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

When Thursday is Friday

When Thursday is Friday

I would have to miss my Friday run and I was not happy about it.  However, what must be done must be done, and on this Friday the ‘what must be done’ was to get back to Huduma centre, three weeks later to confirm if the new smart DL was ready.  It was on such a Friday, three weeks ago, that I was spending my whole morning at the centre, to initiate the renewal and migration process.  Renewal because the license had expired, and migration because I had to get the new smart card size chip card that is the new license to replace the ‘red book’.

I was therefore forcing myself onto a Friday run on Thursday.  I would have preferred to have the Friday run on Friday as expected, but the Huduma appointment was just too important for even the usual Friday run appointment.  Occasionally, Thursdays are Fridays in the world of marathons, and the Thursday’s Friday run became a reality on this Thursday.  I was still tired from the Monday 25k, but the Friday was already here, one day earlier, and I just had to do this.

This Thursday run would be the good old ‘new normal’.  I was now used to this old ‘new route’ from Eldy town to Kipkenyo centre and back.  When back, I would add the Langas (Kisumu Ndogo) loop to make the run complete.  This run turned out to be heavier on my legs than usual.  I was hardly surviving the run.  While I did an ‘under 5min per km’ on Monday hardly three days ago, I was sure that I would even be do a ‘6min per km’ on this Thursday.  That would still be very OK with me.  I was just too tired and wanted to get this Thursday-Friday run done with.

After about 1hr and 40 minutes, I was emerging from the Langas road to join the Kapsabet-Eldy road to head towards town.  I would soon be through with the run.  The weather was unusually hot.  It has not rained for three days, after a streak of about a week of daily rains.  I was sweating profusely.  The air seemed humid and I laboured to get a full chest intake of air.  I however persisted since the run would soon be over.  I would momentarily run past Eldoret Poly that was on the opposite side of the road.  I kept my run towards town, with the vehicles to town alongside my run route, just to my right.  They overtook me, but I kept going.

After about five minutes on the highway, I would see the imposing white story building that houses Khetia supermarket just ahead, across Sosiani river.  I would have reached that mart just across the river, some two hundred metres after the river had I continued on with the main tarmac.  I would instead turn left just before the river.  I would then take another left turn for the road towards my finish line.  I was just glad to have finished the run.  I was shocked that I was actually on a 5min 14sec average pace.  I was sure I was on the six-ish range.  That was still fast over the 24k route.  However, on this day, I was just glad that I was through with the second and last run of the week.  Phew!  No more runs until next week.

Looking ahead, I still had that Friday appointment with Huduma that I was not looking forward to.  And I had hardly had any rest before it was a Friday already and I found myself on the Huduma queue at 7.30am.  I had thought that I was early, but I ended up being about the fortieth person on the ‘NTSA’ queue.  It seemed that this queue had created a reputation of its own, since it was now secluded for ‘licenses’ only, out of the over twenty services available at the centre.  Other people who wanted to get other services had their own single queue.  On this day, this ‘other queue’ for all ‘other services’ had less than ten people.  Our own queue kept growing with over thirty people behind me.  Long and short queue, we all waited for the doors of the Post Office that house the centre to open at eight.

At eight the doors did open and we started streaming into the internal of the building, in batches of ten.  The ‘system’ must have been working well on this day, since I was inside the building at 8.30am, to now face the internal queue.  I was not in any hurry with the service.  I was here to stay even upto midnight, provided the service was on offer.  My fingers were now just crossed over this ‘system’ issue.  Hoping that it would decide to continue behaving.  So far, so good.

There was nothing noteworthy in the collection of the ATM card sized license.  Just hand over your national ID, scan your index finger, sign a register, repeat telling them your phone number, which is already on the register and also on the system that they are using anyway, then off you go with your two cards that they would have handed back to you.  Simple!  Why it takes forever still beats me!

I left the centre at ten-thirty.  That was a record.  On this day, I was facing almost similar settings to those that were prevalent some three weeks ago, when I spent two more hours.  Maybe things are changing for the better.  I sure did hope so.  Maybe it was that threat of dissolution of ‘the government’ and the very possibility that we shall in 90-days be in similar queues to re-elect a ‘new government’?  Whatever it was that was making service faster, should surely continue being there.  However, it was not all rosy inside the centre.  We observed as four or five ‘strange’ people jumped the queue and got served ahead of our waiting group.  These ‘jumpers’ would normally be brought in by the soldier man with the big gun hang on his shoulders.  Dare you say?  Well, that is life, but our patient eventually paid off.

I walked back home with lots of questions.  I still did not get the rationale of change of licenses from ‘red book’ to ‘ATM’ aka smart DL.  Was it just to make us queue?  And part with 3k?  I still did not see its real value even as I examined its information, which was just similar to what is on the national ID.  Didn’t one of the people on the queue even state that we shall be renewing this card every three years?  Facing the same pay-queue-apply-queue-collect cycle?  What is the obsession with ‘new’ cards?  Do not even remind me that we still have the Huduma number card still pending.  The very card that was supposed to ‘consume’ all cards into a single universal card.  Yes, the Huduma number of June last year, that was to have been issued by August…. last year.

I would have been able to still do the Friday run on schedule after all, since I was through with Huduma in very good time and could have been ready and available for the mid-day run.  Anyway, what is done is done and that Friday run on Thursday was still hurting my feet on this day.  It still counted as Friday run for that reason.

“Ooopppssss!,” I exclaimed, hardly one hour after thinking about the possibility of the run.  

It was already drizzling.  The drizzles would soon turn into a heavy rain.  It was torrential by one.  I was now glad that I did not do my run on this Friday.  It could have been the most messed up run of the month.  But things would get worse.  The rain persisted all through the afternoon all the way into the night.  It was still raining by eleven.  At this rate it would probably rain throughout the night.  

So as the rain continued in the background, I could not help but just sit around and get some current affairs going.  I would hear that we are soon coming to the ‘end of Corona’, with schools set to re-open next month.  It was now forgone that life would have to go on despite any prevailing circumstances.  The circumstances of which included the fact that worldwide COVID-19 infections now stood at 32,695,693 with 991,661 fatalities and 24,096,953 recoveries.  In Kenya, we would have to live our lives as normally as possible despite 37,707 infections, 682 fatalities and 24,504 recoveries.  Life continues.

WWB, Eldy, Kenya, Friday, September 25, 2020

Running…. until you are broke

Running…. until you are broke

“Are you happy?”

My eyes had been on that sign since I left the city.  The sign was affixed on the top panel above the two large windshields of the Easy Coach bus.  I was seated on 4B, the fourth-row seat, isle side.  Below the sign was a telephone number after the word ‘SMS’.  

I assumed that it was a ‘happiness’ number.  There seemed to be no ‘sadness’ number.  I had no happiness to report.  I had an ‘otherwise’ to report.  The fare had been hiked from the usual 1250/= to 1350/= despite my booking a month in advance.  The bus that was to leave the city at 8.30am was leaving at 11.00am.  

The closest we got to an apology was a megaphone announcement that, “Basi letu leo anachelewa sababu ya mbua.  Lakini yeye anakuja tu.  Apana choka.”

Why should our plans be disrupted by the rains that we have no control over?  The very rains that have been forecast over time, including that it would be raining over this weekend culminating into this Tuesday, the December 24?  What surprise was there that it was raining?  This is what we expected!

“Excuses!,” I found myself murmuring even as that announcement was repeated.  

The morning rains had flooded the bus station.  The additional showers around nine did not help matters.  The station was filthy.  Dirty!  Muddy!  Slippery!  An eyesore.  Unpaved.  Dirty, with specs of rubbish seen on the various water puddles, which dominated the available spaces.  

Every step around the station, as one walked around upto the boarding time, subjected us to a forced walk through the muddy filth.

“We deserve better!,” I cried out loud as I got into the bus with shoes full of mud.

The journey would thereafter be smooth, though slow due to the jam-packed roads.  We generally faced a queue of vehicles from Nairobi to Nakuru.  But I am assuming so, since I only witnessed the traffic jam from city centre towards Westlands, and was completely knocked out by the consistent persuasion of sleep from the warmth in the bus, made worse by the slow soothing vibrations of the movement.  I found myself in Nakuru at three.

“Four hours to Nakuru is a joke!,” I yawned as I disembarked at the Nakuru petrol station where the coaches stopover for a thirty-minute break.  Another three and a half hours of travel would bring me to Eldoret for my first stop of the journey.

Early morning

A taxi carried me through the short five-minute journey to Eldoret bus stage.  I immediately got into the 7-seater matatu as the fourth passenger at about five-ten.  I paid a fare of five hundred for the short 140-kilometer journey.  The vehicle would leave Eldoret stage immediately thereafter with three seats still empty. 

“No way!,” I made a mental observation.

But I would be vindicated as the matatu would make three stops along the way to pick up three passengers.  One near Eldoret airport, one at Mosoriot and a final person at Kapsabet.

The early morning travel was smooth, on roads that were virtually free of traffic.  But this would not last forever.  We soon got to the worst road in Kenya, the Kakamega road just near Migosi junction as you get to Kisumu town.  The road has been ‘destroyed’ for construction with no alternative road for vehicles!  Vehicles have to find their own way through the half kilometer of total chaos of no road and no rules!

“We deserve better,” I do another cry out loud as the matatu bumps us up and down so violently that I feel the pain with every hit onto the seat.  I alight at Kisumu stage just past seven.

I was heading to my rural home.  From Eldoret I had three options to get home.  Go to Bungoma, then Mumias, then Butere, then Manyulia my local market.  After that, a four-kilometer walk would get me home to Diriko village.  That route would mean a change of three vehicles, all unreliable in terms of availability and timeliness.  

The second option would be to travel first to Kakamega, then Butere, then Manyulia.  This alternative would also suffer the same uncertainty as the first option, probably worse due to relatively low number of travelers on the route.  And… and these matatus ‘insist’ on being full to capacity before departing from the station.  You can wait a whole day for the 14-seater to get fourteen passengers.  

The third option was what I was taking on this Friday morning.  Get to Kisumu, which is quite a busy route from Eldy, then use the Busia road from Kisumu, another busy road.  Alight at the local market of Dudi, walk the five kilometers and you are home!  I was soon home after paying another 250/= from Kisumu.

“Robbers!,” I lament over the fare for this 50km distance.

Now I had landed at the locality.  I was at the hood – and the hood does not come cheap!

“Brother!,” someone draws my attention from across the road, as I alight and cross the tarmac to get to the market side of the road, ready for my walk home.

“Eh!, Hi there yourself!?,” I respond, trying to figure out this relative.

“I must take you home.  I am happy that you have brought skuku,” he zooms his bike to my direction, where I have now already crossed the road.  

He has just beaten another three or so bike people, who were drawing my attention.

“But I intended to walk!,” I think of saying that to him.  I find myself being polite instead, “Eh!, Ok.  Lets go!”

It hardly takes ten minutes on the motorbike to traverse the five kilometers.

“How much?”

“Brother!  You have brought skuku.  Just pay me anything!”

Now, how do you pay someone whom you have brought ‘skuku’ to?  The normal fare, which is already too inflated in my view, for the 5k distance, is one hundred shillings.  Now you see why I had wanted to just walk this short forty-five-minute walk?  As I see the greenery and admire the good scenery?

I end up paying two hundred shillings.

I am seated under the mango tree, my favourite spot in the homestead, savouring the refreshing air on the very tranquil environment.  The place is so green, that this is the only colour that you see all the way to the horizon.  Civilization has hardly hit.  No tall structures.  No big houses.  No big roads.  No vehicular traffic – just an occasional disturbance of the stillness by the sound of a motorbike, which is still few and far between.

“My dad has come!,” I hear an exclamation coming from the direction of the main gate to the compound.  The homestead is generally on the upper part of a hilly terrain.  I am able to observe, and be observed, by anyone coming from the lower side of the compound, while seated at the shade of the mango tree.

The person gets to the mango tree.  We exchange greetings.  He pulls a seat and we are soon in conversation.  I know him from childhood.  He is a distant relation.  Our association must be in the great-great-great grandfather level.

“Now dad, I have to leave,” he finally declares after ten minutes or so.

“That soon?.  Ok, I am just around.  See you soon.”

“Yes, but, dad, I need skuku.  You just know how home is.  I am happy that you have brought skuku.”

I part with a red.

“You mean my brother is here!”

We are both interrupted by this call that comes from behind the main house, in a compound that has nine houses.  Someone has accessed the compound from the fence behind the main house that faces directly towards the main gate.  He has just managed to see what has just happened.

“My brother!,” he shouts animatedly upon his approach.  

I am still seated, while ‘my son’ is standing, bank note in hand ready to depart.

“Oh, brother!  You cannot leave me without skuku!  Thank God you came.  Just ka fegi tu is all I need.”

I end up with another one hundred gone, as the two leave me and walk together down towards the gate.  They are on top of the world.  Father and son walk off.  My brother and his son walk off.  They are of course not related in the nuclear setting – maybe six generations is what you need to dig through before you can connect.

I have soon had enough rest and decide to check out the neighbourhood.  I do not walk more than five minutes before I meet a random person on the road.

“Fadhe you know me!?  Karibu nyumbani!  Eh, fadhe, good to see you at shags.”

I am still processing this stranger.  I cannot place him.

“Of course, my nephew!,” I extend a hand.  I have no recollection.  I cannot force memory.

We stop in the middle of the deserted footpath.

“Fadhe, uwezi niacha hivo.  Ka skuku hivi.  Ka mozo tu!”

I part with one hundred as we say our goodbyes.

I am back home one hour later.  I ask the young ones to get me some sugarcane.  This is the fun part of being in the hood – the natural delicacies.  The young ones have not even had a chance to start their walk towards the gate, when they are stopped on their tracks.

“Uncle, did you say you want sugarcane?  Why did you not just say so?”

I am taken aback.  I see the new person who has just emerged from the next compound having crossed over the fence.

We exchange greetings.  He soon arranges for some two sticks of sugarcane that are delivered in record time, just from the next compound.

“Uncle,” he starts, as I break a piece from the long stave with my knee and start on my chewing, “Aki Uncle, thank God you came.  Sasa skuku ni aje!”

I appreciate the sugarcane and his efforts with two hundred shillings.

I sleep exhausted.

I am woken up at four when the exposed roof iron sheets start being hit by the rains.  It starts with single drumming that are far between, then intensifies as the drops hit the iron.  It is a complete drumming from the roof in less than five minutes.  The drumming gets louder as the rain intensifies.  Soon it is so loud from the roof that there is nothing to do but get back to sleep through the noise.  The noise is soon in the background of the sleep and I enjoy the last moments of sleep and wake up when the rain subsides at eight on this Saturday morning.

I get out of the house to find my uncle waiting.  I do not expect him to be seeing me, if anything, I should be visiting him.

“My nephew!”

“Oh! Uncle!,” I say while rubbing the morning sleep from the rainy night.

“I just had to see you when I was told you are around.  I have not seen you for a year!”

“Not intentional, just many things have been happening.”

“Have you really been in Kenya this year?”

How did he know?

“I have,” I economize the truth, and change the subject.

It is not long before he begs to leave.  I offer to escort him.  His place is less than three kilometres away.  We keep chatting.  He soon offers nuggets of reality.

“You still remember that I am your uncle, right?”

“Right, of course,” I respond in truth.  I used to pass by my grandmother’s place almost daily during my primary school days, many years ago.  Her homestead was located on my way from school.  That woman loved me to the core.  She had lost her daughter when I was still eight.  She told me that I was the closest thing to her daughter and that she wanted to keep her memory.  Fond memories passed through, but I was back to the moment.

“If my sister had killed my mother at childbirth, then I could not have been born.  You know that, right?”

“I know,” I respond as we keep walking.

“And you know that you remind me my sister, who left you while you were still young, right?”

“Sure uncle,” I say as we keep walking.

What is this turning into?  Twenty-one questions?

“So never forget me, even at this skuku time!”

I find myself handing over a wad of notes.

Being a Saturday, there is nothing much to do as most of the folks are gone to church and normalcy would return past one when church ends.  I seat in my house listening to the iron-sheets make that clang sound as they expanded slowly with the burning sun.  The clang would go on for over an hour as the iron adjusts to its new size.  The sound is just magical.  This clang would be repeated in the evening when the sun goes down and the sheets have to contract back to their restful size.

I was observing the big gaping hole on the wall of one of the inner rooms.  This hole was caused by those damn termites.  The same nitwits whose mound I had just cleared the previous evening and had by now, one day later, created a similar big mound just overnight!  

It is not long before my neighbor from next compound joins me in the house to discuss this particular termite predicament.

“Imagine the termites have rebuilt!  Hata kama ndio bidii kama ya mchwa!,” I show him the fresh mound that is covering almost half of the hole on the wall.  This hole was created by the same wretched termites in the first place.  The very termites that ate through that very wall, with successive attempts to remove them resulting into the wall being cut through.

“Ah, hizo!  Usijali, we already killed the queen.  These are just the remnant soldiers trying to re-establish a colony, but they are useless,” he examines the insects at work, then continues, “Kesho nitamwaga dawa ukitoka.  The dawa is so pungent.  You cannot stay around when I pour in the mixture.”

“You killed the queen?”

“Of course!  We found the source to be somewhere in the farm and dug it out,” he pointed to the adjacent farmland, just past the house, “It sure was the queen.  Even Ken, your nephew, actually fried it and ate it!”

We would chat about this and that and he would finally take his leave.

“For that additional dawa, you shall part with some one-thao.  That should do it.  Alafu siunajua tu ni skuku!”

On Sunday I was at Dudi stage, hardly with any fare to get me back to Nairobi.  I would have to call someone to ‘beg’ for fare back!  I had just participated in one of the most expensive runs in the year!

WWB, the Coach, 30-Dec-2019