A Walk Through Town

Locking the pink lock on my door, I thought about the shopping list for the next few days – reminding myself that I had enough ginger and garlic (I had plans of making eggplant stir-fry for dinner that night).  I started walking on the path toward the back of the school compound, toward town, passing a group of chicken clucking and looking after the baby chicks which hatched a few days before and a group of ducks belonging to my neighbor, who I greeted with a wave. 

Exiting the school compound through a rust-colored gate, I check out the progress of the building of the secondary school that just began, noting that the walls were up, but the roof was nonexistent. I also looked over the school’s shamba and greeted some of the people who reserved a plot (some teachers and some other employees of Kibarani).  Complaints of the lack of rain and responses of the fatalistic it’s God’s will were seen in conversations between farmers in various corners of the shamba. 

Going past the shambas, I go through several lots in varying stages of completion and wealth – from half finished cement houses to complete mud huts with matching mud kitchen and mud bathroom and choo.  Trees pepper the landscape, which has become greener over the past few weeks because of the rains.

As I approach the Mombasa – Malindi road, I enter a patch of woods littered with trash and waved to a few regulars I knew only by sight.  I also nodded to a couple of boys who were trying to persuade the group of cattle to move to another spot.  

Walking onto the road, looking both ways to ensure I do not get hit by something, I cross the street and chuckle for the nth time at the town dump with the “no dumping” sign in the front of it.  I walk through a few stalls of women selling vegetables and sardines.  Nodding to a couple of the sellers, I walked down a back street, passing broken down matatus and lorries, a few goats, and a few secondhand clothing stalls.  Waving and smiling at a few cute children running around, I also waved to the women sitting around cooking street food with babies slung on their back in lesos.

Seeing the main road of the town of Kilifi appear, I started walking alongside the road, greeting the carpenter who built my bed and sitting room furniture, passing a few nyama and kuku choma joints, and then stopped to talk briefly with the Deaf man who owns a DVD booth.  A few minutes pass as we exchanged pleasantries, bemoaning that a good number of the colorful and lively stalls selling some food, lesos, and odds and ends, were removed by the government because they were deemed unsightly.  With a wave and a couple of shakes of my head, I left the DVD booth and continued walking down the now quiet street.  I stopped by the supermarket to pick up a few staples, and then went to the open-air market, with its narrow aisles and stalls manned by Kenyan Mamas. 

Looking over the variety of produce available at that time, gesturing and bargaining, I spoke with a few sellers and picked up some fresh produce to last me for a few days.   Double-checking my list, I confirmed that I had everything I needed for dinner that night, and started walking back home with a smile, thinking about cooking a great meal.