511’s laughter is a cyclic thunder of gustoed, throaty sound as pulpy as raw meat and as full of life as a healthy diesel engine. You brace yourself when you know he is about to go off, because if you know 511, you know he takes his time to work up a prominent laugh.

511’s mirth is so popular, it was the punchline for every episode of school boys’ roasting. If you got capped with the allusion to 511 laughter, the roasting was won, and you’d lost.It is the unrestrained mirth that doesn’t care for civility, in this our world that is hesitant to be unrestrainedly happy. He shows his molars when he laughs.

His compound is practically an orchard with a little house (tumuite Applejack?), and when he isn’t off labouring in someone’s farm for pay, 511 is busily tending to his beloved orange trees. The 511 habitat is to the left of the dusty road on your way to the primary school, just before you get to the giant eucalyptus tree. How old do you think that tree is? I think it is hundreds of generations old, too. Have you seen how it looks like it’s falling when you look up long at it? And what eucalyptus tree grows twinned? Wonder. We think it has devils.

Tiller of lands, he works up your farming ideal into a passionate reality, showing romance for every step until the holes you asked him to dig for your banana saplings become art. He digs, he clears, he pats with an arm, sometimes patting with both hands, he stands aside to look, he ponders, until he is reassured. Unrestrained. He has a set of properly honed tools, usually in a sack slung over a shoulder. Tools the sooty kind of hardened that bespeaks maturity and mastery and the agelessness of long use and durability.

We like to satisfy ourselves by thinking we are farmers, our induced prides making our heads swell. Have you seen anyone half as proud as you when your plants seem to listen to you and do plant things like, grow and be green? That way, 511 never runs out of work. His resident sentimentalism is honestly a downside, because he is an underpaid gent. It is the bug we will name The Creative’s Peril (We are naming conditions now). The inherent difficulty to quantify and charge work as deserved (We are scholarly putting the conditions in perspective now.)

Sometimes, he asks to get paid in other ways, anything but money. The last time he was around and laughing thunder around here, he wanted to batter in his labour for maize. His speech mannerism sticks out, so you usually would remember how a thing was said, sometimes more than why it was important that it was said. Like this time.

See, you with your decency, would pronounce the /d/ in maize as a /d/, not a /t/ as Wesily did. You are lost? Mchxms.

511’s real name is Wesily. Do not come at me with ways to write or say Wesley, I don’t care. 511 is Wesily, and you can take your Wesley huko. There is no /d/ in maize? There is.

Maize is pandek. For decency’s sake. It sounds like a lovable thing, grain decent enough to be in headgear. Properly farmed and fresh and dried. But Wesily said pantek, with the /nt/ sounding like someone slapped wet clay with an open palm. Naked, nude, raunchy and nearly indecent. Outright tabia mbaya, you wouldn’t want to listen to him saying maize when you’re with in – laws.

The way they are always arguing on the Internet that morality isn’t absolute, I think the people who sat in some stone town in Greece and called themselves philosophers (for a chance to be turned into a statue) would draw up an absolute line of morality based on how one says their maize in Kalenjin. Ladies and gentlemen, the line between moral and immoral is in how to say maize.

A cyclic world problem solved, now we can go worry about other equally unimportant things.