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.