The virtual half – a Nairobi International marathon with a twist

The virtual half – a Nairobi International marathon with a twist

I was on the road again on this Thursday.  I was taking a trainee runner to the routes to figure out a 10km distance and give her the impetus to keep going.  We started the run at exactly four in the evening.  It was hot, but not as hot.  We left Uthiru towards Kabete Poly, then crossed the Waiyaki way and ran the length of the road towards Ndumbo.  We alternated our runs and walks.  

We talked during the walks.  We even discussed how we were lucky to have decided to run on this Thursday instead of the previous day, when it had rained from about four all the way to late night.  As a consequence, the traffic jam around Kangemi had been impossible, leading to one of our runner, Berly, getting stuck in the traffic jam for over two-hours after her visit to collect a running kit.  We were glad that our ‘foresight’ in choosing the right day for the run was working to our advantage now that it was hot, but not very.

At Ndumbo we generally ran the downhill on Kapenguria road all the way to the river, then walked the uphill for about one kilometre to the Lower Kabete Road junction.

“This is harder that I thought,” Sharon commented as she finally reached the T-junction of Lower Kabete Road where we were to do the U-turn and run back on the same course.

“You must touch the tarmac,” I urged her on.

“I am too tired, I may fall over into the road,” she lamented.

“This is the ritual, you just have to do it”

She reluctantly touched the tarmac of the Lower Kabete Road, even as the vehicles from Westlands sides approached and hooted.

We turned back and walked for about five minutes on the slight uphill towards Kenya Animal Genetic Resources Institute, KAGRI.  We passed by it on our right then took a few photos.  I had already reminded the runners in the group that photos were necessary for the report to the sponsors, to make them feel good and… to also get that next sponsorship in 2022.

We then did a short run to the river and afterwards faced that one-point-five kilometre of uphill that ends at Ndumbo.  We would run-walk that hill to the very end.  By that time Sharon was taking rests every five or so minutes to get some life back to them.  Her legs were aching.  I knew the feeling.  I could feel for her.  We were now however not far from our destination.  Just another two kilometres and we would be done with the run.  The sun was still overhead and hot, but not as hot.  We kept going knowing that the end was near….

It was however quite a different situation two days ago, when I did my own virtual marathon on that Tuesday.  I started the run at about 3.15pm and it was a hot afternoon!  I have never run in such a heat.  I was nonetheless lucky that my body was feeling quite well on this day.  I did not have any aches and I was quite ready to give the international run my best.

I was suffering the disadvantage of having little choice on the route to take to get the 21km done.  All the routes that I formulated would have at least half of the run being done uphill.  There was no way out.  I therefore decided to do my run on the best of the worst options that I had at hand.  I still had to do over 10km of hills on this route even though I would get my 21km alright.

I had taken the same route as the one that I was taking Sharon to.  I however did not ritualize the tarmac with that touching action.  I instead turned left and ran the one kilometre stretch along the tarmac and then diverted once more to my left to the Mary Leakey route.  It was then generally uphill through the University farm all the way to rejoin Kanyariri road.  I would then turn right and run straight on for about two kilometres to Kanyariri ACK church junction for another right turn to run all the way to the Wangige road underpass for my U-turn.

It remained hot.  I was tiring much faster due to lack of hydration or supplementation with drinks and fruits.  I was just glad that I had got to this U-turn, since I now just needed to survive a return journey mostly on Kanyariri road to Ndumbo market, then the last two-kilometres to Uthiru.  I was tired, it was hot, and I still had an international marathon to tackle.

The end was finally near when I crossed Waiyaki way and was passing by Kabete Polytechnic.  That was Tuesday.  And I stopped my timer at 1hr 54min 26sec with the Runkeeper app reading 21.22km.  That was a good run time bearing in mind that hilly terrain and no water or glucose being dished out as would have happened if it was a ‘real’ run at the city centre.  The real run that had now been allocated to only few elites who would be at the stadium on Sunday, October 31.

Well, Sharon and I finally also finished our Thursday run which was still to be posted to the Stanchart international marathon website as a 10km virtual run.  We finished our 11.32km in 2hrs 03min and 24sec.  The run was posted to the website thereafter.  The stats would show that Sharon was so far at position 57 in a time of 1.47.18.  The organizers had prorated the timing to fit the 10km expected of the competition.  I even saw that other young runner, Atieno, under by tutelage with runner number 2020 being positioned as number 66 on that list of 10k women.  

My runner number 2031 had debuted at number 8 on the men’s 21km listing when I posted my own results registered as a time of 1.53.39.  I however knew that neither my nor Sharon’s time would be in the top 1000 list when we finally get the elites doing the real run tomorrow, Sunday.

That does not matter.  It is on record that we hit the leaderboards, and no one can dispute that.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Saturday, Oct. 30, 2021

Running communication is not easy

Running communication is not easy

I remember starting to shout in joy on October 20, just two days ago, when that speech by the president of Kenya was still going on.  I was joining many other Kenyans in anticipation.

“Lastly, with the powers conferred on me as the president…,” the TV screen sound came out loudly and clearly.  

It was just about two-thirty in the afternoon on this Tuesday.  It was Kenya’s Mashujaa day holidays, a celebration of heroes from those of independence, to the current ones.  The shouts continued.  The speech continued.

“The national wide dusk to dawn curfew that has been in effect from March 27, 2020…,” he did not even need to finish.

I could hear the louder shouts in the streets of Uthiru.  I heard shouts from the TV itself.  I was shouting myself at Uthiru house.  The junior runner, Atieno, also with me in the house during this holiday, was also in jubilation.  No one, be it on the streets or on TV was waiting for the words to be said.  We knew what would be said.  It was not a surprise when it was said.

“… be and is hereby vacated with immediate effect!”

The shouts in the air reached their crescendo.  The shouts and jubilation would continue for another five minutes.  This was the day that we had been waiting for!  Finally, we would start living our lives without the fear of the dark.  We had not seen the night for over eighteen months.  The day to finally remember that a day has 24-hours had finally come.

That night there was celebrations outside the housing estate, as evidenced by the noises and the background music that persisted all the way to when I fell asleep a few minutes past one.  Kenyans were celebrating their freedom.  

‘All corona restrictions’ had been lifted, according to what I heard on the streets the next day.  Nobody wanted to know that it was just the curfew issue that had been lifted.  It would take the minister in charge of health issues to clarify that other restrictions remained in place, including social distancing, limits of number of people in churches, meetings or events and putting on of masks while in public places.  That clarification did not change things… corona was over!

Three days later, on this Friday, October 22, 2021, there was yet another communication issue that needed clarification, albeit when it was too late.  I had asked the waste management company to clear some items from my office for incineration.  Some of those papers that you just want burnt, call it old notes, money matters, receipts and all.  The contractors have done this for me many times before and I therefore trust them to do this when they say that they shall do it.

I had sent a message to the contractor’s contact person and had asked them to pass by my office and pick a ‘small package on my desk’.  It was the only item on the desk anyway, since I changed offices and all material had already been moved to the new office in another office block, four hundred metres away.

I was therefore in shock, when I came to the new office some four hours later to find all items on my in-tray missing.  I remember having at least two files and probably some marathon registration documents and receipts on that tray.  It was not as clean as a newly purchased tray.  That was strange and it could only mean one thing – someone had made away with my files for whatever reason.

It did not take me long to realize that my very important files had already been turned to ashes.  When I asked the service provider why this was so, they informed me that that is what they found on my desk.

“We first went to your initial office but were told that you had shifted, so we came to the new office”

I was still in shock before they even told me that, “We even thought of incinerating those boxes at that corner,” while pointing to the boxes containing my marathoners team running kits consisting of T-shirts, medals, water and energy drinks.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Oct. 22, 2021

How long does this take? Of five minutes that turned out to be three hours

How long does this take?  Of five minutes that turned out to be three hours

I had now sat on that chair for exactly one-and-a-half hours.  My mouth had remined open for most of that time.  I was tired by all definitions.  The seat was comfortable alright, but the open mount situation was not.  My mouth muscles were tired.

“Shield him up for the x-ray,” I heard the doc say.

When I say ‘heard’ it is true.  I had been having a face cloth covering throughout the duration.  I could not see much, just the darkness of the blue clothing covering the whole of my face, leaving just a circular slot on the clothing for the position of my mouth.  I was already getting used to the darkness of the cloth covering.  The first relief came about when I was being prepped for the x-ray.

I got the chance to look at the wall clock, hanging above the wide window to my left, after the veil was lifted.  I momentarily observed the traffic flowing along Ngong road.  The Green house building was just on the other side of the road.  It was now exactly one.  

The portable x-ray equipment was brought to my once lying position, as the seat was adjusted back to a seating position.  I had to hold the x-ray reader in my mouth for the process to be done.  I would soon be adorned with the leaded shield sheet for the process to commence.  My mouth stayed open.  My mouth continued being tired of being open for hours.

“Take him back and cover him,” the doc instructed his assistant.

The lady adjusted the seat, and I was once again flat on the seat.  My face was once again covered, leaving only an opening for my mouth.  Some little panic was already setting in as to whether everything was OK.  That x-ray break however gave me some semblance of comfort that I would be done soon.

Truth be told, I had surely convinced myself that this would be a five-minute process.  After all, how long does it take to fix a piece of titanium, hardly two-centimetre high, into one’s gum?  Shouldn’t it just be push in and it is done?  I was wrong….

“We are now halfway done,” the doc updated me when I was back flat.  I was still in the dark due to the face covering.

“That cannot be true!,” I thought of saying.  However, in my darkness and a tired open mouth full of all manner of paraphernalia, I could hardly talk.

I would be lying if I said that there was any pain in this whole process.  None.  The local anesthesia had taken effect about five minutes after administration.  The whole half of my right lower jaw and tongue were numb.  I could only feel the motions of things but not the sensation of pain.  I was just tired and now worried that maybe something was wrong with the whole process.  I was expecting a five minute thing.  I was now in ninety-minutes and just halfway through.

I persevered and survived another three x-ray breaks.  I managed to see the number of blood-stained cotton balls lying on the adjacent table during one of those breaks.  They were bloody!  They were scary!  Could all that have come from my mouth?

That Wednesday had started well.  I already knew that this procedure was happening.  My expectations were however far from reality from the get-go.  I had an eleven o’clock appointment, but I was not called into the medical room until eleven-thirty.  That should have rung the first bell that it was not business as usual.  I have always first taken a seat next to the small desk used by the doc for some preliminary discussions.  This time it was different.  Neither the seats nor the table were there.  The room had all been cleared and instead there were all manner of paraphernalia lying around to occupy such spaces.

“Things are thick!,” I said to myself, as I wondered how to even proceed.

I was immediately ushered onto the dental seat and reclined flat.  The first explanations were that there shall be a full face covering on this day.  This was for purposes of complete sterilization of the mouth area.  This was a first one.  I have always dealt with the dentist ‘face to face’.  This time it would be different.  Other than that, I was told that the process would be as previously explained.  That explanation had been about one month prior.  It was simple enough.  As simple as five minutes in my view.

It was at 2.30pm that I was finally brought back to a sitting position and the face covering removed.  I have never imaged that a small gap of a missing molar on a lower jaw, hardly a centimetre space, could take that much time to deal with.  This same gap was costing me about 0.2M.  And it is a big deal when your bill in charged in millions.  All this was to paid out of pocket as the insurance company had indicated that such a necessary treatment as an exclusion.  

I had even debated on the wisdom of this decision, since the alternative option was to extract the upper molar to equalize this lower gap and be done with.  Such an extraction would be covered by insurance, hence a free issue.  However, it was not too late.  The bill was now payable, the titanium crown holder was now buried in the gum, and the next stage of fitting a top crown on the holding root was to follow after two months.

I almost collapsed with the anticipated pain when I got a prescription of the four painkillers, each to be taken over a period of five days.  I knew that my next five days would be hell on earth!  I had already been warned that cold drinks were out of question for a week, nor were hard foods and any much use of the right jaw in that period.  

The first night on that Wednesday was the most apprehensive.  I took the tablets by nine and went to bed immediately after.  That was four hours earlier that I would normally hit the sack.  I wanted to be immersed in deep sleep by the time the pain hit.  The pain would probably be swallowed by the dreams.  The numbness had already died down by this time, though the pain had not yet started.  I did not take any food on this day, just a glass of warm water.

I was surprised to wake up on Thursday without even a painful disturbance in the night.  Today is a Friday, the second day after my dental issue and I am yet to feel the pain.  I am even wondering whether that dentist did implant anything on my jaw.  I however cannot explain those stitches whose strings I can feel with my tongue on that gap.  Maybe I shall ask the implantologist.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, October 15, 2021

When I could not run for no reason at all

When I could not run for no reason at all

I have had a headache since yesterday, Saturday.  It just started when I got up to go to the washroom in the wee hours and persisted since then.  I woke up on Saturday feeling the pain of the headache on my forehead.  I however soldiered on through the door with the hope that that headache would go away.  It occasionally does go away without much persuasion.

However, my head was still aching when I went to bed yesterday.  There was therefore only one way out when I woke up today and the headache had not subsided – I had to visit a medical facility.  The walk from Uthiru to Mountain View for the clinic was laboured.  The hot sun burned my forehead, further aggravating the ache.  I could feel my heartbeat pulsation on the forehead.  Each pumping of the blood was a jolt of pain, but I walked on.

I got to the third-floor clinic and started waiting for my turn to see the doctor.  It did not take me long to start recovering.  I was seated at the waiting area with four other adults, who were evidently in pain, while a toddler or two kept crying due to some discomfort.  If that was what we call being unwell, then I was surely quite OK.

I was in fact just about to think twice over this issue of deciding to visit the medical facility when my name was called, and I found myself at the vitals checkup room.  I have always wondered why the medic at this section asks you about all of your troubles, when you shall still be asked the same with the doc later on.  I did not wonder loudly but went through the motions.  The headache was still there.  I could feel it throbbing with every heartbeat.

I was finally called a second time to see the doc.  I knew how it would go.  It went how it should have gone.  I was referred to the phlebotomist to draw blood for a blood test to determine ‘the thing that is causing you the headache’.

I matched into that room marked ‘Phlebotomy’ and was directed to a seat.  I have drawn blood before, but this was different.

“I am Mary,” the lady started, with a big smile, just after I had taken a seat.

Is this real?  I have never ever been introduced to a phlebo before!  I never thought they were humans!

“Nice to meet you,” I responded, more in surprise that anything else.

“You just sit and relax,” she said, while starting to prepare her tools, which included some cotton swabs, needles and syringes.

“I am known as the vampire!,” she finally said, when all paraphernalia had been set, ready to start on the action on my right arm.

“Vampire, you mean?”

“Yes, I draw bloooooddd!,” she laughed at me, even as she started the venipuncture.

I just had to laugh in response.  I did not see that coming.  Is it only Sundays that medics are friendly or is it Huduma day in practice?

So, we go got chitchatting over dis-and-dat including why diagnosis still relies on drawing of blood and those painful pricks on the veins, all the way to the beauty of working on a Sunday.  While she swore that blood shall remain the source of ‘medical data’ forever, the computer scientist in me knew otherwise.  We shall soon swallow or implant those data reporting transmitters and that is what shall be used to get data out of our bodies.  Puncturing of any nature is coming to an end soon.

The blood action was done as soon as it had started.  If there is a blood work that I have ever enjoyed, then this was it.  Anyway, I would soon be out of that room and start another wait for that final call to see the doc.

When I finally sat next to the doc, more of opposite him of sorts, I knew from his face that things were bad!

“We have checked the blood, and…,” he started.

“Yes, go on, and what did you find?”

“Imagine your blood has revealed nothing out of the ordinary!,” he shrugged in disappointment.

I am not sure why he should have been in distress.  It was music to me!  I hate medical facilities and the medicine that comes out of them.  I was relieved!  My Huduma day was now starting to come alive.  I was prescribed some painkillers, which I believe shall not be getting into my system if for sure I was just OK.

As I walked out of the building and faced the still hot mid-day sun, my head still throbbing mildly painful which each heartbeat, I wondered why I had even made that decision in the morning to come to the medical facility.  It was more of a safe-than-sorry decision, but my gut feeling had been quite against this visit.  That was my instinct.  I had wanted to fight the headache off until it was all gone on its own.  Well, that is still what I now have to do… fight the headache off until it subsides on its own anyway.

Good news for runners like me is that you can know if you are well or not, by just using your ‘run-o-meter’.  I knew from yesterday when I could not attempt to run or walk fast, that I was surely not normal and something was amiss.  Well, one day later and I still cannot run but I am told that nothing is amiss.  Whom should a runner believe?  Their own bodies or the opinions of those outside their bodies!

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Oct. 10, 2021

The run to forget, unless it was corona

The run to forget, unless it was corona

If there is a day that I have ever been tired during a run then that day was yesterday, Wednesday.

“Oh emm geee!,” I had shouted out subconsciously, as I took the second step in the more that twenty-five thousand that I was meant to take on this run day.

If you are wondering what 25,000 means, then let me give you the mathematics.  If you were to count out one number in one second, then it shall take you 7 hours to count from 1 upto 25,000 – and therefore 25k is not a small number of steps.  And unfortunately, on this Wednesday, I was already tired on the very second step.

What could it be?  My stomach would soon start paining, hardly five minutes into the run and that would persist for the whole run.  Why I had the pain remains a mystery since I had just taken a normal breakfast, read, tea and bread, followed by a cup of hot water about one hour to the run.  So, the pain was a strange symptom.

Earlier in the day I had had a casual conversation with some work colleagues.  They had wondered why they do not see much of me in the office environment, of which I informed them that I had corona jitters.

“Watu wote walishapata korona,” the guy in the group of two other gals updated me.

“Kale ka homa kenye ulipata from nowhere, ilikuwa korona,” he continued.

“Hiyo ni kweli,” the ladies said almost in unison, “How do you explain nobody putting on facemasks out there and yet nobody is dying en masse?,” one of the girls asked.

“I have no answer,” I responded, “Maybe we are just lucky.”

“Don’t bring luck into the equation,” the gent told me, “You want to tell me that all children in the world are ‘just lucky’ not to get corona?”

I was taken aback on that.

The corona truth or myth was out there for all to decide for themselves.  How or what is it that is causing 237,241,246 infections and 4,843,732 deaths worldwide or 250,510 infections and 5,175 deaths in Kenya?  Isn’t there something out there for sure?  How else do you ‘mythify’ such numbers?

Anyway, that was about eleven.  It was now just about three-twenty and I was on the road for the run.  My inner spirit was urging me to abandon the run and take a rest, though my internal wiring was reminding me that it was yet another day for a weekly run.  I therefore kept going.  I just knew that I would not be turning back if I were to I get out of the compound in ten minutes.

And I got out of the compound in ten minutes and was out there onto Naivasha road and headed to Kabete Poly before crossing the Waiyaki way to the other side of it.  I kept running and my feet knew exactly where to take me.  I was going for the usual run through Ndumbo, Kapenguria road, then Mary Leakey school to enable me traverse through the Uni Farm and then join Kanyariri road for the run to the shopping centre and back.  This is a route that has become the default for the weekly runs but on this day it was just much more difficult than I had imagined.

Turning back was not an option, despite how I felt, and I felt tired, with paining legs and paining stomach.  It did not get better nor did my pace improve.  It would be a miracle if I even managed an average of 7-minutes-per-kilometer on this day.  It was that bad.  I was glad that it was not yet the date for the international marathon, that is set for the week of Oct. 25-31 virtually.  I would have posted my ‘best worst personal time’.

I struggled along until the relief of doing the U-turn under the Gitaru-Ndenderu road.  While it was a relief doing that U, it was a pain imagining that I still had another 10k of run to get me ack to the finishing line.  Anyway, I was already too deep into the mix that I just had to find the willpower to finish the run, however long it took.

I even had a flashback on that corona discussion and really thought hard about it.  Could I have been infected, hence my lethargy?  I had however passed two temperature checks within the day, and did not feel chills or pains on the chest or throat.

I finally made my way to the finish line by some miracle.  I was tired, finished and almost dizzy.  However, I was back to normalcy as soon as I had taken a short rest and a bottle of water laced with Fanta orange soda.  My legs would however pain through the night and my body felt almost malaise.  I even thought that I would have to seek medication for something that I did not yet know.

I was therefore quite glad to wake up on this Thursday feeling well and normal, the memories of yesterday’s run still lingering on, though I would like to forget that episode in a hurry, when I posted the worst run time of 5:58 per kilometre over that 24.5k distance.  It is a route that I have done before in just under 5:00 average at my peak… and that is why I want to forget this run very fast and concentrate on the next.  This run was quite a welcome to the month of October, being the first run in the month.  The very month when the Standard Chartered Nairobi International marathon awaits.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Oct. 7, 2021

Where runners still run at night, but you must face off with them

Where runners still run at night, but you must face off with them

It is now one week since I was at my shags – yes, my roots, my village, my home!  I had planned to stay for as long as I was loaded.  That plan lasted only two days.  I travelled from Eldoret to Kisumu, then from Kisumu to the local centre of Dudi.  This was on a Friday, the third.  I alighted and immediately removed my mask, since no one, repeat no one, was having a facemask.  The stage people had even joked that, “See a Nairobi person has alighted and brought corona to the village, that is why he has a facemask.  We hope he does not spread it to us who do not have it.”.  They said it loud enough for my benefit.  It worked.

I therefore alighted at Dudi which is in Siaya county.  The travel from Kisumu has just taken about 45-minutes.  My home is about four kilometres from Dudi.  I would get a motorbike from Dudi, just because I was loaded with some items that I had shopped from the local duka.  Otherwise, I would have just walked home and would have been there in about forty-minutes.  It was just about one kilometre from Dudi that I crossed counties from Siaya to Butere-Mumias.  This junction used to have the home of Grace Ogot, the late, and her huzy Prof. Bethwel Ogot.  That home is for sure in Western province.  

I remember the politics of those days, when Grace wanted to be the member of parliament for Gem, where Dudi is.  She got her brakes since it was claimed that she was a resident of the then Kakamega country, before it was hived off into Butere-Mumias.  It was stated that she could not represent people in a county where she did not even reside!  It took some time, but I observed that immaculate home at that junction vacated then completely fall into dilapidation as the Ogot couple moved out and set home in Gem.  Of course, Grace would later become the MP for Gem and serve in that role for two terms.

Those were just memories as I made the right turn on that junction.  Had I not made that right turn, then I would continue being in Siaya county as I went through to Muhaka market, which I know and had frequented, and the rest of the boundary villages, that are just across my home.  Well, I made the right turn and was in a different county.  One more kilometre and I almost got to my primary school.  Almost, since a new road now diverts to the left instead of the traditional road that would have gone past my primary school before the left turn after the primary.

I could see the ironsheet roofing of that long block of my primary.  This was a new block for sure.  This is the place where I studied from class three to eight.  That is the place that moulded me to the form that I have taken into my adulthood.  I remember when I reported for that class three interview, having just come from Kapsabet DEB.  My dad took me to that school in the afternoon on his bike.  I arrived at the school compound and was taken to the headteacher’s office.  

At that point in time the block housing all classes, with the staff room and HM’s office in the middle of it, was a long block with earthen walls and bare floor.  There were no doors or window structures in any of the rooms on that whole long train, apart from the HM’s office.  Each class just had holes on the whole to define windows and doors.  You could, and it happened, that students that got in and out of class through the windows.  It looked strange, having come from Kapsabet town where I had been in a proper classroom made of building blocks, with a set of glass windows and lockable doors.

I had aced that interview conducted at the HM’s office.  It was a verbal one, just on general issues, I believe probably Geography, languages and History.  It is a bit vivid many years later.  However, this I know for sure, that my dad was given a final warning as we left the school ready for my day 1 the next day, “Let not your son come to school with those shoes.  Shoes are for teachers.  Students come here barefoot.”

That warning was strange and I even thought it impossible, since Kapsabet DEB standards were still etched on my mind.

As sure as the sun rises on the East, I was woken up very early the next day to join my siblings into the morning run to school.  And surely all of us were bare foot as we walked the three or so kilometres to school.  I was not just running to school, but I had with me a load of cow dung, wrapped with banana leaves or carried on a cut piece of banana bark.  I was also hauling a piece of euphorbia branch.  

It was a welcome like no other.  The dung would be mixed with the soil that the girls had carried in the same process, to make the material for use in smearing the floor and walls of all classes.  This smearing activity was to be done every Friday from ten to lunch break.  The classes would be hopefully dry after the afternoon ready for the upper classes who were taking afternoon classes.  The boys would use the euphorbia to beef up the fence on the same Friday as the girls were doing the smearing.

I have never been in culture shock!  There was nothing like this in Kapsabet.  In Kapsabet I would be a smartly dressed child walking to school across the Kenya Prisons compound, though I had to take the long route round, since the school gate was on the other side of the shared fence.  But here at Luanda Doho primary school?  None of that!  This was a different ball game.  I would have easily given up my schooling in that third year, but something strange happened that changed all that.  I became that ‘clever boy from Nairobi’.  That title remained as I led my class through the many years of toil and would five years later break an academic record that stands solid to this day, many years later.  That is a story for another day.

Back to the present, and on this Friday, just know that I was passing by next to my primary school on my right, which I could clearly see as the motorbike roared on.  I was at my homestead around one, having been riding for just about ten minutes.  My Diriko village never ceases to amaze me, many years since I knew it.  Despite civilization that has been going on forever, that place remains the greenest place that I have ever seen.  It is still full of trees, grass, live fences and all manner of greenery.  The green carpet is occasionally broken by the presence of some footpath, some house, some farmland that has been harvested and is now bare.  However, there is plenty of grass going around and it grows upto the edges of the house.  The air was fresh and inviting as I got to the homestead.  

My home is perched in a gentle hill.  There is a mango tree that generally marks the centre of the compound.  The mango tree under which I spend most of the daylight hours, doing nothing, just listening to FM radio on the phone and chewing through a long stave of sugarcane.  I could see across the valley to the other side, which is Siaya country by administration.  

I could also still see the other side of the other valley.  That side has the Manyulia market and the road to Butere.  When days were good, over twenty years ago, the same Manyulia market was the place to get to first, if you intended to take the train that stopped at Namasoli halt, just a stone throw from that market.  The train would take you to Butere ‘end of railway line’ on one end, or take you on the opposite direction to Kisumu, then Nairobi, then Mombasa.

I was so relaxed under the shade that I did not even realize how soon the rain would creep in on this Friday.  It did creep in, but saying that would be lying.  Our rain is seen across the valley from many miles as it progressively comes over towards Diriko village.  You can see it whiten the greenery on the horizon as it makes its way from Shiatsala towards Manyulia.  You observe it as it makes gains, whitening the background and enveloping that greenery, until it finally hits home.  And hitting home it does.  

When the rain pounds on the ironsheets of the houses on the compound, you can hear the sound loud and clear.  There are usually no ceiling boards on our home houses.  That means that the start of the rain also marks the end of any talking for those gathered in any house.  You cannot converse when it rains.  The drumming on the roof is so loud that you just survive the ear-shattering sound that persists until the rain subsides.  I am no stranger to this and so the rain welcomed me on this Friday just about six in the evening and I liked the ear-shatter as it lasted.  It however did not persist for long.  It was just a short drizzle.

Finally, I was done with dinner, and I was off to my house.  My house is located about one-hundred metres from the main house, just next to the entrance gate area.  In Luhya tradition, a boy should build his own house as early as he has been initiated, this should be at around fourteen years, just about the time one finishes primary school.  Once you are past initiation, you are expected to setup your own house and start ‘being a man’.  

And building a house is not just a saying.  It is the full works – get the posts, cut the rafters, cut the grass and then carry the posts, grass and rafters to the building site.  After that, dig the holes, plant the posts, trim their tops, hammer the roof structure, rafter the whole structure on the walls and roof, fill in the ‘baked’ soil on the walls and do the thatching... and start your life in that structure.

From then on, you should not bother your mother with any requests for food.  You should provide your own food by getting someone to cook for you, read, marry.  If you delay this inevitable of getting your person to cook for you, then your options are to stick to your father’s side at mealtimes, so that you benefit from the food that your mother(s) provide to your father, or alternatively, sort yourself out.  You could plead with your mother to make food for you, but there were no guarantees.  She would likely tell you to get your own cooker, on your face.  You therefore had to go slow on food issues or learn to become your father’s friend.  

The other methods of survival once you have your house, also known as Lisimba, or simba, or lion in English, is to start visiting your sisters-in-law and be lucky to get some food from them.  That is why in western culture the ‘shemeji’ is an important person.  Of course, the husbands of the shemeji’s do not take it very lightly when you frequent their houses.  They start hinting that you should be giving them a ‘shemeji’ too.  Believe me, after you build a house in western Kenya culture, then it is now survival for the fittest!

That is not all.  When you get a house you are on your own and you must survive, both for your own sake, and for the sake of the whole homestead.  The man, or men if you are lucky, protect the homestead.  They deal with the dangers that may arise.  It is their job to keep everyone safe.  The houses at our homesteads usually do not have washrooms within the structures.  You have to get out of the house to obey that nature call at the external shared washroom or the natural greenery, depending the type of call.  

Despite all dangers being manifested in the night, be it wild animals, fear of the unknown, fear for the sake of fear, or even bad elements, the men must be ready to get out in the pitch dark of the night and face the darkness.  The women and children are exempt from this compulsory going out business, and they are allowed to relieve themselves in containers in the house if it means so, or, to wake up the men in the house to take them out for the call.

I was therefore alone in my big three-bedroom house that was unusually dark and quiet.  The house does not yet have power supply, though the wiring has been done and just awaits supply.  I therefore got into the house with my kerosene lantern and would soon prepare to sleep, after blowing it out.  It was hardly nine.  I am used to sleeping the next day.  This was just too early.  This was going to be an interesting night.  It was cold due to lack of a ceiling cover, and the environment was generally cold anyway.  It was eerie quiet.  Even a leaf dropping onto the ironsheet roof, from the nearby other mango tree just next to my house, made a loud cling on the iron, based on the circumstances.

Anyway, I forced myself to bed and soothed myself to sleep by listening to FM radio on my phone.  At some point I did fall asleep and somehow switched off the radio.  The night remained quiet.  The ironsheet roof remained the cover of the house.  I slept.  Something woke me up at some point in the night.  I thought I heard something brush through the ironsheets.  It was as brief as a five second thing.  It stopped.  I was still thinking about it when a bird, for sure, flew into the darkness of the house.  

I could then hear it flapping its wings and it circled round and round and round inside the house, probably flying on the roof area.  If it had got into the house through the gap between the walls and the iroonsheet roof, then that bird would have a hard time making its way out of the pitch darkness of the house and out to the external world.  And it was true.  The bird moved round and round and round.  There was no way of getting it out.  It would have to get out on its own, when its time was right.  I ignored it, left it to do its rounds, and got back to sleep.

The call of nature came knocking at some point in the dark quiet night.  The men must go out.  That was the law.  I so I had to get out.  With torch at hand and slasher on the other, I quietly groped through the darkness of the house to trace the doors, opening them one at a time, in the darkness, trying to keep the opening sound as soundless as possible.  

I had a torch alright, but I have survived this type of life for many years and know the use of a torch at such a time.  You need to keep your eyes accustomed to the dark when you wake up and get out.  A torch beam would spoil your otherwise good visibility in the night.  You keep the torch off, you let your eyes adjust to the invisibility of the darkness.  The torch is an emergency tool, just like the weapon.  It is not to be used, until and unless it is necessary.

I unbolted the outer door and was out of the house, in the pitch darkness.  It was dark alright.  There was zero visibility.  I for sure could not see anything in the night.  I was soon back to the house to continue the rest of the sleep until morning.  Saturday is church day the compound was quiet for most day, as I continued taking my stop under the main mango tree.  Later that day my sister-in-law lamented over some night runner, or runners, who have refused to give her house any peace by their persistent walks in the night.  

That under-the-mango-tree rest also brought a moment of reflection.  I had already spent almost three thousand shillings by the evening of the second day.  And the news that I had landed had not yet done its proper rounds.  I knew that I would be badly broke when the locality gets to know that their son from the city was at the village.  

I just had to save myself by leaving when Sunday dawned, traversing the same greenery back to Dudi, then back to Kisumu.  Of course, that night bird had disturbed my night for a second time, and those strange sounds like roof sheets being brushed by a stick still persisted on this second night.  To cap it all, I still had to go out in the pitch dark of Saturday night, but was still unlucky not to shine the spotlight on some bad guy, maybe next time.

Since slipping away from shags on September 5, I have done three long runs, with the last one being having been just today at this altitude of 2100m here in Eldoret.  Today’s run, just like the rest of them has been difficult to handle.  My legs feel strained and the cross-country route through the partly muddy trails do not help much.  I average 5.30min per kilometre and I feel like hell on earth after every run!  

I long to go back to Nairobi, where the altitude is a bit favourable at 1800m.  I long to be back to the city, where corona is still real and facemasks have some semblance of being effective.  Nonetheless, corona remains real and those in denial should quickly get back to the reality of the situation.  When you have 225,736,297 global infections* and 4,648,356 deaths, with 243,725 and 4,906 respectively, being the numbers for Kenya, then you need no more convincing that corona is a real deal.

*source: worldometers website

WWB, the Coach, Eldoret, Kenya, Sep. 13, 2021

Of corona fatigue and greetings at every stop – my Western Kenya dilemma

Of corona fatigue and greetings at every stop – my Western Kenya dilemma

I have now done three runs since that incident in Nakuru, where I almost broke a leg through a motorbike incident.  The last of those being today, where I did the five circuits around Eldy on that half-marathon route near Pioneer estate.  Those three runs in the last two weeks have proved to me that the left foot may take longer that I thought before it gets back to full recovery.  I can run alright, but I feel a pain that lasts for over three hours after such a run.  The foot still looks swollen, compared to my right.  I however remain hopeful that the foot shall be back to perfection by the time I am doing the StanChart Nairobi International marathon to be done virtually from Oct. 29 to 31.

I have travelled to Bungoma, then Malakisi and back to Eldoret in the same two-week time.  The travel from Eldoret to Bungoma took about two hours, since I left Eldoret at about 7.30am and was at Kanduyi Bungoma minutes past 9.40am.  This matatus to Bungoma did not fail to disappoint.  It was the seven-seater ‘nguruwe’ type.  Even before the boredom overtook us and we began to talk, the luggage from the boot had already fallen on the road twice.  Each fall was brought to the driver’s attention by other vehicles that hooted ceaselessly, forcing the driver to stop and then walk back to pick the fallen gunny bags.

However, the Sunday religious programme on the loud radio was the tiebreaker on the boredom.  The topic of discussion on the radio was some preaching, followed by callers asking a range of questions.  One of the questions was what the pastor could do to help a girl child rejected by both parents, who have separated and remarried.  The pastor had advised that the girl should approach one of the parents for help.

“Sasa sikia,” the passenger in the middle of our back seat hit me with a nudge to get my attention.

“Eh, ati?,” I forced myself to say something.  I am not usually the talking type on public service vehicles.  I even feel shame-on-myself to answer a phone in public vehicles.  So, I was a bit reluctant to engage.

“Sasa badala pastor akubali kusaidia mtoto, hata na sadaka au kumpaka makazi, yeye anamrudisha kwa wazazi wenye wamemkataa!”

This issue would become a subject discussed by mainly the next passenger, and another who volunteered to join in, just seated on the front row.  They said that pastors were more interested in offerings than helping others.  They even reminded all and sundry in the 7-seater the reason why they themselves do not even go to church, saying that the church is for the women, who seem to like pastors.  I do know if I was hearing right, but coincidentally it was a men-only matatu on this travel to Bungoma.

From Kanduyi, which is the highway centre, before one diverts to Bungoma town that is some three of so kilometres away, I was to head to Malakisi town.  However, there is still no public service vehicle that can take you from Bungoma to Malakisi.  You have to take a Malaba vehicle and alight at the Kimaeti centre, which is about a 20-minutes drive.  That short drive costs you one-hundred shillings, instead of one-fifty, the conductor reminded me.

We had gotten to a Police road block just before Kimaeti stage.  The matatu just slowed down and passed that blockage without the customary stop expected of such a matatu at such a place.  The driver just hooted and passed by.  He later told the conductor that the Police wanted to check on their masks, yet they were not Nairobi people.

“Sisi ni watu wa mashambani.  Hatuvai mask sisi.  Masks ni za watu wa Nairobi.”

I was seated just next to the driver, with my mask on.  The driver and all the rest of the people in the matatus did not have their facemasks.  I was the only odd one out.  How his statement had turned to be correct?  From Kimaeti I had the option of walking the ten kilometres to Malakisi, or getting a motorbike for one hundred shillings.  I was carrying a load and hence opted for a motorbike.  It rode me through the dry weather road all the way to a river crossing that was now closed for the construction of a bridge.  A vehicle would not be able to pass by.

We diverted onto a temporary crossing just next to the closed road.  This temp crossing consisted of just three thin wooden planks laid across the river waters down there.  The planks had gaps between them that a motorbike tyre could easily slip through.  We somehow crossed that section and rejoined the dry weather road, and would soon enough be in Malakisi.  

I however noted that the motorbike did not make the usual turn to the town on the road that I had known before.  He instead went ahead for over four hundred metres, before turning left to somehow emerge at Malakisi centre.  I later learnt that a bridge on the original road to Malakisi had collapsed and it was yet to be replaced.  I believe that Malakisi is the only divisional headquarters in Kenya that does not have public service vehicle access.

I alighted at the small town of countable shops on either sides of the single dry weather road, and kept walking along.  I would in a moment pass the BAT factory that I have known for long, on my left, as I kept going on the main road to my hosts house about a kilometre away.  Then this tarmac road from nowhere just hit me from nowhere.  It just started from the middle of the dry weather road at a Y-junction, and it continued into my left.  

I would be going to my destination on the right side just next to the junction.  I was later informed that the tarmac road is in Busia county, who had decided to fund the tarmac in their county, while their counterparts from Bungoma who own Malakisi, had decided not to do such a project.  The tarmac therefore had to start/end at the boundary between the two counties.  Talk about one country, two counties!

I was already visiting Angurai market, about five kilometres away, by the evening of this same Sunday, August 29.  The market day on this Sunday remained the typical market scene that I had known ever since.  I had stayed in this region for about three months after my secondary school education and the region had remained largely unchanged.  By the time of this visit to the market, I had already been warned by my hosts not to try being a ‘Nairobian’ by putting on my facemask.  Such a show would make the ‘rural folks’ look bad.  I had therefore left my mask in the house even as I walked through the market.  And… true to the warning, there was nobody, repeat, nobody, repeat again, nobody was having a facemask.  Life was as usual as it should be.  Corona did not exist.  It was a Nairobi disease.

I took a day rest after that Sunday and was out of Malakisi on a Tuesday.  I travelled differently on this Tuesday.  Instead of a motorbike back to Kimaeti to get to the Malaba-Bungoma road, I got a motorbike for one-hundred and fifty shillings for about a fifteen-kilometre ride to Mayanja, located on the T-junction on the Chwele-Bungoma road.  I got there in less than thirty-minutes.  I was to get a matatu from Mayanja to Bungoma, but the matatus were taking their time to appear.  It was also a market day, so it seemed, judging by the number of people around Mayanja, and the type of wares that were laid out.  There was nobody with a facemask, apart from the Nairobian in me.

“You Nairobian,” a stranger approached my location at the side of the road, “Can I take you to Bungoma?  I have a bike!”

The roughly dressed person was a motorbike person looking out for business.

“I am waiting for a matatu, since they shall charge me seventy shillings”

“Ah, Nairobian, just promote me.  I shall take you to Bungoma with seventy.”

I found myself astride another bike, and was even joined by a second passenger on this trip to Kanduyi.  I would soon pass by KIbabii University, then Cardinal Otunga school.  This is a school that I had visited at least once during one of my past visits to Malakisi.  I remembered my niece Esther, who is now publishing books in droves, who was in this school and I attended one of those visiting days.  The motorbike rider would even joke that ‘those girls have been chased out of school due to lack of school fees’, while pointing to a group of five or so girls in their white blouses and light blue skirts walking besides the road past the school, as we rode along.  I reminded the rider that education was free, and he was like, ‘which Kenya do you live in?’

The ride from Mayanja to Kanduyi took about ten minutes.  I guessed that it must have been a distance that was less than ten kilometres.  It did not take any time to get the matatu to Eldoret that was just waiting for me to fill it up before it starts its journey towards Eldoret.  We left at 11.15am.  I sat next to the driver.  Most people in the matatu had their facemasks on alright, but mainly hanging by their chins, including the driver seated next to me.

It did not take long before he asked the conductor for money.

“Hebu lete fifty haraka, roadblock iko mbele.”

The conductor handed over a fifty just from behind my head.

We soon got to the roadblock and the cop came to the driver’s window.  He did not even look at anything.  No windscreen stickers, no driving license.  He just ‘greeted’ the driver, after which the driver took off.

“Umewazoesha vibaya,” the conductor told his driver after that stop, when the vehicle was gone for over a minute.

“Usipopeana fifty, utaenda kortini ulipe thao forty.  Sasa gani afadhali kati ya hizo?  Kazi ya matatu ni lazimu ulipie route, ukitaka kufanya biashara kwa hiyo route”

The same ‘greetings’ would be done two more times before we got to Eldoret at 1.30pm.  I was faced with a moral dilemma.  What should you do in the face of people not putting on their facemasks and drivers greeting the police at every stop?

WWB, the Coach, Eldoret, Kenya, Sept. 2, 2021