It’s been almost a week and a half since I settled in Isiolo
County, North Eastern Province.I know this is not geographically correct but the weather here feels like Northern Kenya. I had been longing for this moment for over a
fortnight and the chance had finally presented itself .However, a week down the
line a lot has transpired that’s left me unsettled and appalled. Usually, when
I move to a new region, I settle and blend in almost immediately. My experience
this time thou has proved quite overbearing for my comfort.
I have been putting up in Moti hotel, one of the town’s
finest. From my room I have a very clear view of the town. Isiolo is a one
street town, entailing all the main amenities of a headquarter including government
offices, banks, supermarkets, hardware, boutiques and wholesale shops .I would
be accurate to state that, one can easily manoeuvre around the whole town in an
hour. Thou small, Isiolo town has a 24hour economy, with a bee hive of
activities, mostly miraa trading, boda
boda businesses and travel services. Its major inhabitants include the Borana and Meru people.
The physical outlook of the town out did what I had pictured
it to be. If someone had asked me before, about my expectations I would have
immediately said that, it was a desert town with only one or two shops. This is
not to mean that I have fallen in love with the town, because a lot has got me
feeling like I should pack my bags and leave.
On my day of arrival, I had an undying craving for my
cultural staple food ‘githeri.’ With an interest of getting to discover the
town, I walked by a nearby restaurant and opted to go in. It was around 8.30pm
and there was still a myriad of activities like it was daytime. The restaurant
was filled to capacity and I could hardly find a convenient sitting space. Before
hunting for a seat my eye noticed deplorable hygiene conditions and poor
lighting. The floor was sticky and the arrangement quite haphazard. Choosing to
ignore these flaws, I modestly walked to one of the empty seats. ’You are probably just overthinking it,’ my
inner goddess whispered. I possibly wasn’t going to let my mind think of my
immediate encounters, lest I would sleep hungry.
A lady dressed in brown waitress uniform, with untidy hair
and a blouse higgledy-piggledy tucked approached my table. ‘’Nikuletee nini
madam?’ she asked. ‘’Niletee githeri’’ I requested. ‘’Githeri imeisha madam, naweza
kuletea nini ingine?’ she added.’’Sidhani kuna kitu ingine nataka’’ I said,
while standing to leave. It was already 8.45pm, obviously getting late, but I
still determined to get my 'githeri'. A few meters away was another restaurant, which
more or less looked like the other one. I walked in and made myself comfortable
at one of the tables close to the entrance.
The interior was ‘same script different cast.’ I was
starting to get concerned on how such hotels could possibly be at the epitome
of the Kenyatta Avenue of Isiolo. Hotels of such stature should be hidden
behind shops along some God forsaken street. Still, I couldn’t find githeri,
same story as the other hotel. With no hope of finding my craving supressing
regiment, I bought a snack and a long-life packet of milk and went back to my hotel
of residence. A week later, I am still told ‘githeri
imeisha’
After taking eternity to get ready, I went to the hotel
dining hall to have breakfast. I had fallen in love with this hotel; she was
classy, clean and homely. Better still, the breakfast setting was mouth-watering
and to add the cherry on top, It was self-service. This literally took my mind off
my previous, almost hideous experience .Just after I had taken a deep calm
breath and started to devour my cereals, a tall old looking man walked into the hall. He looked like he had been dragged out of bed to come have
breakfast. As if he just had to ruin my serenity, he started interrogating me.
'Hi, am Ali, where are you transiting to?’ he asked. I really wanted to ignore
him, but how could I when I was the only one in the hall. ‘’Hi, I am beth. Working
in Isiolo,’’ I plainly answered. ‘’Do you like Isiolo? You like eating healthy?
Kindly serve me some sausages?’ I could live through another day answering the
rest of the questions, but asking me to serve him some sausages was
chauvinistic, lame, lousy and any other adjective you can attach to these. It
was insulting, both to my gender and pride. What a culture he upholds, which
allows him to blatantly ask a lady to serve him in a ‘HOTEL.’
You can call me arrogant, because I literally ignored the
hell out of him, but I wasn’t having it. What could you possibly tell such a
man? Worse still, he was feeding off clumsily with his unwashed hands, falling
off small droppings on the table. It was such a disturbing site to watch. Never
had I seen an adult eat like a toddler. My day had a chance of having a perfect
start but these experiences couldn’t let me have enough.
With my workstation being across the road, I didn’t have a
long distance to cover. As I set out to walk, I noticed that I received glares
from everyone I walked past. It was rather uncomfortable, especially since I
did not know why I was being stared at. ‘’Hiyo nguo ni fupi sana’ one lady
approached me and said. For crying out loud, my dress was knee length, how
could it possibly be short? My Kiambu people should have complained by now or
given me long glares but I have never heard such sentiments about my very
descent dress.
Immediately that phase was over, I kept noticing a lot of
people spitting on the ground and snorting. At first, I thought it was a few-people
ill kind of behaviour, until I noticed dozens of people doing the same. ‘Someone call the health officers!’ My
mind yelled. It was only a few metres to the office but it felt like I had just
walked the longest 100metres of my life. This was only the second day and
everything was proving unbearable. I couldn’t believe that what looked absurd
to me was normal to certain people. I am however still learning the robes and
hoping to adjust as fast as I can.
You know you are not widely travelled when you’re bewildered
by a totally contrastive culture.
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