By Joshua Nyamori (He is a lawyer and a socio-economist)
My alarm goes off at 4 am. I put on the light and heave a sigh at the sight of the wet pillow. “It was a hot night”, I mutter to myself as I stumble to my reading desk in the study.
I am done with my routine one-hour early morning reading at 5 am and move straight into the bathroom.
Coming out, I hear a pattering sound. Through the window, I see rays of security light reflecting on the wet tree leaves that seem to enjoy the first shower in many months.
I prepare and leave the house at 6 am. The few steps in the rain into the car leaves my coat wet. Yet, it feels so refreshing. I have not been in the rain for many months.
The smell of dry soil absorbing the first rain reminds me of my childhood when we played in the rain.
I can hear the birds chirping in high pitched tones up the wet trees in a rare excitement. I turn on the car ignition wondering whether the birds are celebrating the return of the rains after a long dry spell or those without proper nests expressing their hopelessness as the long rains start.
As I drive from Karen towards Galleria and along Langata road, I notice a pattern in this rain. It pours heavily for a few seconds, followed by several minutes of drizzling, then it pours again, and the pattern continues.
Street lights are still on and the lamp poles cast a kaleidoscope of light dancing across the puddles on the road.
It is a beautiful morning. Everyone seems to be enjoying this wet drive after a long period. Although my windows are rolled up, I can feel the coolness outside from the cold breeze coming through the air blower.
This feeling, however, changes as I start my drive through Kibera settlements from Otiende estate. Multitudes of people have defied the rain and are walking, wet, to work and school. With poor drains, sections of the roads are flooded already.
As I drive through the floods, I pity the school children who are jumping and wading through the evidently dirty water. What hits me even further is the faecal smell that starts to come in through the air blower. I turn it off and attempt to open the windows.
The air out there is smelling sewerage. I come to terms with the reality that I am driving through a flood of human waste.
My drive through the sewerage does not bother me much. The car can be washed. I am disturbed about the pedestrians, including school children, who have to wade through this contaminated flood.
I look at the type of housing in the slum and realise that the hundreds of thousands of people living in this and other slums in Nairobi and the other urban areas have to contend with the harsh vagaries of the weather for several months to come.
My morning is spoilt. The rest of the journey to Westlands, through fairly affluent areas, drives my conscience to mutiny. Why must so much suffering go on amidst such abundance?
As I park, I can see two smartly dressed ladies, probably in their late 20s, holding and trying to support each other, as they both stagger towards the Westlands bus stage along Waiyaki way, clearly in a stupor.
They must have just left a Night Club. It’s 7.05 am for heaven’s sake. Although it is none of my business, I am wondering whether the girls are enjoying life or suffering.
So much for a rainy morning in the city. What’s more, the people of my village in Kano plains, especially those neighbouring rivers, are biding their time before they run away from their homes, with the little they will salvage, to higher grounds as the rains in Nandi Hills flood the plains, wreaking havoc.
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