What's that on your wrist?

What is that thing you wear? 

I met a pleasant driver this morning. He responded to my greetings with a smile as I slid onto the seat next to his. My sister took the one next to the door. We engaged in scattered banter as we navigated the slow morning traffic on Jogoo Road.
"Kwani mlilala airport?"
He must have been wondering about the heavy trench coats we had on while he seemed warm enough in his short sleeved light blue shirt.
"Kwanini?"
He pointed past me with his mouth. My sister. She was sleeping.
I laughed. "We were up at 4am."
"I wake up at 4 or earlier daily."
"Everyday? So if you work well throughout the day the money is good, eh?"
"Yes."
Later on, when the conductor was trying to swindle us and claim our twenty bob in change, he firmly told him off. Good man.

The air in this Mololine Shuttle van is heavy, almost musty. There are only four windows that can open; two at the front cabin and the other two on the row behind the driver. The rest are glued shut. The two women occupying the window seats open them on request then close them after five seconds. I think thoughts. Maybe if someone farted, no, released two lethal hisses, they would be forced to keep them open. Oh why didn't I eat the boiled groundnuts that usually cause my intestines to twist and turn in angles ballerinas would be jealous of? Ah. Wasted chance. I will just sit here and hope I don't pass out.

The driver is playing some local gospel songs. They make the air a little lighter. They always do, especially when Eunice Njeri and the Jimmy Gait of old are featured. Kwanza that 'Appointment' song. Nice. Love it.

There are a couple of things that my mind and heart can never get over. Some beautiful and others, well, heartbreaking. One of the former is the golden sight of Mt. Longonot at sunset, viewed from the Rift Valley viewpoint along the Nairobi-Nakuru highway. Every time I am traveling that route, I make sure to take the window seat to the left of the matatu so I can capture the sight in mind and device. It is the third most photographed thing on my phone after my face (of course) and avocado.

Today, I unconsciously sat on the right and only realized my undoing when I lifted my head from The Lovely Bones and my eyes danced with glee. 
The scene is a welcome relief from the gut wrenching novel I am reading; about a teenager who was lured by a paedophile to an underground bunker, raped and then murdered. She is narrating the story from what she calls 'her heaven.'

The Oxford dictionary has not yet included words that can descriptively do justice to this stunner. I have not found a suitable arrangement of the available words either, yet, I try. The clouds had moved from the sky in even softer layers of mist-like consistency and positioned themselves around Mt. Longonot. It is as if they were trying to delicately hug the mountain off its rock hard stance. Meanwhile, the sun was setting and the orange gold mix of color was crowning the crater.

I think this was the beautifulest I have ever seen it. Yes. That's English. I don't have photographic evidence. I tried. Nothing. Well, not really nothing. I capture this instead.

I review the photo and decide to keep it. It aroused some nostalgia in me. I can't quite put a finger to it. Something.

These things we wear.

Notice that beaded bracelet in the middle? I counted four in the matatu. This one belonged to a lady, seemingly in her seventies. She slept for most of the trip, clutching to that handle for support as she did. Earlier when the driver didn't use the usual University Way route, she asked me, "Anahepa polisi, eh?"
The guy behind her also had one. He seemed to be having the same struggle with legroom as I was. Tight. I must have sparked some curiosity in him when I almost broke my neck desperate for that view of Longonot. He would look at me then follow my gaze outside probably in an attempt to understand what it was that was picqing my interest.
I caught a glimpse of the third one as I turned to fix my seat belt. The only thing I remember about the owner was that his neighbor was in a Karaoke session belting out every tune from the speakers.

I am certain if I had everyone lift their arms for a wrist inspection, there would have been more.

You counted three, the fourth one was mine. I bought it from a Maasai guy for fifty or a hundred shillings. I am not sure. I do remember that I felt some sort of pride and a sense of belonging. A Kenyan-ness if you will. A while back a section of Kenyans got excited when they spotted one on Uhuru Kenyatta. "How humble," they mused. That's the other thing that baffles me about us Kenyans, how humility can be used to describe everything. One is always expected to say "I am humbled" when a compliment is thrown their way. Otherwise, stop with your pride. Anyway, I digress. Even kids under five get fitted for this beaded replica of our national flag, complete with the four symbolic colors;

Black - People
White - Peace
Red - Blood that was shed during the struggle for Independence. (Also, that which runs in the people's veins)
Green - Motherland

We know this because we were taught this in History lessons in primary school. However, I have been wondering if we really do get it. If, the last time you sang the national anthem you took note of the words. A scroll through social media  will give you the answer. Most of us have sunk to pitiful levels of ignorance. This is quite baffling especially this being a generation that has claimed and redefined the word 'woke.' To recount matters state of the nation would be a waste. We have all been present. We have seen and heard everything or even most of it. We have justified things we should not have. Death. We have spoken to each other with so much disrespect and dishonor. Like trash. Now people are calling for secession. I submit to you, that I no longer know what it means to be Kenyan.

I had an idea, but I now get conflicted with every sun rise and set. Ah. That nostalgia. I know what it was. It is what it felt like to be Kenyan. That thing on your wrist, what do you see, feel, when you look at it? Pride? Betrayal? Oppression? Hope? Love? Belonging? Anger? Loss? Pity? Contempt? Why do you wear it? If you have never thought about it, take a moment and reflect. Have a meeting with your self and tell yourself the truth about the kind of being you have evolved to. Are you still human? Or are you going through a mutation process? Are you ok with it?

We prayed in church the other day. We declared that Kenya will not burn. Future tense. I am afraid Kenya is burning. Now. The flames and smoke can be seen, but they are not big enough to cause burn marks and scars, are they? Yet somewhere, a mother is grieving the only child who survived after the several miscarriages she had gone through. The father is in no shape to comfort the mother. A girl is burying her father whom she lived with after he and her mother separated. Oh, yeah. There is that woman heard her son say, "They hurt me mum. I won't make it." Then watched him die.

Remember the things that my heart and mind can never get over? Forget? The heart breaking one is that of a man pointing at my family and I with a panga and saying, "You are next."

What magnitude of fire are we looking out for to jerk us into a sincere move to rescue ourselves and consequently the land that is Kenya? Can you imagine the green on your wrist turning red as the land is soiled with blood?

I can't. I don't want to. But this eerie calm people are calling peace? It sends chills down my spine. Will we be singing Eric Wainaina's Daima Mimi Mkenya a few hours, days, weeks to come? Go have that meeting with self.

That thing you wear, what does it mean to you?