32 Days of Christmas: Day 28
Beyond the devils who wear akala, there are many other species of people you encounter when you travel upcountry. Maybe it’s just that the land of Ochuonyo attracts a special brand of characters, but I’d like to believe it’s not unique to us.
Like anywhere else, there are people who are always on the move, walking with tiny bags slung over their backs. Quiet couriers of an essential product in any economy. They exist in Karachuonyo too, to my initial surprise.
Earlier this year, while waiting for a few guests for my sister’s nyombo, I stood outside to direct them to our home, which sits squarely in the middle of literal nowhere. As we waited, I struck up a conversation with one of my homeboys, Sam, who was looking after the homestead at the time.
“Do you know this is also a meeting point for ‘product’ buyers?” he said, pointing at an old slab of concrete, which I assumed was the remnant of a well.
At first I didn’t understand what he meant by product. He had said it in some deep Luo term. It was only when he elaborated that it clicked: John “the Gospel” Dixon’s products had long reached the shores of Lake Victoria and were circulating freely through the semi-arid stretches of Karachuonyo.
“You mean there’s snow in Otaro?” I asked, genuinely shocked. [Otaro is our market]
“No, not snow,” he replied. “That one’s too expensive for locals. There’s the normal kind.”
“Normal kind?” I repeated. I don’t use that stuff, so I had no idea what counted as normal and what didn’t. To me it was all very much not normal.
“Ile ya kuchew..”
“Oh,” I said, nodding as if enlightenment had just descended upon me.
“You’d be surprised how far drugs travel, even into remote areas,” Sam continued. “Pedis have their supply chain figured out.”
It turned out we were standing at the exact point where most of the area’s trade quietly changed hands. The abandoned well sat at a junction linking Otaro to a narrow dirt highway. Local boys with small bags passed through casually, and with nothing more than a twitch of the eyebrows, they could tell who was a customer and who wasn’t.
It was around 7 pm, and pitch black. The only light came from my phone screen. The thick canopy of trees formed looming silhouettes, making the place feel cold, eerie, and slightly unsafe. A part of me, despite the fear pulsing through my veins, half-wished one of the product-moving boys would pass by and offer us something, just so I could witness firsthand how that particular corner of the economy functioned.
But Sam told me they only operate during the day. It’s easier then, he said, to tell a cop from a customer.
Still, it would have been interesting to see how that trade truly unfolds.
✍🏽Reagan.