MY JOURNEY TO WESTERN KENYA Twelve years ago, hunger disrupted my long drive to the western countryside. I pulled over for a quick bite at a small shopping center, a little more appealing than Maragwa. I got a quick serving of tea before I made any order. The lady looked at me angrily and asked, \"What else?\". “Githeri plain” I replied angrily to match her mood. The brim of the huge metallic teacup was still too hot by the time my plain Githeri was landed on the table by the angry waiter. I had sipped a ton of hot air! I abandoned the tea and focused on the Githeri. I had successfully processed about eight tablespoons before an unpleasant surprise happened! In the usual grinding, my teeth encountered a soft chunk. It was not a maize or a bean. It felt like a lump of meat. Yet my Githeri was plain, Oh Lord! I froze my jaws in panic, then commissioned the tongue to search and re-examine the alien piece. As the search was going on, I paused chewing, paused breathing, blinked excessively, and temporarily disabled all my imaginative abilities. The piece was finally arrested, it was hiding on the edge of my sub-mandibular gland. It was taken back up and trapped between the tip of the tongue and the roof of the upper jaw for imaging. It still felt like a piece of meat. Unfortunately, it was long, cylindrical, boneless, and succulent. Yet my Githeri was plain!! I panicked. I love meat Yes, but this was the wrong place to meet with meat, I had not asked for it. It was not a good surprise. The next step was to deport the piece with the entire batch that had interacted with it. I held everything back in and dashed back to the car to process that urgent deportation. This is the plain truth. Be very careful with plain things. Next week I will be back to that ka-hotel, to settle that bill. THE DEVIL DIDN’T SHOW UP Mutha grew up a lot slower than the rest of us, he was short in stature, but not short of bad manners. It was the girls who nicknamed him Kamuutha. Being hard-headed made it quite easy to get him a role during the church dramas. During Christmas, he acted as Herod, during Easter he acted as Judas. On other random occasions, he had separately acted as Cain and Pharaoh. But this time the drama was about Heaven and Hell. Kamuutha’s role was obvious, he was supposed to be in charge of Hell. He was too excited to do this, it was a hell of a task getting him to calm down. I attended the rehearsals the evening before D-day. My role was lighter and a bit general, I was supposed to be burning in hell, and all we needed to do was to act out the anguish. In the script, we, the boys burning in hell would oink while gnashing our canines. The girls were supposed to scream the hell out of their lungs!
But Kamuutha took so long in the costumes room. Girls were running to check him out. We were almost giving up when he finally popped his head out of the dark room, he looked exhausted and dejected, and his eyes were watery, he signaled me to join him in the dressing room. And yes, Kamuutha was supposed to cry, he had struggled to zip up the old costume that would make him 'The devil’. At a closer look further down, about two inches of the skin of his net worth was trapped in between the pangs of an old metallic zip! Boys gathered to help. It was empathy over sympathy. Kamuutha! we wept communally like a bunch of orphaned piglets. There is something about the devil and the zip! The play crumbled. THREE WATER DROPS Three big water drops met in the ocean. Each of them had arrived at the ocean in a different means. The first one had come with the rain, the second one had come by the river, and the third one had come through underground seepage. The raindrop greeted the other two, but they both turned down the greetings rudely. The river drop said to the raindrop “where do you get the audacity to greet us and you have just appeared from a drizzle, do you know how long and painful my journey here was? He yelled. “I had to keep hitting rocks and riverbanks for thousands of miles to get here, look at you!” … The drop from the underground water interrupted the river drop saying. “Shut up! I should be more bitter with the raindrop than your silly self”, he exclaimed. “At least you could breathe, and feel the sun on your way here, would you even imagine how I felt pulling my body through tons of salty rocks for thousands of miles before getting here? He squawked. “Get out of here!” … As they were busy wrestling over who deserved more honor, they suddenly realized that their body sizes were shrinking really fast, they were all half their original sizes. The sun was busy evaporating them! Whenever we gather, it’s time to rejoice in our togetherness as humanity. The time we have together is only enough to show love and kindness to one another. Because we soon evaporate, and nobody cares where you’ve come from! POEM Oh, the Man… Exposed to a life of so many pains from Childhood, evidenced by his numerous scars, Loses so many battles daily, but has to wear a face of triumph, His mental arsenal is awfully drained, Holding in a well of tears, brought by his glands up to the edge of his eyes, But to inspire his offspring, he has to resist, the breakdown. Oh, the Man… Endowed with an eye that loves to wander, But has to learn to live in a box, and view the world through a hole, And try to be happy with all that life could possibly fit into that hole,
Yet his imagination grants him views beyond the hole, But to stay sane, he has to resist, his imagination. Oh, the Man… His body is divinely fitted with wild loins, He wakes up every day to a life-long battle between his will and a ferocious beast within, Yet he lives in a world that deliberately starves his will, but feeds his beast, Every hour, the beast threatens to trample his waning resolve, But to see tomorrow, he has to resist, the beast. Oh, the Man… Squeezed between the violent surges of the world and his own will, Burdened with a load of flesh that continually wrestles against his spirit, Placed in a world that daily conspires against his values, Condemned to a social system that draws out of his drying wells without replenishing them, Yet the man is never without a route to solace and renewal, The ever-living hope for a troubled soul, Oh, the Lord… INTUITION At birth, babies are fully loaded with intuition, but their logic is underdeveloped. However, as they grow, their logic expands but intuition remains their most reliable safeguard. In early youth and towards late 20’s, the influence and the application of logic in making life choices comes very close and nearly equals the influence of intuition on the same. The easiest time to marry or get married is at that stage when logic is still inferior to intuition. While logic is skeptical of romantic love, intuition is the default carrier of the chemistry that births ‘I love you’ and ‘I do’. Intuition is arguably the most natural habitat for romantic love. For the average person, the influence of logic in life choices overtakes that of intuition at the onset of their 30s. If you have to marry a lady in her 20s you can ride on the 'chemistry', it will get you there. But if she is in her 30’s chemistry ends at the first wink, thereafter you have to organize your logic or lose her! It is worse for men, beyond mid ’30s, every marriage discussion such a man makes with a potential suitor is a logical appraisal. At that age, logic is the cake and intuition is the icing. While intuition inevitably remains a lifelong safeguard, its influence in the face of logic diminishes naturally as age advances. Romantic love thrives outside the spheres of logic. If you are too smart on logic, you are likely to be horrible on matters of romantic love, because there is no logic in romantic love! MY DREAM In one of my shortest dream this week, we were in a dinner dance. It was not clear which group it was. All I remember is that there was no alcohol, so it’s likely to have been a church group.
During the day, a competitive group activity was proposed, and we were divided into two large groups. Our group has men only, but we were generally younger. Our opponents were generally older and had several women among them. The instructions were simple, we were supposed to run, pick fruits from a tank, and come and place them on our side of the seesaw. After 60 seconds, the heavier side of the seesaw would win the award. The tank of fruits was 100 meters away from the seesaw. Our group agreed on a strategy, were going to pick only the small fruits but carry very many of them at a go, that way we would have so many small fruits to give us the needed weight, and our side of the seesaw would likely be heavier than that of our opponents. At the fall of 60 seconds, the referee blew the whistle, and our side of the seesaw was swinging irritatingly above our heads, our opponent’s side of the seesaw was settled firmly on the ground. They had won. We obviously had more fruits on our side, and we had run a lot faster. But our opponents, although they had maintained a much slower pace, yet while we picked apples and plums, they had won because they were picking jack fruits and watermelons! A MERE DRIVER “I was a mere driver…” There was this guy who would always receive me at the farmers meeting, he knew where I parked and always waited to receive me. He had been very consistent in staying drunk for months. I somehow liked him because he was only person all my life who never took me seriously. Such people are hard to find! Whenever he saw me approaching, he would signal me to slow down. I would then roll down and he would say these words “Boss, I can help you, I was a mere driver” …. In one of the days many months later, I saw him parting ways with an aged lady who walked by the aid of a walking stick. I stopped, greeted her and asked, “mum, who is that man and what does he do?”… The lady looked up at me, turned around to see the man I was pointing at, then she said to me “he is my neighbor, many years ago he worked at the Municipality, as the driver to the Mayor, but he was fired because he loved the drink more than the Job’’ she concluded with a sigh.... My adventures with a mere driver... AN ENCOUNTER Three years ago, I met a lady (perhaps nearly my age) in a lift. She was really well dressed in African wear and I was feeling really warm and positive that day. I literally read for her word for word, the impression that her appearance placed on my heart; “Hi, honestly you are really smart, I especially like your outfit”. But she looked up to my face and did not say anything, her face was illegible. For a moment, we stared at each other like two masked apes.
I felt my sweat running down all the wrong places, I heard the lift slow down completely, I felt like my shoes were easing out of my feet, I saw the color of the air in the lift slowly changing, I felt like half of my body weight was leaving me… On my way out of the lift, she blocked me at the exit, placed her left hand lightly on my shoulder and said to me, \"Sorry I am a bit shy, but I am so thankful about your comment, I was a bit unsure about this dress today, have yourself a really good day\". I looked straight in into her eyes and said nothing. There is no torture on earth, greater than a delayed response… THE STORY OF TWO MONGRELS In my dream, I saw two mongrels, one was male while the other was female. As long as it was day, the female was fighting the male ferociously as if she would kill him the next minute. Poor people from villages far away came at dawn to watch and cheer the female as she fought the male. It was evident that the male was a common enemy of all the people. Everyone wanted the male to die, but he was neither growing weaker nor dying. He was growing healthier and stronger instead. As the sun set and darkness set in, all the people retreated to their villages far away up the hills, they were frustrated that the male mongrel did not die in the fight, but in consolation, they hoped that the sun would rise again for yet another fight. As soon as the people left, the two dogs kissed each other tongue to tongue, ran in one direction towards a small thicket a mile away. They quickly removed their neck identity bands and the rubber gloves that covered their claws during the day-time fight. They then disappeared into the thicket and got involved in an animated exercise that would later on bring forth a litter of puppies. For as long it was day the people were being fooled by the female, and as long as it was night, the male was being cooled by the female… AN APPOINTMENT WITH MY TAILOR I had an appointment with my fundi last week, He had promised to adjust my trousers because my waistline has let go an equivalent of a kilo of cowboy fat! I got there on time and found them all hands-on deck as usual. But there was already a customer who stood at the narrow entrance in a way that somehow blocked my way in. I chose to wait for the guy to be served ahead of me. But nothing was happening. The customer was not talking, and the Fundis too were mute. Only the sound of their sewing machines. It looked like he had stood there for a long time, his face was all swelled up like a bloated bull. But he was chewing leaves, he kept his mouth firmly shut, he was holding in an ocean of green chyme! I was getting impatient. But some young ladies in a small salon behind me kept my psyche really entertained, one of the ladies who appeared older than the rest, was the narrator while the other two
listened. She was telling them that if you want to enjoy a drive with a man, start the car yourself, and he will drive it like crazy. She told them that if they waited for the man to inspect the car, open the door, take the seat, and buckle up, his gusto for the drive gets drained too early! My mind was now loitering between the car and the chyme guy. The small dark room where the fundi’s were riding their machines was stuffed with non-verbal noise. I could see heads turning, eyes rolling, noses blinking, hard breathing, subconscious head scratches and fake coughs. Something needed to be said but no one was saying it. Then one fundi stood up, stretched his upper body like he had labored all night, looked the chyme guy in the eye, and let out a statement that appeared to have cured in his gut for decades… “Boss, boxers hatushoni!”… Huh! Long after the car analogy is forgotten, my memory of the chyme guy will live on, he walked away like an aged bachelor returning to his lonely cave after a rejection date. He looked dejected. He was trying to walk straight. His soul had been slapped. He was quiet, except for his crocks that kept slapping his sole rhythmically as if to mimic Craig David’s, ‘I am walking away’… THE LEADER KENYANS WANT He should be involved in numerous charitable activities way before he expresses interest in a political position. In fact, by the time he declares his interest, he should have obtained a political surname that carries the evidence of his past works. During his campaigns, he should not only budget for materials and logistics, but also for handouts. He must give out hard cash to a lot of his potential voters. Once elected, in the case of a member of parliament, he should not worry so much about tabling motions in parliament, oversight, or quality debating, but he should spend 70% of his time on the ground, scheming for his next term. During his term, he should appear in at least three events per week in his constituency, a funeral, a fundraiser, etc., and in each of these events, get a chance to speak and give a decent financial contribution. That connection with the masses will save him the headache of having to build new schools and hospitals etc., it will earn him the audacity to do a lot less development work and get away with it! In a year, he should attend mass or Sunday services in 52 different congregations so that in five years, he will have attended over 200 religious gatherings, and in each of these, he should give a surprise financial gift of whatever amount, at least ten times the size of the average offering in that congregation. Such is highly celebrated because it was unexpected! In doing this, people will love him. Even if he evidently mismanages the financial resources meant for their development, their ‘love’ for him will cover a multitude of his evils. They will love him, defend him, fight for him, kill for him and die for him.
By the end of his first year in power, he should have studied the political headwinds, he should have identified the political ‘idol’ of his region. He does not have to like that person, but if his people are inclined towards that ‘idol’, he must be seen to ‘like’ ‘follow’ and fight their ‘idol’. If he tries to be reasonable or independent-minded, his voters will surely teach him a lesson early in the morning at the next ballot! So, how come good people don’t vie for political positions? Because the Kenyan voter is not desperate for good leaders. Politics of development gave way to the politics of survival because that is what the Kenyan voter asked for! The deterioration of political leadership in Kenya is demand-driven, and the customer is happy! Write a composition ending with …..I wish all the independent candidates a successful contest One Saturday morning over three decades ago, I woke up low and broody. After breakfast, being too young to be assigned meaningful farm duties, I went out and started my solitary game under a fruit tree, I found a group of termites starting to form a territory, around some left over grains of rice. Perhaps driven by my sullen mood, I began lining them up and cutting off their heads. On my left side, I lined up the heads and on the other side, I lined up the thoraxes and the abdomens. As I was enjoying the art, a girl from the neighborhood who was also part of our childhood games joined me, this girl always looked and sounded holier than most of us. Amazed that I beheaded the termites, she told me that when we go up (looking and pointing at the clouds), exactly what I had done, would be done to me. Wa! filled with guilt and the thoughts of hell, I looked for a chewed gum and used tiny pieces of it to re-fix the heads one by one, to reverse the punishment up the clouds, I successfully joined up 28 termite heads. I wish all the independent candidates a successful contest. FARE THEE WELL PRESIDENT KIBAKI I was on a work mission, my colleague and I were returning to Nairobi from Nyahururu through Nyeri. I am generally slow and boring on the road, I give way, and I stop over at random places. This was one of the trips where I had typically stayed ‘true to my element’. Everything looked cool and normal as we drove past the gate of Dedan Kimathi University, but things quickly changed after we passed the bridge on the sharp bend about a kilometer ahead, we noticed that the motorists ahead of us were slowing down. As we proceeded uphill towards the Nyeri-Kiganjo junction, I noted an unusually heavy presence of police, with three senior police officers standing right on the road controlling traffic. They were signaling all vehicles indiscriminately, to pull off the road. All the vehicles ahead of us were instructed to park on the roadside, but we were saluted and signaled to drive on. I assumed it was a major traffic operation and drove on unperturbed.
Perhaps we were let off the hook because we had special registration, the white numbers on red plates for international organizations. Or so, I thought. On the turnoff to Nyeri town, I could not see any car ahead of us. The road was clear on the entire stretch to Nyeri town, no bicycles, no cars, no motorbikes, no donkeys, no people, even the clouds had left us! I was getting edgy, a new mood was building up within me, and I was nursing a mix of panic and excitement. Tens of silly questions sat in my head. I wished we had been stopped along with the other motorists. As we turned into town at Total petrol, both sides of the road had masses of people lined up, with countless GK Mercedes and other 4x4s ‘slithering’ through the narrow lanes, it was now clear we had accidentally joined the presidential motorcade. President Kibaki had just left the Kabiruini grounds after officially opening the ASK show. Our vehicle, a 4x4 was now at the tail end of the motorcade, driving side by side with the ambulance. Citizens, leaning inwards from the sidewalks were waving at us, some were gesturing for us to roll down and shake their hands. I felt exalted in false glory, I giggled sheepishly at my colleague, whose mouth had remained ajar and nearly drooling. The hardest part came after leaving town, we hit the highway, and we were supposed to keep up with a speed of 140kph for us to stay within the ‘herd’. There was an escort vehicle that was clearing the road about five kilometers ahead, we were therefore using both lanes of the highway, and yes, we consistently did 140kph for the next 100kms! I have never felt so bullied. This was completely out of my character. In every major town up to Sagana, an additional security vehicle joined the ‘herd’ and blended in, and we gave way so that we always remained at the tail of the motorcade. We were getting a bit terrified by the mean looks from the security personnel stuffed in black cars. Clearly, we were in the wrong place at the right time. My colleague and I stared helplessly at each other, we felt like two idiots trapped inside a windsock! Just after the Kambiti hill, the motorcade stopped systematically. The head of state needed to visit a fence. We feared that the moment to be smoked out had finally come, but I was more focused on seeing the big man on the fence, I could not wait for that vindication. For decades, men had been made to feel that the fence was for the small people. The hour had finally come. Man is man, hence the fence! A troop of security men left their cars and moved towards the ‘chosen’ fence, they looked around as if to inspect whether the fence was stately. They practically tested whether the fence was working, then they came back, and we resumed our thrills!
I couldn’t wait to get to Ruiru and take the bypass and break away from the Motorcade. I was already too harassed by the speeds. I wanted to get back to my normal life. Huh! those were 60 minutes of torture! From Nyeri to Ruiru in an hour and not keeping left! The thrills of a mistaken identity, exalted in false glory. Shock at the fence, the head of state had flown back!!!!! Mwai Kibaki fare thee well. Forever in our hearts! THE TUDUS I had a memorable matatu trip, almost a decade ago now. I boarded a matatu from town at about 9pm, everyone looked tired and annoyed. There was no music but some two fat guys at the back were snoring in turns like a song. Ten minutes into the trip, the conductor asked for fares, everyone paid apart from one man. He had been snoring but as soon as he was alerted to pay, he looked straight into the eyes of the conductor and said to him he was not going to pay. The conductor said softly, “you will pay” and he said simply but aggressively “I won’t pay” We went on quietly and the conductor demanded the money again, he again said he was not going to pay, but this time he also added that he did not want to be disturbed. From there he began making noise. He said his name was Tudu, and that he had a trillion in his pocket and he would not pay Ksh. 50 because the matatu would not have change, “Ama mko na change ya trillion”? He asked arrogantly pushing the conductor’s nose sideways with a torch. Perhaps fed up, the conductor asked the driver to stop and Tudu was asked to alight. He came up to the door but he held on strongly to the over-head bar. The driver, two passengers at the front cabin and the conductor were all pulling him out by the legs while disengaging his fingers one by one from the overhead (round) bar, time was running, so we all squeezed ourselves out to offer support, we all wanted him out. Tudu was kicking and exclaiming out “my trillion, my trillion”, heavy rains started and we all went back in. We were all wet and dripping but Tudu was dry and singing. Wetness immobilized us, everyone looked dull and defeated. We had paid our fares, but now we were wet and gloomy yet Tudu had not paid and he was dry and happy, He kept on saying “sitoi na sitoki, kwani?” repeatedly until he made it a song. The conductor’s last bullet was to ensure he did not drop Tudu at his right stage, but unfortunately he had not said where he would alight, yet he was seated in a place where, for anyone to leave the matatu freely, he had to step out a bit. At one point he just stepped out for someone and the next minute he was singing at his gate, “sitoi na sitoki, kwani?” x8… Ten years later, Tudus are rarely in matatus, they are in WhatsApp groups… DANNY Danny was laid back in school, he did not like any subject, but he liked the teachers. In the first term of class three, a lady teacher who was new in the school went round the class asking for anyone who would know the comparative and the superlative forms of the word ‘much’. No one raised their hands but by bad luck, Danny had raised his eyes out of anxiety, and the question fell on him – with boldness, glazed with a bit of nervousness, he let out a ‘much_mucher_muchest’ it really
sounded wrong, but nobody wanted to be the first one to laugh because we did not know the answer either! Danny struggled through, but kept going. In class he was very quiet, but during breaks he was quite a story teller. His stories during the breaks were not about subjects, No! He was explaining to us how a Peugeot 504 had sixteen gears, and only four of those gears were devoted to reverse, He also told us that a Leyland, could go up Mt. Kenya on reverse loaded with twenty tons of croton megalocapus trunks. Like a pendulum, our minds were jogging between the Leyland and Mt. Kenya. In class five, Danny was among the first kids to bring a geometrical set to class, but he could not use any of the ‘apparatus’ in it. He could fasten a sharp pencil on the clamp side of the compass, but as other kids drew perfect arcs and circles, Danny was puncturing his book with the needle side of the compass. Whenever we were asked to draw a circle, his mind was going round in circles. Yet outside during breaks, he was telling us that if you removed the rear left tyre from a Mercedes Benz, with a good driver it could drive for 3kms without wobbling an inch. I say, all the lies I know about all sorts of cars, were told to me by Danny. In class seven, we were given homework to draw the alimentary canal. Danny had a book to refer to but he did not. In the morning, he showed up with a diagram that looked like an engine, it had gears, a steering wheel and tyres to boot! He only spoilt it by pulling out some sharp arrows off the diagram, labelling one ‘mouth’ and the other ‘anus’. To be fair, it was an alimentary engine. It was on the same day when the science teacher caught him basking under the sun a few minutes after break time was over, he told him albeit sarcastically, that indeed he was right to stay under the sun a little longer than the other pupils, because the water in his head really needed to dry up. Of course we all knew that we had water in our heads, but none of us had realized that whenever we basked under the sun, the water was quickly evaporating! It was eight years and a wrap! A bulk of the kids passed with flying colors and Danny ‘passed’ in some crawling grey. He went on to train as a mechanic and later as a driver. He started off a business in PSV as a worker and grew to be an owner, and for many years he struggled with banks and group loans. So recently I was invited to support a community program in the village, and when they listed the lead sponsors, Danny was on their wall of fame. He is humble, stable, His family is happy, His empire is growing silently, he is employing the sons and the daughters of our community! Sometimes when we run the stories of the brilliant kids, we forget to run the stories of those 'others' who did not appear brilliant on the alimentary canal, but found their way through in other tougher paths, pulled through it all, got a life, impacted society and made it nonetheless! YOU THREW YOUR WEIGHT IN THE WRONG PLACE! Recently, we took a canoe ride across a wide river. In terms of live weight, I was the heaviest in the group but I was not showing it off. As the canoe battled the winds, I kept looking at the slender, fit-looking guy who was rowing the canoe and I thought I could assist. I suggested that to him and he easily handed to me the 'instruments of power' he then sat down and watched me row it on. I was now the kingpin in the canoe.
While rowing, I cut more sweat than the he did, the task which I had hoped would be a simple enjoyable exercise graduated from exercise to duty and then from duty to punishment. I had mixed feelings. Despite my emotional torment, the canoe was still moving. Soon I began overdoing it, I stopped caring about the direction and focused on strength. My rowing became animated, my own sweat had ganged up and formed a huge tide beneath the canoe. I could feel it! The finish line was still too far, so far that the palm trees at the destination were exactly the size of algae. I was hesitant to hand back the 'instruments of power' but I was wearing out. The pockets of fat on my body had began eroding, I had to stop rowing when I imagined that if I lost my man boobs, I would have lost my many years of physical branding. I beckoned the slender guy to come and take over as I proceeded to sit and catch a breath. But as soon as I sat, the canoe bent heavily on one side so bad that people on the side I sat soaked to their necks! I wanted to say sorry, but it dissolved in panic. I rose up quickly and asked the slender guy who was by then rowing with ease. What's up bro, are we capsizing? Yes, we are, because you threw your weight in the wrong place! he answered defiantly… PERSONAL REFLECTIONS I once attended a pre-school kid’s sports day. I was feeling a little out of place, but I needed to be there for my daughter. Nothing out of the ordinary happened until towards the closure of the event when they asked any parents who had come with kids below 2 years, to volunteer them to the front to race. The start of the race was marked with a ball, and the finishing line (like any other race) with a string held by two young pre-school teachers. Five kids were volunteered. All were below 30 inches in height and they all had pumped-out backs because of diapers. They race was shortened to about 6 metres. When they were all placed on the starting line, one teacher (all smiles) passed across as if whispering to each of them what they were supposed to do, even pointing them to the finish line by a hand signal. Another teacher standing behind them blew a kick-off whistle. At the sound of the whistle they were supposed to run to win. I was very keen to observe the behavior of each, I noted one of the babies stretching his hand as if to ask for the whistle that had just been blown – he did not take off, he was left trying to blow the same whistle and walking towards the mother. Another staggered through to the middle and then sat down on the grass. While seated, she picked an insect from the grass, and lifted it up as if to say…”look, there is more to life than racing, life gives us insects to behold”.
Two others held hands and started dancing to the pitch music that was loud and clear, you could see their toothless smiles. One (a boy), seemed to have understood the instruction, he was walking slowly to the finishing line, but just before stepping into the finishing line, he turned back (typical of a U-turn) and started removing his clothes one after another. This race was not going to end. Like Johan Kliegler would say, it was impossible to know who won. Didn’t Kid’s trivialize a great race, didn’t they live their lives in the pitch. God gives us a lot in life to behold. I know there is a race, but I will (nonetheless) live my life. THE POOR LONELY VILLAGE MAN In a small village in Murang’a county, a lonely man was found living in an incomplete building surrounded by shrubs. He had not eaten for a week. The villagers fed him, then they quickly organized a village meeting to agree on how to feed the man for the rest of the year. When it was finally time to pledge the food. Three people stood up, a banker, a pastor, and a politician from the area. The three of them gave their commitments towards feeding the man. The banker offered to supply enough vegetables for every meal, the pastor promised to deliver a portion of ugali every day (less a pinch size per portion), and finally, the politician offered to buy the plate that the man would be using, and on top of that, he promised to supply strawberries to accompany every meal that the man would take each day for the first one year. The banker and the pastor got a few claps from the villagers, but the politician got more than that, a standing ovation! And when the day finally came, they all did as they had promised. But there was an interesting observation, the plate had a full color, 3D, meticulous, and eye-catching drawing of two fresh, scrumptious, and juicy pieces of strawberry! MY DISLIKE FOR FOOTBALL My close friends think that I dislike football without a cause. The true position is that I don’t. For many years I had a successful career as a mid-fielder. Then i was not fat. After many sessions of painful practice, involvement in inter-school friendly matches, one teacher caused a permanent dichotomy between me and football in the middle of a competitive match. During this particular match on a misty mid-morning, I thought I was doing very well in the field, I could hear familiar voices calling my name out and cheering me on as i controlled the ball and moved with it past other players almost effortlessly. In my mind, I knew for sure, that my success in life would come through that ball and not books – yet I did well in class, much better than the bulk of my cheerers. Moments after I lost the ball to a midfielder of the competing school, I heard a faint whistle, we paused for a moment and I looked straight at our coach for instruction, he pointed at me, and then moved his both hands as if to tell me to run fast towards him, I obliged, speedily moved towards
him with my head facing down in submission. The whole field with over 1500 pupils was silent and waiting for the next action. Upon reaching where he was, he asked me to look at him on the face, he was taller and so I looked up, I saw him frown, forming seven wavy contours on his ageing forehead, he then put his left hand in the pocket and did two things simultaneously, he pointed the direction of my home with his right hand and forced a ten shilling note into my right hand, then said to me, “Go home!”. As I walked out of the field, the whistle blew and the ball rolled on. To the onlookers it was a brief pause of the game, but to me, it was equivalent to what would be a historical halt of our galaxy. Ten shillings was my allowance for the day, drawn from the school’s activity fee account. Essentially, I had been given a full payment for work half done. My heart was at peace, but my lungs were cranky, I am black and yet my face was dull, I was panting like a badger. An aged lady sat at the gate of the school, selling mangoes. I chose a pile of fat mangoes, but picked only one piece from it and left the others rolling over, it was time to squeeze out any love left for the game that I once loved. To demonstrate my resolve, I ate the mango right there, quietly but grudgingly, the lady kept glancing at me as if she was unsure of my next actions; as I held the endocarp in my hands, I bent a little backwards, aiming to throw it the furthest I could. With all the energy I could gather, I swung my right hand while balancing out the rest of my body with my left hand and threw it far away into the mist, and I painfully watched my football dream disappear. Do not force football on me, let me heal. My dislike for football is both personal and subjective. It was a separation of a life time. And it cost me a pile of fat mangoes… WRITE A COMPOSITION ENDING WITH ...Clearly, there was a child and then there was a boy. I grew up knowing that girls were delicate and needed to be taken care of, and that boys were live- along creatures who just needed to be fed and watered from a distance and left to grow like a tree among thorny shrubs, if they grew, good, if they did not, fine. This ideology was rubbed in to my head by school-life rather than from home, yet the influence from school was way stronger. In 1985 my classmates and i were 5 or 6 years with very small gaps between our ages, we the boys were asked to fetch water from the tank and sprinkle on the floor of a dusty class, at the time, the girls were playing. Our work was to keep down dust. Once the dust was down, the girls were stopped from playing and called in to (now) come and sweep the dustless room. In 1986 the teacher asked the girls to come with newspapers the next day, they were to be shown the art of papier mache (sic), the boys were asked to come with bottle tops. Girls got most of the newspapers from staff-rooms and local hotels within the day, while the boys collected their bottles tops from dump-sites of dingy local bars at dusk. The boys were to be shown how to decorate walls using glued bottle-tops. In 1989, The Art and Craft Teacher asked the girls to come the next day with clay, they were to be shown how to model images with clay, the boys were asked to come with a wet log of Erythrina abyssinica and sharp pangas, we were required to curve out a fat girl from the log. As the girls passed by the shopping centres with clay neatly packed in polythenes, we (the boys) passed the same place with logs and machetes like disgruntled warriors.
In 1990, the class teacher asked the girls to come with flowers and young twigs of different trees, shrubs and flower plants, they were going to be shown how to make flower vases to decorate homes. On the same day, the boys were asked to come with branches of thorny shrubs, they were to be used to block the panya-routes around the school’s live fence. We dragged the thorny branches along the murram road to the school around 6 am. Anybody body who passed on that road around 9 am bare-footed, must have thought that the world was coming to an end. In 1991, girls were asked to come with crochets and rolls of wool, they were going to be taught how to make bootees, in the same breath, boys were asked to come (the next day) with the nest of a weaver-bird, the class was going to be taught about weaving. We left school at 5pm, and by 6 am the next morning, every boy was supposed to be carrying his 'own' nest. In 1992, Huh! The girls were asked to come with flour, sugar and eggs, they were going to be shown how to bake a cake, the boys were required each of us to come with one rear-spike of a grown porcupine, the class was going to be taught about adaptation. I was 13 years and by 10pm I was still in the bushes, following the smell of a porcupine, to pluck a spike from the rear,yet i was not old enough to face a live porcupine. In 1993, the girls were asked to come with fabrics for a fabric decoration class, a different teacher asked to the boys to come each with a post, a rail and a load of thatch, we were going to be shown how to make a low-cost shelter. Clearly, there was a child and then there was a boy. AGI MY SUNDAY SCHOOL TEACHER In 1983, I was taken to Sunday school. Sunday school was pushed down our throat by our mother. She repeatedly told us “If you do not want to go to Sunday school, you could leave my house, go and build another small house far away from me, where you will not be going to Sunday school” Perhaps due to lack of wherewithal, no one among us was able to ‘build another small house’. Our Sunday school teacher told us to always call her Agi. Agi had dropped out of school mid-way, she had worked as a house help in the city and had come back home to stay with her ageing mother. Agi loved Jesus but also evidently loved us. She would pick songs from all over and teach us, she insisted on both lyrics and moves. Later, I came to realize that at times she had mixed hymns with folk dances, but we sang them all vigorously but innocently. As long as they came from Agi, we danced them in the name of Jesus. Agi would read only one verse in the bible every week with little variation. Luke 2:52. She was not a fast reader. She labored her eyes reading through the verse. When she asked us to recite it, we would recite it faster than she had read it. She would then start painting a picture of Jesus to us, “Jesus did not have long nails, He did not smoke, when Jesus would be sent to the shop, he always returned the correct change” Agi continued. “Jesus always did his homework, and was not arriving to school late”, “Jesus”, she said, “did not hate anybody and was never calling other people names of animals” “Do you want to be like Jesus?” she would finally ask, “Yes!” we would answer. Then walk out and go cut your nails! It took me about two years to be at par with the ‘Jesus of Agi’. I had attained the full description that she had repeatedly given to us. Many years later I got a chance to read the bible on my own. I discovered a Jesus who had conquered the world. One who, I did not need to strive to be at par with, but rather to simply believe in him.
Yet looking back over three decades later, and looking at the basics of leaving peacefully with people around me, I am still very happy that I started off with the ‘Jesus of Agi’. MAINGIRANO CONFLUENCE…WHERE GURA MEETS SAGANA RIVER Maingirano in local lingua loosely translates into an interlock: this is where Sagana river and Gura river interlock and marry… It is where the nimblest river in Africa- the mighty Gura joins the torpidly flowing Sagana river. To access it one has use the Mukurweini-Karatina road pass over Gatiki bridge towards Karatina and branch off to the left after 200 metres. Drive for about 500 metres until the end of the ridge road where to the right there is a neat homestead owned by Mr Nderitu. A charming man who is very welcoming. This is where to park the car and begin the descent to the confluence. Her daughter Nduta offers to guide us down to this hidden gem through their farm. The hike down has me and Gathitu holding on to every tree growing on this precipitous drop. Through the labyrinth of trees and shrubs the shiny confluence constantly winks at us beckoning us to go closer to partake of her inexplicable charm. Closer we edge through deep ravine and bushes then; lo and behold the elegance of the confluence is laid out. Its a pure eye candy.. a feast for the eye. There is a hitch somewhere! To have an up-and-close moment with waterfall, we wade through a Sagana river offshoot to a tiny island that gives us the best photo shots and breathtaking views. For the water phobic characters, they can only watch from afar. We roll up our trousers and walk in water with our shoes on for firmer grip. One misstep and the cascade makes a mince meat of you! But…if you have to conquer your fears, one has to go over the edge. The two mighty rivers size each other for split seconds…they instantaneously meet and the furiously speedy Gura River in a truce becomes sluggish.. akin to this village beau who had for the longest resisted the village blokes but in a flash meets a prince charming who bamboozles her with her prominent masculinity that sweeps her off her feet. The confidence in her gait unexpectedly becomes coy and unsure. Then bang! They embrace each other in a romantic tangle with the waterfall providing the soothing love ballads in the background. During rainy seasons the spectacle is even more enchanting with the pristine Gura river waters ‘refusing’ to mix with the muddy brown waters of Sagana river until both waters are forced down a narrow rock chasm that mixes the two like a master mixer while doing his thing in the saloon. Maingirano is one of the unpolished attraction gems in our area.Its the point where three constituencies converge. Across Gura from Mukurweini there is Tetu, while across Sagana from Mukurweini there is Mathira. A beauty to behold! Pristine and unspoiled… Maingirano it is. MUKURWE-INI SPORTS GALA They came in all manner of attires, in all the colours of the rainbow..resplendent and majestic! The Noel spirit pervading the charged atmosphere. The occasion was the Mukurwe-ini Sports gala grand finale..the menu was varied and extravagant. On the menu list was the annual Karindi Cross Country, which is sponsored by the local community
including yours truly, the Football Finals that featured Kamwato FC vs Thunguri FC and Men Volleyball Final involving Mukurwe-ini Technical Training Institute (MTTI) and Mutwe Wa Thi. The Athletic programme commenced at 8am and diverse races were held with the highlight being the Men Senior Race. The senior men and women were as comic as it was dramatic. Senior citizens took to the field for a 2km race. It had all the thrills and spills of a drama with the winner finishing 5 minutes ahead of the other competitors. The junior race offered all the participants Xmas goodies like cakes, biscuits and sweets. There were cash rewards for all the top 5 in all categories. Then came football and volleyball games. The curtain raiser was a big game between Marafiki FC from Nyeri Town and Mukurwe-ini All Stars alias Sporty FC. The game was as fiery as it was sizzling. The see-saw kept the fans on the edge. Finally after 90 minutes, Sporty had impressively decimated Marafiki. The score line of 3-0 was an icing on the cake for our boys. Next was Kamwato FC against Thunguri FC. The game had all the ingredients of a thriller in Manila. Bets were placed while each team bragged of their preparedness while threatening to make mincemeat of their opponents. To try and describe the match in words is a misnomer. It was splendour all round..Poetry in motion.. singing in an orchestra with tootsies. Pure sportsmanship was in display. Thunguri won by a solitary goal. Kamwato was not in their element.. they missed two penalties and two clear chances to seal the win. Thunguri were supreme in their counter attacking while defending deeply. Volleyball Men Finals was a completely different affair. The Semis pitted MTTI against Tambaya, where MTTI made a short work of their opponents dispatching them 3-0. The other semi involved Mutwe Wa Thi against Gaikundo. It was a see-saw titter-totter epic match... it could have gone either way. Muhead finally prevailed after a five setter in a 3-2 win. The final was supposed to be pivotal featuring creme- de-la -creme of Mukurweini. MTTI was oozing confidence and were raring to go. Muhead looked silently confident after their semi final exploits. MTTI has been winning all the volleyball tourneys in the region and it was another day in office. Mutwe had different designs of raining MTTI’s party and raining they did as they dispatched them 2-0. In the girls’ finals, MTTI met Gathungururu Girls makeshift team and the former won. There was a cameo appearance by Royal Team from Wakulima with Tetu Kamakwa Team under the evergreen and passionate volleyball icon Kungu Maitu. Kungu Maitu Team won the entertaining duel. All the teams that participated in the day’s events were rewarded with cash awards, uniforms, socks, balls courtesy of NG-CDF MUKURWE-INI under the patronage of area Member of Parliament. Nurturing talents in the youths has been my agenda all through and I will continue doing so. Kungu Maitu took time to talk to the participants on the opportunities sports avail and the monetary windfall that can ensue if the same is exploited. In the mix was a team of scouts from diverse places but of note was the Zetech University Team under Director Moses Maina. They offered two talented youths from Mukurwe-ini a chance to hone their skills while pursuing studies at Zetech on scholarship. The day was lit!
MY 2022 IN A WORD The journey started with vim and vigour. The robustness in every spring step; a clear manifestation of the readiness to tackle the year ahead. En voyage I took health breaks when the fervour and stamina ebbed to perilously low levels. The focus and and single mindedness egged me on, regularly jingling my mind with the purpose of life. Occasionally the hunch to give up almost overwhelmed me. Sporadically I looked into the eyes of the mission and wondered whether it was worth it. Doubled up and almost giving up, a sotto voce would ring in my ears, propelling me to continue with the journey of life. Finally at the apex…summiting the tumultuous year that was full of challenges. The exhilaration, the deep sense of victory and majestic views all round. It has taken unhesitating and unflinching will to be here today to witness the last day of the year… Most importantly it has taken the Hand of God. Bye bye 2022, welcome 2023! LOVE IS AWESOME Love is indeed an awesome thing. When a man is smitten he can run barefoot around the world to win and keep the heart of a damsel. When a lass is hit by Cupid arrow, the world starts and ends with the knight in shining armour. Love has been expressed in many forms and configurations. It’s sweet, it’s fulfilling and the ultimate manifestation of human feelings. Great songs have been made espousing the magical feeling. Epic tales have been written expressing the euphoric touch. Movies have been done to reel out the affection from the spool of deepest abyss of the heart. Wars have been fought in the name of conquering love Love is a beautiful thing … that is when it’s mutual. Correspondingly nothing hurts profoundly as a broken heart. Devious actions have been done by a heart too many when faced with rejection. No words aptly captures the soreness of a wounded heart. Egerton Castle is the epitome of a mutilated heart! To be continued… A SPECIAL MOMENT IN MY JOURNEY- KIMANA ENCOUNTER Some of the most exciting moments is to travel in the furthest corners of our motherland and somebody shouts your name. On my way to Tanzania through Loitoktok border point, we make a lunch stop at Kimana(20km from Loitoktok) at a famous place Kwa Biwott. The owner settled here after he called out his time of service in the Police force. He founded this meat haven and drinking waterhole for wanderers and locals alike. Very good kienyenji chicken done here. As I get in a young man greets me, “Mhesh wetu habari?”
I turn to see a young man smiling at me.. we chit-chat and tells me he is from Kihate but is now hustling in Kimana. I buy him lunch after he declines to join me for lunch. Inside Kwa Biwott, one of the employees rousingly welcomes her Mhesh. She tells me that she is from Mukurweini too. We chat a bit before she continues with her routine. On my way out, I meet Wa Gakuru from Kihate. She movingly invites us to her place where she sells fish, Nduma and ngwaci. Her place- “Kisumu Ndogo Fish and Pork”. She thanks me for having supported her children through the bursary scheme. Having taken our lunch, we buy her lunch and promise to patronize her place next time. Her granddaughter Joy is visiting her after she did her KCPE at Kihate. She excitedly greets me and tells Cucu that am the Mhesh wa vitabu. The one who gave them revision books in school. This one melts my heart. We take a photo to immortalize the moment. I take the warmth shown by my people to be a good omen on my journey. The goodness that one does will always follow him even in the unexpected of the places. Joy,you made me joyous! BOUND BY FAITH A tiny drop of rain collectively become a storm that cumulatively thread down the mountain as a stream till it morphs into a behemoth of a river that majestically joins the ocean as the two waters mixr. The Faithful dream followed a similar course pattern to be where it is, a parvenu whose in its genesis was hampered by member’s skulduggery, sharp practices and chicanery. All that dark past is well tucked behind us and the relentless march to greatness is on in earnest. Annually we faithfully take a step of faith as Faithful SHG to explore the world. When Covid pandemic descended upon the world and visited bedlam and mayhem in its wake, we froze the travel idea until the situation was brought under control. When Covid ravage dissipated , we picked from where we had left by reviving our wandering plans. We dusted our travel bags, strapped the backpack and literally hit the air. Destination: Malindi. The previous expeditions had seen the group travel to exotic destinations like Mombasa, North Coast, Diani and Naivasha. The most memorable one was organised by Mponda (I think) at Homeland Inn along Thika road. We ordered for mbuzi for the group that was to be prepared differently to satiate diverse palates of the members. There was to be ‘choma’, dry fry and ‘tumbukiza’. The food was to be ready by 2pm. We made our way there past 2:30pm and once seated we requested for the food to be served. Lo and behold the food wasn’t ready! We stormed into the kitchen demanding for our ration. A hungry man is an angry man! Hell and pandemonium broke as the hungry members’ patience quickly ran out. The cook was hapless as he helplessly watched us cause melee in the kitchen. Ngugi and Mponda took half cooked ‘nyama’ from the ‘jiko’ and proceeded to serve. The cook followed them menacingly waving his well sharpened curved knife.
We stood our ground and stalemate ensued like a game of chess. The mbuzi served had one leg missing. This became explosive as yours truly stormed the kitchen and brought more nyama to the table and without mincing words he told the cook in no uncertain terms that we needed our mbuzi full. Finally instead of having a three- legged goat as proffered and made to believe, we took extra two legs from the red hot barbecue grill hence ending up with a five- legged goat. How about that for a party? Internationally we sampled the desert safaris of Dubai.. the thrill of the desert drive on the beautiful dune ridges is the stuff of the legends. The adrenaline rush is insane! It sends the testosterone to euphoric level. Some drivers are loud and mouthy while others seem tranced as they do their stunts with their guzzlers in the middle of endless stretch of sand. Their handling smacks of an experienced hand while their emotionless faces only helps in adding more fear to the frenzied passengers. It’s pure oozing maschimo from these maniacal drivers as they strut their stuff. The thrill is pure ecstasy with orgasmic highs and lows. The caravan of the 4 by 4 vehicles against the setting sun brings out a silhouette of slave caravan across the Sahara in the yore days of slave trade. The insane driving coupled with the the need to outdo each other as to who will do the most outrageous stunt makes them run around like ungoverned stallion with its manhood up. Those with underlying medical conditions like blood pressure and diabetes are warned not to partake of these dangerous and outrageous desert stunts. The thrilling experience brought back memories of my youth days when I was a budding rally car driver..once a speed junkie always one. My rallying aspirations went up in smoke in a spectacular way.. story for another day. The ensuing dinner on the floor of the desert somehow soothes your edgy and raw nerves. The setting is done in an Arabic way.. sitting on the mat while diverse cultural food is served. The Arabian coffee served in small cups is one not to miss. Red hot which if not careful easily scalds your palate. You lie on the desert floor as you gaze the full phase of the moon while the twinkling stars tantalizingly tease you with a wink. The dinner is never complete without some erotic dances from Persian lasses whose swishing and shaking of their bums leaves men ogling and salivating to the gyrating rhythms. It can be a marriage breaker if one is accompanied by his fair lady as the attention is all fixed at the place where a man should not dare focus his eyes while in such company. Our next international destination was to be Thailand. Sampling of the Far East night life and tourist spot was meant to motivate out group members to aspire to international trade and all what is appurtenant thereto. Then boom! Covid happened and international travels were banned. An old voyager doesn’t stop being a seafarer because of a stormy sea. We live to travel another day. What a rejuvenating moment for all members! When the idea of a local travel was floated for this year’s excursion, the agreement was unanimous. Having visited Watamu before, the members settled for Malindi as the destination of choice. Sandies Tropical was chosen and boy, it didn’t disappoint. The beeline to the airport was up in earnest as the d-day came. Members in diverse holiday attire stepped out. We took Jambo Jet with singular focus being Malindi. The camaraderie was great as we took our seats in the plane. Continuous chattering was evident from Kimani, our Chair; as he endlessly regaled Kangethe with some tall tales which clearly were not making a cut.
At the hotel, a quick shower on time for 4 o’clock tea. The members were repledendent in all manner of swim and beach suit. Some were new but Ill fitting.. a sign of quick and hurried shopping without according the enlarging girth it’s due consideration. Others came out in khaki shorts while wearing screaming sandals that are totally out of sync with accompanying beach wear..others displayed their model bodies with enchanting swim suits befitting cleopatra taking a walk in the sandy and white beaches of Santorini. For others, they were comfortable having their Safari boots on while wearing formal shirts and a belt to boot. For each his own was the mantra! Sandies Tropical Hotel aka Diamond hotel is humungous in size. A sprawling colossus of a hotel that accommodates 3 hotels in one. There is the Makuti thatched area that attends to budget category, then the middle class one that befits the name and finally the dream village for the high net worth class. But the interaction between the three hotels is seamless and almost non existent. Coconut palms elegantly stand by the shores of the ocean majestically swaying in unison as if to approve the chuckles by the sea waves as they repeatedly hit the sandy beaches of Sandies. The Hibiscus flowers are in bloom and their bright crimson corollas spice up the compound. The strong scent of the magnolia splendid flowers caress the nasal sensory system. The high roofed makuti structures that are agape at the top guarantee cool air that calms your body amid the kitchen like temperatures all round. Neat manicured lawns and beautiful mazera clad footpaths carefully meander from one building to the other to preserve the well maintained lawns. The service by the staff is polite and top notch though their faded uniforms reminds me of the Toss advertisement “how long have you been in form 1”. All the rooms are situated away from the beach while the common amenities are built adjacent to the beach. Novel designed swimming pools are in place to serve the three hotels though one can use any of them interchangeably. The hotel straddles over 100m of coastline beach. Unlike the Watamu beaches, the Sandies beach is untidy with sea forest remnants lining along the straight beach. The management doesn’t make it better by raking and sweeping the beach clean. In some other hotels along coastal Kenya, they employ young people to clean up the beach for that ultimate ‘mwijoyo’. Perhaps they should heed my unsolicited advice. But that does not in any way take away the charm that Sandies has to offer. Their food menu is a bit rigid with limited selection, but the chef is at hand to make food of your choice in case what is on offer doesn’t make your palate tingle. Groupwise we had swell of a time. Our daily routine was to wake up lazily just before the close of breakfast time, shuffle into the eating area and gobble down copious amount of what was on offer. A team activity at the main pool would follow and lunch time would soon be with us. Even before one has had time to digest the breakfast, lunch was ready. More tucking of sumptuous lunch delicacy would follow. Some would take an afternoon siesta akin a rock Python that had swallowed a goat as the afternoon heat worked on the full belly. Others would sit pretty in the many bars scattered all over and descend viciously on the free alcoholic drinks on offer as they partook of the afternoon breezy wind that is saddled with briny smell of sea water. To others, it was time for exploring around and discovering the Malindi town by the day. Vasco Da Gama Pillar was the nearest .. a stone throw away from the hotel. The Portuguese church that was built in the 15th century is another landmark.
Further afield one could become more adventurous and explore the Sabaki Estuary, the Mambrui Sand dunes or even the Hell’s Kitchen depression at Marafa. For Kangethe, most of the time was spent either in bed resting or savouring different alcoholic drinks on offer, though he settled for White Cap after short dalliance with Balozi. Every day he looked exhausted and worn out courtesy of endless imbibing of the devils drink and perhaps other nocturnal pursuits Kimani walked tall all over like a male peacock on steroids. Boisterous and noisy especially after partaking the frothy Balozi for hours on end. On the dance floor his disastrous dance moves were out of sync with the rhythm and were not helped by his tipsy state. Every time he made to the dance floor, there was a flight stampede out by the ladies after he disfigured one toe too many Amos Kamau would wake up for a beach walk, then disappear into town for a feel of it. Once he took Maish to a town excursion at 1pm.. Maina came back looking like he had been dipped in an oil well…all shiny and wet from sweating having been well baked by the unforgiving Malindi sun. Amos would explore the nooks and crannies of Malindi and every evening he would post the pics in the group wall. Sometimes the pictures taken by him were the ‘caught unaware types’. The real paparazzi of the group. Ngugi and Kanyingi had a permanent home in one of the shallow swimming pools. Twice the KWS police made an appearance at the hotel after word went out that there were baby hippos in the Sandies compound just for them to come and confirm it was their distant relatives. Kanyingi had can easy time taking care of Sandra the daughter after the lass made the pool her permanent abode during the entire stay. Nelly was in her element.. she wore diverse beach designs that clearly brought out her curves. This had other hotel residents cooing in admiration and not so holy imaginations. It made men go Gaga.. the black mrembo with Luhya Michelins had it all sewn and wrapped Waihiga and Vero were calm and collected. Occasionally sunning together in the beach while in the company of Vero’s daughter. The two were inseparable, sharing tete- a-tete in low hushed tones while keeping an eye on Vero’s kid. They were dashy and elated by the change of weather. I haven’t seen the duo so happy than then. Kaguamba had his beach short through out the stay. Occasionally he displayed his bony chest for sun tan. Always alone and with Balozi for company, he wore a look of a military man. Very brief talk and patrolling the beach while wearing some big black googles reminsent of Rambo. Mostly he was the last to leave the bar. Maina was always high as a kite. He was having a ball. His two favourite items were in the house.. one on the house..tipple and cigarette. After burning one end of the cancer laden stick, he would wash it down with a tipple. Always sweating but smiling. He had a challenge waking up the following day due to overindulgence the previous night. Chege looked restless throughout. Totally mesmerized by the so good a life and avalanche of food and drinks. He tried all the drinks on offer while his beach walks were made more dramatic by the so many nude ladies displaying their assets for all to see. He never recovered and was left gasping for more.
Lastly there was Regina, never did she wear the beach clothes. She wore like a member of Woman Guild. Always hiding under the shade.. jolly and extremely happy as she savoured and sampled what Malindi had to offer. She never went to the pool but once she went to the beach and never to return there. But her daughter who accompanied her for this excursion was having great moments in unwinding in this unexploited coastal hideaway. Yours truly was stretchingly occupied in trying to unravel the mystery that is Malindi.. a seemingly appendage of Italy in a faraway land where the warm waters of the Indian Ocean clap and yap repeatedly while softy shouting every morning ‘Buongiorno’ Did I say that I had an opportunity to show my life-saving skills after one of the revellers who had joined a game of water polo got carried away and wandered into the deep end of the pool. Her companion(boyfriend) watched helplessly as her heartthrob gulped copious amounts of pool water. I was alerted by ear spilting screams of other team members. Without ado I dived into the turquoise waters, got hold of the hapless lady and swam her to safety. The applause from the teammates was a fantastic way to end my holiday. .. a knight in shining armour… We are faithfully faithful for in faith we believe in! A SLICE OF BITTER PINEAPPLE SERVE BY CARJACKERS Am headed to Nzambani Rock in Kitui for an excursion to revel in this mythical outcrop. At the Thika Exit the traffic extends all the way to the superhighway. Getting into Thika is such a bottleneck and a real pain in the neck. A brainwave hits me and decide to bypass Thika through the newly minted tarmac road that exits at Del Monte shop just after the black spot depression at Blue Post Hotel. The road cuts through Del Monte Farm where acres upon acres of land are under pineapple cultivation. It also bisects their packaging factory which doubles up as their headquarters to join the Makongeni road at the BAT Leaf factory. Talk of total paradox. On one end, your nose is serenaded by the fresh smell of pineapple growing then suddenly the smell of cigarettes being ‘cooked’ assault your nostrils. As we made the trip amidst the pineapples, memories flood my mind of an incident that happened about 15 years back. I have opened a branch law office in Thika to tap into its rich hinterland. The town is fast growing and aptly named the ‘Birmingham’ of Kenya. Many manufacturing industries have set base here. BAT, Thika Coffee Mills , Del Monte just to mention a few. The hitherto sparsely populated town is now realtor’s paradise with many modern and not so modern estates coming up. Fridays found me in Thika office. On this day as a routine, I was done by 6pm but I have an appointment with two clients in Thika Town at 7pm. After our meeting they request me to drop them in one of the communal estates within Del Monte farm. Off we drive to Chui Camp within the expansive farm. The place is pitch black at night. Only the shimmering lights of Thika Town are visible in a distant horizon. The shadowy outline of the town adds a mystical picture of the night. The moonless night is still save for occasional hoot of the night owl. I drop them quickly in my marquee Toyota Corolla 90. Reputed then for its gorgeous looks and cheetah-like speed, it was every dude’s dream to own it. I guess it was the Subaru of them days. To enter the estate one had to drive parallel to the perimeter wall that ensconced it while delineating it from the gigantic pineapple farm. Huge earth bumps had been erected to slow the vehicular
traffic. At the main gate, all visitors had to leave their details. But carrying the managers (my clients) came with its privileges. No details were taken and we had a pass-through to the estate. On my way out, I hoot to thank the security man. From the main gate to the main road, one had to drive parallel to the wall for about half kilometre. On one side there is the stone wall and on the other side is the colossal pineapple farm. If the road ahead is blocked, then situation critical obtains. Indeed it did happen that way. When mounting one of the huge bumps I find the road totally blocked with huge boulders. My alert mind tells me that am in mortal danger. Mortal danger is an understatement. From nowhere, 4 shadowy figures with balaclavas emerge from the pineapple plantation. One stands akimbo in the middle of the road while pointing a gun on me. Am alone in the car. Three others emerge from the sides and are violently trying to open the car doors. One is even violently tapping on the drivers window with the butt of the gun menacingly demanding that I open up the door. I touch the electronic window winder and explain to him that I have my safety belt on. A month before I had attended my good friend’s burial after he was fatally shot when trying to unbuckle. The panicky jackers mistook him for a cop trying to pull a fast one on them and quickly froze him…dispatching him instantly. He slaps me and orders me to unbuckle and not try any monkey business. I quickly do so. Am yanked out of the driver’s seat and escorted with some few kicks to drive the point home. Suddenly am lifted airborne and thrown into the back seat where two heavy men make a seat out of me. I receive a violent blow to the head with the tip of the gun which immediately starts to bleed. Am angry and annoyed. In the heat of the moment I ask them why they are tormenting me yet I had yielded. Another slap sends me back to factory settings. The driver orders his accomplices to treat me with decorum. He reminds them that am the biggest catch they had for sometime hence they don’t wanna lose this fat bird. The interrogation begins. “ Boss wee unafanya Kazi gani? “ one jeeringly asks “ Mimi ni wakili.”.. I feebly answer, after all they had already rummaged through the car and seen my business cards. “Ooh, nyinyi ndio mnanyonga watu kortini”… I don’t know whether it’s a question or a statement “ Huelewi huyu ndie atakuwa lawyer wetu tukishikwa” the driver interjects as he quickly changes the manual gear. The car is now filled with burning clutch smell. He is having all manner of problems trying to drive a clutched car. It keeps on jerking and producing sharp sounds of rough uncouth driving. “Wakili wako na pesa sana” the quiet one happily adds. “Uko na pesa ngapi?” The guy seated on me blurts out while pressing the cold muzzle of the pistol on my left temple. “Twenty Thousand which is in my coat at the back” I quickly reply. He violently rummages through the coat and gets the money and anything that my pockets carried. He proceeds to wear the coat. “Hii koti iko fiti sana” he talks to himself. “Hii ni yangu sasa’. He loudly appropriates my coat without batting eyelid. All this time we are doing circular drives in the sprawling pineapple plantation in pitch darkness. The driver stops abruptly in the middle of nowhere after spotting car headlights coming our direction. He then accelerates madly with the jerking now more pronounced. His poor driving skills are highly exposed. He blocks the road. Another victim of carjacking. The guy seated on the passenger seat alights with one of my tormentors at the back.
After about 10 minutes, they come back. The driver asks them how the mission was. “Acio ni ngombo cia mananathi… îtîrî kîndû”. (Those are pineapple slave workers, they don’t have anything) One of them replies. We move on. Suddenly the drive gets smoother. I fathom that we are now on tarmac. The driver tells them to be ready for one more mission. In unison they agree. All this time, my back is seriously aching. The guy has been sitting on me for eternity. Am positioned like a comma and extremely tired. I audaciously request my tormentors to allow me to turn. Another hard knock on the head has my ears buzzing as more sense is pumped into my seemingly empty head. The hard braking and screeching of tyres has everyone instantaneously alert. The car lands in a ditch. Fortunately he reverses safely back to the road. He had tried to block another car but was outfoxed and outmaneuvered by the would be victim. Expletives fly around for the missed opportunity. Our car brings out the empty tank sign. He tells his colleagues that the car is thirsty. They make a stop on a lone road. Am ordered to lie facing the ground. I start saying my last prayers… seeking forgiveness for all the sins done or imaginably done. My tormentor holds the gun by my nape. Am gasping for breath and my heart is beating fast. Am also sweating profusely despite the chilly night. His colleagues are busy looting my car. Then the driver comes around and orders his colleagues to let me up. Am given the car keys as they disappear into darkness. Am ordered to drive straight on until I join Thika Road. I do as am ordered at join Thika Road at the current Del View. In that moment of forced solitude you offer yourself to the dark while surreptitiously driving and hoping that you don’t meet other jackers who patrol the roads at night. You are caught up in a moment that divorces you from the world, from anything other than self. You are alone.. only the stars and the moon.. and maybe your tormentors are witnesses to your harrowing tribulation. At Thika Police I report the case. It’s past midnight and the car has no fuel to take me back to Nairobi. Indeed it’s unroadworthy to drive it at night.. they stole the jack, the spare wheel, spanners, my Masai sword and nyahunyo even a nail cutter. Am freezing in the night cold and my coat is gone and so is my belt. Am in socks after my leather shoes found a new owner in the process… so was my mobile phone. You know those pioneer ones that were as huge as police walkie- talkies. The cop at the desk is kind enough to give me 200/-. In his magnanimity he requests his friend to offer me accommodation in one of his lodgings opposite the station. I gladly accept. The room is threadbare with least of the basics. A thin blanket and a creaky bed. The walls are plastered with blood and other fluids of diverse colours and sources. A pungent obnoxious smell hangs in the air. I slip into bed in my clothes but the ordeal keeps on replaying in my mind like a movie. Worse still, my neighbor is engaged in nocturnal games that sound like night crusade or murder escapade. One minute there are muted sounds invoking the name of the Almighty and the next minute there are screams of someone being killed. In the morning, the news are all over Kikuyu vernacular stations. Am mteja. I fuel the car with the help of the compassionate cop and leave for Nairobi. The ordeal was scary and traumatizing. Death has never been so near… you touch it, smell it and hear it. A bitter pineapple served on a chilly night. MY MOST MEMORABLE DAY
I remember the Saturday before I sat my KCPE. We were home with my sister Shiku, my mom and dad. With my mom as the homemaker there were things you were not supposed to do in her house. If you happened to get off your bed at 5.30 am for any reason, you were not supposed to get back. Uracoka toro muthenya niki? If your answer was something to do with malaise, then she would tell you to join her in the kitchen and sit and watch out for her boiling tea as you keep warm. With Mrs Mathu in the morning, there was no argument, there was no plea and there was no cooking gas. So, feigning sickness never helped. The only major rescue was developing strong bladders that would hold up until around 7.00a.m which was like noon to her. Back to my KCPE Saturday, I stayed with my clasped bladder until 7.30 a.m. when I decided to go relieve myself and also confirm that I was still in my mother's house. I found dad in the sitting room filling his usual complex crosswords. \"Good morning ma'am!\" he greeted me with a grin. \"Good morning, Mr Mathu\" I answered back as I dash to the latrine. Everything seemed pretty calm. The sweet morning sunlight of Laikipia only made the morning better. Mom offered some milk and pancakes (my favorite..... now you know). I was done and took them to the sink, washed them and on my way out, I met with my mom carrying my dirty uniform. I thought she was about to throw them out for me to wash. Closely behind her was Shiku (ii etagwo Shiku) carrying big buckets. Then my dad followed with a stool and the radio. Clearly, this was a red alert. I went back to the house to peep because once again noone was supposed to look idle in the morning after all, wira wa Ngai ni muingi ni aruti anini. I saw my mum wash my uniform happily singing \"Mwei wa githima\", dad was sitting on the stool tuning his radio to KBC English service and Shiko was hovering around doing busy nothing's trying to appear relevant. The dog was lying there unbothered. We spent the rest of the day closely knit. All along, I though I was getting pampered as an assurance that everything would be alright but my mother had the feeling I have now. I will always live to remember that day. CANDY FOR MY SON Earlier today, my son asked me to get him some items he needed from the store, yes the store. In my full element, I am a super mom and a dedicated servant. In my empty one, I am something else. So I decided to get the best items for my son and as I was paying, I noticed some candy that I love. It became a trial between my two elements. In my full element, I thought candy was not good for the kids especially as one of them had just come from Our Partners in Good Health with some allergic rhinitis (I don't even know what I am writing). I'n my empty element, I thought I could buy myself some candy and hide from the kids since they were in the car waiting. My empty element won and I picked four of them. I remembered the many times I had been sent to Kiagayu's shop and would only stare at the madivani, drool and leave the shop wishing if I had my own money. Here I was with my own money. So as the cashier is doing her thing with my candy, a small girl behind me asks the mother to buy some for her too. The mother declines and very loudly tells her daughter that they are unhealthy. I feel bad but just before I feel very bad, the girl loudly tells the mother that the cookies in their cart are unhealthy too. When I am in my empty element, my laughter does not fear or wait for the right moment. It manifested itself right there and then.
I left with my unhealthy candy to deal with it later in solitude. I am enjoying the candy as I write this. Case is for later. THE REKINDLED MEMORIES OF MY FATHER Every memory of my dad come with some form of torture called laughter. Today's memory has my mom in it. Clearly, their lives were full of coincidences but not entirely. They were both teachers no doubt, but different kinds of teachers. When we moved to Laikipia, they taught in neighbouring schools. As you know, teachers of back in the day carried all homework books home to moonlight with as they planned the next day's caning session. Mr and Mrs Mathu would moonlight together as a couple. Back in school Mrs Mathu was this tough teacher who taught among many other subjects, handwriting and mathematics. In church she was an Elder and the chairperson of LCC. At home, she was the kind of mother who would call out my brother's name and we all respond, sometimes including my dad (especially if we were playing scrabble or cards after she had made a public \"match is over\" declaration). Mr Mathu on the other hand was this lower primary teacher whose tactic of teaching the little ones was getting down to their level literally. In church, he was this church school teacher whom the kids so loved. At home, he was dad as well as team mate when playing games. In the village, he was Pied Piper . Mom was always the umpire though she would take a game or two only if all the kitchen utensils, farm appliances, all basins, etc were clean. On this one day as my mother was marking her homework, dad got curious. He wanted to know how Std Two kids were made to keep their books so neatly covered. He said that his pupils' exercise books were uncovered, full of loose sheets and earlier that day, one of them had improvised an unga wrapper as his exercise book of the day. Mom's answer was clear, \"The cane.\" Bingo! Mr Mathu made his grand entrance in Std Three at Irura Primary School armed with a lesson plan, a scheme, a \"Hallo Children\", dusty chalk, a smile and the cane. Clearly, the Teachers Service Commission was about to get a new name. The PDE Rift Valley and the DEO Laikipia were about to be promoted to higher offices at Jogoo House 'A'. The moment of reckoning was just about for Irura Primary School. But the moment he hit the non-existent door frame into that class, all the pupils reincarnated as unidentified flying objects. They jumped out through the windows and made their way out of the school compound shouting gibbershly. All this time, the rest of the school thought that Mr Mathu was having his usual practical lessons with his lower primary pupils until their parents starting trickling in the school one by one. They were concerned with the safety of their sons and daughters because it was reported that Mr Mathu was reportedly insane and violent. Mr Mathu came home to narrate his ordeal to his next of kin, the mother of his (grown) kids, his ride or die, his never-leave-me friend (even in death); Wamathu. She laughed so hard and all she had to say was, \"Onanii noguo ingikire\". The following day, he successfully pacified his learners with a packet of \"koo\" and normal programming resumed.
AN ENCOUNTER WITH A CARJACKER He slaps me hard; orders me to unbuckle and not try any monkey business. I quickly do so. Am yanked out of the driver’s seat and escorted with solid few kicks to drive the point home. In a flash am lifted airborne and thrown into the back seat where two heavy men make a seat out of me. A welcome violent blow with the tip of the gun to the pate has it bleeding profusely. Am angry and annoyed. In the heat of the moment I ask them why they are tormenting me yet I had yielded. Another precision slap on the left cheek administered with the back of the hand sends me back to factory settings. The driver orders his accomplices to treat me with decorum. There is honour and order among thieves too. He reminds them that am the biggest catch they had for sometime hence they don’t want to lose this fat bird. I scream my heart out! TAMBAYA Tambaya is a last frontier town before you exit Mukurwe-ini. A sleepy town by the banks of the mighty River Gura which is reputed to be the nimblest of all in Africa. In 2005 Tambaya gained global prominence and had its limelight of fame as the place with the largest concentration of chameleons worldwide. Grapevine had it that in the land yonder where wazungus live there was huge demand for the Chameleons especially the horned ones. The info sifts into the dozy centre one morning. The perpetrators add twist to it and allocate a date when the mzungu will be coming to Tambaya to buy in bulk the camouflaged sluggish reptiles. A marketing sting is thrown in; that Tambaya chameleons are of the highest and most sought-after quality. The languid town is stirred awake. Locals abandon all other activities and concentrate on hunting these reptiles with ferocious intensity. They are caged and tethered in all manner of places. The buying price 1200/- for the ordinary one but 1500/- for the horned specie ( rhinoceros chameleon) . The trade for these camouflaged reptiles continues to rage conspicuously. Brokers and the bounty-hunters descend on the small town with loads of cash. Horse trading and hoarding of chameleons become commonplace. On the material day locals and not so local characters come out in hordes to await the windfall. Some are at the rendezvous by crack of dawn while others spent the night there. Talk of early birds. By 10am the sale business is brisk as some retail their reptiles to big sharks. The slow animals are brought in in all manner of vessels from perforated plastic bags to cartons to gunny sacks. All with singular vision of becoming millionaires. By lunchtime the expected buyer hasn’t arrived. By 5pm he is a no show. Darkness sets in and at dusk Tambaya looks like one huge chameleon zoo as the poor cold blooded reptiles are abandoned by helpless and frustrated would be millionaires. I passed there recently and the town seems to be in deep slumber ….perhaps it has never recovered from the ordeal. Nevertheless Gura River is still racing towards the ocean while the locals go about their business unperturbed maybe waiting for another incident to tickle life into it. I guess it’s day with Lady Luck is in the offing.
RUNNERS’ BIRTHDAY JAMBOREE I had premised to hike Mt Kenya from Chogoria direction and descend on the Sirimon side. It was going to be wacky and novel. My heart was pulsing in anticipation of this lifetime experience. Then boom! An invitation to a birthday run came through. The birthday boy Johnny Be Goode has been my buddy on the running trail for some years now. We have a similar pace and great running chemistry. Two events slated for the same weekend but tearing me apart. A catch 22 you would say. But as the saying goes it does not take much strength to do things, but it requires a great deal of strength to decide what to do. Our friendship won the toss. In the running community that is Urban Swaras,birthdays are celebrated in an idiosyncratic and quirky way… we run a distance equivalent to the years lived. For John it was dubbed 50@50. Friday evening finds me in Mathari area of Nyeri near Nyeri Hill. A perfect starting point for the run. Mathari has a rich connection with the Catholic Church. Life here is closely intertwined with the church. Besides the humungous Hill Farm which covers hundred of acres, there is the Mathari Hospital, a renowned medical facility that has served the region for eons. In close proximity but under the same umbrella are the education institutions of distinction viz Nyeri High School and Kamwenja College… not forgetting the iconic Italian Memorial Church where the remains of Italian WW2 prisoners of war were put in the vaults. Engraved on top of the vaults are the soldiers’ names, ranks, date and place of death. Cometh the hour… we wake up at 4am, a quick light breakfast of tea and bread while I have my hydration pack well strapped in readiness of the grueling run. Am set and ready. My plan is to run for 30km then “walk-run” the last 20km where the elevation will be about 700m. Off we get started at 4:40am from Ihururu, a quiet outpost nestled at the foot of Nyeri Hill(Muhoya). We rattle some few norcturnal animals like crickets and rats. A rattled motorbike rider does a U-turn as he finds a group of about 20 of us running in pitch darkness. A sharp left turn has us run past Kamwenja college through coffee and tea bushes. One can hardly see 2metres ahead. At 4km I stumble and trip on a huge wet stone that has me sprawled on the road. My knees take a heavy knock and for a moment I ponder whether to continue or cut my losses. The support car stops to offer me help. I walk for a kilometre in total darkness as I ‘listen’to the body. Indeed the body responds positively and just before Kihuyo(am in the middle of a thicket and an uncanny place almost refers to another thicket) I get to run again. The newly tarmacked Mau Mau Road is a welcome relief as it’s smooth and even devoid of the hazards of uneven trail roads and paths. My attempt to pick up speed is thwarted by a series of sharp inclines all the way to Mweiga road junction. The dawn is beckoning and an orange-red haze colours the vista. Beautiful day is emblazoned on the horizon. We exit the Mweiga - Nyahururu Highway at the Aberdare Country club junction, past Ikumari, Mwireri, Honi Resort to Chaka Junction where we turn right towards Nyaribo. This is where Nyeri Airstrip is located though no planes land or take off. Indeed the place looks unkempt, ideal for a national park. At Nyaribo, I take a break to nurse my bruised knees. They are on fire and on go slow.. threatening to buckle down and bring my run to an unceremonious and screeching end. I pamper them with a cup of tea and madazi and top up with a pain killer. Some respite gained. Soon am hurtling down the valley towards Kabiruini Show Ground. Am already at 30km. I simply walk up the hill all the way to Dedan Kimathi University.
But I run down to Chania river, walk up to Shell King’ong’o where again I take some short rest at Highland Mineral water plant. Outside their gate, there is free drinking water which I gladly and thirstily partake and splash all over my sweat drenched body to cool off. Another short burst of run has me at a centre called Transformer(why the name?) where the people by the roadside stare at me perhaps wondering whether I was a terrorist ready to blow the place into smithereens given my weird shaped backpack. A kilometre up and the famous Italian church is clearly visible from the road. I stop to admire this architectural marvel despite the fact that it’s a cemetery. Who stops to admire a cemetery? But then, it’s a church….At Mathari Hospital entrance, we get off the tarmac road and down towards River Chania. John the birthday boy catches up with me alongside Linda. Linda is curvy ‘jaber’ who has to running instead of fishing. Her curves have caused too many a mishap to men in the running trails. A run back in Karatina had a local swear by the gods of Kirinyaga of undying love for “jaber”. Maybe she is here to rekindle the love with the local boy… We run together all the way to the river. The metallic bridge is a fine piece of engineering that reverberates noisily when a vehicle passes over it. We come out at the tarmac road heading to Kamuyu. A right turn has us at Kagunduini and down to Kiriti junction. Here is a labyrinth of white marked arrows. The major arrows point towards Tetu Technical while the Swara one is dwarfed by the huge ones. Linda who decided to race ahead of us ends up taking the wrong turn and runs into a funeral ceremony where the mark leads to. I guess she was served with Pilau Njeri, a delicacy during such functions in my homeland. Vio also followed the wrong markings and ends up in party deep inside bundus. Some tales can only be told by Swaras! Yours truly ended up in a funeral too some times back( I digress). Vio hits 50km in the middle of nowhere. She takes a boda and gets me and birthday boy at Kinunga. We enjoy the walk together. At Ihwa, more pictures are taken with cute lavender background of Jacaranda trees in bloom. Down to River Chania and up the last leg of the run.The last 5km is a pure hike. Like night runners we are we circle Nyeri Hill. At Ihururu , the run is complete. One last picture at the gate of St Joseph Cafosso Mwenji Pry with the grandiose Catholic Church in the background. In the evening the noise decibels go a notch higher as tales of the run are told amid great food and murats. Waziri Esther and Waziri Kinyua from Nyeri County grace the occasion. They are prolific night dancers. I guess Nyeri County government is offering dancing lessons. Of late even the Governor has a Tik Tok account where he belts out hit after hit and occasionally showing his dancing skills. Yours truly tries to impress all present with his village dancing skills. I step on too many toes as my wobbly knees defy me and make a horrible spectacle. I blame it on the fall. Luckily my disastrous moment isn’t captured on camera. Lights off… camera off… done and dusted. Happy birthday John.. 5th floor is good! SPEWED FROM THE DRAGON’S MOUTH TO SATIMA Satima is the highest point in the Aberdare Ranges towering above all to summit at 4001m.
I had summited the peak previously from Wandare Gate (Endarasha Side) and so I had unfinished business with Lesatima by peaking the same via Shamata Gate through the picturesque Dragon Teeth. So the day was here… I pick Peter my guide at 6:30am at Flyover Town a small outpost that sits on the cusp of the Great Rift Valley just before the decline to Naivasha. We are on our way to slay the dragon. It reminded me of my early days when Bruce Lee featured in a movie called “Enter the Dragon”. It was screened at our local “watoto kaeni chini” theatre where it held a legendary status due to its exotic karate moves. Perhaps I needed those karate skills to enter the dragon’s mouth. We drive through oddly named towns like Haraka, Njabini, Engineer, Machinery and Wanjohi. At the Wanjohi junction there is one horse town called Rironi. Wanjohi has an illustrious history. It will forever be etched in capital letters in the history of debauchery and moral decadence. It was the epicenter of the infamous Happy Valley escapades that happened in colonial times. In the 1930s, the group became infamous for its decadent lifestyles and exploits amid reports of drug use and sexual promiscuity. Some of the main characters in this movie of debauchery were Lord Errol, Karen Blixen and Delamere. Today Wanjohi is a former shadow of itself with very laidback life. Only some few remnants of colonial architecture reminds a traveller of its sinful past. At Rironi we branch off to a Murram road for 32 kilometres to Shamata Gate. The road has some rough sections that calls for a vehicle with high ground clearance if not 4 by 4. It’s the shorter route though one can proceed to Ol Kalou then Nyahururu and branch towards Shamata Gate at Mairo Inya. At the gate the entry payment is swift via M-pesa and a 10km journey to the starting point is on. The Twin Tower Rocks is the starting point for our journey to encounter the ferocious dragon. These are two outcrops that look similar in texture, height and composition hence the Twin Tower. Peter as usual is my snapper and guide. “The two way hike is approximately 16km through marshy grasslands and inside The Dragon Teeth massif.. then a long trek through wheat-like grass all the way the peak” Peter summarises our hike in one long sentence. Quick stretching is done… pictures taken and the hiking commences in earnest. At one kilometre we take a sharp left turn and Lo and behold! A stream of pristine water greets us… am tempted to scoop and drink it but it’s too cold and ain’t thirsty anyway. A distance up and a forest of giant lobelia sprouts out. They are huge with many taller than me. Their phallus shaped upright conjures the image of huge male genitalia. The recent fire outbreak has turned the vegetation life black while the current sporadic rains have injected life into tussock grass. At 2km we do a short climb that opens up to endless stretches of brown tussock grass interposed by huge massifs that are rugged and dramatic in shape, freakish and bizarrely surreal. The endless browning acres of tussock grass gives a look of Narok wheat farms or the Argentine Pampas..all through a marshy walk from one bog to another.. interspersed with minor groundsels and shrubby heath… slowing you almost to a halt. Regrettably one cannot sit down to take a breather as it’s wet all over. Beneath the facade of brown tussock are millions of rivulets that form one huge labyrinth of wetland. You take a breather on your feet. Similarly one cannot walk away
from the beaten path(which is a river anyway) because the soggy and boggy alternative is perilously bouncy and may in one swoop swallow you in a millisecond. The huge massifs that characterize the otherwise flat terrain are not only jugged but imposing. The jutting lava monsters beautifully puncture the moorlands and majestically claim their space.They announce their presence loudly while stamping their authority to dwarfed hikers. From afar they look ordinary and normal until you go near them and the massive outcrops flex their height. Their edges are ruggedly enchanting. Right in front of your path is the famous Dragon Teeth. Peter explains to me that the name is derived from the natural formation of the lava columns. They eerily resemble the teeth of the humungous mythical fire-spitting dragon. The trail cuts through this Jurassic park formation. We take copious amounts of pictures from all angles. But no matter how many pictures one takes, the Dragon Teeth cannot be described in still pictures.. it can only be experienced. Momentarily am in a daze as I absorb this mesmerizing environment. I dreamily wait to experience the dinosaurs roaming about alongside other extinct creatures that strutted the earth in medieval times. The teeth leaves you agog with beauty… sizzling with lust and excruciating after-taste in the mouth. We still have to conquer “Mountain of the Bull Calf” that is Lesatima.. so we move on. The Dragon spew us out with our hiking paraphernalia and the lone trail vanishes beyond the back of another mountain. At about 3900m the air becomes extremely thin while breathing is heavy and strained. I bend over to resource for more oxygen. I boost my oxygen reserves by drinking my beetroot concoction. We are back on track. The gentle climb is draining mostly due to thin air. As we near the apex the final steep climb is a pure heartbreak. Too close but too far. It’s tough, slippery and treacherous. Indeed we meet a lone Caucasian lady whose wheels came off and set base barely 100m to the summit as she waited for her hubby to mount the summit( no pun intended) The summit gives you a real ecstasy ..God’s dexterous hands can be seen all round with finished product a clear manifest. The groundsels are bigger in size.. the bogs more slippery and the air thinner. In less than 8 minutes the views are suddenly hidden by dark clouds that swirl noisily around us. We are above the clouds. The feeling of infallibility quietly seizes you. The god of the mountain is present. A quiet conversation with God begins but not for long. The whizzing winds and low temperatures make the place uncomfortable for long stays.. the rain showers wash our sins. Minor hailstones stone us away from the peak and our spiral trek down begins. We find a mountain casualty who could not summit this brutal calf. We tag her along after administering first aid to lessen mountain sickness effects. From the Dragon Teeth to the gate the heavy rain drench us to our bones. Our ponchos and waterproof boots come in handy in keeping us warm and dry. The journey back to Nairobi is quiet and uneventful as we scout for more peaks to be peaked. After all restless souls coupled with restless legs are always on the move. LONGONOT HIKE…UP. ROUND AND DOWN On Saturday morning I place a call to Dan. “Habari Dan? Can we hike Suswa today?” “Apana.. Leo niko na wazungu iko camping”He tells me. “Haiwezekani kabisa” he affirms. So my impromptu hike to Suswa becomes stillborn. Dan is the foremost guide if you ever wonna hike Suswa. So Suswa wasn’t going to be this Saturday. I reconfigure my compass and redirect it to Longonot and soon am toiling with the idea. A
quick check on the Google map on the traffic at the Mai Mahiu road is done(this is a real bottleneck when there is traffic chock-a-block) Traffic is heavy in the area. Soon a red alert pops in Twitter that a trailer has overturned near Mutarakwa and the locals are busy siphoning and scooping fuel with all manner of vessels. Cognizant of the painful traffic snarl up on this stretch, I shelve the idea. It becomes a cropper. The hike is deferred to next day that is Sunday. Sunday came and I picked my hiking kit jumped into the car and off to Longonot. A slow easy drive while absorbing the natural beauty that lines up along the road to my destination. The Mai Mahiu section of the road never disappoints… the vista that is the the Great Rift Valley offers spectacular views that can only be seen than described. The view point is a must stop affair if only to savour the grandeur and panoply of this geological marvel. We are on the queue of the endless file of slow moving juggernauts as they haul their ponderous and hefty cargo to far distant lands of Rwanda, Uganda and DRC. I really admire the drivers of these behemoths. In my to-do-basket, I will in my lifetime steer one of these road behemoths if only for 50miles. Soon the slow moving jam comes to a complete halt. I enquire from a roast maize seller about the cause of the gridlock.A huge trailer has jack-knifed partially blocking the road. Knowing the travails of this road, am mentally prepared to spend endless hours here on this twisting and winding motorway that was done over seven decades ago by the Italian prisoners of war. A hasty intervention by volunteers has the jam thawing despite the senseless overlapping by some dunderheads. We quickly pass by the famous tiny vintage Catholic Church at the foot of the valley…no stop is made here though I note with dismay that the entrance has become a roadside garage for the lorries while the county Cess officials have their roadside office there. What is wrong with county honchos? Why desecrate a holy site and of significant national heritage? Past the dusty and vibrant Mai Mahiu town I hit the wide open road towards Naivasha. At Longonot town I branch towards the mountain for a 2.5km off-road drive and soon am making entry payment at the gate. My hiking bag has the usual stuff; cup cakes for energy, water in reusable bottle( plastic not allowed) energy bisquits and some energy drink. I stuff in water proof jacket and pick my trekking pole. Am set. I have planned to hike up the mountain, go round the crater ring and descend down the floor of the crater. A huge gamble and a lunatic fantasy. My guide for the day Steve Macharia joins me for this psychotic and dotty expedition. My watch is set to capture the crucial data and milestones. On average the distance up is 3.5km and 7.2km round. The descent is barely 200m of very steep decline. The pace is moderate and in a twinkling of an eye am panting. As we enter the shrubby forest I spot some zebras grazing at a distance while the Thompsons Gazelle keep them company. Shortly thereafter we are at the Buffalo Point.The supposed residents are missing..not that am keen about their presence. The the artificial winding staircase unfolds. The air gets thinner while breathing is heavy and laborious. We hit level one of the mountain. This is the table of this huge monolith. It’s flat and offers a welcome relief to the climbers. There is a shed to nurse the creaky knees and also to take a breather.
We don’t stop. The flat stretch is a welcome relief, however the sharp incline is right facing us like a vertical wall. We do a continuous walk to the top. We even overtake a group of hikers who had started an hour before us. It takes us 48 minutes to the rim of the crater. A few pictures are in order as I douse the face with cold water to dilute the briny sweat that is furiously flowing out. I have taken too many photos at this point in my previous treks up Longonot. On average I hike up Longonot not less than 4 times per year. The journey to Kilele is on. The previous day it had rained hence the usually dusty trail is compact and blissful to walk on. Soon we are on our final push to Kilele peak. The loose murram soil drags you backwards. For every three steps made onwards you slide two backwards. It’s a ardous affair that saps your energy as it tests your patience and mountain climbing skills to the limit. In some sections we lumber on on all fours to get a better grip of the otherwise steep and treacherous climbs. At almost the crest there opens a window which gives you a glimpse of the starting point of the rim and the Kilele summit. It has a sweeping view of the William Hill across and the Longonot town below. Quite ecstatic view. One final push and we are at the summit. Unlike in the past visits, the Kilele summit is well marked and the ban on plastic bottles has improved the aesthetic value of the place. A 360 degree view of the area leaves your eyes watery with lust. It’s an eye candy. One can see Lake Naivasha with its numerous greenhouses to the west, the Kedong Ranch at the bottom and the bustling Mai Mahiu town . Further south the road to Narok meanders like shiny huge serpent on a sunny day. A quick bite washed down with an energy drink has our energy levels soaring again. Walking down the freshly minted stairs, our descent commences in earnest. We have to hurry up as we still have to go down the crater and experience Longonot in its full splendour and majesty. We methodically clear the second peak where we meet a group that decided to do the rim clockwise as we did it anti- clockwise. A quick hello is said as we pave way for each other. Ideally in hiking, always give way to the person going up. The next 3 kilometres are easy. We saunter down while occasionally stopping to give way or take a picture. At kilometre 5 (of the rim) my guide stops and shows me a near invisible trail that will take us down the bowels of the crater. It’s steep,dicey and outrightly hazardous… but whatever hiking you do, it’s perilous anyway, after all, hikers survive on the adrenalinal rush to keep their hearts on the edge. The descent is slow. My guide shows me the way down as I dutifully follow him. The path is covered with tussock grass and other trees that literally grow on the edge. We abandon our backpacks along the way for easier maneuverability. After all nobody can steal them. We hang on by the tussock grass and grab all manner of support including the trees and hoping that they don’t give in and send us tumbling down the cliff. Occasionally one is able to peep down the cliff and the sheer gradient is scaring enough. After 25 minutes through a gnarly winding path we hit the basement of the crater. The place is humid and wet. Too much lichen and moss all over. It’s quite cool but the impregnable forest and undergrowth hinders the movement. Huge rocks also litter the place.. the remnants of massive volcanic eruptions eons back. In several places, there are fisssures producing steam and hissing sound… maybe the mountain still rumbles in its belly ready to vomit it’s red hot contents. At a crevice nearby there’s a pack of bison bones and skeleton.. a testament of the perilous nature of the mountain. It must have met its waterloo after a misstep at the rim of the crater. The results were a free fall to a certain death in the entrails of this bloodthirsty hellhole.
The viscera of Longonot looks eerie and surreal. In one corner there is an open space that has green moss making it look like a golf course from afar. We pitch camp there as the serene environment envelope us. I even take a nap…letting the cool bowel bliss to caress my moist rind. Further exploration is done but the movement is ardous and gruelling given the heavy undergrowth. After about an hour, we make our way out of the crater. Climbing out is less tedious than going down but not any less perilous. One misstep and you suffer the fate of the bison. At the rim, we complete the circumference and run our way down to the gate. Am thrilled by the conquest. Never before had I climbed up this volcanic monolith, went round and down the crater and out. At the base, a quick round of snacks and dusting brings the exciting day to a close… before you know it am driving back home… a contented soul. Pronto I will be elsewhere for that is the life of restless pair of legs and soul… always on the move. NZAMBANI ROCK IN KITUI- MYTHICAL SEX CHANGING ROCK The conquest trip commences in Nairobi through Thika town to Matuu town. At the junction to Kiritiri there is a shopping centre infamously called Kanyonyoo. We touch Kanyonyoo but referee waves play- on. A quick snap session before a loaded lorry whizzes past us with a quirky but enormously hilarious message, “Urembo si kujipondoa, ni ukoo” At the junction to Mwingi we head towards Kitui( circa 50km) through Kabati town. At Kitui we use the newly minted by-pass to avoid Kitui town jam until 10km when we branch into Nzambani Sanctuary. It’s approximately 170km from Nairobi. From afar it juts out of the flat land that characterises Kitui topography. Its huge, imposing and majestic; while it towers above all that is around it the stone outcrop seems to laughingly mock the dwarfed life surrounding it. Locally known as 'Ivia ya Nzambani', this stone outcrop stands at approximately 183m above the ground and is about 10 km from Kitui town along the freshly tarmacked Kitui-Mutitu road. Mythical stories and tales have been yarned since time immemorial about the rock but the most endearing is that, anyone who goes around the rock seven times changes into a member of the opposite sex. This tale has been passed from one generation to another, but it is clear that no one has ever tried to go round the rock seven times. The narrative of its origin is also as mysterious as it is captivating. It is said that eons back a Kamba girl, known as Nzambani, turned into a rock many years ago. Nzambani, who was accompanied by two girls, had been fetching firewood when suddenly she saw a shiny round stone, which she thought was good for grinding tobacco. She collected it, intending to take it to her grandfather, but was immediately turned into the rock therefor the name. After paying Kshs 200/- one takes a short steep climb to the foot of the rock. The walk takes your breathe away and its a perfect prelude of the menu ahead. A steel ladder has been erected for ease of rock climbers; the ladder is held by thick bolts drilled inside the rock to make it stable and safe. Its a 180 metre climb to the tip. If you suffer height phobia or you have delusional moments then this is not the place for you. Half way the climb, my knees almost gave in...the look down was enough to drive my manhood trait into hitherto untested limits. I climb down to gather my wits as I ponder
over the sanity of doing this humongous and extremely risky undertaking. Am now swimming in the uncharted waters of adrenaline junkies. Just as am about to turn and go home, two middle aged women wearing long dresses and ‘made in china’ sandals puff their way to the foot of the inselberg ready to conquer the rock. They seem unperturbed by the task ahead. Confidently they start and once they do the first two floors, I decide not to be outdone by them. With tail safely tucked between my legs and bowing in phobia, I follow them all the way up. At about 170m my head feels empty and light.. vertigo becomes a reality and a companion..I sit and recover. Could this be the feeling when the gender is changing? Maybe! I gently touch my nethers to confirm that indeed all is well. Finally I am atop the rock and the feeling is exhilarating….at the top and feeling at the top. The views are breathtaking.. the sceneries worth every minute of the climb and horizon is beguiling as it is enchanting. The soft chilly wind whispers to your ears in sotto voce;’you have made it’ Coming down was uneventful but a distant rainbow painted my climb with a colourful display announcing to all and sundry about my Nzambani conquest. Am still a man… nothing changed though I never made an attempt to go round the monolith seven times. At the base we settle for some drinks as we watch the sun set. FATEFUL RENDEZVOUS The brazen soft orange glow, Camouflaged the dizzying hot day, The evening breeze soothed the scotched skin, As the tormentor calmly slid into the horizon, Meticulous but methodically too. The hued waters of the ocean was clapping, Coyly and in a choreographed orchestra, Consistently wavy in a silent manner, Maybe happy that the sizzler kitchen had cooled, Perhaps had run out firewood, Hence the ashy smoky embers. In unison they paddled their dugout canoe, Tired and frowny faces of optimism, Forming a beautiful moving silhouette, Happy that the day had ended well, But worn out by the days’ escapades A reunion with the family beckoning. The coloured sun, the water and the fishermen, All United for diverse purposes, Converged into a time crossroad, No planned rendezvous, But fate coincided their diaries.
CHRONICLES FROM D R CONGO Msafiri is a local Kiswahili word for a wanderer. Many wanderers suffer time and again from marauding bug known as wanderbug and after winning a gold medal in walking race in Burundi, time to wander and wonder came. Ensuing the local round of Buja(as Bujumbura is fondly called locally) I decide to hit the road for the destination beyond the horizon. My local guide tells me that across the massive Lake Tanganyika is DR Congo. Immediately my antennae starts communicating and singing in Lingala. Memories of people dancing to some hits of the local Lingala maestros vividly hit my mind. I can see the legendary elephant sized Franco mesmerizing the crowd.. Koffi Olominde kicking arses around(they are rounded and humungous) or any other yet to flourish upcoming Lingala singer wannabe. Same day I head to the immigration at the local port and shock on me: the motor boat fare to Congo was $300 for 50km journey across. Too near but too far. I immediately know that my sojourn to Congo has drowned right before my eyes. The massive lake waves seem to clap in happiness over my failed(or foiled) journey. But then again Msafiri always has a way of going round the hurdles(pun fully intended). That night I had a dream.. in it i found myself walking back a rich man into Kenya, having bought or smuggled all the gold in Congo. I was reminded of some chap back in Moi days when a sneaky thief entered the deep echelons of State House and made away with a golden Cockerel which was KANUs symbol. The prezzo could not sleep for days over his beloved golden cock. It later emerged that the same was slaughtered and sold to some Congo magnates. The guy behind the theft was never caught but now lives large courtesy of the chicken biz.. si ata Ruto aliuza kuku akatajirika? Maybe its the way to go: but i digress. Having dreamt of hitting it big in Congo, I came up with plan B.. to drive all the way. I raised my guide and when i told him about my plan; he plainly told me.. you must have swallowed something that cooked your brain into useless used car oil. ‘The place is infested with first class witches and wagangas. Wako na kijicho and i may never make it across back a sane man. He even withdrew. Back to square one. I looked for another guide and finally struck a deal at 200$. The morning following we hit the road with Hon Gichimu of Gichugu. He is well built legislator who would pass for a Congolese than Kenyan. The fact that he is well built made me feel secure. The distance to Congo is merely 40-50km. We passed through the affluent part of Buja that has beach plots all the way to Gatumba border point. At the border, our passports were scrutinized and asked some few hard queries. What would a Kenyan be going to do in Congo at the height of political campaigns? After stamping our passports we walk across the no man’s land to the entry office at the Congo side at Kavimvira.The officers there could only speak local lingua or French. We spoke in gestures. For the first time i used a calculator to speak..Good Lawd!! My smattering French came in handy. “Je ‘m’appelle Antoine. “ “Je parle Anglais en Kiswahili” “De suis Kenyan” My grasp of French came to a screeching halt. The madam behind the counter told me with with a surprise on her face,’De Suis Kenyan?’. “Oui’ ,I replied.
“D’accord’. ‘s'il vous plaît payer 50 en visa” She thundered at me noting that she was getting irritated by my crude attempt to speak(murder) French. Hon Gichimu was getting impressed by my command of French yet the lady behind the counter wasnt amused by my poor skills in the lingua. The passports were taken to the officer in charge and we were told to see him. We told him of our intended visit without revealing our get rich scheme. In a flash we were cleared. With visa in our pocket, my scheme was almost coming to fruition. The gentleman communicated in Kiswahili through out and quickly issued us with visa to go into land of Lingala. En route Uvira we reached the customs barrier and immediately our driver was fined 10k Burundi francs for no apparent offence. A wanderer is used to such hiccups and such mundane things are commonplace. We zoomed into Uvira in no time. Uvira is a bustling town that extends for about 7km from one end to another. On the extreme end is a small lake port that serves Zambia and Burundi while serving as an eastern entry point to the mammoth D R Congo. From Burundi the entry is marked by a number of UN agencies that use the town as a humanitarian centre to alleviate sufferings of internal refugees running away from internal conflicts. Soldiers armed to teeth are a common sight and citizens go about their business unperturbed. As we enter Uvira or Kuvimvira we are met by cacophony of various candidates trying to outdo each other as they try to woo potential voters come election time on 23/12/18. We carefully meander clear of the campaign misafaras.. but we stop to admire a candidate who seems young and campaigning on a weather beaten jalopy that seems to be held together by rust. Its a miracle that its even moving. When it jerks into life(after some abracadabra below the steering wheel) it unleashes a weird sound that comes across as a mix of a bellowing elephant and hungry mongrel. When it moved it seemed to effortlessly glide over the non existent roads. When the crowd gathered and listened to him, he disappeared into Bukavu town direction deep into the forest, perhaps to reappear on the voting day. The infrastructure at Uvira is non existent. Its a dust bowl when its sunny and a mud labyrinth when it rains. Women in Uvira are the breadwinners with hundreds of them lining the streets selling this or that. The merchandise range from dried fish, to vitenge to roasted nugu. But also breaching chemicals are sold in the streets. A strong belief pervades that brown is belle. The lingua franca here is Kiswahili heavily mixed with French and Lingala. Women here are generally Plus size. Being a Sunday, crusades here were jostling for space and attention with politicians. We talked to some locals about the business potential and realised that despite the huge opportunities, lack of access and political instability makes the attempt futile if not outrightly a Russian roulette dance. But the road less travelled sometimes leads to great destinations. I will be back. My attempt to smuggle gold came to a nought when we were told that Gold is found in Goma: about 180km away. Being in the rain forest my attempt to move to Bukavu was thwarted by heavy rains that not only washed out the roads but also my dream to be a gold millionaire. As we rode back we took a rest at ‘Itombwe’ guest house much more out of curiosity than being tired. Our minds were on some implied monkey business that happens there.. shock on us as we learnt that its a Lingala name that has no connotation to what our fertile minds had conjured. I will be back in Congo in my sojourns as a wanderer, for ‘mimi ni msafiri’.
HILTON HOTEL- GOING DOWN WITH FOND MEMORIES The Hilton Hotel in Nairobi is closing down.. it goes down with part of me… here I reminisce. Am learning the ropes of campus life at the University of Nairobi. I have received boom once(it was a princely sum of about 5k) and bought some few clothes to shed my shagsmodo traits. A valiant whippersnapper who has taken the city by storm is up and about. To retain your identity in campus one had to somehow get assimilated to the district of origin grouping. Naturally I joined Nyeri District University Students Association (NDUSA). As part of drafting in and assimilation we were invited for a dinner at Hilton. Venue: Hilton Hotel Ballroom On the day we went for our usual dinner at CCU.. it was Friday and chicken was on the menu. Who would skip the feathered delicacy at all? Not when you were a campus student. Evening food time at the CCU(Central Catering Unit) was a stuff of WWE wrestling. One had to rush there some minutes before the opening of the mess for the choicest of the day’s serve. The menu varied depending on the day of the week. The most lucrative days were when chicken was on offer while Chapo days were hallowed and adored. Indeed chapo; otherwise known as dialogue had a cult status. Myth had it that at a certain time the campuserian had rioted because Chapos had missed on the menu. The students demanded dialogue with the University administration on the chapati issue if normalcy was to be restored. In Bunge Education Assistant Minister Kariuki Chotara (who had never seen the inside of a classroom) was perturbed by the issue and asked ; ‘’Kama ni dialogue wanataka, si wapewe? “ . To him dialogue was something edible and eatable. Chapos were restored immediately but they became known as Dialogue henceforth. Sorry I digress. The opening ceremony, commonly known as OC was a spectacle by itself that would easily rival the WWE Wrestling. The pushing and shoving was a stuff of the legends( story for another day) Out we stepped for our welcome dinner at The Hilton. On arrival we were greeted by beautiful lasses wearing sexy minis… you know those minis that are long enough to cover the subject matter but short enough to leave the sons of the village drooling and their blood boiling! The men too had neat uniforms that were complimented by sleek black bow ties. We were ushered in and directed to our seats .. yours truly was transfixed by the beauty of the earthly goddess escorting him. I sat next my fellow villager Gikonyo who was wearing a brown woolen suit. He had been bought for by his father after he brought his whole village to a standstill on account of his joining the university. Yours truly was looking dapper in bespoke blue suit that I had been bought for by my Dad’s friend (Mr Mukiri) for scoring high grades that eased my passage to do a prestigious Law degree. The aura was electric.. it must have been the biblical paradise that is described in the Genesis. Shiny and blinking colored lights made the place look heavenly. The seats were covered in white silk. The whole floor was carpeted and extremely bouncy in a pleasant way. Everyone looked happy and gregarious. Many came in dressed elegantly while others dressed with conspicuous shabbiness.. some stepped in, others walked in. The valiant dudes positioned themselves strategically ready to pounce on the village lasses .. the game of mind became vicious between these born taos and had all the elements
of swashbucklers staking a claim. For us the villagers our focus was on the food and drinks on display. Foodtime: it was a utopian affair. Never in my lifetime had I seen so much food displayed in a buffet style. I mean; there were lines of meat trays of diverse types ranging from beef, lamp, chicken , fish et al. How about Chips my friend? Too much of salad that was uncooked. I didn’t know that people ate raw cabbages and other green leaves that looked like rabbit food called ‘mukengeria’ and ‘mung’ei’ . I gave them a wide berth. In my village we gave those wild leaves to rabbits and in turn we ate the rabbits. No two ways about it!! Remember we had eaten chicken at the campus and here we were eating again! The journey back to our dining tables was a spectacle to behold. Trying to balance up an overflowing plate on one hand and sodas on the other while walking on a bouncy carpet.. Using a folk and knife was an ordeal. How do you take chicken using the cutlery. We agreed with Gikonyo to use our hands as we methodically worked on our mini mountains. We didn’t use the white bibs on the table.. after all we didn’t know how to use them anyway. None of the other villagers like Moko, Kenyatta, Karuma or Karux were fairing any better in matters etiquette. Speeches were made.. can’t recall a word said or who talked.. we were too full to listen. Then came the drink time. My dalliance with alcohol was limited then as it is now. I chose Tusker Premium also called Tusker Mukurino. Tusker Mukurino was a premium ale that was meant for wazungus and mainly sold at high end joints where they frequented … indeed we were at a high end joint. It was packed in a 300ml bottle but had a white aluminium foil covering its head hence the mukurino tag. Two mukurinos and I started feeling like one.. but without a turban. I was feeling like ‘jumping jumping’.. the stomping in my head thudded like “Ndarama”they ‘beat’when worshiping. The music oozing from the woofers created more frenzy. As I went to the washroom, Lo and behold ! they were spotlessly spick-and-span with a cleaner on standby. I wash my hands and fish out the tissue paper to dry my hands. The cleaner takes me through a quick orientation of how to use a hand- dryer. This was magical!! You put your hands under a white protruding ‘kathing’ and in seconds your hands are dry. We kept on going back to experience this novel way of drying up the hands. We danced the night away but by my fifth mukurino I was seeing a thousand blistering stars. We had enough. One more visit to the washroom and I threw up all that I had ingested including the campus dinner. It hurts me to see Hilton close down after it broke my village virginity and lured me into city life. COVID IS REAL Covid is real... it’s stealthy and silent! it devastates families! It decimates individuals! Let us take extreme precautions. Some things happen to you to remind you that one is fallible and has to be in constant touch and close to the Giver of life for you never know when the owner may want it back. An sms came through from the Chair inviting me for a run to scout a potential route for future Swara run. Running for me has become a routine. I can wake up to run anything between 10-70km depending on the level of fitness, the company or whatever illegal substance I have partaken.. but
wait a minute! Did I say run? No.. I meant crawling, walking and/or jogging while puffing and huffing. Many a times while on Swara runs we pass and cross some exotic places whether in the slums, undulating landscapes, flat epic terrains, steep climbs akin to hiking or deep mural- like rural settings straight out of a professional snapper’s album..Not once or twice have I heard a bystander wonder loudly what the fat man is doing around running aimlessly. Others jeerfully dismiss you as a fatso, who lusts for food and then turn around to try and shed it off weight through what is ostensibly pretentious running. To others, we are an equivalent of the so called ‘dynasty’ in political parlance. The kind that was brought up amid obscene opulence and his only adventure is running around in fancy sporting clothes while trying to impress the ‘hustlers’. I have learnt not to respond to them, indeed they provide a comic relief moment while simultaneously providing a soothing balm to tired muscles and fledging soul... sorry for digression. We congregated in Juja for the Chair’s scouting run. Having recently graduated from Wahome’s Ngong school of hard knocks( the escapades are for another day) and mutatis mutandis done Wachira’s birthday run(64km), I was ready to set Juja ablaze. The beautiful run started well at a slow pace of 7-8. We passed through a motley of landscapes including coffee farms, dusty quarry roads, mini forests and some breathtaking background sceneries provided by water dams(ideally to be seen than described). Talking of breathing, we passed areas where quarrying activities were taking place and the dust both from the quarries and the lorries carrying stones made it difficult to breathe. We were literally not breathing;does it ring a bell Chair? You nearly suffocated us ala George Floyd. At 15km something snapped.. I could barely keep up with the pace.. Benjamin offered to accompany me as the route was unmarked.. my fair lady Chebet saw my struggles and graciously offered to crawl with me to the end. Somehow after a fits of run-stop and cutting some few corners we caught up with Ashok. We literally walked the final 10km through Gachororo area back to the Centurion hotel, our starting point. By then, I could tell that something was amiss.. my body was weak and fatigue was at another level. I skipped the after party run and went home straight, where I freshened up and packed in more calories; maybe as a set up to another aimless run for a fatso. The following day fatigue was still hanging on like pregnant clouds.. the ones that never break into rain while simultaneously refusing to clear. After two days of unexplained tiredness which now had given birth to suppressed appetite and nausea, I went to hospital for a check up. Flashback: On previous Saturday we had congregated with my college buddies for our investment group meeting. One of my colleagues complained of numbness on the left side of the body and informed us that he was off alcohol for some time. Nothing untowards anyway. We dispersed but with a formal resolution to meet on Sunday next as a follow up of our meeting. The Saturday following is when we did the Chair’s reccee run at Juja. On the agreed Sunday, we met at the rendezvous but my colleague mentioned above was a no-show. He called us explaining that he had contracted Pneumonia and was bedridden though he had seen his doctor and put on drugs to ameliorate the situation. As a group we agreed to see him on the Saturday following to cheer him up.
Personally I was still feeling fatigued and could clearly tell that my optimal level of health had gone a notch or two down.I was feeling like I had run round the world twice along the equator. My fever never climbed above the normal. My other colleague(we are six of us) was also down with malaria like symptoms and had self medicated. Flashfoward: On Wednesday I checked in at Karen hospital clinic. I was treated and went home. At night the pain lessened but my appetite nosedived. Dissatisfied I checked in on my doctor on Wednesday and more prescriptive drugs were given. That night my sleep was better and my situation improved, but then I lost both sense of smell and taste. This set the alarm bells tolling. I immediately isolated from friends and family.My temperature remained normal. On Saturday I checked at MP Shah hospital where a battery of tests were done. Nothing came out of it. More drugs were given. By the time I reached home, the cumulative prescribed drugs were enough to open up a chemist downtown. I made a decision to go for Covid test. On Saturday I went for it. On Sunday, it came back positive. We did for all my family members and our house assistance. Fortunately I was the only one affected. I dashed to Aga Khan.. by the time I reached there I was panting and puffing. My skin was turning pale ..with every minute my premature appointment with my maker looked more certain, while the chest pain and throbbing headache was intensifying steadily. I was wheeled into triage and straight to ICU. My wife was detained for isolation( having come into contact with a Covid patient). Our lives are very delicate. Things can go south very fast. One minute you are alive and kicking, the next one, your life hangs on by the straw. One second you are running a marathon, the next one you are a heap of helplessness. In the ICU, I was subjected to multiple tests. I was put on ventilator while my blood was analyzed every 6 hours to check for viral load and other manner of ailments. The doctors told me that I had only 30 minutes of living had I not reached hospital on time. My organs were systematically failing due to carbon dioxide poisoning. My oxygen level was at 78 against a normal one of 95 and above. Seen a dead man walking? I was one then. I stayed in the ICU for 5 days. Slipped into coma for some hours..everything around is hazy while incoherent conversation wafts into your partially locked ears. Meanwhile they pored holes on my fingers, arms, stomach and all places they could fathom of. Coloured pipes and cables were attached to my chest and tummy that at a certain point I looked like a half finished porcupine. Hospital staff sometimes have twisted humour that borders on absurdity. Even with all the projectiles protruding from my chest and stomach, they demanded that I lie and sleep on my stomach to improve on my breathing and procure faster healing. Picture the scenario.. your nose is masked, while your stomach is full of porcupine like missiles..you are weak and in pain.. yet one is expected to lie on his stomach. Somehow I managed those abracadabra gymnastic feats. One night, I slipped into coma.. on another one my southerly neighbour exited to meet his maker; while on the 3rd day my next Neighbour dramatically ‘lefted”after his duty of call ended. All were victims of Covid. I was so sure that the fourth day would be my turn to exit. So surreal but possible. Covid wards have death written all over them. You are caged like an animal in a zoo. You can’t move out and you are confined like a ferocious tiger. The medics around you are draped PPEs and masks. Rarely do you see their faces or body. They nonchalantly and meticulously go about their
business They remind you of astronauts.. the guys who go to the moon. They monitor you through computers; occasionally they confer in low tones while surreptitious throwing glances in your cage. Matters are not helped to know that your neighbors had made a silent exit in the middle of the night. Perhaps they are discussing your fate too. After the 3rd day, my oxygen level rose to 88 and on the 4th day, my oxygen was removed as I was now beyond 95. In the 5th day I was transferred to isolation ward where I stayed for another 6 days. After 13 days of staring at the gates of hades, I was given a second chance. As I try to make a comeback in running, the devastation caused by COVID is huge it will take me almost an year to run normally again. The toxic effect of the drugs administered scars your liver and other organs. The lungs take a heavy beating. Nowadays I labour to do 3km continuously while running up a hill is almost impossible. But the labour of love continues A lot happened to me but for purposes of our running group, several things are noteworthy: ⁃ my running habit saved me. My lungs had been scarred upto 61%. This means that at least one of them should have collapsed long before I reached hospital. The pushing and straining of the lungs made it possible to reach hospital even when they were badly damaged.. ⁃ due to running habits, I have no underlying conditions founded on modern lifestyle like diabetes and hypertension. This cut down my turnaround time. Indeed I was the last-in-first-out in the ICU ⁃ Covid is real and it’s fatal. My friend whom we were to see that Saturday following succumbed to it. Two of us got it though we survived. When he was being buried, I was fighting for my life in ICU. ⁃ One may have COVID while the fever remains normal. Covid beds in Kenya are few and insufficient. I was lucky that as a legislator there are certain privileges that one enjoys. Believe you me, I would have not gotten a bed, and fatal consequences would have been inevitable Take all the precautions on COVID prevention, but most importantly, keep running for RUNNING IS LIVING! AROUSAL OF THE WARRIOR FOR UGALI LUNCH For a long time Sleeping Warrior has been on my bucket list. I needed to stomp him and wake him up. I call my friend Clement for a referral on the guide to take me through the gargantuan trip of waking up the warrior. Am referred to Micheal Mwangi who works at the nearby KWS Station that manages the newly minted Lake Elementaita National Park. We agree to meet at the meat haven ;Kikopey the following day. At 11 am of the appointed day we meet and a quick introduction is done. We start our hike at the base of Sleeping Warrior where an investor is in the process of putting up a resort to tap on the increasing craze of mountain hiking. From Nairobi one gets to Naivasha- Gilgil Weigh Bridge then turn left at Kikopey. That’s is 125 km from Nairobi. Take the Murram road for about 6km to the base of Sleeping Warrior. Sleeping Warrior derives it’s name from the way the Hills are lined up and moulded. From a distance it looks eerily similar to a gigantic person lying on his back. The forehead and the jutting nose are clearly discernible and so is the chin. The valley that separate the two hills resembles a human neck. So from a distance is a portrait of a colossus of a man facing up.
Adjacent to it is another hillock that bizarrely is dome shaped like ugali hence christened Mlima Ugali. Across Mlima Ugali another jutting hummock. The local hikers have baptized it Saucer.. euphemistic of local culinary culture where one requests for an extra portion of Ugali(called Saucer) to clean the plate. The climbing starts in earnest as I instruct Mike to be my photographer for the day. As usual I have my hiking backpack and the necessary packaging supplemented with a trekking pole. From the starting point the loose pebbles pose a challenge as one keeps on sliding back. A hiking boot with good tread is recommended. In about 20 minutes we summit the Sleeping Warrior. From atop lake Elementaita spreads like a shiny iron sheet beneath. Opposite the peak the protruding chin of the sleeping warrior is a stone-throw away while we stand on his heaved up chest. The vantage point brings up a new whole perspective. Good oh Lord… the magnificent views of the vast Rift Valley reveal that Sleeping Warrior and its sibling hills are a series of mini- craters that span from Elementaita area to Eburu Mountains near Lake Naivasha. It’s the horizontal outline that gives it the eerie resemblance of a sleeping warrior. Indeed the Sleeping Warrior is a mini crater and so is Mlima Ugali and Saucer. The beautiful mini-craters vary in size and beauty. Some are totally enclosed by high vertical rocky walls while others have a natural entrance. Sleeping Warrior has a cute caldera that hosts thriving wildlife. We spot a lone bison patrolling the floor of the crater. My guide Charles warns me against attempting to go down there lest am dispatched to eternity by the short fused bisons. A kilometre walk on the on the rim and then we detour to start a descent to the base. On our way down we find modernism creeping in by way of holiday homes being put up by the owner of the mountain( Sleeping Warrior is private property) abutting them, mulberry tree farming is on experiment. Mulberry leaves are the primary food for silk worms that are reared for organic silk making. Jaunting on a flat terrain through indigenous bush and shrubs yield a plethora of local plants like Leleshwa, Masai acacia, Finger Euphorbia, Sodom Apple et al. It’s a paradise for Waganga wa Miti Shamba whose herbal concoctions are said to be a panacea for “kutengeneza boma” among other solutions.Charles appears to know them by name and their medicinal prowess. Further ahead we find massive marks of a huge snake that must have slithered away quickly before we saw it. A constant and rude reminder of the presence of these legless and venomous reptiles. Ahem! We are at the base of Ugali Hill. The hill is dome shaped like Ugali. It looks tantalizingly delicious and I salivate at the prospect of demolishing it. In constant pace we are at the top of the hill in no time. Having made few stops to cherish the beauty of Lake Elementaita down.. it looks deceptively so near that one can touch it.. the Sleeping Warrior continues in his slumber while the winding path from the Warrior to Ugali is distinctively cut out. A cyclone welcomes us atop the Ugali. From a distance the rain is fast approaching but by the time it reaches Ugali summit it’s stormy, wet and violent. It literally sweeps you off your feet. Indeed it sweeps off our clothes almost tearing them apart. The twister at the base forms a swirling huge cloud of dust euphemistically called “ngoma cia aka”. By the way Elementaita is a Maasai name for dusty place. A quick snack and the descent is on. The discomfort of the rain and whistling wind deny us the luxury of enjoying the beautiful panorama.On the edge of the rim we trek down to the base of
Mlima Saucer. Ugali and Saucer are twin mountains. Indeed it’s a single crater but with an outlet that separate them. The ascension is a tough affair through bushes and jutting rocks .A sharp turn brings us to the edge of the crater with one false step and you are finito. Balancing up there is a prerequisite. The partakers of frothy hoppy waters with added balancing ingredients are discouraged from trying this gravity defying stunt. Finally the Saucer is truly and well eaten. Kikopey town reveals itself nearby. A billow of smoke can be seen as the carnivores’ choice parts are slowly grilled over charcoal. I have had my Ugali now I need to partake of the escorter that is Nyama Choma. As we hit the base we walk in reverse all the way to the starting point but avoiding the hills. It comes to 14km in total. Charles still has an ace up his sleeve. He proposes that we go to hot springs ashore Lake Elementaita. Off we go. We wash off our dusty frames with hot spa water while having a sweeping view of the lake. The flamingos do a choreographed dance as the search for food in the background of the sun setting..while the kingfishers do some athletic maneuvers as it also looks for food. Lake Elementaita is a bird watchers’ paradise. It is home to over 400 bird species including the famous flamingos and for that reason, it is a protected area to help conserve the bird-life on the lake plus the lake is listed as a UNESCO heritage site so it needs to be protected. Lake Elementaita is also a Ramsar site ( international convention on conservation and wise use of wetlands and their resources). I bring out a bottle of wine that we share all round to celebrate the demolition of the three mountain siblings. Sleeping Warrior is a moderate hike but with tough sections. An average fit person can summit the three hills in about 6-8 hours. It’s about 14 km if you start at the base but can be longer depending on your start point. Mine came to 18 km after extending to the Hot Springs. Bon appetite! TURNING THE TABLE .. KIKOPEY TABLE MOUNTAIN HIKE I had done the Sleeping Warrior hike a few weeks ago and as we came down my guide Samuel asked me, “ Have you ever been to Table Mountain? “ “ No though I had planned to do it simultaneously with Rurimeria but it was too much to do both in one day.”I replied “No, I am not talking about the Table Mountain at Aberdare Ranges, I am referring to the Kikopey Table Mountain “ he courteously informed me. “I haven’t done it, I don’t even know about it”, I replied. He made a quick stop as we were descending the Saucer Hill. He pointed over the Kikopey Town and across the Nakuru- Nairobi Highway . Beyond the yonder it majestically stands tall as if to beckon potential hikers to do their turn in conquering it. Table Mountain is an inselberg that rises from the ground and easily dwarfs the other small hills around. Unlike the Ugali Hill, which is dome- shaped, the Table Mountain is flat at the top hence the name.
I made a quick note to include it in the bucket list. I ordinarily don’t fix a timeline … so I left it in abeyance. Cometh the hour… on the eve of the Mashujaa Day I called Charles my guide requesting him for an excursion to the Table Mountain. He affirmed my request and the following day at 9:15am I was at the agreed rendezvous. The meeting point was the Lake Elementaita View Point at the intersection of the Old Nakuru and the New one at Kariandusi. Charles hands me over to Peter for the expedition to the summit. A quick round of introduction plus a bit of stretching and at 9:30am we hit the trail. We cross the busy road and start the trail next to the magnificent Eshapikino Hotel. The gentle incline gets us to Ngong Hill( not the one near Nairobi). Ngong is a common Maasai name referring to a mountain. Atop the Ngong Hill one has a sweeping and breathtaking view of Lake Elementaita. Momentarily I get transfixed by the gorgeousness of the lake. The acacia tree by the lake form a green hedge beautifully demarcating the white sandy shores of the lake from the hazy blue lake water. The lesser flamingos hue the lake pink at the other end. My guide tells me that migrating flamingoes have set camp there as they do seasonally at this time of the year. To the left, the imposing Sleeping Warrior mountain calmly rests while the adjacent Ugali Hill looks ready to be eaten… the Saucer Hill nonchalantly looks detached from the other two. Below these beautiful ranges the sprawling meat haven that is Kikopey watch as life moves by while it continuously satiate the carnivores that frequent it. After the sizzling views we proceed through human settlements and cultivated farmlands. How do people around here survive? The area is rocky overwhelmingly shrubby with no shred of arable land. Having conquered the first summit we go down the ravine while at a distance the beautifully manicured Kikopey Pry School beckons. We cross the railway at Kariandusi Rail Station and take a northbound route next to a coffee farm(yes a coffee farm). A sharp incline and left turn reveals the Table Mountain from afar. Another incline and we hit the top of a long ridge that leads to Table Mountain. The panoramic view of the other side is a contrast to the other other facing the lake. From the pinnacle the perspective changes..it reveals huge tracks of land under maize cultivation interspersed with Pyrethrum farming and Potatoes. The land here is tillable and cultivatable. In fact the area is known as Gitare (corruption of Kitale??). A long stretch leads us to the foot of the Table mountain. It’s 7 Km from the starting point. At the base, Peter stops abruptly and tells me, “tupande sasa”. I look at him unbelievably. Where is the way up? A vertical wall faces me with no trace of anywhere to step on or grip. It looks all smooth and slippery. “ Start with your left leg as you hold on to the rock” Peter instructs me. “As you step out put your weight on the leg but as you get a firm grip of the hand, gradually transfer the weight to the hand” he further instructs. Dutifully I follow instructions and soon am on my way up. My acute height phobia kicks in…so I am advised to look up but not backward. The wall is 6 metres in height.
The going up the Kikopey Table Mountain was an art by itself… pure adrenaline stuff! Firm foot grip, sticky fingers and athletic manoeuvres. Halfway up you almost give up , but it’s even harder is to go back. So the only way is up. The flat summit is huge. It’s covered with long grass while lone tree majestically claims it’s space atop it. Like a lighthouse in the sea shores it must stand alone. A landmark signifying a sailor's journey's end, this one signifies a successful conquest of the Table mountain. Coming down was through a 15 foot natural tunnel-like cave, twisty and narrow … it required balancing by the hands as your legs perilously hang in the air trying to look for some firm rock to step on to…then exit into a steep decline with loose treacherous surface…that threatens to send you down the abyss and into your maker’s hands. A further 2km descent takes you to Maji Moto hot springs. A natural spa that oozes hot medicinal water from the bowels of the earth. Memories come flooding back as it was one of the places I visited in my 3 months at paramilitary training at NYS as I did my pre university stint. It was part of what was known as route match. Every week, besides the usual 5BX and PitiPiti, all the barracks had to go out there for a long wild trek in the jungle as part of the training. The menu then included long footslog to Diatomite, Kariandusi Prehistoric site, Lake Elementaita, Tumaini Farm not forgetting the infamous Mlima Kioko. A quick dip into hot waters offer a welcome relief to tortured body while the medicinal alkaline water leaves my skin ashen white. Unfortunately the Maji moto Springs have been defiled by human activities by blocking its flow downwards through piping into nearby farms for use in irrigation. Sad but true. We move through farmlands and village roads until we join the old Nakuru road near Diatomite. We pass by the prehistoric site and the Diatomite factory and back to the starting point having done a 14km loop. Kikopey Table Mountain hike is moderate, save for the last 5 metre to the summit as its pure vertical climbing. Coming down is a stuff of legends.. you wriggle through a natural tunnel. Quite unique and a must experience. Elevation gain is circa 700m . Strap your hiking boots and head there … And turn the table! THE UNSAID GOODBYE Our paths crossed in 2006. The tall balding hulk of a man had an imposing presence. When he shook your hand, it was firm and subduing. In his company was a vertically challenged man who was stuck to him like super glue. Chege introduced me to him as Kimani and the other man was Njuguna. They operated from Kalsi House along Luthuli Avenue. The happenstance moment triggered off our firm friendship and ever since we have been so until the fateful black Sunday when the grim reaper sneaked in on him and prematurely harvested him. As a printer we had a close and cordial working relationship that has spun over a decade and a half. He did quite a chunk of our work. Many a times he held my hand when it came to getting the best deals while buying papers for printing. A real brother indeed.
How would you fail to recognize Kimani? His tall frame capped with a shiny pate was noticeable from miles away…he literally dwarfed all around him. He was boisterous and cocky in a pleasant way. He rumbustiously patrolled the downtown streets with the finesse of cops on prowl. Once he parked his Toyota hatchback he would go round into all the shops around greeting all and sundry before ending up at Hot Dishes restaurant for breakfast that would always include “mayai jicho”. Other times he would sit in his grey hatchback as he listened to morning shows on vernacular stations. Out in the streets, Kimani was noisy, clamorous and vociferous. He always spoke on top of his voice(I don’t think he ever whispered in his life). He could bellow from Sheikh Karume Road and be heard at Tea Room. He had a deep voice that reverberated across downtown. David seemed to know everyone in River Road(euphemism for Nairobi Downtown ) stretching from Double Whiteline Shop to Gatatha House on Ronald Ngala. When I wanted to open a bank business account David dragged me to the manager’s office, we were offered a cup of coffee and in minutes I had my account operational. That was him in his element…friendly, willing to help a friend and without reservations. Mutatis mutandis ( similarly with necessary changes applied) I guaranteed his membership to Faithful Group. To be a member of the group, one had to be proposed and guaranteed.. besides, one had to contend with the tigress of the group known as Catherine Wanjunu, always ready to monolise ‘Njuka’ (newcomers). My signature saved Kimani from the throes of monolization by the tigress. As a keen member of Faithful Group, he was instrumental in changing its fortunes from a merry-go- round to a serious investment group. He rose from an ordinary member to its secretary then to Chairman until his demise. As our Chair he diligently discharged his duties though at times he was quite rough on us. Woe unto you if you had not cleared monthly dues … the monster in him would be peppered..he would raise his voice while menacingly pointing at you. The victim would recoil in fear as he read the riot act. His colossal figure and tongue lash were enough deterrent for would be defaulters. David has been taking loans from Faithful to revamp his business and buy and build his palatial home in Ruai. An astute businessman with an eye for good deals. As Faithful we shall miss his presence and leadership skills. Our annual trips will never be the same without him. Ooh no!!! When in a group of friends, he noticeably stood out …the loud booming voice, affable but dominant presence ….especially when fueled with a drink or two. Mostly on account of his formidable frame and bellowing he won arguments hands down. Too mean a guy but overwhelmingly pleasant. Whenever there was a social gathering downtown for harambee or any other purpose, David was there wholeheartedly. When my father The Late Mr Man was ailing, Kimani was there for us. With a coterie of friends and Faithful members they checked on him both in and out of hospital.. many times in my absence. When my father rested, Kimani and Nellie were the first to arrive at the hospital. They took charge of the programme from there to the end. When my mum Wangui was bedridden with stroke for 3 years, he was one of the pillars of strength. Indeed he was the chair of the fundraising and later burial committees. A close family friend to me and our family. We have attended each other’s personal and social engagements. In these social setups I formed a tight bond with his elder brother Mwalimu Kinuthia and who has since become a gallant consumer of High Flyer products. In Kimani I had a true friend.
With David we have scaled the highest points of the mountains where we have tasted the fresh unadulterated airs of the summit and we have had low moments when we tasted the briny sea waters… it’s been a journey together.. Sunday 16/10/2022 is one of those days that will forever pain me. Nothing prepares you to see your friend breathe his last.. nothing prepares you to handle a situation that you have no solution to but you are expected to offer an answer. The vital organs had collapsed… he was put on life machine.. no movement just an emotionless gadget humming and shrilling … the doctors offering hope that clearly wasn’t there.. then the dialysis that became a cropper.. it was too harsh on me.. too heavy for the family and too crashing on the kids. It broke me down. I wept too many times. It was difficult.. it was painful.. it was draining. Slowly Kimani left .. never to come back. The loading of the body to the hearse .. the booking at KU Referral..I was in a trance… a zombie..Kimani was gone..gone with the wind. As we stood there in stupor with Mwalimu Kinuthia, Regina the wife and Wakili Munyu, none could comfort the other. Hopelessness enveloped us rapidly and aggressively. And he walked away quietly and stoically… beyond the palms and to the horizon… never looking back to wave good bye..no niceties said …gone and forever…with unsaid goodbye. CRANKING THE CASTLE Lord Egerton Castle in Ngata Nakuru is famous for the epic and tragic love story of colossal proportions that left the Baron without an iota of love for the fair gender. I perfectly understand his reaction… I mean, who builds such a grandiose and glamorous manor just for your fiancée to dismiss it as a Horse stable? Besides the tragic love episode, Lord Egerton was an astute large scale farmer who practiced mechanized and modern farming husbandry. He founded Egerton College(University) as a premier agricultural teaching institution. It’s fame as a citadel of modern farming methods and practices reverberates across the globe. In my visit to the famous manor, tucked in one corner of the compound I found an array of vintage farming machines. What wowed me most was a mini Caterpillar earth mover complete with the cranker intact. The hand crank at the front of the Caterpillar was the equivalent of modern ignition system. It had to be started by hand. The driver would literally “crank the engine” by vigorously turning the handle, which would allow the process of internal combustion to begin. Indeed a walk in the past… a piece of history there. LEARNING TO RUN- FOOLISH BRAVADO My escapades in school life were renowned for other attributes than excellence in athletics. In my secondary school life, I was more inclined to football than any other sporting discipline. Of course my academic exploits were stratospheric in quality as they were for standards. I mean, who would have fathomed a village boy attending a little known day Secondary school would hit dizzying levels of academic excellence that offered him a passport to many other openings in life.
Forget about the fact that in Form 2 I interacted with a peer student whose composition captured the psyche of the whole school. As it was a norm then, we had been given a weekend take-away composition to be marked on Monday following. Gaiko(as he was known- RIP) in his true village shade had a brainwave. In our local dialect we have a saying that literally speaking means that one shouldn’t dismiss a perceived weakling on account of small stature. In our mountain Latin it’s said that “Njamba ti ikere”. In his element and with practical challenges in expressing himself in Queen’s language, he did a quick literal translation. For ‘Njamba’ he knew it must be a cock, after all a cock in our vernacular is ‘Njamba’. But hold on… what the heck is ‘ikere’ in English? A quick thought and mind conjecture told him that that must be the calf muscle. To him, no known English word described calf muscle. It must then be a huge muscle. Bingo! “A Cock is not muscle’ was the headline of his composition. Needless to say that that Monday evening the poor boy went home with sore bottom courtesy of numerous thoroughly administered strokes by our English teacher who thought that Gaiko had taken a joke too far. Little did he know that he had ‘poured out all his English ‘ in an endeavour to impress the teacher.. but then the teacher was least impressed … but I digress. As a young and growing professional I joined a martial arts club in Nairobi albeit with minimal success hence I had to look for a way of keeping fit. The gyms were pricey and out of reach thus the next realizable goal was to take up jogging. Fortunately I found a friend whom we shared the passion and every morning before heading to work, we would do about 6km from Highrise to Carnivore and back. Keffa as he was called made me cultivate a consistent routine while ensconcing discipline of the rigorous routine. Numerous times we would go for hiking in the nearby mountains and hills to test our endurance while relentlessly pursuing our fitness passion. Through Keffa we were attaining not only our fitness dream but a wet one with orgasmic proportion. Our weekend sojourn would see us in Ngong, Kilimambogo, Longonot, Suswa.. we never saw a mountain that we didn’t want to vanquish. In between we did Dettol Heart run that later morphed into Mater Heart Run and a plethora of other spontaneous runs. When Stanchart marathon happened, we duly registered and participated in the first run. In the pioneer run in 2003 we did 10km .Before we could do the 2004 Stanchart marathon,Keffa relocated to Minnesota in USA where he lives to date. Maybe he still runs.. haven’t gotten him to tell me what he has been up to lately. We lost contact of each other. Once you cultivate a routine, it’s easy to roll on. Of course more often than not one needs running company or else boredom and monotony sets in. If not checked, you may gradually regress into the comfort zone of laziness that is laden with numerous excuses. For instance,if you read an article about Nairobi’s unclean air, one simply conjures that as an excuse not to run. The soothing and falsely convincing inner voice that temptingly speak to you of the perilous poisonous fumes overpowers you. Without much ado you shelve the running plans for that morning. You need the slightest of the excuses not to run for you not to run. So , I relentlessly pursued the 6km routine but more erratically than consistent. My fitness level took a hit. A month to the Stanchart Race I decided to register for my maiden full marathon. It was a
twin pronged strategy of getting back my fitness while simultaneously consistently training for the big day. No training plan had been put in place yet I only had one month to train for a 42km run. Just running helter- skelter.. 6 km once in a while… I had not an inkling of what it took to do a full marathon. Lemme give you a preview of running a marathon. You start by drawing a programme that will include minimum number of miles per week-This may happen for 6 months or more depending on the level of fitness. You intensify the training as one nears the d- day. In the programme one has to incorporate hillwork for endurance and muscle building. Gym work is needed to build muscle and reduce the chances of injury from hard running. To further decrease the possibility of injury, trail running must form part of your menu or else continuous pounding on hard tarmac surface will soon make your knees buckle under sustained pressure. Did I say that one needs to do speed work to improve on the pace while if possible do an occasional water splash to cushion your legs from persistent pounding. Eating is also part of it… you will hear of carbo-loading, hydration, energy gels or some unfamiliar concoctions that at best suspiciously look poisonous or doped. Last but not least, the type of shoe and attire is critical. It’s criminal to wear a cotton tee shirt while doing a marathon. Besides chaffing your nipples, you may become a candidate for pneumonia and perhaps in extreme cases Rest In Peace or pieces. A week or so before the main day, one has to slow down on hard training in what is known as tapering in running parlance. Whereas running is an individual sport, company is critical hence the best option is to join a running club or form one. In my foolish bravado fueled by juvenile chest thumping, I was looking forward to the day. The countdown was on. Nothing changed in terms of my training routine. In fool’s paradise the pre- run rigmarole was a mere hype meant to deny me my accolade on the glorious day. 31st October 2004 at 6:30am found me at the entrance of Vigilance House where the race was to start. The chilly weather was pregnant with dark hanging clouds…conceivably an ominous sign that the day was going to be tough and with a sting of a sad ending. A quick glance at the starting cast for full marathon hit me hard. It dawned on me that I had placed a kingsize wager of my life. The young and lithe bodies of the elite participants told the whole story. I wanted to go back home in shame. What was the point of starting a race I couldn’t finish. But had I not come to race? Then the die was cast … gauntlet thrown! As if to intimidate me further, these lean athletes would race all the way to the junction of Moi Avenue in top speed and back in the name of warming up. What the hell had entered my head to even contemplate this suicidal odyssey. When God wants to finish you, he makes you mad.. perhaps it was divine spell cast on me, maybe this was the day! Possibly I was mad or depressed thereby taking part in this ‘sure death’ undertaking. There I was wearing a plastic smile ready to hit the road. As it neared 7am, some more starters checked in. Suddenly a group of about 6 Caucasians came in. They looked anything above 45 years. I clapped in my heart to know that after all I would not be the last one in. Few more fat looking
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