EDWIN KIPTANUI CHIRCHIR
edchirchir@yahoo.com
edchirchir85@gmail.com
PHOTO CREDIT: pixabay.com
It is on a Friday. I am supposed to be in Tigoni, somewhere on the shoulder of Limuru by 10:00 am to attend to some private business. That means I am supposed to leave Kitengela by 5:00 am, in order to get to Tigoni by 10 :00 am. By extension, it means I am supposed to wake up at 4:00 am, just to beat the Nairobi city traffic jam, the price you have to pay for having to go through Nairobi, to get to your destination.
Kitengela is quite cloudy this morning, but I am not worried because all you will ever get from the dark and angry Kitengela clouds is not rain, but empty threats. What I am worried about is the distant clouds, hanging over what I suspect is Limuru. Those ones rarely issue empty threats. You see, the missus has decided to come along and she has decided to 'freeze and shine'. This means I might have to act like a perfect gentleman, by giving her my coat, later on when the weather conditions of Limuru change for the worst.
We get to Nairobi city at 7:00 am, can you imagine? Thanks to his desire to beat the traffic jam, the driver of the 'Rembo Shuttle' diverts us from Mombasa road, through what I believe is Syokimau. I think at some point we find ourselves in south C, then later south B then to some mind boggling maneuvers through most of the streets of south B. Finally and to our great relief, we find ourselves at Muthurwa Market, then Haille Selassie avenue, about two hours since we left Kitengela. May be you are wondering what the fuss is all about. Well, on a normal day, especially when the African gods are in a good mood and are belching after consuming a generous sacrifice from it's subjects, you will get to Nairobi from Kitengela in a 'cool' 20 minutes. Now you know.
Finally in the city, our next assignment is finding a vehicle to Tigoni. You see, my decision to tag the missus along was because she is a 'Meru' and 'Merus' are the cousins to the 'sons and daughters' of Mumbi, so surely she must know Limuru like the back of her hand, No? It turns out that I was wrong. She told me to wait for car number 135, but then, finding those vehicles in the morning is a nightmare. But at least, she came in handy by ensuring that I got no chance to admire the legs of Njeri and Waithera, he! he! (hope she is not reading this. She has recently developed some unhealthy appetite for reading what I write).
Thanks to one helpful tout, we get into car number 116, which takes us through Banana. Most conversations in that car are punctuated with words like mbeca (money) and Eeeni (Yes, it is so). It seems people from Limuru area, are fond of sealing deals, especially those involving money.
Another thing, people from Limuru rarely carry foodstuffs from Nairobi, as they travel back because guess what? Limuru is the bread basket of Nairobi. This is unlike the residents of Kitengela, who carry lots of food stuffs from the city. Foodstuffs probably brought in from Limuru.
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The tout had promised to take us all the way to Limuru, but instead, he 'sells' us to another vehicle at Banana, since he figures out that it is not economically viable for him to take the two of us to Limuru, from where we would board another vehicle to Tigoni. (By then, I had not discovered that when using the Banana route, Tigoni comes before Limuru).
So we set off aboard another vehicle from Banana to Tigoni. I make it clear to the tout that we must alight at Kenchic and he agrees to remind me when we get there, but since he is busy making phone calls and talking about 'Mbeca' he forgets. Was is not for the intervention of one woman (also a passenger), who reminds us that we are at Kenchic in Tigoni, we would have probably ended up in Limuru Town.
The distance from Kenchic, to my final destination, a place called Bachia farm is only 900 metres. We can actually walk, but I am not willing to take any chances, lest I end up in the wrong destination. By the way I saw a number of 'Odieros' in Tigoni. One was walking his dog along the road and they have been known to take stern action against trespassers in their farms, so, no taking unnecessary risks, thank you very much. Bachia farm is well known to the Bodaboda riders and Taxi drivers, so it was easier taking that option.
Competition for customers among Taxi and Bodaboda operators is high, especially at the Limuru girls road junction. So I end up between two men, a motorcycle rider and taxi driver, each trying to convince me to be their customer. I end up confused and lost, unable to make a decision on my mode of transit. I do not know how to choose one, without making the other feel bad (I hate breaking hearts you know). The missus gave me that look (rolls eyes) she always gives me whenever I am unable to quickly make decisions.
The competition between the two was so intense that the motorcycle operator started with one hundred shillings and kept reducing the price rapidly to around sixty shillings for the missus and I.
The taxi driver (a chap called Kevo) on the other hand wants us to pay 100 shillings and is not in a hurry to reduce the price (Don't you just love his confidence and tendency to stick to his decisions? I bet Kevo is very loyal to his wife, if at all he is married). But a man has to make a statement, especially when standing next to his missus, so I pay 100 shillings for the taxi, leaving the motor cycle rider sulking and wondering how stupid I am to pay more. But can you blame me? There was no way I was going to allow the missus to squat over a motorcycle, while holding the rider by the waist in my presence. How could I let that happen, when there was a spacious taxi, which I could afford? By the way, I discovered that I could afford a taxi in Limuru and not any where else in Kenya, apart from Gakoromone stage in Meru.
Nine hundred metres later, I am at my destination. Kevo gives me his phone number, because he wants to come back for me later, so that he could squeeze more money from me (I told you, Limuru people love mbeca so much).
On my way out, I meet an 'Odiero' exercising along the Limuru girls road with his dog. Another Odiero, says 'Hi' in Swahili and it sounds like, "Hebawri yeinu wowtey!' but I happily respond and even show him my Nike finger (thumb) while saying "Hakuna matarra" (Hakuna matata) even though I still think 'Ndugu' Swaleh Mdoe should give them serious Swahili lessons.
We decided to walk back to Kenchic. I could not call the taxi driver, who had given me his number, not that I did not like him, but because the tea farms in Tigoni were too seductive that I had to just enjoy that sight.
The air around Tigoni is so cool and fresh, that it makes you reluctant to go back to the noisy and polluted city of Nairobi. In fact, I would suggest to you dear reader, that if you find yourself in Tigoni or anywhere else within Limuru, Just take a walk across the various tea plantations and while at it, close your eyes and breath! Yes, take a deep breath and feel the way Limuru oxygen gently and lovingly caresses your lungs, unclogging the airway and freeing it from the bondage of Kitengela dust and the city smoke. Yes, allow the Limuru oxygen to penetrate deep into your brain, making you hallucinate. Let it massage your body tissues and muscles, because you never know, that oxygen might actually give you a new lease of life.
To take the adventure further, the missus suggested and I approved that we head to Limuru town, from where we were to take a vehicle to Nairobi, through Kangemi - Westlands route, but then before I could sit properly in that vehicle, we were already in the all familiar and monotonous, Nairobi - Nakuru highway, somewhere near Kangemi. I wished I had taken the Ndenderu route. Of course as we made our way back, there was so much talk about 'Mbeca' in that vehicle.
EDWIN KIPTANUI CHIRCHIR
edchirchir@yahoo.com
edchirchir85@gmail.com
PHOTO CREDIT: pixabay.com
Hospitals scare me to death (Okey let's drop that bit about death). I mean, hospitals always give me a near death experience (NDE). Hell! Finding myself inside one can as well make me convulse and foam from the mouth. Hospitals present you with nothing to smile about (unless someone gets well or gives birth). Instead, the place fills you with stress and anxiety.
The last time I found myself within the precincts of a hospital, was when I had gone there to visit an elderly female relative, who happened to be fighting some liver complication and trying hard to stay alive. It made me understand that every organ in the human body is extremely important, regardless of shape, size and our tendency to take them for granted.
It made me rethink my 'I don't care' kind of attitude towards life. There are some things I usually take for granted, like walking, breathing, chewing, thinking and even going to the washrooms to attend to some biological functions. But in there, I found people who were unable to do these things.
I came face to face with lack of freedom and abandonment. There was that poor house-help, who had been dumped at the hospital by her ungrateful employer, who never came back to discharge her. She then became the property of the hospital, receiving free food and accommodation, but having to spend time amidst so much suffering and pain. She said she had five children, living somewhere near the Kenya - Uganda border. I could have sworn by my KaDuDa phone, that she had never carried any pregnancy. She said she had left the children to stay in foster homes, because she was economically disadvantaged, hence unable to take care of them. She believed that some of them may have crossed over to Uganda and were not even aware of her hospitalization, since they had lost touch.
I was at some point filled with rage, to find a woman and a mother for that matter, who had been dumped at the hospital by her own children. The same children she had brought up and educated to University level and even went ahead to get jobs. She had been there for more than three months, without any of her children coming to visit her. The same ungrateful children she had nursed with her own breasts. I hope I am not being judgemental here. May be I need to hear the children's side of the story.
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And then there were sick people. I mean, really sick people. If you can walk, chew, swallow and sleep and you still think you are sick then you need serious counseling. I know toothache ain't sweet, but if you always bring the whole world to a standstill, with your complaints, made up of 'Oh's' and 'Ah's', just because the aching tooth has 'woken up' then, you need a short, guided tour of a hospital.
I saw a woman, who was supposed to be discharged, but unfortunately she was also supposed to go home with an oxygen cylinder, just in case she experienced bouts of breathlessness, while away. She had a heart problem. In other words, the hospital ward was being transferred from the hospital to her home. I kept thinking of what might happen, if she ran out of oxygen while at home and breathlessness struck.
Inside there, I met people with horrible skin disease and some confined to wheel chairs, but at least, they could afford the luxury of basking in the sun. Do not even mention the elderly woman who badly wanted a cigarette and kept asking everyone, the direction to the canteen, but her daughter could not allow it, because according to the doctor, the cigarettes she had been smoking had already done 'Ugly' things to her lungs. I saw a man, who must have been in a coma, because his breathing was assisted. But the huge size of the tumour on his neck made my insides cold with horror. "Dear God, what have we ever done to deserve this?" I found myself thinking aloud.
The hospital wards smelled of horror, desperation and hopelessness. The doctors worked very hard, round the clock, trying to attend to as many patients as possible, but they were outnumbered by several patients to one. This was why to we the relatives of the patients, the doctors seemed to work in slow motion. They seemed not to have the sense of urgency we expected them to have, but can we blame them? They see suffering and death everyday, so they have developed immunity to such issues.
I saw the patient I had come to visit. She was in deep slumber, thanks to the heavy effects of the drugs. But a little inspection, fueled by curiosity, revealed the yellow eyes. A colour devoid of life. She was not alone. There were other patients with similar symptoms. I concluded that if death had eyes, then the colour of those eyes must be yellow. But positive thinking was the norm here. We could not afford to think negatively. Everyone who came to see a patient, promised them that all will be well. Even those who knew that the patients might not see another day.
Doctors and Nurses went about their business unperturbed. How those doctors and nurses managed to stay calm in such circumstances is still mind boggling. But then, I suppose they had to be calm, to reassure the patients that all will be well. Looking at the eyes of those doctors, they were cold and lacked warmth. A characteristic of a person who has seen too much suffering.
And then there was death, the invisible and unwelcome visitor. It pitched tent in that ward and sat with heavy arrogance. Once in a while, you would hear a bitter wail from a distance and you knew that a sister or a brother had fallen. The wail was that of relatives mourning their fallen hero or heroine. But death was insatiable. It kept moving from one bed to another, as we watched helplessly.
I also noted that doctors rarely tell you the truth. They give you hope even where there is no hope. They will not tell you your patient has less than a week to live. They just update you on the progress of the disease. They will tell you which organ has failed and which one is almost failing. At some point they mentioned something about some strange liquid, gradually messing up with the patient's heart. There and then, I knew the time had come.
Meanwhile death, the master of cruelty and sadism was on the rampage, leaving a trail of tears and heart breaks. It kept on harvesting souls from adjacent beds and wards and kept coming back for more. We held on to hope and prayer. If ever there was a place where prayer is taken seriously, it had to be in a hospital. I mean, it is only in hospital, where people will pray for a patient in one ward and the people in the nearby wards will close their eyes in total supplication to the supreme being above, to intervene in their situation.
Then the doctors started discussing in low tones about us. They were debating on whether it was time to give us the prognosis or not. That word was frightening. I whipped out my phone and googled the word prognosis. Google responded promptly and said something about a report on the possible outcome of a disease.
Then the breathing difficulties began (the patient's not mine). The doctor brought the oxygen mask to give us more hope. We waited for the prognosis, it never came, but I think the answer to the outcome of the disease was obvious, even to the most lethargic mind.
The hope was great, the prayers intense. The patient fought on, but then, everything that has a beginning must have an end. Death finally looked in our direction and in a blink of an eye, it had snuffed life out of the patient. There was no struggle. I guess the patient had lost the will to fight any further. All that remained was for that guy from the morgue to come with his trolley. He was on the night shift, his eyes were cold, his forced smile was devoid of life and warmth. That guy had seen too much of death, to the extent that he might have given up on this unpredictable life.
Of course, the doctor went ahead to give the cause of death a mind twisting name. I still do not understand what 'Cardio-respiratory arrest due to hepatic encephalopathy due to ascites' means, even with all those, many years of education. It gives me the idea that my mom might have wasted a lot of money to educate a cow.
I finally got out of that hospital with an experience. An experience which taught me that there are some things we are blessed with, but which we take for granted. We sulk, complain and covet all the time. We have no time to slow down and live, because we are always busy chasing dreams.
EDWIN KIPTANUI CHIRCHIR
edchirchir@yahoo.com
edchirchir85@gmail.com
PHOTO CREDIT: pixabay.com
Two months ago, my two good friends Okong'o and Kinuthia invited me to participate in some Nation building activity. The activity involved painting a house of some hardworking Kenyan citizen. I am not saying that if you do not own a house you are not hardworking.
The invite was actually a challenge, since Okong'o and Kinuthia seem to think that I am so lazy that the only thing I can do in this world is to use my mouth to teach. They seem to think that teaching is not a manly job. A manly job according to their mental dictionaries is anything that involves intensive use of muscles. They do not seem to understand that teaching involves intensive use of your brain.
We eventually finished painting the house, but then, the job did funny things to my muscles, thanks to long hours of standing and always having to keep my hand raised, to support the brush, while the other hand supports the tin of paint. Of course I could not complain, since each of us received some hefty compensation.
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As usual, during such a windfall, Kinuthia and Okong'o wanted to express some gratitude to their hardworking limbs and they could only do that by swallowing a few pints of alcoholic beverages. On my part, a half a kilo of goat intestine would go a long way to sooth my weeping muscles, which had just escaped captivity in Babylon(for those of you who do not like goat intestines, you can roll your eyes until they give up on life). Nothing could dampen my spirits. Not even my aching joints and muscles. In fact, to drive the point home. I sang along to the following song, playing from my long suffering KaDuDa phone:
By the rivers of Babylon
There we sat down
Ye-e ah we wept
When we remembered Zion
I think, along the way I got carried away and sang so loudly that my good neighbours next door started questioning my sanity.
"Kwani nini mbaya na yeye leo?" (What is wrong with him today?) I could hear the lady ask the house-help.
Back to Kinuthia and Okong'o, instead of these guys looking for a self - respecting pub, where they could irrigate their throats, they went looking for illicit brew, somewhere in the nearby informal settlements.
Unfortunately, the police were very much present. It seems there was some kind of crackdown on illicit brew, which was threatening to degrade the the lives of youthful and productive members of the society. The police struck, just when Kinuthia and Okong'o had ordered their stuff and were preparing to pay homage to the drinks before them.
Thanks to that crackdown, my two friends found themselves receiving free accommodation from the government, having been booked in as guests of the state, for the offences including idling, causing public disturbance, engaging in some disorderly behaviour and behaving in a manner likely to cause breach of peace. The main offence of indulging in illicit brew was not even recorded.
They were booked in the police cells on a Friday and that meant they were to stay put until Monday in order to appear in court. For that reason, they were to spend two agonizing days in a cell where close to seventy people occupy a room fit for twenty people.
Finally in court, they pleaded guilty of all the charges and were sentenced to two weeks in prison or a fine of Thirty thousand Kenya Shillings each. They decided that two weeks would not kill them. There was no way they were going to waste such an amount of money paying fines. They had already paid enough taxes. Come to think of it, the only difference between court fines and taxes is that the former is a cost you incur for a crime you probably committed, while the latter is a cost you bear, for the crime of being a legal citizen of your beloved country.
Two weeks dragged by at a snail's pace and eventually came to an end. Once they were released, I wanted to know one or two things about prison and they were willing to talk, but not before they gave me a verbal beating for failing to visit them while in prison.
From what they told me, I have concluded that prison life is not a walk in the park. Being a successful prisoner is hard work and by successful I mean a prisoner who completes his or her jail term without committing suicide.
I am not sure whether this is exaggerated or not, but according to the two jailbirds - Yes, now they are jailbirds. No matter how many times Okong'o and Kinuthia take a shower, they will remain Ex-convicts - breakfast in prison is served at 6:00 a.m, one slice of bread and milk-less tea (Human rights activists, where are you?).
Come 11:00 a.m, they were required to go for lunch and on the menu was, not more than three mouthfuls of cabbages and beans. I think I am already traumatized. I need counseling pleeeeeease!! How on earth do you serve lunch at 11:00 a.m? And to add insult to injury you serve cabbages and beans? I can excuse the cabbages but beans? No wonder it is difficult to sleep in a cell. How do you sleep with all that gas, from several people who have ingested beans? Not even police teargas can compete with gas resulting from consumption of beans.
After that miserable lunch, they were required to engage in some hard labour thereafter and come back just in time for supper, served at 2:00 p.m. On the menu was of course a very small slice of 'Ugali' and beans' soup .............Oops! What was that? Beans again? Did I hear someone mention beans? Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrghhhh! ----Okey it shall be well with them.
Immediately after supper, they remained locked up until the following day.
That technically meant, their night time began at 3:00 p.m, to 6:00 a.m, the following day. Fifteen hours of rest, but how do you rest on an empty stomach, the lice and the stench from the nearby waste bucket and sweaty bodies?
To survive, they had to narrate various stories, but the dirty ones were most preferred. The kind of stories, where men narrated about the women they have conquered in their lives, whether real or imagined. The description had to be vivid, to keep the curious, idle and dirty minded guys in the room, engaged. Trust a dirty story to make the hours fly past with the speed of light and before you can say dirty, it is already 6:00 a.m. What a life!
The two jailbirds are hoping never to set foot in prison again and so do I. Okong'o is now carrying a small bible wherever he goes. A bible he voraciously reads sometimes, especially when Kinuthia is around, probably to avoid temptations. He might soon accept Jesus as his personal saviour. Kinuthia has promised to only indulge in drinking milk, though he is not yet into the habit of carrying the the small bible.
EDWIN KIPTANUI CHIRCHIR
edchirchir@yahoo.com
edchirchir85@gmail.com
PHOTO CREDIT: pixaboy.com
Sometime last year, I was walking along that railway line, not far from Poa Place (Eldoret). It is the place where people who have seen the hand of God in their pockets relax and enjoy their abundant wealth. That is no place for Hoi Polloi.
I was minding my own business, singing along to the music from my KaDuDa phone, my long suffering and faithful servant in matters related to communication. It is a phone which I have molested severally trying to force it to open some memory twisting and impossibly large web pages. I would have loved to dance to the music, right their by the railway line, under the heavens, illuminated by the bright sun. I would also have liked to engage my loyal and faithful shadow in some dancing competition, but the problem is my employer has always insisted that all employees should conduct themselves with utmost decorum, within or outside the workplace.
From a distance I saw him approaching. He was a middle aged man. His face looked pale and solemn, his hair unkempt and his clothes old and tattered, but at least they managed to cover the essential parts. I am also suspecting that his trouser was either borrowed or inherited, because it was clearly oversize.
"Hello my son," he mumbled some greetings, particularly stressing on the word 'Son'
The use of the word son, made it clear to me that he needed some help. I was on my way to attend to the call of duty, in the process of building the nation, but I decided that duty could wait. How could it not wait, when an older person had just called me son?
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The man went on to tell me that he had just been released from prison. My ears shifted a little bit, out of the eagerness to hear more. You never know what you might hear from a prisoner. Things like, "I used to kidnap people, slaughter them and feed on their internal organs." But instead, he said he was hungry, though he need not have said it. His wrinkled face seemed to tell it all. His mouth was open, exposing his teeth, even when he was silent, a clear indication that he was hungry. It is very difficult to close your mouth when you are hungry. You think I am kidding? Try going hungry for two days, then let us see what happens.
He went ahead to inform me that he had five children back at home. Did you get that? Five children! And that he had been in jail for five years.
He talked about many things concerning prison life. He talked of how tough life is in there, the cold cell floor, poorly cooked 'Ugali' and beans soup for dinner, the half cooked cabbages and beans for lunch, the milk-less tea and one slice of bread for breakfast, not forgetting the lice and bedbugs to keep them company at night. (I thought bedbugs only exist where there are beds!).
To drive the point home, he proceeded to lift his worn out T-shirt so that I could see how flat his stomach was and as if that was not depressing enough, he lifted it higher so that I could count his ribs and indeed, the ribs were clearly visible, but I had not the strength to count them. He had no belt on, so to prevent his trouser from falling, he had creatively and carefully folded it by the waist.
After all those words and actions, all of which I listened to and observed patiently, he had only one request. He wanted me to assist him with only ten shillings.
I reflected on the issue. I would actually have meditated on it, complete with a yoga pause if I had the time. Can ten shillings really feed a wife and five children? Can it even buy a banana in the current state of the economy? What do you tell your family, when you arrive with only ten shillings, after a five year absence, prison not withstanding?
There was another thing. A bible verse to be precise. "I was in prison, but you did not come to visit me." and yet another one, "I was hungry but you gave me no food." I have always nurtured a dream of one day ending up in heaven, to mingle and brush shoulders with the likes of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob and please, take note that I am not referring to Abraham Lincoln, Isaac Newton and Jacob Kaimenyi. I know I am not perfect, but I always dare to dream.
Now, come closer and listen. I don't normally carry a wallet because I am not about to conform to anybody's standards. So, I checked my breast pocket, nothing! I checked my back pocket, nothing! I checked my left pocket, I found twenty shillings. I checked my right pocket and found nothing at first. I took out and unfolded my handkerchief and out emerged an old fifty shillings note. I handed him seventy shillings in total.
And the man was happy. In fact, so happy was he that he kept on looking at me as I walked away, saying thank you continuously until I disappeared behind some bushes.
Well, I met the same 'former prisoner' today and he told me the same story. He had forgotten that I had pitied him last year. He went ahead to tell me he had just been released from prison after five years and that he had five children. (I guess the number FIVE is his lucky number). It is less than three months since we last met and there is no way he can claim to have been a guest of the state for five years, unless prisons allow prisoners to go home for half term nowadays. Damn, I always believed I was clever, but today I felt as if whatever is in my head is not a brain, but a mugful of porridge.
