STONE COLD HAVEN

Sometimes I wonder why we indulge in the mystical belief that there is life after death. Our transgressions here on earth supposedly decide whether we get to go to heaven or as it were, shake hands with the devil before assuming our position in the fire and brimstone of hell.

The truth is, we don’t need to look forward to spending our eternity in hell, we already live in it.

About 3 years ago, a UNICEF funded report that still haunts me today landed on my desk with a post it note suggesting what I can do to highlight what was in the report within my sphere of work. The general subject of the report was not alien by any means, I guess it was the scale of it and the impact that continues to disturb me. The report was about the scale of child abuse and child prostitution in Kenya in general, and around the coastal region in particular.

Fast forward to last night and I’m watching my favourite Channel 4 news and out of the blue, they feature a comprehensive investigative report about the prevalence of child prostitution and child abuse in Mombasa. What was different is that the children involved and highlighted in the report were given names and faces, and they actually came alive to tell their story. Not that they weren’t alive, but hearing the story from them is gut wrenching.

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“Dear God. All I ask you is to let me live for one more day, and I promise to do whatever you want. Just one more day and I promise I’ll never drink again. I don’t want to die like this”

That was my cousin JQ narrating to us his conversation with his God when he woke up in a sewerage gutter somewhere in Kayole estate. He doesn’t recall how he got there, but we all agreed it had to do with consuming copious amounts of alcohol, though the jury’s still out as to whether it was regulation booze or the kumi kumi variety from Mama Pima.

He vaguely remembers sounds of people and one or two cars passing by, but not much else apart from the realisation that he didn’t want to die. It sounds tragic, but his narration of this near death experience was too hilarious – and JQ was compelled to divulge all after he declined a routine 3rd round of booze as we sat outside a bar in Hurlingham some time back. JQ is not one to turn down a drink, but he was already uneasy about us being there. You see, he’s the sort of chap who’s conscience doesn’t tolerate paying a price for a beer that you can get cheaper elsewhere.

His protest was clearly visible each time the waiter brought a round of drinks and he quickly grabbed the bill before reminding us “majamaa, hizi pombe na weza sakanya 33 bob kule kwa mahindi” (Guys, I can hustle this booze for 33 bob in the maize plantations). At one point, he actually challenged the waiter to clarify whether the figure on the receipt was the actual bill or a phone number.

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Train journeys can be as much of a pain as they are comical. There are indeed some strange characters who frequent this mode of transport, and perhaps I should include myself in this category. My M.O is straight forward – get comfortable, hook on the IPOD and resurface when the announcement for my station blasts over the tanoi. I don’t blame anyone for considering this anti-social, but my defence is that it’s probably the most normal thing to do considering I didn’t get on a train to meet people and chin wag the way to my destination.

Sometimes you just want some quiet and some private head space to contemplate stuff. Usually, it’s taxi drivers who can’t get the concept of leaving a passenger alone wanting to eagerly chat to you about everything from the weather to the problems that immigrants are bringing to the beloved British isles. Every once in a while though, you’re forced to become a third party to a telephone conversation on the train that let’s face it, you really don’t want to be part of.

I took my seat across the table from a “quietish” young woman who was busy reading some magazine or something. Even when the conductor approached us for tickets, she was very soft spoken when responding and asking about something or the other. The hits started rolling when her phone violently vibrated on the table and started ringing.

I don’t know what it was that ticked me off instantly. Maybe it was the fact that she left it there wringing for what seemed to be ages so that we could hear the hideous song that was her ring tone, or the fact that it was so loud, I’m sure you could hear it from outside even if the diesel powered train swept past you at 120 miles an hour.

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