Today, news came in thick and fast:
Trump, in all his glory, woke up, stretched his hands, blinked twice at the map, and declared tariffs on China. Good. Understandable. Then Mexico. Okay, typical.
Then… Canada. EH! Canada?
That’s like charging your best friend entrance fee to his own house. Or better yet, slapping your barber with a grooming surcharge after he’s finished giving you a free haircut. It makes no sense. None whatsoever. And as I scratched my head thinking about it, my mind wandered back to the good old days in the village, in the golden era of my boyhood.
You see, back home, Ingo, life was simple. The air smelled of fresh sugarcane, the birds chirped like unpaid interns, and the most heated debate was whether a man with one wife was truly a man or merely an enthusiastic boy pretending.
In our clan of Bamurono, we have a saying carved into the very soul of our people: “Omusala okwa mukhasi ni mukhasi undi.”(The only cure for one wife… is to upgrade your prescription.)
Monogamy? That is considered an accidental condition. A temporary illness. Something that could, and should, be treated immediately. Bwana, for not being polygamous, in my clansmen’s eyes, yours truly would still be retaking the introduction of manhood if it were a course.
And if there ever lived a man who embodied this philosophy, it was none other than Isurusi. Ah! Isurusi of the mighty homestead. Isurusi of the countless cooking pots. Isurusi, father of enough children to start his own football team, complete with substitutes.
And when the sun dipped low and Mama Apondi’s famous brew flowed freely, Isurusi would stagger through the narrow village paths, composing and performing his own songs at full volume:
“EH EH EH! BALOLE! NESIE MWENE SHIALO! NOLOLA OMWANA NANGA PAPA, NOULIRA SHITSEKHO, OYO NI MATSAI KANJE!” (“EH EH EH! SEE THEM!I AM THE FATHER OF NATIONS! I HAVE FILLED THIS EARTH! IF YOU SEE A CHILD, JUST CALL ME BABA! IF YOU HEAR LAUGHTER, THAT’S MY BLOOD!”)
He was unstoppable. A moving one-man concert.
Until one fateful evening.
On that day, Isurusi and his drinking comrade Wanyonyi were wobbling home from Mama Apondi’s den. The path was narrow, crooked like a drunk’s handwriting, forcing the two to walk single file, occasionally stopping to steady themselves on invisible walls.
Now, Wanyonyi wasn’t just any man. He too was a graduate of Mama Apondi’s School of Liquid Wisdom. But Wanyonyi was more reserved – a lean, quiet man with only one loyal wife and a permanent smirk.
And as usual, as the sun melted behind the sugarcane fields, Isurusi was in full performance mode. He had just hit the second chorus of his latest hit song:
“AAH! WINA UNYALANA NENDE TSIFWA TSIANJE? WINA? MUBASU KWITSANGA KHUSHESIA!” (“AAAH! WHO CAN COMPETE WITH MY SEED? WHO? EVEN THE SUN RISES TO SALUTE ME!”)
And that’s when Wanyonyi, cleared his throat and, with the courage of ten men and half a bottle of brew, and the careful balance of a seasoned drunk, leaned forward, his voice slurred, fired the shot that shook the kingdom.
“Isurusi… my fren… heh… you sure… you are the real… owner of… all this… greatness you sing about?”
Silence.
Even the wind stopped blowing. A passing cow paused mid-chew. Women carrying firewood slowed their steps but pretended to adjust their loads. Children chasing tires reduced speed and pricked up their ears.
Suddenly, deep in thought, Isurusi allowed his mind to scan his children like a suspicious chief doing a headcount. One child had suspiciously narrow eyes. Another looked like he had borrowed Wanyonyi’s ears. Even the baby on Mama Akinyi’s back started to resemble the bachelor next door.
The village was listening.
Isurusi blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. Suddenly, the alcohol evaporated from his system like steam from hot ugali.
And Wanyonyi wasn’t finished.
“You see, my brother… these things are complicated. Sometimes… the neighbour is just ‘helping.’ You may own the land, yes… but who is truly planting the seeds?”
“Eish, kalukhirakho makhuwa ako…” (Repeat those words…) he demanded, now walking straight as a spear.
But Wanyonyi just giggled and staggered ahead, leaving Isurusi frozen, staring into the sugarcane like the secrets of the universe were hidden in there.
From that day, something shifted.
No more evening concerts from Isurusi. No more self-composed anthems of fatherhood and conquest.
For the first time in living memory, Isurusi was… quiet.
At first, people thought maybe he was nursing a hangover. But when a whole week passed without so much as a verse from him, the village became concerned.
“Eh? Have you heard Isurusi’s compound? Very quiet these days.”
“Maybe he’s sick.”
“Or perhaps… Wanyonyi’s words did something.”
It became the talk of the village. Women whispered about it at the river. Baremi (Cane-cutters) discussed it while sharpening their pangas. Children dared each other to pass by his home and report if he was still alive.
And that, friends, is exactly how Trump’s tariffs on Canada feel.
It’s like waking up one morning and deciding to charge your own shadow for following you.
It’s like locking your front door, then billing your reflection for standing in the mirror.
It’s like watering your neighbor’s crops for free every year, only to invoice him after harvest for “emotional labor.”
It’s absurd. It’s comical. It’s a man taxing his own footprints.
Because, like Isurusi’s relationship with the village path, some bonds run deeper than they appear. Canada and the US? That’s not just trade. That’s brotherhood. History. Shared jokes. Midnight phone calls and borrowed tools that never get returned.
And so, as Mr Executive Orders waves his tariffs like a drunk man shouting on a narrow path, may someone – anyone – lean over and ask him quietly:
“You sure… you are the real owner… of this plan?”
Because if you are not careful, you will all end up like Isurusi – sober, silent, and the center of village gossip!
