We have spoken with Moses Moi five times in the last two months. As if my spirit knew the wind was coming.
Recently, he asked me, "Write my story."
And I called him Manyiganjegere.
And he laughed hard. That deep laugh that comes from the belly.
He laughed because he had given that name to the late Paul Kafeero, the maestro. Manyiganjegere, the one whose music shakes the chains.
Why sack the blood of Moi when he's in his evening life?
His evening life. When the sun is soft. When a man has finally learned how to blow the saxophone without forcing it.
Why couldn't you wait at the hospital wing? Why in the middle of the song?
And now you tell me how he was taken.
Moi has been grabbed by the hand of a Dracula using a paver.
Just think of that pain.
Heating you with a paver. A man who made soft wind, crushed by hard concrete of a paver.
A man who gave us music, hit by a paver meant for roads.
Think of that pain in death.
What kind of pain is that? The brass of his saxophone was soft; the iron of the Dracula was hard. The hands that held notes were forced to hold fire.
This is not just death. This is the death of a disorganized society.
A society where a simple man, Moses Moi Moses, who harmed no one, who only blew wind into beautiful — is grabbed by a Dracula who walks free with a paver in his hands.
If we were organized, Moi would be in his evening life at the lake shores, blowing for tourists at MMJ Cottages.
If we were organized, maestros would die in beds, not in the heat and iron of a savage on a rampage with a paver.
Moi was a simple man. I will write many times — Moi was a simple man.
He did not make noise. He made wind become music.
He told me about Amato Ga Kabaka. And I promised him — I will put his statue at MMJ Cottages with a saxophone. Not a cross. A saxophone.
So that every person who passes Bunjako will see — here stood a man who turned air into prayer, but a disorganized society turned his prayer into pain.
Now my hands are trembling.
Because a promise is now a monument.
Because Manyiganjegere has gone to join Manyiganjegere. Paul Kafeero waits with a guitar; Moi arrives with a saxophone, but with burns on his head from a paver thrown by a disorganized society.
Death wind grabbed you by force, Moi.
But Dracula lent it his hand.
And that is why we must write. Many times.
Rest, Manyiganjegere Moi. Your wind will still sing in stone at MMJ Cottages, facing Bunjako.
