I traveled to Webuye to visit Agnes' oldest son, Tony, at Milo Boys’ Secondary School. Approximately two hours from
Eldoret via matatu, this small town in Western Kenya is mostly known for its
paper mill, although it hasn’t operated for many years. Like much of Kenya,
there are very few jobs in the area.
Once there, I hopped on a boda boda piki piki (motorbike taxi) for the
bumpy and dusty six-mile trip on a dirt road. Currently the dry season in Kenya,
it’s hot, windy, and beyond bone-dry. And because huge billows of dust develop
with each and every gust of wind, I wore goggles to protect my eyes. In fact, a
layer of dust covers absolutely every horizontal surface, and amazingly some
vertical ones as well.
After signing in at the school guardhouse, I spotted
Alfred Mutambo, the school principal. He read a newspaper on a straight-backed
chair, in the shade of a large tree. As I walked toward him he removed his
reading glasses, stood, and greeted me warmly. An easy-going and very likable
fellow, we've become friends over the past two years.
After grabbing another chair for me, we got caught up
with one another. We also chatted about Tony and how
he's getting along in school. I gave Mutambo the bank deposit slip for Tony’s
First Term school fees and inquired about the ‘set books’ he needed. By then
the classes were dismissed and Mutambo sent someone to find Tony.
Tony was surprised to see me, as he wasn't aware I was
coming. He was especially happy about the ‘chips’ (French fries), sausage, and soda
(pop) I had carried for him. We discussed the uniform requirements he still
needed and I encouraged him to do his best at school.
Mutambo then pulled up in his car and gave me a lift back
to Webuye town. While he assisted a student with a uniform, I bought two set
books for Tony at a cubby-hole bookshop. Later, as we each sipped a soda at the
hotel where I’d booked a room, I showed him a book called The Last Hunger Season. Much of the book is a narrative chronicling
four farmers from Western Province as they try new planting techniques. The
book also includes eight pages about Milo Boys’ School, because the son of one
of the farmers was a student there.
While Mutambo distinctly remembers meeting Roger Thurow
(the book’s author), he didn't know he had been extensively quoted in the
book. When I showed him the pages, he thoroughly enjoyed reading lengthy
passages out loud, with gusto and much laughter. I very much enjoyed listening
and watching his simple delight.
The following day, I looked for a vehicle going to
Kakamega, a 90-minute matatu ride south of Webuye. Not finding one at the bus
park, I took a boda boda to the stage on the highway. Approached the junction,
I noticed 40-50 very agitated men standing in the road. As they shouted and
shoved one another, they were so engrossed in their anger that they were oblivious
to the fact that they blocked traffic.
There were three matatus parked at the stage, all with
doors flung open and half-empty of passengers. I inquired from some bystanders
which one was going to Kakamega. The few passengers left in that particular
vehicle were noticeably disgruntled. They claimed they’d been delayed there for
two hours, due to the ongoing fight which included their driver and conductor.
As I pondered what to do, those two men reappeared and I hopped in the front
seat.
I glanced at the driver to see if he appeared agitated, since
he’d been a part of the ruckus. He seemed to be calm enough, but I prayed for
him anyway. At the first market stage, the driver pulled over to allow two
passengers to alight. One of them, wearing a black t-shirt, hurriedly dashed
across the highway. The next thing I knew, our driver jumped out of the car and
joined our conductor and others in yet another fight. This one – with fists flying – created a much more intense scene!
We passengers were left, not knowing what to do. Except for me, the rest of
them had witnessed two fights in the span of just a few minutes.
The gentleman next to me explained that the young man in
the black t-shirt and his friend were thieves. “Those guys are thieves,” he repeatedly
exclaimed, adding that they had joined our vehicle after the other fight at
Webuye junction. When they darted out of the vehicle, our driver and conductor
were apparently quite upset and gave chase.
The young man wearing the black t-shirt, managed to escape
from his attackers and walked back across the highway passing right in front of
our vehicle. Still sitting in my front seat, I had a close-up view of his now very bloodied face. The anger and wrath
displayed by him and his pursuers was palatable.
Ai, ai, ai! I’ll tell you what – one never knows what a
day will bring in this country.
The last I saw of him, he was being sternly escorted by
three men back behind some buildings. I do not care to imagine what might have
ensued when they got him out of sight of onlookers. After living in this
foreign land for 12 years, I’m quite aware that it might have ended very badly
for him. (Later, when I told Bishop about the incident, he also suspected my
worst fear).
Meanwhile, a Salvation Army church maintained their outdoor
worship, standing in a semi-circle with the instrumentalist and drummers off to
one side. While getting a few photos of the large group, I spotted another
vehicle going my direction. I flagged it down and dashed back to get my
backpack; my seat mate also opted to join me.
As we drove through the section of highway that cuts
through the Kakamega forest, I suddenly became overwhelmed with the unsettling
incident I had witnessed. Some of the massive trees brought to my mind that God
is my strong protector. And just like the thousands of trees, he shades me from
the hot sun of life and shields me from the ever-prevalent anger and danger of
this world.
I began to pray and worship. I spoke out Scriptures like
Micah 7:7 and the passages about Hagar, all of which speak of God seeing me and hearing me. He knows my every step and He watches over my movement
and travels. Tears streaming down my face were a slightly surprising indication
to me of how deeply I’d been affected. Just then a song came on the radio – ‘I
have a Maker, He knows my name; He sees each tear that falls and He answers
when I call’.
Lies, fraud, and deception seem to be rife in this land.
Hatred and anger are just below the surface, awaiting an opportunity to
erupt in violence.
Just like the title of the book, it’s currently wanjala in Kenya – the ‘hunger season’.
There’s little food to eat in the rural areas, especially this year because the
last maize harvest was very poor. The sun and heat are almost unbearable.
Everyone awaits the rainy season, hoping it will arrive next month so they can
plant this year’s crop of maize. It’s easy to be on edge during wanjala season.
Additionally, people have paid out a lot of money in
school fees, as January marks the beginning of the education calendar in Kenya.
In the towns and cities, those who had casual jobs (hired on a daily basis)
have a hard time finding work. Except for school fees, very little money
circulates in the country during January and February. Business goes down in
every sector. Frustration and hunger are pervasive and an ever-present recipe
for anger and violence to erupt. While I can’t be sure if that was a factor in
the two incidents I observed, such outbreaks are not unusual.
- - - - -
I’m not sure how to conclude this story, except to say I
had a lovely visit with Masudi.
And may I once again request that you remain ever vigilant
in praying for my safety!
