It must have been when I was about six or seven years old, when I had come back home to Bungoma from my grandmother’s in Kisumu, where I was enrolled at school. Noorali uncle was going to come for a visit from Nakuru, an event of great anticipation and excitement, since we hadn’t seen him for a couple of years. We got into the car, Mum and Dad and I, and made our way to the bus stop, a little ways out of town. After waiting for what seemed like an interminably long time, a bus arrived, and no Noorali uncle disembarked. The driver said he had not picked up a passenger of his description in Nakuru.

I said, he’s waiting at the train station.

No, Mum and Dad said, he said he was coming by bus.

But he’s waiting at the train station, I said.

She’s just a child, how can she know, Mum said to Dad.

Dad waited a while, fired up the car again, and set off towards the train station, quite a distance away.

You’re making a mistake, Mum said.

He was there.

I still don’t know how I knew.

Advertisements