When the World Cup came to an end on December 18, and the football fanatics went back home to their angry wives, Mrembo and I remained in high business tide to serve other guests of Happy Valley countryside—the Christmas visitors from Nairobi.
Granted, Christmas is the most awaited season in the calendar of the Happy Valley countryside and their lucky relatives in Nairobi. Here, we love visitors, especially visitors from Nairobi, and we always eagerly wait for them.
As you obviously know, Happy Valley is in the heart of darkness of the Aberdare ranges in Nyandarua County. The annual ritual migration to ushagu by our relatives from the ‘city of many lights’ sparks the much needed lightning process. The visitors electrify the shags with the latest trends in the fashion industry ranging from clothes, shoes, hairstyle, phones, and, of course, cars.
Now, our Nairobian relatives suffer from a malady called ‘ASSS—Acute Social Status Syndrome’. The patient suffers from a pathological thirst to make impressions to real and imaginary observers. At Happy Valley, the Nairobians go to any length to show off, reducing the whole meaning of Christmas to a fashion show.
Impeccable sources tell of various ways in which some of the Nairobians save money throughout the whole year for the sole purpose of coming to ‘electrify’ the village and the ‘children of a lesser God’. One of the most hilarious is the use of a ‘fool’s tin’, otherwise known as a piggy bank. They drop every small change into the tin and wait until the Christmas holiday to open it. When Christmas comes, the ‘fool’s tin’ is opened and the fella will go on a spending spree.
Either out of jealousy or serious concern, some of us at Happy Valley have been deriding Nairobians for bringing very little to the village but taking a lot on their trip back to Nairobi. Some creatives have flooded WhatsApp, Facebook, Instagram, TikTok and Twitter with memes warning Nairobians to change their unwelcome ways. But my financial hawk eyes refuse to see the negative side of our visitors, and only see the positive one. After all, our forefathers said that a visitor is like a river.
Yours truly is all set to welcome the visitors and help them navigate Happy Valley’s rough terrain. As you know, we survive with cow tracks for roads. And with the God of rain having opened the taps of heaven, the countryside has virtually been cut off from the rest of civilisation. That is the gap that I come to fill with my pre-historic weather and terrain tested and proven Volkswagen Beetle, alias, Concorde.
Our visitors, who, in their urge to make impressions walk on air, will certainly find the Concorde airlifts indispensable. That goes to even those with cars, most from car hire companies. Their ‘plastic’ second-hand Japanese imports will not make it a few metres from the end of the tarmac road at the county headquarters.
Our conversation with the sonkos from the city usually goes something close to this.
I have since learned to converse with them in sheng. “Niko poa boss. Niambie,” I reply.
“Nataka uwapeleke hawa nyumbani,” the fella says. As the directions to the home are given, I am already packing their luggage into Concorde’s boot.
“Pesa ngapi bila kunifinya sana?” he asks.
“Hapo ni thao mbili mwisho,” I answer.
“Hakuna diabo, bola wafike wakiwa hai,” the fella will pay up and bid the wife and children farewell. He will then saunter towards Happy Valley to start the show-off competition.
At Happy Valley, the tables of the Nairobians are densely populated with expensive beer and mizinga. So in the evening at Happy Valley, I am well taken care off. The revellers still require my Concorde to fly home.
“Shugulikia yule pilot wa ndege ya nyumbani,” they often tell the waiters. After the delivery of my favourite desires, the man will come to announce his generosity. “Bora usisahau tunaenda nyumbani.”
“No worry brother, I know myself and my car,” I assure him.
The ritual merrymaking will last for two days until Christmas day and die that very evening. Wambu, the lead usher at Happy Valley, knows what needs to be done at such times of bumper harvest. The game involves secretly withdrawing the excess bottles and entering them in my ‘stock’ records. I shall make good use of the stock during the dry spell of January.
You can now see why I am not in the camp of those making silly jokes about our philanthropic visitors. I see the cup as half full, not half empty. This is my time to make the Christmas period comfortable for our visitors and also weighty for my pockets. That is Mr. Survivor for you. Welcome one, welcome all!
