Bodaboda; Merchants of Death.

I recently had to ride a motorbike at the crack of dawn. A bodaboda to be exact. For those without an iota of what a bodaboda is, think of bicycle taxi and motorbike taxi. Got it? Back to my story. Here was I in the frigid bone freezing and teeth clattering weather of Kericho seated astride on a merchant of death. These bodas are literal merchants of death in our part of Africa.
The time was 6 in the morning. I had to attend a work related meeting in a far away town and I hadn’t been called nor invited till like 8 p.m. talk of African way of things. My hosts had booked me a classy hotel for the night but since I wasn’t aware, it was vacant! What a waste of money!!!

With my bones feeling like they had no synovial fluid, I ducked behind the young bodaboda man as he wrung the accelerator till it was close to warping. No sooner had he engaged the third gear than the cold Kericho air began sapping all the warmth off my blood. This is not to mention that I was clad in a heavy jacket fit for the coldest of the American blizzards. In an effort to duck from the cold wind, I was suffocated by the young man’s body odour. I swear he must have slept in a pigsty for he smelled of an amalgamation of sweat, alcohol and something to do with cheap feminine perfume. In an effort to avoid choking I raised my head and was immediately stung by the cold rushing air. The cold air made my eyes tear with the tears streaming in a straight line towards my ears not to mention that I wear spectacles. Wait! The young man or boy had neither a helmet nor any headgear and his nose was wrung up in an effort to make him see beyond the yellow light of his bike’s lamp.

No sooner had we touched tarmac than all hell came after us…loose. Within a hundred metres we were eating tarmac faster than a Dreamliner jet ready for the sky. Thing is that this wasn’t a dream. My early morning nightmare. The motorbike’s 100cc engine was howling in the mist blanketed hills while my bottom wriggled and vibrated faster than a humming bird’s wings. It was akin to holding on to a less lethal pneumatic drill and the vibrations and gyrations were as a result of wobbly wheels.
As we approached intersections on the road, I waited for him to at least slow down but all he did was to lean right with our toes barely scrapping the tarmac. I asked him to slow down but all he did was mutter an inaudible ‘Mhmmm’! Pig!
He overtook tractors and any other slow vehicle on the wrong side!! Any side was fine for him as long as we passed them.

By now, my fingers were ice cold from gripping the torn seat and I could hardly feel my feet. Let’s just say I was a mix of being petrified and freezing. Whenever he braked, he left skid marks on the potholed tarmac. A tea laden lorry missed us by a hair’s breath. Yesu Kristo! I saw my life flash past…me dying without a hardcopy… leaving this world without kid. I saw my black skin being scrubbed off the black tar road by black county council workers in black boots. Woi! I that lady somewhere missing a husband…My dreams and life all dashed…literally.

No sooner had I placed my feet on solid ground than the tear stained young man zoomed off in search off another passenger to terrify with his backfiring, wobbly and dented bike.
I forgot to ask him why he wanted to kill me.

I wonder if he is alive as you read this.

Hip to hip in a matatu.

Here was I.  Torn between bliss and torment. To my left, a pretty cute lady and to my right, a buxomly, sweaty old mama. My being was tortured by the conflicting sensation. Good and shame/anger. For your information, I was there sandwiched in a matatu by two ladies of two different centuries. One a 19^th century lady, another a 21^st century mortal. As a young man, the mere thought of a pretty lady sitting by you in a public service vehicle is pure niceness. On the other half, sitting next to a sweaty old village mama with a handkerchief for a money purse and a polythene bag for a handbag is every young man’s nightmare. Unless the old person is a relative. Otherwise…
Well, the journey was unbearable. Much as I would have loved to enjoy the heavenly scent of the young lass as it wafted all around the vehicle, I could not still my jittery nerves, fighting to create a one metre wide gap in between me and old mama.

This is because there is something so wrong about a young man seated in close gross proximity with a lady old enough to be my grandmother’s last born sister. In this case, even an arm touching or brushing by her bosom is beyond sacrilege. What? At least, that is what it is from this part of the world. Africa. As I pushed away as far as possible from the old mama’s contact, I saw the young lady on my left move away from me into the walls of the matatu.  I’m no mind reader but I could read her mind telling her that I was one of ‘those’ guys. The gropers…
I was literally stuck between a rock and a hard place. I swear I saw even the street urchins look at me in scorn, full of disapproval. I lifted my right arm to avoid any contact with the old mama and in so doing, I ended up leaning towards the heavenly perfumed lass in result. It made her think that I was trying to cuddle her in a matatu! All this while, the old mama was lost in her world eating ground nuts. As she shelled them, the husks fell on my once ironed trouser and my once neat shirt. I wanted to alight but on this route, public service vehicles’ plying this route come few and far between.

This is Africa and public transport isn’t for those running late for appointments and also not a place for those trying to travel and arrive in style. Unless you have what some call ‘My car’. In this particular matatu, we were tightly packed like tomatoes in a crate, ready for a market in a faraway town. We were like tightly packed like cows meant for slaughter atop a Kampala bound lorry. (You ought to see the said cows transported for slaughter. Very inhumane.)  Tight, crammed, packed. We were hip to hip and the lass’s hip bone dug into my thigh. Men! Talk of campus figure or is it malnutrition. On my right, the old mama was plump and in result making my right leg go numb…I could feel gangrene eat up my toes…

I whipped out my smartphone and deftly scrolled through it with my left hand and guess what? The lass on my left whipped out the latest Windows phone…Wait! This is deep in the village and sighting a smart phone of that nature is akin to picking a dollar in a busy town…Rare is the word. As she scrolled through her phone, I knew that she was no villager…Like me. Her well manicured nails said it all. I resorted to peering at her phone with a deft sideways look. She was on Twirra. Mh! I could bet that she was the only person on this side of the earth’s surface on Twitter.
As the matatu tossed up and down on the potholed road, I came to hate the zero distance between the beauty and the old mama. My now numb legs would not let me sit better.

As I stepped out of the van, my left side smelled of roses and lavender…Whatever that is. My right side was an amalgamation of sweat, ground nuts and something in between, thanks to zero distance.