Like a Deer in Headlights
Well, it's a rainy night in Kisumu. Around 7:45, thinking the evening's storm has passed, Ian and I walk to the Police Officer's Mess, hoping to catch a movie and drink a beer. I want to order a whole chicken just for myself, I'm so hungry. We use a flashlight to navigate mud puddles and dirt paths. It's a bit more tricky than I imagined and I regret being out here, afraid of the speeding cars on roads with no street lights. Only the thought of chicken and ugali keep me moving toward the officer's mess. A car flies up behind us, going way too fast, and suddenly brakes and slides, his horn blaring. There, frozen in the middle of the road, is a boda boda. The car stops just short of hitting the guy, then steers around him. “What the hell is that guy doing?” Ian asks. The man and his bike do not move.
As we approach, the boda boda attempts to pedal away, but hits the edge of the road where his tires slide out from under him. Afraid he'll be hit if left lying half in the road, I cross and lean over him. He's in his 20s and very, very drunk, his legs entangled in the bike and his seat now twisted sideways. “Are you alright?” I ask, gripping his arm and feeling the mud. “Yes, Mama, I'm alright. I'm alright.” He tries to right himself but is pinned by his bike and his blurred senses. I ask Ian to pull the bike away from him so he can stand, and I assist him in getting out of the mud puddle. His back is wet and his breath is loaded. I fear for him trying to make it home in the dark on his bike.
“Do not ride your bike,” I tell him sternly. “Walk your bike. Stay off the road. Go straight home.” If he didn't sober up when almost hit by the car, he'll need to sleep this one off. I repeat myself as though I'm his mother, emphasizing every word, realizing my heart is pleading with him while my voice reveals nothing but a command. “Yes, Mama, thank you very much. Have a nice evening, Mama.” He shakes my hand, then Ian's, and pushes his bike in the opposite direction, shakily.
There's no movie on at 8pm, just a Mexican soap opera dubbed in English by people from the UK. It twists my brain to hear British accents coming from beautiful Mexicans. It's a rather disappointing evening because they don't serve food inside, just outside in the banda's, and only if you've ordered ahead. So I get a bag of crisps (potato chips) for 10 shillings and devour them while watching the very masculine men and ultra feminine women working at a Mexican coffee plantation. The guy who owns/run the farm looks like Fabio. While his long, wavy hair hangs across his face and flows over his shoulders, he broods about being impotent. What could be weighing on him to cause this problem? Then we see the very spirited, very shapely, almost angelic-looking female laborer, who fights tooth and nail to ward off unwanted sexual advances from her fellow laborers, causing Fabio to intervene and quiet her fiestiness. The way he looks at her says he wouldn't experience his “problem” with her. Oh, it's all gloriously stereotypical, but not enough so to keep me from walking to the door occasionally to see if it's still raining. I feel caged by the night.
We finally leave around 9:40, to avoid watching “The Nutty Professor.” It's drizzling. We turn down a side street and from the dark a voice says, “Why are you walking at night?” We turn to see a security guard approaching us, an automatic weapon hanging from his shoulder, pointing toward the ground. “The bad boys of Kisumu are about,” he tells us. I just want to be home, out of the drizzle, to wash the mud from between my toes and to read “Emma.” He reconfirms it is not safe for us and Ian asks what we should do and he says from now on, this late, take a taxi. So we walk home and I say the bad boys may not want to be out in the rain, which is our natural defense. I've never been so happy to see our locked gate. Though the night is moist, it's cool. I wash my feet and climb under the mosquito net, opening the book to read about Emma's family and circle of friends, safely tucked away in their English village, threatened by nothing more than someone's inconsiderate remark. And I hope the drunk man is home now, sleeping, perhaps dreaming of daylight and dry roads.
As we approach, the boda boda attempts to pedal away, but hits the edge of the road where his tires slide out from under him. Afraid he'll be hit if left lying half in the road, I cross and lean over him. He's in his 20s and very, very drunk, his legs entangled in the bike and his seat now twisted sideways. “Are you alright?” I ask, gripping his arm and feeling the mud. “Yes, Mama, I'm alright. I'm alright.” He tries to right himself but is pinned by his bike and his blurred senses. I ask Ian to pull the bike away from him so he can stand, and I assist him in getting out of the mud puddle. His back is wet and his breath is loaded. I fear for him trying to make it home in the dark on his bike.
“Do not ride your bike,” I tell him sternly. “Walk your bike. Stay off the road. Go straight home.” If he didn't sober up when almost hit by the car, he'll need to sleep this one off. I repeat myself as though I'm his mother, emphasizing every word, realizing my heart is pleading with him while my voice reveals nothing but a command. “Yes, Mama, thank you very much. Have a nice evening, Mama.” He shakes my hand, then Ian's, and pushes his bike in the opposite direction, shakily.
There's no movie on at 8pm, just a Mexican soap opera dubbed in English by people from the UK. It twists my brain to hear British accents coming from beautiful Mexicans. It's a rather disappointing evening because they don't serve food inside, just outside in the banda's, and only if you've ordered ahead. So I get a bag of crisps (potato chips) for 10 shillings and devour them while watching the very masculine men and ultra feminine women working at a Mexican coffee plantation. The guy who owns/run the farm looks like Fabio. While his long, wavy hair hangs across his face and flows over his shoulders, he broods about being impotent. What could be weighing on him to cause this problem? Then we see the very spirited, very shapely, almost angelic-looking female laborer, who fights tooth and nail to ward off unwanted sexual advances from her fellow laborers, causing Fabio to intervene and quiet her fiestiness. The way he looks at her says he wouldn't experience his “problem” with her. Oh, it's all gloriously stereotypical, but not enough so to keep me from walking to the door occasionally to see if it's still raining. I feel caged by the night.
We finally leave around 9:40, to avoid watching “The Nutty Professor.” It's drizzling. We turn down a side street and from the dark a voice says, “Why are you walking at night?” We turn to see a security guard approaching us, an automatic weapon hanging from his shoulder, pointing toward the ground. “The bad boys of Kisumu are about,” he tells us. I just want to be home, out of the drizzle, to wash the mud from between my toes and to read “Emma.” He reconfirms it is not safe for us and Ian asks what we should do and he says from now on, this late, take a taxi. So we walk home and I say the bad boys may not want to be out in the rain, which is our natural defense. I've never been so happy to see our locked gate. Though the night is moist, it's cool. I wash my feet and climb under the mosquito net, opening the book to read about Emma's family and circle of friends, safely tucked away in their English village, threatened by nothing more than someone's inconsiderate remark. And I hope the drunk man is home now, sleeping, perhaps dreaming of daylight and dry roads.
posted by Cindi at 1:46 AM
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