Have you ever travelled at the back of an open lorry on a rough, bumpy, country road? If you have, then, the poem below 'holds' a similar experience. I promise you, it’s not the best of experiences.
A ride I took on 22nd of December the year 2001 occasioned the poem below. I was travelling to a certain part of Central Kenya (some kilometres from Nyahururu) to attend the wedding ceremony of a friend. The place was Shamata.
To digress, Shamata is well known for two principal things: biting cold and potatoes. When I arrived at Shamata, I looked like a baboon as I had ridden at the back of a lorry. What with dust all over my face, clothes and shoes; swollen hands and a throbbing headache! (And to think I was to attend a wedding…) I hate to remember the experience.
Rough, Bumpy Ride
'twas on 22nd of December,
The year two thousand and one,
When the mother of all bumpy rides,
Called out my three names.
I took my place in the lorry;
Sweet peace inundated my heart,
As I thought of a smooth ride,
A ride to 'potato-infested' Shamata.
Hell broke loose,
When this crazy fellow,
Took the steering wheel,
And slammed on the gas pedal.
I was thrown up and backwards,
I danced sideways, east and west,
My whole body shook,
My blood froze.
My eyes popped out,
As I saw death calling me;
All the while, the crazy fellow,
Drove on in murderous frenzy.
In and out of every pothole,
Was the name of the game;
As I bumped my head,
I said my last prayer:
God you created this crazy guy,
You created me in the same style,
Why should I lose my life,
Because of his madness, why Lord?
God at once said:
I created you, Yes,
But I don't remember,
Telling you to be in this lorry!
With every mile we took,
Dust masked my face,
Made me a human baboon.
As the lorry creaked and wailed,
So did my bones threaten,
Threaten to break,
If the crazy fellow didn't stop.
I cried and called out,
But the engine swallowed my voice,
So, ofcourse, I had no choice,
But to swallow the bitter pill.
The lorry drew to a stop,
After swallowing miles without number,
Miles I will live to curse.
The 'back' was opened,
And out jumped a baboon,
A baboon in white shirt and checked coat,
A baboon that asked for water.
All who saw me,
Nearly ran for their lives,
And shook their heads at a distance,
Wondering, why a baboon in Shamata.
But all said and nearly done,
I'll live to hate crazy fellows,
I'll live to detest blue lorries,
Which love to create baboons.
P.S.: - The driver of the lorry, an acquaintance of mine, was travelling to Shamata to get a consignment of potatoes to transport to Nairobi. I thought that by taking the lorry I would be saving on fare. But, in essence, I lost so much more than I had hoped to gain.
My two cents worth: Think twice before you plunge into things that you think could save you a certain cost. You could end up regretting!