Anybody who claims to be a citizen of Nairobi must have in one way or another have come into contact with a phenomenon commonly referred to as Nairobbery, in its various forms and/or representations. For those unlucky enough not to have had the pleasure, it is usually in the form of rather bulky characters applying their tree-trunk like appendages to various parts of your anatomy, leaving you gasping for breath, and relieved of assets, commonly cash and cell phones, but in other cases, clothing and occasionally, your life.

I have had quite a few, given my physical stature (which to call slim would be denying oneself the use of the more appropriate word ‘scrawny’) and my tendency to walk with my mind nowhere in the vicinity of my body. My most recent incident happened a couple of years ago. At the time, I was living in Upper Hill and one of the ways to get home was to take a bus from Gill House, the South B terminus, alight at the Baricho Road ‘stage’, then trudge up Bunyala Road, past NIC House, onwards home.

On this particular day, I got to Gill House and the only bus available at the time was one creaky old thing that was probably built from the remnants of Noah’s Ark, and being in a rush to get home, I boarded and the we got underway. On getting to the police roadblock by the Kobil petrol station on Uhuru Highway, the damn omnibus gave up the ghost and we were all asked to alight as the driver and conductor organized for alternative transport. Doing quick arithmetic, I realized it didn’t make sense to wait for a another bus to come from the terminus to give me a ride up one side of the gentle rise over the railway tracks, down the other side till my customary stage so I decided to hoof it. Throwing a glance at my watch and the intended route, I realized it was still relatively early – 6.30PM to be precise – and the road was still patronized by a few good citizens who seemed more intent on taking in the sight of some portly gentlemen whacking small balls with big sticks on the golf course below than dissociating me from my possessions. So making up my mind, I crossed the road and walked on.

I had just got over the crest of the rise when I came across what is another Kenyan phenomenon; a gentleman standing by a bush, feet shoulder-width apart, one arm akimbo, the other somewhere in front of his loins, presumably grasping an appendage, face turned skyward as if the sight below wasn’t to be beheld, lips pursed in a soundless whistle partaking in what has been lovingly referred to as ‘watering the nation’. Slightly amused by the sight, I sidestepped the chap and went on with my trek. I had barely taken two steps when I was shoved off the road and down the side of the hillock. Next thing I knew, I was hurtling downwards , hollering at the top of my voice(more like screaming like a little girl but please note I shall VEHEMENTLY deny any reference to that particular point), and above all wondering whether the ‘waterer’ had wiped his damn hands before putting them on my back.

So there I was, hurtling down the hill, intent on making a getaway (still screaminghollering) when I was confronted with two rather interesting facts. The first was that I was headed straight for a concrete ditch about 6 feet deep and 6 feet wide, in essence a dead end, and the second was that the characters I had assumed were walking home after a hard days work were actually cohorts of the gentleman who had taken upon himself the honour of introducing his hands to my back, and were also running down the same hillside . Quick mental extrapolation of the particular situation led me to realize that I would end up in said ditch with approximately 6 elements of society who lend credence to the paraphrased adage that a Kenyan and his money are soon parted, and remembering that a coward lives to fight another day, as soon as I got to the ditch, I pulled out all the assets on my person, laid them one by one on the side of the ditch and raised my hands as high as they would go.

This move must have startled the goons, because a few of them actually slowed down to first look at the character in the ditch, while the others jumped into the ditch, their eyes darting from the items on the side of the ditch to me and back, as though either of the two would take off any minute.

” Iye!!! Mzeiya, wewe ni mjanja mbaya!”, the ‘waterer ‘ intoned ” Lakini, ni lazima tukukague ka una burungo zingine mfukoni, ama kwa socksi. Oti, fanya vilivyo”

The fellow by the name of Oti then proceeded to frisk me , while the waterer went through my wallet, taking out my cards, and other non-monetary paraphernalia and stuffing it into my pocket, as the other goons hung around to give immoral support. There was a little bit of ka-blingy in my wallet, which I think they found sufficient because they all begun to climb out of the ditch and disappear into the bushy fence bordering the golf course , into which I have whacked many a ball.

Unfortunately, Oti, who was so high you could use him as a GTV satellite, tuned into Violence FM ,punched me in the mid-riff and walked off, leaving me lying there,mouthing like a goldfish and squealing like a trapped piglet. There was considerable difficulty in inducing my lungs to take upon themselves the office of respiration, a troublesome affair that custom has rendered necessary to our existence, but when I did regain diaphragm motion, I got out of the ditch, and walked on home, smiling for having made my contribution to Nairobi’s statistics, and been through yet another episode of 24 – The Nairobi Edition

AOB
“Who is your mother?”
African saying- traditionally used on miscreant children and was precursor to an ass whopping. Trust me, I know.