JIJI NDOGO: Fun times on the SGR to Mombasa

If you ask me, the government is trying to not only get the biggest bang for its buck, but also to justify a mammoth project that is as useful as the extinct animal.

I mean, what’s the purpose of building a beautiful road to nowhere? So what if there is a standard gauge train that is cheaper than taking a bus? So what if it makes regular reliable trips every day connecting two major cities. What reason do I have to ride it? Nothing else has changed either in Mombasa or along the way.

“Look, a giraffe,” Sophia says, pointing to a herd of the majestic animals. “Such a pity that local tourism is still so damn expensive,” she adds, echoing my thoughts.

“How come giraffes have such long necks?” I ask her, hoping to lighten the mood.

“A process of evolution that gives them the advantage of accessing the shoots at the tops of the trees which are greener and sweeter?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I have a much simpler explanation that makes more sense.”

She squares up to me. “And what is your explanation, Makini? I’m dying to hear it.”

“Well, as the story goes, long ago, giraffes had a neck very similar to that of a cow. Then one day, papa giraffe had the balls to get into an argument with Chuck Norris.”

“What?” Sophia’s eyes grew to the size of table tennis balls. “The same Chuck Norris from the movies?”

“Yes. Delta Force 1 and 2, Hellbound… That Chuck. Will you let me finish? So this giraffe thinks it can take on the Norris, right? Makosa. Chuck delivers an upper cut so strong it stretches the giraffe’s neck to six feet. Forever.”

In one of quite rare occasions, Sophia laughs at my joke.

“You’re so silly,” she says. “Tell me another one.”

“Okay.” I think for a while. “Do you know what baboons have red bottoms?”

“I don’t know, Makini. Why do they?”

“I’ll tell you. One day an old baboon was running away from a lion. It got to a slope, fell on its buttocks, and slid all the way to the bottom. It escaped the lion, but its buttocks were scratched so much they became red and bloody.

“When the baboon children saw this, they began laughing and pointing at the old baboon grandpa. The other adults decided to teach the kids a lesson. They got hold of their legs and dragged them along a hard surface, scratching their bottoms, too.”

“And so all the other kid baboons were born with red rear sides?” she says.

“Nope. Every baboon mother and father have to drag their small baboon child against some rocks to make their bottoms red.”

Sophia laughs so hard tears jet out of her eyes.

“You know what?” she says, wiping her face with a handkerchief. “They should do that with humans, too.”

“You mean, drag infants against rocks to make their bottoms bleed?”

“Not infants. Grown-ups. A way to mark someone guilty of something. Imagine how easy our jobs would be if every perp was marked with a sign of their earlier crimes?”

“I’ve heard that they cut off one of a thief’s hands in Muslim countries.”

She considers it for a moment. “Maybe not something that extreme.”

“You know what I’d like? Politicians tattooed every time they tell a lie.”

We laugh, and I think, “This journey will be alright.”