Eric Wamanji @manjis
When you are a wanderlust writer, oftentimes, you count your stars as you roll the wheels away from the city. Such is the little sin, which the rims of an old black servant and I, seem to be relishing in of late. We’re in some sort of code for an indulgence in the most freewheeling fashion.
You see, when you are on leave, as I’ve been, it’s like a caged bird regaining his wings. You soar higher in delight and – even in danger. You are a free agent, zipping via Ngong Road only to fleetingly break at Shell for a hot cuppa.
You knit your way through Riara Road and the Jacaranda-fringed James Gichuru. This thoroughfare is poetry, especially just after the junction of Gitanga Road. The jacaranda trees flanks the road as if bowing to motorists and the whisper of the lush leaves are as electrifying as a million kisses.
Unholy ride
A little bit of an unholy ride if you will; the speedometer tenderly touches 140, more or less. And the breaks would kiss the wheels, and hiss, demanding a slow, for the NTSA folks could be lingering down the vale.
But thank God, no incident. Stop at Dalamere’s in Naivasha. There’s a little lovely grocery shop. It serves a variety of juices and fruits. Fantastic place, though, there is a lady at the counter, she could be the owner; she could be an employee. She’s is ever sulky, cold, and indifferent. What a contrast! A paradise of fruits tampered with a hell of a an attendant! But such is life! Grab a cocktail of beetroot, carrots and watermelon, and hit the good road.
Indeed, seriously, who doesn’t want to return to a bustling little green city called Nakuru- the place where the soul hears the wind whisper its name?
Indeed, every soul, folks, has where it belongs. And, every body, too, has where it belongs. And so, my body has escaped from its captive city abode. See, the city is a world of cutthroat competition, conmen, hit men, and treasure hunters. It’s where a few are suffocating in excess material wealth yet others suffer in want.
That city, it’s where I earn my githeri. Where the air is beautifully polluted and lunatic matatu drivers swerve, veer, and speed as if they own the world, as the traffic police and passengers cheer on. It is a tapestry of the good, the bad and the bastards.
Carelessly enchanting
But my soul is taking a sojourn at the place where it belongs. Nakuru is carelessly enchanting. It’s the home of the mighty Menengai crater, that dormant volcano with eerie tales of evil. It is here where the bewitching shades of pink wash the shores of Lake Nakuru National Park, and in the same pristine savannah, crags and rocks roll and feather to the azure heavens.
It’s a home to countryside so lush, where on dusk the birds croon their soulful eve-songs. And the night skies is washed with a billion twinkling stars. Nakuru’s a million beautiful souls and alluring nightclubs that rocks and rolls, makes it a great good place for a sojourn.
Red Honda
This is the world of Chris, a.k.a ‘family man’ whose day oscillates like a pendulum from high-ends to low ends; and Enoch, the man who loves laughing, keeps no grudge and enjoys a glass of Jimmy and a goat rib at Garden Villa. So is the home of Nkatha she of a golden heart and truly cherishes a tot and a tango. And you should also meet Evans, the politician, a dynamite chap, spinning a Red-wine Honda ‘aawwing’ the town lasses, who would be in ten places in 30 minutes. Folks, the list is endless…
It’s a paradise where smiles beam like a gorgeous orient sun in her morning grandeur. And the laughter is like that of an opera. And whiskey sparkles like an aurora reminding the soul just where home is. Sweet memories of Nakuru will always linger, till next when we’ll wheel a little more sin. Cheers!