TALES FROM THE AFTERLIFE

A month or two ago, an invitation came through my employer, to join like-minded companies at a Corporate Social Responsibility outreach down in Magadi. I pestered my colleagues and bosses at the office and pretty soon, there was a mountain of goodies to be distributed to the needy girl child in the neighborhood of Magadi Township. Saturday the 15 th  of September was the date chosen to play Santa Claus. So, my crew and I saddled up our reindeer and off we went... Ho! Ho! Ho! For the kids of Ol Kejuado County, Christmas comes early! There are two ways to get to Magadi. One, take the train - those old rusty last century wagons that we inherited from the colonial era;  The only other approach to Magadi is a thin tarmac road with frightening hairpins that winds its way down the self of the rift valley escarpment. So thin you will get a heart attack when you see an approaching truck. If I had a choice, I wouldn't ever go anywhere past Olepolos. However, my eyes (and my mouth)...

For hundreds of years, the Maasai have roamed the Amboseli, grazing their cattle side by side with the zebras, elephants and the strange Wildebeest. They still do. The herds have regenerated from the devastating effects of the drought two years ago. As you drive to the Amboseli – “the place of salty dust”, the proud majestic Maasai morans ( young male warriors) clad in red shuka (piece of clothe), silently watch the passers-by, while grazing their huge herds of cattle some up to 500 animals per herd. They invoke deep primal feelings - “ We will always be here!” seems to be their unspoken message to visitors. My bosses and I were somewhere in the jungle handing over desks and classrooms to the Maasai community at a place called Iltilal. There was no way I was I was riding in the same car with my boss. So I jumped into the commoners’ wagon for the journey to Amboseli. Amboseli National Park is perhaps one of the smallest parks in Kenya. There are two approaches to the park, t...

Song, song of the South… If you listen in silence, You may just hear the song The song of the Whistling Thorns It is quiet common for my creative genius to take leave these days. Perhaps it is the stress of work and the monotony of the Nairobi life. I have total faith in the great outdoors and its ability to rejuvenate my sluggish grey matter.  So on this Saturday afternoon, I took a drive to the Whistling Thorns, to experience Serenity and hopefully restore some of that good old creative genius. Hopefully!   The Whistling Thorns is tacked away in the Kiserian area, 42 kms South of Nairobi on the Kiserian – Isenya road (off Magadi road). There is decent tarmac road all the way to the resort except for some jolly big craters on the Ongata Rongai – Kiserian stretch. A regular City car should get you there. Watch out for the road repairs and the occasional donkey. Most folk Nairobi know the more popular Ole Pollos for is signature nyama choma . If you are...

Among the many pre-colonial and colonial era tales is the epic of the “Man eaters of Tsavo”. I wouldn't ever pass up the chance to rub shoulders with the dreaded canines.  I am no  moran (Masaai warrior)  but I am definitely no chicken. So, on Thursday morning, dressed up like one of the explorers of old, bush hat, camera, binoculars and safari boots complete with brown cargo pants we head off into the sunrise. There are three of us and the driver-cum-guide Our driver is some  shags-mondo , and the haggard city streets are a nightmarish labyrinth to the good man. He takes a few scary turns that got other drivers honking like they just checked outta  Mathere  (mental hospital) . Its then we realize that some bush tour guides could benefit from the services of good city tour guides! We are soon out of town and are thundering down Mombasa road like we are late for a date with the King of Scotland. This driver must have somethin...

Recently I had a strong urge to break my neck. Something suicidal that will give me that rush. The rush that comes only when you’re walking the thin line between life and death, some call it the near death experience. You know - those fleeting seconds when your whole life replays before the empty darkness? In this life, it’s probably the closest you get to God. There is something deeply spiritual when you know your next breath may be the last and God (or the devil) is waiting just beyond your silly adventure to take you “home”. God holding her breath and the devil, he is cheering, hoping you’ll break your neck and end up in Hades. It’s a crime to commit suicide, no? Last weekend, I found me on a “Scandinavia” bus headed down south to push the extreme and tempt fate. Maybe just maybe I may run into the creator, who knows he may give me a second chance. Hans, a cool Dutch dude down in Malindi who gets the kicks from risking dear life, had organized for me to break my neck k...