There is something about Kisumu City. When you land at Kisumu International Airport (You have to say that in full if you are going to say it at all) and you walk out squinting into the bright sunlight, you have to take a moment and just stand there, luggage in hand and savor it. If you land when I love to land, early morning, the sky will definitely be an unrelenting azure. A breeze from the lake will be gently blowing through the (international) airport. The hills beyond will continue to roll out into the far distance, towards Obama’s shags. There is a “stillness” to Kisumu in the morning that I love. If you stand there for just a little longer, you will actually “feel” the city wake up. Slowly. Port Florence wakes up like future kings wake up, with a sense of entitlement.
Normally, Charles is waiting for me. Charlie is that guy you can always depend on. When you tell him, “Charles I land at 8am, please be there,” he will be there. Come rain or shine. What more do you need from a cab guy? Plus his cab won’t be smelling of fish. He’s young, 28, runs a modest fleet of taxis, after working in Grogon as a spanner boy for a few years.
I met Charlie a few years back when I picked him randomly from the sea of cabbies that normally wait outside the airport. I was connecting (yes, Kisumu International Airport is a hub) to Kakamega Forest where I was to do some painful environmental story. You know those stories where you have to interview people who love butterflies? Yes, those ones. Anyway, so there I was at the back of his cab on the phone with this photographer briefing him on what was expected so that he would come with the right equipment. When I hung up, Charlie asked me if I was a journalist. I said yes.
“I know Grace Makosewe,” he announced proudly.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yes, she’s a radio presenter.”
“Yes,”
“Yes, she is really nice, very beautiful bwana. Is she your friend?”
“We worked together a while back.”
He got really excited. “Really? Nice, do you speak?”
“Yes, although we haven’t spoken in ages. How did you meet?”
He said that Grace and her pals once used his cab from the airport and he just liked her immediately. Like he couldn’t stop staring at her through the rear-view mirror. Couldn’t keep his damned eyes on the road. He learnt that she was on radio and started listening to her show religiously. I was chuckling in the backseat.
“Can you call her?” he suddenly asked.
“Like now?”
“Yes, si you guys are friends, just remind her that I’m that guy who carried her to the hotel, she will know. Call her please and say hallo for me.”
“Uhm, it’s too early, bwana, she must be in bed.”
“It’s 8.45am, just try, please.”
I thought about how awkward it would be, calling up someone I hadn’t spoken to in ages, this early in the morning to tell them that some random cab guy said hallo. But he looked like it would have made his day so I called but – thankfully – she didn’t answer. You should have seen him look at me suspiciously in his rear view mirror, like I was lying about knowing her. Nkt.
Grace never called back.
Every time I would land in Kisumu, Charlie would be on my case asking about her and I developed the skill of lying like a madman: Have you seen Grace? (I ran into her last week); how is she doing? (She is great); did you tell her about me? (Yes, she remembers you.); Really? (Of course she does, she thinks you were very charming); Wewe wacha bwana! Waaah! Aki? (I wouldn’t lie to you bwana); Waah! I like that girl, she has a boyfriend? (No, the last guy fled to Uganda & never came back, maybe he joined Kony); Haha, Biko you like making things up bwana! (That’s what I heard, honest). When is she coming to Kisumu, do you know? (I will ask, but I think soon); Aki I can marry that woman! (Haha. You should!)
That conversation would go on every time he picked me up to the point I started feeling guilty for leading him on. So I called Grace one day and told her that there was a man called Charles who wanted to save her from spinsterhood and here is the number, call him, he will be deliriously happy. I don’t know if she ever called him but he still asks about her. I think that’s true love if you ask me. Grace, if you are reading this, this could be your chance; always marry a man who loves you more than you love them.
This Thursday morning, bang on time, Charles will be waiting for me at the international airport as usual. I will be en-route to Takawiri Island, which lies past Rusinga Island, where I will be going to hunker down and recover. See, two weeks ago I started making some really stupid mistakes in my copy. Not the usual annoying typos that I make on this blog that gets some grammar nazis all riled up, no. I’m talking bad shit, like getting an interviewees name wrong in print! Who does that? Those mistakes are always a sign of extreme fatigue. My editor called me up and said, “Biko, it’s never that serious, take a break. Go away, it will do you good.”
So I will go as far as I can from Nairobi, to Takawiri Island and swim naked. That normally helps. Water helps. And Takawiri Island has this white-palm-tree-d-sandy-beaches that you can’t believe exists in Nyanza. Virgin land. And it’s desolate. You can be alone at the beach the whole day. The water is warm and clear. Birds circle overhead. The lake is calm and sparkling blue. It’s as quiet as a Mummies tomb.
Liberation is when you step out of your boxers and get into the water with your skipper embarrassingly looking away, pretending to all of a sudden love the distant hills of Mfangano Island. Getting in that water naked really unlocks everything. Then when it gets really hot, you can stagger out, spread a shuka under a palm tree and take a nap with your legs open, snoring, as birds up in the tree chatter and laugh at your shrunken bits. No laptops. Minimal phone usage. It’s primal and it’s beautiful.
From this Thursday I will be trying out what I call my ‘Mini-Blog’ series on my Facebook/Twitter/Instagram. (You are following me right?) The mini-blog will be these small 150-word posts about this “Victorian Experience” – the sights, smells and sounds of Lolwe.
See you in Kisumu?