Wednesday, 31 May 2017

THE MOTHER OF ALL RIDES.

So now i burst onto this Boda boda shed,because i'm in a hurry to attend that political meeting.I glance around and i pick the one that has a replica of a Buffalo's horns,somewhere  at the top of the front wheels.Buffalo horns,because this is the animal that i associate with real virility,which is actually what my preferred candidate is riding on-virility.Then at the back,it has a picture of Bob Marley smoking something that simply cannot be a cigarette,if the shape is anything to go by.

As i hop on,i notice that my rider has this distinct smell of cannabis,coming off his soiled jacket,but quickly make the assumption that the jacket may not even be his,that he may have just picked the wrong one,seeing as they are all hung on a single nail.Opposite,this damsel is trying to sit astride her ride,but her short dress is instantly transformed into a handkerchief,and she has to stand right up again,so she can pull it down wards.Only when she sits,the dress goes all the way up again in defiance,and she stands up, so she can pull it downwards.Again.My ride takes off,and we leave the two going over the standing up, and sitting down motion for the umpteenth time.Quickly,i wished someone would just tell them that you don't make a short dress longer,by pulling it downwards.But i'm not even through with that thought,before my ride jerks forward like a released conveyor belt,without warning.My head is yanked backwards,and i involuntarily swallow the muguka i was comfortably chewing.Now,anybody with half-a brain can tell you that, you do not under any circumstance, swallow your muguka,unless you want everything you look at ,to turn green.I dismiss that as a dismal attempt by the enemy to soil my moods,and swear to smile,no matter how many times i make involuntary swallows.Then off we go...

WRONG TURN.

We haven't even made  500 meters,before my rider hits on the brakes,the way you would step on a snake's head.Because we've apparently gone down the wrong road.The braking is so sudden that we both involuntarily stand straight upwards,barely managing to stay on the little machine,almost flying off it altogether.Immediately,i notice that everything is appearing in twos,and i suspect it must be from the muguka i swallowed a couple of minutes earlier.Only later,do i realize that my glasses actually flew right off my nose,and into God-knows-who's-farm.So we turn around,so we can find the right route,but the machine skids,and sprays rain water all over this woman's tomatoes,neatly arranged by the road-side.When she emerges from her vantage spot,she has the exact walk of a lioness,when you touch her cubs.I immediately see the need to involve God in this whole scenario.Because there's visible smoke, coming out her nostrils,and soot out of her ears.Clearly no one is going to silence this one,looking like a million women scorned.(You know what they said about a single woman scorned.Now take that,multiply it by a million.Yes.A million).You wait for a woman like that,you would wait for a meteor.My rider wants to start saying something to her,but i immediately remind him that all we have in this world,is the 10 seconds its going to take this woman to get to where we are.He gets my point,releases his clutch and we take off like one of those American F-16s,atop USS Roosevelt.

We're both screaming 'pole mama',as we go hurtling back up the direction we came from.I distinctly pick out the words 'ningewafyeka kama nyasi!' from a female voice,and i inform my rider that by running off, we may have actually made one of the best decisions of our lives.I glance back,and i realize that she may actually be tearing the tarmac off the road with her bare hands,and i lean forward,like i want to run past the bike,now doing close to a hundred plus.

 CLOSE SHAVE.

Just then,i somehow manage to whip my phone off the side pocket.A quick glance reveals that i'm running really late.So i inform my rider that we cannot afford to waste any more time taking wrong turns,and he gets my point.He gets it so well that, when we get to that inter-section he doesn't go right,(which is where we are supposed to be headed). Neither does he go left.He keeps going straight,at breakneck speed.I would have alerted him that we've once again lost the way, if i hadn't spotted this eighteen-wheeler truck hurtling down our way,because we are now suddenly on the wrong lane.
All the words i've read about the miracles of Christ flash through my mind,all at once,and for a moment i think about my sins as well.I see the face of St.Peter standing by the pearly gates with a golden book,reading out names aloud.I see winged creatures,some beckoning,others just going about their endless praise business.Clearly this is it.The last time two men on a bike hit an eighteen-wheeler truck head on,the mourners had to bury the mixture of the three in a single grave.There's no telling this, from that.Even the shoes have been ground into powder,then mixed with the kidneys of both occupants,which are then ground into this sick-colored water,that the undertaker has to scoop using a spade.
I would have told you how we swerved,and heroically saved our lives.But i won't, because we didn't.Actually we did nothing.But the bike kept moving forward,as we waited to die.Somehow we didn't and we miraculously escaped with our lives.I remember hearing screeching brakes,obscenities from directly above me,then the smell of green raw maize.Because that's where we stopped-in a maize farm.You could have heard my heart thud from a mile away.But my rider had this chimp grin on his face,like he does this for kicks.Or like its some sort of a game he's playing on some gadget.We dust ourselves up,half an hour later,get off the farm,then zoomed off again.I'm really late now,and we really need to hurry,never mind the fact that,by now,i look like Huckleberry Finn,on his worst day.

So we turn back,after confirming that we are really alive. Once firmly astride,the smell of cannabis gets stronger now.I'm beginning to worry that a snake might just be in this guy's jacket,because i hear snakes love the smell of cannabis(Snakes and i,never ever mix). I've since established that my rider's name is actually 'Moshi',from the brief conversation we held in the maize farm.If you are being driven around by a guy called moshi,then smoke might as well be your next destination,i deduct.\
This time,we turn off at the right place,left that is,now that we are approaching the intersection from the direction of the moon to earth. Moshi gives the little piece of wielded metal some more gas,and the shameless two-wheeler responds with gusto.It cruises relatively well on this new highway,and even though i'm late, i'm beginning to entertain the idea that i might just make the ground to participate in the closing war-songs.(Kiboiya.That's how we always close our rallies).

I can see  two police Land Cruisers straight ahead,(Remember,i lost my glasses,so it might as well be one)and i'm assuming everyone can see them.I'm thinking Moshi can see it(Or is it them),too.I think nothing of them,seeing as we are all headed to the same direction.That's until he rides right up behind it,and goes in like knife through butter,hitting the hind door into a million police smithereens.

Moments later,we are sprawled on the grass by the road.Moshi is coughing soot like an old house's chimney.The cops are all over us,asking a million questions at once,and not giving time for even a single one to be answered.I get no time to explain why i participated in an attempt to assassinate the Police of Kenya.Or why i became a terrorist,out on a suicide mission,rather than be home,hugging my kids because they've eaten dinner well.As far as they are concerned,this is no accident....we tried to kill them.And when Moshi looks up to plead his case,and they catch a glimpse of his eyes,they need no further evidence.I can see the headlines tomorrow... "Swift action by the hawk-eyed elite force,saved the day".

POH-LICE CELL.

As i write this, i'm sitting in a damp police cell,discovering the importance of always getting the waist-size of your trousers right.Because you can never tell when you will be the recipient of the orders..'Toa mshipi,nyang'au!'
I knew mine were a few sizes larger,and the belt always kept it in place.Now with the belt in the safe custody of the cops,and with no shoes on,i have to grip one corner of my trousers to keep them from 'dripping' to the floor.And with the kind of guys i'm locked up here with,you never can tell what their minds might come up with,upon seeing a bearded man who's just dropped his pants.
Moshi is snoring soundly on the cold concrete,and i thought i heard him call out to 'Gakii' in his sleep,whom i deduct must be his sweetheart.Even reptiles fall in love.And the evidence to that, is snoring right before me.And as i wait for the next name to be called out by the Afande on O.B,who's meaning i'm yet to know,i pick out the deep bellowing of the O.C.S,now heavily bandaged from head to toe, despite suffering only a bruise on his mid-finger.Then i know we are in some real trouble...