Have you ever shared a matatu with a hen? Or shared a boat with a goat and a sewing machine? Have you, Sam? Do you go to Brew Bistro and compete with other chaps on who can make the most monstrous burger? Is your idea of fun DMing every girl who you follow on twitter with overbearing overtures? Do you think The Circle and The Mingle are an urban funk? Some sort of a postmodern cultural take-over? Do you watch Tujuane and scoff on twitter, like you are the just the best date ever? Little Mr. Sunshine, you? Good for you. But look, if you haven’t gotten into a matatu with a hen and a hoe, you haven’t lived life. I’m sorry.
One dawn, two weeks ago, I flew to Kisumu. That night I discovered Bootleggers Grill and Bar at Nakumatt Mega Mall. This is the latest craze in Kisumu, very highbrow. They give you hot hand towels before you dig into your ribs. Their ribs, rather. The next morning, I swung my backpack on my back and headed to the main stage in Kisumu otherwise known as stend. Stend is a twang for “stand”. Like a bus stand. It’s where buses stand. Get it now? You know Luos and assuming English is Luo and Luo is English.
So, stend. I’m looking for a bus to take me to Luanda Kotieno two hours away, where I will take a ferry to Mbita, whereupon I will take a small boda-boda to Rusinga Island lodge, where I will do story about some fishing village, one of the numerous fishing villages in Rusinga.
Kisumu stend is a bedlam. Every car hoots and toots, which isn’t a hoot when you are nursing a small hangover from Bootleggers. At stend everyone wants a piece of you. There is the guy who wants to drag you to a roaring bus to Kabras. Kabras is in Luhya land. I don’t know how anyone would mistake me for a Luhya with this forehead. I don’t even know if I should take offence.
Then there are the people trying to sell you something; a padlock, a stack of spoons, a rope for tethering a goat, or a cow, specs if your eyes water when you stand in the sun, designer shades (“Rey Bans”), roasted maize, boiled maize, Karatasi brand exercise book, capsules that treat impotency, capsules that treat measles, capsules that treat disillusion, a Casio watch spelled Cassio, Bic pen, a leso, a capsule that treats insomnia, a geometric set, condoms, beans and chapo to go, a phone charger, a phone, a box of candy, matchboxes, water, biscuits, kerosene, a torch, a bigger torch, a wooden homemade toilets seat! You know those portable seats that you place over the latrine? I think all those young Nairobi folk with gout should get themselves one on their way to shags. It’s only Ksh 1,500, in case you are wondering. Then there is this ballsy clown who asked me if I wanted to buy a barbed wire. For the love of Mike! Yes, I actually needed one now that you mention it. With a straight face I said, sure, get me two barbed wires and a packet of juice.
So anyway, I find a mat to Luanda Kotieno. It’s a battered old thing, with a driver sporting an Ababu Namwamba haircut. I believe it’s called Punk, that haircut. I kid you not. In fact, the first thing that came to my mind when I saw that driver was “stop! Hammer time!” I can’t explain that, you had to have been around in the 90’s. The driver wasn’t even the driver. He’s paid to rev the engine and give you the impression that you are about to get on your way. A master of deceit.
I sat at that window seat just behind the driver. A very large Luo woman squeezed in next to me. Then her breasts followed. She was breathing hard. In fact, I wondered privately if perhaps she needed one of the capsules. She turns and asks, “Idhi kure?” (Where you going?”) I say, “Luanda Kotieno.” She then screams at the conductor that Luanda Kotieno isn’t 350 bob and that he needs to return 50 bob to me. The conductor tells her, “gonyo mama, ket iwi mos!” They get into this exchange and the conductor backs down and hands me 50bob, which, as a responsible citizen, I ploughed back into the economy, as you will learn later in the story.
Here is the thing; most guys from Siaya talk funny. I’m from South Nyanza. We don’t speak like them. They think we speak funny, but that’s what happens when you speak funny, you imagine that it’s the rest who speak funny. They say stuff like, “gonyo,” and most of their accent is off. You should hear a guy called Benjaps (he’s from a place called Gem, full of chest-thumpers) speak Luo. It freakin’ drives me up the wall!
Anyhow, the matatu is hot, the music – Lolwe FM, with its horrid jingles – is so loud because in my brilliance I didn’t see the speaker right over my head. All these while folk are eating maize in the matatu and chatting and eating peanuts and eggs and chatting and haggling with hawkers. Then without warning some pudgy fingers grabs my window from outside and yanks it open. Kweeeeek! That’s the sound of the window opening, not my gasp. It’s an old window that I didn’t even think opens.
“Min Auma, ero go,” this lady (probably from Gem) hollers from outside and without any form of acknowledgment to me, she thrusts a live chicken through the window. Atta girl! The damned thing flaps and squeaks, protesting like hell because it doesn’t want to go to Siaya. Or maybe it’s protesting sitting next to the big fore-headed chap! [that will be me]. Min Auma nonchalantly grabs the chicken by the throat and the poor thing immediately goes silent. I want to laugh because it’s hilarious, but for a fleeting moment I feel sorry for it. I really do because she got large hands, Min Auma. Large. And she might use them on me, if I laugh. So I hush.
Then before I can say “Nyeri”, the same lady puts a hoe through my window. A digging hoe, not that hoe you are thinking. Although that would have been fun too. But Min Auma’s hands are full (one with boiled maize and another with this chicken’s neck) and so the most decent thing for me to do is to hold the hoe for her. So I hold the hoe. It’s a new hoe. An innocent hoe.
At some point Min Auma and I will start chatting. She has this refreshing honesty and innocence about her. She is genuine and I enjoy chatting her. She asks questions: Where are you from? Where are you going? What are you going to do there? Where do you live in Nairobi? Is it far from Umoja? I have a cousin who lives in Umoja, he lives near that kiosk for Safaricom, do you know it? Of course I do, Min Auma. I know all Safaricom shops in Umoja. We jabber away in Luo. She has a brilliant sense of humour (the chicken obviously disagrees) and I really make her laugh. I really do. I can be pretty silly when I’m carrying hoe. So we become mates. At some point she lets go of the chicken’s neck and thrusts it under the seat. I gulp. The things people do to food, lunjes would be offended at this level of insensitivity, I think sourly.
I offer to buy groundnuts, those boiled ones. I spend that 50bob she fought for (see?) They are delicious. To monkey around, I ask the groundnuts hawker if she can please receipt the 50bob, flummoxed, she asks why? I tell her because it will be needed by accounts back in the office. I’m fooling around. Min Auma cackles at that. See? I told you she is funny!
I have a Dettol sanitizer in my pocket, I remove it to wipe my hands and when I offer Min Auma (we are now mates, after all) she laughs it off and snarls, “mago e gik ma miyo jo Narobi cancer!” (That’s why you Nairobians have cancer!) I’m dying with glee now. I tell her if I get cancer I can always get one of the capsules, donge? Talking of which, the chap who sells capsules is this extremely dodgy character who never really speak loudly. He mumbles, like he’s selling you human organs. He will slither to your window in his dodgy hat pulled down and whisper, “cappsss”, “cappsss”, “capssss ma thiedho minyoo,” “capssss” cappsss!”
The mat stops at every damned stage. People come in, more leave. My knees are killing me, because I have folded them for too long. And the music is in my face, it also doesn’t help that the guy behind me is singing loudly to the music. The jingles are killing me! Bad bad jingles, Lolwe FM. Bad! Min Auma will get off at some point. We don’t exchange phone numbers. Maybe we should have. With no ceremony she yanks the chicken from under her seat and I reluctantly hand over the hoe. I get easily attached to hoes. Then she waves and yells, “wuoth gi Yesu, ja Kendu Bay!” and she is gone. I miss her.
Luanda Kotieno is where the tarmac ends and the lake begins. If you miss the 11am ferry you will wait until 3pm. You will sit in a local kiosk and eat beans and mandazi as you chill. So don’t miss the 11am ferry. Last time I was there, I missed the 11am ferry and I couldn’t wait so I got onto a boat with about two hundred people, a sewing machine and a goat. I think we were overloaded but hey, who was I to say anything? I was out of my depth. In the boat was an old man who scooped out the water because it was leaking. He must have been older than the wood used to make that boat. He scooped out the water with a worrisome lethargy. I knew I was going to die. I was sure. But in the whole boat I was the only one who seemed perturbed. Even the goat seemed relaxed.
Go to Rusinga Island Lodge (www.rusinga.com). It will change many things you think you know about Nyanza. It’s paradise. It’s an oasis. It’s a place where beauty is undone and redefined. They have a large beach. And Jacuzzi. They boated me out to Takawiri Island, where this time, I didn’t swim naked. I applied sunscreen (kidogo gay, I know) and dozed off at the white sandy beach. There, I dreamt of Min Auma’s chicken. Did they finally eat her? I still worry about that chicken and all the chickens in Kenya. Especially the ones in Nyeri. Let’s all pray for Nyeri chickens and those twisted souls in Nyeri who get an erection from looking at feathers.
My story was at the fishing villages, where the lodge took me by their motorboat. I visited one particular village called Kolunga village. Of the 12 fishing villages, it’s the biggest fishing village in Rusinga sIsland. I spoke to fishermen and with beach management unit officials.
It takes brevity to be in the lake whole night, in darkness, looking for fish. Men die out there. Men go and never return. Boats get split into two out there by strong winds. The lake isn’t your friend, it has a mind of its own and when the lake is angry, it reminds the fishermen. But they still go. They are men.
When they come back in the morning, they eat and they play ajua, a form of board game. Or they watch TV in this mabati place that charges 30 bob for a match or 20 bob for a movie. The TVs are side-by-side and often run concurrently. Life is simple. Birds circle the air. The womenfolk air out the fish to dry. Children scurry about, half naked. Nobody worries about ghost workers in Mombasa County. If you have 50bob in your pocket, you are sorted. Tomorrow will take care of itself.
You think they are curious about Nairobi? They really don’t care because Nairobi isn’t curious about them. They only care about fish and the lake. They don’t even care about Raila or whether he won the elections. They moved on.
There is only one bar. Tusker moves very slowly. They save their money on Mpesa. Vegetables are a rarity. Most have never heard of pizza or the pizzazz around Instagram.
I envied them. This life devoid of pressure and constant angst. I asked this chap, I interviewed a fisherman called Akumu and asked him the one thing he would love to do before he dies and he said he would like to visit Paris. I swear, I’m not making this up. I asked him why, and he said he once saw a movie about Paris and he loved their bridges and large big boats (yachts).
They dream.