Thoughts on the Road She had red lipstick and red tights.On her head was a cheap brown weave. She looked at me; her face was not unpleasant. She looked at me again, I looked away and settled in my seat. From the corner of my eye, I could see her crossing her legs. She looked out of place in the bus. We pulled out of the Railways bus park and I got lost in my thoughts. Nairobi was an unfeeling city in which tribal lines had been drawn. Kibera touts yelled Luo names at each other. Kayole touts asked for fare in Kikuyu. I have never seen a Taita tout. The traffic cop releases our lane, and as we pass, I look at his pockets, hoping to see a bulge that would make me judge him corrupt. His pockets look normal. The bus is belching smoke as it groans up Capital Hill. A lorry passes us. I am not worried; I will reach my destination. We pass the Kenya National Library Headquarters, and I remember many Saturdays in the Childrens Section, reading brightly coloured books, and listening to storytellers singing Foolish animal searching for lion, kiri bamba kiri. Those were good days. My primary school classmate Eric used to sell groundnuts at bus stops after school. He lived around, and I wonder if we would recognize each other if we met now. Grace Gathoni used to play tennis at Nairobi club. She was beautiful. I loved her Chinese eyes. She has a family of her own now. We pass Kenyatta. I look outside, as I always do when I pass this stretch, hoping to maybe catch a glimpse of someone I grew up with. Like Caroline Cherop or Caroline Muthengi or Eric Siro. Siro used to be round and happy. I see no one I know. We are at the City Mortuary roundabout. There are hearses parked outside, like cabs along Mfangano Street. There are ugly flowers twisted into wreaths. Sometimes, I think of nothing. The tout is collecting fares. I pull out a tired fifty shilling note from my wallet. The lady pays and says Adams. The tout goes on, as if he hasnt heard. Hey, do you know where the Adams stage is? she asks. She is not talking to me. The person replies. The lady stands up and walks to the door. Her top is short, and her behind round. Her tights have something written at the back, but I cant read it properly. The tout bangs on the door and the driver hits the brakes. The lady steps out. There is a group of women outside, all dressed in white, their hairs covered. They must be from a church that incorporates traditional aspects in their worship. They stop talking and stare at the lady. She walks round them. They turn and stare. Above the engine noise, one of them raises her voice and says Ogol Saitan! The bus pulls away, and I remember a song that the African Israel Church sings, playing percussions and jumping up and down: Imanueli amezaliwa leo, Imanueli amezaliwa, Tuna imani ya kwamba amezaliwa Tuna imani ya kwamba amezaliwa, Imanueli
Posted on: Tue, 09 Sep 2014 16:38:56 +0000
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