I cannot do so many things like my younger brother. I do not know how he does it, like tying shoes. For me, it looks so difficult. Every time I promise myself I will do the first knot, but when I bend to start, I see the [...]]]> Pgaitho.blogspot.com, Peter Gaitho
Published Dec. 20, 2010

I cannot do so many things like my younger brother. I do not know how he does it, like tying shoes. For me, it looks so difficult. Every time I promise myself I will do the first knot, but when I bend to start, I see the ground so near my eyes, I sometimes think I will hit it as I tie my shoe. So I look the other way, not my shoe. I can hear mom shouting, “Pete, focus.” I try to tell her I am doing my best, but only tears flow down my heart. For you see, I learnt long time ago not to shed tears with my eyes. Now I cry with my heart.

I know everyone expects me to have learnt how to tie my shoe laces. I am a big boy now, as everyone keeps telling me. My best moment is when I play the piano. Last evening at the party, everyone was so happy when I played a difficult song. I was so happy. I almost cried real tears. But I remembered I am a big boy, so I cried with my heart, tears of joy.

It is in moments like this, when I say, “This little light of mine, am gonna let it shine,” even though I cannot tie my shoes laces.

To be continued.

Today I had time to think. I looked all over the shopping mall. Everyone seemed excited by the displays on the windows. The products looked enticing. I wanted to buy the little dalmatian toy, but my mother said I could not have it. She said I am [...]]]> Pgaitho.blogspot.com, Peter Gaitho
Published Dec. 17, 2010

Today I had time to think. I looked all over the shopping mall. Everyone seemed excited by the displays on the windows. The products looked enticing. I wanted to buy the little dalmatian toy, but my mother said I could not have it. She said I am a big boy now, and that big boys don’t play with small boys’ toys. I cannot talk back to my mother, or to anyone for that matter; at least not using their language. My language cannot easily be understood by anyone, because I speak silently. My mind forms words, but my mouth refuses to utter them. I try shouting, but nothing comes out of my mouth.

I can see other people conversing loudly. They seem so happy, so I join in the laughter, only for my mom to tell me to be quiet because I should not laugh without a reason. “But everyone seems happy mom,” I try to tell her, but she has gone back to her world. She is talking on her phone, with her boyfriend. And I am so frustrated. I do not know why in moments like this I start twirling my hair. Before my mom turns my way, I am holding some strands of hair, and some blood is on my finger. It is painful, but I would rather feel pain than be ignored by everyone. And why is everyone looking at me that way?

Why are they all looking at me? Why me? What is so different about me?

To be continued.

After another week at the hospital with Jioni, Dr. Kio finally remembered where she had met the young patient. It was three years back that they had met at the same hospital, Jioni a case of excess bleeding and infection resulting from female circumcision. The doctor had been incensed [...]]]> By CLIFFORD OLUOCH
Published Dec. 16, 2010

After another week at the hospital with Jioni, Dr. Kio finally remembered where she had met the young patient. It was three years back that they had met at the same hospital, Jioni a case of excess bleeding and infection resulting from female circumcision. The doctor had been incensed by the action and had promised to follow the case up to the highest authorities, but it had not happened as she had had to leave for further studies outside the country, hence pushing the case to the back of her mind.

Three years later, and she had met the girl again. This time she was determined to follow up the case to the end and use it to fight female circumcision in the community.

A public rally on HIV/AIDS awareness was coming up in a week’s time and many of the country’s musicians and entertainers and NGOs were going to talk about HIV/AIDS and it effects on the society. Dr. Kio, one of the convenors of the rally, was going to get Jioni to talk about her life.

Jioni and the doctor had a lengthy discussion about the rally. “Do I have to read anything?” Jioni asked, well aware that reading was one of her biggest weaknesses.

“Not really,” replied the doctor. “You will just have to be yourself and tell the rally your story, just the way you are talking to me. You are a brave girl and nothing can scare you.”

Jioni was still very nervous about the whole idea of speaking in front of others, especially adults. “Where is this rally going to be held?” she inquired.

The answer was not what she was exactly expecting. “At your last school, Rural Urban Primary School,” replied the doctor. “And thousands and thousands of people are expected to attend it.”

Jioni stiffened at the mention of her former school. The memories she had of the school were not fond ones. And the memories were still fresh in her mind, especially her last day there with all the chanting of “Kill her!” What if they decided to really kill her?

The doctor sensed Jioni’s discomfort and went ahead to reassure her. “You won’t be the only speaker, the MP, the councillors will all be there, and there will be other people who are HIV positive who will also talk. This is your chance.”

Jioni relaxed and became excited when she heard about the entertainers and musicians who were lined up for the big day. It was really going to be a big day.

A day before the event, Jioni asked the doctor to take her to the venue. She needed to rehearse her speech. The two went to the venue and they practiced over and over again. The doctor seemed excited as Jioni talked naturally about her life. It was amazing how at the age of 12, this young girl had gone through all the hardships of life.

The big day was finally here with Jioni. It was a Saturday morning and she found it hard to take breakfast. For the last one week she had been staying at Dr.Kio’s quarters, and she loved every bit of it, someone to talk to, confide in, emulate, joke with. Dr. Kio sometimes took her on hospital rounds, explaining to her some of the ailments and how to treat them. Jioni vowed to be a doctor when she grew up.

Jioni was restless and so was the doctor. They decided to leave early and be at the venue an hour before the others. They arrived at the venue and already there were people setting up the public address system. The crowd was building up slowly. Jioni and Dr.Kio made it to the VIP dais where their seats were reserved. Jioni felt important.

The entertainers and some of the VIPs started arriving and Dr.Kio went ahead to introduce each of them to Jioni personally. They were very polite to her some explaining to her what the whole rally was going to be about. She even had a chance to ask some musicians about their music. This was real life!

Time was up and all the dignitaries had arrived. The local MP was the last one to arrive and with him was the Minister for Health, a lady. A real minister! Jioni was thrilled when the MP and the minister came to the dais and shook hands with all of them. The minister had a few words to say to Jioni.

“What would you like to be when you grow up?” the minister asked Jioni, who seemed to know too well what she wanted to be.

“A doctor, and discover the cure for AIDS,” she replied confidently admiring the Minister’s smart attire, especially the headgear.

The programme began and speaker after speaker talked about the evils of HIV/AIDS, ways of transmission. Musicians sang and actors performed, all on the theme. The crowd responded with appreciation, screaming their heads off when the musicians danced to their liking.

The last speaker before the MP was Dr. Kio. She stood and went to the microphone, and hers was very brief, “All my effort in combating the spread HIV/AIDS and FGM in this community will be summarized in a real life story of one my youngest ever patients, Jioni!”

Jioni stiffened! This was the moment of truth to tell the world about her life once and for all. She remained seated until the applause brought her to her senses and feet. She moved to the microphone, a smart young girl twelve years old, HIV positive and victim of FGM.

“Go for it girl,” Dr. Kio said, as she held Jioni’s left hand and squeezed it gently to reassure her that all would be well.

To be continued.

(c) oluochcliff@yahoo.co.uk

Monday morning saw the children of 7P arrive at the school some with their parents others with their guardians. They wanted to make sure that Jioni was not in school, and if she was, they were going to take matters into their hands and kick her out of school [...]]]> By CLIFFORD OLUOCH
Published Aug. 17, 2010

Monday morning saw the children of 7P arrive at the school some with their parents others with their guardians. They wanted to make sure that Jioni was not in school, and if she was, they were going to take matters into their hands and kick her out of school if necessary.

Jioni had not yet come, that is if she was going to, and for the first time in a week the students looked settled and peaceful. But, there were still some worries, especially from the parents and guardians. More and more children were coming down with the red spots accompanied by high fevers and sweating nights. Parents were still convinced that it was Jioni’s AIDS that was haunting the class.

One of the parents, a lay preacher at the local church, offered prayers and cleansing session for the class. The rest readily agreed and this took a whole hour to complete. By this time most of the whole class had reported, some looking very sick, feverish and shivering throughout the prayer session.

After the prayers, the sick were still looking sicker than before and it was at this juncture that another parent offered to bring in a traditional healer to cleanse the class further and dispel the evil spirits that were still aboard the class. This ignited a heated debate in the class and there were sharp divisions amongst the parents with most of them favouring prayers

The arguments went back and forth, the children watching as their parents wondered what to do with them. It was at this point that the headteacher came up to the class and talked to the parents about some pre-arranged visits to schools by Ministry of Health officials.

The District Medical Officer was in the school compound with a team of doctors and nurses to give assistance in health related cases.

The doctors and nurses split up and went to different classes to talk to the children and their teachers. Dr. Kio, the District Medical Officer, was the one assigned to 7P. She seemed delighted that there were a few parents and guardians, thus making her work easier.

Dr. Kio was tall, and unlike what many believed about doctors, she did not wear spectacles. She had a stethoscope slung round her neck and wore a white lab coat. The students could not believe that it was possible for a woman to be a doctor. They looked at her admiringly, most of them aspiring to be doctors just because of her.

She had a strong powerful voice that carried the audience as she spoke. “There is an outbreak of chicken pox in the district and from the few spots that I can see in this class, it means that it has reached this class and school.” The doctor then went on to explain at great length the signs and symptoms of the disease, the management and drugs to be taken.

Some parents were not totally convinced that it was only chicken pox afflicting their children. Menjo’s mum was one of them. “How do we know that it is not AIDS?” she asked the doctor.

The doctor then went to explain the symptoms of AIDS and how it was transmitted. It was while explaining the differences between AIDS and chicken pox that it occurred to the doctor that may be there was more to it than just plain chicken pox.

“Who has AIDS?” the good humoured doctor asked the group. People looked at each other before the acting class teacher, Miss Mutura, volunteered all the available information on the Jioni saga. The doctor was sad to hear the story and in her heart promised to visit the girl at her house.

After a lengthier question and answer session that never seemed to end, the children were given a thorough physical check by the doctor and a few other nurses and then referred to the District Hospital for laboratory tests and medication.

The parents went home a happier lot, some taking their children to the hospital. Everyone in the room was happy that it was not AIDS that the children had contracted. The only person who looked lost in thought was Dr. Kio. She had to get that girl Jioni.

(c) oluochcliff@yahoo.co.uk

Friday afternoon belonged to the headteacher. It was after lunch that some of the students, like Jioni, who did not go home for lunch, noticed a mob of angry looking adults move towards the school. Jioni strained her eyes to have a closer look at the gathering mob, something she had never seen in a [...]]]> Jioni...

Friday afternoon belonged to the headteacher. It was after lunch that some of the students, like Jioni, who did not go home for lunch, noticed a mob of angry looking adults move towards the school.
Jioni strained her eyes to have a closer look at the gathering mob, something she had never seen in a long time.
As the school bell rang and Jioni made it to class for the afternoon classes, she suddenly became aware of the loneliness in the class. Where were all the others? The answer lay in the heavy murmuring and loud drumming that came from the direction of the staff room. It must have been the mob that she had seen coming. Why were they here?
Curiosity got the better of her, and she ventured out to see for herself. She saw them from a distance, a group of men, women and some children whom she recognized as coming from her class.
The mob was getting rowdier and rowdier, demanding some immediate action about std. 5P. The headmaster was having a hard time controlling the mob.
“I can’t even hear what you are saying,” he told the crowd. After some heckling and jeering and satisfied that they had shown their power, the mob settled down and started airing their grievances.
“Our children are being infected in school with strange diseases,” wailed one parent, “ and you are doing nothing about it, just collecting school fees!” The mob thundered as the point was made.
“Look at all these children,” added another parent pointing at his son, “they are full of ugly red spots and sores all over their bodies and it seems to be spreading very fast.”
Another parent joined in eager to make a point. “It is that Jioni girl who is behind all the misery in the class. Ever since she joined this school, there has been misfortune after misfortune. Now our children will catch AIDS and die very soon. We cannot have this in our school!”
The frenzy was starting to build up, the mob getting more and more excited as the word AIDS was mentioned. There was murmuring before one loud voice rose above the rest, “KILL HER!”
The others joined in the chorus and their voices rose higher and higher. It seemed like they were going to surge forward and get the headteacher, who raised both his hands in a desperate effort to get their attention, which he got after a long struggle.
“One at a time, please,” pleaded the headteacher. There was relative calm and the headteacher pressed on his point. “How do we know that she has AIDS? Only doctors can confirm whether or not one has AIDS.”
This did not go down well with the mob. A woman who worked as a cleaner at the district hospital was screaming her head off, “I work at the hospital and I have seen enough people die of AIDS. They have rushes all over their bodies and their hair look funny. Look at our children. What spots are these? Beauty spots?”
The clamour grew louder and more parents expressed their anger. “She’s even bewitched the teacher, who almost died in an accident yesterday! We have a witch with AIDS in the class and you are here telling us about doctors!” screamed another parent.
“We want that girl out of this school or we shall all pull our children from the school,” declared Menjo’s mum.
“Out! Out!” the chanting started slowly, gathering momentum before reaching a deafening screaming contest. The headteacher raised both his hand once again to signal for silence. He got it.
“Okay!” the headteacher responded calmly. “Jioni will leave the school today, she will not be here when you bring your children on Monday. Go back home and relax, for she will leave this school.”
There was thundering applause as the mob acknowledged their victory over the ‘evil eyed’ AIDS girl. They had won the war. As they left the compound with their children, the headteacher had no alternative but to dismiss the rest of the school. He had had enough for the day.
All this time, Jioni was in class, fearing to venture out. She knew that they were talking about her and could hear bits and pieces of what was being said, or rather shouted.
She looked on as the crowd dispersed and knew that her school life was over after just five horrible days.
No, she was not going to cry. She had exhausted her tears on the day of circumcision. Now she had no more tears to shed for this unsympathetic world
She silently slipped out of school, vowing not to come back.

oluochcliff@yahoo.co.uk

President Zuma is not the first man to loose his ‘bed’ to another man.

Who doesnt know a neighbour whose wife has begotten a child or two with another man? Which grown up–man or woman–has not seen men bringing up children they know in their hearts of hearts that they [...]]]> BY PHILIP KENNEDY
Published June 10, 2010

President Zuma is not the first man to loose his ‘bed’ to another man.

Who doesnt know a neighbour whose wife has begotten a child or two with another man? Which grown up–man or woman–has not seen men bringing up children they know in their hearts of hearts that they are not theirs?

It is only a fool who will go around lamenting that this child number three or four is not mine. They will taunt him. Where was he when his wife was ovulating and needed a baby? Why should a man complain when the children are a blessing and not a curse. Not unless the man’s family who sired with his wife has serious genetic disabilities!

And Zuma is not the first man to let his bed, his voono away. We have had great men whose wives digressed. Great literature books have been build on what they regard as a woman’s perfidy. What triggered the famous Arabian Knight’s story if I may ask? A woman’s perfidy and the unreasoning jelousy of the man.

And the famed Anne Karenin story by Tolstoy!

“Muuuum!”

The scream from Pope, my 5-year-old son jolted me. Fear etched at the end of his squeaky voice and I knew that he was not injured. Nor was he in pain.

“Coming,” I shouted as I quickly put on my robe, slipped into my green antique slippers that Dad had [...]]]> BY CLIFFORD OLUOCH
Published May 10, 2010

“Muuuum!”

The scream from Pope, my 5-year-old son jolted me. Fear etched at the end of his squeaky voice and I knew that he was not injured. Nor was he in pain.

“Coming,” I shouted as I quickly put on my robe, slipped into my green antique slippers that Dad had bought for me a long time ago. Talking of Dad, or The Honourable David Mavita as he was formally known, the International Criminal Court (ICC) was scheduled to give a press conference on the perpetrators of the 2007 Kenyan election violence.

Pope’s scream came again. Louder and sharper, almost a screech. Impatience. A 5 year old knows only ‘now’.
Then my cellphone rang. Nuisance. I decided to ignore it as I walked out of my bedroom to see what my son was up to so early on a bright Sunday morning.

The third scream coincided with the ringing of my second cellphone.
“What is it darling?” I asked tenderly. My son’s stooped back greeted me, Spiderman’s web and face taking the shape of a map at the back of his blue pyjamas.

“Look mum,” he said softly pointing at something on the wooden tiled balcony floor. Pope’s head blocked my view so I had to go round him. He, however, did not turn.

It was a bird lying still on its side. It must have fallen from the gigantic mugumo tree that proudly occupied the centre of the sixteen flat compound, one of Dad’s vast investments. The incessant dirge-filled chirping, from the other concerned ‘family’ of birds hanging on the branches, formed a mournful mood.

A Chestnut Belly Starling. It’s the closest I had ever come to one and its deep purple almost bluish colour felt like God’s paintbrush had been too perfect. Its eyes were shut.
From the background I could still hear the persistent ringing of my phones. Who could it be on such an early Sunday morning?

“Is he dead?” my son asked, making me wonder how he had determined the gender of the bird. Pope’s eyes bulged and his lips trembled to complement his quavering voice.

I energetically rubbed my hands for warmth, and then gently lifted the delicate bird, the twittering from his comrades in the stooping branches increasing in intensity. The bird was light and its velvety feathers tickled my hands like warm water running down my hands on a cold day. It was no bigger than my fore-finger.

“No, he is not dead!” I affirmed. Pope stood up, his head just above my hip, and held on dotingly to my robe. Together we transferred the bird to his room. I drew the purple Harry Potter curtains and sunlight flooded the room.

“Get me a cereal box from the kitchen store,” I told Pope. He dashed out. I took one of Pope’s old brown face towels and gently wrapped the delicate bundle in it. Both the phones were either beeping or blaring by now.

Pope came back with three boxes of differing sizes. We chose the biggest, a box that I had promised to make a car with.

“Hold him.” He cupped his hands to receive the bird like a devout Christian taking holy communion.
I took another, bigger towel, folded it twice and then spread it inside the box. It fitted perfectly – a cozy nest by human standards.

Pope looked at me. I smiled and nodded. He cautiously placed the bird in the box and then turned again to me. There were many question marks in his teary eyes.

“Let’s turn on the heater,” I told Pope.

“Mum?” Cracking voice. Insecurity. His bulging eyes blinked continuously.

“No, darling, he won’t die! There is a reason God sent him to you.” I emphasized the last word as I gently patted the top of his head.

“Can I stay with him today?” he asked. Mary, the housegirl, was the key to that question. She would have to forfeit her day off.

“Yes,” I replied absent mindedly as I moved to my room to attend to the two phones that were still generously soaking in message after message. Like most of my urban Kenyan friends, I owned more than one handset, courtesy of turf wars between the mobile phone companies.

There were record breaking number of missed calls and messages. I decided to start with the messages.
“Check the brking news on TV.”

“ICC released the names of politicians. “

“Yr dad on TV. “

“ Whats the latest?”

“Yr dad deserves 2 die.”

“May he rot in Hel.”

“ICC Prsecuta comng 4 yr dad.”

“ Ol Poltshans nvr dai – thei rot.”

None of the messages, most of them from numbers I did not recognize, were from Tim, my husband, stuck in Australia for his Phd studies. I was sure he would call.

So it had finally come to this. The list of those involved in the election violence had at last been released by the ICC thus bringing to climax weeks and weeks of debates on every medium in the country.

My dad’s name was on the list. My heart sunk at the vitriol that some of those phone messages conveyed. My mind turned to Dad and his vast amount of wealth, some of which I was not only a beneficiary of but also an administrator. Majority of his property was in my name.

Another call came. It was Wangu, Dad’s housegirl of more than twenty five years. She was sobbing.
“Dad was found collapsed in his room and has been rushed to hospital!” Wangu was almost family and I could feel her distress. Dad, diabetic and hypertensive, had been in and out of hospital regularly since losing in the 2007 general elections – the first time in his twenty year political career.

“I am sorry I have to rush to hospital to see my dad,” I told Mary who was missing her day off for the third week in a row. She frowned but she knew that I would pay her overtime.

Before leaving the house, I decided to switch on the TV to get the latest news.
“Breaking news: ICC releases twenty names of perpetrators of 2007 election violence” flashed on the screen. Dad’s name was the first one: David ‘the monster’ Mavita – ex-Minister without Portfolio. Thao Matek, Mbaya Mbofu amongst others. There was no woman on the list.

“More than 1,500 people died and 500 000 displaced,” the scroll bar rolled on. Footages of displaced persons carrying their belongings were relayed.

“The ICC has vowed to use Kenyan as an example to the rest of the world on how to combat impunity.”
Then they showed some of the political rallies that Dad had held to incite crowds. I flipped channels and found the same stories. I switched off the TV.

“Pope, do not feed the bird,” I said as I walked past his room. He turned and waved.

……to be continued.

By Clifford Oluoch.

After almost six years on the same Jogoo Road route, Macharia knew how treacherous that highway could be. Already there was a queue of cars that had stopped at the cross over where the railway crossed Jogoo Road, thus separating the west from the east. If Macharia did not make [...]]]> Destiny (3)

By Clifford Oluoch.

After almost six years on the same Jogoo Road route, Macharia knew how treacherous that highway could be. Already there was a queue of cars that had stopped at the cross over where the railway crossed Jogoo Road, thus separating the west from the east. If Macharia did not make it to the other side of the railway, he would lose valuable time and miss almost half the trip’s amount.
“Okay, time for offerings,” Mutinda sang a church hymn to signal his intentions. The amused group of passengers responded in kind as everyone dug into their pockets or handbags for money.
Otieno pulled the hooting lever again. Louder and longer the hooting sent a loud message to all those who were still asleep. From his position he could already see a long queue of vehicles on either side of the railway lines. He felt good that the drivers were living by the book. Once upon a time there used to be a barrier on either side of the railway. These used to be manned by personnel from the Railways and their work was to physically block the roads the moment the first hooting was heard. This action stopped the moment the company started experiencing financial problems and a big number of staff were retrenched. The barriers were burglarized and what was left now was the hut that personnel used.
The opposite lane was clear and Macharia, a seasoned driver on the Jogoo road route decided to take the risk and take the opposite lane so as to beat the morning rush and reach town before the more than fifteen matatus that were ahead of him. That meant an extra trip of earning. He heard done it many times before.
“Don’t do it,” Mutinda jokingly warned the driver. Mutinda knew how reckless and daring matatu drivers could be. In more than 99% of the cases they managed to pull off the stunts. But there always was that lingering 1%.
“What is the hurry for?” Andrea Senior asked too loudly. “These children of nowadays. No wonder you have so many funny illnesses like baldness at thirty years of age!” he remarked in reference to Macharia’s clean shaven head.
Esther’s baby kicked and her hand quickly went to the side of her stomach. A proud smile spread across her face as she wished that her husband was there to feel the baby’s movement. Tears welled in her eyes. Two more months.
Kinoti fiddled with the gun in his jacket. It was just a confirmation that it was still there. He needed to change his areas of attack as he was too well known on Jogoo Road. It was time to have an exchange programme with some of the car jackers from the other areas like Ngong Road, Kileleshwa or Kawangware.
Macharia stepped harder on the accelerator, the speedometer moving from 80kmh to 90kmh in such a short span of time.
Otieno looked and saw the lone matatu zooming on the wrong side of the road. He was used to them, these crazy drivers who cheated death on a daily basis. He cursed under his breath and the train was now at full speed and there was no way of stopping it. The long hooting sent another message to the motorists.
Macharia was fifty metres away from the crossing line and he knew that he would make it. Mercy and Rono were still locked in each others embrace, completely shutting out the rest of others from their cozy world. Mercy’s head was comfortably rested on Rono’s chest.
Forty metres. Peter received a call on his blackberry. “Hi honey!” he cooed as he took the call. “We are on Jogoo Road near Makadara. Some mad matatu driver is trying to pull some crazy stunts over here!”
The train was now at ‘The Bridge’, that notorious dirty and dark club that old men frequented against the wishes of their wives. Groups of women, known as chamas, often organized impromptu raids at the place engaging bar maids and young girls in endless fights all in the name to save their husbands. The club had suffered various infernos but each time the same men who were meant to be saved from the club are the ones who ended saving the club.
Thirty metres. Macharia hit 110km/hr well aware that he had made it. Wangui Wamae changed her facebook to “Good Moaning”. She smiled to herself as she read all the other crazy status that had been put up. Facebook was just the bomb.
“Fuck!” Macharia shouted loudly as the red light on his speedometer flashed. The van’s engine went dead.
“What?” asked Mutinda rather too calmly. The loud incessant hooting of the train was blaring in everyone’s ears.
“I think the timing belt has snapped,” Macharia shouted, his voice heavily loaded with panic. He looked to his left and saw the train was just twenty metres away from the crossline. Macharia tried applying emergency brakes but the van, which had been cruising at almost 120kmh just skidded right into the path of the train.
Otieno knew that there was no way he was going to stop the train at such a high speed.
“Oh my God, I thought he was going to stop!” Otieno shouted is despair as he covered his eyes with both his hands.
Then he heard the piercing screams first. They seemed to come from everywhere and Otieno did not dare uncover his eyes. Then the smashing and sickening sound of colliding metal to iron hit the air. It is a sound that Otieno had never heard and as the startling sound made him open his eyes to check what had happened, what Otieno saw permanently became etched in his mind. He saw the mangled wreck of the matatu flying along the railway line. This was followed by a crunching sound as the train continued dragging the matatu along the railway line. Otieno’s mouth remained agape and he decided not to stop the train. He drove the train all the way to Dandora where he alighted and took off never to be seen again.
The accident caused a massive traffic jam on Jogoo Road as wananchi came out in numbers to rescue any survivors. Unfortunately there were none. The police arrived in less than thirty minutes and took almost three hours to clear the accident scene. Most of the bodies were smashed beyond recognition. All the leading TV stations sent their crew to cover the horrific accident.
By mid day, news of the accident had spread across the country but in all news bulletins, the accident did not feature as a leading item. By evening, the news had been relegated to a footnote: 15 people perish in a road accident.
The following day, none of the dailies had the news on their front pages. The accident featured somewhere hidden on the inside pages (page 15) with a picture of a policeman trying to control the crowds. All newspapers had their headlines screaming about politicians and the new constitution.

END.

oluochcliff@yahoo.co.uk