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 settle on the one that has a replica of a Buffalo's horns, somewhere at the top of the handle bars. Buffalo horns, because this is the animal that i associate with real virility, and 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, wafting 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 keeps transforming 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 and sitting down motion for the umpteenth time. How she expected to make the short dress longer by pulling at it, I don't know. But my ride jerks forward like a released conveyor belt, yanking my head backwards, and forcing me to involuntarily swallow the muguka i was comfortably chewing. But I wasn't about to let my moods get south this early so,... off we go...

WRONG TURN.

We hadn't even made  500 meters, before my rider hits on the brakes, the way you would step on a snake's head. Hard. 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. Just then, i notice that everything is appearing in twos, and i deduct it must be from the swallowed muguka effect. 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'm terrified now. 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, and multiply it by a million.). You wait for a woman like that, you would wait for a meteor. My rider wants to say something to her, but i quickly remind him that all we have in this world, is the 10 seconds it was going to take her to get to us. 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!', and i inform my rider that by fleeing the scene, we may have actually made one of the best decisions of our lives. Glancing back, i realized 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.

A quick glance at my phone, 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. In fact, he gets it so well that, when we get to the next inter-section, rather than turn right as instructed, (Because that's where we are supposed to be headed) he keeps going straight, and 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, seeing as we'll surely be needing one shortly. I think about my sins, and I hurry to repent .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. Shoes and clothes ground instantly into powder, then mixed with the flesh of both occupants to produce this sickening colored paste, that the undertakers 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. All I recall is the sound of screeching brakes, obscenities from directly above me, then the smell of green raw maize. We were 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, got 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.

Once firmly astride, the smell of cannabis gets stronger now. 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, resigned. 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, and I assume my rider can see it too. I think nothing of it, 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 the cops 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, I guess. 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...

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