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
