Running with an injury – not recommended
The lady behind me just collapsed on the pavement. This was the fifth hour on the road. I could feel her pain. It was the many years of running experience and learning from being in a similar situation that kept me going. This is how it came about.
I left the house at 5.40am on Monday, March 4, 2013. I assumed that the starting lineup would be settling at 6.00am as already advertised. However, I could see the multitude flocking towards Uthiru roundabout, despite the morning being dark. By the roundabout I could see the tens of people coming from the Ndumbo flyover. I could not believe what I saw at the polling station. There were hundreds of people running around, in utter confusion. It was dark, the signs were not visible, and there was not one to tell anyone anything.
Lost
“Hi ni laini gani?,” I asked?
“Sijui?,” someone on the queue answered, “But am just queuing”
He was about position 100 on that particular queue.
I moved to the next queue, nobody knew nothing. There was no signs. Just “Polling station”.
Finally, it started making sense. I could make out the direction signs with the names:
“WA - ZZ”
“R - V”
Finally after searching like forever, “AA - CH” (First name)
I joined the queue at about no. 30, only for ‘someone’ to tell us that the queue was ‘the other one’.
We left the queue in a hurry and ran to the next queue, forcing us to jump over short hedges and barbed wire barriers, to join the next queue, already swelled. We wanted to gain vantage on the new queue. It is during the run to the next queue that I jumped over a barbed wire fence and landed on a rock. My third left toe hid the rock so hard that I collapsed on the grass lawn, only to be pushed up with the struggling masses behind me. I ended up on the next queue somehow, with over one hundred people ahead.
Long queue
The queue coincidentally lined just next to the washrooms, of the Primary school, which were surely in a bad state. The stench was unbearable but we had no choice, we had to queue and await our turn to vote. Before hitting the stench-filled region, the sobriety of the masses led to an agreement to relocate the queue to a more conducive region of the lawns that was a little bit far from the washrooms. This helped, a little.
The queue was not moving. I joined the queue about 5.55am and by 8.00am I had not moved an inch. Then we faced a new struggle. Some people joined the queue that I had left earlier and insisted that it was the genuine queue. Those on the new queue protested loudly saying that they had been asked to leave the previous queue to the new one and therefore those on the old queue needed to relocate. None of the occupants was bulging.
Both queues were stretching in their hundreds and ending up at the same classroom door, to enter the polling room. Shouts and name calling rented the air for some time, but finally, there was no agreement. The final non-agreement was that both queues are maintained and served. This new arrangements caused further delay.
Assumption
When I left the house in the morning, I had assumed that I would be through with this ‘run’ by ten. I therefore did not take breakfast knowing very well that I would surely be done in four hours. I had even put on open shoes, since I assumed the queue would be short and the elements would not come to bear. I was wrong. By ten, we had not made much movement on the queue. Despite this slow motion, the runners were quite determined to endure the run. It was going to be a long run. By toe was also starting to hurt. I could see it swollen.
“Where are you? When do you expect to be back,” the daughter called.
“I have hardly moved. At this rate, I shall be home around 4.00pm!,” I responded.
It was at eleven the lady behind me just collapsed. The fall could have been fatal had she hit the concrete of the veranda. She was saved by the cushion created by the sea of humanity around her collapse.
“Carry her to the shade,” someone suggested, even as two guys lifted her limp body to the nearby tree.
This elicited debate.
“Are they frustrating us deliberately?,” one asked.
“Is it that they do not want us to vote!,” someone else shouted.
“Riking,” someone else said. He mean to say, “Rigging”
Stories
There is something that long hours of wait brings about. And that is small talk and debate. While in the initial hours everyone was on their own, just quiet and observant, the wait enabled the strangers to start talking. The stories were many and diverse. There was the story of Abunuwasi and how he hit the king with a ‘rungu’ after being given the ‘license to kill’ flies. There was the story of how Kabarak High school regained the top position in KCSE exams 2012 as released last Friday, though I did not take this lightly since I have finalist interests there. There was the story of how some tribes have amulet that can make two people get stuck. The folks briefly talked about the English premier league, and the team that was beaten eight goals. (Am not a fan of that league, if anything, my team is the Chuma Blue IFC, which plays at the annual LR International tournament. I could therefore just listen in without much ado). And in reaction to seeing the number of people jumping the queue due to their status, the story of “the most active names” just started…
“Yani hawa watu wa A, B, C ndio wanajua hii mambo kuliko wengine?,” someone asked.
“Why is it that all expectant ladies and those with young ones are only coming to this queue?”
That also brought the story of “babies for hire”, that some women were lending out their babies to be used by those who want to jump the queue. To resolve this, someone on the queue suggested that the pinky of the children should also be marked by indelible ink after they vote.
Mid-day
Finally, at exactly noon, I went into the polling room. The first activity was a left-thumb scan to confirm registration. This displayed the picture I took during registration as a voter. Thereafter, my ID was taken and checked on the voters role. I also saw my full names and picture on the printed roll book. The next phase was being handed six ballot papers and my ID, then shown the marking booth. I quickly marked the six papers, then dropped them as per colour code onto the respective ballot boxes. I was done in 3 minutes. One official, just next to the door, marked my left pinky with indelible ink and I was out of the station – leaving behind a long queue.
One week later, the results are out, there is celebration and disappointment in equal measures, the indelible ink is still indelible, my toe has healed and I have planned a real lunch hour run today. I have been out of the road since the UNEP marathon. I just have to be back to the road, today.
On your own
After hitting the Nbumbo hill and finishing the run in 0.50.12, I realized that the road was still the same. The hills were still as mean as before. The sun was still was hot was never before. The dusty created by the vehicles near the ‘tank’ was still chocking. And the body still felt tired after the run. I reflected on the pains of democracy, where 50% + 1 carries the day and the other 50% are left to fight another day. I also reflected on my own field of marathon, where the winner takes the million and those of us who come in 1 hour later and not even an acknowledgment (though we finally get certificates and medals, so the loss has some gains).
Therefore, whichever of the eight candidates that you voted for, or did not, life continues. Make no mistake, marathoners - you are on your own. No one, I repeat, no one shall run your run – you have to do it yourself. Get out of your celebration or mourning and take care of your race – it is in your own hands.
Wanjawa, Wamkaya Barack - Nairobi, Kenya, March 11, 2013
The lady behind me just collapsed on the pavement. This was the fifth hour on the road. I could feel her pain. It was the many years of running experience and learning from being in a similar situation that kept me going. This is how it came about.
I left the house at 5.40am on Monday, March 4, 2013. I assumed that the starting lineup would be settling at 6.00am as already advertised. However, I could see the multitude flocking towards Uthiru roundabout, despite the morning being dark. By the roundabout I could see the tens of people coming from the Ndumbo flyover. I could not believe what I saw at the polling station. There were hundreds of people running around, in utter confusion. It was dark, the signs were not visible, and there was not one to tell anyone anything.
Lost
“Hi ni laini gani?,” I asked?
“Sijui?,” someone on the queue answered, “But am just queuing”
He was about position 100 on that particular queue.
I moved to the next queue, nobody knew nothing. There was no signs. Just “Polling station”.
Finally, it started making sense. I could make out the direction signs with the names:
“WA - ZZ”
“R - V”
Finally after searching like forever, “AA - CH” (First name)
I joined the queue at about no. 30, only for ‘someone’ to tell us that the queue was ‘the other one’.
We left the queue in a hurry and ran to the next queue, forcing us to jump over short hedges and barbed wire barriers, to join the next queue, already swelled. We wanted to gain vantage on the new queue. It is during the run to the next queue that I jumped over a barbed wire fence and landed on a rock. My third left toe hid the rock so hard that I collapsed on the grass lawn, only to be pushed up with the struggling masses behind me. I ended up on the next queue somehow, with over one hundred people ahead.
Long queue
The queue coincidentally lined just next to the washrooms, of the Primary school, which were surely in a bad state. The stench was unbearable but we had no choice, we had to queue and await our turn to vote. Before hitting the stench-filled region, the sobriety of the masses led to an agreement to relocate the queue to a more conducive region of the lawns that was a little bit far from the washrooms. This helped, a little.
The queue was not moving. I joined the queue about 5.55am and by 8.00am I had not moved an inch. Then we faced a new struggle. Some people joined the queue that I had left earlier and insisted that it was the genuine queue. Those on the new queue protested loudly saying that they had been asked to leave the previous queue to the new one and therefore those on the old queue needed to relocate. None of the occupants was bulging.
Both queues were stretching in their hundreds and ending up at the same classroom door, to enter the polling room. Shouts and name calling rented the air for some time, but finally, there was no agreement. The final non-agreement was that both queues are maintained and served. This new arrangements caused further delay.
Assumption
When I left the house in the morning, I had assumed that I would be through with this ‘run’ by ten. I therefore did not take breakfast knowing very well that I would surely be done in four hours. I had even put on open shoes, since I assumed the queue would be short and the elements would not come to bear. I was wrong. By ten, we had not made much movement on the queue. Despite this slow motion, the runners were quite determined to endure the run. It was going to be a long run. By toe was also starting to hurt. I could see it swollen.
“Where are you? When do you expect to be back,” the daughter called.
“I have hardly moved. At this rate, I shall be home around 4.00pm!,” I responded.
It was at eleven the lady behind me just collapsed. The fall could have been fatal had she hit the concrete of the veranda. She was saved by the cushion created by the sea of humanity around her collapse.
“Carry her to the shade,” someone suggested, even as two guys lifted her limp body to the nearby tree.
This elicited debate.
“Are they frustrating us deliberately?,” one asked.
“Is it that they do not want us to vote!,” someone else shouted.
“Riking,” someone else said. He mean to say, “Rigging”
Stories
There is something that long hours of wait brings about. And that is small talk and debate. While in the initial hours everyone was on their own, just quiet and observant, the wait enabled the strangers to start talking. The stories were many and diverse. There was the story of Abunuwasi and how he hit the king with a ‘rungu’ after being given the ‘license to kill’ flies. There was the story of how Kabarak High school regained the top position in KCSE exams 2012 as released last Friday, though I did not take this lightly since I have finalist interests there. There was the story of how some tribes have amulet that can make two people get stuck. The folks briefly talked about the English premier league, and the team that was beaten eight goals. (Am not a fan of that league, if anything, my team is the Chuma Blue IFC, which plays at the annual LR International tournament. I could therefore just listen in without much ado). And in reaction to seeing the number of people jumping the queue due to their status, the story of “the most active names” just started…
“Yani hawa watu wa A, B, C ndio wanajua hii mambo kuliko wengine?,” someone asked.
“Why is it that all expectant ladies and those with young ones are only coming to this queue?”
That also brought the story of “babies for hire”, that some women were lending out their babies to be used by those who want to jump the queue. To resolve this, someone on the queue suggested that the pinky of the children should also be marked by indelible ink after they vote.
Mid-day
Finally, at exactly noon, I went into the polling room. The first activity was a left-thumb scan to confirm registration. This displayed the picture I took during registration as a voter. Thereafter, my ID was taken and checked on the voters role. I also saw my full names and picture on the printed roll book. The next phase was being handed six ballot papers and my ID, then shown the marking booth. I quickly marked the six papers, then dropped them as per colour code onto the respective ballot boxes. I was done in 3 minutes. One official, just next to the door, marked my left pinky with indelible ink and I was out of the station – leaving behind a long queue.
One week later, the results are out, there is celebration and disappointment in equal measures, the indelible ink is still indelible, my toe has healed and I have planned a real lunch hour run today. I have been out of the road since the UNEP marathon. I just have to be back to the road, today.
On your own
After hitting the Nbumbo hill and finishing the run in 0.50.12, I realized that the road was still the same. The hills were still as mean as before. The sun was still was hot was never before. The dusty created by the vehicles near the ‘tank’ was still chocking. And the body still felt tired after the run. I reflected on the pains of democracy, where 50% + 1 carries the day and the other 50% are left to fight another day. I also reflected on my own field of marathon, where the winner takes the million and those of us who come in 1 hour later and not even an acknowledgment (though we finally get certificates and medals, so the loss has some gains).
Therefore, whichever of the eight candidates that you voted for, or did not, life continues. Make no mistake, marathoners - you are on your own. No one, I repeat, no one shall run your run – you have to do it yourself. Get out of your celebration or mourning and take care of your race – it is in your own hands.
Wanjawa, Wamkaya Barack - Nairobi, Kenya, March 11, 2013
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