Luos wore three piece suits to ride third class train

As the Americans would put it, it was one hell of a third class ride; more than 12 hours of kukuru kakacha as the Lunatic Express snarled and rattled its way between Nairobi to Kisumu or vice versa.

At the Kisumu railway station, men in three piece suits and ladies who looked like they were attending a wedding, some even had hats worn at an angle, oozing Orie Rogo Manduli from head to toe, stood.

The men and women – at times with their brood in tow – would prance about sizing and staring down at other couples in a cold war that was never verbalized. Soon everyone – apart from fare-dodgers who never paid a cent for travel – would get their tickets and get ready to board.

The Kisumu- Nairobi train would wait for the one from Butere. Those boarding at Kisumu were mostly Luos while those from Butere were mostly Luhyas.

A lively banter would ensue as the two communities exchanged friendly fire on present day Mashemeji Derby pitting Gor Mahia against AFC Leopards.

Soon the train would get off the blocks, lumbering like some giant Omweri snake from Nyakach, belching smoke and, with the determination of a night runner on a rain soaked cloudless night, tackle the Nandi Hills as it sought the true north headed to Nairobi.

And what a colourful crowd on board! There would be an old mama with packed food enough to feed a platoon of KDF going to visit her grandchildren; a lanky bleary-eyed young man, most likely fleeing to the city after impregnating the assistant chief's daughter in a disco matanga, or this shy young woman in a bright mkunjo maisha dress chasing after her sinewy lover somewhere in Kawangware or Kibera.

Or the office worker coming from burying his father's distant cousin, his face a mask of sorrow.

In between, there were pickpockets – and the dreaded ticket inspectors. Remember the fare dodgers and smokers? The ticket inspector was their Waterloo.

The train had toilets; a hole on the floor that sent the boiled maize, nduma and calabash of porridge that you hammered for breakfast straight to the rails.

 Using the toilets was therefore limited to when the train was in motion and if you dared break this rule the inspectors, would nab you. Don't forget the train came with policemen and a cell too.

Nakuru, the cleanest train station in East Africa, was made for dancing and the passengers did exactly that. Folks from the lakeside would open their record players (kananda) and set a vinyl in motion.

Soon a tall dark chap would hold an equally tall lady and bring her to heel on the improvised dance floor as other passengers cheered.

After Nakuru, guys would be more relaxed. This was way before anyone ever dreamed of manufacturing a cell phone so those who fell in lust exchanged post office box numbers while the lucky ones exchanged the numbers of the public telephone booths near their houses.

 I am not sure if these were ever followed up on.

Early morning, the train would belch its way into the city centre, letting out a victorious blare of the horn as it passed Nyayo National stadium.

Everyone would alight and head to their respective matatus stages even as the Kenya Railway employees prepared the train for a return journey later in the evening.

And so it was every morning and evening. Kukuru kakacha, kukuru kakacha – wuuu-wiii!