Vicissitudes are life. This I promise.

I have once not paid fare in a jav. Okay, done that more than once but I’ll just tell you about this one. I was headed to the office, it was a chilly morning and not particularly interesting. You know those mornings you wake up and take forever to get ready. You rummage through stuff to wear and trip over nothing – literally. Like the carpet just goes out of its way to catch your feet and wreck your toes. That’s of course after you’re done lying flat on the bed and contemplating whether you actually need work in your life. Si after all you can just go be a nomad and eat wild fruits as you herd people’s cattle somewhere in Maralal. But then you are really not cut out to be a wild herder so you just swallow hard and drag yourself to the shower. You encourage yourself that it won’t always be like this. That things will change. Or you will change things. You know, find a career that allows you to watch movies on Monday mornings as your peers struggle to stay awake on crowded jams on their way to offices they detest where they barely make enough money.

So, in the jav, the concodi did not ask for fare until when I alighted – this is not the usual case and so my natural instinct was to insist I paid him because I genuinely thought so. And I did so in a crude way because I shouted with a distinctive tone. With finality. Making him doubt himself and assume I paid. Then barely three steps late as I crossed the road, I fumbled over my trouser pockets and alas! The forty bob I had carried as fare was still there. Mixed reactions bequeathed me in that moment.

Did I just walk away with someone’s money? And bruised their heart while at it? Or did I just earn back all those overpaid fares in different javs? To hell with that guy?  Pay next time I see him? Haidhuru?

That incident has never left me. Still haunts me. (While some dimwits steal our billions and still find a way to sleep at night! – and only me and Boniface Mwangi seem to be fighting back and Chief Kariuki too).

I have written about it because yesterday I was – kupunga hewa in English – on our rooftop. Sitting on a three-legged plastic chair. Minding my own business. Cutting down my model-ish nails. Then I raise my head and this kid is staring at me. He was not just doing a normal stare, he looked at me like he knew all my sins. Made me feel as if he knew I walked away without paying fare from a jav. I wanted to tell him I was sorry. Like explain myself and stuff. I just thought I should write about it and make you feel bad for all those times you didn’t pay fare too. Yeah, I know you have done it too. It’s not right.

Anywho, that’s beside the point. 

That kid was riding a small DMX bike, just small enough for him. And after he was done staring at me of course he went ahead to riding as if nothing happened. 

And by the way, in my moments of keeping up with kids, I have reason to believe they can decide to gaze at you with piercing eyes without flinching. They could be tapping their feet, deliberately, or solving a rubrics cube but still stare.

Picture this. You go to church on a happy Sunday in November. You sit in the middle of the congregation because you are an average believer. That means you don’t sit at the front because you want to watch the action from a distance and again you don’t sit too much far behind because you feel those seats are for people who come in just for appearances. But then, as you sit in the middle, in front of you is a family of four. A mom. A dad. A suckling boy and a girl that should be at the kindergarten age. That girl will be your nightmare for the rest of the service. She is the girl that will stare at you with a blank face all through.

So you pray and she is staring. You say words and her stare answers you back.

You: “Good lord I am grateful for the gift of life”,

Her stare: “Oh really! Are you grateful weird dude?”

You: “And I thank you for my family and friends”,

Her stare: “Yeah? Do you even call you mom anymore? And what friends? You barely talk with them.”

You: “Thank you for my country Kenya too.”

Her stare: “Ha! You didn’t even vote last time. Are you even Kenyan weird guy?”

You: “Today I repent for all my sins. Forgive me father”.

Her stare: “Sure. You better say sorry for the fare thing!”

You: “This I pray and believe”.

Her stare: “That’s it? Huh? You won’t even repent for the yogurt container you threw from the jav?”

By the time you get off church you’ll be sure to mark where the kid sits next time before settling down.

Anyway the kid on the rooftop rode in circles, then unfortunately hit on a corner and bumped his full weight on the concrete floor. I told him men don’t cry but he went ahead and cried. Which is okay because he is a little man and little men can cry.

This whole article was written because like that kid’s ride, vicissitudes are life.

It doesn’t matter the period. Day. Week. Month. Quarter. Year. Decade. It happens. One season you are on your bike. You ride fast and firm with the wind blowing over your hair making you feel good and all. You wave at us as we cheer your progress. Another season finds you fallen. Your bike hit a bump and you lost control and you’re lying head over gravel possibly writhing in pain. Crying as people try to tell you not to cry.

I hate for my posts to sound like life skill pieces off a therapist’s desk because I am no expert in life but then I can tell stories. Because stories are born from life. And stories give patterns.

I grew up somewhere I the rift. A place called Timboroa. I wrote about it some time ago. A quiet town, few people, vast forests and events for days. Every village has its elites and so did Timboroa. Not that elites there mean more than owning a car and affording daily meat bites but then it was the 90s and those were a big deal when the rest of us could barely travel more than once a month to the big town of Eldoret with public means. My father is a teacher and so like the rest of the middle class working citizens he would up and go to the town on paydays and once in a while if we needed something not within the confines of Timboroa. Or when my teeth raised hell for all the sweets I ate and we had to see Mr Dentist at Barng'etuny Plaza.  Which was rare anyway. So again elites were elites because they owned a car, a shop, a wholesale shop, a ‘god papa’ hat – whatever than name meant – which is similar to the one every Kikuyu musician wears to a video shoot. And because they went to the town perhaps thrice a week. Too often.

One such guy was known as Gakere – not sure of the name juu it’s been years. He owned a wholesale and retail store. A number of cars. The 90s sedans. A truck and had more money than a whole village could borrow in a month. Gakere was a supermarket cum bank for us. He kept a borrowing book at the counter where people’s names lay besides owned money for Kimbo, Kiberiti za Rhino, Unga, Sukari ya kupimwa and what not. 

I still picture that guy with his big belly trotting around the hood with his arrogance trying to keep up behind him. Yani he was arrogant enough to throw your order right at you. Like you order salt and he throws a packet at your face just because he could.

But then karma caught up with him.

He got broke. Not fast. Slowly. Like a migraine happening. His wealth wafted off with the winds.

He was left with nothing but tales of riches. Tales that we heard over and over again. Tales that will break hearts of his children.

His downturn of fortune was bitter.

Of course there are time when mutuality happens for good. Like our neighbor who lived in abject lack. Her son, Kimani, in his grind he got a way into the UN. Went to the infamous Somalia. His fortunes grew. Riches begged him to let them in and he did. He bought his mama a car. Then built a house. And in equal measure his wealth grew slowly and firmly.

Men will tell tales of success and of failure and will boast of their conquests as they hide their wounds and make it look easy. They will want to wipe off the blood and keep the smile. But entrenched within these tales are vicissitudes that you may never hear of. Or see.

The only consolation is that we pray to the good Lord that when it is our turn to be moved by the twisting kaleidoscope of life, we shall end up with lives flashy enough for social media. And in time we embrace stoicism and resign to the higi haga’s of life as they come through from the divine world.

The wise men, the Greek philosophers say, live in harmony with the divine. With the vicissitudes of life.