YOU LEAD, I FOLLOW

As a sheep is tied and led by the shepherd: to greener pastures or to the slaughter. Feet rooted to the ground, the head twisting and turning to escape the knot on the neck, sometimes it is a struggle. At other times, a light smack by a rod does the task of leading. Either way, the sheep follows. Or, like a shadow. How shall I relate this to you?

The journey was set. With me was my uncle and his son. We all had our reasons for the travel to the capital. We differed in that I was the only one new to the capital. The references to buildings, avenues and lanes I knew, was all from texts in school and maps. At the outskirts, the son departed to his residence. "For congestion reason, I may not reach the central district of the city. I'll leave you at this point therefore. Board a public means to get to the district. Farewell." My uncle bid me as he went off to his dues. I was all alone now. A stranger to the city.

I was to do as the dwellers did lest I fell to the predators. As other passengers paid in certain denominations, so did I. As they sat, so did I. They led, I followed. But the gathering of tares from wheat was when we did arrive at the district. The station was at a rotary junction which I later came to know as Koja Station. The masses were as bees in hive; the structures stretched to the heavens; the streets interconnected in webs tenfold as in the maps. The hooting, shouts of vendors, screams of madmen, the calling from living saints by the kerbs to the whispers of beggars, all clashed in clamor. In the sea of all these I did drown. I was lost. But dwellers mustn't know.

Thus, I chose my shepherd: a man dapper in his clothing whose occupation seemed to be of a learner of a higher institution. I followed to his hind from the station to wherever he went. He led, I followed. In my reasoning, that he may lead me to a safer less crowded place. A place I would figure myself and bearing. And so I followed him along the streets, curves, turns and alleys in hope to a better place. In realization of the wider road and calmer environs, I seized the pursuit of my guide. I now stood at Moi Avenue.

"When in the city, be at Galito's opposite Mr. Price that your in-law should meet you." My sister had instructed me before departing.

"Where is Galito's?" I did ask the guard at the Cooperative Bank. He squinted his eyes, lifted his head slightly and his hand pointing even higher. From that, I could guess the place to be far away.

"Ukooooo!" A prolonging equivalent to the miles. " At the far end on your right." And so I took to the route in fascination of the stalls of musical instruments, stalls of perfume, stalls of fabric, vendors and taverns. Interesting.

I couldn't miss the eatery. I got in, sat under the flight of steps, sank in the seat and wiped my brow of sweat from the lengthy walk. In all while, I awaited for an attendant to get my order of meal. None came. To my surprise, people did walk to their tables with scarlet trays of food. 'Whence did they get served of the course?' I did ask myself, my back upright and head up high to seek answers to my curious observation. Thus my eyes followed on one who walked in, got served on a scarlet tray, to the point she sat. She led, I followed. Of course, it was self service! The epitome of ignorance! Two hundred and coins was what I paid for a scoop of creamy ice in a small tin. Unfortunately, too tiny to be served on a scarlet tray.

I did return to my table with the delicacy to await my in-law and in the moments of watching and waiting, a damsel did walk in. She wore decent clothing, her skin chocolate and smooth, and her hair of locks dangled by her head as she turned to find where to sit. My eyes, fixed to her, did meet her hazel eyes and we gazed. She smiled, so did I. As a sheep is tied and led by a shepherd: to greener pastures or to the slaughter, she did come to sit at my table. A tale for another day dear reader.

My in-law did come and he led me to the station for us to acquire a means to his residence. "These are the National Archives." He said pacing quickly and swiftly between the masses. "Thou shall not indulge any being at this area." I heard him as I struggled behind with my luggage bumping into every shoulder. "This is Tom Mboya Street...Ronald Ngala Street." We did walk across streets and lanes. Wherever he led, I ... Mfangano Street was our stop where we boarded a bus.

Nearly out of town, a man of white collar did stand at the aisle facing the passengers. In his faded tan suit, a shirt whose buttons did struggle to hold by the threads, off-placed tie whose end tip swang by his groins, neatly combed hair and pursed lips, he studied each of us. In his hands, he fervently held to sacred texts. As if to lift off the floor, he did tip toe occasionally. Laws of the physicist against him, he almost fell forward from the sudden thrust of the bus but he held to a seat metal bar with one hand, the other holding to the texts now pressed to his chest, and he profoundly spake, "I greet ye in the name of our Savior, dear brethren." Alas! A reverend. A follower of Christ. Leading or being led, we're all followers of something. As Romans say, let us therefore follow after the things which make for peace and things wherewith one may edify another.