A tale of two cities and riding through a mountain of perils in between them

By Peter Kimani

Kenya: My good friend Philip Ochieng, or simply “PO” to his newsroom mates, used to say, in between chuckles and pushing braces up his sleeves, that he did not venture beyond east of Tom Mboya Street for food or drink.

The line was invoked every time we, his younger colleagues invited him to lunches that he normally ended up paying.

I have learnt to silently invoke PO’s wisdom by declining invites to noisy eateries that shall remain nameless for the sake of public peace.

But since I like keeping a hand on the pulse of the city, I cannot resist venturing beyond east of Tom Mboya Street sometimes, as I did this week.

In any case, there is the comforting news that police on roller stakes will soon be on the prowl on our pot-holed streets to keep petty thieves where they truly belong.

But I did something else; now that school’s out, I took the young man of the house with me, figuring it important for him to get a glimpse of the other side of town, beyond the paved malls.

Secret location

His day started with a security briefing: we’d be going down River Road, I said, and he should expect lots of people and vehicles.

I deposited the car at a location on Haile Selassie Avenue – the exact location shall not be revealed, lest the City Council askaris go looking for the mechanics’ base – where some minor repairs were undertaken as I took Tumaini down River Road.

Actually, we never made it that far. The furthest we could manage was where Jack & Jill supermarket once stood. Crossing Hakati Road, behind old bus station, occasioned such great fright that my knees were still shaking long after a mindless City Hopper driver nearly squashed us and other pedestrians at mid-point of the road, as he hurtled into the station.

Private motorist

The return trip wasn’t any less precarious; a private motorist in a big black car accelerated on Haile Selassie Avenue, ostensibly to beat the traffic lights, and many pedestrians scrammed to safety. I pulled Tumaini off the road and waited for another turn.

We retrieved the car and got back on the road. We deposited the car at the National Theatre. “Fukes,” the young man sighed as we walked to the University of Nairobi to see the man he calls Guka.

A game of Johnny Test on Guka’s computer, and a snack of dried meat appeared to settle our frazzled nerves, but it was the walk over the bridge that highlighted the gulf between that part of the city and east of Tom Mboya.

A minor investment in pedestrians’ walkway is all it took to elevate a once perilous walk into a leisurely stretch.

Hours later, we walked back pushing a bike that the young man had managed to extract from Nakumatt, after persuading me that he had outgrown his old one.

“You have to give the old one to someone else,” Guka instructed. “Because when you give, others will give you other things as well.

Concrete jungle

By nightfall, Tumaini announced he was gifting Patrick, the day guard, with his old bike to take to his four-year old son.

Around the same time, he reported the flappable stand of his new “Samburu” mountain bike had come off.

I’m not in a hurry to return to east of Tom Mboya Street. Not before the city Governor launches the bus-line that will guarantee a measure of safety and sanity in the concrete jungle.