The transport system in western Kenya and Nyanza has long ago broken down and is in shambles- both its hustle and bustle – an ancient primordial one and in the new way which all things ineffective and slow i.e. service delivery has come to be regarded in Kenya- Kisumu was more an analogue city than its desired opposite-the Digital post modern hub of the great lakes region!
I was sited cooped on a “sambaza” suffocating from the stifling heat inside a fourteen sitter that now carried at least 20 people; waiting for the tout to conduct his calculations- get his cash from the brokers- wait again as the two carried out other calculations moving from passenger to passenger asking how much each had paid, hurriedly jotting at the back of a receipt book- the whole process taking almost a whole hour from arrival to departure by which time you were already tormented mentally- being packed very close together, with all the sweat, the omena smell from somewhere or a smelly armpit right in your face.
Kisumu city in 2013 is a clumsy boy whose growth and progress has been clipped by an egoistic approach to life- to the simple and finer details, it has succumbed slowly- it clung to its past and made its present in many aspects a murky affair- in business the clumsy boy loomed large- fisher folk do not just abandon their riverbank lifestyles and become instant success in trade- its ego impedes the enterprising nature needed. This is pardonable. Indians, the descendants of coolies, railway laborers are doing wonderful running the supermarkets, hard wares, quick food joints, bookshops and fancy hotels while the Somalis, going by two broad names Moha with a raised inflection on the -Ha and Abdi with an extra i, supply and compete amongst themselves in selling china made electronics while their hooded women, sitting inside big bou bous and Ninja headgear like miniature mobile tents- dash from one joint to another seeking “change” or an item urgently needed by a customer. Watching them run their businesses occasionally shouting an incomprehensible order to the lanky aides hanging around, enticing any potential customer with subtle pleas “aisee jeans…apti….shatti….smart….warriah…bei special” Is a funny performance- these part is a demarcated Somali territory! Garissa lodge it is called!
Kisumu as a city has its elements of backwardness- stark villages loomed and hovered around the excesses of the city- in the exaggerated urbanites. The bravado filled younglings running the streets. The city is in a tight traditional embrace with its village ancestry- the fodder on which it thrived. The matatus are the cord that mark the embrace- the cord that feed the city with the village fodder.
The rural parts has its finer share of these hangovers- remnants of rebel Christians- those early churches set up in the colonial days by native priests are thriving- while life is dreary in the villages on weekdays, it becomes frenzied on Sundays with all the true, Africanized, Christian cultic movements- the uniformed groups of drummers with flagged forerunners their pennants raised high and in diverse colors of red, green and yellow. The congregations with their elaborate church dresses run along- in slight jog timed by the drummers pace. Churches like these mushroomed with astonishing speed giving the region the more number of priests and bishops- aloof men of god, in an even and exaggerated tone of piousness.
I have lived here for four years as a student but never in my four years have I ever resolved the prejudices that slowly crept in and imposed itself on me- there was always a lurking uncertainty even at its most serene- a certain edginess to life; sudden surprises from the old man cursing in perfect English or the young touts modification of verbs and shouting “the car is wenting!!- Comic relief from the grandiose obsession with good grammar and big words that both the traditional Kisumu and its urbane side love to indulge in.
Strangers can spark conversations in seconds, diving into deep exchanges of worries, concerns and love, instantly finding quorum, bringing out the other side of the city- the bravado filled young men listening to the old accomplished “know-it-all” elders who spoke with that aura of yore- big English words!! Adjectives in Kisumu come in twos- each one with its own modifier.
Damn cold, triple looting, Collective amnesia, Self grandeur, Kisumu Dala, Raila Odinga, usual fundamentals, swaggerific Oliech, magnanimous Mariga, humongous wallet. The stereotype has merged into life; it has morphed into the truth. From the outside this looks like a performance that sustains an ego but looking keen and deep the intersection of this prided lies and grandiose self flattery is the reality.
This is the stuff that made Kisumu a city that stooped to a subtle belief of African inferiority, when people from “outside” pointed it out as the Lingual center of braggarts…the common response is-“but do we say?” Or “it’s our weakness” …soon enough the accused lapses into those facetious verbiage…
“You know we Luopeans, what I mean to say my dear friend, you know being a Luo is actually a lifestyle…” these has been repeated so often such that if any of these statement had long ago been made in jest, it now remained at an intersection of a norm and the hollowness of a shallow truth. You just do not know whether this is a mocking sarcasm or a tightly held belief.
Our Matatu is well on its way now. Passed Bandani, The Driver is busy skirting potholes, chavakali now, shouting a word of greeting, Lela, competing with other drivers for the lone passenger by the roadside, Daraja Mbili and talking, stopping by the traffic police and zooming off. The people inside the matatu are uncomplaining; more passengers board and squeeze us more. You don’t have an option. The matatu operators can do as they please. These problems in the matatu sector, I gathered, had not always been these way, ineffectively run a now, with the 2007 election and the subsequent 2008 violence; the kikuyu had lost a lot of investment and were forced to exit from Kisumu; many now fear a repeat of the loss they incurred. They are shy of returning but slowly a few daring ones have found their way back into the sector and may over the coming years transform the regions transport system once again.
I was almost in Maseno when a curios excitement happens. In her efforts at alighting an elderly woman had without intending or noticing she had knocked down bag and vanished into the dark night. The bag fell on the pavement shattering what seemed like a glass or a flask inside the bag; that’s when a lanky pastor who had until now been sitting silently spoke up. The pastor from one of those interior village churches – dini joroho or legio maria bishop wore a long turban, flowing robe and a big sword shaped cross; the man of god was numbered ISRAELI O.J right above the forehead on the white turban with red string, the letters sewn into the fabric with a carefulness but still coming out like the hand writing of a child unsure of the letters. Bishop Israeli O.J was now disturbed; he is craning his neck and calling out to the tout…
“Kondakta?” he called out calmly
“kondakta? Naulisa hiyo ni bag ya bisop?
“Conductor? I am asking if that’s the bishop’s bag that has fallen?”
Now the tout said it was and drove the calmness out of Israeli O.J who broke into a litany of accusatory laments
“kama mumevunja kikombe ya sacramenti iko sida”
‘if you have broken the sacrament’s cup, there is trouble”
‘I am saying if you have broken the sacrament’s cup you are in trouble.”
“nasema kama mumefunja kikombe ya sacramenti nyinyi iko kwa sida” he said this over and over until it became clear that the whole matatu was knee deep in some devilish shit…
These traditionalism and traditional approach to life in our cities and villages will endure.
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