FART DOCTORS
Gĩcherũ, our village’s undisputed breeder is lounging by the banks of Boyo river, savouring the sweetness of a ‘nyamũirũ’ sugarcane like the bull whisperer he is. His prize bulls are grazing nearby, swatting flies from their shiny skins like royalty.
Two men in spotless lab coats approach him, syringes glinting ominously. They march towards his bulls with the self-importance of junior gava officials.
“We’ve come to vaccinate your cows,” announces the elder one, snapping surgical gloves on his hands.
“Who said they are sick?” Gĩcherũ asks, eyebrows furrowed as he gnaws on his sugarcane.
“Mzee, hii ni kazi ya serikali,” the younger one chimes in impatiently. He then gestures towards ‘Meni,’ Gĩcherũ’s prized bull—a living legend who have fathered half the calves in Mũgũrũ Location.
“Cows fart methane, which contributes to global warming.” He adds, measuring some medicine from a vial. The only word Gĩcherũ gets here is “fart.” His abruptly stops chewing his sugarcane.
“Fart?” The men are hell bent on preventing the cows from farting so they approach Meni and ignore Gicheru.
“Hakuna!’’ Gĩcherũ cries. My uncle is drawn to the commotion and storms in, a razor sharp machete gleaming in hand. The two men stop what they are doing and repeat the story about farting and all that.
“So you’ve come to inject the bulls because they are… farting?” Uncle growls, his grip tightening around the machete handle. Two thick veins appear on his neck, threatening to burst at any moment.
“It’s about the environment… climate change… emissions,” The younger one stammers. Uncle doesn’t reply to him. His right hand bearing the machete is now twitching visibly.
By now, some scruffy village lads—returning from a successful guava-stealing mission—have gathered to enjoy the unfolding drama. When they hear the story about cows farting, they laugh till they roll on the grass. But not uncle.
“Gĩcherũ, ĩra andũ aya matukane na ng’ombe ũmarĩithanĩrie hamwe!” (Gĩcherũ, tell these jokers to join your cows so you can herd them together!) Uncle barks, waving his machete at the two ‘fart doctors.’
With that, he retrieves a well-seasoned stub of rolled ‘kĩraikũ’ from behind his ear and lights it up. He then rans the machete angrily against a stone, sending a menacing metallic shriek into the air.
When he looks up, the men in white lab coats have vanished — swift and silent… like a fart in the wind.