NANYUKI TOWN AND DRIVING SMALL CARS OFFROAD

In this small town, driving off road-which often means driving more than 2 kilometers  from the CBD -requires gallons of what Jim Baraza refers to as testicular fortitude. 

Everyone has by now noticed that, Nanyuki has more land-cruisers than genuine Ray ban sunglasses. 

 Farmers/Ranchers, Government officials, MPs, MCAs and everyone else; apart from the millionaire Kikuyu business-men. These ones believe the only car that matches with their checked Kaunda suit is a white Toyota DX that is old enough to have "drunk" fuel when a litre was cheaper than a double shot of whiskey at Half-Co (AFCO-Barracks booze). Everyone else including, undercover police, poachers and potato farmers drive pro-boxes about which the less is said the better. I did not know what the deal with land-cruisers and huge engine vehicles was about when I first rocked town. I mean, in other places certain blue pills and other seemingly dubious "enlarging" products appear to compensate for the big problems in "small" places well enough. Well, turns out I was wrong for once.

In dry weather, Nanyuki is a small dusty town with equally dusty outskirts.   However, when it starts to rain, you start noticing a few things. Everyone who does not drive a 4-wheel behemoth becomes interested in the weather forecast.  By the time the 3rd drop scatters the police manning, the roadblock at the the Likii junction, there is a mass exodus of small vehicles to their respective hamlets. 

However, since you are neither too clever nor too foolish, you hang around Club Disappear and drink your 3rd Guinness because "alcohol  is bad and it is our parental duty to ensure every drop is finished so our children do not become drunkards" (Kiigu, 2011).  

Finally , at 11.00 PM when the downpour is still raging, you walk through the rain to where your jalopy is patiently waiting to take you home.  Walk,  not run because real men are not afraid of being rained on and in any case, you are not "maigoya" (Banana leaves) that you will be torn by rain (A drunk uncle of mine, 1997).

 Any-who, you slither into the car like a wet snake in my landlord's boots (I wish) and you instruct it (the car not the snake) through  rough and not entirely necessary shifting, of your destination and intentions.  You point the front end in the same direction as your naval with John Njagi on the radio exhorting the virtues of Lucy and fat goats he would have taken to her parents if he had managed to break out of friendzone at volume 25. Thus, your obnoxious motorcade of one snakes its way home with the daily prayers of your mother riding in the front keeping the Toyota Fielders and boda-bodas driven by other drunk drivers from suddenly smashing into you. (Kenyan English- how else can you smash into someone, slowly? gracefully?).  

You are singing along -Volume 35- and Nanyuki being Nanyuki you run out of tarmac before the song is halfway. Unless you live in Meru or Narumoro in which case, why would you be drinking in Disappear at 11.PM on a Sunday night? Although your car's ground clearance is lower than the hem of a Wagithomo's pleated skirt, you tell yourself that 'a car is the driver'. You spectacularly burst through a pool of water,  mud and a few hidden rocks without breaking a sweat although you do break a tire rod on the front end- or the car does. 

However, since the radio now playing a song about potatoes by Mike Rua -volume: Max (although everyone and their blushing aunt knows he is really talking about boobs) you do not notice the sound. You point your car and naval towards the next miasma of mud. You are 1km from your house expecting to charge through it like a black Rhino chasing a tour van. 

 Your car has other ideas. Just as you are in the middle of the bog, it suddenly it sinks towards the passenger side and the jolt throws you violently towards the dashboard knocking the wind and out of you. It would have knocked you common-sense  too but you dont have much of that.  You  get out to asses the situation and your fancy loafers instantly disappear in the mud at which point you realize that you are ankle deep in shit. 

Before you throw stones, remember after the Nanyuki stadium and Loise Secondary going down towards Rwai, there is nay a sewer-line. Several house-holds direct their raw sewage into hastily dug trenches that are flooded with water when it rains and come cascading down the roads. (Speaking of , which who is the MCA of this area? and does he know God? and Nawasco? how does it feel to connect and collect from water meters from houses you know have no sewer line? where do you think the shit goes? Cholera here we come).

  Anywho. I digress. You mobilize the local youth who are walking what is left of their livers home-and after 15 minutes of pushing and a smelly clutch plate you realize the only thing that will get your car out of the mud is a tow truck. You collect your bag, lock your car and arrange with your mechanic to pick your car when it is convenient. You thank God your car is not some Toyota model, or the parts would get to Nanyuki before you the next day. You trudge through the next 1000 meters in the rain fully sober and aware of why your local elected officials drive huge 4 by 4s although sleek German machines with over 3500 cc might better secure their delicate egos from the scrutiny of the proletariat.   

Now that you are sober, you can also can smell yesterday's lunches,  parts of which you are now walking on. You get home and strip at the doorway hoping the help does not run into you and after you plonk your filthy self in the shower you realize the taps are drier than the campaign promises to fix the road.