’t want to accept it.
Because it is unfamiliar.
Because it reminds us of our failures.
Because it forces us to admit that maybe the future is not supposed to look like us.
She is not my mistake anymore.
She is not a rumor.
She is standing there.
Confident.
Ready.
And Jamo — the County — is ready to marry again.
The question is not whether Jamo is ready.
The question is:
Are we?
Are we ready to stop recycling?
Are we ready to let fresh eyes rebuild what we reduced to vanity?
Are we ready to let the butterfly flap its wings?
Because the tornado is coming.
And this time, it might actually be the one that rebuilds Singapoor.

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
📍 X: @doctalve
📧 Email: doctalve@gmail.com

Comments

  1. AnonymousMarch 4, 2026 at 9:28 PM

    We need to look to the future and acknowledge new leaders

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

If I Were the Only Voter That Counted

 I woke up this morning with a dangerous thought. If I were the only voter that counted—just me—would my choices be based on personal benefit, or on what is good for the community? That question refused to leave me alone. Just the other day, I was walking past a station in Voi town when I found a group of women crowded outside. Curious, I asked the attendant what was happening. “Wametoka kwa mkutano wa siasa, wanangoja pesa.” Ah. Sonuts started playing in my head. But as I walked on, I passed another group. This time the tone had changed. “Kwani hawatoi kitu hawa?” And pa! —or was it wa! —the light in my head switched on. We can’t keep lying to ourselves anymore. We are the problem. I am the problem. You are the problem. I recently watched a video making rounds of the incumbent governor, Mheshimiwa Andrew Mwadime. Funny thing—the video speaks only about how calmly he talks, how he listens, how he helps individuals. I don’t disagree. Helping matters. But let me ask a painful questi...
Read more

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!...
Read more

“Aii Mum, si ni Mkenya”

 I was reading a post on X the other day. Or rather—I started reading it. I can’t even remember the exact wording now, but let’s not dwell on my memory. I hear 50 years is a proper kick in the nuts—even upstairs. You lose some things. Hair included. My mind isn’t as sharp as it used to be. Jeez… I’ve even forgotten where I was going with this. Ah yes. The daughter. So this daughter comes home from school, excited—bubbling over about something that happened during the day. One of those moments parents pretend to be listening to while mentally checking tomorrow’s bills. Then the mum asks, casually, without malice: “Alikuwa wa kabila gani?” And the daughter answers, confused: “Aii Mum, si ni Mkenya?” That innocence. That clarity. That generation of my dreams. Why can’t we just be that? Kenyans. Funny thing is—even in small societies, the disease survives. Take us here in Taita Taveta. To an outsider, we are one people: Taita Taveta . Simple. Clean. If only they knew. ...
Read more