There is always a first time

By PETER GAITHO
Published May 2, 2010

“When I approached those moving staircases, I was so scared I didn’t know what to do,” Sylvester Kioi narrated his ordeal when he faced the escalator for the first time at JKIA Nairobi. “The question in my mind was; how do I step in without tipping over?” he said, amid laughter from his listeners. “After three false starts, I managed the feat after observing another passenger.”

“But my trepidation was repeated,” Kioi continued. “Disembarking from this moving contraption seemed like nuclear science in my Nyahururu mind. However, I said a silent prayer and managed to disembark. The whole world then knew it was my first time to use an elevator.”

Kioi’s episode reminded me of my own frustration, with a new phenomenon. A few days after I landed at Logan International Airport, Boston, I spent the weekend at my former college mate’s apartment in Lowell, Mass. After exchanging a few pleasantries, Mr. Mwai left for his overnight job at a group home, a few miles from his house.

“Even though I am a middle school teacher in America, one job is not enough,” he explained what I have realized to be true. “So I have two part-time jobs. In the meantime, feel at home. Whatever you need, will be in the fridge.” With that, he left me in his apartment for two days.

When I finished eating the dinner, I proceeded to wash the dishes in the kitchen sink. The faucet proved a hard nut to crack. I turned it clockwise, nothing, anticlockwise, nothing. No water flowed from the faucet.

“I thought there were no water issues in America,” I complained to no one in particular. Having convinced myself that the tap was dry, I left the dishes unwashed. I continued enjoying the numerous TV shows on offer, as I sipped from a glass of red wine. “Kumbe this is why America is like the promised land,” I made the observation, after noticing the well furnished two bedroomed apartment Mr. Mwai had all to himself.

Before retiring to bed later that night, I decided to take a shower as a sign of respect for the bed. I often wonder why I shower twice a day nowadays, especially when back in the village shower was reserved for Sunday morning. And you had to share the water in a plastic pail, with several brothers. But that was another life.

I read that there are four categories of shower takers. Those who shower in the morning, respect others. Those who shower before bed time, respect their beds. Those who shower twice a day waste water. Those who do not shower at all respect no one.

At the shower, I faced the same problem I had earlier. The faucet could not give the precious commodity. I faced the silent embarrassment of redressing, without taking a shower. “After all, I think I am clean,” I consoled myself.

And so I went to bed with all the day’s grime, and I felt sorry for the clean, cream colored bed sheets in the well made bed, in Mr. Mwai’s guest room. That night I dreamt I was chased by a swarm of house fries, in a scary and lonely village path.

Morning came and still no water in the taps. I decided to call Mr. Mwai to ask if there was a way of getting some reprieve. The call went straight to the answering machine. I caught myself swearing by the gods of Menengai Crater, Nakuru.

Left with no option, I used the water bottles I found in the fridge, to wash my face and make some tea. The rest of the morning was spent doing this and that. I decided to venture out and buy more bottled water, to make ugali for lunch. When I went back to the apartment, frustration was written all over my face.

Mr. Mwai came that evening with a huge shopping bag inside of which was mbuzi meat. “I went to the farm and ordered mbuzi for nyama choma, to remember the good old days in the village,” he announced as he laid the heavy load on the kitchen counter.

“But I am unhappy to announce that the taps ran dry the moment you left yesterday,” I said.

“What do you mean? Hapa si Nairobi bwana,” he interjected. As surely as milk is white, when he turned on the tap, water came gushing out as if Moses of the Bible had hit the rock.

I could not fail but wonder at the co-incidence. Mr. Mwai appears and the water obeys him. “This must be a miracle. I swear there was not a single drop of water a few minutes ago,” I said, trying as much as possible to appear truthful.

“Come to think about it,” Mr. Mwai seemed to remember something. “How were you turning the faucet?” he asked.

“Like this,” I demonstrated. No water came out.

“Oh, Mundu wa Nyambura, just turn it this way then pull the faucet. If you want hot water, turn it this way, then pull,” he explained even as I failed to understand why a tap should be so complicated to operate. “Then you should hang a user’s manual next to your taps,” I said as a matter of fact, even as Mr. Mwai was all over himself with mirth.

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