At a Glance

On a good day the wind will blow and the anus of the chicken will be seen, wisdom of the Maori. On the same good day, you may plan a surprise visit to your parents up country. Not an ambush, just a good surprise. If your parents live hundreds of miles from the city like mine, you’ll need roughly 8 hours on public transport or 6 hours if you got your own car. That is if you don’t behave like your favourite car is Subaru. 

A week before the good day you had told your wife that you’d like to travel with her to her in laws. So she seeks permission from work or take a fake sick leave because it will only be a day or two. Or she may just put someone in charge of her business for the two days. Because she loves your family for bringing up such a wonderful Luo guy, one who doesn’t throw his shoes under the bed or leave his socks in the kitchen sink after work… She breaks into her savings and does some crazy shopping for your parents. 

In the night after dinner when you’re watching your favourite news channel she taps you on your back. If your child is called Sunday, she calls you “baba Sunday, come see this” you can’t deny. You’re in your finest sweat short and a vest sitting on the sofa with one hand folding your leg and the other holding the remote. You turn to look at her, she’s in your favourite look of her, those things they put on at night. So you let the news be, furthermore in Kenya nothing is new. 

Sunday is busy drawing God knows what and doesn’t even notice you two are gone. You thought you’d be taken to the bedroom for some private talk but you’re headed downstairs. Into the parking, she has the car keys and you’re wondering what happened that couldn’t be said in the house. 

The car whistles and blinks, she’s a white Volkswagen Tiguan, they shipped her six months ago. Black rims and a silver lining makes her everything you want. The parking is cold and silent. She opens the boot and ask you, “are these enough?” its full with everything you want to gift your parents except fresh bananas, fish and live chicken. You don’t carry live chicken and fresh bananas from the city it’s the other way round. By the time you’re back in the house Sunday had drawn till the pen ran dry and was long asleep on the carpet. 

The next morning at 4am you leave for Gweno Kipodi village. You send a text to them, “ tumetoka, we’ll be there by 10am.” She replies with, “safe journey my son” and you wonder what on earth your mom is doing at 4am. Moms though…

A full tank would do, take you to and fro and last a few more days. The car vrooms through the darkness. Its light tearing the darkness apart. It’s cold and chilly. Besides you sits your woman, holding your baby like some monster threatened to take it away. The night is slowly replaced by day light, the sun rising from the eastern horizon making the morning look more alive. The environment vicissitudes from bushy thickets of the rift valley cliffs to the dry plains in Narok. To the clay wet soils of Bomet.

You pull up at Bomet for a breakfast in a kibandaski, youre in the full mood of going to the village and all you want right now is some local food for breakfast. It is when you alight that you realize how much stuff you’re carrying home, the car is literally in a squatting position. You open her the door and realize how beautiful a human can become in a new environment; you can’t risk telling her how beautiful she is TODAY because she will ask you if the other days she looks like burnt pancakes. So, you just tell her plainly, “you look amazing creation of God.” 

The waitress in the restaurant, a dark-skinned beautiful girl in her mid 20s. She was well taught how to handle customers coz the way she smiled at them… he only has to get ready with answers because that was noted down as a future reference point. Some day in the future if you forget to put your socks in the laundry basket after work and put them on bed, it will be because all you do is think of the waitress.

You take some nduma and white coffee. She is not the type that will insist on taking chicken pie or burger for breakfast in a kibanda so you nurse the Nduma together. Your phone rings and its your dad calling, on the other end is your moms voice asking where you have reached. They will always ask, You can feel the impatience in her voice. From a far you can hear your Dads voice tailed by bleating of a goat, not a happy goat though, a goat that has seen three sharp  knives and two big sufurias. And you know things are good at home, not on the goat’s side at least. The last time you checked they only had one dairy cow. Once more you take a glance at your person sitting on your opposite and can’t hesitate taking a picture of her. One that you take home wearing a full apron of confidence.

Sunday refused to take the picture because he didn’t want to leave your hands. You’re attracted by some good-looking tomatoes nearby and you buy lots of them, just to play a part in the death of some goat. The dark-skinned waitress brings the bill and looks more interested in you. She says you have a beautiful family and smiles shyly. 

In a small shanty town about 30km to home, someone waves at you and point at the back of the car. You fast ignore because you feel he’s going to tell you the car is overloaded and moves on. In like 500 meters you feel the car is dragging like it’s a puncture.

This was going to be crazy because you have to get rid of everything from the luggage deck to get out the spare wheel. Unanticipated uncertainties give you the best lessons, this is not about a car puncture. You fold your sleeves and tackle the situation like a man, all alone. Sunday and his mum are busy taking pictures of the mechanic you’ve become. These are the things that make a journey memorable. If you don’t get a puncture, at least get stuck in some muddy road. 

You give some strange kid your phone to take a picture of you people after the work is done. You trust him because he’s been with you all through since you got the puncture and helped you carry the car jack back. You ask your wife to give him some money as a token of appreciation and it’s just amazing how he runs away shouting thank you. Just a family of three, getting the best out of a life. 

In a few, you pull home. Home is beautiful. Some things have changed of course but home is always home, the feeling it gives you is one of a kind. The breath of long forgotten but familiar air. The familiar chipping of birds you used to hear back then and you wonder whether birds age too. Some trees cut and new ones have grown. You see your aging parents, still energetic though, your old man in his mid-60s and mum in her mid-50s then you remember life at home in primary school and for sure time is a bustard. It’s an all-teeth out occasion. 

They are more than happy to see you home; your grandma will always come ululating and Sunday will run to his mother crying and you’ll all laugh at him. After a little rest you take the second breakfast of the day, some yams, pumpkins and white tea. 

Later in the day your old man takes you and Sunday for a walk around the farms as the ladies do their things at home, your farming projects are doing well. Mzee is carrying a radio and a panga; you don’t walk empty handed in the farms, you may come across ripe bananas and you don’t want to pluck it with the trunk.

After a sweet sweet day of feasting, catching up and storytelling till late in the night you go to sleep in your Simba and wake up tomorrow morning in your bedsitter in Kinoo. Not a dream. Just took a walk to the future. I just visited my 30 and it was amazing. Now I’m back to the present to at least trust the process another time. But still, I want to meet her and my Sunday, My VW too and maybe add a dog to the family.