“Do you take the offer?” A beautiful girl in a yellow skirt asked. She had an oval face that looked like it had its two sides gently compressed by a Luhya’s thighs.
We were in a well-furnished office that screamed wealth and power. Its floor had a very soft green carpet while on the walls hung beautiful landscapes and some (probably important) people’s portraits. On my left sat a wheelchair-bound thick-bearded middle-aged man and on my left the oval faced cute girl.
I had met the girl earlier in Nairobi CBD as I was pitching a sale of my GNLD products to an uninterested audience seated on the curved job seekers’ bench outside Hilton Hotel. She told me that she worked for a Non-Governmental Organisation with offices in Ngara that helped poor disabled persons make a living. They were hiring and she thought I could qualify.
“Mr. Adeudeu, I am talking to you,” Oval face interrupted my thoughts, “do you take the offer?”
“How much shall I be paid?”
“Ksh15,000 a month plus a daily fare of 200 shillings. You can keep you other job as long as it does not affect this one.”
“I take the offer”
“Congratulations. Welcome to our organisation. You shall start today with hospitality training.”
Hospitality training, as I found out later, meant assisting physically challenged persons perform their day-to-day economic activities. My duty on that day was to push the guy on the wheelchair to his work place in Kariokor and bring him back that evening.
I was made to understand he was my boss.
An easy job, I thought.
Tukatoka
We were barely 20 meters away from the building when the disabled guy fumbled in his bedsheets and lesos and fished out a sufuria. Why would anyone need a sufuria under these circumstances? I wondered. I ignored and kept pushing the chair because, I thought, it was a crippled people thing.
“Saidia maskini! Saidia maskini Saidia maskini!”
Christ on a bike!
“What are you doing man!” I asked.
“Ni nini mbaya na vijana wa siku hizi? Nimefika kazini vile uliambiwa! Ama hautaki kazi kijana? Join me and recite in Soprano”
“Pole boss. Ni sawa boss.”
“Saidia maskini! Saidia maskini Saidia maskini!” We both recited.
The guy, my boss, was a fckin beggar! What did that make me? Assistant beggar? Well, I was the fcking chauffeur, assistant, or whatever you call such.
“Tuende hadi Kariakor alafu turudi.”
We walked toward Ngara road, passed Sarakasi dome, Parkroad-ringroad junction then stopped outside Equity Bank.
We begged outside Equity Bank for about twenty minutes. I was dizzy from listening to and singing the same phrase repeatedly in a voice I was not comfortable with - my vocal cords were in pain. He was still reciting his begging mantra when we heard a loud bang and a thick cloudy smoke.
Teargas.
Along the streets, mechanics had turned the whole area into a garage. The city council had severally clashed with the mechanics in deadly wars.
“Kanjo!” Someone shouted.
“Kaaanjooooooo!!|
“RUUUNN!”
Mechanics, hawkers, and pedestrians (and later a beggar and his assistant) ran in all directions, shouting and screaming. Some mechanics were collecting rocks as some set tires on fire right on the street. Panic lent the air as the obvious city council - mechanics war started.
“Tutoke hapa mbio.” my boss said.
“Sawa boss. Kimeumana.” I said in the soprano voice.
I turned the wheelchair and pushed is as fast as I could towards Muranga road, I accelerated into jog, then a sprint. The kanjo were fast gaining on us. The wheelchair - plus the boss - was too heavy to run fast enough.
What do I do?
No one can beat up a cripple, I thought, so I released the wheel chair, left the boss, and sprinted towards Muranga road.
Behind I could hear the Kanjo guys shout at a cripple then a loud crash. I looked behind to see five city council askaris with batons and whips (nyahunyo) chasing while pushing the wheelchair. The wheelchair was empty.
Did they take him? Did he fall?
I approached a bend running at top speed when I heard footsteps behind me. I ran faster, harder, but my pursuant was faster. I was almost giving in when I realised he was not chasing me but running away as well.
As he passed he shouted,
“Kimbia Adeudeu, kimbia watakushika.”
Wait… Who is this and how did he know my name?
That voice was familiar- very familiar. I looked at the runner. He was now ahead of me. The sheets around him looked familiar. The leso was familiar. In his hand, he held onto an old beat up sufuria.
I know this person.
I was with him a minute ago.
IT WAS MY BEGGING BOSS!!!
The physically challenged guy was running on his two feet faster than I!
Did I heal this guy?
Is this what miracles look like?
Am I supposed to kneel down and pray?
Should I stop the askaris, tell them about the miracle, and celebrate together?
I looked back.
The wheelchair hit a rock and toppled. Four askaris came crashing with it. They rose up in anger and beat the poor wheelchair for several seconds, cursing and calling it names. One raised it up and smashed it on the ground.
This bought me a few seconds to slow down.
When they were satisfied the wheelchair could never hurt another soul, they resumed chasing.
My voval cords were still strained so my voice was still in soprano. A very annoying pitch.
“Boss! Wait!” I shouted, still confused, “Are you healed?!“
Silence
“Does this mean I am fired?”
“Don’t be an idiot, just RUN!! Vijana wa siku hizi ni wapumbavu kabisa.”
Was he faking? I asked myself.
The realisation made me feel like a guy who just found out that the virgin he married was actually a whore and the ‘virgin blood’ was her period.
Straining to digest all this, a nyahunyo landed on my sweaty back.
__[FONT=Verdana]True story - with a pinch of Aromat[/FONT]
