Running half naked – when running is a must

Running half naked – when running is a must

If there ever was a decision that I made just in the nick of time that turned out to be ‘healthy’, then today’s decision would be that.  Before this decision, the morning had generally been calm.  It promised to be a good day, even sunny if anything.  However, I knew that my troubles had started the day with me the moment I finished that cup of coffee with accompaniments at about eight-thirty in the morning.  It did not even take me thirty minutes to start being nauseated.  I could hardly settle down by ten, when I almost started drooling and made several trips to the washroom to clear my mouth.  It is then that I made the decision to take the day off and walked home.

That twelve minute walk seems like forever.  I finally reached home and virtually crashed the door down since my mouth was already filling up.  I went straight to the washroom where I threw up violently, almost suffocating from the continued outrush through my mouth.
“The hech,” I said loudly to the quiet house, trying to regain my breath.  Things had escalated quickly.
If I had delayed my walk home by even a second then many bad things could have happened either at the office or along the way.

I did many more spits and regurgitation in a span of thirty minutes while making the endless trips from the living room to the toilet.
“This is worse than I thought,” I thought loudly.
I was ready to get a vehicle to a medical centre.  I could not continue this way.  Any more outpouring and I was surely outa here.

My first aid training pointed to only one thing that could manifest and progress this fast – food poisoning.  There is something that I had got straight from fridge-to-mouth, and that accompaniment is what was the likely culprit.  This f-t-m was a shortcut that I now regretted.  I would normally have passed my fridged stuff to the microwave first, but not today.  I wanted to have a hot-and-cold, and now I was in for a bitter mouth and bile in the mouth.  I finally took some hot water, with the first round f the water triggering another outpouring from my belly, before my situation stabilized when I decided to take a nap in a seating position, empty pail next to the bed, just in case.


I was however lucky that this attack episode was today, and not yesterday.  Yesterday was a Tuesday.  It was the day that I decided to resume my runs after the Sunday, October 29 Stanchart marathon.  I had intended to have a week of rest after the marathon, but things happened and the break turned out to be two weeks.  I was therefore fairly well rested from that grueling 42k at Stanchart.  The intention for this lunch hour run was to do at least a 10k ‘welcome back’ marathon.

The spirit of running took me on a turn for the worse at Lower Kabete road after Kapenguria road.  I should have done a U-turn at this point and earned myself a comfortable 10k run on this dry lunch hour, the first in a long time.  It has been raining like 24-hours for the last week.  If anything, I should have as an alternative, turned left and done the Mary Leakey route and earned a 13k with no sweat.  Unfortunately, the run spirit directed me to turn right onto Lower Kabete road and head towards UON Lower Kabete campus.
“What are you doing?,” I asked the thing that was now controlling my every step.
“Turn back, you runner!”

There was no turning back.  I kept going.  My steps were strong.  I was energetic.
“Where are you going!  Turn back!,” the thing spoke.
I ignored.  I continued.  I soon passed by UON campus.  I then passed Kenya School of Government and the Post Office.  I kept going.  I at some point passed by Farasi lane school signboard.  I stuck to the sidewalk which was not there the last time I ran on this road, over five years ago.

I did not even know the end game on this lunch hour run.  I was supposed to squeeze all the run of the day to fit within the one lunch-hour hour, but here I was going and going.  The terrain was generally downhill.  I finally reached Ngecha road.  This should surely be a turning point, but no.  The spirit of run persisted.  I soon passed by Zen Gardens.  It brought back some good memories when training events used to be held in that compound… before COVID brought all that to an end.

“Turn back damn it!,” something in me begged.
I ignored it.  I kept going.  Even the walkway crossing the tarmac to the other side of the main road did not force me to turn.  I ignored the walkway and kept to the uneven path besides the road that did not have a walkway and trod on.  At this rate, I would soon be heading to the Redhill road and then Spring Valley Police station.  And of course the Lower Kabete roads terminates at Sarit Centre, and these landmarks were now becoming more real possibilities than before.  However, that would mean that the run would no longer be a lunch hour run, but a full marathon.

Finally, just before the Redhill road, I decided that enough exploration was enough and did a U-turn.  I am not sure what my ambition for this run was, but I told myself that I was exploring this side of Lower Kabete road, where I had hardly run for many year.  The roll down was equally easy on the legs which encouraged me on… but spoke too soon!  I almost came to a standstill when I did the U-turn.  The terrain of the return leg immediately turned out to be an uphill.  The struggle that I faced on those 5km back to the ‘tarmac’ junction to Kapenguria cannot be described on this generally hot lunch hour.

There would only be a short reprieve as I rolled down past Kabete Children home and KAGRI towards the river.  And I mean a really short reprieve, since I would then be facing the infamous Wangari Maathai hill section all the way to Ndumboini upto the Waiyaki way.  I almost collapsed in those 2km of real hill.  By then my once average time of under-5min per km was now thrown out of the run track.  I was likely to end up with an over-6, if this hill was to stretch even by a millimeter.

I soldiered on and managed to reach the finish line through lots of willpower despite my tired legs, stopping my timer at 24.12km in 2.03.44.  I was tired, but not as tired as the Stanchart.  I was not the only one tired at this late time of the lunch hour.  I found another run also taking a breather at the finish line at the Generator.


Josh has been in the marathon team for long.  We are in fact family friends.  I used to visit him sometime before COVID, when he stayed in Kikuyu town.  However, COVID spoilt many things including visiting each other, but I had kept in touch.  I know his family.  His spouse and child both run, and I have met them at some Stanchart events.

“You are still at Kikuyu?,” I asked, as we both sat at an umbrella just outside the Generator house, taking a short rest before we got back to work.
“Nope, niko kwangu huko Ngong’”
“Oh, you setup your own?”
“Sure, for the last two years,” he said, then continued, “You should plan to visit soon.”
“The year is still young.  I will purpose,” I answered, “How is Norah and that young runner of yours”
“Both are OK, lakini Norah hates Ngong’ with a passion!”
“Why so?”
“Wizi ni mob, houses get broken into all the time.”
“I thought you are in an estate with centralized security and all?”
“No, we bought plots and built.  Everyone just stays on their own, though we have neighbours.”

As we continued the chatter, now almost fully rested, he narrated a recent incident.  He was out of the country for duty, with the junior having gone to visit a relative, leaving Norah all alone.  On that fateful night, the bad guys jumped into his compound, which has a perimeter wall, but the wall is not very high.  The wife heard something like a commotion at the chicken coop, with the chicks making noises.  She shouted and raised an alarm.

It was not long before the neighbours woke up in their various compounds and started coming towards the direction of Josh house.  His immediate neighbor who has a domestic worker also heard the noises and sprang to action.  He jumped the separating wall and stumbled onto the thugs.  He noted three characters.  The unexpected confrontation startled the thugs who ran away and jumped hastily through the opposite wall of Josh’s compound, into another compound that is not yet inhabited, and soon disappeared into the dark night.  Quiet was restored for sometime, with the neighbours each talking loudly in their compounds, assuring all that all was well.

Finally, the domestic worker who had done the chase knocked onto Josh’s house.
“Norah, Norah!,” he called out, knocking the door, “Ni mimi, Simon.  Mikora imeenda.  Unaweza fungua mlango sasa.”
Norah finally gathered the courage to open the door, with the reassurance from the chatter in the neighbourhood and with Simon’s knock.
“Nimefukuza hiyo watu, wameenda,” he continued next to the still closed door.

Norah opened the door, relieved, but still shaken.
“Eh, nilikuwa nimeshtuka!  Haki ahsante sana, Simon,” Norah greeted him, door now open.  The dim light of the moonlight aiding in visibility and the light in the house now lit.
“Hiyo mikora ilikuwa tatu, iliruka kwa ukuta kama mashetani,” he described laughingly.
“Phew!  Ahsante!”

What a good ending, I thought.  No one was harmed.  And for sure no one was harmed and nothing was stolen this time round.  Previously, some of their chicken had been stolen in the dead of night by similar or same thugs.

But wait a minute, there is a part that I nearly forgot….

When Norah was now about to say her goodnight, she looked down the frame of Simon to note that he was armed with a slasher, but was also stark naked!
“Simon, eh, kuna endaje?,” she gestured downwards.

Simon seemed perplexed at the question, not sure he understood, before he followed the gesture of Norah's hand.
“Oh, oh, oh,” Simon responded and looked down on himself too, realizing for the first time that he was naked.

He abruptly and unexpectedly dashed off in full flight, without a word, and jumped over the fence to his compound, leaving Norah bewildered and at a loss of words.  She heard a loud thud on the other side of the compound as Simon fell over.  She did not know whether to get back to the house and lock or what was going on exactly.

It did not take long before she heard yet another thud as Simon jumped back to Josh’s compound now dressed up, still recovering her breath.
“Unajua nilikuwa nalala tu hivyo.  Lakini niliposikia nduru, nika amka tu hivyo na mzee nje,” he explained himself, and soon even forgot about the double-jump over his fence, and continued, “Lakini hiyo mikora iliruka ukuta kama mashetani!”

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, November 15, 2023

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 across the coast – and surviving it

Running across the coast – and surviving it

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phew!

My heartbeat!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mitamboni?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hata usiandike!”

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

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

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

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

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

Kuna kijungu cha pwaga, bila ya moto jikoni

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

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

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

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

Running into a con-game in Nairoberry… again

Running into a con-game in Nairoberry… again

I have heard of being conned.  I have read con stories.  I have even seen con schemes and I have been conned myself anyway.  I therefore believe that I am experienced and mature enough to detect a con trick and smell it even while a mile away.  It is probably for that reason that it has taken long since I was conned in this Nairoberry of ours.  That would mean that I have matured and probably cannot be conned until….

Until yesterday.  Yes, yesterday Friday, I was in the city centre early in the morning to run some errands.  I alighted at Latema road around nine and finalized my mission on Ronald Ngala street just before nine-thirty.  I was now planning to finalize a final errand at the stockbrokers on Lonrho house on Standard street, just near Stanley hotel, then intended to run back to Uthiru for an eleven o’clock meeting.

I had decided to use the washrooms next to the National Archives before crossing Moi Avenue to head towards Kimathi street then Standard street.  I would momentarily observe that the washroom block seemed to be closed and even disused.  I suspected that it was no longer in operation.  By that time, I was probably just ten metres to the facility.  I would then have just moved ahead towards Tom Mboya statue and onto Moi Avenue.  But with this washroom seemingly closed, I would have to turnback to Tom Mboya street and head back to Latema and use that facility.

I was just starting to turnback when I experienced a sharp grip on my left hand.  It was still broad daylight and that part of town was busy with both vehicular and people traffic.  There was nothing to worry about, nor was there any semblance of commotion or danger.  I was therefore taken aback…

“Tunauza Safaricom 4G bure!  Chukua yako hapa!,” the lady who had grabbed me declared, when I gained composure.

“Sawa,” I said, as I tried to release her grip.

I would then observe that there was some form of a vehicle parked just near our standing position.  Several people, adorning some branded white Tees were milling around, talking almost randomly to different people in the melee.  The branded group were about fifteen, in my estimation.  I was momentarily relieved.  Just another sale promotion going on.  My good!

That hand had not yet released my left, before a second lady joined us.

“Tutaku uzia Safaricom 4G line bure!  Tuna-celebrate fifteen years, bure kabisa!,” the second lady said.

I was still digesting.

“Nina laini ya Safaricom tayari,” I responded, after finally getting my hand out of the grip.

“Lakini, sisi tunauza 4G bure kabisa, chukua yako.  Migrate kutoka 3G,” the first lady stated, while the second one observed.

“Laini yangu ni 4G already,” I responded.

This is when I should have bolted, but I allowed myself to be sank deep into the scheme.

“Hiyo si hoja, wacha tukupe zawadi ya fifteen years na Safaricom,” the first lady said.

I did not even have time to digest what she had said, before she grabbed my hand once more and said, “Chagua lucky number from these,” she pointed to a small sheet of paper, about A5 size, which had some small white circular sticky papers.  Each of them has a number.  Probably from number 1 towards number 50.  Some of the white papers had been removed, leaving gaps on the paper.

“Chagua lucky number.  Chagua any.  Ni bure kabisa!”

What is going on here?  It started ringing a bell.  A faint one at first.  I let that mental bell die down for a moment and was back to the present moment on this Friday morning, just about ten in the morning.

“Twenty-four,” I pointed and said.

The lady let go of my hand to have both hands free to unveil what my number 24 would reveal.  Her colleague was still standing next to us, observing.

“Wow!  Una bahati kama nini!,” the first lady screamed in excitement.

I was in a state of shock by just the way she shouted.

“Umeshinda simu!  Imagine ya bure!  iPhone!  Kweli una bahati!  Thank Safaricom fifteen years promotion!”

Hey!  Wait the hech a minute!  What is going on here.  Is hitting it lucky this simple?

I did not even have time to digest before the second lady seemed to have abra-cadabrad by disappearing and reappearing with a box that seemed to have a phone in it and another one, a bit larger beneath it.

“Unabahati kweli!  In fact, umeshinda simu na tunakuongeza iPad,” the second lady declared while extending the two packages in my direction.

I hesitated.  I did not want to touch these free gifts.

“Hatuwezi kukudanganya!  Hi ni Safaricom fifteen years anniversary promotion.  Umeshinda hizi ma gifts free kabisa.  We mean f…fff…r..rr…r…eeeee!”

I still hesitated.  I did not still want to touch these items.  She noticed my reluctance.  She literally put them on my hand.  If I was to release my hold at this moment, then the items would fall on the street concrete.  The numb hand was forced to hold them.  The desire to let them fall overwhelming.

There is no way this is happening, I kept telling myself.  Was there some just-for-laughs-moment awaiting my experience?  Was I to be the person giving audiences the gigs on their televisions due to this episode?  Something was just not right.  Instinct can never lie to you.  It was telling me that something was not right.  Something was amiss.  I could not just put a finger on it, but it was there somewhere, on this part of town, near the Kenya National Archives.

“Usijali kitu,” the first lady resumed, noting my apprehension.  

The second lady by that time had done her magic once again, disappearing and reappearing like a flash, this time with something like a book of sorts.

“Sasa tuna kuregister tu, halafu simu na ipad ni zako, bure kabisa!  Haki unabahati!  Wengine huwa hawana bahati kama wewe!,” the second lady reassured.  

The two packages were still on my hand, just a wind push away from their falling to the ground.  Reluctance was so manifest on that right hand that the packages would soon be hitting the ground.

The first lady came into the equation immediately, “Sasa lete ID tuku rejiste, halafu ukashereke Safaricom fifteen years na gifts zako!  Bure kabisa!  Kweli unabahati leo!”

I had not moved.  I was not moving.  I had not said anything for about two minutes now.  I was digesting everything, and they intake was coming in fast and furious.

“Una ID, si ndiyo?,” lady two asked.

Then that mental bell rang again.  I had suppressed it and it now came back ringing.  Soon the mental light bulb was also on.  This was happening to me again.  I was not dreaming.  I was doing this a second time in about two years.  I was back to Westlands two years ago, where this selfsame thing happened just as it was happening now.  The preamble was slightly different, but the promise of a free gift was the end of the game, followed by this very same registration process that I was about to encounter.

“Oh, the hech!,” I almost shouted, becoming back to my senses!

“I am being conned!”

I had to get out of the situation and get out fast!

“Hebu shika hii,” I asked the first lady, while lady two was still holding the book, “Wacha ni angalie kama nina ID.”

She did not want to repossess that package of two boxes, and for good reason.  They only had leverage on me provided I was still hooked and attached to the freebies.  Handing the items back should never be an option.  It was now happening.  Messing their script to the core.

She finally, with the reluctance of a tired marathoner, took hold of the two boxes.  I proceeded to take two steps back and started to pretend to ransack my laptop bag.

“Nilibeba ID kweli?,” I self-asked, loudly, as they observed me ransack.

“Hebu nipe time ni angalie vizuri.  I am not sure kama nina ID,” I assured them, as I took another one step back and pretended to be busy ransacking through my bag.

I kept taking one step back, then another, then another, and was soon gone!  Gone back to Tom Mboya street and onto Latema road.  I was out of there never to be seen again!  I would soon thereafter run my errands at Lonrho and be back to Uthiru past eleven.  Missing my eleven o’clock appointment and of course, missing out on the free gifts by Safaricom at fifteen.

Now, before you call me names and accuse me of not appreciating the philanthropy of Saf@15, let me tell you how this would have unfolded, if you do not know already….

Never trust anybody, physically or on phone, who speaks so fast and gives you no time to think.  Phone cons work that way, and street cons work the same.  Even mind-gamers, like these promotion people know this fast talk trick and they exploit it their full advantage.  This is based on the experience of two years ago, at Westlands, just outside the Mall, where we now have the Naivas supermarket.  

I was having the very same two packages, one gift that I had won, plus the extra one that I had been added in appreciation of my ‘lucky day’.  I had my ID with me and I therefore proceeded to the registration desk.  The people, even on this occasion, two years ago, were as jovial as always.  Smiling, singing, loud music and hi-fiving each other and potential winners.  They were adorning the brand of another major telco in Kenya.  They ware all genuine.  They were operating on a public street.  There was no danger of being robbed or anything bad.  In fact, there is usually no danger or threat to your personal safety at all.  It is just mind games that go on after that.  You need a strong mind and you need to be a fast thinker.

On this occasion, at Westlands, I had handed over my ID and they proceeded to start filling in my details on some register.  Just names, ID number, then they asked for the phone number, which they wrote on that register, and when I was just a breath away from my freebies…..

“Sasa, manze, unaona,” the person registering, “Hi phone ni free.  Free kabisa!  Hata ishike usikie,” he reminded me, pointing at the boxed phone on the registration.  The very phone that I had won for free.

“Lakini, manze, hii iPad ni thao tano tu!  Imagine!  Regular price huwa fifteen kay, lakini leo ni thao tano tu!  Haki bahati yako ni nzuri leo!”

“Mmmhhh, now I can see the catch,” I self-talked as I nodded, on that Sato, at Westlands.

“Sina chapaa saa hizi,” I responded.  I am one of those people who cannot buy when I am not ready, even if the world comes to an end.

  

I should have then been given my free phone, right?  Wrong!

“Lazima una ka kitu hata kwa MPESA.  Tunakubali hata ka deposit kadogo, halafu hiyo ingine unaleta tu baadaye,” the gentleman at that time, two years ago, had assured me.

“Sina hata MPESA kwa sasa,” I responded.  I was still sure that I would get the free phone and forego the additional top-up gift.

“Sasa tutafanyaje?,” he seemed to ask aloud, wondering along with me.  He must have got a new solution to the situation, since he added, “Maybe lazima una pesa kwa ATM.  Weka tu deposit, halafu tuna reserve hi kitu.  Hebu icheki, ni kitu ya nguvu.  Kitu safi!  Usiache hii offer.  After hako ka deposit, utamaliza kulipa siku yoyote.  Ka-deposit kama thao moja tu.  Lazima una ka thao kwa ATM.”

Now I knew exactly what was going on, here at Westlands, with loud music and all.  There was nothing for free.  I was being compelled to buy the iPad.  That phone was even not going to be free, even if I bought the iPad.  And… and that iPad was not even five thousand.  I was being forced into a contract.  I would be forced to pay a deposit.  I would lock in my deposit, then struggle to clear the balance however long it took…. At my own risk, with probably no hope of refund.

I was thankful that I was a marathoner, capable of thinking on my feet and… capable of bolting at a short notice, and so did I bolt….

“Sawa, wacha niende kwa ATM, halafu nirudi,” I told the person registering.

“Wacha tubaki na ID, after all, unarudi to saa hii, ndio tu reserve hi samsido.  Hebu icheki.  Ni kitu ya nguvu!,” he responded.

WWB, think, quick!

“But naeza kwende kwa bank counter in case ATM akatae, wacha nitembee tu na ID.  Naenda tu hii bank near Jacaranda hotel.  Narudi saa hizi tu!”

I could see his reluctance while handing back my ID.

Do I need to tell you that I was gone for sure, never to be seen again?  With no free phone?

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, May 8, 2021

Birthday runs are not sustainable… just believe me when I say

Birthday runs are not sustainable… just believe me when I say

I have never had a busy Thursday such as what I had yesterday.  I had a meeting that was to have ended at one, but for my intervention to cut it short at 12.30pm.  I was then to send a surprise birthday present to the upcoming runner, WWB junior, who was turning a half-marathon.  My plans were to dash to Ruiru to deliver the package, then be back to the start line by four.  However, the timings did not seem to work as planned.

I was at Ruiru just about three, delivered my present in a hurry, and started my travel back.  Travel on Thika road towards city centre was quite smooth and I was starting to be confident that I would make it back to Uthiru by four.  My confidence would however soon wane when I got to the globe cinema roundabout, where the matatu came to a standstill on top of the flyover.  The road was jampacked.  I could see the fire station just ahead, besides which I would be getting my next matatu, but here I was, stuck in a long queue of vehicles in three lanes on top of the giant roundabout.

“I shall not make it for this run,” I told myself.

The jam would soon ease allowing us to disembark at Latema road, and I would momentarily get my next matatu at about three-thirty.  Maybe I would make it to Uthiru in time for the run after all.  I was once more relaxed as we left the city and headed to Waiyaki way.  Then it happened again.  We were soon in another big traffic jam that ran from Westlands all the way to ABC centre.  Though it eased after ABC, it was already heading to four-thirty.

“I shall not make it for this birthday run,” I told myself once again.

The matatu moved quite fast after Kangemi and I found myself alighting at Uthiru just about four-forty.  The earliest that I could start the run was now probably five or thereabout, and I already had a bad experience last Monday when I had a five o’clock run.  Would I dare a late evening run for a second time in a week?  Would that not be one dare too much!

I did dare the run anyway, starting off at five just as it started to drizzle.  It was just like Monday repeating itself, since on that day I had been rained on, though that rain started off about fifteen minutes into the run.  Today it was drizzling ab initio, from the first second.  I was already set for the run and nothing was stopping this run.  Did I even have a choice?  Today was the birthday day, and a birthday date is always fixed on a particular date, isn’t it?

The drizzle was however gone by the time I was crossing Waiyaki way to start my run towards Ndumboini, hardly fifteen minutes into the run.  It turned out that there was no rain at all for the rest of the run.  It was even a relief that the University farm earth road was even dry, the very road that got me stuck on Monday.

I was on the same route on this Thursday, similar to the run of Monday.  I was running from Uthiru to Lower Kabete road, then diverting to the University farm past Mary Leakey school, then finally joining Kapenguria road at the tank all the way to the U-turn some 3km ahead, then back.  The run was smooth and fairly enjoyable.  Maybe it was just enjoyable because I had no choice on this, and the more I enjoyed it the better I would survive it.

Just as it was no Monday, I would finish the run when it was already dark, just past seven.  I was to commemorate a twenty-one for the young upcoming runner and I did that half-marathon for this occasion, even managing to add an extra three ks for her benefit.

However, the lesson today is about these so-called ‘birthday runs’.  These runs are completely unsustainable.  I was on full struggle yesterday doing that half-marathon, simply because I was helping someone commemorate her twenty-first birthday.  Any run over 10km is already a struggle as it is.  By the time you get to the ‘Teenage runs’, you already need proper planning.  Additionally, these are not your typical everyday run.  Past teenage and you really need to think twice about whether you really want to commemorate a birthday with a run after all.  

Imagine how worse birthday runs get once you try being good to someone past-teenage years?  How about when they hit half-marathon and beyond!  That is not even all, birthday runs go to full-marathons and beyond.  I have already mentioned that any run after 10km is quite something.  A half-marathon is not your everyday run.  A full marathon is a run in just a different territory.  

Doing halfs and fulls and anything in between and even beyond, for purposes of helping people celebrate their birthday, is good motivation… but not is sustainable.  The body can only take so much, and you only have one body.  There is no second chance to replenish the body once you get it overworked.  My marathoners group even sums all birthday years and asks members to run that total number of kilometres, singly or within the month!

Nonetheless, I have good news for all those who commemorate birthdays by doing such ‘birthday runs’.  Do you recall that age is nothing but a number?  Why not run any distance that you want when you are commemorating someone’s birthday?  Just do your comfortable distance and then tell the person, “According to me, you are only ten years old, and I did a 10km run for you.”

Problem solved.

Alternatively, good old cake for a birthday still works – whether you are giving or partaking.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, May 7, 2021

Forced to walk… during a run

Forced to walk… during a run

Do not blame me for getting to Westlands at 8.30am.  If anything, I was already late, despite this being a Saturday.  It was a Saturday like any other.  I take that back.  I would usually be in bed at this time, so it was not a ‘normal’ Saturday.  I was out early, since I was to get my item purchased by online shopping through a delivery agent in Westlands.  As already said, I was sure that the agent opened the shop at eight, since I had confirmed as much the previous day.

I would soon walk to the usual agent’s shop, just around Sarit Centre.  It was the very one that I had visited several times in previous occasions, especially before Corona was a real thing and moving around was the norm.  Corona infections and afflictions were in the zeros, meaning that it must have been late 2019.  The numbers* now stand at 102,860,053 infections with 2,221,933 deaths with Kenyan numbers being 100,563 infections with 1,753 deaths.  

It was a free life then.  Moving around Nairobi was the norm.  Visiting places was the routine.  Things were normal then.  Life is no longer the same now.  Social distancing, hand washing, isolation, facemasking and temperature checks are the buzz words.  I now prefer to pay extra to get items delivered to my doorstep, but particular order still slipped through my preference for door deliver.  

The circumstance of this ‘slip’ was that I had two addresses registered on the online account.  When I placed the order, the first default address was picked by the system ‘incognito’, which was ‘collection from agent’.  My second address clearly indicated doorstep delivery.  Of course, these online things do not ask you to confirm such information such as delivery address.  It just rushes you through a series of next…  next… next buttons.  

I wonder why it does not show a ‘next’ at that payment page, where you have to deliberately pick a payment method, deliberated confirm the same, then deliberated pay successfully before you can get the ‘next’ at the very end of double and triple confirmations!  I even forgot that compulsory OTP sent as a text on phone!

Tricksters!

I had learnt my lessons from this experience and I deliberated changed my address as the first action when I did a subsequent order from the same online retail shop.  When beaten, you do learn.

Back to the events of this Saturday, January 30.  I was at the usual agent’s shop.  Even the signage on the window still confirmed that this was the place.  The door was still labelled with the vendors logo.  I would soon knock, wait, try the doorknob, and find it locked.  It was now just about quarter-to-nine.  I was taken aback.  I was almost one hour late, and the place was not open.  This was not what I would expect of such a public service outlet.

I saw a telephone number written somewhere on the door label, which I decided to call.

“We have shifted to Block A, just next to the gate,” a male voice said casually, without a care in the world.

I left the labelled door and walked out of Block C.  I would soon be at the building labelled ‘Block A’, just to my left, despite the gate being to the right.  I walked around the ground floor of Block A.  Most rooms were still new, some even under renovation.  There was no business outlet at all on that floor.  I proceeded to the first floor – same storo – ongoing works and no business going on.  I decided to try the second floor.  Same.  Renovations everywhere.  I walked out and headed to the gate of the compound.

“Natafuta agent wa Kili,” I asked the sentry.

The lady pointed to a collection of doors just next to where she was sitting next to the gate, “Hiyo door ya tatu, lakini bado wame close.  Hawaja come job.”

I proceeded to confirm that the third door was surely locked.  The pink door was not even labelled anything to do with the online outlet.  It was labelled as some form of boutique.  I was now stuck in the hot morning sun with nothing to do but wait.

I would find myself bored after only one minute of doing nothing.  I called the same number that I had called on Friday.  The lady on the other end of the line first directed me to this new location, which I confirmed was where I was, before she asked me to check for the outlets number which should be embedded somewhere on the collection notification.  I surely checked it and found it.  I called it a first time, but there was no answer.  I waited and tried a second time about ten minutes later, and there was an answer.

I asked why the shop was still closed and whether it would open on that day.

“Nimesahau kifungu kiasi, nikarudi home.  Nita come tu ma-time zake,” the lady responded.

For lack of what to say, I asked if that ‘ma-time’ would be within an hour and she affirmed, though I was not holding my breath when I hanged up that phone.  I probably would not get the item on this day.  Nonetheless, I would still give it the promised ‘ma-time’.  I then wondered how even ‘kiasi’ comes into the equation.  Would she come with some keys and leave others?

I decided to walk around Westlands to kill some time.  I walked round the big circle around Westgate and back to the agent shop, only to find it still closed twenty minutes later.  I then decided to do a bigger circle on General Mathenge road, all the way to Lower Kabete road at Spring Valley and then back through Sarit.  This longer walk enabled me to finally find the shop open, where I picked my item and was soon gone.

I walked to Waiyaki way and emerged just opposite Fogo Gaucho.  This is where the usual Westlands stage, for those plying Uthiru route, would usually be.  It was not there.  The road works had barricaded that stage and all open space upto the gates of Fogo.  Vehicles, included matatus were just zooming on.

“Where is the stage?,” I asked the air as I kept walking towards ABC.

I would soon find myself walking and squeezing myself on the little space left with the road construction and all vehicular traffic.  I just kept walking not knowing whether I would get the bus stop anywhere near.  I would finally get a stage opposite Safaricom HQ, where I got a matatu and was at Uthiru finally.

I had hardly settled when I got a second message that I shall be receiving a second item ordered from the same online shopping outlet within the day.  I called the number given and some guy told me that he would deliver the item around four.  He said that he would alert me when he was near Uthiru.

This is something that I forgot, until the phone rang around four-thirty.

“Niko Nuclear ya Uthiru”

“But, lakini ulitakiwa uje madukani?”

He thought for a bit, then, “Lakini sijui madukani.  Wewe kuja Nuclear.”

I found myself, for a second time in one day, chasing after an item.  I had experienced the episode at the agent outlet in Westlands, now I was experiencing the episode of a lost rider at Uthiru.  I walked the 2km to the Nakuru highway and was at Nuclear in under twenty-minutes, just to ensure that I did not keep the rider waiting.

I did not find him at Nuclear petrol station.  I called him and he said that he was just near there.

“Nipe two minutes nikupate hapo”

Two minutes would turn to thirty minutes.  I had already experienced such forced delays earlier on this day.  I was now used to it.  I would finally see someone on a motorbike in the middle island of the wide road under construction, beckoning me to get to his position.  I got there and picked my item, then finally walked back to my station.

I did not feel anything when none of the two connector gadgets that wasted my morning and afternoon worked.  It was just another eight-hundred shillings down the drain, plus all the wasted hours running around.  I was ready for such an eventually even when purchasing the items in the first place.  The reviews on whether these things worked or not were mixed, with some commentators blaming the phone brands for the failure of these connectors, while others swore that they surely worked.  I was not even having the strength to consider complaining.  Let me just accept that OTP works well for payments, but OTG gadgets do not seem to work for me.  Things happened, but life continues.

*source: worldometers

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Jan. 30, 2021