Pilgrimage unforgettable

The year was 2001 and from tilling in my parents farm that afternoon, I saw the 800 Km plus ahead of me as some impossibility inscribed with indelible ink in my heart, of late i had become christened to the believe I can do all things…so I set out for my journey with Kshs 400 savings, actually a token given to me by “Jaon” (sic) a girlfriend whose heart I never read the words of love till she was snatched from me by an unknown young man. I knew I would make my way to Nairobi and thereafter seek for “fare” miracle to join my team mates for an outreach mission activity in Matungu, Mumias. My colleagues had left Nairobi for Mumias a day earlier aboard Eldoret express bus- A blue colored bus with words inscribed in maroon above a yellow line, they would tell me later. My presence in Meru, the land of my ancestors, a small town 240Km away from Nairobi, meant I would only make my own way from Meru to Nairobi then to Mumias, in pursuit of my brethren’s penchant – preaching which I too was a darling for. If I cared an itch for the lost souls and if my heartbeat and that of Christ were at sync I had to heed to Peter Kamau’s mantra, a young man who headed the mission team with the zeal akin that of John the Baptist making the way for the Messiah. In Peter's words borrowed from Andrew Murray – Gods work done in Gods way will never lack Provision…and so with my Shs.400 at 4:00Pm I left home for Meru town, intention was to board a bus to take me to Nairobi at Night. Night buses were cheaper. It would cost you almost 50% less than if one travelled during the day. The only sacrifice would be sleep in the bus at Tea-room, an historical terminus next to River road stretch of Nairobi’s CBD. Folks told me travelers would sleep seated esp if the bus was full of people and wait for dawn then disappear under skyscrapers to borrow some abode to distant family friends, who lived in Nairobi but who would turn to be relatives on search moments.
As I trudged on the earth road from home to Meru town I meet with one Makena, whose dad was my second father - with no blood relations – in our time a child belonged to the community esp if one was well mannered. My village knew I was a good boy and that’s why I was not burnt down using Kerosine fuel while wrapped with a tonne of dry banana leaves when my old childhood friend “Mwirigi” suffered hell fire lit by men. He constantly went on stealing people’s food crops..i never knew he was a thief but his desire for every Shs 10 that i possessed made me think he loved money. He had dropped from primary school, later down the years I left college for vacation to learn that he had been set ablaze by the mob near the shopping center. So Makena was a critic by her own standing and never gave a damn to senseless talks, that’s why she never believed me when I told her I was going for a mission in Western Kenya. In fact I had visited Nairobi only few counts, she wondered how then would I make my way past Kimende. I told her am going to Mumias for a mission…she nodded though pitifully and asked, “Mumias, really”? “You”? “Yes” I affirmed….She never approved of my journey nor wished me well. She hoped I would change mind and stop making life intolerably awkward. There were more cathartic ways of answering a call bigger than that of nature. “She thought”. I wasn’t ready for any dissent to my purpose so I set my foot back to the ankle deep soil and in 30 minutes I was boarding a Nairobi bound night bus. I gave the turn boy Shs 250 (US$2.5) to get me to Nairobi; 1 US$ dollar charge per 100 Km. Passengers in the bus were mainly women transporting green bananas to a Nairobi open air Market colloquially called “Marikiti” which am told meant “Market” in the dialect of the Queen of England. Throughout the journey men and women were snoring but with brief interruptions from the irritating bus hooting on several bus stops to pick up more passengers and to load more luggage on the carrier and we got to Nairobi at 2 am. The buzzing and bustling town of Nairobi was covered in dark silence. From our bus seats, we bent diagonally, closed our eyes and slipped to deep slumber. Our bodies ached from stiff and rigid muscles, saturated with acid for we could not stretch freely. Sleeping while seated upright in the bus was a new one for me. For once I valued my small bed which at times made noise but today was the best resting place under the galaxy. At 5 am I disembarked from the bus. The sun was off the equinoxes and it had conspired to come out late in the early days of December. I clasped my hands, shivering involuntarily as early morning cold bit me as I headed to college (we had closed for December holiday) to explain to my philanthropic vacation student's Christian Union Treasurer about my incapacity to raise the fare to Matungu and about my joy in suffering for Christ. The honorable treasurer together with Jacob the vacation CU chair made money fall from the skies - in my view - within a twinkling of an eye I was headed to Kangemi, a small shopping center with good neighborhood on the left and slums on the right if facing East. It is from Kangemi i would board the Busia bound bus and start my unforgettable pilgrimage to western Kenya. I was going to a district bordering Busia and Busia borders Uganda- I would say - and I remembered my friend telling me how one time he greeted his mate of the opposite sex by hand – but both were standing on the soil of different countries. They stood on opposite sides of the imaginary boarder and shook hands…..And so I boarded an already full bus at Kangemi have been lied to by the conductor that someone was to alight at Uthiru (approx. 5 Km enroute) and I would get a seat on the bus….This was never to be....I boarded an already full bus at Kangemi. The conductor lied to me that someone was to alight at Uthiru, (approx. 3 Km en-route), and I would get a seat on the bus. This was never to be. We reached Kimende and my hands hanging my slim body on the metallic shaft started aching. I was aware of my weakness of trusting everyone including touts who knew the journey mechanisms more than the driver. Now I was paying for it. At a police blockade, we were stopped by a big bellied policeman who slowly scaled the staircase. I immediately shrunk down on my spot on the aisle of the bus. The bus had only one excess passenger – yours truly! The cop seemed to have swallowed a dog tapeworm that made his stomach barge and surge horizontally and this made him look more threatening. My urinary tract didn’t disappoint. “Simama Kijana” he shouted, as i stood I could feel the pity from few fellow travelers and the scorn from majority who wondered why I chose to board a full bus. I imagined when last did the cop go to church. I wondered whether he understood the mandate of the great commission, or if he had read the command “Forgive so that you may be forgiven”. I imagined telling him am on a mission to win souls - could this dissuade him from arresting me? I can’t remember how many prayers I made but I recall calling the name of the Son of God severally. I avoided eye contact with the cop and as he turned his back towards me my sweltering body started cooling from the head to the toes. My thundering heart resumed normal beats. As the driver ignited the engine, I gave the conductor a look which made him feel hated to Pluto and back. It is at Naivasha I got a seat on the bus. The relieve in my heart exceeded that of a 5 minutes old postnatal mother in my imagination.

At Kericho we made the first stopover. I could manage a corn of boiled maize from the hawkers, and hoped that it will be compatible with my stomach. I feared traveler’s diarrhea. Before the college went for recess, we had received briefing from Mwaniki, who I doubt had been to Matungu town of Mumias those days. Mwaniki indicated that we would not pass through Kisumu on our way – and incase anyone did – they should count themselves lost. At Kangemi I had asked the conductor if he was headed to Matungu in Mumias and he confirmed that he would pass through Matungu on his way to Busia, the destination of the bus. Now, here we were in Kisumu and remembering Mwaniki’s words, I partially knew I was lost. I could not approach the conductor for clarity because we were not in terms, or so I supposed, after the embarrassing cop incident caused by his empty promise of a seat on the bus. I resigned to fate and decided to create rapport with the driver..I moved seats to sit right behind the driver, so as to get a clear view of billboards and signboards just in case I could locate bearing. When we reached Standi Kisa, I could not bear it any more….the pressure of the fact that I was lost in the land of unknown reached its zenith and I opted to do the unthinkable – to stop the bus and disembark. My reasoning was if I was lost, I better not get lost farther, and if I was on course I would still board another bus and keep the course. We had been briefed before recess that Matungu was in Butere Mumias District, so the driver had just told me if I was going to Butere Mumias, Standi Kisa, would be an ideal place to alight. The driver was both right and wrong. It was 5 pm at Standi Kisa, my head started spinning. The last meal I had taken was 26 hours ago in Meru the previous day save the corn of boiled maize at Kericho. It is one thing to get lost and a different thing to get lost without money. I knew returning to Meru would be more horrendous and dreadful. The Kshs 250 that remained in my pocket after paying fare on the bus was little for a lost person. Those days we did not have phones, neither was there M-pesa. I would have called Beth. Beth had billed me out once when I used my “examination money” to pay my hospital bill. She withdrew KShs 2, 400 from her account at a bank in Uthiru just like that, I mean, and told me to go pay for exams. Who does that?. I am still looking for her after we lost contact since college days. Am looking for her not to pay back her money, but to tell her how touching her act of kindness was. Not many folks understood her. Some thought she was a Christian fanatic others felt she was cocooned in village mentality.

While my thoughts wondered, I resolved to head to Butere Mumias Disctrict headquarters, not to seek audience with the DC, but to trace my way to Matungu. At Standi Kisa junction I boarded a bus that turned left to head to Butere Mumias. In one hour we were in Butere Mumias. I paid Kshs 100 for getting further from my intended destination. At Butere Mumias town I asked the BodaBoda cyclers if they knew Matungu. One of them offered to take me to Matungu before asking his colleagues for direction. It is then that he told me “Huko Huwezi Kufikeko Leo”! Meaning we could not get to Matungu that day – it was far. I understood his dialect, and before the words left his mouth, I froze in the fear of unknown for the second time in two hours! Innumerable Bodaboda riders had now gathered around me as if I was the chairman of the “motorcycle riders’ organization” who had called an impromptu meeting. In their low tone conversations I could hear echoes of my place of destination whispered. One rider intimated that I had to sleepover and board “Msamaria Mwema Safaris” minibus early morning and it will take me to Matungu…At first I did not think he was serious but on probing the residents of Butere Mumias Township further his analysis was factual. Having paid Kshs 100 on the bus to Butere Mumias, I now had Kshs 150 between me and extinction. I remembered that I can get refuge from the house of God. But I feared that even men of clothe would doubt my story and deny me abode. Back home when not in college the house of God was my second home – we had been christened “Church Moles” by renegades. Our village mates thought we were over-practicing Christianity. Our parents believed them at times. After further introspection I trashed the thought of seeking refuge in a church. I joined some mid-life crisis aged men playing pool table game in the back side of a small hotel. It was now 8 Pm and other hotels that didn’t sell beer had closed down. When I sat down to watch the pool game my stomach pricked and pierced every time the ball was hit and fell into the pocket at the edge of the table. I badly needed food. It was long since I had my last meal in Meru. I made quick calculations; the waiter had told me the cost of Soda was Kshs 30. That meant buying a bottle of soda would leave me with Kshs 120 between me and riches. I chose to drink soda for supper. I could also not afford to hire room to lodge. At the pool table there started approaching some skimpily dressed women. What surprised me was not the scanty dress code but the thing in their mouth. They were smoking stuff, but did it by putting the charred end of the cigarette in the mouth such that the burning end is enclosed in the mouth before puffing out clouds of smoke. I am yet to see this design of smoking anywhere else. We were all seated on benches without backrest inside the small room with a pool table. The women realized I was the most ostracized in the room and one of them tried coming closer but I slid my butt along the bench to the other end. They laughed hysterically and I whispered the name of the Son of God severally. At 11 Pm two men pushed away the pool table and converted the room to a bar. Everyone started drinking and I pretended to lift my Sprite to my mouth but sipped nothing, so as to keep it longer. I hated the idea of leaving Meru to attend a mission in a land I never knew. I thought I was craving to do things I could not afford….In retrospect I wish that Rich Mavoko had released his “Nimekuwa Kama Samaki Kutamani Nisivyoviweza” song….in the words of Mavoko’s song I would have found solace albeit short-lived…

(Personal translation from Kiswahili)

..I have become like a fish to crave for the things I cannot afford
If it is Tanga I swore to marry In Muheza, I am out of luck friends,
The only hope remaining is to sip the broth of octopus,
These are the words of the elders of the past, when you are sleek
you get outmaneuvered by the secrets from within…

The pub remained alive till 12 midnight. People started deserting for their homes I wondered how some would find their way because they were too drunk to walk straight. But I envied them since they were not lost like me. The guy who guarded the pub wondered why I was not in a hurry to leave for home. Little did he know I had no home nearby. I moved closer to him and explained my quadratic predicament. The old man sympathized and empathized with me and opted to allow me sleep at the couch in the pub. I had carried one bed sheet and I folded myself like a contortionist making the bed sheet double as a bedcover. The smell of beer burned my nostrils. Being a teetotaler (one who never drinks alcohol) It was ironical that the people who drink beer had gone home and left me - to sleep in the bar. I wondered what heavens thought of me as I slept in a place I had spent a quarter of my life scolding and castigating. I wished none of my fellow missionaries would know of this cos they would demand a session to exorcise acquired spirits of alcoholic debauchery. After what seemed ten years on the couch, I fell asleep. I was woken up by the old guard who in my eyes seemed like an angel employed to guard the gate of hell..I quickly put on my shoes (I didn’t tell you that I slept fully dressed - less shoes). I dint take a shower for the second day (remember I slept in the bus at T-room the previous night). I thrust out of the bar room. Luckily many people were still asleep - few were awake to see a young man, who in their minds drunk his head out and could not go home, - now leaving the bar in the morning. As I stepped out of the pub, I could not utter a prayer. I felt void and dirty (yes I had not showered for two days), and also as one who negated principles of the good Book. I stood outside the pub as Msamaria Mwema Safaris minibus heading to Busia approached. I waved to stop the bus but the driver sped past me at unimaginable ungodly speed. I followed the bus shouting and yelling to the driver to stop…a cloud of dust formed between me and the bus and I could not see it anymore until the dust settled as the bus negotiated a corner 100s of meters away. I looked back and the bar guard piteously beckoned that I go back. “Try and catch the next Msamaria Mwema bus going to Bungoma” he said “and alight at Emayoni then get your way to Matungu”. This time round I stood at the middle of the road just in case the driver of this other bus behaves like his colleague. In 30 minutes the Bungoma bound Msamaria Mwema Safaris arrived and stopped effortlessly. I got in and told the conductor “Emayoni” he responded “Sixty bob”. I realized I would have sixty shillings remaining and my stomach started rumbling in hunger…As the bus drove off, I closed my eyes, thanked the Son of God…and hoped that He comes back soon...

The Bodaboda pandemic had not infested the nation those days. Now I was to make debut and climb on one far away from home. Wondering "if anything ever happened to me would my bones trace their way back to T-room and to the land of my ancestors". At Emayoni junction I got up the bodaboda while Msamaria Mwema minibus proceeded to Bungoma. The wide load tractors transporting sugarcane to Mumias sugar factory were like a chain of ants contracted to build anthills. I had never seen so many sugarcanes the whole of my life…It took few minutes from Emayoni to reach Matungu shoping center, the venue of our outreach. From the Shs 60.00 between me and wealth I paid Shs 30.00 to the Bodaboda rider. Good Samaritans directed me to a place where my colleagues were putting up at night. When they saw me, I guess they thought it was a ghost that had come to disrupt their meetings in a familiar body. I looked thin and emaciated after maintaining my metabolism with 300ml bottle of soda. Those who know me are aware that I was born light-skinned but turned dark in 1984 when I ate the yellow Ugali during the famine. But this time I was not only dark but dark-blue. The first to see me approach was Lillian. She announced my arrival to brethren and there was a short lived celebration which I could have prolonged by telling them where I spent my previous night. I was not ready for a session of exorcism so I never said I spent in a bar that the guard turned to a bedroom for my sake. The Ugali we made at my mother's home was prepared in one big sufuria, inverted then cut into pieces as we do birthday cakes; but here, each person was eating a round small ugali – I first wondered if they had cooked the 24 pieces on separate sufurias. At my mothers home we ate Ugali in the morning as last evening leftover, here the ugali was freshly cooked for breakfast. At home we ate Ugali alongside tea for breakfast, here they were eating Ugali with groundnuts. I wished to unravel which was the beverage between the two. I was served with my round Ugali in a small bowl and 100s of roasted groundnut seeds. I remembered my grandmother and her groundnut farm. God rest her soul in peace. After breakfast we were to go for door to door visitation which in better English is “homestead to homestead” since we never entered people houses. At one family, we found a young man sharpening a panga; the mother feared that he was planning to kill his father. Using the wisdom akin that of a wealthy man who had befriended the queen of Sheba were able to avert death. I was later that afternoon taken to visit the burial site of Nabongo Mumia of Wanga. The people of Wanga believed that if you plucked a leave from the Nabongo Mumia’s tomp site it would bleed red. I forgot the one in me was greater than the one in the world. I never plucked off a leave. I wondered if the likes of, Kijeketile Ngware, Omukama Kabarega, Kabaka Mutesa, and Mekatiriri Wamenza also had shrines with plants which if plucked would bleed red. I wondered what would happened if we preached to the household of Nabongo about a tall man, descendant of Judah who was both God and Man and lived without sin. Would they believe us? Would they kill us?…I remembered the 40 boys martyred by burning following the decree by Kabaka Mwanga II after they refused to denounce their Faith. The Memory of 23 Anglicans and 22 Catholic converts Killed at Namugongo haunted me. I got disappointed by structures of governance which contradicted the theme of the great commission. I so loved the people of Wanga though. The crusades at Matungu Boys Sec School were full of people that I wondered in which hospitals all these were born. When I went to Kathonzweni I learned the Lord’s prayer in local dialect “Asa witu ula wi ituini” in Marsabit Samburu I learned “Papa lang’ eti Kiper, Meisisi Ngarna ino”…I never learnt any single word in Abaluhya language. I was told it will not help since the language is so mutated…As the mission proceeded down the days, It struck me I had no money to get me back home after the mission ends. I started serious contemplation hoping that Mr. PK will in his wisdom get a way of sending me home as if he had participated in my folly to come without money to aid my journey back….I remembered the teachings of my half-brother Peter Kanyonyo, who taught me to endure sufferings for a higher calling. Having been a watch maker, a drama instructor and an actor, he had seen the light. Despite being struck by a disease of the bones and finally unable to walk, he has lived to be the only man standing in the village of my ancestors. True to my prediction PK got us fare back to Nairobi, I realized I was not the only opportunist. I can’t remember if Mtumishi Peter Grace had money to travel back to Nyeri. Joshua Onyari was not too far from home. It would take him two weeks to walk to his Kisii home. Ndungu Nyoro never attended these missions, he only contributed money to support the missions…but his love for God never wavered. As we passed through Webuye Paper Mills and people covered their nostrils with their hands to keep off the bad smell, I was indifferent. I had been accustomed to bad odour. My training involved smelling human faecal matter and then report if it was foul, watery, mucoid, bloody or normal. When I got home two days later I never told my mother what had happened to me on my way to the land of the Wanga. She would never have allowed me to take another trip a year later to Marsabit. It is here that we got struck by food poisoning and diarrhoea after we ate the left-over dish of camel meat and rice. It made Fred get unexpected loose motion at the volleyball pitch…We were all laid on canvas cholera beds with a hole at the middle and a bucket of undigested human excrement beneath…
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