What Rongai Was Like: A Year Later of Good Memories

(In memory of Asunta)

            It was a sunny May evening with an element of freshness hanging in the air on the day destiny slated us to meet. I was going to buy my laptop together with fellow roommates at an electronic shop along Kaunda Street.  Leisleigh had another of its Saturday workshops and I was not going to miss on this. I had promised myself. The process of acquiring a new laptop took a considerable amount of time. It was a HP 2000 Notebook PC laptop (2.00 GB RAM with a processor speed of 1.50GHz) sold to us by a girl of dark complexion possessing a rather flawless persuasive flair. She exuded it in a natural sense that one did not find forced or cunning. Thereafter, we strode into one of the eateries that line the noisy Moi Avenue where we rapaciously attacked fries with cold sodas as Soul music boomed around. But I was a man on the move. I had begun to contact a person (a lady she was) I had saved as Leisleigh. It would later turn out to be Beth ‘Bee’ Nduta who had been receiving the calls. Not Musita as I had expected after learning about her via Facebook and the agency. 

            I was in a hurry and left my roommates informing them of my itinerary to Ongata Rongai. Being my maiden leap, I still never knew it was such an exaggerated sensation in terms of the crazy distance and ‘diaspora’ tag that featured prominently during the recent polls. By the way I love that catchword of ‘Accept and move on.’ Or ‘Kenya is greater than all of us.’ I hastened to Ongata Rongai bus-stop located near the Railways just directly opposite Haile Selassie Road. Being a ‘foreign’ town of its own (internet sources place it as 17KM away from Nairobi) I first panicked whether it was worth bussing out. It was past the time. The session was on. However, I clung to a ‘CORDIAN’ hope. Better take it the Supreme Court and have it thrown out rather than cry sour grapes. I boarded and went straight to the rear seats. Nairobi sun sunk fast with the large sky displaying patches of dark clouds. It was going to rain. The bus left. 

            We passed Langata Cemetery on our right. I craned my neck to observe the people who were milling around the gravestones of their loved ones. Death is a unifying brother. I noted to myself. We drove on. Later we came across Multimedia University. All along we communicated with my caller. I would assure her I was about. She would reply: You are almost. Hope springs eternal. Fine mists begun dotting the windows of the bus. The day transformed into a distasteful grey that forewarns you it will be cats and dogs after all. God never disappointed. He disappoints at times. 

            Darkness was beginning to invade the storeyed buildings when I alighted. The weather was charged with an air smelling of rain. It was a horrible grey if I can recall clearly as I rushed toward the ‘Leisleigh House.’ I knew it was over. I regretted my fare to this No Man’s Land look-alike. One normally regrets his fare first before anything else. I was mistaken. By the way I was clutching tightly to my short story For God and Country. It begins thus:

            “Things were set to plan. And any leak would confirm that somebody was talking too much. Of late, the local Cheka was sniffing out any bit of a puzzle that was not adding up. The head of the mob sat in a pensive mood, occasionally commanding orders to the younglings who squatted on the carpeted floor. Attentive. “This is for God and country.”

            It was a badly written short story by the way I wrote for a Storymoja blog competition. It never won. It was destined to fail. I later sent it to Mehul Gohil, recently published then by Kwani? for suggestions. This is what Mehul ala Gorilla had to say:

            “Your prose has good flow to it. Which means you are capable of better.

            Your piece has too much tell, too little show. You simply state things. You don't show them. So the story is not alive.

            Furthermore, you need to do some proper research into the motivation of a suicide bomber or go deep into yourself and ask what would convince you to become one. The way you have put it, it seems only the daft and the idiots...unthinking people go ahead and do this. The IQ in general seems low from what you have portrayed. The story would have more nuance and depth if the people involved were intelligent yet ready to do this. It's too obvious. As a fiction writer you are supposed to tell me something I won’t hear my bar mates tell me over beer. If I meet up with my pals, I'll here juicer stuff regarding this matter. You can't write the story with such an obvious and easy to decipher angle.”

            I am digressing. After a few directions over the phone, I got to a small room full of writers and poets. Beth was waiting with arms outstretched to welcome a new ‘disciple.’ Richie Maccs was sitting on the same row with the witty Kevin Orato (I had known these cats through Facebook). I decide to sit beside them. Maybe I felt safe near them because our camaraderie on Facebook had given me that illusion of protection of brotherhood. It has turned out to be a reality of brotherhood. Ask Richie Maccs. Across the small room that had a drawing of Michael Jackson was a lady of a rich, dark complexion with that betraying smile that makes one uncomfortable and slightly inattentive in the unfamiliar setting. Her name I later got to know as Julie Auma. I had read her poem Woman thou art loosed recently via shared notes on Facebook. Samuel Kibagendi was there. Roundsquared Chumolette was also present but we never interacted because he left a few minutes after I had arrived. And Linda Musita was there. Joyce Owino. Lovely people.

*******

            A year later, these memories come gushing into my head in this unholy hour as I write this piece. It is 1.48 a.m. Kahawa Wendani is wrapped in a deathly silence. And it’s biting cold outside if you venture at the balcony. That evening being ‘A Night of Thousand Laughs’ at Bomas and even on traffic because we spent more hours than I actually take from Kisumu town to my rural backyard and back to town. Richie Maccs later cracked one his first dark humors I heard that evening. He said rich people had to spend Ksh 2000 to afford a laugh. We stepped into town almost at 10 p.m. The streets had small water pools everywhere, colorless, dark, and reflected by the soft Nairobi streetlights. Later we escorted those who were to be escorted to their bus-stops. What we did later with Richie Maccs and Orato Kevin remains classified. Maybe John Mututho will one day exact his revenge. Meanwhile he claimed drunks and bar owners conspired to have him voted out. I hope he was right.