![]()
Flakes
Is it celibate or celebrate?
...with Kate Getao
A friend recently sent me this anecdote:
A famous monastery had for hundreds of years prided itself for its accurate transcription of holy writings. A famous editor applied to visit the monastery and evaluate the quality of their work. The monastery was confident that no errors would be discovered and so they acceded to his request. On the day in question, the editor was hosted in the imposing, panelled library of the monastery, while a queue of proud monks carried in the rough scrolls and scraps from which they had worked and the beautifully illuminated and neatly inscribed tomes that they had produced. The tomes represented 300 years of careful copying and adherence. However, after barely fifteen minutes of comparing the documents, the editor called in the head scribe and pointed out an error. The indignated scribe was ready to defend his honour but after studying the two documents with a magnifying glass for several minutes, he dropped his head into his hands and whispered despairingly, "Yes, you're right, the word is 'celebrate'."
Well, Kenyans are not famous for either celibacy or celebration. The latter shortfall results in our being dull dogs while the former means that many of us will wind up dead - but I won't finish that sentence. (This reminds me of another story that a friend told me: During a stormy corporate meeting, one of the participants shouted, "This company has gone to the dogs!" Immediately his boss rounded on him and growled, "Who is the dog?")
Recently, my fellow Kenyans have became very, very angry. What is the problem? Is it insecurity? Despite the much-publicised tale of the priest, the minister and the thief (is there a joke there somewhere?) - no. Is it abrasive and divisive politics? No. Is it gender violence? No. It is the suggestion that we mark 40 years of independence with 10 days of celebration - clear evidence of our allergy to public merry making. O.k. we allow the so-called "homecoming party." However, these hardly count since they involve a couple of loose-limbed dancing girls and a couple of stiff political cronies, a microphone that really should be switched off and sometimes a swimming witch too. We also grudgingly accede to two-week funeral celebrations and a couple of staid garden parties on national holidays. However, we draw the line at a parade of well-brushed Alsatians through the streets of our city. I don't know whether it was the Chief's Act that did it but we have certainly forgotten how to party. For a long time, every gathering of more than 10 people had a Judas among them, or at least they suspected that there was one, which effectively killed the urge to raise the roof.
This moroseness extends to our children. Every year, I see fewer and fewer children out of doors playing to their hearts' content as we used to. Instead parents' idea of recreation consists of two things: tuition and television. In yesteryears, tuition was unknown unless you were preparing for entry into an Ivy League University. Television was confined to one programme a day between 5:30 and 6:00 p.m. and these were family favourites with names such as The Flintstones, Leave it to Beaver, Skippy the Kangaroo, Bewitched and Lassie. These programmes inspired nothing more antisocial than a burning desire to own a dog, a kangaroo or even a baby dinosaur. These days, many youngsters who are unfettered from parents quickly forget everything they learned during tuition and freely practice everything they learned from television.
Let me confess at once that I am as guilty as any parent in failing to take children out to enjoy themselves. The entertainments on offer are just too terrifying. It is a choice between having their faces painted with strange markings until your little darlings look more like Pokot warriors on a war raid and less like the little angels that you raised them to be. Or else you pump them up with fatty, oily, cheesy and starchy snacks and set them up for future heart attacks. Then there's the bit about careening down a forty foot pipe into a shallow pool of water, giving yourself a heart attack in the process. Finally, there's the bit about sitting in a theatre with sight and sound surround, which is just like television but bigger and noisier. You might try some other activities but these are the ones they enjoy.
Whatever happened to the games I used to enjoy as a child? What happened to Jacks, French Skipping and Kati? What happened to the wonderful ability to invent games, climb trees, and create jungle adventures in a bamboo stand, swim in the river and roll downhill? Is play and celebration a dead dog?
Celebrate this Saturday.
[EMAIL PROTECTED]
BT Yahoo! Broadband - Save �80 when you order online today. Hurry! Offer ends 21st December 2003. The way the internet was meant to be.
