Consequences

A shake on my shoulder wakes me up. I attempt to shrug off this hand by shaking my shoulders. No success. The person persists.

One thing that I don’t like is someone waking me up from sleep. I haven’t had proper rest for the last two days and here is someone disrupting me. For this one, it’s unforgivable.

“What?” I asked.

My eyes open wide in readiness to attack. Realizing there is too much light getting into my corneas, my eyes close by reflex. I crick my eyes; slowly widening my view. I notice the figure of a person standing in front of me. I instantly open my eyes wide, gaze around like a rat lost in the middle of a desert. “I’m not supposed to be here,” I think to myself.

The sounds of breaking windows and commotion are still looming in my mind.

“Kijana, wapi ticket? (Young man, your ticket?)” The tout asks.

“How many times are you going to ask for my ticket?” I think to myself. “It’s been three times since departure and here you are asking for my ticket yet we are not half way the journey?”

I give him my already creased, wet, and faded ticket which has been in my sweaty hands all along. He looks at it, then glances at me like a mother staring at a mischievous child and gives it back.

He then proceeds to the man seated next to me; who was not there when we began our journey from Kakamega. I quickly glance at his ticket; it has Kisumu to Nairobi written on it. If you have traveled with public means I’m sure you know how bus tickets look like, they are almost similar for every bus company. The man is neatly dressed in a black suit, maroon shirt and a black tie.

He must be travelling back to Nairobi for work after a weekend with his family and must have extended into Monday.

The bus makes a routine stop in Kericho, just in case anyone is interested in getting snacks or stretching a bit, before resuming the journey.

I stay put. My present need is to get home. And even if I want to alight from the bus I can’t. I don’t want people staring at me as if I were some strange creature from another planet.

I take time to dust off my legs, and feet which are in slippers. Then stretch my little navy blue short to at least cover my knees before other passengers come back. I don’t like the way my shorts keep moving up my waist leaving my knees and parts of my thighs exposed. It makes me look like a marathoner on track only that my T-shirt is faded- brown in color without initials printed on it.

Looking around the bus, I notice polythene paper still lining the maroon velvet on some of the seats. The curtains are stiff probably due to the effect of starch in them.

Twenty minutes later, people are now coming in the bus one after the other. I look at them as they come in at least to find anyone to identify with. There is none. Devastation creeps in.

The man on the seat next to mine comes back with a cob of roasted maize. I cannot resist the sweet aroma emanating from the corn which leaves me salivating. Having declined to take breakfast, I am hungry but feel shy to ask for a piece. This is improper.   

As if to have read my mind, he stretches out the hand holding firmly on to the cob. I hold the other end, and break a piece for myself. I wish I had money on me.

I had left school in a rush. I left all my possessions in the dormitory. It all began after supper at around 7.30pm. The bell rang. Lights around the school compound went off.

“Tokeni nje!” A shout resonated throughout our class. I could hear windows breaking. I sped off towards the eastern side of the school fence.

“Ee Mungu nguvu yetu. Ilete Baraka kwetu……..” I heard the students, who were now assembled at the soccer pitch, sing.

I jumped over the fence into the farm next to our school to witness the commotion. I saw the library burn. Its iron sheets turn red. Then the roof caved in.

“BOOM!” I was interrupted by a loud blast coming from our Principal’s house which sent the walls falling apart. Terrified, I found myself running in maize plantations.