MY ‘MULTINATIONAL’ CAR THAT WONT RETIRE SOON

The jalopy I drive is a relic that deserves retirement – maybe as a jiko at Kariokor, re-imagined by some creative jua kali artisan. But since it hasn’t catapulted me to my ancestors yet, I figure, why not trust it one more time?

Its hood indicates that it was manufactured in Japan when Moi was running this Jamhuri. However, at the moment, you can’t pin its nationality. Continuous replacement of parts has made it a mongrel of car-what with a pirated clutch from China, a fuel pump pinched from a dead ex-UK car and a wiring system fashioned from old army lorries. If cars had passports, mine would need a UN diplomat.

The car has seen me through some crazy mishaps. Some other time, its accelerator jammed as I was climbing a particularly steep hill in Murang’a. I readied myself to meet my maker by saying the Lord’s prayer-which I realized I have largely forgotten. Luckily, it run out of fuel and halted.

A few days later, while coming from a rucacio ceremony where our in-laws had washed us with some punchy muratina, I almost ploughed into a coffee plantation after the car or my mind- I am not sure which- veered of the road. Bad cars have bad drivers.

But the crowning glory came last weekend. I was in the village, tending to my dairy empire (okay, two malnourished cows), when my cousin Kamaley showed up, eyes bright with a brilliant plan: “Bruh, let me buy you ‘engine’ at Giceeri’s!” Engine, by the way, is village code for a goat’s head fried to perfection and reserved for teachers, ex-pensioners, and such salaried folks.

After feasting, Kamaley borrowed my jalopy to rush somewhere briefly. Now, when a Kenyan says they need your car “just for a moment,” be warned – it’s about to haul bricks, kokoto, or a tractor over particularly rough terrain. Since he was inebriated, I refused, saying that it had a faulty clutch. Kamaley reminded me that he once drove a clutch less tractor for a year. When he realized that diplomacy wasn’t working, he resorted to verbal violence.

‘Gari ya rika na Jomo ni kitu ya kunyima mtu?’  Kamaley loudly wondered, eliciting laughter from our company. Anyway, I finally lent him the car on the agreement that he would fuel it. After four hours, he hadn’t returned and I surrendered to the fate that he had crashed the jalopy. When he finally showed up after midnight smelling of disaster, I knew my hunch was right-the car was gone.

To my relief, Kamaley reported that the car had refused to ignite several ridges away from our home. Together with Maish the mechanic, we braved the chilly night and came to it parked by the road side, its soiled seats having this strong smell of pigs. Maish opened the bonnet, sucked some pipes, then sniffed the fuel.

‘Hii ni mafuta ya mlengo’, he issued the diagnosis. Kamaley had fueled the car with adulterated fuel to save some coins, making it cough bad decisions. I suggested we go home and check it later. Kamaley quipped that it was cheaper to sell the car as scrap metal than to repair it. Luckily for him, I was too wasted to punch him.