My People (a Kenyan literary travel fiction essay)

My People

I sat there quietly listening to the musical rattle of the glass windowpanes afraid that they might break any moment. The engine gave a deep a roar to the rhythm. I opened the window. Just a slit. I liked it whenever I was traveling. And given the state in here, it was recomendable. It was not hot. It is never hot at 8 a.m. But something about 'building the nation', my people say. We have long been urged ever since.

Kenya yetu, Kenya ni nchi ya ajabu,

Tuijenge Kenya tuishi kwa umoja.

Kenya yetu, Kenya ni nchi ya ajabu,

Tuijenge Kenya tuishi kwa upendo.

Kenya, nchi yetu, tunaipenda ina umoja...

We were trying. Even if we had to break rules, we were trying. Love, peace, unity; were present, here. Everyone wanted them. We loved our nation. But wise to say, our nation loved its complicated people. Very complicated. You see these people here, they make up the complicated part. Some like me, seated quietly taking note of everything— just to write them down one day— and some propped at the center of the bus, supporting themselves with the rail on the roof of this creaky... How dangerous is it? Anyway, you won't believe if you met them in some other places of this country. For instance, that gent you see over there in a neat grey suit, must be a civil servant or some government tycoon, chatting happily with his fellow traveller. A fellow countryman. I know he is telling him of his long term establishments. His educated sons and daughters, probably married to some rich fella. His large pieces of farms scattered around the country. The number of bulls tamed in his farm... All sorts of great things. Lies. If not so, they are having a deep conversation analysing how the president should run the affairs of the country. What he did and does wrong. How he will loose the next general elections and how they never loose as long as they are the power. Aha, politics, I tell you— I hate it. These are my people and I know them like the corners of my round isimba back at home.

The tragedy, as I told you, comes when you meet them somewhere else. Somewhere, where their help is really needed. Heavens help! They will listen. My people! With grave attention, they will sympathise and at the end your mystery tale, they will hand you their phone number claiming to be late, 'somewhere'. Those numbers are ever 'busy' mind you...