Running with babu during the September international marathon

Running with babu during the September international marathon

The September international marathon was to be a merry-go-ground run, as we call it, within the workplace compound.  Runners were to go round and round the 1.3km circuit on a tarmac route that had been crafted by the MOE*.  It is a route we have run once before, during one of the monthly international runs of last year.  It is therefore familiar, but a nightmare to many runners.  Many avoid this run, as either boring or difficult.  It forces you to run through a half route section that is uphill followed by another half route section that is downhill.  The run has three stipulations that determines when it should end.  You can either drop out once you have had enough go-rounds or be forced to drop out when the clock hits 7pm, for a run that starts at 1630hrs.  The final option is that you can drop when you have achieved your desired run distance – 5k, 10k or 21k, provided this is done by or before 7pm.

*MOE - marathoners-of-expert, the committee that organizes marathons for the team

Like any other monthly international, this run was being held on the last Friday of September.  However, it was just three days to the run that a new development came up, forcing me to update the marathoners that I would be on an ‘early bird’ edition of the run, on a Thursday before the real Friday run.  I was therefore set to be on the same route a day prior, and was even ready for any early-birds that I had extended an invitation to.  I had already calculated that I needed to do 16 go rounds to achieve the 21k, actually, 17, since the 16 would fall slightly short of the 21k.

The weather was just perfect on this Thursday as I started my first circuit at 4.40pm.  There were no other early birds.  I would have to represent them all.  The sun was still high on the western side of the sky.  It was not that hot.  It had rained two nights before, and more rains were expected as per the weather forecast, hence the cloud cover kept the overhead heat contained.  I did a first ‘route survey’ run around the almost oval shape of the course, technical, hand shaped circuit.  The route was as expected – an initial half circuit of uphill run, then a final rolldown to the starting line.  The tarmac was as tough on the feet as was expected.  The sharp turns were a real test on the braking and turning systems of the body.  It was the route that I knew, no doubt, no changes.  With the survey done, I now proceeded to keep a count of the number of rounds done as I went round and round.

I needed 17, I desired 21, but I actually did 22, finishing just after the time stipulation.  After all, what was I to do, when the last circuit started just a few minutes to the finish time and I still had to finish it?  But why was I doing an early bird?....

I left the city on the timely Easy Coach bus to Busia on Friday morning.  I call it timely because it was a 6.45am bus and it did leave at 6.50am.  I am used to such a bus leaving about an hour after the scheduled time.  The fare had been hiked by almost 30%, from the usual 1400 to a new 1800.  However, seeing my people was a must, and I just had to do what I had to do, to make this happen.

I had deliberately booked an isle seat, somewhere mid-bus.  I did not want to suffer the sunshine that hits those seated by the windows.  Being positioned somehow near the exit was strategic, to enable me get out easily when I would alight somewhere midway between Kisumu and Busia.  The online booking system had anyway prevented me from booking a window seat, with the ‘reserved for ladies’ caveat affix on quite a number of seats that were therefore unbookable.  

“Discrimination,” I almost said as I hit the select seat button on the phone app and picked 4C instead.

I am known to be a loud-mouth in the corridors of marathoning, and I can easily be heard when over one kilometre away, should I be talking.  I enjoy a good talk, and I talk loud enough for the world to hear – that is what I am told, I do not know for sure, so let me tell it as I am told.  I therefore got into the bus just around 6.40am with this talkative spirit hovering around me.  The person sitting on 4D was already there, if anything, occupying both seats by spreading paraphernalia and stuff on both seats.

“Excuse me,” I said, as I pushed my bag into the overhead compartment and tried to take my seat.

“Oh,” she said shruggingly, and removed some clothing and stuff from my seat.

I took the seat, belted up and pushed two earphones into my ears.  I connected the wired earphones onto the phone and opened the music player app.  I was going classical today.  The app has the bad behaviour of arranging play files alphabetically, even if they are arranged otherwise on the storage system.  I was therefore going to start on Bach today.  Beethoven would be next.  I would have to really wait to reach Mozart, and probably not reach Wagner, but the journey was long.  That is why we left early anyway.  Going home is a full day event.

I proceeded to take a nap, more of a sleep, since I completely blacked out and did not even notice any landmark past Uthiru which just within Nairobi.  I would find myself jolted back to wakefulness at Gilgil weighbridge, some 120km out of Nairobi, where the imposing bumps must surely wake you up.  Additionally, the bus had to do a 360-turn to go to the other side of the road to be weighed, before returning to the road towards Nakuru.  I took advantage of the wakefulness to appreciate the environment briefly, as I glanced onto the phone screen.  It was just about nine.  I found myself taking another nap, this time a nap for sure, since I was in between sleep and sobriety, and could hazily notice the going-ons.

We finally took the first break at Nakuru at a petrol station at eleven.  Nakuru is a familiar town, sorry city, since it got its city status by charter just two-years ago, so let us be politically correct about Nakuru.  It was my major town when still working at Gilgil, being just 30km apart.  That was way back then in the past history.  It was now a stopover like any other.  I alighted and took the break like the rest of the passengers.  This was the first bus to get to this stopover station.  There was no other bus there, or did any bus stopover while we were there.  This place would have been full, if the bus was to arrived around one, when buses going both directs meet up during the break.

I should have resisted, but I did not.  I told myself that I was being polite.  This happened just as the bus left the stopover at about 11.30am.  Coincidentally, this was the second time such an offer was being made in a period of about a year, same bus company, different routes, despite ‘do not accept food from strangers’ warning slapped all over the waiting room.  On that first time, I was on the Nairobi-Malaba route, and ended up getting acquainted with a top seeded Kenyan tennis player.  I was on 4B on that occasion.  I ended up conversing from Nakuru to Eldy on that day.  Today was different.  I was on the Nairobi-Busia route and I was on 4C.

“Have a sandwich,” the lady at 4D unwrapped the cling film from some slices of bread with stuff in between and offered a bunch in my direction.

Instinct told me to decline, but being polite ruled the day, “Thanks,” I took a sandwich and returned the rest.

“I have already taken enough,” she protested, and kept her hand stretched in a manner of take-it-all-since-I-have-had-enough.

“Ok, but maybe for later,” I responded and put the remain ‘wich into a woven carrier bag and dipped it into the front seat pocket.

I had planned to re-nap, but now I had to deal with the sandwich first, then see if another sleep was possible.  It was also getting hotter, and my sleep deprivation had now waned after that long sleep from Nairobi to Nakuru.  I was likely going to remain sober for the rest of the trip.  

This was not meant to happen, but soon the stories just started.  How they started, I do not know exactly.

“Imagine mtoto wa colleague yangu died, just like that,” she started, sandwich munch going on.

“How comes?,” I wondered.

“Wakumbuka that see-ee-oh who was found dead?  Yule alikuwa killed by the girl?”

I started flashing through my Brain-GPT.  I soon remembered that entry, where the Finance Director, not CEO, of a famous Kenyan hospital had been found murdered, with footage showing some lady jumping out of his house compound through a fence.

We talked about that for some time, as the bus kept going.

“Ingekuwa coast, such thing hiwezi fanyika,” she volunteered.

“How so?,  Yani mambo ya coast ni tofauti?”

“N’me zalima na kuishi huko maisha yangu yote!,  Sisi twa respect culture sana.  Mtu kama huyo should have been married off by the traditions by now.  Hangeweza kuwa bado ana pick tu girls that he does not know”

“He was probably bewitched,” I put in a word in the FD’s defense.

“Mimi siamini hiyo mambo ya babu,” she stated, “Mimi ni mkristo.”

“But waganga are all over, they even advertise themselves.  Hujaona kibao cha mganga anayetibu vitu vilivyo potea?”

“I can tell you my friend, kuamini mambo ya babu ni imani potovu tu.  Kuna wakati mimi na mme wangu hatukuwa na kazi, tuka ambiwa twende kwa babu atusaidie.  Ng’o!  Nika kataa.  Lakini waona sasa, sisi sote wawili tuna kazi, hata watoto wetu wamepata kazi zao vizuri.  No need for such.”

“But people still go to them?,” I protested.

“True, watu wengi bado wana amini babu sana.  Hata huko pwani kuna wengi wanapenda kutembelea babu, lakini they suffer in the long run.”

She would go on to tell me real cases where blood sacrifices had led to the death of some of her close relatives who had engaged ‘babu’, and sacrificing family members was a requirement in order to attain the wealth that they needed.

“Kwanza watu wa bara ndio wengi huko pwani, wakija kuona babu.  Do not trust many of these land cases you see in Nairobi.  Nyingi zao zina saidiwa na babu, wa kule Mambasani.”

Time flew very fast, and we were soon done with the Kericho and Kisumu stopover breaks.  I knew that my destination was near the moment the bus crossed River Yala.  So, as I finally alighted at Dudi, informing her that her Ugunja stage would be about 30-minutes away, I slowly forced my tired legs across the tarmac and onto the market centre.  The tiredness being from those 29km of run round-and-round the September international marathon route.  The run was also still done in good time, achieving an average of 5.04min/km.  It was now just around 4.30pm and I knew that the real run should now be taking place back in Nairobi, some 450km away.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Oct. 7, 2023

Running short of words

Running short of words

This was the last day of my holiday.  It has gone well and I had had a good holiday since last week.  It has been the most relaxed week ever.  I even got my research project that had been stuck due to lack of time and motivation back on track, and it was now working well.  I do not wake up early during my holidays.  It was therefore not my day to wake up early, but the morning had destined that I would have to be forced to wake up early on this Friday.

“Wowi! Wowi!,” I kind-a heard a shout.  It was just about six thirty.  This would normally be a time to prepare for the last three hours of sleep.  But that was not to be.

“Hebu niue!  Niueeeee! Niue, niue, niue,” a definite woman’s voice shouted.  It came from the grounds of the next compound, with the noise permeating clearing onto the second floor where I was, window facing the open ground where the sound was coming from.

I ignored it, turned, tossed and tried to get back to sleep.  But not for long!

“Wowi! Wowi!  Leo lazima utaniua!  Nimechoka natabia zako!,” she continued and continued some more.  She kept talking, shouting, crying.

There was generally no answer.  Just murmurs from apparently other people around.  The woman would then finally give a “Umenichapa!  Leo utanijua!.”  That was the last I heard of that as she retreated sobbingly out of earshot.  It was just about six-forty-five.  The air become quiet once more.  I even tried to sleep, but this was not my morning.

I started hearing some crying from afar, and some muffled sounds that gave me the impression that someone was talking amid cries.  This lasted for some time, though the sound was just in the background without clarity of deciphering what was being said.

But at seven the muffled sounds come back to clarity as the distinct shouting of the same woman came into earshot.

“Sasa nimerudi!,” she declared, amidst crying, “Hebu sasa Senior atoke nje kama yeye ni mwanamme!”

Mmmhhh, this is it!  

The lady then kept shouting and calling names.  She said that she is not leaving until Senior came out and confronted her if he was a real man.  She said that she is now ready to die, and even gave her death time as sometime in the next one week.  She said that she is doing down since she fears that she is infected with HIV that she got from the promiscuity of his man, Senior.  However, she had a death wish.  She wanted to confirm to Senior’s face that he is responsible for her ailment.  She lamented how her mother had warned her against marrying Senior.  Now she was regretting and wishing that she had listened to her late mother.  She cried some more.

Some men tried to cool her down, from her shouting position, out of view, but she could not hear nothing.  She told all those talking to her to save themselves the trouble by just getting Senior out to face the music.  That was the only way she was going to keep quiet.

“Atoke twende tupimwe saa hii,” she said at some point, amid sobs and many other lamentations.

Finally, after many minutes, the accused popped out of the iron sheet walled den.  I could see his frame standing at the wooden frame iron sheet door.  That is the furthest he stood.

“We mama wachana na mimi,” he slurred, “Hi kelele yako ndio sababu nilikuacha!”

“Hebu toka nje kama wewe mwanamme,” she responded from her concealed location.  I could guess just on the covered walkway out of my view.

“Mimi nilikuacha,” the guy repeated, “Tuliachana tayari!”

“Nimefanya investigations,” she countered, “Umekuwa ukilala na Sandra hapa tu kwa hii nyumba!”

Oh my!  What are we having this morning!

“Hebu twende test kwanza, kabla sijajiua!,” she added, amidst loud shouts.  I think Senior had ignited a fighting spirit in her by his responses.  She had now become completely mad!

“Kama una pesa, enda ununue hiyo test kit tujipime hapa!,” Senior in his don’t care attitude responded, by this time egg on his face by the morning embarrassment.

“Hapana, lazima twende hosi kufanya test na wewe!,” she sobbed back.

One of the drunks would throw spanners into the whole mainly monologue, “Kupimwa si ni free?,” he slurred, almost inaudibly.

“Thank you!,” the lady heard and responded animatedly amidst sobs.

I could still see the blue cap that marked the head of the accused firmly affixed to the door post.  He did not have the courage to face that woman.  That woman had energy!  How can you shout for over two hours and remain strong and still shouting!.  Senior kept bass-ing in the den, but now completely rained on.  He was not the usually jolly noisy domineering male bass that I had come to associate with that figure.  Today he had got his match, if that can be described as such.

And his match he did get!  That woman was blessed with voice, shrill, noise and shout!  She had it all in maximum measures.  I did not get to see her, but could only make out her voice and imagine her form.  I imagined some small lady, probably one-point-five metre tall, maybe fifty kilos in mass.  And she was far from done…

“You are the devil himself,” she added, “I must go with you devil!”

“Siendi mahali popote na huyu malaya,” Senior responded, which just led to more shouts and cries from the lady.  The lady was so loud that the whole three storey building facing the den could hear each and every word loud and clear, whether they like it or not!

“Tangu hi kelele ianze hakuna customers wamekuja hapa!,” another mature woman, whom I have associated with being the owner of the den, complained, “Hata wale wakamba hujuka saa moja leo hawajakuja”

Her complain got an immediate reaction… 

“Aweke chupa chini kwanza ndio nikuja,” Senior attempted to leave the door post, but remained put.  I now learnt that the lady was armed, and Senior was afraid!  He waited for affirmation on this request, but none of the three gents or two ladies who were in the compound witnessing the confrontation responded.  

The shouting lady continued shouting.  She swore that she was going to die… but not alone.  She was going the one way street with Senior.

It was now just over one and a half hours since I was woken up.  The shouting lady has kept shouting, though the voice seems to be retreating.  I can still see the group of five milling around the open space.  A young lady in brown jeans is serving the three guys, pouring something from a plastic bottle onto their metallic tumblers.  One of the guys gives her some money.  I cannot see how much, but she give back some change.  The other two gents just drink on.  Th elderly lady, who seemed to be the mother of the girl, keeps sitting around.  She must still be lamenting the loss of business due to the morning noise.

Senior and his shouting ex-wife, as he had claimed, must have somehow sneaked away amidst the chaos.  The shouting lady on her part claims that senior is still his husband, but he does not like his ‘sleeping’ ways, to put it politely.  She said the unprintable on the ‘sleeping’ issue, even mentioning names.  One of the drunks has taken advantage of the absence of the shouting lady, to update his colleagues and the neighbouring block where I am.  

He updates us that the shouting lady had earlier in the morning blocked the road in front of the den by lying across it.  No vehicles could pass through.  She kept shouting and crying while on the ground.  Only some lengthy persuasion convinced her to bring back her wrath to the den.  The same drunks let it slip that the owners of our apartment had met and sent a petition to the police due to the persistent noises that come from the den that disturbs their peace - this was a new one.

What a morning!  I should have just gone for my morning run and missed all this earache.  Now I have to get medication.

WWB, the coach, Eldoret, Kenya, April 14, 2023

Why run on New Year Day?

Why run on New Year Day?

I really do not have an answer as to why anyone should do anything, leave alone do a run, on the New Year Day.  I kept asking myself that question today, especially after the second out of a five-circuit run at the home of champions, that is Eldoret town.  I was on the same circuit that lies on one side of Sosiani river.  It is generally hilly, and I was facing yet another hilly section when this question came to mind.

It was morning.  I had started the run at eight.  There was hardly anyone on the road.  Even the motorbike people who are usually at the road junctions in groups of at least three or four were missing.  I was on the same route where I had had a fall just four days ago.  My knees were still aching.  In fact this was a deliberate run to confirm that my knees were still working well.  I have major runs this year, starting with the Kilimanjaro marathon in TZ scheduled for February 26.  I have to be ready for these.

My knees were not yet fully healed.  The wounds were still visible.  But that was not the test that I was doing today.  The test was on whether they were folding well and could withstand the pressure from the run over the varied terrain, some of it stony.  The pressure of the run was a bit too much as I could really feel that something was wrong on the knee, especially the right one.  I found myself relying on keeping my weight on the left leg, keeping my right leg in contact with the ground for the shortest of time.  Anyway, at least I was able to run.  I was afraid that I could not even run at all.

I was however just too careful with the run to enjoy it.  I was focused on where I was stepping.  I could not afford another tumble and fall.  I wanted to heal and be ready for the many runs in the year.  The test was therefore necessary, carefully done, and it went well.  The roads were deserted.  Even the church services at the three or so churches that I run past on my route did not start on time.  I could hear the loud church activities by eight-thirty when I did the Christmas run last Sunday.  I could hardly hear any church by nine-thirty on this day, when I was two more circuits from my finish.

Eight hours early was midnight that ushered in the New Year.  It was the usual dark night with the sky being lit by the fireworks when the clock struck midnight.  The noises were however not as intense as they were last year.  Even the drunkards den just downstairs was unusually quiet on this night.  It would usually be noisy and evidently drunkard laden.  By now, the partakers of the traditional brew, cham or chang’aa, would have been unruly, noisy and occasionally fighting about over some nonsensical things like someone did not greet someone.  This time was different.  The den was already closed by ten.  Was the economy that bad, that even cheap drinks were now not affordable?

So the night had generally been quiet.  The morning was equally quiet.  Was this the end of New Year as we know it?  Could it be the deaths in sports, religion and media in the last three days that had caused all this?  The legendary footballer, Pele from Brazil, had just died, followed closely by the former Pope Benedict at the Vatican.  Then the darling of the first major TV channel in Kenya (KTN), Catherine, has also passed on just a day to New Year.  Were these the causes of the major dampening of the New Year mood?  Of course, the first time that I heard that Edson Arantes do Nascimento had died it did not click, until they confirmed that it was the person that I have only known as Pele.  So what a way of ending the year, and starting another?

Then come Sunday morning and it was New Year 2023 day 1.  I found myself on the run route, deserted I may add, and finished the 25.7k run after some 2:14:18 run time.  I did not see any much difference between this New Year and any other run.  I did not seem to get the big deal about the New Year.  Maybe I am just being old fashioned?

For those who have a special something for New Year, go for it.  Celebrate it, enjoy it, shout over it, make it count.  For those who need to make some declarations on this day, so that that resolution becomes true, please do that.  It may work.  It should make you feel good.  As for me, I know the better.  There is nothing special on January 1.  It could even be fifteen of April on this day that we believe is January 1, who knows.  This January 1 thing is just in the mind.  What happens to those who did not make their resolutions today?  Does it mean that they are stuck with nothingness until next year?

This is from me to you on this New Year Day – do what you want on a day that you want to do it.  If you make a resolution today, then that is good.  If you decide to make it tomorrow, that is equally OK.  Make your decisions in life when you want… not only on New Year Day.  That way you have 365 days to live and do what you want… without having to wait for one year to do anything.

Happy New Year 2023!

WWB, the Coach, Eldoret, Kenya, January 1, 2023

The fall and the double run

The fall and the double run

Every seasoned marathoner finally falls, and my day for the fall came to pass today, Wednesday.  And it came and passed so fast that I did not even have time to enjoy it!  I would have loved a more dramatic incident, with some preparation and a long time on the ground.  But that did not happen….

I should have technically suspended all runs until 2023 after the Christmas run, but the urge to do one ‘last run’ was just so strong to resist.  I therefore left for the run at eight, against my better judgment, and would soon regret this decision.  I should have instead stayed in bed and enjoyed another hour of sleep on this cold morning.  However, I left the warmth of the bed at on my own volition and stirred trouble in the face.

The rains had started falling almost daily after a long dry spell.  The first serious rain fell on Christmas eve.  It has generally rained daily since then.  Yesterday, Tuesday was no different.  It had rained most night.  I had hoped that the running trail would not be very muddy.  Instinct told me otherwise.  The road was already slippery during the Christmas day run, with hardly a day or rain.  How about the road after four days of rain!

Anyway, I was out for the run and knew from the start that the run would be muddy.  I was still aiming for the four full circuits on the trail on the south side of Sosiani river, facing Eldoret town on the other side of the river.  I hardly started the run before I encountered the muddy puddles on the mostly dry weather earthen road.  It was slippery and called for running at a reduced speed so as to tread carefully with every step hitting the ground.  I almost fell at a road section near the river.  I marked that section mentally and reminded myself to be careful at that section when I faced it on the second circuit.

The second circuit exposed yet another slippery section on the section before heading to the riverbed.  My slow careful run had made me survive this section, even as I learnt to note its existence in readiness for the third circuit.  The third circuit could have been smooth with muddy sections now well memorized, but a new section towards the main road to Kipkenyo would remind me that this 5km circuit was just a muddy maze and there was no safe road on this day.

Finally, when I was sure that I had mastered my run on the mud, and this happens.  I was carefully running through a section that I had encountered three times already and did not even seem any muddy.  This comes after a sharp turn to the left after going downhill.  This turn should enable me to then run about one kilometre then get to the riverbed section.  It is a turn that I had already done three times thing morning and had been as smooth as butter.

I was not even going fast, as I struggled to get a grip onto the mostly muddy road.  I made the turn alright and just made about five steps before I found myself sprawled onto the mud.  It was the knees that took most of the brunt of the fall as I went down on all four.  My hands had done well in preventing my thoracic area from falling flat onto the mud.  The palms of the hand near the wrists were full of mud.  But the shock of the fall was coming from my knees.

I stood up almost immediately and assessed the situation.  I once-upon-a-time had a cellphone on the left hand, timing my run.  I had been alternating it between left and right hands with every circuit.  It was on the left on this fourth round.  It was now missing.  I had involuntarily released it in reaction to the fall and left on its own device.  I examined the ground and saw it lying about two metres ahead, on the muddy path.  I picked it up only to realize that it had gone off.

Many things were now happening at the same time.  Recovering from a fall.  Dealing with a switched off phone, that was muddy.  Dealing with muddy hands.  Trying to resume my run!  I did not know how to proceed!

I decided to switch on the phone first.  I already knew that the run timing was already disrupted, and it was not possible to continue my timing on the initial record.  I just had to start timing a new run.  A second run on the same run.  At least the phone was still working.  I wiped some mud out of it, but it remained fairly muddy.  I then attempted to run, only to be stopped by the pain coming from my knees.

I stopped on my tracks, paused the timer that had hardly timed for more than five seconds, and decided to take a look at the knees that was causing so much pain.

“Oh, em gee!,” I shouted out, subconsciously.

I could see an area that was bruised and red on both knees.  Some blood was trickling down both legs towards the socks.

“Oh, em gee!,” I shouted out a second time.  I do not like the sight of blood, despite being a certified first aid, hence this second reaction.

The road where I was was deserted.  It had been deserted through the run.  I knew that I could meet a group of motorbike riders waiting for passengers some one hundred metres ahead, but for now, I had to deal with this alone.

The knees were muddy, dirty and now showing red streaks of blood.  The pain was deafening!  I tried to resume the run but folding any of the knees was just a pain in the, in the, in the a… knee.  Anyway, I re-examined the wounds and realized that they were mainly affecting the outer part of the skin.  I was convinced that neither the flesh nor muscles of the knee had been affected.  The pain was however another thing, despite my self-triage assessment.

I left the status as is, muddy, bloody knees and all, and restarted my run.  The pain especially when folding the knees for the run was sharp but manageable.  I just had to do the run as initially planned.  I was going to struggle through the new circumstances.  The pain got better with time.  However, my run speed had now been reduced to a much lower pace than before the fall.  I was now being over careful with the road and also reducing the pace due to the pain on the knees.  

In a few moments I reached the vicinity of Sosiani river.  Though the run route was about one-hundred metres from the running river, I could see the many little water streams that run from the hilly side on my left towards the river.  I stopped by one of these streams and washed my hands and attempted to wash my knees.  The pain of the water on the wounds was just unbearable.  I however knew that I had to clean my wounds if I wanted to prevent further complications from the bruises.  I washed away and was soon looking clean.  I resumed my run.

I finally cleared the fourth circuit and did the final finisher circuit that is not the full route.  This finisher is a maximum of three kilometres, and can be cut short by taking any of the many alternate routes back to the finish point.  I like this finisher since it gives me the option to run the full length or drop off and end the run at any time, depending on my energy levels.  I re-examined the place where I had fallen hardly thirty minutes prior.  

It is a place that I should not have fallen at.  However, I still almost fell even on this final round.  There was a small stone protruding about two centimetres from the generally flat ground.  That small stone could cause a tumble if you are not observant.  I had evaded it in the first three rounds, but it had caught up with me on the fourth.  It almost caused another fall on the final.  How small things can be the most damaging!

I do not know whether I did one or two runs on this day.  I had a timer reading 16.72km in 1:30:44, and another second one reading 9.00 in 49:03.  My knees remained painful through the day.  I could hardly fold my knees while walking or seating.  That did not prevent me from doing a 6km leisure walk around the town.  I was almost back to normal by nighttime.  I hope to be fully recovered by the next run… when it comes.

WWB, the Coach, Eldoret, Kenya, December 28, 2022

25 on 25

25 on 25

It was not my intention to run on the day when the Christian faith was in a birthday party, but it just turned out to be.  After all, it is very long since I did a run, as ‘very long’ as nine days.  The last run was the December international marathon aka ‘the boycott version 2’.  On this date of December 16, my running team, once again, boycotted the run, after doing the same in November.  I knew that this would happen since the three regular runners had said or had done everything that they could to ensure that they missed this run…. and they did give it to me the best way that they thought fit.

Let me start with Karl.  He had peeped through my door on Thursday, a day to the run, at about 12.30pm.

“I feel like I can go a ka-tooo kooo run, maybe to tarmac.  Can we go?”

I would usually have said yes, since the tarmac run route just goes from Uthiru, through Kapenguria road all the way to the Lower Kabete road, where you do a U-turn and back.  The run is anything from ten to thirteen kilometres, depending on the tweaks that you add to it.

“But why would you be running when we have the big run tomorrow?,” I asked him even as he kept holding the door ajar.

“Kesho siko, naenda shags, Mwingi, I have something to do.”

So that is how I got the first regret over the attendance of the Friday run.  Of course I did not join him for the Thursday run.  I was not messing the international.

The second semblance of an apology came from Edu.  He had been on a daily run on this month of December for whatever reason.  Marathoners do things that are sometimes not understandable to the rest of us, marathoners and even non-marathoners.  I had met him one week prior, as we were preparing for this run.  This was during the staff party that was meant to mark the end of the year, the first such party since 2019.  Corona had put a break to gatherings and mass events since that time.  The very corona that is now technically eradicated or a live-with disease, or did I hear that it has had a resurgent from where it first started in China?  

The corona that causes COVID-19 disease, which has now infected 661.7M people globally with 6.68M deaths, hence 1% deaths of the confirmed infections.  Kenyan numbers now stand at 342,470 and 5,688 respectively.  Of course, deaths from road accidents in Kenya this year has surpassed this number.  That is why I believe that corona ended and other things took over, but let me get back to the story.

That on December ninth.  It was the end year party, when the dress code was ‘the 70s’, and Edu was adorned with an Afro wig, a waist high pair of trousers with suspenders, with others in similar for guys and girls with short short-skirts.  On this day of the end year party, when I was in a grey suit and tie – which was surely a theme dress.  If anything, I had overdone it since I was even in a pre-70s attire anyway.  I did meet Edu and we talked briefly as we picked the food and drink stamps.  He had mentioned that he would be travelling out of the city from the next week.  He did not mention anything about the marathon.  I was left to add the one-plus-one on this.  For information, that suit was in readiness of a major award, more on this upon enquiry.

Lastly, it was Beryl who did a number on me.  We had had a Wednesday evening run, just two day prior, with compulsion coming from my side, since it was my run day and she had to follow suit.  She had confirmed that she would participate in the Friday run, but not the full distance.  I had my doubts.  She has not participated in any international since the corona pandemic.  I was doubtful that she would be doing a second run, albeit even shorter, two days after this run.  I did not say as much.  It was therefore no surprise when I got a WhatsApp message on the Friday of the run that was brief and to the point, “Have a good run, we shall speak after the run.”

It was therefore a second time in less than three weeks that I was facing an international run alone and lonely.  The things that I do for the team!  The run was the usual.  From Uthiru through Kapenguria road to Lower Kabete road for a brief run, then turn to the Uni farm past Mary Leakey school, then join Kanyariri road to Kanyariri centre for the right turn all the way to the underpass on Wangige road and back straight to Uthiru.  The weather remained warm and a bit sunny.  I cleared the 24.45k in an average of 5min 00sec per km in a 1796-1935m elevation range.

I subsequently vowed not to do nothing for the team.  And took the end of year leave to prove the point.  I was relaxing and enjoying the good holiday, doing nothing, when the run bug bit me on Saturday night.  I therefore woke up early, at eight-thirty, on this Sunday and just left for the run.  I was doing this run at the home of champions, though I did not expect meet any champion on this morning.  After all, it was Christmas day, and most people were preoccupied with the day’s festivities, be it in church or in the hood.  I met lots of singing from the churches along the route.  I hardly met people on the road, even the motorbikes were relatively few on this day.

I was doing my usual circuits on one side of the Sosiani river, with Eldy town rising to its fullness on the other side of the river.  The circuit is just over 5km.  It is mostly hilly, but it is so far the only route that I could formulate, that avoids the vehicular traffic as much as possible.  Avoiding a competition with motor vehicles is one of the things that you want to do with your runs when you have an option.  I did four full loops and a conclusion run on the fifth one that did not go all the way.  I finished the run just before eleven, having covered 25.69k at an average of 5min 11sec per km.  The elevation of the run ranging from 2054m to 2104m.  I just hope that the run bug spares me and allows me to take a rest until I resume the runs officially in January week 2.

Merry Christmas!

WWB, Eldoret, Kenya, Sunday, December 25, 2022

New Year? Really!

New Year?  Really!

It is just yesterday, in the early hours, that I heard that customary shout…

“Happy New Year!”

“Happy New Year!”

It was all over the air.  Out there.  I could hear the sound of fireworks.  I could hear some random noises.  Some shouts here and there.  It was late night, but the darkness of the night could not keep the folks quiet out there.  

That was not all.  I could hear the singing.  The music.  The preaching!  It was all there.  In the dead of the night.  So, what was going on yesterday in the dead of the night.  In the wee of the hours?  I was just on the late-night watch…. Doing nothing but watching.  I have made it my custom to take a ‘real’ holiday when times like this come.  Times like a holiday break that I was having at the moment.  A time when I do nothing… but look at the screen.  I inter-switch between the live and the recorded.  I sit on a designated seat.  In the middle of the living room and stay put for over sixteen hours.  The only break I do take is to the restroom, and then back to my seat.  

I enjoy my holidays to the max.  I get my maximum rest during such times.  I usually do not even know which day or date it is once I start the rest.  Everyday is just any day.  I just know there is day and night.  It could as well be a Sunday or a Monday.  Well, it could even be February or October for crying out loud!  When I take my holiday rest, I do take the holiday rest… doing nothing – technically, taking a rest.

So, when those noises of the wee hours erupted, I was kind-a-taken aback.  What was happening?  How can the environment, the darkness of the night, just erupt into noises and sounds of fireworks and singing and music and preaching and praying and chatter?  In the middle of the night?  I had to halt the watching.  This halt must have been on the tenth-hour of events occurring in real time, out of the expected 24-hours of watching 24.

Well, this must have been quite something.  To interrupt ‘real time’ screen time was quite something.  So, I took the break, opened the door of the second-floor apartment and stood out at the front verandah.  I could see the dim light of the streetlights just beyond the apartment block compound.  I could just make out something like a firework in the horizon of the Eldoret town.  There was nothing else visible in the dark, just some flashes in the sky, and the sounds and noises that whiffed through the darkness and stillness of the midnight.

I got back to my seat and unpaused.  I was re-immersed into the real time on screen and life continued.

That was just yesterday.  It is now a new day.  It is today.  It is a Sunday, so they say, since from my seat it could as well be any day of the week.  It is January – another thing said, which may be true or not.  Tomorrow, I am told, schools reopen, same as offices and the rest of businesses for something called the start of the year in the month of January.  Then we shall count another twelve months of anticipation and waiting, to finally get to another such noisy night like yesterday.  Another day like yesterday, when we make resolutions on what we want to happen, simply because it is a new year.  What would happen if we made that resolution say in June?  Will it change the happening of the resolution?  What is this new year obsession thing?

I am now seated over the eighteenth episode, determined to get to 24 by the end of the day as I wonder what is the obsession that we as humanity have with this New Year Day thing?  Let me disclaim that I have nothing against celebrating the New Year.  Go ahead do it.  Enjoy to the max!  I would celebrate myself if I got to know when it was and was convinced that that was the real start of a new year.  Therefore, please, celebrate New Year as you deem fit.  Who doesn’t like a good celebration, even if it is just once in year?  I am not against anyone celebrating.  Just do it.  I am just wondering aloud why this is such a big deal and a big day, than say today?  Don’t the different days all have 24… I mean 24 hours?

Let me even disclose that I was an annual new year celebrant.  During my primary and secondary school days I did participate in New Year celebrations on the date, on the day!  Life at the rural areas did not allow us to celebrate in the midnight as it is done in the urban areas.  At shags we could not afford to light the midnight oil.  We should have gone to bed by eight to conserve the kerosene in the lamps.  Nights were (and still are) quiet and still.  No noises are made in the night.  The night is for quietness and darkness.  Nothing should interfere with those two whatsoever.  That meant that we would celebrate the new year on the new year day morning.  We would start with an early morning congregation at the local church, followed by loud resolutions of what the new year should bring forth.  Then we would move from homestead to homestead just feasting and reminding all that we had made resolutions.  Good old days, but unfortunately, New Year is no more!

Anyway, let me not keep you guessing for long.  I will go ahead and tell you when New Year ended.  New Year ended in 2020 when a virus called corona virus hit the world and people started suffering from the disease caused by that virus.  This disease, called COVID19, has since become the defining moment for the human race.  It has caused closures, shutdowns, curfews, lockdowns and everything bad.  It was led to cancellation of events, days and dates.  The 2020 Olympic games were even held in 2021 for crying out loud!  With all that disruption of events as we know them, do you really believe that we still have New Year?  With 290,054,489 infected* with the virus in the world and 5,459,176 dead?  5,384 of which are dead in Kenya? 

*source worldometers website

Have yourselves a Happy New Year 2022.

WWB, the Coach, Eldoret, Kenya, Jan. 2, 2022

The truth is out… there is nothing called Christmas

The truth is out… there is nothing called Christmas

I did not even think twice when I was told there was a private car to Eldoret for two-thousand five hundred per person.  I was already seated without hesitation, with the young runner travelling alongside.

“Umpatie fifteen,” the stage hand whispered as I settled on the back seat.  There was already another woman seated back left as I sat middle seat.  The front left had an elderly man.  We waited briefly for the driver.  All were quiet.

“Nakuru ngapi?,” a new person came to the driver’s window just as the driver got in and adjusted his seat.

The driver looked back at the full backseat with three seated.

“Naona kumejaa.  Utatosha kweli?  Ok, lete thao!”

We were wondering how a fourth person would miraculously fit onto that back seat and were already murmuring out protest.  In fact, I had told the young runner that we would have to abandon the ride and wait for another opportunity, than be squeezed with another person in that full seat.  The driver must have got our sentiments, since he momentarily acknowledged that the car was full and drove off.

It was now seven-thirty on this Thursday, December 23.  We soon got to the petrol station at Cooperation, hardly a kilometre from our pickup point in Uthiru.

“Lete hizo pesa tuweke petroli,” the driver held back a hand in my direction.

I handed him three notes of a thousand-shilling denomination each.  He counted and returned his hand towards the backseat.

“Hazi toshi.  Ongeza soo sita”

“Lakini tuliambiwa ni fifteen!”

“Ai, hapana.  Hata ilitakiwa iwe thao mbili mbili, lakini nikatoa ka discount.”

That is how I paid the balance by MPESA and got to know the driver’s name.  So, James drove off and we joined the traffic jam just before Gitaru.  The vehicles were jam packed and hardly moving.  We kept going slowly.  We diverted from the parking yard of the main road and got to a side road just before Limuru.  We endured that rough side road before rejoining the main road where vehicles were hardly moving.

It continued being slow going.  At Kinale we did another diversion to the sideroads to emerge somewhere past Soko Mjinga towards Flyover.  These diversions were helping us move albeit through rough roads, but we would be back to the traffic jam whenever we got back to the highway.  We kept going that slowly with the jam not relenting at all.  We hardly travelled at over 40km per hour at any time in the drive to Nakuru, where we reached at 12.30pm.  It took us five hours to cover that 160km!  That is like 30km per hour speed!  Even the train could have been faster!!

We took a short break at Nakuru and resumed our journey at one.  The road from Nakuru to Eldoret was equally jam packed, though not as slow as the first phase to Nakuru.  I even afforded a few episodes of a nap before I felt the car come to a stop at some point.  It did not take me long to realize that we were around Timboroa.  The weather remained sunny.  I soon realized that we were on at a police road block.  This was the first one where we had been stopped, since the other blocks were mainly targeting public service and heavy commercial vehicles.

“Lazima ni mambo ya pasenja,” the old name told the driver, “Yani mtu hawezi kubeba relatives?”

“License?,” the cop asked and presented a hand across the front passenger towards the driver’s seating position.

The driver searched around and presented a red wallet.  The cop left with the license and walked to the back to the car, then round towards the driver’s side.

The cop then stood just outside the driver’s seat and asked the driver to disembark, “Shuka nikuenyeshe makosa yako.”

The driver was just about to disembark when the front passenger called the cop, “Officer, hebu rudi.”

The cop made a motion of turning back.  He was already set to wait for the driver somewhere behind the boot.

“Officer, I am Mr. Okeno, the deputy county officer in charge of […..], and I am here with my family heading home…”

The cop did not even wait for the completion of that sentence, since the red wallet was soon handed back to the driver and we were on our way in a hurry.

We encountered another road block at Burnt Forest, where the driver was once gain asked for this license, then asked to hit the brake lights while the cop observed the hind lights.  The driver got his license back and we drove through the jam slowly but steadily all the way to Eldoret.  We disembarked at 4.30pm.  We had just done another three-and-a-half hours for that 160km distance – an average speed of just 45km per hour.  What a journey we had had!

It is finally a Saturday, December 25.  The day started like any other.  The sun still rose from the East.  The wind and cold expected of this town have continued to live to their expectation.  There is no shout or noise.  All is quiet.  The ‘silent night’ song has become ‘silent day’.  So, may I ask what is this Christmas that we are hyping about?

WWB, the Coach, Eldoret, Kenya, Dec. 25, 2021

Where runners still run at night, but you must face off with them

Where runners still run at night, but you must face off with them

It is now one week since I was at my shags – yes, my roots, my village, my home!  I had planned to stay for as long as I was loaded.  That plan lasted only two days.  I travelled from Eldoret to Kisumu, then from Kisumu to the local centre of Dudi.  This was on a Friday, the third.  I alighted and immediately removed my mask, since no one, repeat no one, was having a facemask.  The stage people had even joked that, “See a Nairobi person has alighted and brought corona to the village, that is why he has a facemask.  We hope he does not spread it to us who do not have it.”.  They said it loud enough for my benefit.  It worked.

I therefore alighted at Dudi which is in Siaya county.  The travel from Kisumu has just taken about 45-minutes.  My home is about four kilometres from Dudi.  I would get a motorbike from Dudi, just because I was loaded with some items that I had shopped from the local duka.  Otherwise, I would have just walked home and would have been there in about forty-minutes.  It was just about one kilometre from Dudi that I crossed counties from Siaya to Butere-Mumias.  This junction used to have the home of Grace Ogot, the late, and her huzy Prof. Bethwel Ogot.  That home is for sure in Western province.  

I remember the politics of those days, when Grace wanted to be the member of parliament for Gem, where Dudi is.  She got her brakes since it was claimed that she was a resident of the then Kakamega country, before it was hived off into Butere-Mumias.  It was stated that she could not represent people in a county where she did not even reside!  It took some time, but I observed that immaculate home at that junction vacated then completely fall into dilapidation as the Ogot couple moved out and set home in Gem.  Of course, Grace would later become the MP for Gem and serve in that role for two terms.

Those were just memories as I made the right turn on that junction.  Had I not made that right turn, then I would continue being in Siaya county as I went through to Muhaka market, which I know and had frequented, and the rest of the boundary villages, that are just across my home.  Well, I made the right turn and was in a different county.  One more kilometre and I almost got to my primary school.  Almost, since a new road now diverts to the left instead of the traditional road that would have gone past my primary school before the left turn after the primary.

I could see the ironsheet roofing of that long block of my primary.  This was a new block for sure.  This is the place where I studied from class three to eight.  That is the place that moulded me to the form that I have taken into my adulthood.  I remember when I reported for that class three interview, having just come from Kapsabet DEB.  My dad took me to that school in the afternoon on his bike.  I arrived at the school compound and was taken to the headteacher’s office.  

At that point in time the block housing all classes, with the staff room and HM’s office in the middle of it, was a long block with earthen walls and bare floor.  There were no doors or window structures in any of the rooms on that whole long train, apart from the HM’s office.  Each class just had holes on the whole to define windows and doors.  You could, and it happened, that students that got in and out of class through the windows.  It looked strange, having come from Kapsabet town where I had been in a proper classroom made of building blocks, with a set of glass windows and lockable doors.

I had aced that interview conducted at the HM’s office.  It was a verbal one, just on general issues, I believe probably Geography, languages and History.  It is a bit vivid many years later.  However, this I know for sure, that my dad was given a final warning as we left the school ready for my day 1 the next day, “Let not your son come to school with those shoes.  Shoes are for teachers.  Students come here barefoot.”

That warning was strange and I even thought it impossible, since Kapsabet DEB standards were still etched on my mind.

As sure as the sun rises on the East, I was woken up very early the next day to join my siblings into the morning run to school.  And surely all of us were bare foot as we walked the three or so kilometres to school.  I was not just running to school, but I had with me a load of cow dung, wrapped with banana leaves or carried on a cut piece of banana bark.  I was also hauling a piece of euphorbia branch.  

It was a welcome like no other.  The dung would be mixed with the soil that the girls had carried in the same process, to make the material for use in smearing the floor and walls of all classes.  This smearing activity was to be done every Friday from ten to lunch break.  The classes would be hopefully dry after the afternoon ready for the upper classes who were taking afternoon classes.  The boys would use the euphorbia to beef up the fence on the same Friday as the girls were doing the smearing.

I have never been in culture shock!  There was nothing like this in Kapsabet.  In Kapsabet I would be a smartly dressed child walking to school across the Kenya Prisons compound, though I had to take the long route round, since the school gate was on the other side of the shared fence.  But here at Luanda Doho primary school?  None of that!  This was a different ball game.  I would have easily given up my schooling in that third year, but something strange happened that changed all that.  I became that ‘clever boy from Nairobi’.  That title remained as I led my class through the many years of toil and would five years later break an academic record that stands solid to this day, many years later.  That is a story for another day.

Back to the present, and on this Friday, just know that I was passing by next to my primary school on my right, which I could clearly see as the motorbike roared on.  I was at my homestead around one, having been riding for just about ten minutes.  My Diriko village never ceases to amaze me, many years since I knew it.  Despite civilization that has been going on forever, that place remains the greenest place that I have ever seen.  It is still full of trees, grass, live fences and all manner of greenery.  The green carpet is occasionally broken by the presence of some footpath, some house, some farmland that has been harvested and is now bare.  However, there is plenty of grass going around and it grows upto the edges of the house.  The air was fresh and inviting as I got to the homestead.  

My home is perched in a gentle hill.  There is a mango tree that generally marks the centre of the compound.  The mango tree under which I spend most of the daylight hours, doing nothing, just listening to FM radio on the phone and chewing through a long stave of sugarcane.  I could see across the valley to the other side, which is Siaya country by administration.  

I could also still see the other side of the other valley.  That side has the Manyulia market and the road to Butere.  When days were good, over twenty years ago, the same Manyulia market was the place to get to first, if you intended to take the train that stopped at Namasoli halt, just a stone throw from that market.  The train would take you to Butere ‘end of railway line’ on one end, or take you on the opposite direction to Kisumu, then Nairobi, then Mombasa.

I was so relaxed under the shade that I did not even realize how soon the rain would creep in on this Friday.  It did creep in, but saying that would be lying.  Our rain is seen across the valley from many miles as it progressively comes over towards Diriko village.  You can see it whiten the greenery on the horizon as it makes its way from Shiatsala towards Manyulia.  You observe it as it makes gains, whitening the background and enveloping that greenery, until it finally hits home.  And hitting home it does.  

When the rain pounds on the ironsheets of the houses on the compound, you can hear the sound loud and clear.  There are usually no ceiling boards on our home houses.  That means that the start of the rain also marks the end of any talking for those gathered in any house.  You cannot converse when it rains.  The drumming on the roof is so loud that you just survive the ear-shattering sound that persists until the rain subsides.  I am no stranger to this and so the rain welcomed me on this Friday just about six in the evening and I liked the ear-shatter as it lasted.  It however did not persist for long.  It was just a short drizzle.

Finally, I was done with dinner, and I was off to my house.  My house is located about one-hundred metres from the main house, just next to the entrance gate area.  In Luhya tradition, a boy should build his own house as early as he has been initiated, this should be at around fourteen years, just about the time one finishes primary school.  Once you are past initiation, you are expected to setup your own house and start ‘being a man’.  

And building a house is not just a saying.  It is the full works – get the posts, cut the rafters, cut the grass and then carry the posts, grass and rafters to the building site.  After that, dig the holes, plant the posts, trim their tops, hammer the roof structure, rafter the whole structure on the walls and roof, fill in the ‘baked’ soil on the walls and do the thatching... and start your life in that structure.

From then on, you should not bother your mother with any requests for food.  You should provide your own food by getting someone to cook for you, read, marry.  If you delay this inevitable of getting your person to cook for you, then your options are to stick to your father’s side at mealtimes, so that you benefit from the food that your mother(s) provide to your father, or alternatively, sort yourself out.  You could plead with your mother to make food for you, but there were no guarantees.  She would likely tell you to get your own cooker, on your face.  You therefore had to go slow on food issues or learn to become your father’s friend.  

The other methods of survival once you have your house, also known as Lisimba, or simba, or lion in English, is to start visiting your sisters-in-law and be lucky to get some food from them.  That is why in western culture the ‘shemeji’ is an important person.  Of course, the husbands of the shemeji’s do not take it very lightly when you frequent their houses.  They start hinting that you should be giving them a ‘shemeji’ too.  Believe me, after you build a house in western Kenya culture, then it is now survival for the fittest!

That is not all.  When you get a house you are on your own and you must survive, both for your own sake, and for the sake of the whole homestead.  The man, or men if you are lucky, protect the homestead.  They deal with the dangers that may arise.  It is their job to keep everyone safe.  The houses at our homesteads usually do not have washrooms within the structures.  You have to get out of the house to obey that nature call at the external shared washroom or the natural greenery, depending the type of call.  

Despite all dangers being manifested in the night, be it wild animals, fear of the unknown, fear for the sake of fear, or even bad elements, the men must be ready to get out in the pitch dark of the night and face the darkness.  The women and children are exempt from this compulsory going out business, and they are allowed to relieve themselves in containers in the house if it means so, or, to wake up the men in the house to take them out for the call.

I was therefore alone in my big three-bedroom house that was unusually dark and quiet.  The house does not yet have power supply, though the wiring has been done and just awaits supply.  I therefore got into the house with my kerosene lantern and would soon prepare to sleep, after blowing it out.  It was hardly nine.  I am used to sleeping the next day.  This was just too early.  This was going to be an interesting night.  It was cold due to lack of a ceiling cover, and the environment was generally cold anyway.  It was eerie quiet.  Even a leaf dropping onto the ironsheet roof, from the nearby other mango tree just next to my house, made a loud cling on the iron, based on the circumstances.

Anyway, I forced myself to bed and soothed myself to sleep by listening to FM radio on my phone.  At some point I did fall asleep and somehow switched off the radio.  The night remained quiet.  The ironsheet roof remained the cover of the house.  I slept.  Something woke me up at some point in the night.  I thought I heard something brush through the ironsheets.  It was as brief as a five second thing.  It stopped.  I was still thinking about it when a bird, for sure, flew into the darkness of the house.  

I could then hear it flapping its wings and it circled round and round and round inside the house, probably flying on the roof area.  If it had got into the house through the gap between the walls and the iroonsheet roof, then that bird would have a hard time making its way out of the pitch darkness of the house and out to the external world.  And it was true.  The bird moved round and round and round.  There was no way of getting it out.  It would have to get out on its own, when its time was right.  I ignored it, left it to do its rounds, and got back to sleep.

The call of nature came knocking at some point in the dark quiet night.  The men must go out.  That was the law.  I so I had to get out.  With torch at hand and slasher on the other, I quietly groped through the darkness of the house to trace the doors, opening them one at a time, in the darkness, trying to keep the opening sound as soundless as possible.  

I had a torch alright, but I have survived this type of life for many years and know the use of a torch at such a time.  You need to keep your eyes accustomed to the dark when you wake up and get out.  A torch beam would spoil your otherwise good visibility in the night.  You keep the torch off, you let your eyes adjust to the invisibility of the darkness.  The torch is an emergency tool, just like the weapon.  It is not to be used, until and unless it is necessary.

I unbolted the outer door and was out of the house, in the pitch darkness.  It was dark alright.  There was zero visibility.  I for sure could not see anything in the night.  I was soon back to the house to continue the rest of the sleep until morning.  Saturday is church day the compound was quiet for most day, as I continued taking my stop under the main mango tree.  Later that day my sister-in-law lamented over some night runner, or runners, who have refused to give her house any peace by their persistent walks in the night.  

That under-the-mango-tree rest also brought a moment of reflection.  I had already spent almost three thousand shillings by the evening of the second day.  And the news that I had landed had not yet done its proper rounds.  I knew that I would be badly broke when the locality gets to know that their son from the city was at the village.  

I just had to save myself by leaving when Sunday dawned, traversing the same greenery back to Dudi, then back to Kisumu.  Of course, that night bird had disturbed my night for a second time, and those strange sounds like roof sheets being brushed by a stick still persisted on this second night.  To cap it all, I still had to go out in the pitch dark of Saturday night, but was still unlucky not to shine the spotlight on some bad guy, maybe next time.

Since slipping away from shags on September 5, I have done three long runs, with the last one being having been just today at this altitude of 2100m here in Eldoret.  Today’s run, just like the rest of them has been difficult to handle.  My legs feel strained and the cross-country route through the partly muddy trails do not help much.  I average 5.30min per kilometre and I feel like hell on earth after every run!  

I long to go back to Nairobi, where the altitude is a bit favourable at 1800m.  I long to be back to the city, where corona is still real and facemasks have some semblance of being effective.  Nonetheless, corona remains real and those in denial should quickly get back to the reality of the situation.  When you have 225,736,297 global infections* and 4,648,356 deaths, with 243,725 and 4,906 respectively, being the numbers for Kenya, then you need no more convincing that corona is a real deal.

*source: worldometers website

WWB, the Coach, Eldoret, Kenya, Sep. 13, 2021

Of corona fatigue and greetings at every stop – my Western Kenya dilemma

Of corona fatigue and greetings at every stop – my Western Kenya dilemma

I have now done three runs since that incident in Nakuru, where I almost broke a leg through a motorbike incident.  The last of those being today, where I did the five circuits around Eldy on that half-marathon route near Pioneer estate.  Those three runs in the last two weeks have proved to me that the left foot may take longer that I thought before it gets back to full recovery.  I can run alright, but I feel a pain that lasts for over three hours after such a run.  The foot still looks swollen, compared to my right.  I however remain hopeful that the foot shall be back to perfection by the time I am doing the StanChart Nairobi International marathon to be done virtually from Oct. 29 to 31.

I have travelled to Bungoma, then Malakisi and back to Eldoret in the same two-week time.  The travel from Eldoret to Bungoma took about two hours, since I left Eldoret at about 7.30am and was at Kanduyi Bungoma minutes past 9.40am.  This matatus to Bungoma did not fail to disappoint.  It was the seven-seater ‘nguruwe’ type.  Even before the boredom overtook us and we began to talk, the luggage from the boot had already fallen on the road twice.  Each fall was brought to the driver’s attention by other vehicles that hooted ceaselessly, forcing the driver to stop and then walk back to pick the fallen gunny bags.

However, the Sunday religious programme on the loud radio was the tiebreaker on the boredom.  The topic of discussion on the radio was some preaching, followed by callers asking a range of questions.  One of the questions was what the pastor could do to help a girl child rejected by both parents, who have separated and remarried.  The pastor had advised that the girl should approach one of the parents for help.

“Sasa sikia,” the passenger in the middle of our back seat hit me with a nudge to get my attention.

“Eh, ati?,” I forced myself to say something.  I am not usually the talking type on public service vehicles.  I even feel shame-on-myself to answer a phone in public vehicles.  So, I was a bit reluctant to engage.

“Sasa badala pastor akubali kusaidia mtoto, hata na sadaka au kumpaka makazi, yeye anamrudisha kwa wazazi wenye wamemkataa!”

This issue would become a subject discussed by mainly the next passenger, and another who volunteered to join in, just seated on the front row.  They said that pastors were more interested in offerings than helping others.  They even reminded all and sundry in the 7-seater the reason why they themselves do not even go to church, saying that the church is for the women, who seem to like pastors.  I do know if I was hearing right, but coincidentally it was a men-only matatu on this travel to Bungoma.

From Kanduyi, which is the highway centre, before one diverts to Bungoma town that is some three of so kilometres away, I was to head to Malakisi town.  However, there is still no public service vehicle that can take you from Bungoma to Malakisi.  You have to take a Malaba vehicle and alight at the Kimaeti centre, which is about a 20-minutes drive.  That short drive costs you one-hundred shillings, instead of one-fifty, the conductor reminded me.

We had gotten to a Police road block just before Kimaeti stage.  The matatu just slowed down and passed that blockage without the customary stop expected of such a matatu at such a place.  The driver just hooted and passed by.  He later told the conductor that the Police wanted to check on their masks, yet they were not Nairobi people.

“Sisi ni watu wa mashambani.  Hatuvai mask sisi.  Masks ni za watu wa Nairobi.”

I was seated just next to the driver, with my mask on.  The driver and all the rest of the people in the matatus did not have their facemasks.  I was the only odd one out.  How his statement had turned to be correct?  From Kimaeti I had the option of walking the ten kilometres to Malakisi, or getting a motorbike for one hundred shillings.  I was carrying a load and hence opted for a motorbike.  It rode me through the dry weather road all the way to a river crossing that was now closed for the construction of a bridge.  A vehicle would not be able to pass by.

We diverted onto a temporary crossing just next to the closed road.  This temp crossing consisted of just three thin wooden planks laid across the river waters down there.  The planks had gaps between them that a motorbike tyre could easily slip through.  We somehow crossed that section and rejoined the dry weather road, and would soon enough be in Malakisi.  

I however noted that the motorbike did not make the usual turn to the town on the road that I had known before.  He instead went ahead for over four hundred metres, before turning left to somehow emerge at Malakisi centre.  I later learnt that a bridge on the original road to Malakisi had collapsed and it was yet to be replaced.  I believe that Malakisi is the only divisional headquarters in Kenya that does not have public service vehicle access.

I alighted at the small town of countable shops on either sides of the single dry weather road, and kept walking along.  I would in a moment pass the BAT factory that I have known for long, on my left, as I kept going on the main road to my hosts house about a kilometre away.  Then this tarmac road from nowhere just hit me from nowhere.  It just started from the middle of the dry weather road at a Y-junction, and it continued into my left.  

I would be going to my destination on the right side just next to the junction.  I was later informed that the tarmac road is in Busia county, who had decided to fund the tarmac in their county, while their counterparts from Bungoma who own Malakisi, had decided not to do such a project.  The tarmac therefore had to start/end at the boundary between the two counties.  Talk about one country, two counties!

I was already visiting Angurai market, about five kilometres away, by the evening of this same Sunday, August 29.  The market day on this Sunday remained the typical market scene that I had known ever since.  I had stayed in this region for about three months after my secondary school education and the region had remained largely unchanged.  By the time of this visit to the market, I had already been warned by my hosts not to try being a ‘Nairobian’ by putting on my facemask.  Such a show would make the ‘rural folks’ look bad.  I had therefore left my mask in the house even as I walked through the market.  And… true to the warning, there was nobody, repeat, nobody, repeat again, nobody was having a facemask.  Life was as usual as it should be.  Corona did not exist.  It was a Nairobi disease.

I took a day rest after that Sunday and was out of Malakisi on a Tuesday.  I travelled differently on this Tuesday.  Instead of a motorbike back to Kimaeti to get to the Malaba-Bungoma road, I got a motorbike for one-hundred and fifty shillings for about a fifteen-kilometre ride to Mayanja, located on the T-junction on the Chwele-Bungoma road.  I got there in less than thirty-minutes.  I was to get a matatu from Mayanja to Bungoma, but the matatus were taking their time to appear.  It was also a market day, so it seemed, judging by the number of people around Mayanja, and the type of wares that were laid out.  There was nobody with a facemask, apart from the Nairobian in me.

“You Nairobian,” a stranger approached my location at the side of the road, “Can I take you to Bungoma?  I have a bike!”

The roughly dressed person was a motorbike person looking out for business.

“I am waiting for a matatu, since they shall charge me seventy shillings”

“Ah, Nairobian, just promote me.  I shall take you to Bungoma with seventy.”

I found myself astride another bike, and was even joined by a second passenger on this trip to Kanduyi.  I would soon pass by KIbabii University, then Cardinal Otunga school.  This is a school that I had visited at least once during one of my past visits to Malakisi.  I remembered my niece Esther, who is now publishing books in droves, who was in this school and I attended one of those visiting days.  The motorbike rider would even joke that ‘those girls have been chased out of school due to lack of school fees’, while pointing to a group of five or so girls in their white blouses and light blue skirts walking besides the road past the school, as we rode along.  I reminded the rider that education was free, and he was like, ‘which Kenya do you live in?’

The ride from Mayanja to Kanduyi took about ten minutes.  I guessed that it must have been a distance that was less than ten kilometres.  It did not take any time to get the matatu to Eldoret that was just waiting for me to fill it up before it starts its journey towards Eldoret.  We left at 11.15am.  I sat next to the driver.  Most people in the matatu had their facemasks on alright, but mainly hanging by their chins, including the driver seated next to me.

It did not take long before he asked the conductor for money.

“Hebu lete fifty haraka, roadblock iko mbele.”

The conductor handed over a fifty just from behind my head.

We soon got to the roadblock and the cop came to the driver’s window.  He did not even look at anything.  No windscreen stickers, no driving license.  He just ‘greeted’ the driver, after which the driver took off.

“Umewazoesha vibaya,” the conductor told his driver after that stop, when the vehicle was gone for over a minute.

“Usipopeana fifty, utaenda kortini ulipe thao forty.  Sasa gani afadhali kati ya hizo?  Kazi ya matatu ni lazimu ulipie route, ukitaka kufanya biashara kwa hiyo route”

The same ‘greetings’ would be done two more times before we got to Eldoret at 1.30pm.  I was faced with a moral dilemma.  What should you do in the face of people not putting on their facemasks and drivers greeting the police at every stop?

WWB, the Coach, Eldoret, Kenya, Sept. 2, 2021