The Old Man of Timau

On one of my frequent forays into Laikipia I have the usual craving for roasted meat. The bovines around here are big and healthy. And for a committed carnivore, I know just the place where the nyama choma is to die for. For clueless Nairobians, the secret to enjoying a Nanyuki roast is to travel by road to this pearl of Mount Kenya region. This ensures that you are at the right pitch of hunger to comfortably put away half a kilo of prime roast. And no, friends, please don’t ask again. There is no bump when you cross the Equator!! If your geography teacher didn’t clear that up, there is scant hope for you.

Wafts of ‘meaty’ smoke deliciously assail my nostrils while I wait for my order. It is lunchtime and all around me everyone is engaged in the serious business of meat eating. My quarter pound arrives, straight from the grill, on a wooden platter; the obligatory kachumbari a little mound on the side. For health conscious people this is certainly not the place to patronize. The meat is literally half fat, glistening and dripping on the board before me. A cholesterol-inducing, heart-stopping, delicious piece of heaven. I’ve barely said hello to the meat when I am conscious of a figure looming at my elbow. The waiter, I expect, with the complimentary vegetables. But no. An unkempt old man with a watery gaze asks if he may have a few pieces of my meat. I am furious that the management here can allow this intrusion on their diners. I studiously ignore the old man and after a while he shuffles off slowly to the next table. I rage inside. Such an outrage would never pass in Nairobi. I swear to myself never to step into this crummy joint again. Undeterred my interloper has stopped at the next table. A couple, with a suitcase at their feet, turn as the old man repeats his supplication. The man extends a welcoming hand and pulls up a chair for the old man. Suddenly my meat has lost its appeal. I have read about a meal becoming tasteless midway. It has never happened to me. Well, there is a first time for everything. The casual chitchat the couple and the old man engage in is like a hot dagger piercing my stricken conscience. I leave the meat half-eaten and slowly make my way to the door. I hardly know where I’m going and I know it will be some days before I am fit to live with myself again. I have turned a hungry soul from my laden table. There is probably no greater ‘sin’ that one can commit.

The following morning I am walking towards the library when I spot the old man, blinking in the harsh  glare, standing undecided on a patch of grass. There is no doubt in my mind as to what I must do. It is indeed a friendly universe. Here, barely eighteen hours after my sorry gaffe, is a chance to redeem myself! There is no sign of recognition in the watery eyes. The multiple layers of old and barely serviceable clothing do little to camouflage the thin frame that age and deprivation have sculpted. I extend my hand and the weak handshake is accompanied by a toothy grin. He asks for a few coins for breakfast but I need to know who this stranger is. This man who abruptly came between me and my conscience just a few hours ago. I assure him that I am not a Council employee and we sit on the little patch of grass and he sketches out that age-old tale of a succession of failed crops in Timau, an impatient wife and ingrates for offspring. Nanyuki seemed the last-gasp option; even a job as a night guard would have been welcome. But potential employers cast a jaundiced eye on his advanced age and he has been begging for his food ever since, a twelvemonth and a half ago. Apparently his family has made no efforts to trace him but his will is to return to his land and die there, he tells me. Every wayfarer’s wish, I guess. Friendly watchmen have made him welcome and he always has a fire to warm himself by, come nightfall. I buy the breakfast and a little extra and I promise to be on the lookout for him tomorrow. His effusive thanks embarrass me when I remember yesterday’s faux pas.

Third morning in this delightful town, but needs must. Nairobi calls and I must leave. Crossing the park, the fates decree that I must meet my friend one last time. He is seated on one of the dusty benches rolling a cigarette with a brown scrap of paper. He looks up when I approach and makes a vain attempt to hide the half-made ‘smoke’. I quickly put him at his ease. What am I now? A figure of authority to him that he feels the compulsion to behave? The gods are determined to humble me. I offer to pay a passage to Timau, but the mzee elects to ‘hang around’ for a while longer and head down home when the rains come. I am not sure that I have fully squared my account with the universe. One thing is for sure, though. I will never forget you, old man. I hope you are well and back with your family. I hope the crop has finally come in and you are comfortable in your skin once again. And thank you for lesson.

 

 

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