The fourth international aka Mutuini Half marathon

The fourth international aka Mutuini Half marathon

Running is a must

My run group now have monthly marathons.  These monthly run must happen.  It is now predictable as surely as the sun rises from the East that there shall be a marathon every month – guaranteed.  The fourth half was conceived immediately after the still-being-talked-about Divas International marathon of March.  Mutuini just popped up as we were planning for the fourth international…. and here we are, doing our fourth monthly marathon in 2019.

While the Mutuini registration process was seamless, just a few button presses on the cellphone and payment by mobile money, the actual nuts and bolts of participating was not easy.  Every runner needs a runner number and optionally a runner kit.  It was unclear upto 24-hours to the run as to how these shall be sorted out.  I decided to get my kit on the Saturday before the run.  

I was going to a place that I had never been to.  I just alighted from the matatu at Dagoretti market and started walking to what I thought should be the venue – Mutuini Primary School.  I was almost there, just near the Southern By-pass when I had a wait-a-minute moment.  I rechecked the ad for the marathon and noted that the venue was actually Kirigu Primary.

“How do you hold Mutuini marathon at Kirigu?,” I asked the air as I turned back after having walked almost 2km from Dagoretti.

Tech-fail

I walked back to Dagoretti and started a walk on what my online map indicated to be the general direction of Kirigu.  By Murphy’s law, my phone map then failed just as I left Dagoretti mart.  The blue dot that should normally indicate your geolocation in relation to the map just failed.  It was not there.  A restart of the phone… the phones did not resolve.  I still got a static map without any interaction.  

I was generally going to rely on instinct only.  Using the phone to map my location relative to where I was heading was not going to be possible on this day.  Instinct told me to turn right after the railway flyover and keep going until I get lost somewhere.  That is what I did.  Another 2km of walk would get me to Kirigu Primary.

“Finally – I made it,” I thought loudly.

Another w-a-m* moment hit.  This was not the registration venue.  The registration venue was Mutuini Hope Centre.  Would this maze ever end!!  There was no directional sign nor was my dead phone map of any help.  A motorbike would come in handy to take me to the very hidden location of the Centre, just 200m the school.

*wait-a-minute

Receiving runner no. 440 and a red T-shirt is what had caused me all this trouble.

“Bring him a bag,” the registrant finally said.  This seemed like a consolation.

It was not.  It turned out to be a shopping disposable.  But having visited the Centre convinced me that the organizers needed to maximize on the proceeds.  We did not get runner guides nor route maps.  We would have to rely on good old ‘scouting of the route’ to get our way.  Nonetheless, the organizers had promised to send me the route map by WhatsApp “in a few minutes”.

I walked back from Hope to Dagoretti, just to ensure that my mapping of the route was solid.  It was.  Even the phone that had gone ‘static’ on me earlier, was now working and I could see the blue dot on the map following me around the road as I moved along.

I would not be surprised when I would not get the route map on my phone by mid-night.  Soon a block diagram of the route would be shared on our runners group.  It was some unclear, unfamiliar block diagram that indicated a start point at Kirigu, then some rectangular kind of route that led back to the starting point.  Bottom line – it was of no use.  We would have to scout the route and take it as it comes.

Public transport

I left the house at 5.00am on the run Sunday and got public transport, first to Kawangware Equity, then another vehicle to Dagoretti.  I walked the now familiar road to Kirigu and would soon meet the rest of the team.  It was now just a few minutes to seven.  The run scheduled for 6.30am was going to start late.  The reason why I did not get to the starting line early was because their inaugural run of last year started at 8.30am.  I expected a similar start time.  That is what was on the runners guide – sorry, there was no runners guide.

At seven-thirty one of the organizers used the power of the vocals to call on runners to assemble at the main stadium.

“All runner, go to the field.  Warm up.  Ready to start,” he kept moving around shouting.

We obeyed and would soon be on warm up.  Next to me was a face that had graced our TV screens for many years in the late 90s and early 00s.  This was a face associated with national comedy.  His trio of comedy act was the icing of every weekend entertainment on the screen.  He was now the member of national assembly representing this constituency.

Jammed

We, runner no. 440 included, then moved out of the school compound to the external road ready for the start of run.  KJ, the local MP would give some inaudible speech at the starting line.  All runners were already excited, talking amongst themselves, taking selfies and just gearing up for the run.  Then…

KJ would say, “We start the run in three, two, one… ”

And… and there was no pop-sound.  All were confused.  The first runners sprinted off for ten meters already before being called back.

What the… was going on?

What had happened?  There were murmurs and total confusion.

Then keen eyes would see the discussion and gestures going on around the starting line.  Believe it or not, the gun had jammed!  It failed to fire!!

A second attempt at the trigger, a minute later would signal the start of the run with the characteristic ‘pop’ sound.  What a start!

We left the starting line without much jostling since the crowd of runners was not that big.  I started it slowly, and increased to a comfortable pace by km 3.  The road has marshals at all the major junctions to guide the runners.  We also had chalk dust markings to guide on the general direction.  There was no getting lost.  Nothing to worry then…. Not really….

“Tokeni barabarani,” a matatu makanga would soon shout at my thinned out group of about three runners filing along the road.

“We wacha,” one of my colleagues ahead gestured to the overtaking vehicle, evidently annoyed.

The roads were not closed and we would have to co-run with vehicles.  Fortunately, at least when I was on the route, runners-and-machines generally shared the road well, for most part.

Lost

I was lost on the unfamiliar route so far for about forty minutes.  Then we reached the unmistakable Naivasha road at Kabiria junction.  I now had an idea as to how this run would go.  We would go to Kawangware Equity (the stage that I had alighted at in the morning to get my second matatu), then run on that route all the way to the starting line in Dagoretti.  Dagoretti was far when I used the matatu in the morning.  Now I had to find out how far by running it out.  Believe me – it was far!!

It was at this selfsame point, when I was considering whether to just head back home by running down Naivasha road for 3k or keep to the run for another 11k, that I was overtaken… almost...

This other runner just raced me along and soon his form was just next to me.  One centimeter behind, even parallel.  We ran along for about 100m.  I expected him to overtake and go.  He did not.  He just kept along.  I tried reducing the pace to let him pass, and he did the same, reduced.  I tried to increase the pace to get him out of chase, but he also increased and would be just alongside.  

I would not have minded company, but the following company rules apply…

Do not give company if none is needed

Overtake if you want and stop teasing runners

Overtake in a reasonable time, do not take forever to overtake

Drop back if you cannot overtake

Allow yourself to be overtaken

It was unfortunate that he was just gauging me out, which goes against rule 2.  After 2km of gauging me out, he just stopped and started walking.  I felt my empathy.  I knew exactly what had happened to him.  He was exhausted.  He had overrun his pace.  Something that a seasoned runner should never do – never run the pace of another runner.  Know your pace and just stick to it.  But I am not forgiving him for having continually disgusted my running path by spitting and mucus-ing on my path every ten seconds.  I respect all runners and their characteristics, but that behavior no!

Basin

We found a basin waiting for runners at the junction to Dagoretti market.

“Dip your hands in the basin,” a marshal shouted at the approaching runners.

At the same point, another route official had a signboard written, “15km”.

I had thought that after the turn toward the market I would just go through the road I had walked earlier in the morning to the starting point, but the route would swing one final surprise at us.  When I got to this junction, I saw two route officials shooing us on.  That would not be the turning point. 

I now started wondering how this run would end.  We were now going under the railway and then taking the road parallel to the Southern by-pass.  I know how a 6km final stretch should feel, but this final bit was starting to feel like 10k!  We just kept going and going and going, but not reaching the finish line.

“Will this run ever end?,” I asked my internal spirit which was now almost giving up.  

As if to answer the question, we would soon cross the railway and then immediately turn left.  I recall seeing some railway symbol on the block diagram of the run route.  From that map, the railway was not far from the finish.  But you never know with those not-to-scale maps.  I just kept going.  The run would end when the run ends.  Surely, it must end at some point!

And ending it would, in less than 5 minutes.  I would see the familiar road to Kirigu Primary and then get to the school for the finish – just like that!  I was handed a small piece of paper written “89” while I stopped my timer with the screen display as “1.45.29 date 28-Apr-2019”.  And just like KJ’s startup gun, my timer had also jammed and had recorded the time and not the distance.  

I would then hand over the small piece of paper to the registration desk in exchange for my name being recorded on their register.

“Show?”

I raised by purple-coloured left hand.  They took the number.

One hour later I would get my medal from the MP, just like the rest of the participants.  The blank certs would then be issued.

Two hours later I would be at home, sleeping.

Three hours later, Kenyans would be winning the men’s and women’s marathon in London in 2.02.37 and 2.18.19 in the names of Eliud Kipchoge and Bridgit Kosgei.

Fourteen hours later, my legs still on fire, I would be waking up to narrate the Mutuini story.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, 28-Apr-2019

Running with Children, then… Missing Easter

Running with Children, then… Missing Easter

Scheming

It was exactly one week ago today, that the five of us finally visited the Children’s home.  This was after one year of many false starts on this mission.  It started as a ‘wild’ idea during one of those TF monthly teas at ‘sobriety’ corner of the bar.

“This tea is mwaaa!,” Nikki had commented.

“Why are you not saying anything about your favourite?,” Irina had asked.

We all laughed since we understood immediately what was being talked about.

“Ah, that,” Nikki joined in, “Si you just know.  No one touches those sausages.”

All laughed a second time.

“But they are like twenty!,” I wondered, laughingly.

It was then that I had brought in the topic of donating to some charity.  One year ago.  At that time we had discussed all manner of topics – we discussed dis and dat and some more.  We attempted to discuss football, which was showing on TV at that time.  We did not go far, since the gals would soon dismiss us with, “What is this obsession with guys and balls?”

So we left it at that.  

Soon we were discussing soap operas.  Their faces lit up.  All the gals were soon fully immersed in the discussion.  The two guys in the group of six become mere spectators.  How do you even follow a soap character for like six months and still follow the story!?  In football you follow only for 90-minutes and it is done – finished – no second guessing.  You exhale once – you are done with it.  But not for the gals…

“You saw how Alejandro fought with Juan because of Teresa yesterday?,” Irina asked the table.

“Woyi!  Ilikuwa drama,” Roxy confirmed, “Hata singekula supper saa ile kipindi inaendelea”.

“Na vile Teresa anapenda Juan!  Hata hapendi Alejandro.  Aki, Juan ni ka-cute,” Nikki reaffirmed.

“That is what true love is,” Irina said, “Siyo kama hawa African men,” she pointed in our general direction, but to no one in particular.

Talk is talk

We talked about the politics of that time.  About the recent elections and how it has created anxiety, with two elections and two swearing-ins.  We talked about handshakes, and at that point cheered to the power of handshakes.  We talked about clothes and dressing.

“Did you see what Brenda of Accounts was wearing during today’s Friday coffee?,” Roxy raised the issue.

“I did not notice anything ‘funny’!,” which was true.  It held tight with all major emphasis at the right places… but what was the big deal?  Isn’t that what dressing should be all about – draw some attention… all attention!

“Hapana, hiyo nguo ilitesa!,” Irina confirmed “Ma boy-child walikuwa wana umia!  I wish sitazaa dame – Ma dame ni shida tupu!”

I believe that this is the topic and would start the journey to this visit to the Children’s home one year later.  Since at this point of discussion we raised the issue of how we have so many clothes that we never wear.  They are just in the wardrobe or bags, gathering dust, but never used.  We keep waiting for “someday”, some “one day”, when these clothes shall come in handy.  This “someday, one day” never comes and years keep going.  I gave the group my piece of mind that if you have not touched any piece of cloth for a year, then you do not need it.  It is at this point that we agreed to collect all these clothes and donate them to charity.

Soon we would continue discussing this issue of donations, starting with the idea of clothes to more items like shoes, toys, bags…. then food… then money…. then community activity.  We kept adding in the ideas (on paper, sorry on Whatsapp).  It was all talk, and nothing towards practicality.  

Many Fridays later, and we would start firming up this issue by asking members to start bringing in the clothes to a central place for storage.  We started discussing the potential homes that could benefit.  We come up with a budget.  We called for contributions and donations.  It was going to happen.

Time flies

One year later, Saturday, April 13 would come and see our group of five get into a vehicle, cargo in boot, and head to Children’s Garden Home at Kawangware river, some 3km away from our work place.  We did not know what to expect.  We did not know how it would go.  We were doing this for the first time.  We were nervous, unsure, anxious… we even felt inadequate.

“Are you sure that they shall appreciate what we are donating?,” Nikki wondered as we turned into the compound of the home.

“Too late!  Here we are,” I instructed the driver on where to turn, “We have done our best and there is no room for second guessing.”

It is not that I was also that confident.  I had my doubts.  What we had carried with us seemed so little.  We had 10kg each of sugar, rice and beans.  We had with us 20 packets of maize flour.  We had a big carton full of clothes of all ages, plus toys and shoes.  Earlier on, the carton got torn in the process of squeezing in all the material, forcing us to tie it up with sisal string.  Our newest member, Prisca, had even surprised us all by joining us at the start of the journey with a box of biscuits.

I had already alerted the proprietor of the home of our visit on the previous day, and we found him waiting.

“I am Musa,” he stretched out his hand in my direction.  This was after the five of us and the driver, had alighted and formed a semi-circle just next to our car, waiting for ‘what next?’.

“This is the team that I told you about,” we exchanged greetings as I went ahead and introduced myself and the other five.

“Welcome to the Children’s Garden Home and School,” he told the group.

He took us through a tour of the facilities.  The institution houses children from infants to those in post-secondary school.  Their learning facilities have nursery, primary and secondary school classes.  They also have a play field, accommodation facilities and a new building under construction.  They rely on donations and volunteers to run their routines.  Our self-doubt on whether we would make an impact was soon gone.  We knew for sure that we were doing the right thing and our contribution would go a long way.

Watch this

We would soon be seated in their hall for a ‘surprise’ interlude of entertainment.  We watched the young ones undertake various talent show activities.  We heard their songs.  We saw them dance – and dancing they did.  We saw their acrobats.  We even heard a soloist, accompanied by a guitarist.  Both were quite good in what they did.  We saw pure, raw, untapped talent.  Marvelous.  Beautiful.  Inspiring.  

We would soon be introduced as the “important visitors” and asked to address the audience of mainly children.  As the team leader, I would soon be introducing the other four colleagues, since by then our driver had already left.  After each of the team members had said their bit in encouraging the youngsters.  It was my time to wrap it up.

“All of us have our talents.  You need to know it, and exploit it.  Let no one discourage you.  Do what you like and keep doing it.”

The hall was all quiet.  Attentive.

“What is ‘talent’ in Kiswahili?,” I broke the silence.

I passed the mic around….

“Kipaji,” a shrill voice bellowed in the mic.

“Talanta,” another voice said in the mic that was passing around.

“Uwezo,” someone else said.

“Ubunifu,” they kept coming.

“Kipawa,” someone said.

“Ujuzi!”

“What talent do you know of?,” the second question also resulted into some mic movement.  We got all manner of answers.

The obvious ones – sports, singing, playing instruments, acrobatics, drawing.

The ish ish ones – plaiting hair, washing

The where-did-these-come-from responses – banta (marbles), eating!

We felt very fulfilled that day as we left the home at about two, after a three hour stay.  We even got an official acknowledgement receipt for what we had donated.  That was a first.  

“What name do we write on the receipt?,” the proprietor had asked.

“TF group,” we responded almost in unison.

“T-what?”

“True Friends.”

Soon there would be a Whatsapp update on the photos and all the happenings of the day.  Soon there would be suggestion that we need to do this again soon.

Coffee is coffee

The next day would see me travel to our other work campus for a collaborative project with a similar department.  On Monday at eight o’clock I did the introductory meeting and then a break at ten thirty.  One thing that I have now learnt is never to say no to an offer of this….

“We now go coffee?,” Rachel said as we left the conference room with the intention of going back to our work site.

“Sure, let us do this.”

We were soon taking coffee in very small cups… and for a reason...  The coffee is so strong that a bigger cup would surely knock you out.  We sat at the coffee preparation area, where the coffee-girl prepared the coffee from roasted beans that we could see.  Brewed on a live fire just in front of us.  Brewed in traditional clay kettles before our very eyes.  Incense was spreading to our seating area.  Whenever the smoke went down, she would pour something onto the fire and the incense would immediately intensify once more.

On top of the dark black liquid in the small cup, was equally a small piece of leaf.

“What is this leaf?”

“That.. eh, that is ten-adam.  You people don’t have ten-adam?  Very common here in Ethiopia,” Rachel said.

The leaf had good aroma.  I liked it.

Later that day, we got to speak to the head gardener who promised to give us the botanical name of ten-adam.  He kept his promise, since hardly one day later, I got an email forwarded through my hosts to me...

“Tell the president that it is called Ruta chalepensis”

After lunch that day, I was not surprised when despite being full to the brim, I was invited for yet another coffee.  Saying no was out of the question.  I was once again seated at the same coffee place at their clubhouse.

“Buna ke ten-adam,” I told the coffee gal.

She laughed.  Impressed.  She told Rachel something in Amharic.  Rachel would laugh too.

“She says you know Amharic already.”

Twelve is Twelve

Every day at ten to eleven I would get the call for coffee.  I would obey the call for coffee.  You cannot say no to coffee.  It is the most serious sign of disrespect.  Another call would come in daily between three and four.  The routine continued until finally it was a Friday.  My last work day at Abyssinia after my one week project.

“Today at twelve evening we go out,” Rachel prepared me early in the morning, when I just got to the office.

She meant “saa kumi na mbili jioni”.  I understood.  Apart from coffee, you also don’t want to mess with the time.  And I would realize that applies to the calendar date too…..

“President, I was Nairobi last week.  Liked the office you gave me,” the Procurement guy told me during introductions early that Friday.  I had passed by with Rachel as part of information gathering for the project.

“Amese-ginalehu,” I struggled.

“You mean you can do Amharic?,” he wondered loudly, “The ladies are treating you good.”

He looked at Rachel accusingly.

He then gave me some lessons of his own.

“This is Ethiopian calendar,” he reached behind his desk and removed a big A3 size calendar that had one month on each page.  He opened the page written ‘April’ and moved his finger to the date written ‘19’.  

He read the Amharic wordings below that date, then gave his interpretation, “Today is Date 11.”

He then moved his finger to the top page where the year 2019 was written and below it he read and announced, “We are in year 2011”

He then gifted me the calendar, to complement my learning efforts.

“I feel bad working during a holiday,” I complained, “You people do not celebrate Easter?  It is Good Friday in Kenya!”

“Did I not give you the Ethiopian calendar?,” he asked, “Our Easter is next week Friday… And ours is serious.  Not like that joke of a Easter in Kenya!”

“It is true,” Rachel laughed at me, “Here Easter is serious holidays.  All people they celebrate Easter.”

On fire

That evening saw our team of two gents and three ladies head to a cultural centre just near the international airport.

“Welcome to Yod Abyssinia Traditional Restaurant,” the gateman said upon our arrival.

We got into a big hall.  With traditional sitting arrangement.  It was already full, with people seated at their different circular formations on the low back traditional seats.  We would have been misplaced without a reservation.  We would be directed to seat at our reserved corner.  

There was a band of four already on the stage playing instrumentals with a mix of both modern and traditional instruments.  The drums and flute were modern.  The 1-stringed and 8-stringed instruments were traditional.  Soon the stage would light up with different performances, singers and dancers.  It was a good display.  

We would then order.  Three of our team members were ‘on fasting’ ready for Easter.  They could not take meat.  Two of us ordered meat…

“The meat with fire below it,” I said.

All the four laughed out loud, “That they call tibs,” Rachel rescued me from the laughter.

“Ok, Tibs, well done,” I resigned.

“Tirē siga,” I thought I heard Mary say.  But that is what I heard.

The servings arrived.  A big tray lined with injera, firfir and assorted sauces in small dishes was laid before the three who were on Easter cleansing.  Some fish fillet was served their way to crown their non-meat day.

A small fired clay pot was laid before me, more like fried meat simmering on the top plate like structure.  Something that looked like minced meat was put before Mary.  A central tray separated our two meat servings.  On this central tray was laid brown injera and white injera.  Two small dishes contained some spices.  I later learned that the spices were red chili paste, green chili paste and flavoured curry powder.  

I was specifically warned to go easy on the green paste.  It burns.  I burnt.  I would soon feel something hit the middle of my brain when I mistakenly scooped enough green chili in a roll of injera and got it to my mouth.  Washing it down with the yellow drink did nothing.  The pain would soon subside - lesson learnt - take it ‘small’ on the green.

My eyes widened at my neighbour’s central plate.  Before long I was asked to taste.

“Taste some raw meat, very sweet.”

My eyes widened further, “Thanks, but no thank you.  Next time.”

“All answer is always ‘next time’,” Mary would complain.

“I promise.”

They offered us coffee after dinner.  We accepted the coffee, served with incense.  There was also a small basket of pop corn alongside the buna.

Ancestors

The mood remained jovial while the music become a familiar background.  We chatted within our table.  Even laughed at people of dare take firfir with a spoon.  A person I know was named.  I laughed at her.  How dare she?  You can only take that paste by scooping it with injera.  You cannot spoon it!  We also talked about how to take tej the right way.  Even some on the very table could not hold the conical tej flask correctly.  The men seemed to be seasoned in this tradition.  The gals held their flasks like cups!  Breaking tradition!!  Bad gals!!!

“You people drink without honouring ancestors?,” I asked after noticing a second bottle of tej, the honey-based drink, arrive and no one taking any step to spill some on the ground.

“Not tej,” Rachel said, “Other drinks we can give ancestors, but not tej.  Tej too common for ancestors.”

Then when we thought that we had seen it all….

“Wedding party!,” Sally exclaimed!  Excited and pointing behind me.

The music immediately changed as a soloist moved to stage and sang a seemingly familiar song.  Soon all of the people in the big room had joined in the singing and clapping.  The tune continued as we clapped in rhythm.  The wedding party would soon settle on their seats just behind our own circle.  The song ended once the party had settled down.  What an evening of tradition!

In 24-hours’ time I would be getting an offer for a final coffee at mid-night as the 737 was heading for its destination at JKIA.

“Yes,” I responded to the hostess, “Buna ke ten-adam”.


WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Apr. 20, 2019