Reputation is fragile. It's a little like trust. It takes a lifetime to build, but only a minute to destroy. Once it's destroyed, well, it can never be repaired.
That's not a tired clichè.
When Huduma Day fell on a Sunday, it meant a long weekend. It was exciting for the 8-5, office types. But, for campus students in hostels, well, it spelt boredom.
Maureen is a student in a city campus. In a bid to kill boredom, she'd decided to visit a relative. A cousin - married - but about her age. The cousin lived in a one-bedroom flat, off Kiambu Road. That visit had left her reputation in tatters. Unbeknown to her, the house was rigged with cameras.
Let's walk a mile in Maureen's high heels.
Maureen had arrived at her cousin's house around 5pm. The cousin and her husband hadn't yet arrived from work. She had picked her nephew from school, served him a snack, then started doing odd chores around the house.
Clean up the sink, fluff up the carpet. She'd been here lots of other times.
The cousin arrived a few minutes to 7pm. Dinner plans kicked in.
It's a Luhya household, and the Luhya staple is on roll. The main dish - Ugali - is inevitable. In Luhya households, the woman of the house has the responsibility to cook Ugali - she knows the amount her husband rides on, the texture he likes, and so on. So, Maureen offers to do the stew.
All goes well. The husband arrives, on cue for the 9pm news. The family eats together, stories are swapped. The nephew is shooed off to sleep. After a while, the couple of the house retires. Maureen is left in the living room, watching a movie - lounging on the coach.
There's no guest room, she'll spend the night on the coach. It's common.
Maureen switches off lights and electronics, at around midnight. She curls up to sleep. The house is silent, lest for a loud, ticking sound of the wall clock.
At some ungodly hour, Maureen had felt thirsty. She didn't want to disturb her hosts. She chose not to put on the lights. All she had to do was find the kitchen - and get a glass. She knew the furniture layout in the house, she could tip toe around it.
Maureen makes it to the kitchen door. She fumbles around.
As she feels around, Maureen can't see much. There's little slashes of light from the bare bulb on the balcony. She knows the utensils are packed in a 3-tier rack next to the Meko-gas cylinder.
As she feels along, Maureen taps the gas cylinder. Kumbe, her cousin had left a sufuria perched on the Meko - quarterway full with leftover stew. Sukuma Wiki and beef. It tips over to the floor, with a loud clatter. In the silent darkness, it's more like a bomb explosion.
Maureen freezes - in a 'Gully Creeper' dancer pose - you know it, right?
The man of the house is startled. In true Luhya fashion, he seeks to defend his territory. He grabs a machete, and bursts open the bedroom door. The house is dark. He finds the kitchen doorway, and puts on the light. It blinds them both, momentarily.
Behold, there's no burglar. It's just his campus in-law, afroze - one hand above the leftover Ugali, the other above an overturned pot of stew.
"Hey, Shemeji, iko nini?" The man of the house asks. He's still deflating from an anticipated confrontation with an intruder.
Her cousin emerges from her bedroom - in the wake of her husband. She's still groggy, in a silk gown. Her cousin pauses beside her husband, and asks him what happened.
Her husband, says, resignedly:
"Nimempata mkono moja iko karibu na Ugali yenye ilibaki, na unaona sufuria ya mboga iko chini."
He turns around, and goes back to bed. Maureen's cousin stares at her for a while.
"Surely, Maureen, si ungengoja tu asubuhi ukule hii ugali?"
If you were Maureen, how would you explain this scenario?
Worse, her cousin had retrieved that footage and posted it on her Instagram account.
