From the archive: Valentino Rossi wins on a Kenya Power ‘honda’.

(Here’s one from back in the days when I was a little brat. A brat whom my mum had no easy time controlling. I also realize now that I had a knack of making positives from everything. Like I said, I love detours)

It’s a cool sato afternoon and we’ve just finished a game of football in the estate. Who won? Our team scored three goals and broke a window (bonus points). And the other team got seven goals. The broken window ended the game because the ball was confiscated.

So what do we do next? We decide to have a bike race. Since, we are from just below that ka-line economists cal poverty line, I don’t have a bike to race with. But I’m determined to race like crazy.

One of my pals who’s way above the poverty line apparently has two bikes. But this other bike is the one he rode when he was in standard three. He’s in six now and has a bigger badder bike.

So it’s my pal who’s name is Moses in his bad bike, Mwangi with his new Foxbat BMX (a BMX that stunned us all), Harold on his miniature blackee, Pato, the Zambian kid, on a monster of a bike (up to today, I don’t know what make it was. It could do zero to hundred metres in 6 seconds) and me, with the borrowed hand-me-down bike.

I need to tell you this bike is small. A bike that is reaching a kid in standard six at the knees is not a very big bike. And the compe here is made up of experienced riders (these mongos…guys, have been riding since they were littler)

The route is simple. Round the block once.

We are all on the starting line. Harold has poised himself in a streamlined fashion. Pato is cool. And he should be. Mwangi is into flossing his bike (it still smells of Cycle Mart). I’m in for the ride. I know, I’ll never win. Only Moses is worried. He likes to compete plus he’s not sure if the bike I’m using can handle my weight.

Back in those days we were anti-girls like a problem, so there’s no ‘Fast n Furious. Ngummo edition’ moment of a chick with a hankie flagging us off. Some kid going for his four o’clock tea (remember those) shouts “GO” and we’re off.

Last off the blocks is me, evidently. For the first hundred metres my view is a clean set of bike tires and Mwangi’s wrinkled butt. (that boy’s pants sagged even before they were a fashion.

I’m enjoying the ride when just before we hit the first corner I hear a screech. This is a blind corner and some car happened to be coming. There was pande (pandemonium for those negroes who don't gitch).

Harold who is nearly hit by the car swerves hard right almost forcing Pato into their own fence (Christmas tree fence…). Mwangi does an involuntary scramboo. Moses masterly weaves around the car. I on the other hand, has all the time in the world to check out the scene. My bike is so slow, even braking hard wouldn’t make as much as a squeak.

We are past hurdle one. Harold isn’t. he’s so shocked he can’t continue with the race. I leave him behind saying his prayers (his dad’s a pastor).

One down. Three way ahead and one still slowly ambling along.

As I approach the third bend, I see Pato and Mwangi coming back. The route is round the block, kwani…

They zoom past me and my bike shakes under me. But I hang on. I hear Pato shouting ‘chokoras’.

I then understand their sprint back. These guys have cool bikes and they don’t want them stolen.

Two more down.

Where’s Moses?

Si I told you Mose is competitive. He ain’t letting some shabby looking boys from the ghetto (I grew up in Ngummo, Kibera is just around the corner) stop him winning this one.

Needless to say, Mose did get by them. He was in the lead and he took them by surprise.

By the time me and my 2cc bike hit corner three, the chokoras are long gone. And anyway, I know they can’t take such a teeny weeny little bike. And I’m just in time to see Mose go the wrong route.

Surely how hard were the instructions? Round the block. ROUND THE BLOCK! ROUND? Mose is going straight.

So now it’s just me in the race.

Me. Valentino Rossi (you should have heard the vroom vrooms I was unleashing…Subaru kando) on my Kenya Power motorcycle wins the 500cc grand prix.

When, however, I finally reach the finish line, everyone else has gone. It’s just Mose left and he’s fuming. ‘Coz he lost his way and the race? No, ‘coz, I’m making him late for his four o’clock tea.

Just another of my many unnoticed moments of fame.