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

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

Which day is this?

Which day is this?

Cold

I could not even step out of the house.  My head was aching.  My eyes were painful.  Any shred of incoming light contributed to the increase in pain deep inside the head.  My throat was all croaky and it was becoming increasingly difficult to talk.  My nose was painful too.  Mostly from the friction caused by the continued use of tissue paper.  Every sneeze hit the middle of my brain like thunder, causing paint to then spread to the rest of my body.  I was on ‘natural’ therapy though – hot water, occasionally adulterated with juice from squeezed lemon or …. cayenne pepper – this latter one was a first one.  Lacing with some honey made the concoction drinkable.

This was an anti-climax to an end of year season that had run quite smoothly from that Friday, Dec. 22nd when I travelled from the city by a 8.30am bus, which left the city at 10.30am, to the south rift town of Eldoret.  I had booked this particular bus early December, just at the nick of time.  I thought I had all the time in the world, but I somehow managed to get the very last seat available when I booked on Dec. 5.  This type of calculation guided my decision to book my bus back for Jan. 2 the very moment I landed in Eldy.  

The four-day long weekend was quite something.  I found myself at the bus stage early Sunday morning for a trip to my roots in Diriko village.  To get there one either approaches from Kakamega then Mumias then Butere, then a final vehicle to Manyulia.  Alternatively, you get to Kisumu and take the Busia road, then alight at Dudi.  After either of these stops, you face a 5km walk to my home – which is equidistant between these markets.  These days the okada, sorry, boda boda motorbikes have taken over the walk and we no longer have the good fortune of having the walk as the only alternative.  People are getting lazy… but not me, since I alighted at Dudi and took the walk despite the bodas scrambling for me.

Makanga

Before this particular walk, I had woken up at four-thirty and got a taxi at five to take me to the Eldy matatu stage.  I was lucky to get the very first 8-seater mini-matatu headed to Kisumu via Kapsabet.  While the normal fare is usually 500, that morning the makanga had ‘decided’ to increase it to 700 in the ‘spirit of Christmas’.  But that is where the first drama of the day started.  The makanga had apparently been so casual about this increase in fare.

“Hawa watu watalipa soo saba, au washuke,” he had declared just when the matatu was now full and we were waiting for what next.

The passengers started murmuring immediately, “Mia saba kitu gani.  Fare ni soo tano,” one started.

“True, we cannot pay 700.  Why should we?,” another asked.

The evidently drunk makanga then momentarily came for the money.  He flicked a finger to the first passenger, among the two seated on the first class, next to the driver.  They did not respond.

The makanga opened their door, “Shukeni,” he greeted them.

None of the two ladies made any move.  The infant they were carrying stirred and went back to sleep.  I was seated on second class, on the seat just behind the driver.

The makanga flicked his fingers pointed to the three of us.  None of us responded.

“Shukeni,” he commanded.  Then started throwing tantrums to the air of the otherwise quiet morning.

“Watu wa kusafiri ni wengi, na hawa abiria wa kisirani hawataki kulipa,” he shouted to the still air, “Aki ya Mungu lazima watalipa soo saba.  Hata wakicheza watalipa ngiri saa hii”

Loose

That is when the first round of hell broke loose.  The passenger who was all English, and seated to my right asked me to excuse him so that he can go out for a moment.  That is after the passenger on my left had also momentarily left.

“Who is this thug demanding for money,” the disembarked colleague asked, “Why is he being rude?.  We people have money and can even pay the one thousand.  I am just from drinking ten thousand.  What does this animal think it is?”

Soon it was the whole full matatu against the makanga, who was also not sober enough to take anything lying down.  Our matatu become the centre of attraction for a good ten minutes as insults, some quite big, were thrown left, right and centre.  When the driver finally salvaged the situation by asking all to get in and then took off, the still morning air had been substantially polluted with quite unprintable words.  We ended up paying 700 to the driver, who landed us in Kisumu at 8.30am.  Another matatu charged me double, 250/=, to get me to Dudi in about an hour.

No run

I was stuffing delicacies around two with my in-laws who had come to once again brought a token to the family as a result of my elder sister.  In the preambles I re-learned that there was no end to payment of bride price and it continues literally for ever.  My elder brother was also there.

“Thanks for the two animals.  However, let this not be the end, but just the continuation of what we expect.”

I was back to south rift in high spirits and the festivities were quite good, only that I did not come along with my running gear and felt quite bad seeing the many great run routes that I could have exploited.  

The good season was however not meant to last forever when I woke up on a Sunday morning with a slight headache and a blocked nose.  Twenty-hours later sees me here taking uncountable cups of water and other concoctions.  I have just switched on the phone at mid-day when I see several messages of the same tone…

“Happy New Year 2018”

WWB The Marathoner, Eldoret Kenya, January 1, 2018

Western Kenya run, ignore rumours about the Muliro gardens

Western Kenya run, ignore rumours about the Muliro gardens
Nairobi, Kenya, March 20, 2011


We run – in every town
The 2011 run season started nine weeks ago. When I started the countdown with my running team on January 17, I did not know that time will run so fast, and that by the time am updating the blog some events would have shaped the course of our calendar in the year.

I just received invitation to participate, with my team, in the inaugural Kakamega Marathon 2011. This run was bound to happen sooner than later. This is because the trend in Kenya over the last three years has been to hold specific town runs to commemorate a particular aspect of the town, mostly conservational related issues. In this light, we have had the Nyeri marathon to conserve Mt. Kenya, the Nyahururu marathon to conserve the rivers that serve the central highlands, Eldoret marathon to celebrate our great rift valley and conserve it and the Nakuru and Naivasha marathons to conserve these lakes. We have even had the Mombasa marathon sensitizing residents of the need for a cleaner ocean and beachfront. The Kisumu City marathon educates participants on importance of conserving the Lake Victoria and encourages East African cooperation since the water mass connects the three countries. The Nairobi marathon remains the unique one – this one is for conservation of the eye sight!

Photos
I champion the interest of those interested in armature running. I would therefore encourage participation in any runs within and outside our country. It is this quest that has made me consider this forthcoming event. The Kakamega marathon happens this year in June. The initiative is spearheaded by Masinde Muliro University. The combination of the town and the institution has not resonated well in the past three weeks. This is after some x-rated photos made their way onto the net, purported to have been taken at Kakamega's Masinde Muliro Gardens, with some of the characters being claimed to be institutional students. The late Masinde Muliro was a freedom fighter and Kenyan hero, who hailed from the Western Kenya region. The gardens and the institution, both situated in the town, are named in his honour.

Since the showing of these pictures took a national dimension with all major news players in the country making it a headline, I knew that my task of championing the KK marathon would be hard, unless I did something about the news. Friends (and some haters) have even called me to state that, “You lunje's are very hyper! You go around getting it on the public park in broad daylight – wapende wasipende”

Let me therefore dispense with the matter of the photos so that we can go on with our lives. I have monitored several conversations on this topic and pointed out issues that contributors ignored in their commentary and outright harsh judgment. Having spent more than four continuous years in the town of KK, I know quite a lot about the town. Subsequently, the student loan scheme forced me to this town at least twice every year for another five years. I still pass by this town at least twice when visiting folks in that region. I have also handled a camera for quite a long time, starting with the manual film strip type, to the digital ones. I still like the feel and sharpness of a Fujifilm. A Canon that I used sometime mid-last year was also quite something, especially on daylight conditions. The Sony remains the popular and easier one to handle though.

Ten reasons
Let me start with a disclaimer that I do not support indecent exposure and public nudity. I believe that private matters should be kept private. Nonetheless, contrary to popular belief, the photos were fake and stage-managed to give KK town bad publicity. Ten reasons why you should not believe the stories behind the photos:
1. Why do we believe that the bench is located at the gardens in KK? It could be any bench anywhere. (I know there is a similar bench at Muliro Gardens, but is it the same? Currently someone is collecting 20/= for those willing to see this particular bench! Wasn’t this a script to collect money eventually?)

2. The actors were just that, actors. You can deduce this from their many actions (or lack of). You can clearly see that in some instances they seemed to be asking for direction on how to pose.

3. The hidden photographer concept is deliberately propagated. The location suggests that the camera is straight ahead, probably on steady hands (or a tripod). The photos are taken with a zoom setting with a clarity that suggests about 10-15m max. The camera is placed at eye level, about 1.5-2m above ground.

4. The photos posted on the internet were basically random, ignoring the order of how they were taken. This has caused quite some debate on 'taking yoghurt before' vis-a-vis 'taking after'. If one bothered to put the photos in the order of their being taken, then you would know that they were following a script.

5. There was no evidence of any action. Nudity is portrayed, but that is all – the rest is just taking of poses as instructed by the director.

6. Why did the news hit the media in March, when the photos were taken in December and January? Isn't news supposed to be 'news'?

7. The photos did not attempt to conceal the digital markers. So unless the photographer or the person processing is a digital guru, we know the model of the equipment used is a Sony DSC-W120, a fairly common armature equipment. The setting were mostly 3M auto, which affected some focal settings and hence the tint on some images. (A W120 is a 7.2mp camera at maximum setting, with a 2x digital zoom. Am a regular user of the superior W130, which is a 8.1mp and 4x zoom)

8. I have been told on my face that the actors are lunje's. Can you just know someone's tribe by looking at a photo? Isn't that too much of a generalization? Even the stereotyping of our gals was not considered when this generalization was being made!

9. I have already talked about the order in which the photos were taken. If you were to zero into the timing, then you shall have quite some food for thought. Some sequences are taken within a minute. Some change of position/posture could not happen in the time span. By the way, the police scene, that is mostly misjudged, needs to be taken in perspective. The action occurs first before the police meets the couple. It is not the other way round. So, if the police meet two people standing in a garden, what are they supposed to do? Charge them with 'prior action'? (And while at it, this was in December)

10. Lastly, why should we be bothered with consenting adults having their thing wherever they want, at whatever time they want to? They can record the sights and sounds if they so wish! My only discontent is the broadcasting of the material without the consent of the actors, and the subsequent passing of judgment.

Lets just run
The invitation for the Kakamega marathon 2011 was forwarded to my mailbox by one of the members of my running team. It is a run worth considering. It gives members of my running team, and anyone else the opportunity to not only participate in an endurance run, but also sample the scenery of the western Kenya circuit. This part of Kenya is predominantly agricultural, green most of the year and rainy throughout the seasons. The main cash crop is sugar cane, with major sugar factories located in Mumias and Nzoia. The people are quite friendly, the boda boda bicycle taxi concept has some roots in the region, while the mondia is quite a popular thing. I have deliberately left out the origin of the chicken as we know it, but that is for your finding out.

The details of this event are:
Host – Masinde Murilo University of Science and Technology
Theme – Conservation of the Kakamega Tropical Rain Forest
Purpose – nurture talent in sustainable management and conservation of biodiversity
Registration fees – Yet to be communicated (just budget 1,000/= (US$ 12) for this)
Date – Saturday, June 4, 2011
Time – 7.00am (subject to confirmation)
Run categories – 21km half marathon & 10km road run*
Starting point – Mumias town (for marathon)
Finishing point – Kakamega town
Registration modalities and deadline – Yet to be communicated

*There shall also be a 10-km road race, whose route is yet to be finalized. The 10km run will probably be held from Kakamega town through a 10-km circuit back to the town. (I still wonder how they shall manage two starting points, but the details shall follow).


How to get to Mumias
This is generally a fun run, that should enable you enjoy the good green environment of Western Kenya. The challenge is to be at the Mumias town starting point in good time. If you can manage a run immediately after travelling, then the easiest option is a Friday night bus from Nairobi to Mumias, arriving about 4.00am, then just go for the run after 3 hours of rest. Take a night bus at the country bus station. If you cannot make it to country bus station, then book either of Akamba Bus or Easy Coach that shall drop you at Mumias. The fare is about 1,200/= (US$ 15).

If you can afford the days, then travel on Friday daytime and spend the night in Mumias. Budget about 1,000/= (US$ 12) for bed and breakfast.

After the run, you have the option of an immediate travel back to Nairobi by connecting vehicles to Kisumu then Nairobi or to Eldoret then Nairobi. The former is shorter, with relatively many public service vehicles operating the route. There is the option of night travel after spending the day in Kakamega. You could take the day off to visit the Kakamega forest, which you were running to conserve. Park entrance fees are KShs.200/= for citizens, 500/= for residents and US$ 20 for non-residents.

Muliro Gardens
Whatever you do, make sure you visit the Muliro gardens – a quiet lush green garden full of shade and good ambiance. Occasionally a political or religious rally is held here, but these tend to be in the afternoons of weekends. The gardens are on a triangle formed by three road – the main Kisumu road, the Mumias road and the town road that connects the two. Be the judge on the existence of the bench. (Carry some loose change, as 'viewing' fees).

See you there, see you then.

Wanjawa, W. B., Nairobi, March 20, 2011