Harold spends his meagre campaign kitty at rival’s pub

The village elections will not be an easy time for Harold. What with Sue reaping from sympathy and manipulating drunkards? These drunks are also worshippers at Harold’s shrine. 

I told Harold that he would need to develop an arsenal of tactics to win, or if possible, join an alliance ahead of the elections. 

But with how English football team Arsenal flopped in their season opener, Harold does not want to hear the word arsenal mentioned anywhere. Besides, he reckons, he is too old to join Alliance (the old goat thinks we are talking about schools).

Lack of financial might may end up being his undoing. His nemesis Sue will have more money than Harold, as her pub is open every hour of the day, a nationwide curfew notwithstanding.

Harold, on the other hand, has to wait for Sundays, where few among the faithful dip their hands into the offertory basket.

Some, we have noted, dip hands and instead of a deposit, pull out coins. The loot is taken to Sue’s den. A bulk of what Harold earns out of manipulating the faithful every Sunday is also taken to Sue’s by himself.

As Arsenal got trounced last Friday, and we sat watching with pensive admirers in Harold Assembly of Holy Associates (HAHA) church the only TV in the village, I turned around, aiming to direct a subtle dig on the disconsolate fans behind me, but a brilliant idea struck me instead.

That same evening, as we sat eating ugali and guacamole (which ordinary folks of Gitegi call avocado and which learned folks like yours truly call the forbidden fruit) I caught Harold’s attention.

“Of course we can take advantage of the football season. Charge more for football matches on match days,” I said and behind his lump of ugali, I saw Harold beam.

“Happy people will be eager to pay, so you can charge a lot of money for Liverpool, Manchester City, Manchester United and Chelsea’s matches. You can actually let them watch Arsenal free of charge,” I suggested, myself big on human rights and not a believer in double punishment.

Harold spat his ugali out. “They had better guard their lions because…”

“Gird their loins…” I corrected. He gave me an ugly sneer.

On a table where many deals have been signed only to be broken hours later, we agreed that I would come up with a table of charges for every team. By the time the season ends towards the middle of next year, Harold should have enough saved for his campaigning.

I had suggested that I should keep the money he collects, but he said he cannot bank on me.

So on Saturday, a section of the congregation came to church for a fellowship and remained behind to be in time for the earliest kick-off. A legion of church heathens joined soon after, having spent their morning idling around the fence.

Like I had told Harold, it was going to be a successful afternoon. I waited for the first match, a highly anticipated duel between Manchester United and Leeds, to start and, just as enthusiastic fans settled and murmurs died down, I stood in front of the TV, hiding it  from their view.

“When it is a big match, we pay more for electricity,” I declared to petrified fans. They ended up paying Sh33 each, albeit grumbling; by the 10th minute, I had collected the money.

That evening, Harold staggered in late. In one hand, he carried half a gallon of muratina, a local liquour brewed at Sue’s. On the other hand, he had a pamphlet that was emblazoned with the picture of Sue. All our proceeds, which should have been benefiting Harold’s campaign, were going to Sue’s.  

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