FROM INSIDE LANDROVER

By Wesonga Robert

wesongarobert@yahoo.com

The driver was trying the best he could to stay the course. His determination showed in the veins and arteries that stood out on his wiry hands. He bit his lower lip, twisting the steering wheel in sharp tight movements. Even then, the Landrover swayed sideways, skidding as if moving downhill on two pairs of worn-out bathroom slippers.

The lady with whom Beni was sitting in the driver’s cabin exclaimed slightly, “Wooiye, mungu.” Then still in Kiswahili she added, “When will we leave this part of the road.” With his eyes fixed on the road, the driver said, “It will be fine,” he breathed heavily, “provided we don’t slip into that ditch.”

Outside the vehicle it continued to rain. It was not the heavy thunder-laden rain characteristic of the equatorial region. It was a calm steady drizzle; almost silent. In fact if one did not look out through the misty and scratched windscreen, or the permanently stopped windows, they did not notice it was raining. Sitting in the relative comfort of the driver’s cabin Beni had to be forgiven for thinking that it was almost a peaceful rainfall. At the back of the vehicle it was different for the twenty or so who sat huddled in various attitudes of perseverance.

The passengers at the back squeezed themselves under the green canvas that could hardy keep the drizzle in check. Even then, they did not complain. They sat there quietly and tolerantly. It appeared to be a tolerance that their days and experiences had forced upon them so that nobody ever complained. It was perhaps a perseverance that only the unforgiving quality of their environment would have seasoned them to acquire.

If any sound came from the back of the vehicle, it was the not infrequent protestation of a bully goat that a man had. Beni recalled the look that goat had given him as he had walked to board the vehicle. Had he not been dodgy enough, he would not have evaded the cream-coloured jelly-like substance that the goat had pumped towards his legs. But that was fine. As long as he did not complain about the goat it was fine.

The vehicle was now making its way round a sharp bend, which was also just steep enough to cause jitters among the fearful passengers. This part of the road was not as slippery. On the contrary, it was stony and one had to hold on a part of the vehicle – any part – to avoid being tossed all over around. Beni suddenly felt a dull pain in his knee cap. “Pole, sana,” the driver mumbled almost unapologetically. It was the gear lever.

*** *** *** ***

He opened the single window on his house and sleepily drove his face outside. He brushed his tired hand on his face and eyes to get a better view of the outside. Momentarily, a curiously stinging wave of cold breeze splashed refreshing discomfort onto his face. At the same time, the smell of wet ash rushed to his nostrils. He was immediately reminded of the previous evening. The neighbour’s house lay before his eyes: roofless; windowless. It was but a shell of his neighbour’s modest-enough existence; an existence that had been the pride of him and his family until only the event of the previous day. A memory of the terrible thunder made Beni shudder, shift his gaze from outside, and shut the window.

*** *** *** ***

The residents had been informed about the meeting. Vehicles had gone round the shopping centres and told of the biggest meeting ever. People from the manyattas in Kisima, and in Lodokejek, and in Naiborkeju, and in Suguta, and in Nguroto were all told. There were even rumours that the announcements had reached as far away as Lodung’okwe and Wamba in Samburu East. More announcements were transmitted through Serian FM from a hill somewhere near Maralal High School. The voices in the loudspeakers were excited and confident. They were shouting to all and sundry that it was going to be the biggest meeting ever; the greatest crowd ever witnessed in the history of Maralal’s Kenyatta Stadium.

The stadium would be filled to capacity. So the voices said. The greatest female politicians from all over the country would all attend. That, the voices added. A lot of money would as a result be raised in the meeting. Such was the persistence of the loudspeaker voices. The fate of the Samburu girl-child would then be irreversibly changed for the better. The loudspeaker voices confirmed. And to buttress the message in the pleading voices was the voice of the only known local female politician. Hers was in the native language. She encouraged people to attend the meeting and finished by asking if they would let her down, knowing her not infamous generosity. Would they forget what she had been doing for them? And so the vehicles; pickups and even four-wheel drive vehicles had gone on and on. And the residents had since waited for that Saturday.

When Beni left Kisima for Maralal that morning, his principal objective was not to attend the meeting. In fact he decided he was not going to attend it. Regardless, he was sure to spend the most part of his day in Kenyatta stadium. He would be there but would not attend the meeting. His presence in the stadium would neither add nor remove a quality to the essence of the crowd. He would be a speck in a sea of humanity; a mere insignificant drop in an ocean of anxious people. He would be there with the determination to get rumours for his theatre of the creative. Thereafter, he would go to his room having made a mental note of the happenings and attempt to write. On such evenings, he would avoid any visits to Rangers Bar.

The Landrover made its way past AIC Moi Girls’. At a distance was the third police Landcruiser they were meeting that morning. The driver beside Beni did not waste his time. He dipped two fingers in his breast pocket and produced a crumbled fifty-shilling note. It was the third time he was doing this too. He straightened the note and inserted it in the middle of his ageing driving license. Beni looked at this from the corner of his eye and chose not to see it.

The driver pulled up at the gesture of a police officer ahead. A different police officer came to the Landrover and pressed his optimistic belly upon the door until it creaked.

“Kwa nini wewe nabeba excess?” he barked (Why are carrying passengers in excess?)
“Hakuna gari ingine mkubwa,” the driver replied (No other vehicle sir)
“License!” he spat out, his red eyes avoiding those of other passengers, except the driver’s.

The police officer took the license and went round the vehicle. On coming back to the driver’s window moments later, he handed him his license, and without looking at anybody slapped the side of the Landrover signaling the driver to move. The vehicle had moved for about fifty metres when the lady in the driver’s cabin spoke.

“Na hii hamsini mnagawagawa hamtamalisa pesa dei?” (And these notes you keep on dishing out, won’t you finish your money?”)

The driver did not reply. Beni on the other hand quietly took out his mobile phone. He began dialing a number and decided to make a call he did not intend to make.