You don’t need compound eyes to see UhuRuto bromance is over

Your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you, neither do you need an ear transplant. Even a visitor in this Jerusalem already knows something is broken between the President and his deputy. You don’t need compound eyes to see the cracks which are now becoming bigger than Mike Sonko’s phone memory.

Those who are wise already heeded the government’s warning on the impending maize shortage and procured their supply of popcorn from their nearest NCPB depot.

During these tough economic times, you don’t need to be a student of economics to know that you can save on movie tickets by watching this reality show free of charge. It promises to be more dramatic than Ferdinand Waititu’s English.

Welcome to the “Keeping Up with the Jubilee Dynamic Duo”.

They started out madly in love, united by a common bond — shaming the devil who had taken them to the International Criminal Court for crimes they claim they knew nothing about.

They went to church together, even sang from the same hymn book. I would imagine that back then, during the glory days, they would text each other in the morning to ask which maize variety was best for roasting over lunchtime, and which alcohol brand was good for the other’s adaptive liver. Their bromance was so tight you couldn’t pull a needle out of it with a pair of pliers if you tried.

They wore matching snow-white shirts and candy-red neckties. Every time they addressed the media, they would take turns reading the speech while smiling in such synchrony you would’ve thought they were modelling the newest toothpaste in town. Their love was so strong and pure it could have “stopped reggae”.

But because the devil doesn’t like good things, something happened along the way. The bromance has fallen apart, as things do. We can’t quite tell who started it all, but we suspect the downward spiral began when someone went for further studies and left the other lonely at home.

Maybe he promised his partner it wouldn’t be long before he returned home safe, sound, and single. He was reminded of the same promise some lady called Stella had told her Kenyan boyfriend when she left for further studies in Japan, many decades ago, only for her to return with an exotic husband shorter than a daydream.

But this particular union had been built to last. The guy back in Nairobi chose to while away the time by revising his dictionary of insults and polishing his vocabulary of threats. Before he embarked on growing his political claws, he couldn’t have scared a lounge of sunbathing lizards off a rock.

Meanwhile, the tell-tale signs had always been there that this PhD guy was never going to keep his word. He kept failing in his studies, causing him to repeat some units. His friend back home started growing frustrated. Then the PhD student returned in a graduation gown with his doctorate papers and decided his lonely partner was no longer his type.

The betrayal was so swift that the former kept travelling in and out of the country at odd hours just to cool off from this steam that was threatening to blow his fuse.

While all this was happening, another prospective suitor had been carefully watching from a safe distance. They had been lovebirds before, but the relationship had been borne out of convenience then.

They had parted ways in intensely acrimonious circumstances. During their time apart they called each other names that would shock even the devil.

There was a snowball’s chance in hell they would ever reconcile.

Then one day the ex knocked on our lonely bromancer’s door, bearing a bouquet of flowers and a get-well-soon card, and gave him a bear hug and a shoulder to lean on. They asked each other for forgiveness and shook hands over it, and interrupted normal broadcast to announce to the world that love was still blind, and that’s why he had acquired a new set of reading glasses.

The man is now happier than a pig in the mud. If the Kenya Cricket team needed a new left-arm spinner, they should look no further than Kenya’s number one citizen who is currently throwing curveballs at his enemies better than Aasif Karim in his prime.

He now points at his targets better than a kid in a candy shop, and throws his hands in the air faster than an intoxicated club dancer.

For a man who grew up communicating in privileged English, his vernacular rant at Kasarani last Sunday was so hot it could boil my grandmother’s yams.