Looking for people makes them feel special. Too bad if he
has a chip on his shoulder, the man will feel sweet like an overflowing bag of
chips. I set out to Narok, the County with the Seventh Wonder of the world.
Narok is such a beautiful land, and the rural folk of Narok are so cultured and
very spiritual, they look organized like a herd of wildebeest crossing Mara
River.
I have travelled all over Kenya, and the Maasai top the list
of best community in Kenya. They should be the official Kenyan brand. Second
are Kambas, and the rest follow. The way they treat their environment, wild
animals and each other show how they revere God and his creation.
It is in Narok that I realize that Nairobi needs to change
its name to Nairouwa. There is a village on your way to Maasai Mara called Maji Moto this translates to Enkare
Nairouwa the opposite of Enkare Nairobi. Now that Nairobi is no longer a spring
of cold water, why not pull a Bombay- Mumbai and change the name.
If you have lived in Nairobi long enough, you will notice
that the coolness of ‘its waters’ has been diminishing over time. The Nairobi
winter in June and July is not as cold. I will go to Pumwani Maternity to check
if there has been a reduction in the baby boom in March and April. That cold
weather has a way of making unlike poles attract.
I think Nairobi
became Nairouwa when it was named
“The City in the Sun” – culminating in the name “shamba la mawe” - the rocky patch. It is not about rocks but the
grit in trying to eke a living in this city. So I leave Nairobi and turn off to
Narok at Mai Mahiu, another place of
hot water, named from the Kikuyu dialect.
Narok is eighty seven kilometres from Mai Mahiu. You will
never miss Suswa at 29km from Mai Mahiu, sitting at the base of Mount Suswa
like a tired mountain climber. Like someone trying to tie the laces of his
boots before trying to go up Mount Suswa again or walk into the plains. The town has not changed much since the days
when William ole Ntimama would hold Maa Congress and come up with Maa
declarations.
I pass Duka Moja, Nairegie Enkare- trust Maasai with their
obsession with water. Nairegie Enkare means a swampy place or the place with
stagnant water. Ntulele the black spot beckons and I go past it in a swoosh, then
Eoro Ekule where Ole Kawaro comes from, then I ease into Narok, the town in the
valley. Even Narok is Enkare Narok, the place of black water.
I had driven down this road a few months earlier in search
of ground water. I found the water at point in a place called Tepesua, brought
a drill rig and sunk a borehole. This commodity that made Maasais to name every
point of social convergence after the quality of water is vital but more for
cattle than people.
So I am out to look for Onyango in a place called Ng’oswani,
I doubt if it is about water even though I did not ask. Onyango I am told will
help me pipe this water to where it can give a place a name.
In Narok I meet Ali, a Kenyan of Asian descent. I am
introduced to him by his driver, and they proceed to speak in Kipsigis. Ali
speaks Kipsigis so fluently you would think he is hiding Kip-Left and Kip-Right
genes behind his pure Asian breed. I like such people, so I name him, Kipkoech,
after a primary school mate we named ‘pirechot’ a corruption of Luo- Abiro Chuadi.
I leave Narok town and pass a small township called Ewaso
Ng’iro, the place of muddy waters or brown water. The river that passes here is
literally brown. The brown colour (Ng’iro) has a way of sticking longer or even
for ever on the teeth of those who drink it. I pass the place and take the road
to the great Maasai Mara. The Loita plain is ahead flat with hills that stick
out like painful boils on supple skin. The plain is named after one of the
biggest Maasai clans.
Some fifteen kilometres after Ewaso Ng’iro, the tarmac ends.
This road was once tarmacked to Sekenani gate, but that was long time ago. It
has now degenerated back to a rough road in Rear Vision 1990 style. I start the rought road, pass Maji Moto
junction and see a heard of wilderbeasts looking for a passage through the
recently erected barbed wire. They see me approach and in a move similar to the
jump into Mara River they run from the road side into the Loita plains far
away.
The Maasai used to own land communally. The area I am
driving through was once Mara-Olkinyei group ranch. The members have subdivided
it and now the fences are coming up. This is now hindering free movement of
wild animals within a land they once shared freely with Maasai cattle.
I pass Mpora, Tepesua
then I land in Ng’oswani. A dusty market with people idling around asking for
rides to the next market. I politely tell them I have arrived at my
destination. I get a hunger pang jab- the kind of hunger that hits you when you
check the clock and realize it is half past one. I send word around that I need
to see Onyango. Here it seems everyone knows everyone, so phone calls are made
as I jump into butchery for meat.
If you thought Nerkwo has sweet meet, you have never been to
Ng’oswani. I waited for forty five minutes for the goat meat to be ready and
when it arrived, I forgot about Onyango and water. It’s the kind of meat that
massages your teeth then caresses your tongue. By the time it slides into your
gut, you realize that there are goats, and there are Ng’oswani goats. I ask the
butcher to pack for me two kilos of the goat meat. Some people in Nairobi need
to know people who know where good meat can be found.
I have not seen Onyango or let me say the meat made me
forget Onyango. I am led to a shop where
he likes to hang around. The shopkeeper lost his phone recently so he has not
yet seen the need of saving Onyango’s phone number again. An opportunity to
sieve the people who get into his phone book arose with the loss of his phone.
Then suddenly a ten year old boy comes to the shop and he is asked if he has
seen Onyango. He immediately recites Onyango’s phone number from the top of his
head. Onyango means different things to different people.
I record the number, save it then try to call but he is out
of reach. I am directed to Onyango’s house and I soon find myself outide a
shack latched from outside but without a padlock. This Onyango man does not
represent his name, the house seems to lack anything worth stealing. I walk
back to the shop.
I meet a lanky man, smiling at me. He talks to me in good
Kiswahili with a faded Maasai accent. Oh yes, I am Onyango he says. The first
question I ask is how he got that name. He tells me that he was picked up in
the streets of Kisumu and dropped in Ng’oswani by a Good Samaritan. It turns
out later that the man has never been to Kisumu.
When we get down to the real work, I find out whay he is
called Onyango. He is stronger than the average Maasai and he does a good job.
He is proud of his name and for being associated with the Luos. Yet he cannot
utter a single Luo word.
I left Loita plains a
happy man. I touched children’s heads in greeting, ate good meet and had an
opportunity to speak my broken Maasai. Arejo-
Asheh Oleng’ that is just another way of saying, I am saying- thank you very much.
