By Daniel Kakuru.
August, 2020.
The rain is falling with both hands when I roll out of bed. I slur over the looming threat posed by the rain, trudge to an electronics’ shop in my neighborhood and announce that I want an extension cable. The semi – illiterate woman in charge hands it to me with one hand; her other one is carrying a pink neonate, a dry breast stashed in its mouth. I pay Sh. 25,000/- and take my leave.
At home, I put a percolator at one end of the extension cable, turn the power on and decamp from my house for a quick shower. When I return from the bathroom, there is a thick indignant scent of burnt rubber in my house. The percolator is not hissing the way it does when water is on the verge of boiling. The water is still as cold as the hind part of the buttocks. The pink light in which the life of extension cables resides is off.
When I take it back and she reminds me that goods, once bought, are not returnable, I know better than to stand there and make a fool of myself. I pick up what is left of me and count my loss the way frustrated men always do.
Later that day, I buy another one at a different electronics’ shop. The seller, a short stout man whose larger-than-life nose barely weighs him down, assures me that what he is giving me is an extension cable that is bound to outlive me. I am a naïve villager who dwells solely on the price to determine the quality of goods, products and services. So when he says his extension cable costs Sh. 50,000/- but he will be merciful enough to disrate it by a whole Sh. 2000/-, my heart is at ease. He hands it to me with a winner’s smile. I pay him, satisfied.
August, 2021
I wake up in exuberant moods on a Sunday morning. Last night, I swore to myself that I’d sweep and mop my house the way no other bachelor does. Then I conceded that my eyes were overcome by sleep.
The rubbish from my house is enough to fill an ordinary cross – border truck labelled ‘Transit Goods’. Take away what comprises extension cables, all of which died under unclear circumstances, I have no rubbish to burn. What fascinates me though is the fact that most (if not all) of them are labelled, “This product is not suitable in the UAE. Strictly for export only.” There are other words, sentences maybe, but they’re written in Arabic and I’m too illiterate to read that obscene language.
A certain kind of awakening occurs to me. I realise that there must, after all, be a reason as to why neither of my extension cables ably lives longer than a month under my roof.
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Last week, I travelled to Fort Portal Tourism City. For nothing but the semblance of a vacation that would last a little over two days. Everything happened faster than a lightning strike. I linked up with old friends. Pig flesh was served to us. So was a catalogue of drinks: Captain Morgan; Gilbeys; Red Label; Nile Special; Smirnoff. When I could no longer handle the vehemence with which Nile Special was pumping my abdomen towards unwarranted fullness, I decided it was time I tried Smirnoff. A bottle was handed to me. Cold and frosty. I had hardly drawn a breath when it was divested of its top. I belted it down in voracious gasps. When it was half empty, I read something written on it: “strictly for export only”.
I was torn between finishing my drink and throwing up what I had already downed. Sadly, nobody in my boodle gave a horse’s manure about what was written on the bottle of Smirnoff when I raised the matter; they were too drunk to think critically. Now, it should be noted that this Smirnoff thing is manufactured in Nairobi, Kenya by East African Breweries Limited. Whether they too are in the know of the fact that the garbage they produce and export here for us to imbibe (and pay with our lives for) is too substandard to be apportioned to their own populace is a matter only a radical conspiracy theorist can unriddle.
In my bottomless stock of drugs, Panadol Extra is the faddiest; the most sought-after; the one that draws the largest number of buyers. It has not only anti-pyretic but also pain-squelching properties. Little wonder, whoever catches a fever of unknown origin or an idiopathic headache always comes running like a bat from Hell saying, Musawo bampeyo Panadol Extra. And boy, it works mystically. I needn’t tell you, but that’s why they can’t help returning or referring their loved ones for more.
Panadol Extra caplets are manufactured by the GlaxoSmithKline Group of Companies premised deep in the bowels of Waterford, Republic of Ireland. Written in large capitalized fonts on the packet of these caplets is, “FOR EXPORT ONLY”. Simply put, no Irish person is expected to taste any of this garbage. Only a MugOfPorridge like me in a developing country should swallow it and face the repercussions.
It enflames me that our government, durable though it has proved to be, incontestably tolerates interminable importation of these bogus products without asking enough questions. Why does government just look on as poor quality and dangerous products are imported into the country and consumed by our people? What else does it mean when those goods are labled, “For export only”? Does it mean the manufacturers love us so much that they will go a long way to deprive themselves and their own people of such niceties? Does it mean they’re manufacturing and exporting bogus products which they’d rather die than consume? Does it mean we are too featherheaded to ask ourselves why those goods are strictly meant for us? Does it mean we are too poor to afford what they produce for their own populace?
The writer is nothing but a MugOfPorridge.
danielkakuru660@gmail.com
