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…
-END-
