Running with babu during the September international marathon

Running with babu during the September international marathon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How comes?,” I wondered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Running to the polling station…. I should have walked

Running to the polling station…. I should have walked

If there is a time that I have ever enjoyed a voting experience, then that time was today.  The main reason being that I decided not to lose any sleep over the elections this year.  Literally, did not lose any sleep.  I have always gone to the polling station by six in the morning in all the previous elections that I have participated in… and they have been many, since the 90s.  Unfortunately, I have always left past eleven, despite reporting at the wee hours.  

This time it was different.  I slept through my morning, despite the loud vuvuzela noises that had started around four.  By five they had gone too loud that sleep was almost impossible, but I still did sleep.  I did not care about the morning rush.  I almost did not care whether I voted or not.  Voting has caused me so much discomfort on those long queues.  Shouldn’t voting be enjoyable?

It finally become enjoyable when I strolled to the polling station at the primary school next to Uthiru roundabout at two-ten in the light of day.  I had actually just gone to this centre to gauge the numbers, with a view of even coming back at a later time.  My initial plan was to vote at around five in the evening, when they are just about to close the station.  I was even ready to be thrown out in case they decided to, in case they deemed me to have been time barred.

However, my observation at that afternoon time at 2.10pm was that the polling centre at the primary school grounds was deserted!  This was strange!  I expected a chaotic ground with lots of people confused, moving around and unsure.  I have even experienced stampedes or two during such.  But this was not to be.  The polling centre was to have 12 stations.  The classrooms were well marked with the labels for ‘Polling station no. 1’, sequentially, all the way to the ‘station no. 12’.  I had already confirmed my details on SMS confirmation by sending my national ID number and DOB to short code 70000.  A message had confirmed that I was registered at this station, and I was on polling station no. 1.

With the grounds this empty, and hardly any queue at any of the classroom entrances that marked the polling station entries, then I surely could still just cast the ballot now, than at five.  I therefore joined the queue of twenty-five other voters that was next to the very first classroom on the train of classrooms.  This was actually the longest queue at the centre.  I could observe that the second classroom door had about five people on queue.  Class three had no one on queue.  The subsequent classrooms had less than ten people queuing.

Twenty-five people ahead was manageable on this sunny day.  I enjoyed the warmth of the sun as I moved slowly towards the entrance of that station no. 1.  I had my earphones on, but was also listening to the chatter going on around.

“Hi ni laini ya letter gani?,” someone behind the person behind me asked.

“Hata sijui, nafikiri ni ‘A’ na ‘B’,” she told the guy.

Of course, that was not true, nor was there an official to guide on who-should-go-where.  The truth was that each polling station had the fully mix of names from A to Z, somehow randomly distributed from the total pool of over 7,000 voter names.  I was letter ‘W’ and on station no. 1 for crying out loud!

Anyway, I got into that station no. 1 at 2.40pm, hardly thirty-minutes since I got to the polling centre.  Five or so other voters were ahead at various stages of the voting process.  I presented my national ID card, then presented my left hand thumb to be scanned onto the Kenya Integrated Elections Management System (KIEMS) kit, a tablet computer that should read the fingerprint and display your details.  These KIEMS kits were already a full debate since morning while I was still asleep and half-listening to the news.  The kits had failed in several stations within the country, with some polling stations reporting almost full failure of all kits.  The numbers were small, but the effects were massive.  

Imagine locking down a whole primary school of 12 stations due to failure of the 12 gadgets assigned to that centre!  Such events had already led to delays in voting in these stations, with some voters even leaving due to apathy.  The officials called it ‘minor and insignificant’, but as a voter, who has queued for hours in past elections and even witnessed people collapse due to long waits, I can tell you that being kept waiting cannot be just brushed off as ‘minor’.

In my case the kit did read my fingerprint and did display my details.  I had to recall when I took that youngish passport photo when they kits were being introduced about six years ago.  This confirmation then enabled me to move to the positions of the next three officials who provided me with six different ballot papers for the different electoral positions of the day.  

The presidential ballot was white, the rest was a mix of colours.  The presidential ballot had only four rows, for the four candidates.  The rest of the positions were long ballot papers with many names!  The worst affected was the member of country assembly (MCA) position that in my view had more than twenty faces – none of which I knew.  The women rep ballot was equally busy, same to that of the senator, governor, and member of parliament.

I was very familiar with the four faces, actually eight, since the presidential candidates were photo’d along with their running mates.  That was the only easy choice of the six ballots.  The other five were a real struggle, going through the many rows of names and pictures and party symbols... then making a choice.

I finally dropped my choices onto the different colour-coded covers of the clear see-through ballot box.  Six drops of ballots to those six boxes on the table at the middle of the classroom marked the end of this big vote.  I got the fingernail of my left pinky marked with indelible ink and then the national ID was handed back.  I had finally voted, in a vote whose campaigns had started in 2017, just after the last election had been done and the presidential results nullified and redone.  It had been a long 5-year of electioneering.  We have seen things in that period.  We had seen friends becomes foes and foes become friends.  We have seen names called and name-calling done.  I was just glad that it was over.

I was out of the polling station no. 1 at exactly 2.45pm and out of the primary school polling centre a minute later.  It was however not all joy through the republic.  Those who had the KIEMS frustration had their delays, but the big story was the cancellation of county gubernatorial elections for Mombasa (641,913 voters) and Kakamega (844,551 voters).  These close to 1.4M voters would only be given 5 ballot papers, since the governors ballot would be missing.  MP elections in Nakuru Rongai had also been postponed due to ballot paper misprints.  

These cancelled electoral positions would now have to be voted for on August 23, two weeks from today.  Was the voter turnout just low, or were voters waiting for five o’clock as I was initially?  My estimation was just 50% turnout, based on the queues that I was seeing!  That would mean 22M registered voters would only show up to the 11M mark.  What is going on here?

I am just glad that I did not queue for so long this time round.  I was however cognizant that some places in Kenya were experiencing long queues due to failed kits.  So, when the election officials say that “200 failed kits out of 46,229 is not significant”, then I just wish that they could spend a full day on the queue and know that it is significant when you are affected by a delay due to a failed kit.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, August 9, 2022

The truth is out… there is nothing called Christmas

The truth is out… there is nothing called Christmas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hazi toshi.  Ongeza soo sita”

“Lakini tuliambiwa ni fifteen!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The motorbike that ran me over on a prayerful Sunday

The motorbike that ran me over on a prayerful Sunday

It was just a matter of when and not if.  I already knew that this day would come, and when it come, it did come so suddenly!  All those scenarios that I had played on my mind did not seem to conform to the current reality.  I found myself sprawled on the dusty grounds.  My specs had flown out of my face to I-do-not-know-where.  The bag on my back had been dislodged and had fallen just next to where I was.  The laptop bag that I had been carrying on my hand had been thrown some five metres away.  The umbrella that was initially on my right hand was equally thrown away some distance from the laptop bag.

I had just fallen from a motorbike at the new Nakuru matatu stage located next to the Nairobi-Nakuru highway.  The motorbike was just getting out of the stage compound as it headed to the exit gate when this mishap occurred.  The bike had been starting to speed up when this happened.  But this was bound to happen on this Sunday, August 22, as I travelled from Nairobi towards Eldoret.  That motorbike had ‘falling’ written all over it from the first time that I had seen it.

But how did I get to this stage where I was being helped up my feet by well-wishers at the matatu stage?  I had left Nairobi at a few minutes to eight by taking a Climax Destiny bus at the Uthiru highway stage.  The bus was not full, with a number of empty seats scattered all over.  I decided to take the back seat, with another passenger who had got in with me from the same Uthiru stage.  The bus would soon speed off on its way, but we did not even have time to settle down on our backseat before someone stood up next to the door and called us out.

“Nawasalimu wote wapendwa kwa Jina la Yesu,” he introduced himself.

“Niko hapa kuwaletea injili, Halleluya!?,” he asked.

“Amen!,” some few reluctant passengers responded, many still adjusting to the new person and the going ons.

“Hebu jibuni nyote kwa nguvu, Halleluya!?”

“Amen!,” the responses were now a bit strong.

“Wengine bado hawajibu.  Nyinyi watu wa back seat huko nyuma.  Wacheni kuangalia simu zenyu.  Simu ni vitu za dunia.  Hebu sote, tujibu kwa pamoja, Halleluya!?”

“Amen!,” that last response was forcefully loud.

We were hardly at Limuru and the animated preaching was already in full gear.  The preaching was intense.  Prophesy to some three passengers was unleashed to them loudly, and to our benefit.  Everybody in the bus would soon be raising their hands in prayer, in a ‘wapende wasipende’ style, having threatened bad tidings and unrecoverable curses for anyone who did not raise their hands.  All passengers had no choice but to go through the motions.  Things were thick on this Climax bus on this Sunday, even as the bus sped on.  The preaching continued.  The prophesy was unleashed.  The prayers were offered.  We all raised our hands.  No one dared not raise them.

Finally, it was time to give offerings to support the ministry.  It remained forceful.  It was targeted.

“Sasa nataka shilingi mia moja tu, kwa kazi ya injili.  Kila mtu inua mia moja yako tuombe ndipo nichue.”

There was some shuffling, as people looked around.  Few people raised one hundred shillings notes.  Most people remained unmoved so far.

“Nimesema kila mtu atoe mia moja yake ainua juu.  Hiyo hata si pesa yakufikiria.  Hata ukienda nayo utanunua tu chai na mandazi halafu uende kwa choo ikaisha hivyo.  Afadhali utolee injili.”

There was more action as more people reacted.

“Nyinyi watu wa back bench, mbona sioni mia moja zenu?”

We shuffled through our bags and pockets and extracted them.  He would soon collect them after prayers.

The passenger that I had got in with me, whom I now knew to be Frank, even offered to pay up by MPESA, as I saw the preacher typing his number onto Frank’s phone.  The preaching episode would come to an end at Soko Mjinga market located after Kinale, when the preacher thanked us all, blessed the givers and disembarked.

When Frank and I got into the bus, the conductor had asked us to pay the fare.  It is then that I had learnt that both of us were going to Nakuru.  While I had cash money, Frank seemed not to have cash, as he initially told the conductor that he would pay by MPESA at the Nakuru office, which I later learnt was more of the Kikopey stopover.  The conductor of course kept being distracted by the stopovers as he beckoned for passengers and hence it did take him quite some time to finally come for the fare.  By that time the preaching was on fire and “Amens” were the only pause you could hear in the bus.

It was while the conductor was gone before collecting the fares that Frank had asked me if I could give him cash and he sends me MPESA in lieu.  This would enable him clear with the conductor, instead of waiting until Nakuru.  I gave him my number and sure enough, I got the five hundred shillings by MPESA almost immediately.  I gave him the new crisp green note of the five-hundred shillings denomination and we started waiting for the conductor to finally pick the fares.  The preaching was still going on.

The conductor finally came to the back bench and each of us gave out a five-hundred shillings note.  Each of use reminded the conductor that the fare was four hundred shillings as per what we had been told as we go in at Uthiru.  The conductor took the money and just left.  He had already told us that there was no ticket for mid-point stations, hence we would just have to travel without tickets until Nakuru.

We kept waiting for our one-hundred shillings change each, while the preaching continued.  The conductor was in no hurry to give us our change, and did not make any move towards our direction, even when the preaching ended at Soko.  The conductor did not give us our change even after the washroom stopover at Kikopey.  He just kept saying that he was aware of our ‘little money’ and he would ‘sort us out’.

The bus was generally quiet after the preacher disembarked.  The engine kept roaring as we moved along the Nakuru highway, occasionally picking a passenger or two.  We eventually got to Nakuru where the bus stopped at the highway stage just before the railway flyover.  Opposite this stage was now a new Nakuru stage.  I could see a sign written ‘Gilgil’ on top of one of the matatus at that stage across the busy highway.  I had heard that the main stage in town had been relocated but was not sure whether this was it, as I gave it a casual observation, just opposite our bus.

The bus should have made another stopover somewhere in Nakuru for the Nakuru people to disembark.  I had assumed that this stop should be at some petrol station, but this is not what happened.  The bus started getting through Nakuru town and kept going, without any intention of stopping anywhere.  It is when we got to industrial area that I realized that this bus would not be stopping anywhere in Nakuru.  I asked Frank if he knew where the bus was supposed to stop in Nakuru, since he had also indicated that he was a Nakuru person, but he just shook his head and remained seated and unbothered.  Maybe he was heading to the outskirts of Nakuru.

I had to rush through the isle to the door area where the conductor was seated to ask him if we would be stopping in Nakuru and where that stage was to be.

“Ah!, Nakuru tulipita!  Mbona kuhushuka?,” he wondered casually, without a bother in the world, as the bus kept going.

“Simamisha basi!,” I instructed him, as I now headed back to the back seat to pick my two bags and an umbrella.

The bus came to a stop at some petrol station past the industrial area roundabout.  I alighted as I asked the conductor for my one-hundred shillings change.  He said that he had given all the money to the ‘mwenyewe’ and pointed to someone seated next to the driver.  I was now alighting, and the bus was rearing to go.  I was now out of the bus as I asked the person next to the driver, through the window, to give me back my change.

He pretended not to hear what I was saying and started showing those hand gestures that mean ‘what are you saying, I am not getting you’, all this while as the bus started to drive away.  He looked back at me with the same hand gestures as the bus sped away on the Nakuru highway leaving me standing on the tarmac.  The crew had just conned me.  Anyway, bad things happen.  The day shall get better, nothing to worry.

My cellphone has this bad habit of exhausting battery power after very few hours of usage.  Due to this, I usually alternate between full power and airplane mode to just conserve power.  I was now planning to do a walk back to Nakuru town and I estimated the distance to be two kilometres.  Anyway, why estimate when I have the Runkeeper app?  I started the app, switched the phone to airplane mode and the app showed a map of Nakuru and displayed a dot to show my current position next to the highway.  I pressed the start button and the timer started and I took the first step of more than two thousand towards the town.

The walk was quite relaxing.  It enabled me to appreciate the town of Nakuru, which was my main town many years ago while still working at Gilgil town.  The town looked like the same old town that I had known, even the street names remained unchanged.  Towards the end of Kenyatta avenue is a Naivas supermarket that I have been to before.  I had decided to pass by that supermarket to get some soda in readiness for the next leg of the trip.  I also decided to pay up the cashier by MPESA to preserve the cash that I had, after all, cash is king, while MPESA is… well, MPESA is just MPESA.

Getting to MPESA meant getting my phone from airplane mode back to full network connectivity.  I was soon at the cashier with my two items and proceeded to pay by MPESA.  I left the store and was just heading to the left luggage section located out of the supermarket when I saw the MPESA payment confirmation and another message from REVERSAL.

I have never gotten a message from REVERSAL ever.  I was therefore too curious to know what this was all about.  I did not even pick my bags yet.  As sure as this day being a Sunday, there on my phone screen was a message that Frank had asked MPESA for a reversal of KShs.500.  And sure enough, I realized that my MPESA balance was five-hundred shillings short.  However, the same SMS from reversal informed me that I had to accept a call from Safaricom to either accept or cancel that transaction.

What is going on here?  Can it be true that the very Frank who was doing the loud ‘Amen’s with me in the bus was trying to scheme me off my money?  I was still wondering the course of action, but calling Frank turned out to be the most logical step.  However, as you can guess, his phone was off.  It dawned on me that I was surely being conned… yet again.  What a great Sunday I was having so far!

I sent an SMS to Frank cautioning him that trying to con me was not his best move and that he had exactly five minutes to return my money.  By now I was still on ‘threat’ level with no clear cause of action.  He could as well just call it bluff and take no action on his part.  I however feared that I had missed the confirmation call from Safaricom when my phone was on airplane mode and that it was too late to do anything.  After all, even my MPESA balance was already short.  I was sure that this was a done deal.  I had been conned.

I was just about to reclaim my luggage at the Naivas left luggage section when the phone rang.  It was the Safaricom official number, and I have saved it on the phone address book as such.  I answered on the second ring.  It was an automated message, just informing me that some number had requested for MPESA reversal of five hundred shillings.

“What a waste,” I thought, while listening to the monotone of the automated voice.  They were just calling to confirm my misery.  I kept listening.

“Press 1 to accept the reversal or Press 2 to decline the reversal”

That was music, I tell you.  I pressed a 2 on the phone dialer screen so fast and so hard that I almost punctured the phone screen.

The automated voice then confirmed that the reversal had been cancelled and that the funds would remain in a suspense account for another twenty-minutes before I get it back.

I was not sure if this voice was surely the real deal, or it had already been overtaken by events.  I was not holding my breath.  What shall happen shall happen.  I was already past denial.  I had now accepted this Sunday as it was, with all its unfolding.  I took my two bags from the luggage section, together with the umbrella that I had gone with to the supermarket, and started my walk towards where Nakuru matatu stage should have been, at the middle of the town.

I would be surprised to see no matatu at all at the supposed stage.  The stage must have been moved.  I however could not figure out where it had been moved to.  Even the vehicles to Eldoret that would usually park a bit out of the main stage, near the petrol station at the roundabout, were also not there at all.  I asked a motorbike person where to get the Eldoret matatus and he instructed me to go towards the highway next to the railway flyover.

That is a place that I was very familiar with.  It was about a five hundred metre walk from where I was.  I was at that stage in no time.  I looked around but did not seem to see any matatu that goes to Eldoret.  The signage on the matatus showed that most were going to Nyahururu, Naivasha or Gilgil.  Nothing for Eldoret.  I had to ask.

“Eldoret ni hapa, kuja ukate ticket.  Matatu za Eldy ni hapa,” the very aggressive matatu stage person said.  I was about to doubt him when I saw three other people going to Eldoret standing next to him and they were getting tickets.  I still did not see the matatu, but the person seemed genuine enough, even with a badge of one of the matatu operators.  He gave us tickets branded with the logo of one of the matatu companies in that stage.  Mine read six hundred shillings.  I told him that six hundred was too much, though I did not know what was the right fare.  For lack of a figure, I told him that it should be five hundred.

“Lete hiyo five hundred,” he extended his hand to pick the single green note.

Now, it is true that there was no Eldoret matatu at this stage, at all.  Soon the matatu person who had given us the tickets beckoned to a motorbike person.  He asked the motorbike person to carry some two pieces of luggage, belonging to the other passengers who were also going to Eldoret.  While these three passengers were being taken towards the main Nakuru highway to be led to the vehicle, I was instead asked to take a ride on the motorbike.  This was because I had my two bags, and it would easy the movement if I also took the motorbike.  I was also in time to hear him instruct the motorbike person to give the Eldoret matatu ‘four hundred kwa kila passenger’.

The motorbike seemed already packed, with the two gunny bags already tied on the seat of the motorbike.  I had to make several attempts at trying to jump astride the gunny bags to take a seat on what was now technically the driver’s seat, despite the rider trying to squeeze himself next to the handle bars as he controlled the bike.  Finally, I managed to seat astride, while keeping my backpack on my back, the laptop bag on my left hand, and the umbrella on my right hand.  The rider struggled with his balance as he started wobbling around the matatu stage with its uneven ground.

As expected, the people at the matatu stage kept making fun and games at the rider, some waving at him, others even blocking his way and laughing out loud as he maneuvered off towards the exit of the matatu stage.  The inevitable happened when someone jokingly blocked the motorbike just as it was about to get to the exit.  The dusty road and its potholes were the last straw, as the bike wobbled out of control and….

I found myself down on the ground.  I do not even remember how I got down.  The bike had fallen on my left foot.  All my baggage was scattered around.  My specs had gone wherever they had gone.  I was still processing what was going on.  I knew this day would come, but not in this manner!  Not at the Nakuru stage!  Soon the many people at the stage were coming to our rescue, getting the bike off my foot while someone brought me my specs, with one of the glasses dislodged having detached itself from the frame, but luckily not broken.  

I managed to fix back the dislodged glass of the left eye and put the specs back on.  They seemed to be working fine, no cracks, no bends.  I also picked my two bags and my umbrella.  I tried to dust myself off.  It is then that I started feeling the pain on my left ankle.  It was a sharp pain, though I did not see a bruise or a cut.  It was just painful internally. The bones on that foot seemed to have been squashed flat.  I could still manage a walk without difficulty.  That seemed to assure me that my leg was probably not broken.

The bike was brought back upright.  The two gunny bags that were still intact having been tried onto the bike frame were now removed and taken back to where we had booked our tickets for an alternative arrangement.  And… and I still managed to sit on the same bike, with my same three luggage items and took the ride to the unknown place where I was meant to get the Eldoret vehicle that I had already paid for.  

We joined the highway then went into Nakuru town, past the former central matatu stage, and kept going for another kilometre or so.  I was about to wonder if I was being conned again and taken to some unknown place.  This is because we seem to have been going forever and not reaching our destination.  I was just about to ask about where we were going, when we reached this other matatu stage that have vehicles to Eldoret and Molo.

It is with a slight limp that I got into the Eldoret matatu, now carrying full capacity after the corona mitigation social-distancing rules on public vehicles were revoked the previous week.  Most of the people at the stage and in the matatu did not have their facemasks.  Those that had them had hanged them on their chins.  This corona thing had been totally left to its own devices and we were now on our own.  My left foot kept painting as the matatu finally left Nakuru at almost one-thirty, for the three hour journey to Eldoret.  It is during the travel that I had checked on my MPESA balance and confirmed that no money had been reversed from my account.

WWB, the Coach, Eldoret, Kenya, August 23, 2021

COVID is out, or did I not get the message?

COVID is out, or did I not get the message?

It was inevitable that Kenya would have to unlock the locked down zone of Nairobi, Kajiado, Kiambu, Machakos and Nakuru, and open it up to the rest of the country.  This zone had been on an 8pm to 4am curfew.  This locked us out of the rest of Kenya, who were still having a more favourable time, including shorter curfew times and continued use of their congregational places.  

I knew that this lockdown would have to ease somehow, since the Ministry of Education had already insisted that schools would have to reopen on May 10.  There was no way that students would get to school unless the lockdown was eased, otherwise, how would the travel cross country, when they cannot cross the country?  I however had not imagined that the easing of restrictions would be occurring today.

But was this easing even possible?  Should we even be easing restrictions including the lockdown?  I even believe that the lockdown should instead even be extended to the rest of the country and restrictions made even more stringent!  I believe this because things have gone worse in the world, as far as COVID is concerned.  

Sample this – on that March 26 date of the lockdown, the global infections were 126,256,838 with 2,770,139 deaths.  Kenya numbers were 126,170 and 2,092 respectively.  Though the positivity rate from samples collected in Kenya had gone down from a high of over 30% to the current rate of about 15%, that had not been the case elsewhere in the world.

The current total infections* of COVID19 globally stand at 152,550,779, with 3,200,571 deaths, while Kenyan numbers are 160,053 and 2,744 respectively.  I was not seeing how easing of restrictions was going to be possible based on these figures.  But that is not even it.  A situation had just arisen in India, where confirmed infections were numbering** almost 0.4M daily, while the death toll was about 3,500 daily in the last two days!  Imagine!  3,500 human beings dying each and every day!  

I had seen on AJZ news channel of the untold devastation in India.  The country that is famed for being the leader in vaccine production, and amongst the top COVID19 vaccine producers was buckling under the weight of the same COVID.  Almost half of those dying of COVID19 in the world were dying in India.  This was the worst situation that corona would bring to humanity.  Can it or will is even get worse here or somewhere in the globe?  How worse can it get?  How will that ‘worse’ look like!!

* https://www.worldometers.info/coronavirus/

** https://graphics.reuters.com/world-coronavirus-tracker-and-maps/countries-and-territories/india/

How was life going to be better at all, when the situation was getting worse with each and every passing day anyway?  I had pondering over this since the morning.

“Mwanzako akinyolewa, tia kichwa chako maji+,” is the saying that came to mind even as I started my activities for this Saturday, May 1, 2021, with those bad corona numbers in mind.  (+When your colleagues is about to be shaved, be ready for being shaved next)

It was yet another May 1 date, but there was no Labour Day for a second year in a row, at least not the pomp and festivities that come with it.  The congregation of workers at commemoration venues was not going to be possible again this year, especially in our disease-infected zone, where congregations had already been banned anyway.  

I did not make much of the day, until I watched the evening news of the day.  And a surprise was awaiting!  The country had eased the restrictions!  The lockdown was been lifted and free movement within the country would now be possible, starting tomorrow May 2.  Our curfew hours would be revised to be at par with the rest of the country, being from ten at night to four in the morning.  

The revision meant that eateries that were previously on a take-away basis only would now allow sit-ins.  Bars that had been shut completely, would now open albeit to seven in the evening; talking of which, who even drinks while it is still daylight!  Religious gathering that had been prohibited in the zone would be allowed to restart at one-third sitting capacity.  Schools were directed on open on the scheduled date.  This was happening… and it was happening now!

I still do not know what to make of this new development.  I am now more fearful of corona than ever before, especially having seen how it ‘came from nowhere’ and wiped out India in just one week!  I am now more conscious of how bad corona can be, after watching those doctored videos that showed people falling down and dying in the middle of the streets in India, due to lack to hospital beds or lack of oxygen at both hospitals or homes.  I have given corona new respect after watching it devastate India as it did in just one week.  That is why I am not sure whether we should be easing restrictions or making them tighter!  I appreciate that we have to put food on the table, but who will be eating?

I am however comforted that the head of state assured of a swift return to restrictions if ‘anything unexpected’ came up.  I am also aware that vaccines for second doses and first shot for the additional numbers in the next group of Kenyans is on the way.  These shots should be landing anytime in June.  It is only time that will tell whether I am overly fearful or overly fearing.  For now, let me hit those 10,000 walking steps per day in the name of the marathoners May challenge – a challenge that I would have preferred to skip and hibernate, but what is on is on.  

Happy Labour day!

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, May 1, 2021 

Being conned twice in one run… before running gets cancelled anyway

Being conned twice in one run… before running gets cancelled anyway

Nairobi is not called Nairoberry for nothing.  It lived true to its name today, Friday, March 26, 2021, when I was on my way to Adams arcade.  I took the first matatu at Uthiru and things did not seem right from the moment I stepped into that matatu.  We had the usual social-distanced seating, with a free seat between passengers, before that was quickly overlooked, and the vessel was packed full as usual.

It did not take long before my fears were confirmed.  The conductor would momentarily ask passengers for fare, of which I gave out a one-hundred shillings note.  The recipient did not give me back my seventy-shillings, and so I did beckon him to do so.  He proceeded to give me only twenty-shillings then started an animated conversation with some passenger seated behind him, who was in front of my sitting position at the backseat.  I beckoned him a second time and reminded him that he was yet to give me the full amount.

“Najua nina finje yako, siwezi enda na doo zako, manze,” the ruffian in him responded.  

His eyes were bloodshot red.  His hair was shaggy.  I could have judged him for a bad thug, had it not been for the semblance of dark brown overcoat that he had adorned, which is supposed to be the uniform for matatu crew.  And I wish I could have judged him as much…

We would momentarily reach Kawangware, where he alighted even before the matatu came to a stop and somehow disappeared into thin air.  Three passengers started waiting outside the vehicle, in a manner to suggest that we were waiting for something.  It turned out that we were waiting for our cash balances from the conductor.  

We eventually made him out from the large crowd at Kawangware roadside side as he finally came to our standing position.  He gave the first passenger a fifty and the passenger left.  He gave the lady thirty shillings and gave me twenty shillings.

“Fifty!  Nakudai fifty,” I reminded him.  He looked a bit confused.

The lady told him that what she gave her was not her balance, “Bado hazijafika,” she repeated.

The ruffian would then snatch the monies from the palms of our hands and shove a one-hundred shillings note to the lady.  I was still wondering what was going on, before realizing that he had already run off towards the collection and chaos of matatus and people, while shouting just beyond earshot, “Gawaneni hiyo”

I was just starting to be happy that at least we shall only have to divide the hundred between us, on a fifty-fifty basis, problem solved, when a new twist emerged.

“Yangu ilikuwa seventy!,” the lady lamented, looking at the direction of the conductor, who had by now disappeared forever.

This was now a new territory, because my balance was fifty and the lady was claiming seventy, yet the available money was only one-hundred.

“Jameni!  Yangu ilikuwa seventy!  Sasa nitafanyaje?,” she lamented before me.  We were now just standing next to matatus that were coming and going, with all the chaos of passengers and pedestrians in the mix.

“Sawa, nipe tu thirty,” I volunteered to do with the loss to her benefit.

It did not take long before she started wondering where we shall get loose change.  I would have easily asked for change or even got some from my pockets, but the lady was not making any effort to get loose money, nor willing to part with the one-hundred shillings note

“Kaa tu nayo.  Nilikuwa na haraka,” I gave up and walked on, losing my fifty shillings just like that, to the thuggery of the matatu sector.

I walked about one kilometre on Naivasha road to the Kinyanjui road junction stage next to Midhill hospital where I was to take the next vehicle to Adams.  I survived the very chaotic roadside mess called hawkers, matatus and passersby and was glad to be at that stage ready for my next phase of the travel.  I observed the buses and matatus beckoning the few reluctant passengers at that stage, until my time to take the opportunity came.

“Tao foti, tao foti foti!,” the touts chorused.

We stayed put.

“Tao foti, tao foti foti!,” the touts chorused some more.

We continued staying put.  We wanted better.

One of those touts would soon come to my standing position and whisper almost inaudibly to my ear, “Wewe ingia na thati!”

He showed me the door of the bus, and continued the ‘foti, foti’ chant.

It did not take long before the bus was full.  I would then notice the person who had ushered me in start negotiating for his cut with the real conductor at the door of the bus, before he jumped out of the now speeding bus, almost falling in this process of jumping out.

When my turn to pay came, I gave out the thirty shillings in two coins of twenty and ten.  The conductor looked at the money and stayed put, his hand still stretched, “Gari ni foti!”

“But yule jamaa alisema ni thati?”

“Jamaa gani?  Nimi ndio conda.  Ulinisikia nikisema thati?”

I added another ten shillings without much ado.

I would soon be at Adams, would be soon done with my errands and would travel back without much drama on this return journey.  I had not imagined that I would be conned twice in one day by this matatu industry that has no rules.  I had thought it was ‘softiness’ that had led to the junior runner in training, aka WWB junior, when she reported that a tout had refused to give back her change.  I had not imagined that even fully grown people still suffer similar fates.  I had learnt my lessons.  It is never too late to be conned!

I had already forgotten about the morning, and was planning for my next run set for next Monday, when I heard someone speak loudly along the corridor, just outside my office door, for the benefit of all, that,

“Imagine wame ban masports zote!  Hata vitu kama jogging haziko tena!”

What?

What is going on here?

It did not take long before the communique came in through official channels, that the President of the republic of Kenya had just issued new directives aimed at curbing the spread of the corona virus that causes COVID19.  The measures were drastic, many and immediate.  It was true that sporting activities had been banned, with immediate effect.  The country had been zoned into the red zone of Nairobi, Nakuru, Kajiado, Machakos and Kiambu, and non-red zone of the rest of the country.  The red zone was to go into a new 8.00pm to 4.00am curfew from tomorrow, unlike the 10.00pm to 4.00am in the rest of the country.  

But that was not the clincher – the red zone was now under lockdown with movement in and out of that zone prohibited with immediate effect!  Bars had been closed indefinitely, eateries were to open for takeaway only, employers were directed to allow all workers to work from home, schools and colleges were to close unless they offer online classes (apart from examinations which are to continue as planned), meetings had been banned, religious in-person meetings had been stopped with immediate effect!  Some prohibitions were only for the red zone, such as the issue of bars, eateries and religion.  Vehicles were reminded to carry 60% capacity… bringing back memories of my morning experience just when I thought I had forgotten about it.

This was bad!  

This time I am not seeing the runners surviving even their solo runs.  Let me state what that prohibition on sports state, and you be the judge…. all sporting activities are hereby suspended, similarly operations of sporting and recreational facilities including Members Clubs are suspended until it is otherwise directed.

All this due to this thing that we thought was out of limelight.  This corona virus that causes COVID19.  This very corona that has now affected 126,256,838 worldwide with 2,770,139 deaths and 101,847,640 recoveries.  In Kenya, our numbers now stand at 126,170 infections, 2,092 deaths and 91,268 recoveries.  The first lockdown in March of 2020 was met with fear and uncertainty.  It is now exactly one year later, and we are facing another lockdown with fear and uncertainty.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, March 26, 2021

Half-a-half – the run that needed interpretation

Half-a-half – the run that needed interpretation

It is exactly one week later, and the story has not been written.  This is quite unusual.  The story would usually be out immediately after the run, even before the leg muscles have had a rest.  So why did this Friday, June 28 international half fail to make it to be blog?

The sixth international, codename ‘half-a-half’ was meant to commemorate the half-mark of the year, with a half a marathon run.  It was meant to be that simple.  It turned out not to be.  This codename did not last long before it was corrupted.  Koki started it off.

“What is the distance of the run?,” she asked on email.

The distance had been prominently displayed just below the run route, on the email that publicized the run.  ‘21.3km’ it read.  It was the Google earth map that has traced and came up with that out.

Two emails later, and she would still be wondering if this is ‘half of a half’ or ‘half-half’.  I did not imagine that such a simple three-word codename would generate so much debate.  I would soon have to clarify to the whole of the runners that this half-a-half was what they wanted it to be.  It could be half a marathon at half year mark, the initially intended meaning, or it could be a half distance of the half marathon, or even half of the half distance that one usually runs.  

“Just make it what you want it to be”.

The turnout was better than I had expected.  Raising nine athletes on such a cold June evening was quite something.  Faye, Judy and Beryl, formerly of the B-and-B team, represented the gals.  The coach was on the ‘boy child’ group, together with Karl, Jeff, Nick, Bramuel and later Edu would join in, though not from this initial group at the starting line.  

This is the very same Edu who would later after the run make me lose a bet and force me to buy a round of drinks for the folks.  This came about after I had vowed that Edu could not make it for this run, after all he had just done another 21k run two days prior to this event.  However, this vow would turn out to be my undoing, as I regretfully discovered later in the run.  

But wait a minute!  Why am I even surprised?  Edu has a way of letting the run run his life.  While some of us control the run, the run controls him.  He is the only one whom I know, who has the habit of timing his pace to the precision dictated by ‘the gadget’.  Instead of the gadget tracking his pace, he paces as per the gadget.  

Several times I have run with him, only for him to reduce speed, to almost a standstill and tell me that we are going too fast.  All this said while looking at ‘the gadget’ on the wrist.  Then he would all of a sudden sprint it off and say that we need to catch up with the average, because… You guessed right, ‘the gadget says so’.  Nay nay, that is not my style!  My style is to start the timer, forget that it exists, and just let go.  I stop the timer after the run and confirm the stats – that is me.  However, Edu is Edu.

When we flagged off at the generator at 4.45pm, five minutes later than scheduled, we did stipulate a compulsory turn-back at the 1hr point.  Those who would not reach the turnaround point at the highway by this time would have to turn back when they get to their 1hr point.  The route was the same old ‘new international’ route.  

This route runs from Uthiru, though Ndumbo-ini, onto the Kanyariri road all the way to Nakuru highway on the 10k mark.  Then runners run the outer perimeter of the Gitaru market partly on Wangige road, and get back to Kanyariri road on 13k at the other side of the market.  From there, the same road that brought you to this point takes you back to the starting point some 8k back.

We left off as a group, but soon Karl and I were on the leading pack by the time we reached Ndumbo at 3k.  I was however alone after the Ndumbo downhill on the 4k, as we started the 6km of uphill that leads to the highway.  He would later confess that he could not cope up with the uphill pace.  I was the first to reach the 13k mark after circling the market and getting back to Kanyariri road.  

Then I decided to stop and wait for the pack, after all, it was a group run of sorts.  Karl would pass me by, some ten minutes later.  He told me that he was not stopping or waiting.  I shooed him on.  Momentarily, Beryl then Bramuel would reach this point and would be forced to turn back due to the 60-minute stipulation for compulsory turn back.  I kept waiting.  

Another ten minutes later and the group of Faye, Jeff and Nick would emerge to find me standing at the 13k junction.  I was taken aback to see Edu in this group.

“Coach, I am here,” he declared as he passed by my stationary form.

I knew the implication of that statement.  It would hit me later.

I joined into their run, staying at the back, after they had confirmed that no one else was behind them.

By the 15k at Kanyariri High School, the boys had run off and left Faye and I behind.  Faye would soon come to a stop.

“A stitch!  The stitch!”

I would join into the stopover.

“Take a brief rest.”

She did take a minute of two of rest, then we started the run once more.

A second stitch stop would hit her, hardly a kilometer later.  For this one, we decided to just take a walk for about five minutes, then resumed the run when the stitch had subsided.  We kept moving and were soon facing the Ndumbo uphill on the 18k.  Clearing this hill would surely mark the end of the run.  

It was now getting dark.  We were just about to get to the 1900hour mark.  The hill ended and we would in a moment be facing the now very dark road at the Vet loop, past Ndumbo.  Our destination was now just the other side of the highway.

We joined Beryl as we were about to hit ‘the wall’ near Kabete Police as we crossed the Nakuru highway on our way back to our finish line.  By this time it was already totally dark.  Despite this, Faye decided to sprint off the last kilometer from Kabete Polytechnic, leaving the B-team to walk it back to the finish line.

We would hit the finish line with a time check of 2.13.05.  This was the earliest that I have ever finished this group run.  We set a new record of all our runners finishing by that time.  Two hours later, and I would be paying off the bet that I lost.  Lesson learnt – do not wager on super-humans.  That mantra shall come in handy during the seventh international at the end of July.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, July 5, 2019