Today I feel like opening my store of tales and telling you a personal story.
My guess is; you’re reading this story from a mobile phone, an Infinix that was delivered right at your door or Huawei that you bought from a broker. Whichever way, you feel the comfort of being in the digital age.
Now at what age and which year did you first speak on a mobile phone?
For me, it was the year 1999, I wish not to mention my exact age because I don’t want people wishing me happy fathers’ day sooner than necessary!
The feeling remains so nostalgic, I remember the events as if it happened yesterday.
Even for you, I know you remember that Swagem or Mwotorola thing that we all took pride in calling a phone. That early time in late 90s and early second millennium.
The gadgets were rare, only few people could afford them. I remember in my village somewhere at the cascading ridges of Aberdares, only one person by the name Hunyu had a phone. The number of people with phones then grew steadily.
In my primary school, one teacher whom we liked became rich and bought a phone and now he was in the wave of showcasing his newest property.
One afternoon after class I spotted him in the mid of a frantic call. I borrowed him to call a relative who lived in Nairobi. I knew the relative’s number of head and so the willing teacher helped me key in the numbers and then placed it against my ear. He couldn’t let me touch his Motorolla.
On the receiving end, my relative got nervous, that time phone calls from the village meant someone had died so after assuring him that all was well, I passed my greetings and of course the gifts I expected for the coming Christmas.
That call sent my life into a celestial throne and made feel like Hunyu. I immediately left the school compound and rushed home.
Upon arriving, I assembled everyone. I had some news to deliver and so I needed everyone’s attention. That was also my first time to call a press conference.
Everyone from my father to my youngest kin were there. Shortly after, my grandma arrived in her walking stick. I could not hold the meeting without our grandma. They all seated around me eagerly waiting for me to deliver the information.
Some probably thought I had the information about our grandfather who had disappeared without a trace.
What was the information?
After a mug of fermented uji was placed on my hands, I broke the news that they had been greeted by relative who lived miles away in Nairobi. Nobody could believe it. I told them that it was only possible through our teacher Mr.Kagunda’s phone. That night I received the largest serving of mukimo. I was the hero.
And there ends my story