THE UNFORGETABLE ROAD TRIP TO MARALAL

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Hosts of gravel hit and scratched the hardened underbelly of the Nissan matatu. Clouds of dust rose and billowed into the dry air. Eighty kilometres per hour. The boy (or man depending on what he had been doing to his neighbours’ daughters) whipped a miraa stick from a polythene bag that peeped from his breast-pocket. He was explaining to me the difference between a male zebra and a female one.

“A male zebra has white stripes on a black background while a female
 one has black stripes on a white background.”

Whatever inspiration he was under to make this zoological discovery was not lost on me. My uncle, who I was visiting, had inducted me on the sublime ability of miraa to inspire the most extravagant of thoughts.

Beni shifted patiently on his stool, adjusting the tiring Nike cap on his equally misshapen but seemingly brilliant head. He was listening to the second story from me. He had imposed a condition upon me to tell him about myself before he could generously continue telling me his tales of the bizarre. I went on:

The driver stepped on the accelerator. This action shot his equipment of experimentation forward, betraying his desire to shock, rather than carry his passengers. He had been trying to ensure that the fumes from his cigarette did not reach the inside the matatu. If the number of people asking for windows to be opened was anything to go by, then he did not succeed in his scheme.  A clean elegant gazelle intently leapt within metres of the matatu, narrowly failing to hit the vehicle. Having seen enough of the road, I decided to close my eyes and doze off to shut out the throb in my knees.

I had scarcely drifted into an uneasy nap when a certain jerky movement brought my forehead colliding with the back
of the seat in front. I did not have time to issue my protestation to the driver. In front of the matatu were three wiry men. One of them pointed an ageing but no less dangerous rifle at the driver. The second wielded a club while the third menacingly brandished his machete ordering everyone out of the vehicle.

All of us, surprisingly too many to have fitted in the same Nissan, were made to queue outside. In fact we queued while lying on the ground. One of the men went about emptying the vehicle. Moments later, one after another, we were allowed to get back into the vehicle on one condition: everyone had to strip to the bone. In addition to that, one of the men executed a vulgar body search on the already naked bodies using his sword’s scabbard.

The fearsome peak of the activity was the brutalization of one man who refused to undress. He was a teacher who shouted that he could not undress and travel in the same vehicle with his female student. After about thirty seconds of being acted upon, the man eventually discovered himself naked and with a sore groin to boot.

It was relief when we resumed travelling. I had been through the longest ten minutes of my life. I travelled for the remainder of the journey seeing my fellow passengers without seeing them. The relief that came with silence would have been welcome if one passenger had not made a discovery; a discovery that may have been comical if it had not been so tragic.
                        “Yaani hata dereva ametolewa nguo?”
It is indeed tragicomic that a driver should go through all the motions of driving without anything to cover his stretching nakedness. The driver was the most affected. He answered the surprised passenger saying:
                        “Usijali. Si mara ya kwanza. Ukienda kwa hii barabara kuna kupasukiwa
                         mara kwa mara.”
Two hours later we would receive kangas to cover ourselves when we reached Maralal town. The sympathizers who gave us the fabrics through the windows maintained the countenance similar to that of a mother who was simply handing a shoe lace to a forgetful schoolboy.