When it rains

The rainy season is here and with it chaos reign. Traffic jams all over the place and a mad scramble for public transport vehicles. I hate it. I hate that I have to dress like an Eskimo just to be comfortable and that I have to use my muscles if I am to stand a chance of getting home early.

And even though I hate it, I am used to it. It becomes a way of life so that you don’t even notice when you have to hassle so much to get a vehicle. Its just part of the routine; all in a day’s schedule.

So last week I get to town after it had rained to find there were no vehicles. At Kencom, I thought there was a crusade, the crowd there was big and there was no KBS or City Hoppa in sight. I thought I’d have a coronary on the spot! I knew it was going to be a long evening.

I weighed my options. I could look for somewhere in town to sit and wait it out, or I could just join in and use my muscles to board a vehicle. Note that the fare has been hiked. Where we normally paid 50 bob was now going for 200 bob. Nevertheless, the crowd is so big you would be forgiven for thinking fare had been halved.

I decided to use my muscles since I wanted to get home at a decent hour. I positioned myself in such a way that I would be at the forefront when the next bus came. We stood there listlessly for over one hour but there was no vehicle forthcoming. Even then, no one gave up; everyone just stood there, others in small groups talking in murmurs and other by themselves, cutting very lonely figures.

There was a woman in a kitenge who had three kids with her, one on her back and two little ones by her side. She also had a huge suitcase next to her and a chicken that she tightly held on to with her left hand. That must have been her supper. She looked really exhausted with a very sad look on her face.  I shuddered to think of how she was going to get her entire luggage plus her children into a bus with all the scrambling that would take place.

There were also two young women who were busy munching on fries and chicken and occasionally bursting into laughter. I guessed they had figured they might as well start in on their supper now that their getting home was no longer guaranteed. The smell of fries wafted around the place and I am sure I heard a few stomachs grumbling in protest.

After almost two hours, an old KBS came along, rumbling and spewing huge blows of smoke. All hell broke loose. Everyone rushed towards the bus. Even before it came to a stop, it was already half full. The door was jam packed and others had resorted to using the windows to get in.

After all the psyche I had had to fight and get in, I wasn’t even able to move. I remained where I was, rooted to the spot watching the spectacle unfolding. It was hilarious and sad at the same time. After two hours of impatient waiting, men and women had been reduced to a mass of pushing and shoving beasts.  I am sure if it were possible, some of them would have sat on the roof.

I moved to a safer distance-I didn’t want to risk getting caught in a stampede. The mass of pushing bodies was overwhelming. There were roars, yelps, grunts and the loud cackling of a hen – the kitenge woman was also in the mix though I couldnt see her. her chances of making it inside were pretty slim and I disnt think she would.  Within minutes, the bus was full and the excess people were being urged to alight and wait for the next one. I knew it was going to be a long evening so I looked for one of those city council benches and sat down.

Before the bus rolled away, I happened to catch a glimpse of the kitenge lady through one of the bus windows. She was comfortably settled in, with all her three children and the chicken on her lap. I didn’t know how she had managed to get in, but she had. I wished I could go over and shake her hands in congratulations. Instead I waved as the bus started moving away and one of the little boys waved back.

EASTER

You would think that the habit of travelling upcountry for the holidays would be dead by now. It isn’t. I can shamelessly admit that I am one of those who will pack up and travel to shags for Easter and Christmas as well. So as is the norm, I travelled home this past Easter. Please do not mistake me for those fellas who load up Eldoret express and the Matunda bus with literally all their belongings and ship it home. I am more laid back; I only carry a couple of tops and a pair of jeans to see me through the weekend.

So anyway I wake up quite early on Friday morning so as not to miss a vehicle home. Traveling during such a holiday is quite a hassle which I had hoped to avoid by waking up early. This did not happen as I woke up after seven.

Getting to town was easy. From there everything just went downhill. It was drizzling heavily, there were no vehicles, I was practically asleep on my feet and fare had tripled. I was too tired to complain. The only available buses were the star buses which were now going upcountry. I wasn’t going to be caught dead in that bus.  I had a friend with me who suggested we go to Nyamakima stage where we may get lucky. So down river road we trudged in the quest for a matatu.

We got to Nyamakima and figured the only way we were going to get home was if we connected vehicles. So we waited for like half an hour for a vehicle for Nakuru, from there we knew we would get another one for Eldoret.

The driver of our matatu drove like a maniac. He overtook carelessly and actively stepped on his brakes frequently. I can’t count the number of times I involuntarily stepped on the brakes too; by the time I got to Nakuru I actually had a cramp from doing that.

Getting a vehicle from Nakuru was relatively easier. The cost was no longer a factor by then, we would have paid almost any amount of money just to get home. As we were leaving the stage, my friend mentioned she was very pressed. We hadn’t had a chance to go somewhere where she could visit a rest room since we had just alighted and taken the next vehicle. I told her to just tell the driver to stop at a petrol station somewhere where she could relieve herself.

Her making this request to the driver was hilarious,

“Boss, si utasimama kwa petrol station mahali hivyo eeeeh, tunyoroshe mguu?”

The driver must have been either hungry or an idiot because he just looked at her with a dumb look on his face, he hadn’t gotten her meaning. She tried again,

“unajua tumetoka Nairobi na eeeh hatujapumzika hata kidogo..”

The blank look remained.

Another passenger decided to take matters into his own hands.

“Madam anataka kwenda choo, kwani huelewi?!” She blushed at that but at least her point had gotten across.
Between the stage and the petrol station the driver chose, she wriggled and shifted in her seat until I thought she was going to pee on herself. At some point she whispered she couldn’t take it anymore- I sympathized because I knew exactly how that felt like. We finally got to the petrol station where she got to pee.

The further we moved from Nakuru, the cooler the air got. We left behind the stuffy and polluted air of the city and welcomed the fresh cool air of the villages. I felt free. I opened the windows next to me and let the wind blow on my face. I felt carefree without a worry in the world. Nairobi, work and the hustle and bustle was all left behind.

I welcomed the fresh air and felt that giddiness of coming home. I knew the welcoming arms of my mum would be there to hold me. My pal had this grin on her face; she said it felt good to be back, that it had been so long and she was just in time for the evening tea.

 I smiled at her because I totally understood what she was on about.

My Valentines

I can’t exactly remember the first time I met her, but we were introduced by a mutual friend. The only thing I remember is that she wore these glasses that gave her this really serious look. She politely said hi and I was immediately dismissed. As our other friend continued to engage me in small talk, she merely stood there looking very impatient like she had somewhere really important to go to. I wanted to joke and ask if she would want to borrow my car, but I thought better of it and just kept quiet.

It wasn’t a memorable encounter but it was a beginning. A few months into the academic year, we became room mates. The first night we shared the same room, I fell off my bed. I had taken the top bunk while she slept on the lower one. The beds were really narrow and I was yet to get used to them. In my restless first night in a new room, I turned too far to the edge and fell off the bed. I managed to break all the glasses on the shelf on my way down and let out an ear splitting shriek that woke my room mate up. She made the appropriate noises and all calm was restored.

 In the morning, she went to inform her other friends of the comic act she witnessed during the night. That is how I met her other two friends. They came to the room one by one looking all innocent like they just wanted to say hi, but with amused looks on their faces. I think that was a great start, the perfect foundation for a lifelong friendship.

We lived together through the four years of campus. We laughed a lot, cried, stressed each other and generally got on each others nerves. But we lasted. We got to understand one another and what makes each one of us tick. We learnt when to offer advice and when to keep our mouths shut. We celebrated together when one of us achieved something and consoled each other during the low moments -especially the heartbreaks ;-)

We had other friends too. And somehow they all became part of the gang. It’s now been many years down the line and a lot has changed. Nothing is what it used to be but what hasn’t changed is what we share. So on this valentine’s week, I would like to reaffirm my commitment to our friendship and let you all know that am never walking away. 

Happy Valentines to you ladies!

January Blues

January is not a good month. It reeks of so many things; being broke, the hot sun, an empty fridge, haggling with matatu touts, the list is endless. It’s that time of the year where you walk around with your tail tucked safely between your legs, looking all meek and hoping to elicit sympathy from your boss for an early salary payment; from the tout to charge you the minimum amount; from the local grocer’s  to get tomatoes and onions for less than usual.

I can’t wait for February to get here, I can’t wait for when that cheque comes in and I have extra money in my pockets. I have been skipping lunch every day and it sucks. I have become short tempered and quick to react. Hunger does that to you, it makes you this different person you never envisioned yourself to be. That’s what happened yesterday.

I sent someone out to get me a bite over lunch hour. That meant my tummy was primed to feast on something. Two hours down the line, nothing was forthcoming. I got restless but managed to stay calm, consoling myself that the meal would get to me soon. An hour later, I couldn’t take it anymore, so I called again, asking where my food was. I got a whisper,

“I am in a meeting, I‘ll call you when am done.” He whispered.

I couldn’t believe it. Everything in me sagged. The hunger pangs that had been hitting me for the last three hours immediately went on overdrive. The niggling headache I had started having at noon became a full blown one. A got this huge lump in my throat that refused to go down. I was furious. 

My hands started to shake and the potato still refused to go down. I wanted to swallow someone. If anyone had dared to talk to me then I would have snarled back at them. 

Eventually I cooled down after taking a cold glass of water. I even managed to forget I was hungry, for a while at least. Later, my colleagues told me my eyes had turned red too. I simply told them it was the month’s fault.

2012

They have hiked the fare. Imagine that! They have gone and hiked the fare on our route. When I gave the kange money and he asked me to add a twenty bob, I almost pinched his nose Baraza style! It’s a new year for crying out loud. Was this their new year present to me?

Now, here is the thing, I can spend a lot on shoes and food but an extra ten bob given to a conductor is enough to give me ulcers. As I handed over the twenty shilling coin to him, I could feel the anger seething inside me. I imagined all sorts of nasty things happening to him. I wanted to grab all the notes he held in his hand and stuff them inside my purse, just to spite him…or maybe not.

So anyway, things have changed. It’s a brand new year and as they say, change is as good as rest. I am also going to change. I won’t make any resolutions this time round, no I wont. I will live each day as it comes because I have learnt that there are things in life that you just cannot force. You have to let them follow their course.

But am going to laugh all I want and can. And I will also cry because tears have a way of cleansing the soul. I am going to put aside all the disappointments, frustrations and pain from the past year; I wont say forget because we never really forget them – we just learn to live with them. I am not going to let other people’s opinions shape the way I live my life.

Most importantly, I am going to follow my dreams. I am going to try so hard to get where I want to be, I know I may not get there this year but the next twelve months are going to be an integral part of that journey.

Kanjo

I detest city council askaris or kanjo as they are popularly known. They sit in their battered vehicles with all the windows reinforced with wire mesh and hungry looks on their faces waiting for some unsuspecting prey to pounce on. Woe unto you if you are unlucky and they catch you. You’ll have to make a choice between spending a few hours, or in extreme cases, days in a cell, or parting with a bribe to secure your freedom.

There’s a joke doing the rounds that even if they accuse you of shitting in the middle of Kimathi street at noon, just admit you did and get it over with.

I always thought I had mastered the skill of evading them until the evening I was caught trying to buy a novel from one of those street vendors.  I didn’t expect it. One minute I was bent over trying to choose one and in the next instant I was being hauled practically off my feet and dragged along on the streets. People turned to look, others with sympathy and others with amusement.

I was horrified and didn’t know what to do. The hand that was tightly holding my skirt was so firm that I knew I didn’t stand a chance of breaking away. He dragged me along to where one of their vans was parked. Already there was a pack of trespassers like me huddled inside awaiting their fate. He shoved me rudely onto the floor of the van and locked the door. I gingerly picked myself up and tried to find a seat.

Now, the kanjo vans have the set up of the face-me matatus we had from way before. You have to sit facing one other and the only way to avoid eye contact was if you looked at the floor. There were around ten of us huddled inside there. There was little room for movement and we were forced to either lean forward or back in order to accommodate one another.

The guy seated directly opposite me looked like he wanted to cry. He had this morose look on his face and I thought that any minute the tears would start falling. 

I looked away. 

There is nothing as sad as seeing a grown ass man reduced to such a pitiful sight. I prayed he wouldn’t start sobbing or worse wailing. I hoped he’d man up and just hold his tears at bay. No one was dead-yet.

The lady seated next to him was chewing on gum and had this don’t-care attitude about her. From the pile of stuff she held on to between her feet, I gathered she was a hawker. She probably went through this ordeal almost every day. She didn’t seem overly concerned and I wished I could adopt her attitude.

There was a strong stench of unwashed human bodies hovering inside the van and I thought I would throw up. I couldn’t clearly see where we were headed since darkness had started to creep in. 

No one said anything for a while, and then a man seated at the corner whom I hadn’t even noticed spoke up,

“Hawa watu lazima tutoe kitu kidogo watuachilie.  Mimi sitaki kulala cell.”

 “Utatulipia?”The hawker lady chimed.

H e wasn’t amused by her response, “Hio ni shida yako, kama hauna cha kujitoa nayo basi cell ndio kwako.”

She clicked her teeth in disgust but didn’t say anything else.

The weeping guy then came to life. “Kwanza leo ni Friday, tukipelekwa ndani tutakaa huko mpaka Monday ndio hata tushughulikiwe.”

I was torn between laughing and crying. On one hand it was terrifying that I may become a resident of the government for a weekend while on the other hand, the wailing guy was really funny to look at. I hate paying bribes but I knew then that I would have no other choice, unless I wanted to crown my week with a stay in police cells.

Some other lady who looked really polished said she wasn’t going to pay any bribe especially since she was picked for something she hadn’t done-they had accused her of leaning on a flower bed. She claimed she hadn’t been doing anything of the sort and was just standing next to it and furthermore she understood her rights.

I tried to tell her that kanjo and rights did not go well together but she gave me this dirty look that effectively silenced me. She looked like this type of woman who wouldn’t hesitate to engage in verbal warfare and would never lose. I didn’t want anybody to start telling me to mind my own business when I had urgent business at hand which was with the council askaris.

Eventually, the van stopped at some alley and the guys got out. They were four of them. In the dusk, they looked very sinister and I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. At that moment, I missed my mommy terribly. They opened the back door and told us all to get out.

They demanded three thousand shillings from each one of us. No mincing words, no nothing, they just came right out and asked for the money. I only had a thousand bob with some loose change. My heart started beating real fast. I prayed that my negotiation skills were good enough to earn me a quick exit. We faced each other and started pleading our cases. 

Looking back, I still smile when I think about the negotiation proceedings. The polished lady absolutely refused to pay a single cent. The hawker lady didn’t even remove a single shilling-as I had guessed, she was a frequent culprit- but was nevertheless released. The weeping guy actually paid more-just so they won’t change their minds and refuse to let him go. I parted with the one thousand bob after lengthy discussions and they also let me go. To date, I still wonder what happened to the polished lady.

Lessons Learnt

I haven’t posted anything in awhile.

I have drafts that I have written and abandoned midway because I didn’t have the motivation to see them through.

So much has happened since the last time I posted that I am not even sure where to start from. So I think am just going to be random, put in bits and pieces of what’s been happening.

I’ll start with some lessons I have learnt:

1. Never ever walk next to matatus waiting to pick up passengers or in motion (route 6 matatus especially); unless you want a huge gob of phlegm splattered all over your face.

2. The matatus popularly referred to as “Nganyas” are a no-no. You pay double the fare in these vehicles. You pay for the ambience (read very loud music, dangerous speeds and foul-mouthed touts)

3. When in a fast moving matatu that is overlapping and over speeding, always ensure that you grab hold of something, anything, to avoid sprawling all over the floor of the vehicle or on the lap of the passenger next to you.

4. Remember to sit next to a sizeable person so that at least you have a comfortable sitting space. This is to avoid occupying only a quarter of your seat and risking having yourself sprawled on the floor when the vehicle hits a bump. Or having an annoying elbow persistently poking on your ribs.