Another Nairobi International Marathon, with a dare

Another Nairobi International Marathon, with a dare

Reason
I like the slogan for Nairobi International Marathon – ‘run for a reason’.  It does not tell you the reason.  It asks you to run for the reason that you know yourself.  In 2015 I was doing the 8th International marathon with ‘a reason’ – to finish in 1hr 35min.  (Visit the organizers page and you shall be bombarded by many ‘reasons’ why people shall be running.  From the rational, humorous, to the utter nonsensical – but that it their ‘reason’)

When the institutional bus set off from the work place at 6.05am, on this Sunday, October 25, 2015, I has ‘the reason’ etched in memory.  I had prepared for this, albeit more psychologically than physically.  I knew that I had already done the toughest marathon on earth aka Ndakaini about five weeks prior.  To me, that was preparation enough.  Of course, I tried to do my three runs a week thereafter, but none of these runs were over 13km.  I believe and I am convinced that Ndakaini is the final preparation for Nairobi.  I have done three Ndakainis and I can declare that.  I was now ready.  I had already adorned my runner number 6026 and fixed ‘the gadget’ on the left running shoe.

Security
This year the level was security was higher than previous years.  Sample this, full body search at all designated entrances to the Nyayo stadium… thereafter, a pass through a metal detector, then another body search after the detector.  Triple secure!  We had already disembarked at Nairobi West shopping centre, just on the other side of the stadium, and even taken the pre-event photos by 6.45am.  I was in time to see the start of the 42km that was ‘gunned-off’ at exactly 7.00am (or how do you call a run started by the sound of a gun?).  Or why did the organizer remind the runners, ‘not to be scared’, when the ‘gun goes on’, that is what he said – I was there!

The start of that 42k run did not leave us much time before our own run.  For ‘a reason’, the 21km run, which has always started at 7.30am was started ten minutes earlier.  The reason was the introduction of a new run category, the corporate sponsors run, that was squeezed in at 7.40am, just before the 8.00am 10km run.  The corporate run was a 3km run, generally around the stadium compound.  Qualification was by the amount of donation to the cause, the cut-off was 100k.

Timing
I had a well-planned strategy for doing the 21km in 1hr 35min – just do all the splits (each km) in 4min 30sec, a 13.33km/h average speed.  During practice on the infamous Ndumboini route, hill and all, I usually did a 5min per km average over the 10-13km distance.  Squeezing out 30 seconds from each split would be difficult, but not impossible.  I just needed the willpower, some adrenalin that should come with the tension and excitement… and lots of water.  The weather was perfect.  Not hot, not cold, a bit cool and no sun (until after nine).  

One thing noteworthy about the new route through city streets is the many turns that you have to meander through.  We call it the ‘zigzag’ run.  As you hit the first km, you turn to Haile Sellasie avenue and back.  As you hit the 3km, you turn to Parliament road all the way to Police Hq, and back to Uhuru highway.  We still have the tour of Kenyatta avenue between 5 and 7km, before visiting the University way to emerge around 9km as you now head to Museum Hill.  The hill takes you to the Parklands turning point at 11.5km, then back to Uhuru highway, through Uhuru park (where I now noticed they had introduced a new zigzag), where you exit on the 18km mark to face Upper Hill and back to the stadium on 19km.

Near is far
As you turn to Aerodrome road, you run along the stadium fence, but you are not getting to that stadium yet!  You must run towards Langata road and back towards Uhuru highway, before you finally get back to the stadium – just of the sake of killing the last two kilometers.  I could not hide the urge to look at the time as I did the turn on 20km mark – 1hr 31min.  That meant running the last very tired kilometer in 4mins flat! – Difficult and impossible!

I just wanted to finally get to the stadium and have this run done with.  I liked the new finishing route, which is just a few hundred meters from Uhuru highway turn back.  Previously, you had to run back to almost the 20km mark, before turning back to the stadium at Kenol petrol station.  The new finish was sweater – turn to the stadium just next to the Post Office.  I hit this last stretch with all I had, finally crossing the timing mat at the ‘Finish’ apron in a time of 1.36.55.  So did I run for ‘a reason’?  If the reason was a 1.35?

Numbers
Let me probably examine the culprit in this run, by analyzing the km splits in the course, as per my new timing gadget:
Distance = 21.56km (My gadget says the distance was longer, no wonder!)
Average speed = 13.4km/h (I needed a 13.26km/h, to get my 1.35 run, which I exceeded!)
Max speed = 18.5km/h (Must be at the start or the Parklands section)
Calories average = 1039 kcal/hr
Calories max = 1498 kcal/hr
Calories = 1679 (no wonder I was that tired after the run!)
Time in zone = 00:24’21” (I still do not understand this metric)
Splits per km:
km01 = 04.26, km02 = 04.11, km03 = 04.14, km04 = 04.21, km05 = 04.21, km06 = 04.23
km07 = 04.21, km08 = 04.31, km09 = 04.29, km10 = 04.52, km11 = 04.04, km12 = 04.28
km13 = 04.37, km14 = 04.36, km15 = 04.29, km16 = 04.29, km17 = 04.36, km18 = 04.44
km19 = 05.02, km20 = 04.31, km21 = 04.26, km22 = 02.37

From the data, the outlier is the 05.02 at 19th lap. This is the section from Uhuru park to Upper Hill, past the British High commission and back to the stadium – ‘The hill’.  The preparatory phase on the 18th lap as I headed to ‘the hill’ also messed up my time slightly with a 04.44.  Finally, I still doubt the distance.  The gadget never lies, but that is a story for another day.

Dare
As we celebrated our ‘reasons for running’ with some snaps at the bus, we were already strategizing for 2016.
“The reason why I did 10km,” Zelpha said, “Was because veterans like you are doing 21… and surely we cannot be running the same race!”
I thought about this for a moment.  The full bus, of about twenty had heard that lamentation.  For lack of a better consolation, I had to say something….
“OK, next year I shall move to 42k”
“Count me in on the 21km run then,” she responded in triumph.

It is now four hours since I finished the run.  I am not as tired as Ndakaini.  In fact, I did not even take as much water after the run as I did in Ndakaini (three bottles of three hundred mils, compares to eight).  However, the issue on my mind at the moment is…

Would I dare?  Would I get ‘a reason’ for 42 come 2016?


WWB, Nairobi Kenya, Oct. 25, 2015

Ndakaini 3 – New Route, same route

Ndakaini 3 – New Route, same route

Breaking
“Give me some of that,” I thought I heard that.
“Please give me some of that,” I looked back just in time to see someone point on the ground next to where I was seated.
“Take some,” I gestured, pointing at the meter long stalk.
“Mmmhhh, Aishhhh,” he tried to break a piece, but nothing happened.

I could see the struggle, he was not going to make any headway in his struggle.  While maintaining my sitting position, I took the stalk from him and gave it one jolt on a joint using my right knee.  A node on the third segment that received the bulk of the pressure gave way with just one pressed knee.  I peeled out the final strip from the bigger piece and handed over the now free piece to the stranger.
“Thanks”, he struggled to say, as he lazily, sluggishly, almost absent mindedly walked away.
That was a typical marathoner, a typical Kenyan – a comrade, a fellow athlete, who had survived another Ndakaini run.  

I continued chewing on the sugarcane.  The once full length was about ninety centimeters.  I had already chewed over four segments, each about ten centimetres.  Another three had been given off to my strange comrade.  I still have many more segments to go, so I chewed away, throwing the chaff onto the grass on my feet.  I was enjoying the shady roadside next to the Nairobi Water Reservoir pumping station and main compound.  Through the live fence I could see through to the vast waste mass on the Ndakaini dam – just part of the 3 square kilometers of 70M cubic meters of water.  The very lake that had formed the circuit of the marathon that I had finished some one hour ago.  It was about eleven thirty and the sun was hot!

I chewed away….

The day started when the alarm woke me up at four-fifteen.  The flask that had preserved the hot water from previous night was at the table ready for me to make a quick cup of cocoa.  I slipped into my blue shorts and the Ndakaini branded run Tshirt.  I had already affixed runner number 2003 on the garment the previous night.  These are the 1-2-3 that any seasoned runner knows must be done the night prior.

I woke up the watchman at 4.30am, to open up the gate to enable me leave the apartment block.  I hit the highway five minutes later.  It was pitch dark.  I could see the double headlights of vehicles come close and zoom past.  Matatus were already beckoning passengers that early, though none was ready to leave the stage.  Finally, a completely empty one passed by and noticed my gesturing silhouette.  It braked and reversed to my position.  I jumped in and it zoomed off towards Kangemi.  

After the Kangemi flyover, it stopped, the makanga jumped out and then started beckoning for passengers.  I was there, and I tell you there was no one near the stage.  Who was the makanga calling out for?  Was he serious?  When the clock hit six, after fifteen minutes of waiting, I jumped out, paid the ten bob fare and decided to look around for any other vehicle that would get me out of there.

It was nearly ten minutes before I got the next matatu that dropped me in Westlands, where another matatu took me to town.  An interesting day – running in three matatus already.

Plaza
I had expected the first hired bus to have left Reinsurance Plaza by the time I arrived around six-twenty.  A quick look convinced me that there was hardly a bus.  Last year, the first bus left around six.  This year, there was no bus at 6.30am!  I was starting to wonder is this marathon was take off, and started calling the organizers names for having taken 700/= for transport using false promise when I saw the ‘Double M’ come from the direction of Hilton towards Re-plaza.  No sooner had it stopped than anxious runners jumped in.  There was hardly any time to confirm who had paid or not.  The organizer just asked those in the bus, “Hands up if you did not pay, so that I can get my money and leave.”
Less than four hands were up – it was either true that we had all paid, or… well, runners do not run away with other runners money, so we must all have paid.

We left Nairobi at about 6.40am.  With the roads being relatively clear at this time of the morning, coupled with the smooth Thika road, our drive through to Thika lasted about thirty minutes.  We diverted towards Gatanga town, off Thika road at Thika town and drove for another forty minutes.  It was almost eight as we reached Ndakaini.  I jumped out of the bus, as it sought a parking space.  I jogged towards the starting lineup, which was almost one kilometer away, past Ndakaini shopping centre.

Move back
The runners had already started gathering.  They were already eager to start the run.  An helicopter was already hovering past the venue.  There was some warm up ongoing.  Same script, different players as the following was announced (one year later?)
“Tafadhali, songeni nyuma.  Please move back, otherwise we shall not start the run”
“Hatusongi!,” the runners roared back.
“About turn everybody!,” the announcer said, his voice amplified by the multimedia truck parked just beside the road, next to the starting point.
“OK, turn back.  About-turn.  By the left quick match… left, right, left, right… Please move back!”
“Hatusongi! ,” runners responded, “Start the run now!  We are not moving!”
“The run is long, please move back so that we can start!”
I wonder why they waste their breath making this announcement year in, year out!

Strategy
At 8.30am there was something like a pop.  Then there was a shout!  Then the run started.  I was hardly ready for the start.  It just happened and off the runners went.  I had a new strategy for this particular run.  I wanted to test the timing gadget so that I can be sure of how much time it takes to get this run done with.  I had studied the counter more keenly this time round.  I knew that there were nine hilly sections, with hill number nine being the last and toughest, with a 1.5km stretch on a 45 degrees elevation.  I just wanted to time and survive that last hill.

With this in mind, I hardly noticed any of the previous eight hills.  I was having a good pace and could remember hitting the 5k to get the first water point before breaking any sweat.  There were no sponges at the first sponge station on the 7.5km mark – but no big deal.  There would be others.  By the second water point at 10km, just after that first ‘bad’ hill, I was still good and enjoying the run.  I missed sponges, once more, on the 12.5km mark.  It was not my day, but with water at hand, I was still good to go.

Unending hill
The water station at 15km convinced me that the run was about done.  I just had to survive a 7km hill to the finishing point.  The sponge station soon after could not have come at a better time.  I snatched one from the roadside, quickly washed off my face and head, threw it away and continued my run.  The 300ml water bottle, hardly sipped on one hand and the cellphone on the other was starting to feel so heavy.  I could have thrown away the water, but I needed loads on both hands for the balance.

I thought too soon, since immediately after hitting the descent on the 17km mark, I immediately realized the arrival of hill no. 9.  I usually know it by seeing it – it is just a 45 degrees uphill that is just there.  You can see it and you cannot escape from it.  It is just there, quiet and waiting.  I found a group of running just walking.  It is not a hill that you dare run, unless you are a runner.  I was a runner, so I kept trudging on – slow, painful steps, but kept going.  I like this hill – it gives you a short break of about ten meters, after the initial 800m, then you face the next 700m of steep hill.  A hill that is still waiting for you!

At the end of the 1500m, at the very top of the hill, there is a crowd waiting.  They cheer you on, whether you are walking, running or crawling.  However, once you get to the top, you just make an immediately left turn to signal the end of your misery.  From there you just face two mild hills to land you on the 20km mark for the last water station.  Take your 300ml at this station and you can even afford to walk to the finish line.  However, runners do not walk, hence you just keep going until the end.  This marathon also had a new route, the start and ending were both on the main tarmac.  Previous runs started at the main road at the shopping centre and ended at the Primary School past the shopping centre.

12-Sep-2015 <> 1.48.25 – that was my time.  I had recorded quite some interesting paces for the 21km laps that make the marathon. 
Distance = 21.14km (it was longer)
Average speed = 11.7km/h (I hoped to hit 12)
Max speed = 19.6km/h (like!)
Cal/h average = 898kcal/h
Cal/h max = 1596kcal/h (that's big!)

Calories = 1623kcal

Time in zone = 0.39.54 (this, am not sure of)

Laps: 

km1@4.17, km2@4.20, km3@4.00, km4@4.12, 

km5@4.56, km6@5.29, km7@5.19, km8@4.53, 

km9@5.27, km10@4.40, km11@6.07, km12@4.27,

km13@5.59, km14@5.11, km15@4.59, km16@5.15,

km17@7.31, km18@5.59, km19@4.50, km20@4.58,

km21@4.47

Look at that strange lap time at km17!  That hill is a killer!

Thank you gadget – now I know the extent of Ndakaini marathon.  Next year, I can do a real run!

Barack Wamkaya Wanjawa, Nairobi, Kenya, September 16, 2015

Four days – four runs… the winner is…

Four days – four runs… the winner is…


Normal
The last two weeks have been busy, specifically the weekend of July 31.  I was not to write this story, but… I was just reminded that I am ‘normal’ and should therefore just do ‘normal’ things, like writing such stories.  This reminder came during an evening call-in show on one of the local radio stations, where they claim to hook up gals with potential mates.  

This particular episode got me off-guard.  On this day, I had to rush the young lady to Aga Khan hospital in a hurry in the evening hours.  She was complaining of a persistent stomachache, which had to be addressed if she was to catch her already booked bus the next day to western Kenya.  I was sharing the taxi with a colleague from out of Africa.  We were not quite concentrating on the radio vibes, but this one got me, it got all the four of us, the driver included.

“Please hook me up with someone else, not a ‘normal’ guy,” the lady on radio said.

The first reaction was a smile, as we, just like the radio presenter, wanted to confirm that we had heard right.

“Yes, someone who is not a normal guy.  I have tried the many Kenyans and it is not working for me, maybe someone who is not Kenyan…. not a normal guy…”


First run
I traveled down coast on a Thursday night, so as to be ready for business the next day.  The Dreamliner, without the final ‘r’ almost lived up to its expectation.  The seats were comfortable, it left on time at 10.45pm, and had fully sealed windows, suggesting that they should not be opened.  The only thing it lacked was a working air-conditioning system.  Ok, it also did not have wifi.  And come to think about it, they only served us a 500ml bottle of plain water.  I expected more - comparatively.  

Somewhere along the 500km run, it was evident that the mechanical system of this 46-seater was not very sound, though it had speed and landed us at seven as per schedule.  With a fare of 1,100, the ride was worth it.  The team of three, Charles, Janet and I, settled at the hotel and got our free time awaiting the evening when Mercy, the fourth team member would just us.  The morning rest was good, the coastal town was not that hot.  If anything, it was temperate, almost akin the Nairobi conditions.

After the lunch break, the water levels were already pushed to the brim.  A walk into the ocean or even a swim was not possible in these conditions.  It was strange that the waters were full as early at three.  The last time I checked, the water would push to the banks after six… but seasons do change.  We therefore just had a relaxed afternoon doing nothing in particular, just hanging around, cold ones at hand until the final team member joined in around six.  A plot was finally hatched up and we found ourselves at the reef hotel reception, joining two other colleagues who were coincidentally in this same city, but on a different mission.

The get-together was great.  The music was good, and severally I found myself on the dance floor.  Danceable music, just the right volume, a mix of mostly African musical servings.  Thumbs up.

Despite what promised to be the best evening, the DJ messed it up by keeping us on one groove for too long that we had to leave the dance floor, mainly in frustration.  Glancing at my watch and reading the time as one made me realize that the DJ’s scheme could have been a way to forcing our exit.  We got the hint and off we went.

Verdict – this was a good run.


Second run
Saturday was a busy day.  It was the day of the main business of the retreat.  After late morning breakfast, we were busy at the meeting room, provided to us exgracia, doing serious thinking and serious discussions.  By late lunch, at two-thirty, we were having our final document done and polished.

After the lunch break, the weather changed for the worse and in no time it was raining.  Getting to the waters was not possible, for a second day running.  What to do?  A new plan had to be crafted… and fast.  After sobering up with some ‘baridis’, we had dinner and left for an unknown destination.  Unknown, because we were relying on the ‘surprise’, from our new host.  

When our hired taxi headed towards Mtwapa, we were left in no doubt as to what was likely to happen and we waited with bated breaths.  We picked our host along the route, after some 10-minutes’ drive.  When he got into the car, loading it to fit four on the back seat, he decided to test the waters to figure out our type, as we later discovered.

“It is good to be saved, this world is headed to the dogs,” he said, somehow in the midst of idle chatter, as the taxi drove along the busy Malindi road, full of matatus.

“True, true,” came the responses.

Later, after some look through the window, he told the driver to pull over and park. 

“We are going here,” he pointed.

We were frisked and upstairs we went.  Double fan, they called it.

The seats were comfy, and the blare was… almost deafening.  The flickering lights were doing a number on our eyes and brains, but the drinks were affordable.  The crowd was young and soon the dance floor would be dominated by one particular dance style.  A girl holds onto the arms of the sofa where I am seated, forcing her b-h to project upwards.  I can just make out her short shorts, opposite my sitting position.  She starts circling the backside, while instinctively, a young man goes towards the now grating region and plants his front side there.  The rubbing begins.

“Mae to miel mane…*,” Tony the musician from the lakeside city of Kisumu asks, while the wild crowd of dancers cheer.   I would live my life of about four hours witnessing this as the main dance.  Whoever invented this bend over thing left little to the imagination.  
*which dance is this?

Later, on reflection, Janet commented that it was possible for a man’s belt to be so charged that it can just poke through, and…
“No one should be blamed if this happened,” she concluded.
On reflection, this is true.

But this was quite a different crowd from yesterday’s.  I could not even hit the dance floor.  This dance and music was just out of my league.  Then again, who in their right minds asks the DJ to ‘rewind and play again’ a simple singing game such as the Mandebele kids – unless they are kids.

Mercy had a reflection of her own, declaring that, “That damsel who was shaking her ssa next to your seat really wanted you to dance with her.  Why didn’t you?”

“Are you serious?  I would rather swim with sharks!”

“Hapana!,” she does not give us, “You could have had 'chips funga' ”

“You have lost it,” I retort, “Chipo is not even my favourite food.  I am an ugali na kuku person to the core.”

Little did I know that the joke was on me, when the other trio just burst laughing, while I remained amazed, stone-face and totally lost on what part of this was funny!

Later, Janet, who know the host, informed us that we were taken to this exact place before we gave our host the impression that we were ‘too saved’ to be taken to alternative places.  Just because we agreed that the world is headed to the kennel?  

Verdict – A run that you can do without, you shall not miss much.


Third run
My decision to book a bus online was the best that I ever did.  By Saturday I was sure that I wanted to travel on Sunday night.  Without much ado, I had booked myself an Oxygen for 10.30pm, paid by MPESA and was booked on the backseat – seat 46 for sixteen hundred.  The three colleagues could not make up their mind as to whether to travel Sunday morning, day time or evening.  They did not know whether to travel by bus or air.  They had indecision on which bus to use.  They ended up not booking anything, and chanced on deciding on their move next day, Sunday morning.

At Sunday breakfast, it was confirmed that there were no more ‘good’ buses left, at least for morning travel.  I was wearing a big smile as the trio decided to travel at night using a less prestigious bus.  Though the morning was rainy, the weather was quite improved by lunch break.  

After lunch we had the opportunity to try the ocean waters.  They were good.  The waters had been pulled back about one kilometer in.  We were able to walk the vast white sands to the shallow waters.  The water was warm and soothing to the feet.  A rub with the white sand was quite invigorating.  It was even claimed that it was medicinal (liars!)

We took a short break around three, to enable us change into swim attire – but this is where things changed for the worst.  Hardly one hour later, around four-thirty, the waters were already violent and full to the shores.  A close observation showed a broken wall on one side of the hotel fence.  The wall on the other side of the gate was surely also going down – it was just a matter of time.  

Just passing down the gate, now gaping with a fallen wall on one side, was a big deal.  The waves were splashing large volumes of water through to the compound.  Stepping out into the waters was becoming an issue.  Finally, we managed to time the waves and somehow get out of the hotel compound to the shore at the neighbouring establishments, which were not that overwhelmed by the waters.

I refused to dip myself in these waters.  They were cold, turbulent and dark.  A contrast to the once warm, quiet and clear waters hardly three hours prior.  Mercy and Janet managed to plunge themselves into the edge of the waves, lifeguard at hand and tube around the waist.  Not me!  

The crowning moment occurred when the two ladies lost their clothes plus two hundred shillings.  These had been left on the sandy shores, mostly within our watch, but somehow they disappeared.  

There were two theorems on what could have happened.  Some lady who had generally been enjoying our company at the shores, stated that the clothes had been washed away.  However, out of four pieces of clothing, only two were lost.. and of course the money.  Additionally, from the position where the material was sitting, inside an inflated tube, that was still intact, well out of the waters at the shore, it was hard to believe that the ocean waves could have picked up these items.  The second and more likely theorem was that someone had pinched the money (and clothes).

We got back to the hotel compound in time to watch the second wall on the left side of the gate fall down into the ocean shore.

In a few hours we would be getting out of this city back to our city.  There was no plan for the evening.  If anything, we had already checked out earlier, with our bags just waiting for us at the reception.  But wait a minute, don’t we have this neighbouring place?  In no time, we were heading big tree-wards.

“Lipa mia mbili,” a voice declared, when we tried to get through to the direction of the music.
“What?”
“Nikulipa… mia mbili”
“For what?”
“Ya entertainment”
“But we just want to take dinner?  Chakula tu, nakutoka”
“Soo mbili,” came the response, hardly looking our direction.

Imagine the reluctance in paying up!?

Into the tent… we find a full family event with both children and adults, all glued to the stage.
“Two hundred my foot!  Robbers!”

We settle down to a free table, only for someone to rush by our side…
“Mia sita,” he declares, with hands stretched in our direction.
“Are you for real?”
We are hesitant.  There is silence.  There is a stare - four pair of eyes against one pair.
“Kukaa hapa ni mia sita”
We are about to say a flat “no way”, when he adds, “Lakini, mweza kula na kunywa mkitumia pesa hizo”

Our resistance if broken, but we are not bulging yet.

“Au mka kae kule kwingine,” he points towards our left, on the same direction as the entrance, where the kids have made a home, same place where there are no seats, where some of the folks are standing.

“Sawa, tutalipa”

We went in when on stage there was a contest on who can outdo the other in eating “sima”, a contest pitting two adults.  Crazy show.  Who pays to watch this!

But there was improvement after the MC declared that, “Watoto wote sasa waende nyumbani.  Show karibu ianze”.

Some music played while the stage remained uneventful for some ten or so minutes.  There is a scuffle, as bouncers forcefully eject a minor from his seat, on the free-side.  

I do a panorama just to see what goes.  Behind me are some raised sitting places.  On the dim light, I can just make out the silhouettes of people sitting.  Just behind me a see a damsel gyrating on the laps of some guy.  I sure hope they are dressed, but I cannot see and hence cannot draw any conclusion.  Anything goes.

A pile of smoke blows from a table just in front of our sitting place, beyond which is just one more table then the slightly raised stage.  This is strange smoke.  It is too dark and voluminous to be coming from a normal pipe, cigar or cigarette.  The smoke envelops the table, creating zero visibility for those glancing at the stage.  The mystery is solved when the smoker reveals a pipe, which on close scrutiny, is affixed to a flask like container.
“Shisha,” Charles volunteers, on seeing my curiosity.

Two soldiers are standing somewhere after the entrance, just to my left, on the same side of the ‘free’ seating.  Each is carrying a Kalachnikov, invented in 1947.  I feel safe, but know that ‘stray’ things happen… but isn’t there possibility that ongoing action can cause someone to just shoot in the air?

We soon have to leave, since it is about nine and by nine thirty the first bus should be leaving.  Mine leaves at ten-thirty.  We shall surely miss out ‘the show’... and are likely to miss the food too.  We had placed our orders some 15-minutes ago, but nothing was doing so far.  Even if it is an ‘hakuna haraka’ treatment… eh, they are pushing it!

The eating and drinks part did not go without drama anyway.  Janet had to summon the manager to her table when it was apparent that the waiter was playing games with the arithmetic… to the waiter’s advantage.  At least this one was not as drunk as the one at the beach hotel, who severally served the wrong drinks to the wrong people on the wrong tables – with no apologies.

As we gear up to leave, the show starts, with, “for a beer, show how you can lay a deaf chick”.  However, things would get worse in fairly a short time, since moments after, it was time to leak ice cream from someone’s belly – all this on stage, before the battle of shake-your-mountains was in the offing.  If this was just the start, how would the mid-show and end-show be?

Verdict – I can only judge this run if I have the opportunity to see the end game.  I would therefore give it a ‘worth a second try’


Final run
The taxi that picked me up at nine-thirty, at this octopus place, near Bamburi, dropped me in Mombasa city centre by 9.45pm.  Let us talk the octopus for a moment.  Which octopus has six tentacles?  That is the exact definition and symbol of the octopus (pweza), as depicted at this place, but this is a mysterious city… anything is possible.

The bus that left Mombasa at 10.30pm on the dot was comfy, with everything that you need on such a journey – air-conditioning, wifi, comfort, even a small pack of apple juice and biscuits to boost.  I may be too choosy, but surely, what happened to the onboard movie?  I saw the screen but it stayed blanked… I am not complaining.

Verdict – one of the best runs ever.


Barack Wamkaya Wanjawa, Nairobi, Kenya, August 15, 2015

The marathon that never was

The marathon that never was


Kichwa

It is 9.30am.  Had all worked as per plan, I would be crossing the finish line of my first run in Western Kenya.  I was set to run a 90min record on the plains.  This magic was to happen in the third largest city in Kenya – Kisumu.  I am woken up, even as I glance at the wall clock.  I can hear the audible voice which must be coming from the lower levels of my second floor abode – just outside the open window.  Thanks, whoever-did-this, for the open window.  This heat is killing me.

“We mtoto!  Kuja!”
Some pause.
“We!  Kichwa yako afanyi!”

I am surely now awake.  In fact, am laughing inside.  I just like the way the sentence has been framed.  I now agree that the relatives of protus can only speak English.  Trying out Kiswahili is a shame to the language.


Prepared

I was surely ready for this run.  Since I learnt about it on the first week of July, I had put in at least seven strategic prep runs, averaging 10km per session, three runs per week for 2 weeks.  I was ready to duel with two other colleagues – Dave and Rael.  They had been practicing too and I knew that it was not going to be any easy for either of us, since each of us was ‘silently’ plotting to beat the other two.  So, why I was not finishing my run and was instead enjoying a late morning sleep was still unclear, even to me.

“Mboga, mboga, mboga, mboga!”

I can hear this sound clearly as I get up, just on the edge of my earshot.  My impression is some lady is moving around selling some wares.  Surely, business is hard, having to use the natural loudspeaker on such a vast estate!

“Mboga, mboga, mboga, mboga!”

The sounds grows nearer.  But… wait a minute, I see my running shoes just below the table, with a Tshirt and shorts on the table.  It reminds me that I was to be part of the “Run for Life Marathon” that was to be held at Nyamasaria, about 3km out of Kisumu CBD.  According to the organizers website, it was to be a “dirty” 21km run, either singly or through a four-member relay team.  We could not make the four member team, hence our decision to run the 21km individually.  The website however left us wondering about the logistics.

It was the first marathon where I registered “for free” – no requirement for payment – just fill in your details and that is all.  How they expected to collect the five hundred shillings from me remained a wonder.  They could pick it on run day anyway.  Secondly the main contact person was in protus land – and his number was a +1.  Were we expected to call him?  Let me confirm, at this earliest opportunity, that he was not responding to email queries.  I tried twice – the email and a reminder of the email.  But let me also be factual.  There were also two local numbers, one of which went through early July when I asked about the issue of payment, where the respondent indicated that they shall provide an MPESA number for payment within the week.  I do not need to state that this did not happen.

“Mboga, mboga, kanzira, osuga, saga.  Mboga, mboga.”

Am now out of bed.  There is no need wondering what could have been, when there was no run.  My big regret is the amount of time that I spend preparing and my determination to “finally” run in my region!  I look outside through the second floor window and see the steamy hot air rise, though it is still early, hardly ten.  This city can be hot!  But there is no time to think about the heat, since the sound is getting louder.

“Mboga, mboga, managu, mito, kunde.  Mboga, mboga.”


Cropper

I suspected that this run would be a cropper when the Government of Kenya decided to announce that the Idd holiday would be on Saturday, July 18 – the very same day of the marathon.  However, my teammates did not think that there was possibility of this interfering with the run.  I did not argue the point, their dreams were valid.  By the window, I can now surely see the person pass by the gate, traditional tray on the head, full of stuff.

“Mboga, mboga, mrenda, akeyo, omboga, boo.  Mboga, mboga.”

But I had tried.  This was the last straw – I called the once working local telephone contact of the organizers, only for it to ring unobtainable.  The same sound greeted my ears on the second number provided on the site.  Trying the number whole of Thursday did not work.  By then I was already deep in preparations.  I had already been granted leave of absence and my trip was already planned.  I was going to Kisumu for the run.  My road travel to Kisumu on Friday was uneventful and by five I was at the lakeside city.  A final Friday call to the two numbers gave the same unobtainable response.  By nine at night, there was no response.  Which type of marathon is this?  What a wasted Saturday.  But wait a minute… there is a beep on the phone, distracting me from my looking out the window.  It is an sms…

“This is to invite you to the 12th UAP Ndakaini half marathon to be held on 12th September 2015. You can now register at the link below.  Thank you for your continued support”

OIC – SM marathns STL work.  GR8.

Barack Wamkaya Wanjawa, Nairobi, Kenya, July 18, 2015

First Lady’s marathon 2015 – The story that is yet to be written

First Lady’s marathon 2015 – The story that is yet to be written

I cannot believe that it has taken me 2-weeks of waiting, just to fail to write this story.  This relates to the second edition of the First Lady’s marathon that took place at Nairobi’s Nyayo Stadium on Sunday, March 8, 2015.

I was eager to have this run.  I had missed the inaugural one last year and I surely needed some experience of this type of run added to my running CV.  I also subscribe to the cause - the quest to ensure that each of the 47 counties have access to maternal healthcare.  Though we gathered for the run that was to start at seven from 7.00am, it was not until just around quarter past the hour, did we start this run.  Good riddance though, since I was at the risk of missing out on the start.  I had to sprint from University Way to Nyayo stadium, after my matatu delayed on the route from Uthiru, dropping me near the uni just 10 minutes to seven.

The excitement at the starting line was high.  It became worse with the arrival of the first lady, as the starting line was literally swarmed by runners who were surely not runners.  The first lady and group took the front line, while the rest of us runners were pushed back about twenty meters.

When the run was flagged off, the runners overtook the first lady’s running group, though they had to do this by running past them through the narrow passage on the extreme left or right of this group.  The madam was completely enveloped by these ‘runners’.  I know that running is no mean feat, and would therefore not want to discredit any of my compatriots, but these shield of humanity around madam 1 were surely not the regular type.  I passed them about 30 seconds after the start of run, and noticed the bulge on the right trouser pockets of at least four of them, when I overtook them from the right size.  It left little to the imagination that the ‘chicken foot’ was surely the hidden culprit – without a doubt.

Being in the first group of runners, I was able to avoid the crowds that usually obstruct the running path after the starting point.  I therefore did my run on a relatively less crowded route as we did the first round of run through Upper Hill then Mbagathi road.  My pace was good, though I did not have a stop watch.  I know this, because I was back to the stadium after the half-run mark when the city clock was at about the 8.00am mark.  Later on, as I hit the Mombasa road stretch, towards the Ole Sereni Hotel turning point, the first runners were heading back to the stadium, with the lead vehicle showing a 0.47.15 time.

I did not know my time as at the extreme turning point on Mombasa road back to the stadium.  It was however a relief that I would now just be facing the last 5km.  Mid-way through my way back, I met the First Lady’s team on the other side of the road – running alongside a large convoy of vehicles.  I could smell power, but just momentarily, since I had to keep going onto my destination.  I also started feeling tired, though I did not let this show, nor did I desire to slow down.  In fact, I started thinking of breaking some sort of record on this run, which I had planned for a time of 1.35 to 1.40.

The finishing was not spectacular – just crossing the timing mat and being ‘forced’ out of the stadium, where there was no water, no medal and no certificate.  The only presence was water on sale and the big contingent of armed security personnel.  I checked my post office box, took with me the few mail items and started my walk out of the stadium and back home.  I joined my colleague JC, who had finished his 10km run, at the Bunyala road roundabout, and walked the 5km upto Westlands.  He left for his residence near Westlands, while I got  a matatu to bring me back to Uthiru.

I had a gut-feeling that I had broken some sort of record in this run.  From the only evidence that I had, being the time stamp on the photos that I took at start time and at the finish ramp, my time calculation was in the 1.34-1.36 range.  It was easy to know the timing for the mens event winner, who clocked 1.01.28 and his ladies compatriot who conquered in 1.04.05.  They had their timing conspicuously displayed on the lead car and elaborately discussed in the media.  However, for me, the final time could only be proved by the official time that the organizers promised to release on Monday at 4.00pm.  I know this because I saw a poster to that effect when I went to pick my run Tshirt from the event exhibition centre at KICC, three days before the run.  I recall seeing the same message flashing through the organizers website the whole of Saturday, one day to the run.

OK – This is why I decided not to write this story – I was expecting to confirm a record breaking time… but two weeks down the running road, the organizers website still states that, “Certificates Coming Soon”, while showing a few people having medals that they won during the event.  Which event, again?

Barack Wamkaya Wanjawa, Nairobi, Kenya, Sunday, March 22, 2015

Running where night time is day time

Running where night time is day time

Almost left behind

The odds were against me as the team prepared for this event.  I had participated in choosing the date without consideration of a training that was to take place at the same time as the event.  However, having postponed the event a month prior, we had already agreed that whoever is available shall participate in the event, a trip to the coast.

I had hoped that my training would end on a Thursday, after all, the training material had indicated a 4-day training starting Monday, Nov. 11, 2014.  However, the training scheduled indicated that we had a 5-day event.  I had raised the two inconsistencies to the trainers, in fact, three inconsistencies.  Firstly, the date was misleading – Nov. 11 was a Tuesday, not a Monday.  Secondly the training days were inconsistent with the training schedule and finally, the date of start of training was indeterminate as to whether it should be from Monday or from Tuesday. 

The trip to Mombasa had already been fixed for Friday, and I had hoped that the training would therefore start on a Monday for four days.  When the clarification came, I was faced with a 5-day training starting Monday, running 9.00am to 5.30pm daily, yet the Friday appointment at the coast was for 10 o’clock, after an overnight travel.

“I shall miss this trip,” I had written to my two committee colleagues, Mercy and Charles. 

“I do not see how it shall be possible to join you before Saturday, since I can only take the Friday night bus.  This would however not be of much use since you shall be back Sunday.”

Jambo

Out of curiosity, I tried what my colleague Mercy, had tried before, during the first planned meeting that was cancelled.  I logged onto the Jambonet site, just to see what goes.  On this Wednesday night, I realized that it was possible to fly down coast at KShs.7,380/=.  This was of course about thrice the travel budget of 2,500/=.  I can confirm that I booked Jambo without any intent.  I was just curious, clicking the “Next” button and see how the system works.  Nonetheless, three minutes later, I was short of 7,380/= on my credit card, as per sms notification from my bank.  I even thought of cancelling this ‘experiment’ that I was doing on the Jambo site, but it was too late, with a disclaimer like, “… no money shall be refunded whatsoever”

“Thieves!“, I shouted to myself and almost hit the computer screen.

I notified the training instructor that I would have to take an early break on Friday.  This was to enable me catch the 1930 flight.  The reporting time was one hour to travel.  With the typical traffic jams in the city, I was not taking any chance and was out of class at exactly 1600 to get a ready taxi arranged through the employer, but charged to me.  I paid cash some one and a half hours later, as I disembarked at JKIA.  Surely, this traffic situation in Nairobi is absurd.  How do you travel from Westlands to Jomo Kenyatta International, a distance of only 12km for 1hr 30min!  I run 21km in that same time, for crying out loud!

Wrong time

The single aisle, double engine Boeing 737 left on time and landed at Moi International Mombasa as scheduled at 2030.  The taxi that was to drive me to the hotel, where my other seven colleagues had checked-in in the morning, having travelled by overnight bus, came for me about nine.  This was despite being informed that I needed it at 8.30pm.  The notion that “hakuna haraka” (no hurry) in Mombasa was turning out to be true.  When I asked the driver why he was late, he responded something like, “Nilifikiiri ni eiti-thati kesho asubuhi.  Wewe umekuja mapema kweli” (I thought it was 8.30am tomorrow morning.  You have come quite early)

When I checked into the hotel, and somehow managed to get dinner, or rather the remains of it, we had a brief chatter with the folks and generally informed them that I shall be waking up late and should not be disturbed before 10.30am.  I had already read that breakfast was served from 6.30am to 10.30am.  I wanted to be amongst the last taking the breakfast.  My colleagues told me that they would be done with breakfast and would in fact be going to town to get some swimming costumes.  We set our review meeting at 11.00am.

I was in shock and disbelief when I reported to the hotel dining at 10.15am only to be told that breakfast was over, since the service closes at 10.00am.

“But the information booklet at the rooms indicate that the closing time is 10.30am!,” I retorted, both angry and hungry!

“Hiyo bukuleti ina makosa,” the person at the dining responded, “Sisi kesha funga.  Labda kesho.”

What type of customer service is this!  You pay for their mistakes and they do not even think of a simple alternative solution like getting me a simple efing cup of tea from their kitchen!  And the way we are paying top dollars per night!!

Big pool

Later, my colleague Charles confirmed that the Hotel Manager had been informed of the incidence and he said that he was to “make good” the morning incidence during the evening.  We were advised not to take dinner since we were going out.  Meanwhile, we had to taste the waters of the vast Indian ocean first.  Our team matched to the waters after our late lunch – three to be exact, since I had a phone which I had to leave behind with the sentry as we exited the hotel compound, straight to the big pool, which had however retreated say 50 metres away.

I was afraid of the waters as I am not a swimmer.  But with the ladies daring the group on, of course they were having inflated tyre tubes round their waists for buoyance and hence could afford the confidence, we kept moving deep to the waters.  OK, as I matched through the crystal clear high pressure waters, I could feel the drag on my feet as I forcefully pushed them forward on the waters.  The journey started at zero depth on the shores, to half meter about 50m in the pool, and now to about a meter, at the waist level some 200m distance from shore. 

Out of nowhere, the folks just plunged onto the clear waters, with only the two guys doing a swim.  The rest were buoying.  Someone shoved a handful of water and threw it in my direction, and followed it in quick succession with other similar showers.  The shock of the cold water hit my body and forced me to collapse into the waters.  I was now completely wet and soaked.  The salty water was bitter on the mouth and worse on the eyes.  That is exactly why I do not like the waters – you get wet! 

The water was not that cold.  I could manage it.  I even afforded a dive with my hands touching the white sandy ocean floor.  I however could not swim.  Those who had bought their costumes for this event were having a ball.  Charles, my colleague, complained,

“This red costume of mine is too short and a bit loose.  Am almost like swimming bolingo!”

There was laughter in reaction.  Our group of eight was swimming in close proximity and we understood his fears.

“Do not worry about being bolingo ya telephone,” I assured him, “Such a situation happens at steam baths only, when you decide to let your towel drop for the steam to hit you wholly”.

“No wonder I have reservations about steam baths.  Imagine a whole me being bolingo in front of all and sundry!”, I finalized.

But I should have known better, since I was later beckoned to see a couple in action just a handful of water throws away from our swimming area.  But I did not believe this anyways.  Which action can really take place in the sub-fifteen degrees temperatures?  This remains to be proven since that would contravene Newton’s third law as there would be a third force – the water pressure, which I realized was too high.  Did I know that I would witness more of this in these same almost-lukewarm waters in the next 24-hours?  Read on.

Out of water

Having stayed in the salty waters of the vast swimming pool called the Indian Ocean, (must have been more than three hours in the saline), it was time to go out.  At about nine, as I walked out of the hotel complex, I had to hand back my room key to the Receptionist.  Just in front of me, in broad hotel light, in full public view, was my fellow Kenyan (I guess, since she looked like one of us), in a bra only!  OK, maybe there was this other innerwear also, with straps running from shoes to the inner.  Isn’t that against the constitution?  To walk naked in a public lobby?  Didn’t I read that in Chapter 6?  Or does it mean that when you are accompanied by a jungu you can go ahead and do that?  What are private beaches and hotel rooms for!  I handed over my key even as the receptionist appreciated my definite bewilderment.

“Hapo sasa – Mombasa raha,” he commented, beyond the earshot of the now retreating couple, “Watu wala mali yao, na bado,” he added.

Our team of eight walked to the main road and started waiting for a matatu.  None had the space for eight.  We therefore decided to split and left in small groups, as per the space availability whenever a matatu passed by.  Two of us got into a matatu and said, “Mtwapa.”

UNEP

“A ha – mwenda kula mali yenyu.  Ndio siku ya anza sasa!,” the makanga volunteered without any persuasion.  Meanwhile he took sixty shillings from us.  Mercy and I continued small talk, during the pauses that the loud music could afford us.

“Nanyi watu wa bara sivyo.  Englishi yenu yanambia nyinyi watu wa…  eh..,” he enquired, we said nothing.

“Ah, nyinyi watu wa Nairobi,” he continued.

Stubborn makanga.  Stubborn to the core!

“Mtwapa, Mtwapa,” he shouted, with his head hanging out of the speeding vehicle in pitch darkness at some points.

He was back to us momentarily, “Nairobi vipi?”

“Nilisikia mwatoka UNEPU!,” that was in reaction to something I had told Mercy, about going to ICRAF Gigiri sometime ago to do something official.

“Mimi pia natoka Nairobi.”

What the…. was our reaction!

“Ndio, mimi kesha zaliwa Nairobi.  Nilisomea Karura mimi.  Praimari and Sakondari.  Mimi mtu wa Nairobi tu, kama nyinyi.”

“We wacha hadithi,” the driver shouted from just in front of us, “Tafuta pasenja wacha hadithi hadithi zako bwana we.”

“Mtwapa!,” the tout hanged his head out of the speeding matatu but just for a moment, since he was back to us, “Karura hapo wakora wengi, si kama hapa Kosti.  Kwanza hapa Mtwapa utatembea saa zote zile bila hata kuangaishwa na mtu.  Lakini kwetu Karura… wacha tu, utainuliwa juu upate huna kiatu.  Huna kiatu nakwambia.”

“Acha hadithi zako, tafuta pasenja,” the driver reminded him.

We alighted at Kenol and took a motorcycle to our hosting venue where the full team arrived almost at the same time.

“I know this place,” was my first reaction.  “I have been here before,” I told Mercy, who had surely not been there before.

  

Democracy

The last time I was here there was a red hot show just after mid-night.  That was three years ago.  Since then, a moratorium had been imposed on Mombasa trips, since the members felt that the evening was excessively liberal, hence not good for our optical health.  I can however confirm that only two members felt that way, out of a team of eleven.  Where is democracy, when two trample the rights of nine for three years!?  It was good payback, to be back, without the opposition – good riddance!

In my running life, you get a surprise when you run a new route.  However, you are prepared for the surprises when you run the route a second time.  You can therefore manage expectations and plan a better and a winning strategy during the comeback.  That is the same mantra that I had this time round.  I was not going to be taken by surprise – I had to be ready for anything.  After all, after that show 1,000 days ago, what else remained/remains?

After mid-night, the DJ started barking and kept threatening to unleash the ‘swimming pool’ show.  One of the preparations, in this second visit, had already been put in place, by sitting next to the pool.  If anything was happening, then it was going to happen before our very eyes!  Time trickled by.  However, instead of any shows, the loud music pounded and pounded without any action.  We were starting to complain about how the establishment had robbed us clean.  Imagine, we had to pay an entrance fee of 300/= in exchange for a can of a compulsory promotional drink and a “PAID” rubberstamp pushed painfully on our hands!  Surely!!  By dinner time, after washing my hands, the stamp was hardly visible, yet that was akin the entry license.

Beauty pageant

The DJ finally said that he had just realized that there was a Miss Liz, who was a Miss some-pageant, who was having a birthday.

“Liz, from wherever you are, please come forward!”

“Chiki chiki chiki chi,” the DJ scratched.

Onto the stage matched this… eh… can I say beautiful?  That is in the eyes of the beholder and most beholders expressed that adjective, so let me go ahead and say beautiful lady.  Now, catch your breadth – as she walks up the three steps to the stage, we see her in this petite white dress, with a thin red belt strap.  The dress is maybe 30cm above the knees?  Let me just say it is short and she has stockings alright.

“Now, give the cake to your friends.  Where are you friends,” the DJ asked.

A deafening yell came from just underneath the stage, as a small crowd of say ten similarly dressed ladies and a few other gents waved and jumped.

“Chiki chiki chiki chi,” the DJ scratched.

Now, was this the show?, because when she finally ‘bent over’ to give the cake to the group that had yelled a few moments ago, we got to have a view of what was awaiting… there was nothing!  Nothing I tell you.  There was nothing under there!!  Hakuna kitu!  Zero!  Zilch!  There was nothing I tell you.  So we were here to see nothing that she had not put on!?  There was varied reaction all around.  Mostly, shouts of approval and whistles. 

“Fundamentals!,” someone shouted!

“That is better than the cake,” someone else shouted.

“We want more!,” I could hear.  Am not sure more of what – the cake?  What else.  We were having less, not more – shupid!

Stage-managed

Having been a runner for long, I can smell a stage-managed event 42km away… and this whole event was stage managed.  It was generally a bend-over theme disguised into a birthday BS.  Otherwise, how do you explain this… We had a promotion of one of the top vodka brands where they said that the offer price was 1500/= for a 750ml bottle from the usual price which was usually double (that is what they said, I cannot vouch for these prices – am a runner, not a marketer).  They parade these four dames on the stage, each with a bottle, then they ask them to do a fashion show with their products.  Their skirts are so small and tight that you can feel the pain in your own body as they walk about. 

Another reason why this was choreographed – when they asked the birthday-gal girls to join her on stage, didn’t they put on some music and ask them to dance one at a time in a competition-like style to pick a winner?  During this ‘competition’, didn’t each of them do a deliberate bend over?  Didn’t one of them actually bend over only to ‘realize’ that her stockings were torn on the bottoms?  Surely, is it a coincidence that you ‘realize’, unapologetically, that you have gone to a party (birthday party) with torn stockings, and short dress!  Any lift of the dress should result to stockings, and if they are torn, then there is no short dress and no stocking - so what do you remain with?  Even if it was so, that the stockings ‘accidentally’ got torn, wouldn’t you remove them before hitting the stage? (But that would probably be a bad idea, since it would make the situation worse or better depending on your side of the divide)

When the dust settled, there was no pool show, and we can only leave it to the imagination since it did not happen by two when we left.  However, by then, almost everyone had been bent over or had bent someone over.  None on my table had had the privilege and opportunity of either, but maybe my very own were too shy to try something that they might have had some reaction to.  For instance, what would happen if they actually liked the dance move!

  

Part 2

My Colleague Charles and I finally remained behind as the other six were chauffeured back to the hotel to sleep ready for an early morning trip back to the city by bus.  The reason why the two of us remained was to enable us speak to the Hotel manager, who had promised to make up for the missed breakfast.

“Wacha twende Nyali tukanzungumze huko,” he said, as he ushered us out of Lambada onto his car.

“Huko angalau tutaongea.  Hapa watato shule chungu nzima bana.”

After about twenty minutes of drive, where I even remember passing past our hotel, we landed at Nyali Nakumatt.  For a moment I thought that we were going shopping, but at this wee hour?  Maybe, maybe not.

“I see no parking,” Rob told us the obvious.  “Let me just try in front of the building”, he added.

At the front he tried squeezing the small car at a loading zone, but the security guardress chased him away, “Mbona wa rivasi hapa?  Nakukataza husikii, mpaka umenikanyaga?,” the lady had asked, to which the driver just ignored, readjusted the car without much success and finally decided to drive off the face of the sentry.  Disgust on both their faces.

“Ati nimemkanyanga!  Angekuwa ameanguka ana chukuliwa na Ambulensi,” he fumed.

After parking, we found the shopping paradise transformed into a different night life.  There were about four joints, Rob told us.  Being from the hospitality industry, we believed him.  You make a pick depending on your style and the crowd you mingle with.  For now, we were going to an adult crowd, unlike the rowdy youth, he told us.

We were in another joint, where he was welcomed in earnest.  They surely knew him.  At his seating place, a high stool for that matter, a mamasita bent over on him almost immediately.  I was sandwiched between him and my colleague Charles.  I knew that if this trend was to continue, then I would be bent over in no time.  I had already seen Rob’s three damsels eyeing my direction with interest, though I had pretended not to notice being noticed.  Their whispering and body language suggested that they were planning a move, though the music was so loud to hear their chatter.  Being pulled out in the guise of visiting the Gents, only to realize that we are leaving saved the day.  This Charles guy is a genius in arranging such sneak-ins and sneak-outs.  We would not have left there any other way, if we had allowed our host to have his way.  He was ready to ‘make it up’ and… nothing happens by chance, all these Snapp sipping gals were part of the big scheme of things.

Morning

We took a matatu, yes, a matatu at this time of the night, being just about 4.30am, and we were dropped back at the hotel entrance.  I later learnt that this particular road has already embraced the illusional 24-hour economy and the matatus operated both day and night shifts.  I went straight to bed and set the alarm for Sunday 9.45am.  I was not risking this breakfast thing again.  I also asked Charles to inform the others not to disturb my sleep.  I knew that most colleagues would be leaving the hotel by 8.00am, ready for their 9.00 o’clock bus, and they would be tempted to say their goodbyes, hence the warning.  I had arranged to travel by the evening bus, because I knew that I was likely to be too tired on a Sunday morning.  History has a way of indicating that Saturday nights are usually long and the Sunday after should therefore be spared for sleeping to late.

Either the alarm did not go off, or I did not hear it, since I woke up with a start just five minutes to ten, for an alarm set for 9.45am.  I was almost in a similar surprise, when I reported to the dining hall at exactly ten, only to find that they were just about to start wrapping it up.  At least I got breakfast for the first time at this establishment.  As I later, about two, walked into the giant swimming pool after checking out and even escorting two of my colleagues to catch their flight back, I kept wondering of the events of the previous night.  My thoughts were disturbed momentarily, since infront of me, on the 1m level water, was this couple with their mouths glued to each other continuously and alternatingly.  I have nothing against mouths, but I have something against public exhibitionism.  This was a public pool frequented by all manner and ages of Kenyans.  Couldn’t my dear Kenyans, in good health, in their past teens (I guess) just do this elsewhere?  Maybe am too analogue – no wonder I was not bent over (and vice versa)!

Barack Wamkaya Wanjawa, Mombasa Kenya, November 17, 2014