Chivalry and Kidero.

When it comes to matatus and Nairobbery storms, chivalry died unmourned. If you think I am talking through my hat because you think you are the last Knight in Shining Mercedes-Benz Armour, perhaps you are that "gentleman" who demonstrated just how wide the back left wheel really was last evening outside the Hilton. The two Mama Mbogas boarding the No. 46 to Kawangware really appreciate your chivalrous decision to demonstrate its all-weather characteristics.

Uncle Kidero is a lost cause. It's not as if he is totally unaware that his governemnt is responsible for surface drains and should crack the whip when the Nairobi Water Company screws up the sewers. Anyway, because of Uncle Kidero's lackadaisical approach to all manner of drainage problems, there are few places where a Nairobian can walk with confidence once the heavens open.

I was just strolling casually under my massive umbrella towards that chaotic terminus known as Ambassaduer. I was in no hurry. It was raining and speed risked getting my pants legs wet from the rain. I was taking my time. I knew that even if I hurried, there were certain immutable facts about Ambassadeur. One, all, and I mean ALL, women would be under the awnings of the dukas along Moi Avenue. Two, because the pavement has been dug up by so many of Unlcle Kidero's contractors, it is a mud-pit every time the rains come and no woman is going to endanger her shoes to that quagmire unless her baby is being eaten by hyenas. Not even then, perhaps. No matter how much dawdling I did, if the rain kept falling, there was no chance I'd miss my bus.

Men, on the other hand, didn't seem to mind dashing madly, hither and thither, their suits getting soaked more and more. Nor did they seem to mind trudging through Uncle Kidero's mud-pits. They all seemed rushed and stressed and prickly all at once. So as I approached the chaos formed by sundry Citi Hoppas, City Shuttles, KBSs and taxis, I saw this determined man pushing forward though the pouring rain, determined to make it to his bus. This adventurous gaggle of women in front of him seemed like a minor inconvenience, I thought, and he would go around them.

That is when it happened. The rain and the noise and the cold faded away, like That Moment in a John Woo film. Time slowed down. He simply thrust his hand forward between the fat one and the skimpily-clad one and shoved the fat one aside like one hands off a pesky opponent on the rugby pitch. He must have used great strength because she went flying back. She instinctively grabbed the third woman in her group, the quiet one who didn't seem to have been paying attention, and pulled her along, all the while the skimpily-clad one's mouth was agape in shock and fear, I think. 

He didn't pause. He didn't look back. He had spotted his bus. He jumped on board, pulled out a hankie and proceeded to mop his disheveled and sodden features. He was totally oblivious to the chaos he had wreaked. He didn't observe the aftermath, with the three women attempting to straighten out each others' outfits, or the fact that no one paid them any mind in the midst of this assault. You could tell they were upset, not by their raised voices but by how they kept stealing fearful looks around them every few seconds while trying to appear calm. Chivalry is dead. And not to pile on, but I blame Uncle Kidero.