by Owade Achieng Oss Emilly  (This story has been slightly edited.)

Many, many years ago a gigantic man called Chebelion lived at Sprok in Baringo.  He was about seven feet tall and was always cool, calm and reserved.  His re, shifty eyes almost the size of tennis balls, pierced painful through you until your own eyes dropped.  He was both a blessing and menace to the community: a blessing to the good citizens by a menace to the trouble-makers.

His strength was great, strong as twenty men of average size.  He could pick up a cow stuck in a ditch as easily as you could pick up a gallon of paraffin.  He would catch a fierce, strong bull and cut off its head as quickly as you could slaughter a hen.

Mother’s had a quieting time with their babies for at the mention of the name “Chebelion”, a child would hide in his mother’s lap and stay as still and quiet as death.

During a beer part, Chebelion would sit in one corner of the room looking for trouble-makers.  If two people quarreled, he calmly went to them, took them by the scruff of their necks, and hid them under his huge armpits as a hen does with her chicken.  He would continue sipping his pombe as if nothing had happened.  If his prisoners kicked around he simple brought their heads together like fighting rams.  Even the most incorrigible trouble-maker soon kept quiet, and it was not long before Chebelion earned the name of “The People’s Peace Maker.”

One day, when Chebelion was away, a group of fire people were talking about their chief at a beer-party.

“You know I cal him a thief,” said one man.
“He is a confirmed idiot,” said another.
“He is a tyrannical devil,” agreed a third.
“There is no worse person on earth,” added another.
“Better live under a heap of burning wood than under their ear-less dog,” said the last.
And, that night they conspired to get rid of their old chief Komen.

At dawn the next day, unexpected news was bouncing lip to lip like a ball: the dictator was lying silent in a grave.  Some could hardly believe it, to them their chief had seemed immortal.  But when they saw his body, they were left with no doubt that he was indeed dead.

After a short discussion, the people unanimously agreed that Chebelio, “Peace Maker” should be Komen’s successor.  Nobody protested that an un-married person was chosen, since it was the custom to be married.  Neither did anyone raise the fact that Chebelion was reserved and a difficult character to understand what was in his oval head.  All they knew was that he was quiet, strong and hated the company of women.  The delegates were sent and he was told he was the new chief of the people of Baringo.

The morning is thrilling to see as we drive out of the city with the mountains rising before us and the warm and musky  air fragrant with the the smells  of wood smoke and ripe mangoes.   We will bump along these mountainous roads for ten hours and I want to curl up inside, but I feel it is necessary to engage in conversation.  Oh, this is the kind of ride an introvert hates.

I keep adjusting my tiger print scarf that keeps the sun off my shoulders and face as I glance at the driver.  The sun is a bright red ball hovering outside the open window.  The man’s eyes look weary as he keeps up a look-out for the police that maybe waiting just over the horizon.  The driver gives me a friendly enough smile and hasn’t looked me over since we have been on the road, so I am more relaxed.  He likes to eat and has already eaten three of the sandwiches and I regret I didn’t prepare more.    Every so often he stops to run strange errands in small villages where he raises his hands and talks to other men in  rickety stores that don’t seem to have anything for sale. Raised in Chicago, my first thought is that he must be a “booky” taking bets and collecting money.  I find it difficult to like him and wonder why.  The closest I can come is that there is a shifting quality about him, like what he says about himself and who he really is, is very different.  He tells me about the large family he must support, and about the children he has taken in to care for.  I write about him because I’m not sure what is at the bottom of my dislike.  I think I find myself harden a bit because I must resist his tales.  I don’t believe him.   I  have very little money with me (my credit card kept being denied cash even though I informed them I would be traveling in Kenya) and can’t afford to give him any extra than what I’ve already paid.  But what I really feel, is that he tells me sad stories because he sees me as a rich American.

Everywhere I look there were women lugging jugs or baskets while chickens and children follow.  I blink as I stare out at the dust and men swaying faintly like trees as they sit on the side of the road and  imagine this is what riding in a stage-coach might have felt like as we bump along the unpaved roads.

We are now crossing the equator and the only official notice is the small sign off the road.  No great fan fare on this side of Mt. Kenya, but I hear that on the other side in Uganda there is a bunch of shops, souvenir stands and hoopla.  I like the simple moment myself and would have missed it if my driver didn’t point out the sign.  It was the one time I think we were able to travel about 30 miles per hour. 

I appreciate the breeze that came in the open window for the odor of my drivers perspiring body grew along with his stomach as he ate the last of the bananas.   Still, I’m so thankful that I’m not sitting packed close to other people in a Manitoo without room to breathe and contracting every kind of germ that might be lurking in the small space with closed windows that I finally give the man twenty of the forty dollars I had left after he told me of the orphans he was supporting.  My woman’s intuition told me that he wasn’t telling the truth, but I couldn’t take the pinch in my neck from the stress of not giving him something.

The road, curves and the continuous bumping never stops.  I fear I will never reach Kilgoris.  The little mud houses beside the red snake of dirt road seems endless.  The land around the huts is cleared of trees and my driver tells me the land is cleared to make it easier to spy and kill snakes.  Every now and then we pass a small village where a woman pokes a stick  into the fire and children throw stones while men sit and stare at a lone woman as she saunters down the road, a bundle of sticks balanced on her head, looking like she can defy gravity.   I wrap my scarf over my head to keep the sun off.  It is a distant round dot in the white hazy heat and am suddenly happy at the thought that I haven’t seen a McDonald’s for weeks.

by Olepere Lemayian Jeremiah

What a wonderful place to be
The Sirua Aulo Academy
A friendly home for many
On a beautiful scenic hill.

A rocky and bushy hill
At the hilltop rested our dormitory
The ever changing climate
that encourages living.

A  place to acquire skills and values
Success often geared up
The best teachers
Always  honesty and trust.

Our morning devotions to acquire faith
The law of Divine favour
A source where we acquire knowledge
to become leaders with integrity.

The Christian values,
the law of choices,
the law of achievement,
and the determination to succeed.

Our director, volunteers from abroad
are always a blessing from God.
The quality of education we get
Forever to lead a good life.

WOW!  Surely, it is a good place
for you to be.