70 km/h

Allow me to take you back to 2017. This is March, I completed my diploma in ICT, we were through with the KNEC (Kenya National Examination Council) syllabus. We were supposed to get some attachments as we wait for the exams in September.

The IEBC was recruiting voter verification agents and I applied. The main qualification they were asking for was computer literacy. Being a student of IT, that was a walk in the park. We received an invitation for interviews at the IEBC office at Juja and there I was in line with other applicants queueing to be interviewed.

I had not completed my studies I only had my transcripts for the previous two years. In the queue, we had graduates from JKUAT (Jomo Kenyatta University of Agriculture and Technology) with nicely covered folders with the name of the campus emblazoned on the cover. I on the other hand had a brown A4 envelope with my one-page CV, no official working history. My certificates were only from high school and primary school. I didn't even have a KRA PIN.

The instructions were no idling around after one had been interviewed, so everyone coming out of the interview was going their way. This was my first job interview ever, I was intimidated by my fellow applicants. These guy's had their ducks in a row.

Finally, it was my turn with the panel of three interviewers but one of them, a guy walked out on his phone as I walked in. So I was with two ladies. I took my seat and the first question was;

Lady 1: "Tell us about yourself"

To this day, I never know how to answer that question. I found myself saying I'm hardworking and trustworthy. I was done answering but they were still waiting for more information. I had panicked. They asked a couple more questions and I answered.

Lady 2: "We are looking for people who are not committed elsewhere who will be available for the whole duration of voter registration/ verification and you are still in school according to you. Will you be available?"

"Yes, I'm available until September when I will be sitting for my exam," I answered.

"Okay, we will call you." She ended the interview.

Two months of waiting, crickets, no call, no update complete silence. I didn't even exchange contacts with anyone to get updates on the selection process. I assumed my application wasn't shortlisted.

My brother from another mother, a close buddy of mine, whom we grew up with together in the street of Eastlands had secured a job in Mombasa. So he had invited me over. I had nothing better to do with my time so I bought myself a bus ticket. A thousand bob worth of ticket. In my whole extended family, I was maybe the second one to go to Mombasa after one of my cousin who was a truck driver. Mombasa was a mystery, I had heard stories from Majini (Ghosts of the water) to Cats you don't wanna mess with and what have you. You know me I love traveling. Sign me up for any trip I'll go.

Bright and early morning, I was in Nairobi CBD to catch my 08:00 am bus. Bought me some snacks, had my bag on the shelve above my sit, and settled in at the window. There was tension in the air from the upcoming election in August, from the 2007 post-election violence. The lady passenger who sat next to me was heading home to be away from Nairobi during the election period.

I always heard Mombasa is far, but I didn't know how far. After a whole day of traveling my mum called me at 4 pm for some status update on my arrival. To her surprise, I was still traveling. Past Voi, at Samburu it was raining cats and dogs. The lady told me we still have about 80 km to cover to Mombasa. At around 6 pm, I received another call from a new number this time. A guy on the other end called and asked for Robert.

Yeah! Speaking… "I'm calling from IEBC, Come tomorrow morning with your NSSF, and Bank details." Of all the days they just had to call today while am hours away from Mombasa? Plus at this time, I didn't have any of the documents required. No account, Nothing. Not even a grace period to gather these documents. I was in a dilemma.

Should I board the night bus back to Nairobi? I don't even have the cash to process the required documents. And that ladies and gentlemen is how I missed that opportunity.

So at around 08:00 pm, we were in Mombasa town. My bro Willy was waiting for me at the bus stop. He called me out loud, I picked up my bag and alighted. It had rained heavily in Mombasa, the streets were wet. We boarded a matatu to Bamburi-Mtambo. It was dark, it was warm. I didn't see much. We got to Bamburi, a bridge to his place had been washed away by heavy rainfall. I could smell the seawater and saline in the air. We took a long way around the river to his Bedsitter. He was from work, we had nothing to cook for dinner. It was now late, the shops were closed, Mama mbogas kiosks, nowhere to buy ourselves dinner. We bought ourselves some meat at an open butcher, there was some maize flour in the house. We had ugali and beef for dinner.

During the day when my guy was at work, I'd be left alone in the house with no clue of where I was. I wanted to see the ocean, I was eager to visit the beach. The smell of saline in the air was strong. I didn't know the directions to the beach but I had a general idea of where it was from the terrain. I traced my way back to the river and knew the ocean must be on Eastside since rivers flow downhill. I followed the general direction of the river and voila! I was at the infamous Pirates public beach. You could tell am not from around, I was in warmer clothes than the rest of the people. They called me "Mtoka bara".

I made rounds in town trying to secure myself employment or at least an internship to no fruition. In this lovely country of ours, if you don't have a popular surname or a godfather in a high place, you're going to hit the road for a minute. So I opted to do odd jobs here and there to make some few buckaroos. I did just about anything and everything, you name it. From construction, painting, and bodaboda.

Willy had a motorcycle he had bought with his little savings, so it was easy for me to move around with the bike. I surveyed the whole neighborhood of Bamburi and its environs. Kiembeni, Shanzuu, Mtwapa, Nyali, Bombolulu, Utange and Mwakirunge by myself.

In no time I was familiar with the place. I even made my way to Nyali beach where I stepped on a sea urchin and almost called my great grandma from her grave. I even stumbled on another public beach which was less crowded and became my happy place. I would sit on the sand and think to myself if only this water body could talk. This water has been here since the beginning of time. Since creation for the Christians or the big bang for the atheists. I think to myself this is the same water that swept the earth for days and nights during the time of Noah. This same water sank the Titanic in 1912. Imagine the stories it could tell.

The elections came, it was nullified, premium tears. A repeat election was held and tano tena was the song of the day. Soon it was my time to sit for my final exam. I traveled back and sat for my exam. Soon after, I went back. I had fallen in love with the place. The warm climate, the talkative community. Unlike Nairobi the people of the coast value greetings a lot. My language became polite, I started using words like "nisadie, naomba, asante" and greeting random strangers to this day.

This time I was lucky to secure a gig. I was offered a job at Innscor Kenya Limited. I was stationed at Nyali. It was an entry-level job, I was in charge of maintaining the cleanliness of the premises. My first formal employment with social security, health insurance, and even had a bank account.

The place worked 24 hours, so we had three shifts. We would alternate shifts every week. I was on probation for 3 months, in the second month as I was heading from the morning shift at around three in the afternoon, I am riding home. I enjoyed speed. I would ride fast. But on this particular day I was sleepy and tired, just wanted to get home, have some hot chocolate and get some sleep.

Nyali is notorious for reckless driving. Rich kids would be on the road with their parent's vehicles driving like crazy. Some under the influence, and some just the foolishness of youth.

I rode past mamba village heading towards the Mombasa-Malindi highway. The road was clear, with no traffic, I checked my speedometer I was doing 70 km/h. Just past Mamba village, there is a valley, just after the hill, there is a corner. Just after turning, there was a black Toyota Wish. The car had stopped, smack in the middle of the road. No brake lights, no hazards, nothing. I couldn't tell if the vehicle was stationary. I assumed it was moving.

I realized too late that the vehicle was stationary. By then I couldn't even use the breaks. Bikes are not made for emergency braking. Bikers can relate. I tried to avoid him but it was too late, I rammed into the tailgate. The left rear light, I broke the windshield with my helmet. I saw it coming and tried to avoid it. I jumped off the bike. When I got on my feet I couldn't close my mouth.

Rather, my mouth was closed but I felt cold in my teeth. I was bleeding. A lot. I unstrapped my helmet from my head and dropped it on the ground. I held my mouth to control the bleeding. Luckily there was a private hospital in one of the buildings nearby. The driver of the wish took me there. I was bleeding through my fingers. In the hallway and the elevator. The hospital was on the first floor. I was bleeding profusely.

On entering the hospital a nurse led me to the emergency ward and when I removed my hand from my mouth. She ran for the hills. She literally, took off screaming deserting me in the ward. Her reaction showed me just how serious I was. Another nurse came in. She asked me to uncover my mouth. I could see my lower lip dangling on one side.

She called a doctor, and a man walked in and told her their hospital was not in a position to handle such a case. So they just did first aid and was referred to another general hospital. I had blood that had clotted in my mouth and spat a mouthful. I had some bandages wrapped around my head and my mouth. I couldn't talk. I was fine, I felt fine I just couldn't talk from the bandages. It was hard for me to square it out with the other driver.

On going back to the scene, people had surrounded it, women holding their jaws in disbelief. They were looking at me like some aliens that had landed on their planet. Did I mention the health workers were on strike?

So there were no doctors or nurses in the county, I gave someone in the crowd, a good Samaritan my phone and asked him to call my bro. He asked to speak with me. He was told I can't come to the phone.

For some reason, he interpreted I was out, MIA. He came to the scene riding like crazy, he took me to the referred hospital-Pandya, and there I was received with a wheelchair. My Head wrapped in a bandage, and my right hand was also wrapped from some minor cuts. This one was a private hospital, we were required to give a down payment of 100 grand before they could take any action on me. Between us, we had at most 2G's. Willy had panicked and wasn't himself.

I wrote him a text, to call a buddy of ours Mr. Thomas Kariuki (Msee), to whom I'm forever grateful. Within the hour he arrived and got updates on our predicament. He suggested another hospital-Said Fatma, and we left and headed there. By this time it was getting dark.

On arrival at Said-Fatma, it was deserted. Only the security guards were there, even the reception was vacant. The next best option was Coast general teaching and referral. It is a level 5 facility. We got there same case, just sick patients and no doctors. But here there was a small number of them, I think they were tending to emergencies and casualties. Msee had to call a personal favor to a colleague of his who connected us to a doctor.

I needed a dentist and a surgeon to reconstruct my face. But beggars can't be choosers, huh?

A nice young lady doctor came, I didn't get her name. I had a lot on my plate. The theater was in use another patient from an accident was being tended to. The hospital a level 5 facility was out of anesthesia. I was taken to a ward next to the theater for easy access to surgery tools. So I can hear the patient screaming in pain I felt for her.

Let me spare you the details of my surgery without anesthesia.

As am lying on the bed waiting, I am taking stock of my life.

I have no offspring?

I haven't traveled the world?

I haven't smoked a Cuban?

I haven't dinned in Paris?

At my funeral, what would be written on my eulogy? How many people would attend my funeral?

That ordeal left me with one badass-looking scar on the side of my mouth. You realize life is fragile, one minute you are rushing home to grab your favorite cold beer or snack, and the next you're saying hello to father Abraham at heaven's door asking him to confirm your name in the book of life.

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