Inside the oak car to town

Pius Maundu

@piusmaundu

Inside the oak car to town

Thursday. I hurriedly prepared Tina for school. 

If anyone could listen carefully, I was a bit hurried in my utterances.

“Come over here for tea. Here is your sweater. Have you brushed your teeth? Be quick so that Sharon will not laugh at you.”

I can swear she sensed this was unlike me. Normally, I don’t drag her from the cot. When the clock hits 7:00 am, she would suggestively start rolling. But she wouldn’t wake up until someone initiates it, just the way older women crave for attention, and all. 

“Tina! Tina! Waky! waky!” 

She would spring up, go to the potty, then ask for maziwa lala. 

Today, she is sullen, askance is all over her countenance. 

“Hutakuwa fwend yangu!” This was her. Cursing. 

It struck a raw nerve. Especially as I hoisted her through the flights of stairs from the 6th floor. 

Traditionally, as we chilled for traffic to ease on Outering, I would pick a bougeinvillea flower from the shrubbery spread between the railway line and the underway, for her. Sometimes two. The other for Sharon. But not today. 

Tina, 3, did not even reminisce on the mangoes and fresh milk she feasted on at babu’s last April. A complete departure from her preoccupation when we paced to Karah Christian every morning. 

And you could tell she suspected my ‘bye’ from the way she refused to wave back, as she does, before diapperaing towards the block housing Baby Class. 

At first it got me forlorn. But then it dawned on me that I was to catch the Embakasi train. I had 8 minutes to do so.  

Outside Pipeline Estate, I poised strategically to board the last car. Its normally quaint, in unsightly red oak. Today, one of the lamps on its roof is dangling precariously. Its a miracle it had not fallen by the time the train pulled at the Station. Nevertheless this car does not disappoint.

For months now, two middle aged males have been finding space in this car. And they would keep everyone enjoying the bumpy ride to town. 

Forget the preachers. This duo trades in unconventional banter that would pass for ordinary conversations in any Nairobi street, were it not for the constant applause of the remaining travellers, and the ease at which its woven. 

“Do you feel safe here?” one of them possed, the vertically challenged one, directing the question to no one in particular, and after a momentarily silence, puntuated by hooting of the train as it screeches at Tumaini Estate, he quickly supplied the rejoinder. 

“I don’t trust those scanners they were running on us. If anything, I feel we are more exposed in this train. Why don’t they get armed Police in each of the cars?”

As if reminded of their vulnerability, everyone is pensive, dead silent, but certainly following the developing story. Then the other one, the one with a curvy nose, reacts.

“What! Police? If you expect the Police here you are mistaken. Do you know how much they earn?”

“12.”

“12?”

“12, 000. A gross of 14, 000 which ends up at 12, 000 after taxation. Just like teachers’.” This spraks more reactions, mostly rebuttals.

“Teachers earn more than 12, 000. Especially secondary school teachers.”

“You know nothing! A constable earns 24,000 which comes to 18, 000 after statutory deductions. Not 12, 000.”

“You are wrong! The Police do not pay taxes.  When you rise above a Cardet, you enjoy all your salary.” This came from on dangling white earphones who seemed agitated that the interactants were green on the renumerations regimes of the security agencies. 

Were it not for the roaring of the engine of the Kariobangi train that zoomed past this one at Makadara, he would have continued with his agitation. 

When the fast-moving train to our left was long gone, the first man initiates more talk. This time choosing a different topic.  

“By the way those who despise guys who live in ghettos are mistaken.”

“What’s good in a ghetto?,” curvy nose retorted. 

“Life is enjoyable. With 5 bob you can buy 2 tomatoes and an onion in Mukuru. Rent is 700 while electricity, the one they bury live cables from the mains, is 500. And with this power, you can always warm your bath water anytime.”

“But that you have to ensure that when you are bathing, you do not touch any part of the mabati room. Otherwise, you are dead meat,” this was curvy nose, deafened by applauses, mirth from the 20-strong audience. 

But the part that thrilled all was when he, curvy nose, described how landlords handle errant tenants in ghettos. 

“Don’t be cheated. Ghetto life is tough. I’m talking from experience.” 

At this point, even those who were choking on chuckle noticed the sad shaking of his head. 

“In my ramshackle, I had this safari bed only. Five days into the new month in arrears, the landlord sneaked in in my absence, unhinged the door, and took it away, exposing all my earthly belongings.”

All along, I had steeled myself, and would only awe at the ability of this duo to trigger converstions without cutting a sweat. Only if it could be this easy on Facebook! But even in that sombre mood, I could not control my laughter, nuanced in wells of tears springing from my now blood shot eyes. 

It only worsened when his peer, the one who had initiated the convo, felt for him, albeit sarcastically.

“That was raw. Its apparent that your landlord came from Kathonzweni,” he seemed to muse, referring to an ASAL in Makueni County. 

At this point, I was breathless on mirth. I did not even have to wait him to qualify the mentioning of the sleepy neighborhood. 

To my left, an elfin lady who, it seems, had been following my reactions turned my direction. Thank God she did it in more decorum than the tickets lady did. 

“Are you OK?” Of course I was OK. 

By the time my eyes had dried, we were disembarking. I thought about the wit in the duo as I paced to sit an interview at Delta, Westlands.