Have you travelled long distance on public means? More so, at night? It's not the best time to take malicious lessons from the universe.
I had a nasty experience on a night bus from Mombasa to Nairobi.
For some reason, we love to treat ourselves when travelling. Before departure, you snack on oily, fried chicken in a fast food cafe pavement.
Remember, this is the 'steroid' chicken - the darn bird takes a whole of three weeks from the hatchery, to the cafe's deep frier. You add an escort dish - chips, on the side. That's junk, with a stew of junk.
Since bad decisions always need a bedfellow, you down it with a packet of cold UHT milk. The bus departs, from the booking offices at Mwembe Tayari.
Before you've cleared the perennial traffic snarl up at Jomvu, you've started shifting in your seat. The gas is building up. Lethal stomach gases. You ignore it. All is well. You manage a nap, towards 10pm.
Things start happening a few miles towards Voi. You awaken from the shifty slumber. Your stomach is grumbling, and not from anger.
You suddenly notice that the bus has aircon. Worse, there's a lady across the aisle donning some really strong Eastleigh body spray. It becomes a pain. You are fidgeting - and hoping to see the sights of Voi - there's supposed to be a stop over, right?
You have your fingers crossed. Dear Lord, let there be a stop over, at Voi. Except, your ancestral gods seem to be napping. The Voi intersection flips past your window seat in a blur.
It's now some godforsaken wasteland between Voi and Mtito Andei. Mtito is the traditional stop over for night buses. But, it's easier for a camel to squeeze through the eye of a needle - than you getting to Mtito Andei in one, decent piece.
Mtito, be damned. You squeeze from your seat into the aisle. You sprint to the front of the bus. The bus conductor is sprawled near the door, on a piece of dirty mattress. The guy is snoring! You lean on the rails, behind the driver and beg him to stop.
"Sawa mzee, hapo mbele tu. Hapa kuna wezi sana (It is okay, I will stop just ahead, it is much safer there)", the driver says.
He's middle-aged, Swahili. They are usually even-tempered.
You jog from one leg to the other. There's a volcano threatening to burst from your nether regions. Thankfully, a couple of miles down, the driver stops. On condition, though.
If bandits materialise from the bush, he takes off. He'd rather sacrifice you, than risk an entire busload of passengers - napping passengers. Bandits? You wouldn't care if it was finally time for the Apocalypse.
You bolt out of the bus. It's the plains. There are no bushes in sight. Who cares? You sprint a few meters from the idling bus - holding it in - hardly breathing. You rip your blue jeans to the knees, and squat. Such relief.
The sounds from your bottom? Well, read of the historic 1940's bombing of The Pearl Harbour by the Japanese? Close. A few passengers still awake in the bus stare at you. But, hey, no one knows you, right?
A fleeting image of a photo of you - crouching - trending on social media startles you. It's dark - but, now and then, passing cars shine a full beam on you. Just a split second, but, still... Pesky Kenyans not minding their business.
The bowels are slow, and hesitant. The bus is stirring awake. The driver is getting impatient.
A steady rhythm and tremors on the ground startles you. Suddenly, a huge, single beam of light rounds a rock face, hurtling towards you. It's a train's headlight. The rails run parallel to the highway, remember?
In your haste, you had jumped over the rail. It doesn't take the train much time to reach you. Before you can pause your bowel business, the train is between you and the highway, and your bus.
Tragedy. And, it's a cargo train. The wagons go on and on, in that rhythmic rattle of the railway. The noise cannot let you shout to the impatient conductor, and the now visibly agitated passengers.
After what seems like an eternity, which you spent in a halfway crouch - furtively checking all sides - the last wagon rattles by. This place is infested with buffalos and hyenas - for whom, sir, your bum is literally, a piece of cake.
Oh, you forgot tissue paper. There's a roll in the overhead luggage compartment. Option? Nasty, thorny bushes. No, pass. A rock? Come on.
Necessity brings innovation, right? You are wearing a vest. It's white, fairly brand new. You fling it off your head, and wipe clean your bottom - with it.
"Hurry up, you fool!" The perfumed lady shouts.
You head back to the bus. You have used up close to 45 minutes, crapping in the Tsavo - with a busload of angry passengers staring at you.
Damn, that vest had no mileage on it.
