A journey to Somalia

I had always believed that destiny would one day lead me to an extraordinary place. That day finally arrived when fate whispered in my ear, urging me to embark on a journey to Somalia. So, I woke up and bid farewell to my loved ones, explaining that I had to go. It is through going away that we return with new perspectives, enabling us to see the familiar with fresh eyes.

Some resistance met my decision. Those who have never ventured beyond their homes are often the first to caution against traveling to Somalia. It is a common trait in life - those who have never embarked on a journey are the ones most vehemently warning others against it.

Then, one morning, with the unwavering determination of a lioness with 8 mouths to feed, I gathered my belongings and set off for Somalia.

They say a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. The arduous 1000-kilometer, 12-hour bus ride to Somalia begins with a hearty meal. Interestingly, all buses bound for Somalia are based in Eastleigh, the delightfully chaotic suburb of Nairobi.

Sitting in an Eastleigh hotel, you are bound to encounter a retired Kismayu pirate who has come to launder his money there. However, these pirates don't curse or drunkenly sing sea shanties. Instead, they are gentle pirates who genuinely smile while declaring, "This suit is genuine from Turkey, my friend."

Eastleigh is also never devoid of majestic men with beards dyed the color of Royco, their prayer beads swinging majestically alongside their bakoras. They exude a certain air of masculinity.

The bus conductor, a lanky fellow who brushes his teeth with a bush toothbrush, cheerfully welcomes me into the bus, saying, "Welcome visitor." Only in Eastleigh are you ushered into a bus in such a way.

I inquire, "When will we arrive?"

"Inshallah, tomorrow," he responds.

His implication is that the journey to Somalia is an overnight ordeal that requires Allah's guidance. I settle into my seat on the scented bus and watch as Eastleigh's chaos recedes like a sea calming down for the night.

A young man, seemingly inexperienced in traveling to Somalia, bids a tearful farewell to his young family. His young wife and their four children hold onto him tightly, as if he were leaving for Pluto. Goodbyes are bittersweet sorrows.

My seatmate, Mzee named Abdi, speaks two Swahili words and ten Somali words, supplemented by wild gesticulations, assuming that I understand him. Despite the language barrier, we get along well, as he is a jovial soul.

Abdi hangs his bakora on the seat in front of him, spreads his miraa on his lap, and starts chewing it noisily. Meanwhile, I take out an old black book, Langston Hughes' Complete Poetry Anthology, and immerse myself in the Harlem Poetry contained within. At Pangani, he offers me some miraa twigs, which I politely decline. At Wajir, Mzee Abdi turns to me and asks, "Are you White Man ?"

"Yes, I am," I respond.

"White people are very good in travel, just like the Somali," he remarks.

"Indeed," I reply.

We engaged in a conversation, mixing broken Swahili with Somali. When speaking with someone who doesn't understand a language well, it's customary to adjust your language accordingly, a rule they don't teach in school.

We arrived at Kithyoko, and Mzee Galgalo asked the conductor to stop the bus so he could restock on muguka. I admired his confidence in commanding the whole bus to stop just to satisfy his cravings. When he returned, he handed me a soda and sincerely apologized.

"You are very kind, but you haven't inconvenienced me," I assured him.

"But I always see you reading the Bible," he said.

Should I tell him that I'm actually reading one of Langston Hughes' erotic poems?

We reached Matuu, and it was time for the Maghrib prayer. The conductor, with a mouth stained green from muguka, shouted "Salah!" The bus pulled over by the roadside. These buses had unwritten rules: men on one side and women on the other. The men took off their shoes, performed ablutions, and faced Mecca for their prayers.

Soon, we arrived in Mwingi. Women on the roadside waved at us, offering mangoes, oranges, and guavas. If you've never tasted Mwingi guavas, you're missing out on life's pleasures.

Two women approached my seat with baskets of fruit. Before I could protest that I didn't have money, a plump lady threw a fat guava my way and said, "Baba, oja hio usikie utamu wake" (Father, try it and taste its sweetness).

Man! Where else could women entice you like this other than in Ukambani? I bought two kilos of guavas, more than I could munch. That woman had a PhD.D. in marketing.

The conductor announced a 20-minute super break. The driver and his noisy crew, perched atop the engine cabin, restocked on fresh miraa. Buses in Northern Kenya ran on a combination of diesel and miraa. To qualify as a driver for one of these buses, they assessed you by the number of kilos of miraa you could chew in a day.

After snacking, we re boarded the bus, and it felt like it was flying. The dose of miraa the driver had taken in Mwingi was unadulterated and KEBS certified. A lady who had eaten too many roadside samosas started vomiting out the window. A man, who had consumed too much alcohol, grabbed the conductor by the neck and demanded the bus stop or he would do it right there. The bus stopped, and almost everyone got off, turning the whole world into a makeshift urinal.

Up in the heavens, a full moon blazed down on us like a golden lozenge. A pleasant breeze caressed my skin; Ukambani always had this sultry weather.

Soon, we reached Ukasi, marking the end of Ukambani as we headed towards Carissa. I offered Mzee Abdi the guavas. He squinted at them and selected the smallest ones. I asked him why he chose the small ones.

"We still have a long way to go; the smaller it is, the sweeter it is," he explained mischievously.

With a mischievous glint in his eyes