Whatever you do in this country, try not to be poor. Greetings from Jimo village, in what used to be Kisumu Rural Constituency, before we became urban and went back to our Seme roots.
This is where my umbilical cord was buried nearly 39 years ago, and from where my bones will wake up on the day of the resurrection to answer why I’ve refused to carry fresh fish for my Nairobi friends who assume everyone in Luo Nyanza lives along the lake.
I’ve been here, intermittently, since schools were asked to close for politicians to use them for party primaries. I would’ve brought you up to speed on whose cow gave birth to triplets three days ago, but I’m informed people with bad eyes now read newspapers and that leaves me with the national fuel crisis that has seen the government blame those in government for running down the government.
Down here, boda bodas are the kings of the jungle. They storm through thorny barriers and eat up poorly-cooked murram. Every villager has one on speed dial. They’ve saved lives in broad daylight and killed careers of night runners.
A fortnight ago, when fuel stations began to dry up, it’s the villages that converted fuel stations into farmlands first. Riders servicing loans were forced to push their bikes to their nearest fuel station for their business-saving drop, or change their phones’ location for auctioneers to storm their nearest witchdoctor’s den.
Those boda boda guys are the real hustlers. For their daily bread, they’re forced to haul luggage the size of Oscar Sudi’s ego, nod their heads to pointless village gossip, and counsel jilted lovers given wrong directions by those running away from bad omen.
There’s nothing those riders haven’t seen. They’ve helped expectant mothers deliver by the wayside, pulled road-crash victims out of bleeding vehicles, and argued with the police on who should call the shots at an accident scene.
They’re the ones who were hopping from one fuel station to another begging for mercy since faith had already left them to go move the mountains.
When fuel became gold and sharing was no longer caring, all boda boda riders were notified that they had only two options: To push the bikes to their nearest fuel station or disconnect the fuel tank and walk with it there. In the village where I am, bike owners are praying for God to convert the long rains into bike fuel before he lets it pour down. No one drinks fuel to stay alive, but a starving family can’t eat a stalled bike either.
A heated national debate has since erupted on whose head should be chopped for the fuel gods to be appeased. At the time the President was signing the subsidy into life, none of the politicians had been seen walking to work for lack of fuel for their sun-roof guzzlers. All they did was to convert this crisis into another round of political bickering, and everyone now agrees that whatever you do in this country try not to be poor.
Villagers down here have been checking the news networks for signs of those guys who shout from sunroofs that they’re hustlers. None of them had their guzzling cars join the winding queue for the scorching sun to roast their soft lives.
They had enough fuel to last them another campaign period and couldn’t share where they got it from, because real hustlers ride in wheelbarrows fuelled by human sweat.
We would’ve hoped that you shall remember those who stood by you in the fainting queue, but history has taught us that the Kenyan voter doesn’t like history. They only like geography to help them locate their tribal polling station, and religious education to pray to God to rescue them from starvation after ticking the names of thieves at the ballot.
