Last Saturday, as I headed to the city using the Nairobi expressway, one of the defining features of the administration of Kenyatta II—opaque in procurement and tolling logic— I shuddered to see a vehicle go up in flames.
It was late evening, near Gateway Mall, and I caught a glimpse of its driver on the phone, calling desperately. On Monday night, barely 48 hours later, barely a kilometre from that very spot, it was my turn to scamper out of my car as its engine turned into a smouldering ruin.
But I am rushing the story, reflecting the sudden turn of events and fortunes. The day had started beautifully, which is to say all the windows had been thrown open and the light of day was streaming in. So, I lingered on, torn between sleeping on and setting forth.
I had errands to run in different parts of town, the last errand ending well after 9pm. I got back on the road. I was fiddling with the radio to catch the 10pm news updates when the car’s dashboard flashed an insignia of what looked like a toothbrush in flaming red.
It was the thermometer, which is to say the car’s engine temperatures were rising. I was on Southern Bypass, hurtling down Kibra. The first spot where I could stop without risking having my pockets frisked, the neck broken, or both, was at the entrance of the expressway.
I stopped then and took a look. Unable to detect the problem, I decided to drive on and check further when I got home. I never made it. By the time I hit the Gateway Mall bend, just after the airport, the car gradually lost power. I was on the phone explaining to my mechanic the eventful developments when the bonnet exploded, triggering billows of smoke that twirled with the intensity of the now familiar tear gas.
Within moments, motorist Gabriel Lerosion stopped and helped disconnect the battery terminals and push the vehicle out of the way, while the Nairobi Expressway rescue patrol team, led by James Njuguna, arrived minutes later and offered water to cool the engine.
Ultimately, my mechanic marshalled his team and dispatched a truck that towed my car to the garage. More crucially, I was offered a ride home. The following morning came the grim news. The car’s engine had knocked.
The culprit, it turned out, was a damaged pipe from the radiator, so it failed to circulate coolant through the engine, occasioning excessive heat that melted many components that help run the engine efficiently.
Were it not for the racist undertones in the expression, “black Christmas,” I would have termed this festive season as one, not because the savings set aside for the mbuzi went to replace old engine, but the hunk of metal had been turned into a pile of soot.
The silver lining to being grounded, as it were, is that I’ll get to spend the season at home, as I always desire, though I don’t always have my way, and be spared the prospects of encountering mannerless Kenyans on the road, and those who jump queues at food serving points—because their life’s about shortcuts.
And since no one can argue when one says they’re too broke to travel, I have found a perfect way to stay grounded and let the festivities pass. After all, Christmas should be about families getting together, lying low and reflecting about the year gone by.
As for those who intend to clog the roads and haul furniture upcountry, please check to ensure your vehicles are in good running order. I thought I checked mine regularly, but that didn’t prevent me from getting grounded, and nearly scorched.
