Running across the coast – and surviving it

Running across the coast – and surviving it

I approached that junction with lots of apprehension.  I could see it just ahead, about two hundred meters of so.  I would be at junction in less than two minutes.  I could see the dumpsite that was a sure eyesore.  It was directly ahead.  Had the road not been making a T at that section, then I would have gone straight into that dumpsite.  I could see four ruffians in that huge dumpsite as I approached the T-junction.  I was now less than one hundred metres to that junction.  The road to that section was deserted.  An occasional vehicle or Tuktuk would pass by in either direction, slowing doing as they approached that junction.  Most of them would approach from my left or head to the left.  That left turning was the side that seemed to be busy.

One person was sitting next to the huge mound of waste items, mostly paper.  One other ruffian seemed to carry a huge dirty sack and head to the left side, while a third one was kicking about garbage while walking aimlessly on the dumpsite.  However, it was the fourth ruffian that got me worried.  I momentarily shifted the laptop bag from my right hand and shoved the bag to my back through the shoulder strap.  It was just a natural reaction of imminent danger from something that may be a threat to that bag.  I seemed ready for action, now with two free hands and two free feet.  

The person approached.  We would have to face each other in less than twenty steps.  He had put on some dirty slippers.  His trousers looked old, dirty, and torn.  He had put on something that used to be a Tshirt long time ago.  It was now something like strips of clothing clinging together.  He had nothing on either hand.  His hair was shaggy, almost dreadlocked.  We would be meeting in a second.

If anything was to happen, then it would have to happen now.  If anything was happening, it would have to happen to me in the next few seconds and it would find me while already in a flight.  The attacker would rather be good at a sprint if the happening was an attack.  The first two-hundred metres of the sprint would be the make-or-break phase of dealing with an attack.  Any conquest on the part of the attacker would have to be within that distance.  If I won a run over that distance, then no one was going to get to me thereafter, thanks to my marathoning.  I have the endurance to then keep running for over three hours non-stop if it comes to that.  I hate sprints and I hated the thought of even doing a sprint over as short a distance as one hundred metres, leave alone two-hundred.  However, I would do it if my life depended on it.

A vehicle would soon come from the left side of the junction and make a turn towards my approach.  The approaching ruffian looked back at the sound of the car, while at that time I also met and passed him by.  He did not seem to bother with me, or maybe he had been distracted.  He would soon be behind me, same direction to the vehicle that was also speedily retreating behind my back.  I sighed with relief.  I had feared for nothing.  However, I still had to get to the T-junction and find out what laid ahead, which just seemed to the be ocean of dumpsite straight ahead.

And… my left turn did not disappoint.  It remained true to my fears.  The roadside was strewn with all manner of garbage.  There was a wall that marked the left boundary edge of the left-heading road, with the vast dump running on the right side of the road.  The roadside was narrow while the rubbish, mainly old polythene bags making a mess of the whole walkway that hardly had any pedestrian.  

I would have easily turned back at this point since it was still deserted and looked intimidating.  Many other men walked within the rubbish field on my right.  I could however see some small roadside kiosks about two hundred metres ahead, just past the wall.  That sign of life encouraged me on.  I quickened my pace to be through this place that seemed unsafe and was soon at the main highway that I had been looking for.  The very road that I did not know how to get to, but the road that I was finally relieved to get to.  I was finally at the Mombasa-Malindi road.

Phew!

My heartbeat!

I was soon back to normal as I crossed the busy road, with matatus doing all manner of gymnastics, and got to the other side of the road.  From there I had the default option of getting into a Bamburi-Mitamboni matatu, or even a Mtwapa one, and make it to Bamburi.  A ride past Bamburi to Mitamboni would be an added advantage.  Even further to Naivas Bamburi would be the ultimate price.  However, that is not what happened, even as I remembered how my taxi driver had explained the mitamboni thing just yesterday, Tuesday….

The driver who had picked me from Mombasa international airport was the usual jovial coasterian type.  Someone who talks a lot, speaks in Swahili and updates you with or without prodding.  He had taken the first initiative to call me while I still in Nairobi.  It was hardly five when he had called.  My flight would be departing at 1745.  I was still fully a Nairobian when I got his call telling me that he was already waiting for me some 500km away at that time.

By that time my laptop had already died on me at the same JKIA as it had done hardly two months ago, when I was heading for Kisumu under the same circumstances.  History was just repeating itself, though with ‘protection’ on my side this time round.  Our ICT had already ‘prescribed’ a long power-button press as the solution to a hanging laptop.  I had preferred the ‘change the laptop’ prescription that I had proposed to them, but the ICT gurus decided on the alternative remedy.  

I hated this long press and it was causing me a sore index finger already.  Pressing that button for over one-minute is a big deal, believe me.  It usurps all your finger energy.  And it is not a one-time press.  You press it for about four of five times before the machine finally comes back to life.  And any unexpected shutdown takes your unsaved data with it.  I had already lost data at the airport on this day, but the long press would save the day in terms of getting the laptop to charge my phone despite already losing data that I had been working on and there was no need to cry over it.

I had also noted that the JKIA had many power sockets that did not work.  I had to really walk around the gates 1 to 3 at that terminal 1D to finally get to the charging station that worked that was located just next to the washrooms.  That section seemed to be the only place where the power worked.  It was already having at least three phones and a WIFI adapter connected to the various socket points on the table top.  Despite this being like the only station for all, some USB and power sockets still did not work on that table.  

I had received that Abbas phone call while standing next to that charging station.  By that time I had redone the filling in of the Ministry of Health port health data, necessitated by the current COVID19 surveillance requirement.  In June the system was not working end-to-end when I filled it in Kisumu on the way to Nairobi.  I remember arriving at JKIA and we, self and airport staff, were looking at each other wondering where the ‘system’ had taken the data.  Of course, that story has a conclusion, being that the system finally sent the confirmation message two weeks after the trip, just for my troubles.

I had now repeated that data entry on the port health portal and it seemed to work.  I even managed to get a QR code by email.  This was the code that we had to present on arrival at Mombasa.  The system assumes that everyone had a smart phone while on travel, but maybe that is the current true assumption of life.  I was now waiting for the 1745 departure time, which we had already been warned would likely be delayed due to the weather.  And do not imagine that it was because the weather would be bad for the flight, nope, it was because the rains would prevent us from walking from the terminal to the airplane!

I had left Uthiru at two-thirty on this day, though I intended to leave at two.  I had anticipated a traffic jam on Mombasa road due to the ongoing road construction of the decker on top of the 20km stretch of road from Mlolongo to ABC Westlands.  We were very aware that it would be a rainy day even at that time in early afternoon.  We had decided to use the longer but faster Southern bypass road that runs from Gitaru to Langata and to Mombasa road at Ole Sereni.  

I was using the same driver of two months ago, whom I had contacted off-Uber to take me back to JKIA.  He had turned out trustworthy having returned the headphones that I had left in his taxi last time.  He had also said that he was from Uthiru where I stayed hence had the closeness of a neighbour.  I knew that hiring him would also enable me to dictate the route, and at such a time as now, the route had to be the Southern bypass if I was to make it to the airport in time.

At Ole Serene we diverted to the ICD road once more, and it was not long before it started raining.  We got to Mombasa road from ICD road when the rain was already heavy and visibility was almost zero.  It was just about four by this time.  The airport was straight ahead and we just had to beat the snail pace jam heading to Mlolongo and we would be through.  We got to the airport when the rain had subsided.  The driver who had expected booming business due to the rain was not amused, though I reminded him that there seemed to be lots of rain towards Uthiru side from the observations of the definite rain on the horizon in that direction.

The end of the rain was also good news for the travelers, since our flight came back to be ‘on time’ and we would depart at 1755.  I was on a similar Bombardier as of last time.  The only difference was that I was allocated seat 12D, next to the window, but I found someone else already on 12D without a care in the world.  I ended up seating on 12C.  Not that I did mind, but who in this day and age still takes someone else’s seat and feels nothing about it?  Anyway, this was a short flight and I did not want to create a situation out of a seat.

The flight to Mombasa turned out to be shorter than I thought.  Just fifty-minutes and we were already on touchdown.  It was dark at Mombasa despite the time being just a few minutes to seven.  We walked through the tarmac once more to the arrival hall.  I remember the earlier tarmac walk in Nairobi while it drizzled.  The airport management did not seem to make any deal, big or small, out of a few drizzles on the paying passengers.  At least it was not raining at the coast upon arrival.  We showed the QR codes on our phones for scanning at the arrival door, followed by declaring of temperatures taken just next to that door.  From there it was straight to baggage claim and exit.  

There was nothing special in Mombasa on this Tuesday.  I just called Abbas the driver and he was there waiting.

“Wacha nikusaidie mzigo bana, we!,” he snatched a bag and headed to some car at the parking.  I followed along with my laptop bag.

“Mimi Abasi,” he opened his door and the one behind his seat for my bag.  He got into the car and opened the front passenger door for me.

“Wewe ndo Baraka, n’lye tumwa kumchukua.  Lo!, kumbe bado barobaro tu.  Kafikiria wewe mzee alo komaa!”

“Raisi Obama ndio huyu hapa mwenyewe,” I assured him as he eased out of the airport and started to fight the vehicle traffic towards Changamwe Police and then towards Mombasa city centre.

“Obama?,” he repeated and laughed out loudly.  

It was quite some time before we came to a bumpy ride.

“Sasa mambo ya kuten-neza mabar-bara hapa keshazidi bana we!,” he slowed down and started onto some dirt road.

We had now gotten to city centre and were just crossing the Nyali bridge when he came back to life, “Lakini wenda wapi bana we?”

“Nili ambiwa wapajua tayari,” I responded, “Najua tu ni mahali fulani kule Bamburi, lakini lazima tutumie Old Malindi road.”

“Lakini Bamburi ni nyingi bana, we.  Kuna Bamburi Mitamboni, Bamburi Kiembeni na Bamburi bamburi”

“Mitamboni?”

“Ndio, mitamboni, kule kwenye ile factory ya sitimi ile ndio yaitwa mitamboni.”

I had for sure studied the map and knew the general location of the accommodation that I had booked using the booking dot com app.  I had previously used Airbnb, but I did not like their payment-in-dollars model, which had caused the suspension of my credit card last time.  Booking charged in Kenya shillings and payment was after arrival.  Of course, I had also glimpsed at the offers on Air, but they did not match those on Booking this time round.  The reviews and pictures of the residence seemed good.  Though I am not a stickler to the small details, I still hoped that the place would not disappoint.  Even if it did, provided there was a semblance of a bed for the first night, then I was good to go.

As we got to the Old Malindi road, the driver asked the proprietors for directions, and they directed us.

“Twaenda Ajanta 3.  Hapo napajua vizuri sana.  Nna wateja hapo wengi mno,” Abbas updated me, now fully confident of his motions.  

It was just about eight when we got to the residence.  I had been offered a choice of a fourth-floor room, with no lift, or a ground floor room.  I opted for the ground floor, but cautioned them that I may decide on a change of room should mitigating circumstances arise.  So that if how I found myself at Ajanta checking in at a few minutes past eight.

I found the contact person whom I have been communicating to and she showed me the corner room on the ground floor.  Now, pictures can lie.  Descriptions can lie.  But reality cannot lie.  Not that there was something completely misrepresented, no.  The description had ‘stretched’ the truth a little bit.  They had mainly talked about one-bedroom apartments.  I was facing a one-room bedsitter.  They had described a sitting room with TV.  They had described a kitchen.  But that is not what I was seeing.  

I was facing a small sink slab and a three-door overhang cabinet to my right upon entry.  A four-burner cooker, a small one-door fridge and a microwave on top of the fridge formed the collection of space called the kitchen.  Straight ahead was a bed with a mosquito net hanging above it.  Next to the generously big bed, five inch I guessed, was a big TV to the right, with the left being the wall and window area.  And believe me when I tell you it was a big TV.  It must have been 62-inch.  It was almost disproportionate to the room size.  It occupied the whole top section of the TV cabinet, stealing all prominence from that cabinet.  The small DSTV decoder was like a small dot on that cabinet top.

I did not have much time to look around, since I would soon have to look for provisions.  I had been informed that there was a Naivas supermarket nearby.

“Panda Tuktuk au boda ikupeleke Naivas.  Iko mbali kidogo,” the housekeeper had updated me.

I knew otherwise, having studied the map of the area already.  I knew that there was a Naivas around there and it would not be further than a kilometre from where the residence was.  What is this obsession of Mombasa people and taking vehicles and bikes even over walking distances?  This was not the first time that I was facing a situation that apparently needed a vehicle.  Few years ago I was at Bombolulu and the short 2km walk to the public beach become a subject of a vehicle ride, which I refused to take.

Today I was being asked to take a vehicle to Naivas, whose location I did not know and did not seem to even be able to figure out in this dark of the night.  However, I was not going to take a vehicle.  The worst that could happen would be that I get lost and struggle to find my way.  I walked out of the compound and started walking towards the direction where I thought Naivas should be.  It did not even take me six minutes to get to Naivas.  It was that near!  

“Surely?,” I cried out loud!  This place was so near that no one in their right minds should be even imagining to think of uttering the word ‘vehicle’ or ‘bike’!

I got my provision with that I-have-forgotten-to-buy-something thought lingering through my mind even as I paid and walked out.  That hindsight become true when I got to the apartment and just realized that I had not purchased any sugar!  That would mean that my next morning’s tea would be sugarless, just on my first day of business.  It was too late to get back to the supermarket with curfew hours fast approaching at ten.

It is when I carefully examined the room upon settling back from the supermarket that I took in what would be my home for the week.  The washroom was comparatively big, though it did not have hot water nor did the shower work.  Only the lower taps worked, and only cold water came out of them.  Hot showers would have to be more of ‘hot basin baths’.  And as if they knew that would be the case, there was a basin and a bucket on the floor of the bathroom ready and waiting.  

Then I looked at that kitchenette area.  Though it had utensils, they seemed to have been out of use for some time – at least there was a cooking stick, meaning that I had the option of at least taking ‘food’ while at the coast.  The small black insects moved around the sink area.  This seems to be a thing in Mombasa.  This is not the first time that I was seeing such during a stay at the coast.

It was bound to happen, and it did happen, since it did not take long before I saw roaches moving about the sink area, especially the drawers below the kitchen sink.  I can tell you that it did not surprise me to finally see a giant roach run behind the wall of the opened cover of the cooker.  I thought the Kisumu roach as big, but this was from a different world.  It was bigger than the biggest I had ever seen.  It looked scary and it soon ran to the main door that is just next to the cooker.  I let is run to the top of the door before I opened the door for it to run out of the door to the external world.  After all, you cannot afford to harm ‘anything’ while in Mombasa.  Things talk back at people – just believe me when I tell you.

It was now past nine on this Tuesday as I settled down at the now changed coast.  Changed due to the temperatures that seemed lower than I have known them to be.  I was even having my coat on.  I could even feel the chill.  The customary hot humid air was gone.  If Mombasa continues to be this ‘cool’, then I am seeing myself settling here for a longer period of time at some point, against my earlier assertion that Mombasa was as hot as hech.  

However, the internet in my residence was not connecting.  I had sent a message to the housekeeper who has asked me to switch on and off the WIFI adaptor, but the issue would still not be resolved.  We agreed that they have a look at it on the next day.  I would have to hotspot from my phone for now.  The giant TV did not seem attractive, compared to a working internet, and I do not remember watching it much.  The mosquitoes were as many as expected in Mombasa and they seemed to celebrate the arrival of mtu-wa-bara.  They bit the blood out of me while I was seated and only got a reprieve when I finally hit behind the bed net.

I set the alarm for nine, since I was to be out at nine-thirty for a ten-thirty appointment in town.  I still slept past midnight since my brain is now wired not to be able to go to sleep in the PMs.  I woke up even before the alarm.  It was about eight-thirty.  I canceled and removed the alarm since I was now already awake anyway.  I looked through the morning emails and SMSs and even caught on some cable news.  I decided to take a ‘short’ nap to 9.15am, since I was just to wake up, boil a cup of water in the name of a beverage and be out of the room.  I already had a 9.30am taxi booking with Abbas.

That nap would be the last time I would even imagine having my morning tea, since I jolted myself from the nap at 9.25am!

“Oh, this is messed!,” I cursed as I jumped out of bed.

I struggled into a shirt and a pair of trousers.  I was brushing my teeth while putting on my coat.  I put on my shoes as I locked the door.  I just made it to the parking yard at about 9.35pm to find Abbas waiting.

“Twende Swahili Centre iliyoko karibu na Mombasa hospital,” I instructed Abbas as he eased off the compound and started the drive towards Old Malindi road.  We would soon survive the morning jam on the very narrow Old Malindi road, with shops and stalls built so near the road that pedestrians and vehicles have resorted to sharing the main road.  I was at the National Museums of Kenya compound just past ten.  It would soon be business day one, and it exposed me to the challenges of a typical field work day, including respondents who did not want to be recorded despite them being sources of valuable information that was needed.  It even got worse.

“Hata usiandike!”

“Na andika tu notsi za kunikumbusa nitakacho kitafuta baadaye!”

“La, hata usiandike chochote, kwani mahojiano kamili na ruhusa ya uandisi itakuja ule wakate ujao tukikutana Kilifi”

We were in a persuasion session with a well established mashairi speaker, an elderly man, who insisted that he was not a malenga despite having many of his unpublished work on the very table where we were having our discussion.  From him we learnt that mashairi was also a form of argument and response in the early days, where a shairi would be directed to a particular person or group, which would in turn compose their own in response.  

The back and forth would sometimes last for months, with the shairis being distributed in the villages of the waring factions.  He even told of an incident where he composed a shairi to rebuke two warring factions but used a pen name.  This rebuke ended the feud while he remained anonymous for some time, until he offered to help a friend respond to a shairi rebuke, that his style of response was linked to the earlier style of the anonymous writer.  

It did not take long in the topic of mashairi, before we were informed that the Tanzanian president had given a kitendawili in a shairi, the very memo that I had missed.  The kitendawili, the mzee said, was that…

Kuna kijungu cha pwaga, bila ya moto jikoni

I can only tell you that mzee gave us a different nugget of wisdom on this, which I would later learn was quite contrary to popular belief*.  I would even soon see full PhD thesis written over this particular kitendawili.  Let me just say that he said that the kitendawili has ‘naked truth’.  

*See: https://news.un.org/sw/audio/2021/08/1124852

It was on my way back from the Museum that I had passed by Nyali to say hello to JC, unleashing a surprise that left her surprised, that I would then take this walk from Links road in Nyali towards Mombasa-Malindi road.  That walk was based on pure instinct, sense of direction by just keeping to the left turns, and pure determination to get to that road whatever it took.  However, when I started walking I just kept walking.  That is why I found myself walking from Nyali to Bamburi and surviving all the going ons.  And would you believe that it was only seven kilometres?  What’s the big deal?

WWB, the Coach, Mombasa, Kenya, August 11, 2021

Running into corona lockdown… and surviving the hit

Running into corona lockdown… and surviving the hit

Plans

It was after two months of planning that our group of workshop organizers became confident that the event was ready for execution.  We had debated over all things workshop, including venue, number of days, timetables, plans A, plans B and even C.  We were surely ready and had covered our bases well.  But plan B would become the default one after our funding source could not materialize on the scheduled planned date of June 10.  We instead settled for June 17 and this was cast on stone.

I started my Kisumu trip in high spirits on June 16, one day to the start of the two-day workshop.  This was the best meeting that I had organized in a long time.  In fact, I have not arranged any meeting since the advent of corona in Kenya in March 2020.  It was a welcome relief to finally be able to interact with folks, albeit at a distance, the ‘social-distance’ distance.

I left Uthiru at 11.30am for the 3pm flight.  I have calculated a two-hour travel to Jomo Kenyatta international airport.  This would give me plenty of time for the check-in, which is not a big hustle when on a local travel.  I would have left at 10.30am if I was on an international sojourn.  And that is why local is always better.

“Tutumie Kikuyu bypass,” the Uber taxi driver mentioned as we edged our way slowly through the matatus at Uthiru road towards the Waiyaki highway.

“Bora tufike,” I urged him on.  

I was sure that that was probably the better option of getting towards Mombasa road at this time of the day, considering the gridlocked city centre traffic that had been made worse by the construction of the overhead express way that runs from JKIA towards ABC near Nairobi School, over a 25km road section.

The southern bypass was a smooth sail, until we were about to hit Mombasa road, when the driver once again volunteered to bypass a direct entry onto Mombasa road at Ole Sereni by instead taking a diversion to ICD.

“Najua unashangaa tuko wapi,” the driver commented, noting my looking around as we moved on.

For sure I had not been to this road before.  It was not long before I saw the sign for Inland Container Depot.  I could even see the SGR train with wagons parked somewhere in the background of a vast compound.

At some point we rejoined Mombasa road at Cabanas, and survived a short jam before diverting left to the airport.  It is almost two years since I was here.

“Bado watu hushuka kwa gate?”

“Kushuka ni lazima,” he confirmed.

I knew that I would be passing through the pedestrian luggage and body scanner, while the vehicle and driver would be passing through a full vehicle x-ray.  I have leant to go to that pedestrian scanner with the least of metallic items.  I therefore left all my bags, keys and coins in the vehicle.  I even removed the headphones and left them on the seat.  I wanted to pass through that scanner clean, and clean I did pass, without a beep whatsoever.

I got into the taxi on the other side of the gate, joining other people who had been through their security checks as we looked around to recognize and get back to our vehicles.  It was not long before I was dropped at Terminal 1D.

“Naeza lipa na MPESA.  Ni sawa?”

“Sawa, lakini tumia hii number nyingine,” he started, as I fumbled with thumbing the phone screen.  I had taken to using the new MPESA app, and it has issues, especially when the internet is not stable.  It was soon stable, and I got the number to pay the 1,750 to.

“Nimepata,” he said, even as I heard the double-beep on his phone.

I picked my two bags from the backseat where I was seating and disembarked.  I walked across the road and was soon at the terminal building.  Getting through the security check and luggage scanners was the start of my processing.  I thought that domestic travel was less stringent, but I was wrong.  The checks were just as thorough.  I joined the queue of about three other passengers and got my boarding pass.  I went through a second security check and luggage scan before getting to the waiting area.  It was hardly one.  I still had upto 1445 to depart, with board scheduled to start at 1415.

I was impressed by the clean and well laid out waiting area, which was quite a thing for a facility managed by a public institution.  I settled in on an empty seat, on the largely empty waiting lounge.  I was planning to catch up on email, rearrange my conference material, since I had a first meeting on the same evening, then probably listen to some music for the hour of waiting.

I found a socket on a connection point next to my seat and plugged in the laptop.  I switched the computer on and it started.  I was logged in and ready to start my work.  The airport wifi seemed to be secured, which was not the normal.  I have previously used it for free, after agreeing to TOS.  I now had a locked wifi at a public terminal.  I was tempted to ask the KCAA employees that occasionally passed by, in their characteristic yellow pullovers, but I thought the better of it, and decided to just use my phone’s hotspot.

I was just starting to setup the phone hotspot when the laptop went off.  I had fully charged it before commencing the journey and hence knew that the charge could not be the issue.  I guessed that it must have gone to sleep mode due to the five minutes or so of inactivity.  It would usually not go off when connected to power, and this was a strange behaviour.  I started by checking on the power source and confirmed that for sure that socket was not connected to the wall power.  The cable at the back of that socket was just hanging concealed next to a wall.

“Very funny!,” I remarked, as how crafty the airport operators were.  Making us believe there was power in the socket yet the damn thing was not even powered.

I was now convinced that the computer must have timed out and gone to sleep mode.  I therefore tried to press the power button and… and nothing happened!  The thing remained silent.  It was completely off.  I however know this sign.  It had already happened twice in the last two weeks, where the system just goes off and goes dead.  The only way to revive it, as explained by our ICT, was to open the underside casing and reset the battery.  And that underside cover has many concealed screws and delicate plastic interlocks.  It is something that you do not wanna do.

When it happened the first time I believed that it was a bad one-off incident.  When it happened a second time last week I knew that there was something amiss with this machine that is hardly a year old.  The gurus had told me that they had upgraded the BIOS and that the problem was now gone forever.  I did not know how the BIOS had anything to do with the system shutting down to the level of disabling the battery, and I doubted as much, but they know better.

Now the system was dying a third time when I was preparing for a trip with no way of getting it fixed.  I was headed to another city where I was to be for the rest of the week.  I was now out of information, with even some conference material now concealed dead inside the laptop.

“This is just great!,” I cried out loud!

It did not take long to overcome my denial and be back to acceptance of my situation.  I was even glad that I would be off the computer for some time.  Maybe I could even take the time to just enjoy my music and look around.

“Wait a minute!,” I almost jumped out of my seat, as I touched my neck and realized that I did not have my headphones.  I did not recall having them with me as I went through the two baggage scanners.  Though it was possible.  I remember especially at the second scanner, where my bags had stayed in that machine for so long until I wondered if they were even clean.  The two bags had eventually came out without a question.  If my phones had been left on the conveyor, then that second scanner must be the culprit.  I still could not believe that I had left them in the scanner, though I remained convinced that that was unlikely.

I was just starting my walk toward that direction of the security check when I decided to first confirm with the taxi person, just in case he had seen them.

“Hebu ngoja niangalie,” he said and paused, in a manner of looking around.  It was like forever before he responded, “Imagine ziko tu hapo backseat penye ulikuwa umekaa.”

“OK, sawa, wacha nizichukue Sato nikirudi”

“Utanitafuta kwa hiyo namba yangu.”

There I was, with about one more hour before boarding and now with no computer and no music.  I went through another denial before I accepted that this was just not my day.  Nonetheless, I still managed to enjoy my solitude at the lounge as I waited for the boarding at gate 2.  The call to board came at about 1430, and it was not until 1455 that we took off.  The ride on the Bombardier dash 8 Q400 was smoother than I thought.  I had underrated the stability and performance of the 78-seater that was full to capacity, but it did not disappoint.  It flew quite smoothly… and fast, since it was not long before the landing announcement was made, and we surely touched down 40-minutes later.

The city

The city of Kisumu was not as hot as I have come to know it to be.  I even kept my jacket on as the slight chill crept in.  I checked out and soon got a Bolt taxi, which was to take me to Mamboleo, where I was to find out where my residential apartment was.  I had booked in on Airbnb and was a bit apprehensive.  I had previously booked an unknown residence in Mombasa using another app, Booking, but it had turned out well.  I even paid after checking in on that app.  However, Airbnb was different.  You prepay and face the consequences of cancellation or dislike of the residence with your money gone.  

While I paid Booking in Kenya shillings upon check in, Airbnb charged me in USD in advance.  My credit card was even blocked for a while due to ‘suspicious transaction to unrecognized merchant in dollar currency’, courtesy my bank.  Of course, paying in dollars has that additional pain of conversion to Kenya shillings which the banks take advantage of, and charge an extra 10% in currency exchange advantage to themselves.  I knew that with an exchange rate averaging 108 to the dollar, the bank was going to milk me dry with an exchange rate of about 120 to the dollar for this transaction.  That was last week.  I was now at the present moment.  I was relying on the good nature of vendors on cyberspace to make this accommodation work.  My money was gone and I now hoped that I would get the goods.

The taxi dropped me near a landmark called Makuti.  I started walking toward the direction where the residence was meant to be, based on a map that I had seen online.  It did not take long before I got to a crossroad.  From there, all buildings looked like the place I was to be going to.  I was lost, hardly five minutes into my stroll in the unknown geography.  The owner of the apartment had been kind enough to provide the number of the caretaker, in response to my request for information while I was still in the Bolt taxi.

With two bags in hand, I called the number that was provided.

“Mano ng’a?  Iwacho nade?,” I heard a faint blubber on the other end of the line.

“Si hapo ni kwa nyumba za Dina apartments?”

“Mimi apana jua wewe nani.  Nani nasema we napiga hii namba yangu yawa!”

“Nili ambiwa wewe in caretaker wa nyumba penye nakuja kuishi”

“Ohhhhh, sasa mimi najua hiyo mambo sasa.  Wewe nakuja tu hapo mbele tu.  Kuja tu mpaka taona tu nyumba”

For crying out loud!  I am already at a cross road and lost!

It would take more negotiations and more phone calls before I finally got the direction and had to be stranded in the middle of the bad road for over five-minutes waiting for the caretaker to trace and show me the way.  It was not far from where I was, just like two rows of houses away.  He opened the door of House 2 on the ground floor of a compound that had one story block, with two floors.  He then handed me the key.

I got in and looked around.  It was just past 4.30pm.  The evening meeting in town was scheduled for six.  I wanted to settled down, take a shower, then be ready for the travel to town.  I wanted to catch up with the half-hour news headlines on AJZ and approached the TV table to try switch it on.  It was not responding, despite pressing the remote-control buttons.  A quick observation revealed to me that the power extender was not connected, and the TV power cable affixed to that extender was therefore not powered.

I would soon notice that the power extender had burnt and disconnected cables just next to the plug.  I sent a message about this to the owner on WhatsApp and also called the caretaker.  The caretaker came in, looked at the extender cable, confirmed that it was surely spoilt, and left without a word.  I was just about to give up on him, when the metallic door was knocked once more and the caretaker and some other young lady matched in.  They both looked at the extender and confirmed that it was not working, just as I had told them.  Is it that they did not believe me?  The cable was visibly burnt and cut at the plug!  They both left soon after without much solution.

It was hardly five minutes later when there was another knock on the door.

“That was fast!,” I commented, as I opened the door and walked back in, even without looking back.

I did not hear any footsteps following me.  They had decided not to get in?  I walked back to the door and looked outside.  I saw a hand stretched in my direction with a brownish plastic cup.  On the other side of the hand of the body of a young man, with another hand holding a phone.  He continued talking.  Balancing the phone with one hand on one ear, while holding the cup in my direction.

Now I am convinced that men cannot do two things at a time.

“Manze huyo dem alini con chapaa.  Nilimtumia ka empesa ata anichapie, lakini manze… hebu ngoja…,” he took a pause and looked at me while shaking the cup.

“Si unishow ka-salt kiasi”

Ni-what?

Luckily, I had already surveyed the house and had noted that there was some salt already in the upper kitchen cabinet.  I got the jar from the kitchen and came back with a spoon.  I scooped a tablespoonful and poured into the cup.  The person had resumed his con-story on the phone with whoever-was-on-the-other-side-of-the-phone.  He paused again and whispered in my direction, “Ongeza kiasi”

I would soon shower and momentarily leave for town without a replacement power extender adaptor.  I was back around nine after the preparatory meeting.  The caretaker would join me as I opened the door to hand over a new power extension cable.  I thought that I would make up for lost time by watching Euro 2000 football matches live on the big 43-inch TV.  But that was not to be, since the IPTV did not have a leeway of getting onto an online site that was screening the matches.  What happened to good old satellite TV where one watches Supersport channels to see real games?  Now guests are left to their devices to look through websites that show nothing?  What a waste of 43-inches!  I went to bed early and disappointed.

Good ending

Thursday was the first day of the seminar at the middle of Kisumu city.  The seminar well so well despite our misgivings and feeling of not having prepared enough, a feeling that most organizers will always have at most workshop.  I was now thanking the participants for a good day that was now culminating into a good ending, as we plan for yet another day to finalize our business.  I had just asked the team of twenty or so to stand up for the final benediction when I was called aside by one of the organizers in my team.  I left the participants on standing and waiting mode, and excused myself from the podium section.

Soon the six coordinators were in deep discussion at a side with hardly audible whispers.  Soon the prayer would be done and all participants asked to remain seated for five minutes to be updated on a new development.  And it was new indeed.  The city of Kisumu, and many other western Kenya counties had just been locked down starting Friday, June 19.  In a presidential directive and subsequently on Government gazette aka the law, Kisumu and others would be on curfew from seven in the evening to four in the morning.  This was in response to the new strain (strain delta) of COVID19 that had hit the western part of Kenya hard.  

But that was not why the participants were seated and waiting for five minutes.  All in-person meetings had been banned with immediate effect, among other stringent containment measures, that included travel in and out of the locked down zone being ‘discouraged’ according to official presidential speech, and ‘banned’, according to several sources that were interpreting the speech.  It was the painful announcement that was quickly crafted by the six of us that brought the participants to their senses at the end of the five minutes of waiting.  The seminar was being cut short.  All had to clear and go back to their homes the next day, instead of Saturday.  There was chatter around the hall as participants were caught off guard.  What had to be done had to be done.

I was back to the apartment by seven.  I was just preparing to take a shower after watching the news on the IPTV, where I had realized that I had to get a Youtube stream first, when the house become dark momentarily.  There was a power fail.  However, the outside was a bit too bright.  I thought that maybe it was just my place without power and hence had to walk out all the way to the gate of the one block compound.  I saw the security lights on the walls of the block being on, and confirmed with the caretaker who was also on security duties at the gate, that the security lights were solar powered and for sure there was a blackout.

The power was back at about eight.  I was just heading for the shower when I saw a giant roach on the floor.  The apartment has so far proved to be worthy of a stay.  It was one bedroom with a well-equipped kitchen.  A gas-electric cooker was ready and waiting.  A microwave oven, electric jug and toaster graced the kitchen counters on one side.  The other side of the kitchen had a fridge behind the kitchen door, then the washing sink, then drying rack.  The cooker was directly in front of the kitchen door.  On top of the cooker was an overhang cabinet, where that salt container of yesterday was kept.

Opposite the kitchen was a handwashing area then the door to the shower and toilet as one room.  Adjoining the shower was the bedroom with its door facing the sitting room.  The sitting room was simply furnished and tasty.  A large couch covered almost one whole side of the wall, facing the TV table, which was on the wall of the bedroom.  The middle of the room had a small coffee table.  One side of the sitting room had the kitchen, with a sliding window to pass through anything between kitchen and living room.  On the other side of the room, to the left while seated on the couch, was a metallic door that had been welded shut and a window next to it.

The bedroom had a wardrobe that had three hangers, a graying bedcover that was once-upon-a-time a white one, and an extra black pillow.  Below the single shelf on the wardrobe was an iron box placed on the floor.  Next to it was a mosquito net that was not in use, since the bed that covered most of the room already had four metallic stands with a mosquito net strewn around it.  One end of the room had a window.

The house was generally in good condition and must have been newish.  My guess was that it had not existed for more than a year or two.  The finishing however left a lot to be desired, such as paint specs on the sink, exposed tile junctions, door fixtures that left gaps between wall and frame, and flaked paint areas on the walls.  These were however minor issues to interfere with one’s stay.  However, that giant roach could disturb your peace.  I saw it crawling like a big rat towards the lower part of the TV cabinet.  I was just about to through a slipper in its direction when the power went off again.

I was stuck in the dark a second time in hardly thirty minutes, with the lucky roach taking the opportunity to slip away in the dark to an unknown place.  I had previously attempted to take a shower twice, and each one had been curtailed by failed power.  This time I was not taking any more chances.  I was jumping into that shower the moment the first second of electricity comes back to the block.  That is exactly what I did at about nine when power was back, though that did not give me any advantage since the power stayed stable from that point on.

Kafu

I was in town early on Friday to assist the organizers clear the participants, a process that took most morning, ending at lunch break when participants took their lunch as they departed.  I remained at the hotel for another two hours to assist in the accounting, before finally leaving for home at four.  I took a walk from Mamboleo to Kondele at about five, just to stretch my legs and buy some provisions.  I walked back the three kilometres just before the curfew kicked in.

The night was uneventful and the Saturday was quiet as I prepared to leave the city of Kisumu to travel back to the other city.  I was still watching an Axel F movie from a flash disk when someone knocked the metallic door.  It was hardly eleven.  Did they want to see me out already?  The checkout was one for crying out loud!  I went to the door and opened it.  It was the caretaker.

“Mi nakuja ochukue ndoo”

“Ndoo?”

“Ndio, sisi anaweka ndoo hapa jokon”

“Sawa, ingia uangalie”

He got into the kitchen, ransacked the cabinets and extracted a bucket from under the kitchen sink.

The two hours of relaxion were soon gone and I had to leave.  I once again walked to Kondele after checking out of the apartment, then another kilometer ahead to Kibuye.  From there I took a taxi to the airport ready for the evening flight back to the city.  At the airport we were directed to an online link for filling-in traveler details for contact tracing.  This COVID thing that had caused the lockdown and ‘kafu’ was surely a serious thing.  With 179,238,929 infections and 3,881,434 deaths globally, and 179,075 infections and 3,456 deaths locally*, this COVID thing was rearing its ugly head again and any initiative to stop it on its track was worth the effort.

*source: worldometers website

However, efforts such as filling in an online form in Kisumu and being stuck in Nairobi airport because ‘the system’ did not update the record is not worthwhile.  The authorities should test and confirm that a system works before they blame travelers for the failure of the system.  Maybe they should have just resorted to use of paper forms as we did when we got to Kisumu on Wednesday.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Sunday, June 20, 2021

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