Running across the coast – and surviving it

Running across the coast – and surviving it

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phew!

My heartbeat!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mitamboni?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hata usiandike!”

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

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

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

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

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

Kuna kijungu cha pwaga, bila ya moto jikoni

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

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

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

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

Running with my uncle… the final run

The day started as normal as any other Sunday.  Corona was still doing its rounds, with global infections standing at 194,576,971 and 4,171,656 deaths, while Kenyan numbers were 196,745 and 3,849 respectively.  The cold July weather remained cold.  I have believed that I have developed a ‘thick skin’ and can walk around with a Tshirt, but today’s chill was just too much forcing me to put on a jacket.

The day would take a turn around ten, when I switched on my gadgets and soon the messages started popping up.  I got the usual alert about some machines at the workplace switching on after a nightlong sleep.  I would be getting another such message when they go off in the evening.  There were two I-tried-to-call-you type of messages from one unknown number.  There was a thank you note from someone who had just received an item that I had sent.  And just when I thought that it would be all good, there was a final message that was short and to the point… Uncle Gilbert died

Those three words would set the day into a different trajectory.  The supposedly good day had just been dampened.  The day become colder that I had imagined.  That jacket that has travelled over 10,000km could not contain the cold of the day, thought it tried.  I walked to the workplace unsure of whether to do the now customary Sunday run or to just sit within a warm heated office and forget about the torture of running through the sub-10 degrees temperatures.

Custom won and I found myself changed and ready to do the Sunday run.  I had a meeting scheduled for three, hence I decided to start my run early to enable me to be back and ready for that meeting.  I had intended to start the run at noon, but I found myself taking the first step at 12.15pm.  The once feel-good mood had now been damped with reflections and memories.

I was running on the same old route from Uthiru to Ndumbo, then to Lower Kabete road, before diverting to Mary Leakey school, then crossing through the University farm to emerge at Kanyariri road for the 8km loop then back straight to Ndumbo and back to Uthiru.

I was lost in thoughts even as I went round the circle-of-churches just off Waiyaki way as I headed to Ndumbo after about fifteen minutes of run.  I could hear the mixture of drumbeats from the different iron sheet church structures, each doing their thing oblivious of the neighbour.  I could hear chants and prayers.  I could hear songs and apparent dancing.  I could hear preaching and speaking-in-tongues.  I was marveling at how the various churches operating in different languages, doing different church activities, and being as loud as they are, were really surviving each other.

The collection of church noises would soon be gone as I now joined Kapenguria road and soon passed Ndumbo with its matatu madness, even witnessing the matatu that was reversing onto the road and almost knocked a saloon car coming from behind.  The matatu did not have any care or concern, despite passersby shouting in fear.  I was past that in a moment.

It would then hit me this Uncle Gilbert had died.

‘Uncle’ as I had known him was a smart gentleman.  I knew him as a sharp dresser despite his advanced age.  I would get him in a tie in the few occasions that we met.  He kept reminding me that I was his favourite nephew.

“When I see you, I see my late sister,” he always reminded me in the manner of greetings whenever we met.

“You even look like my sister Leocadia,” he would continue, “Ayi, yawa!  However killed that my sister shall also be killed by the worst death ever,” he would continue to lament, his once smiling face now serious.  His grip on my hand still tight.  He would continue with the nostalgia and keep that curse going for a moment, before he would come back to the normal world.

“Okewa!  My nephew!  My favourite nephew,” he would continue.  He would normally get into this trance for about ten minutes, then he would be back to normal and he would release his grip and let me be.

I did not know my mother much.  I probably did not know my mother at all.  She died when I was about nine, while in class three.  I do not remember much about her.  I cannot describe her much.  I cannot draw her from personal experiences.  I wish I could have been old enough to know her well and to have memories that I can hold on to.  I only remember her through some two black one white photos that I saw about thirty year later, when my father passed on.  These photos were unveiled as part of the eulogy preparation.  

In one photo there is a lady who is quite young, in military uniform, but without a cap.  This is a passport size photo.  The other photo is a group photo, with my father on one extreme end while my mother is on the other extreme end.  Seated between them are four boys.  One small one, probably seven or eight is me, so I am told.  I can hardly recognize him.  That photo has both my parents in military uniforms, including caps.  My father has the impression of a tough commander, just by his facials.  My mother on the other hand looks so polite, so down to earth.  It was therefore ‘uncle’ who kept the memory of my mother alive in me, by his constant reminders.  Including that my mother was a prisons warden of high repute.

The last time I had a full day with uncle was during the funeral of my aunt, his sister, at Kendu bay.  Uncle was smart as usual, despite his advanced age.  His wide tie was hanging on his neck.  I had also known uncle as quite strict and a disciplinarian to his children.  I had visited his home near Sagam in Yala several times, and I saw how he handled his children.  They would never dare do anything nonsensical near him.  But if my uncle was strict, then his wife was double that.  

My auntie, his wife, would actually beat up the children, even the over eighteens, right in front of all and sundry, and she would feel nothing.  The children knew her so well that when she called any of them to ‘sort an issue’, they would never come over, since they knew that a compulsory slap would be awaiting.  Though uncle and auntie never tried anything on me, I had already learnt and known their temperaments and I had learnt the limits of dare.  I had got enough lessons in discipline by observation rather than participation.

On this last meeting with uncle, he had pulled me aside and proceeded with his firm hand grip and went through the usual trance once more time, ending finally with, “Okewa!  My nephew!  My favourite nephew”

He reminded me of my roots in Yala, in Ahono, from the Dholuo people of Gem clan.  He reminded me of how my mother was his favourite sister.  He reminded me that I had come from a clan of the learned, people who chewed books like grass and studied upto the best universities in the world.

“Your mother was an educated girl,” he reminded me.

“She went to school, unlike other girls of those days,” he continued, “It is just by good luck that your father got her from school to Luhyia land before she got to university”

“That is the clan that I am talking about.  You must remain true to the clan.  You must continue learning since being brainy runs in the clan,” he told me, taking some time to reflect on that statement.

“Okewa!,” he laughed, visibly happy, “You know Ngolo Rangorango?”

“Who?”

“Yes, Ngolo, the great scholar who read all the books in the world,” he updated me. 

That name was distantly familiar.  It was a name I had heard when I was young.  I even remember someone pointing at some fenced homestead compound when I visited my uncle during my formative years.

“You are of the same clan.  I want you to read books like him.  You already have the brains of the clan.”

That would turn out to be the last meeting.  How I wish that there would have been another meeting before this news of his demise.  How I wish that he would have updated me on the full history of the clan all the way Gem and his brother Ugenya.

So, as I did the run today, not noticing even where I was most of the run, absentminded with the memories of uncle, I knew that I was doing the last run with him.  He would not finish the run of today as he had retired midway, when the mental imaginations of him faded away.  He urged me on, asking me to keep going and never look back.  On I went to run in almost under 5-minutes per kilometre average.  The first time that I have managed such an 'almost' speed over that 24k route this month, missing it by only 4-seconds average.  Maybe the secret of some great runner from the clan is yet to be told.  The one whom I have taken after.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, July 25, 2021

It is Freedom Day… I wish it were

It is Freedom Day… I wish it were

The UK celebrated ‘freedom day’ yesterday, July 19.  That is the day when all corona restrictions were lifted, meaning that there would be no more social distancing, face masking or any other restrictions that had been imposed due to the corona virus disease (COVID).  While the global corona infection numbers* now stand at 191,855,140 infections with 4,115,649 deaths and 174,673,792 recoveries, the 19-month-old pandemic seems to have now become ‘too much’.  The reason why the UK decision is noteworthy is because they say that people are fatigued and just want to go back to life as it was in 2019.

While this freedom has not prevented corona virus from spreading, it has at least brought some comfort to the people.  With vaccinations now rolling out in many parts of the world, the end of corona is not far off, despite the debates on issues such as efficacy, variants, booster shots and vaccine hesitancy.  While some may criticize the UK for the ‘live-with-it’ approach of dealing with corona, it would be worthwhile to also appreciate that the corona related restrictions had curtailed the enjoyment of human life as it was meant to be.

Take Kenya for example, where the confirmed infections* are 193,189, with 3,783 deaths and 182,921 recoveries.  Do you know how much life has changed and continues to change in these last nineteen months?  Nightlife ended, and may never come back, with curfews imposed in most of the country to the ten o’clock limit, while it starts at seven in the western region.  Social gatherings came to end, with funerals, weddings, birthdays, parties, you name it having been abolished or scaled down to a handful of attendees for the fewest of minutes, under strict supervision and restrictive guidelines.  Some businesses had to close down, due to restrictions or lack of customers.

*source: worldometers website

Even sporting events somehow came to an end!  There was no major marathon event held in Kenya for the whole of last year.  Even this year has already seen the cancellation of the Mater Heart run that was to have been held in May, while the Stanchart Nairobi marathon has new restrictive rules for the first time in eighteen years, after having been cancelled last year.  This year’s Stanchart event that is scheduled for Sunday, October 31 has gone virtual – yes – it is a virtual run for the first time in history.  However, before you call the organizers names, they have allowed a limited number of about 2,500 to attend the physical event on a new route out of the city, unlike the ‘within the city’ tour that we were used to.  Those ‘limited’ numbers are reserved for the marathon elites – those who can run the 42k in under 2hr 30min.  That restriction has put off most of us, leaving us with the option to either participating in the virtual one or skipping the run altogether.

I was pondering over all these new-look Stanchart 2021 during my Sunday run, two days ago.  Would I be receptive to a virtual run?  The organizers expect you to craft your own route, meet your own medical emergency preparedness, have your own way of water and nourishment support, as you run and record your own time, not forgetting the issue of managing the traffic and road perils on your own.  A physical run would have all these issues resolved, with the runner only showing up for the run.  These virtual run requirements being put on the self seem to be a bit too much, not forgetting that the run must be done within the Oct. 25-31 window.  It is still little comfort, despite the participation fee having been reduced from the usual $25 and $10.  Modalities of getting the run T-shirt and medal for a virtual event are not that clear-cut.

I did that Sunday run with other issues to think about.  I had been down with a common cold for three days by that Sunday, when it metamorphosed into a flu.  It is usually difficult for an ailment to pin me down, but this one had virtually won over me by that Friday.  I could hardly walk around as I felt the lethargy, sore throat, cough and running nose that comes with such attacks.  No home remedy in the name of hot water and hot tea would improve my situation.  I do not even know how I was convinced by Edu to do that Friday evening run on the 19k course, since I was for sure out of running strength.  I survived it and probably that marked the beginning of my recovery.

I did the Sunday run feeling a bit better, but my run energy was at probably the lowest that it has been in the month.  I could feel it as the run progressed.  I could see myself slowing down with each passing minute as I tackled the usual Uthiru-Kapenguria-Mary Leakey-Kanyariri-and-back route.  I was doing the U-turn on the 15k mark at Gitaru-Wangige road with so little run energy that I doubted whether I would make it back through the 9k that was waiting for me.  Somehow, I made it back, with forced run steps along Kanyariri road back to Ndumboini then Uthiru.  I managed a 2hr 8min run, for a route that I have previously conquered in under two hours just two months ago.  Nonetheless, I was just glad to have survived the run.

It is now a Tuesday.  I am fully rested from that Sunday run.  It would have been a busy Tuesday, but it is the Eid ul Adha holiday, and businesses are closed.  I have just walked the streets of Uthiru and observed that I was probably the only person with a face mask in the whole of that 2km walking stretch, that was generally full of passers-by and roadside traders.

As I head for full recovery from the flu, I wonder whether I should hibernate and forget about any more runs until I am one-hundred percent back to health, or adopt the ‘learn to live with it’ approach and just keep doing what I have to do.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, July 20, 2021

Running in the spirit or is it with a vaccine?

Running in the spirit or is it with a vaccine?

Aki niita...

Mm mm mmm-mm-mm

Aki niita!

Mm mm mmm-mm-mm

Aki niita!

Finally, I just had to burst out loud, “Oh, ntaitika! Nita mm mm mm mmmm….”

I had already cleared three kilometres of run, when my spirit was uplifted yesterday.  I was just circling round the ‘churches circle’, a space almost the size of a football field where many churches, ten or so in my assessment, are all crammed next to each other together with residential houses and all.  All of the structures being covered by iron sheets on all sides.  This circle marks the turnoff from Waiyaki way as you now head towards Kapenguria road, then further to Ndumbo market.  Next to this circle existed a bridge, which has now been demolished as part of the road constructions, but a new replacement bridge seems to be coming up to flyover that road.

It was a Sunday, and the circle did not disappoint.  All manner of church was going on as I made my circling at about one-thirty.  The weather was cloudy and a bit cold.  There was no shred of sunshine from the white cloud blanket overhead.  It is the warmth of the run that was keeping me going.  I would otherwise be shivering in my tee and shorts.  

The drumming was intoxicating, but just for a moment, since it did not take more that five run steps to encounter the next church activity – intense prayers and casting of the evil one…

“Reswa!” I heard the chant from some one voice.

“Reswa!!” I heard a response from the multitude.

It did not take more that five steps to encounter the next church.  The drumming could still be heard.  The casting out was still on in the background.  All these were happening in the circle, to my right, as I kept running.  Finally, that song that got me would manifest itself just as I finished the circle.  However, it was not long before I had completely run past the circle and the church activities were now just a background noise.

I was now going down Kapenguria road and would be at Ndumbo stage in a few steps.  My run was mapped to follow the same proven route that has been my life for most of the year.  I did not take more than fifty steps before reaching the Ndumbo no-stage area, just opposite the gate to the government offices.  The matatus were as usual blocking my sidewalk and the main road.  I would soon be forced to run onto the extreme edge of the road just to pass by the current matatu blocking my way.  Next to its door were two touts.  Each was doing their jig, in response to the loud and ground shaking bass coming from the matatu.

“Halleluya!,” the music commanded.

“God is one…!  Oyeah!,” the touts responded in unison, jig ongoing.

“Halleluya!,” the music commanded once more.

“God is one!  Oh yeah!,” they responded.

“Some call Him..,” the music continued to command, while I did not need to turn back to know that the dance by the two was still ongoing.

I was momentarily gone from the vicinity of the matatus and would have to be facing my world in the solitude of the road as I headed down Kapenguria road.

The rest of the run was generally quiet.  I did not encounter many people or more church activities for some time.  But that would not be for long, since after I had hit the one-hour mark as I emerged at the tank, after Uni farm, to join Kanyariri road, I was once again back to church.  First, I met a group of church goers, evident from their clad, with the guys in white suits, and the ladies in white skirts and blouses.  All were having their white caps.  They were smart and matching along the side of the road.  They were probably going home from church, judging by the time that I met them, just past two-thirty.  They reminded me that they were ‘solders in the army’ by their quick march chants from that group of ten or so.

I momentarily overtook them as I went on towards Kanyariri centre, then took the right turn for the two-kilometre run that would lead me to the Gitaru-Wangige road, where I would do a U-turn.  There would however be one last religious gathering at the small shopping centre just before my turning point.  That gathering was charismatic and forceful.  

I have never seen two people, just aided by a public address system, sing so loudly!  They were engrossed in their song – a shrill soprano from the lady, a mix of baritone and bass from the man.  They were jumping and clapping, each with a mic, with no crowd in the vicinity.  I passed them towards my U-turn.  I passed by them a second time on my way back after the U.  They were still jumping and clapping.  They were still singing.  Their voice was still fully amplified.

I was soon gone as the run took over my legs and I kept me going onwards towards Kanyariri road to then start my run back to Uthiru.  The run back was just great, though I knew from the onset that this run found me on one of the days that I was not on my top form.  I had felt tired from the start of the run, and my stomach had pained me for more than half the run distance.  I was happy to just survive the run and bring it to an end.

Was my feeling low related to that second dose corona vaccine done five days ago?  We had exchanged experiences amongst the group that had volunteered to update the records on the central ministry of health database after the vaccinations.  Having been jabbed on a Tuesday, we had three days to be on those registration tables as we processed the many staff who had turned up for their mostly second, but first fast doses.  We found ourselves, those on the registration tables, talking about our experiences.  I had not felt anything out of the ordinary in my case, apart from that five-minute dry cough attack that I had suffered late night Thursday.  

Others did not report anything adverse either.  At least four of the group of ten confessed to having been hit by a sleeping episode during unexpected times, which they attributed to the vaccine.  One said that he had slept in the staff bus, while on the ride from the workplace to his home in Utawala, where he had to be woken up by the bus crew to alight.  Another confessed to having dropped on the home sofa in the evening after work and slept the night away on the sofa, without realizing what had hit her.

I still believe that my run of yesterday was not affected by that vaccine in any way, even as I posted an average time of 5min 07sec per kilometre over the slightly more than half marathon distance.  This timing was a bit over the less that 5min that I was posting hardly four weeks ago.  However, no two run days are ever the same anyway.  Maybe I should just try the next run and see how it goes, and whether my runs were improving, getting worse and remaining the same.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, July 5, 2021

Of corona vaccines and a public kiss

Of corona vaccines and a public kiss

I had almost forgotten about this second shot Astra Zeneca vaccine, codename AZD1222 or locally called as Covishield.  The initial shot in the left arm on April 6 was a big deal.  A new vaccine had been realized in record time, hardly one year after the pandemic had hit humanity.  It was that same record time that had led to lots of vaccine hesitancy and doubts on its efficacy.  The second dose did not even seem possible after the scheduled eight-weeks interval period came and passed.  There was even talk that our bodies would ‘reset’ to not-vaccinated status if we missed the second shot after the eight weeks.  We must have therefore reset to ‘not-vaccinated’ as we prepared for the second shot that was coming forth on the twelfth week after the first one.

The announcement for the shot was sent late night as usual.  The reason why they give little or no notice when these shots are scheduled remains unknown to me.  Maybe be the body needs a ‘surprise’ for the vaccine to be effective?  I was on late night work on this Sunday night, when that email notification popped up.  It was just past one in the morning.  It indicated that staff should report for their second dose vaccination on Tuesday and Wednesday. 

I was out for my long run on Monday, just a day to the shots.  I have never been this tired during a run.  My lethargy was evident hardly five minutes into the run.  My paining stomach did not make things any better.  I knew that it was not my run day.  Maybe the first dose vaccine had already cleared from my system and the body was complaining that it was due for the booster shot.  What it was, I do not know – but I was so tired during this run that my own assessment was that I would probably do an average of six-minutes per kilometre.  That would be twenty-percent slower.  I did not care about the time.  I had decided that I would take the run, and I was taking the run.

Using the same usually run route had its advantages.  My legs knew how and where to lead me without much persuasion.  I somehow made it to Ndumbo and was soon on the downhill on Kapenguria road towards Wangari Maathai institute.  Even my autopilot mode managed to stumble on the five new speed bumps that had been added to the half kilometre road section all the way to the institute.  That was new.  They were not there during my last run on Friday, just three days ago.

I kept running and kept going.  I was emerging from the university farm at the tank, to join Kanyariri road after about an hour of run.  I kept struggling with the run, but I was now past the half way mark and I just needed endurance to keep me going.  I was on the road for hardly another five minutes after this turnoff when I approached a white vehicle parked on the right edge of the road, on the same edge that I was running on.  Part of the vehicle’s right side was almost touching the edge of the road, since the roadside did not have so much space anyway.  Though the road is not usually busy with vehicular or human traffic, it still did not look right for a vehicle to be abandoned there.

I was about ten metres to the vehicle when I observed clearly through the windscreen some silhouette of two people.  It took me five steps to clearly see a man and a woman seated on the front seats, guy on the driver’s seat, while the lady sat on the front passenger’s seat next to him.  I was just passing them in another five steps when I observed them with tightly locked lips, as they sat and embraced on the small front section of the car.  I was tempted to turn back and reconfirm, since I had made my observations a bit too abruptly to even register what was really going on.  I recall having passed by some three or so school going children, of the primary school level, whom I had overtaken about twenty metres before that car.  Those three boys would soon encounter that vehicle with its movie through that clear windscreen in a few moments.

I kept going and resisted to turn back.  The school boys can start learning their lessons in life as they pass by that car.  A movie or two would not hurt.  I was already just struggling to keep on the run with all the tiredness and I did not have any more physical or mental energy to think about this issue at the moment.  However, I lied.  That scene of those two on the front seat kissing around left me analyzing the situation with many what-ifs and whys.  Why would two grown-ups want to display their affection in the light of day in ‘the public of the road’?  What happened to good old public decency and respect to one’s self, and the public?

Let me disclaim that I have nothing against anybody doing anything.  Kiss until your mouth gets sore if you want.  Its your mouth!  (not mine!).  For that matter, do it where you want to do it – it is your choice (not mine).  My only gripe is turning ’public’ roads into ‘private’ rooms.  There is an acceptable level of decency expected in public spaces.  I did not make the rules.  The citizens of this country made the rules.  I may not like the rules but rules are rules.  Let public affairs be kept to the public and so should private.  But do not just take my word for it.  A UK government minister had to resign just yesterday for having kissed a woman in private, so how serious can such in public be?

I kept imagining how that scene came to be.  Could the gal have been the wife of the guy?  But why would they decide to romance beside the road in that case?  Could it had been a ‘plan’?  Isn’t ‘mpango’ a ‘plan’ in the English language?  Even if it was a ‘plan’, if you can afford a car, then you can surely afford better privacy.  I must have been running thoughts on my mind for long, since I do not even remember how I did the U-turn on the Gitaru-Wangige road, as I found myself back to that very car hardly thirty minutes later on my way back.  I passed by it and had a chance to glance back momentarily to confirm if I had even seen right the first time.  This time, the two were decently seated on their respective seats looking straight ahead through the windscreen with straight faces.  If you had not been around there before this time, then you could not even have even known that there had been no innocence on that front seat.

I was energized to pass by that vehicle and run away towards ‘the tank’, and straight on towards Ndumbo.  That last hill towards Ndumbo shopping centre was something that I was waiting for, with all the dread it deserves.  It is a one-kilometre section of pure leg pain, made worse by the way I was feeling on this Monday.  I somehow managed to clear it and would soon just join Waiyaki way, then cross the road at Kabete Poly and be back to my starting point, which would be my finishing point.  I was even surprised that I had missed that six-minutes average that I had feared.  I had in fact done this run in an average of 5min 3sec.

I was glad that the run was finally done with, and there would be no more runs until after the second shot vaccination.  It was hardly twelve hours later that I would get that shot.  That second shot was even more painless than the first.  The registration on the government system after the vaccination was a simple one question affair, unlike the initial interview done during vaccination 1.  It is just about twelve-hours since that second shot in the arm and I am still feeling no effects, if there should be any.  I cannot evaluate the effect of ‘full vaccination’ on my runs until the next run on Friday.  The global corona infections* may be 182,403,071 with 3,949,423 deaths, but this pandemic shall soon be defeated if we continue to have and accept such vaccination initiatives.  Our Kenya numbers may be 183.603 and 3,621 respectively, but we as a country are also doing something about it, despite the few doses that have come our way.

*source: worldometers website

The last two days have taught me two lessons – be blind to the going ons if you are a marathoner running on the public roads, and let us all respect our public spaces.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, June 29, 2021

Running into corona lockdown… and surviving the hit

Running into corona lockdown… and surviving the hit

Plans

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

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

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

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

“Bora tufike,” I urged him on.  

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

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

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

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

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

“Bado watu hushuka kwa gate?”

“Kushuka ni lazima,” he confirmed.

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

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

“Naeza lipa na MPESA.  Ni sawa?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“OK, sawa, wacha nizichukue Sato nikirudi”

“Utanitafuta kwa hiyo namba yangu.”

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

The city

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

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

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

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

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

“Si hapo ni kwa nyumba za Dina apartments?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Si unishow ka-salt kiasi”

Ni-what?

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

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

Good ending

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kafu

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

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

“Mi nakuja ochukue ndoo”

“Ndoo?”

“Ndio, sisi anaweka ndoo hapa jokon”

“Sawa, ingia uangalie”

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

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

*source: worldometers website

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

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

When you have a good day, do enjoy it… to the max

When you have a good day, do enjoy it… to the max

It is long since I looked at the COVID19 numbers.  Do I even have the name of the website where I used to check the numbers from?  Or did I close that tab on my web browser never to reopen it?  I will be pretending if I were to bury my head in the sand, so to speak, and ignore the corona pandemic, in the guise of ‘being tired’.  There is no taking a break until we have corona defeated.  

This is not the time to be tired.  We have to keep keeping on.  We have to continue taking preventive measures that have been proved to work – masking, distancing, washing, vaccinating.  That is the only way that at some point we shall get out of the corona world and take that long awaited break.  The numbers shall not go down on their own without the participation of each one of us.  These numbers* standing at 174,964,775 infections, 3,771,572 deaths and 158,454,195 recoveries globally are huge.  Even the motherland has bigger numbers, being 173,661, 3,345 and 118,933 respectively.

*source: worldometers

I therefore feel for people when they behave ‘tired’ and walk around without a mask or a care in the world.  I feel for people when they have to congregate and throw away that ‘social-distance’ vocabulary.  It is human. I understand.  I judge not.  

I observed all these going-ons as I did my Monday run.  I was just about the 2km mark at Kabete Polytechnic when I observed the crowd of people that looked like students gather around the Poly gate, talking loudly, holding hands, hugging and all.  They were just being human.

I was hardly ten minutes into the run by this point in time, and I was feeling quite good.  The feel-good had started just as I took the first run step at about three on this Monday, three days ago.  It is long since I started a run feeling on top of my game.  I knew that there would be a special run in the offing on this Monday, if this feeling continued.  

However, there were two milestones that would determine if this was ‘the day’.  The first would be about the sixth kilometre as I faced the uphill after the river on Kapenguria road, towards Kabete Children home, and secondly, at the tank, when I emerge from the Uni fam to join Kanyariri road on the 12k mark.  If I would be feeling this good at those two stages, then I was going to break a run record on this sunny afternoon.

I was running quite effortlessly as I made these observations, all the way to Ndumbo market, where the roadsides were already filled-up with kiosks and buyers, while the remaining main tarmac road was blocked by matatus that had stopped in the middle of the tarmac and were now beckoning for passengers to town.  I was forced to squeeze within the sea of humanity, to just pass by that Ndumbo junction.  I knew that I would emerge from this very junction about one-and-a-half hours later, on my way back on Kanyariri road.  For now, I had to proceed on with Kapenguria road and aim for that first milestone that would start determining how my run would go.

The run continued.  My legs were quite light, my arms did not seem laboured, my breathing remained on the normal range, and even my stomach was not paining on this day.  The tummy was paining terribly on the last run of Thursday, four days before this Monday run.  I persevered with the pain for over ten kilometres in the course of that run.  It was not comfortable, though I still finished the run in an under 5-min average.  I was having none of that today.  I was surely having a good run day and there was no doubt about it.

I approached the downhill after Wangari Maathi institute at a relatively slow pace.  I did not want to sprint it off.  I knew that there was a hill coming up after the river.  I wanted to have enough energy reserves for that 1km of hill.  A downhill sprint would not do if I wanted a steady uphill run.  The strategy worked and I did the uphill with little effort.  I found myself emerging at Lower Kabete road and took the left turn, that would lead me to the Mary Leakey route then the Uni farm.  I was running on a route that I had used so many times that I could be blindfolded and would still make it.

The feel good would continue, with hardly any aches, even as I approached and passed by the 12km mark as I emerged at ‘the tank’ to join Kanyariri road.  

“This is it,” I did selftalk, as I started the 2km run on Kanyariri road, that would lead me to the U-turn on Wangige road, then back.

It is long since I enjoyed myself this much on a run circuit.  This was one of those rare occasions.  Such occasions are few and far between.  I just let myself go and let myself enjoy the run, the environment, the observations, the jostling for space with motorbikes at the potholed sections of the road.  I even battled for the right of way with the vehicles on the Waiyaki way as I crossed over towards Kabete Poly on my way back.  It was an enjoyable day and run.

It therefore did not come as any surprised when I finished the 24k run in just under 2hours, 1.58.31 to be exact.  It was a great day, and I am glad that I enjoyed the run to the fullest.  I know that it may take months to get such an opportunity again.  However, since tomorrow never comes anyway, why can’t you just enjoy every moment to the fullest as it unfolds and as it presents itself?  You never know if you would get another chance that has all the right combination of right conditions.  If you get it in the future, then good for you as you re-enjoy yourself.  If you do not, then still good for you that you already enjoyed what you had.  It is a win-win whichever way you look at it.

WWB, the coach, Nairobi, Kenya, June 9, 2021