Eid.

Today, the 14^th day of May, Muslims the world over mark with immense celebration the end of the Holy Month of Ramadan. It’s the first time I get to experience the nearly palpable emotion around this day because, in the main, of all the towns I’ve been to, Mombasa stands out as far as Muslim population goes (I bet they make slightly over 40 percent of the total population) and two, this is the first Eid I spend outdoors. There is remarkable joy on the face of every Muslim I encounter. They are easily identifiable today, more than any other day. Women are dressed in colorful boubous and hijabs, their hands adorned with golden jewelry and henna decorations and exchanging spirited “Eid Mubarak!” and “Salaam Aleikum!” greetings unlike in the past 30 days where at this time of the day, they would sound so weak, as though the voices were being forced from deep underneath layers of empty intestines and not from the neck which is where the voice box is located. I wish the latter was a universal greeting!

I prefer the Kisauni to Mtambo route because the former is relatively shorter. Kisauni, for your information, is the home to the notorious Wakali Kwanza gang. And possibly few other gangs. When here, you must resist the urge to answer a phone call, or check if so and so has responded to your Whatsapp message. Housing is affordable, but your security is your responsibility, quite literally. I would liken Kisauni to Githurai, or Murang’a Road except here, there exists just an equal measure of kindness. Which is to say, one is not necessarily wary of asking for help. Unlike in Nairobi. Notably, I’ve never seen a higher number of Masjids in my neighborhood. Kisauni has Masjids just a stone’s throw away from each other. Today, I challenge myself to count those by the road if I manage to remain in the present for as long as we’ll be on the Kisauni stretch.

I ignore calls by conductors of the Mtambo route matatus and hop onto a nearly filled one facing “Kisauni-wards”. The good thing is that here, it is uncommon to be harassed for choosing, unlike in Nairobi. Good thing? Why must basic decency be praised? Huh!

I notice that I’m the only Christian, sorry, non-Muslim in this Matatu. Now every time I’m aware of otherness, I sit back and switch on my eavesdropping devices- Swahili conversations are very sweet to listen to-. Caveat; feelings of otherness here is purely a matter of choice. No one makes you feel like you do not belong. It is warm, down here (pun intended?).

The car starts to move slowly and I remember my self-imposed assignment. I begin to count by heart as soon as we pass the first Mosque. One… two… three… then the driver takes a diversion to evade the snarl up. This road is generally narrow and today, for obvious reasons, there’re so many people moving town wards.

“Not a good day to travel”, I mutter to myself

I have to say that because of what Kisauni is known for, I’m usually in a perpetual visceral apprehension along this stretch. I treat everybody, every move with suspicion. Anytime the car stops, my nerves are triggered. Which has me wondering why I keep choosing this route in the first place. Well, it is possibly because the apprehension is unhinged. It is not clinical.

I’ve been in that state of recreating past scenes, imagining worst case scenarios, and wondering why I never slapped some people when I should have, when I realize that our driver is involved in a heated exchange with another driver. Is it because of obstruction? I missed the trigger. Thankfully, unlike in Nairobi, fights here hardly get physical. They are mostly verbal, loaded with expletives. Ours is clearly more verbally aggressive. He hurls insults with the ease of familiarity. To clinch it, he shouts; ‘Kuma’ which is the Swahili word for Vagina. He is not the first person I’ve heard using this word as an insult here which has me wondering what in this glorious organ that makes unparalleled pleasure and procreation possible, is so insulting!

I realize that we are at the heart of Kisauni. There seems to be no road ahead. And the engine has stopped. There are children playing ball, others trying to give directions. My pulse quickens. I search other passengers’ faces for a sign. They all look unbothered. And once more, I become awareness of otherness. When you are fairly new here, you are bound to be irked by such things as delays, slow services and this kind of thing, most of which are not an anomaly to residents. The height of this drama has to be where out conductor reaches for an ignition key from a random motorcyclist and hands it to the driver, who then uses it to start the car. What the fuck?

The engine roars back to life and in no time we are on a clearer path. You can imagine my relief as the vehicle eases onto the main highway at the Bombolulu-Kisauni junction.

Eid Mubarak!