My 1998 ACT

MY 1998 ACT

Jeremy Leariwala.

The year is 1998, early January but i can’t recall the exact date. With me are my school mates and neighbours namely: Kefa, Auren and Sabinga. The four of us are perched atop a lorry travelling to Marsabit. Our school reopened days ago but the road has been impassable having been spoilt by the heavy El-Niño rains. Below us sat a number of other travelers among them an albino with a heavily bandaged ear, apparently because some crook tried to cut it off.

The memory of the trouble we went through that time has just been rekindled by the announcement of possible El-Niño rains starting later this week. To me El-Niño means: a lot of water, too much rains, floods, excess greening of plants and worst of all drowning.

Back those days, we traveled long distances to get to school. A whole day journey through the rough road would have seen us in Marsabit unlike these days with the tarmac road and schools available almost everywhere. But the El-Niño rains saw us walk for five good days to reach our school. I had vowed to endure the rough terrain to get to school with my bag of cloths and the books.

As we sat on the truck we could see a number of vehicles ahead of us making their way up north. We cleared the Wamba Mountains with ease and as soon as we arrived at ‘Sereolipi’ trading centre we encountered our first obstacle. Part of the bridge there had been washed away. Some youths took the initiative to fill the gap left with rocks and gravel for a temporary passage, but they charged a fee for anyone willing to use it. A good number of mud covered trucks passed by us heading in the opposite direction. Most of them were empty and their crews looked worn out.

“How is the road?” someone would ask them.

“We left Marsabit four days ago. We have left many others behind,” was the common response.

I was scared but encouraged by the determination I saw in everyone else. They seemed ready to braze forward. Later that afternoon we arrived at Laisamis and received more warnings not to proceed with our journey. The rains were falling every hour. After a few kilometres we encountered stuck trucks by the road which claimed that they had been there for more than a day. At Laisamis, I and my three friends had a brief meeting to chart the way forward. Things were not easy ahead and so we needed to carry some food. I suggested that we carry maize flour, sugar, cooking fat and tea leaves. No one objected or accepted my suggestion. So we broke to buy our food from the nearby shops. I needed something that could last me for two or three days.

At around 7 p.m. that same day we arrived at a place near Malgis River. Over 15 Lorries convoy. We found 9 more Lorries stuck ahead of us. Their crews and passengers sat scattered all over with fires burning. Others had tied their mosquito nets hanging from tree branches ready to sleep.

We disembarked, tried to find a place to make ourselves comfortable. There was water everywhere and the mosquitoes were more determined to torment us further.

I walked over to some young men who were cooking something nearby. I requested for their pot and got their positive assurance. I went back to rejoin my friends. Surprisingly I met my literature teacher; Mr. Gatehi, with my friends. He was travelling in a different lorry too. Supper time and everyone brought forth what he had packed at Laisamis. A 300ml bottle of savannah ready to drink juice and 2 mandazis each. Out of good neighbourhood practice, we shared them amongst ourselves (including the teacher who had forgotten to pack something). Then the pot was free for my use and I picked it. Hurriedly lit a fire and cooked my simple pudding. We sat around the pot and ate it all like a united family. Then after cleaning it, tea was next before we stretched ourselves on the murram road for the night. The mosquitoes were merciless and it didn’t rain at night.

Early the next morning, we rose and helped to push the trucks blocking the road out of the mud. After the fifth lorry, the road opened up for the rest of the trucks but after a few kilometres we met yet another block. 3 trucks in middle of the road. A group of thugs sneaked up to them with donkeys at night and robbed them off some foodstuffs with no injuries. The rains didn’t cease pounding but I had travelled that road severally to know exactly where we were. Marsabit was still a long way to go but I had no business turning back. Besides I wasn’t the only traveller.

Early that afternoon we arrived at a spot where a culvert had been washed away. The road ahead was only defined by the absence of trees in the water pool. All the drivers switched off their engines as we disembarked and start the long walk to the next centre: Logologo. I had made one promise to myself. I would not leave my luggage behind. We waded through the water, mud and later that night arrived at Logologo. Over hundred of us. The rocky road surface was our lodging as there were no accommodation facilities those days. For food, we queued and booked our ‘chapatis’ from the time the wheat flour was poured into an empty bowl for kidding. We kept an eye on the dough until it came out of the frying pan, but we paid before it was rolled for it. Mr. Gatehi arrived very late with the last group minus his bag and when we started the walk early the next morning, he bade us farewell saying that he was not walking any further than Logologo.

I belief the youthful blood in our veins powered our journey that morning. The rains started as early as 7 a.m. but we had no time to shelter as we feared that it would rain the whole day. Sabinga led the way almost all the time and I always had difficulty seeing all of them in the mist and the raindrops ahead. The slippery and sticky mud of ‘Kamboe’ knoll nearly broke my heart. Then a 4X4 Landover roared past me and I clearly remember the black man with dreadlocks happily singing ‘One More Night’ at its back. 40 meters ahead of me I saw it skid to the left and then swerve to the right before rolling out of the road. By the time I reached it all the occupants stood by the road quietly staring at it lying on its side. I had little to offer or say rather than keep walking hoping to catch up with my friends. At around midday we reached Karare town. With the relentless downpour we had no otherwise but to spend the rest of the day there. We knocked onto some doors and finally found a place to put up. That is where we cooked the remaining maize flour and tea.

The next day saw us walk to Marsabit town where our school van waited to collect our luggage. Brother Brendan Pholey, our head teacher, gave us one look and felt sorry for the state we were in. We were among the very few students to arrive in Marsabit. There was no learning and we spent the next few days slashing grass to clear pathways as we waited for the teachers and everyone else.

That was in 1998 when I was young and only thought about ‘me’. Today I have responsibilities; family, friends, neighbours, community and the nation to worry about. Unity and a shared goal can take us far. Never ignore the El-Niño warning because there is a reason why it has been issued.