THE TRAIN RIDE

News travelled fast down our street: I was going to Kisumu for the Christmas holiday. For families like ours in the city, trips “upcountry” were rare, especially for those of us living in the slums, where life was often day-to-day, and journeys outside the city were few and far between. My friends were excited and flooded me with questions. “Do you have new clothes?” “Are you getting new shoes?” “How are you getting there?”
In most cases, families only travelled upcountry for a funeral or a major family event, so everyone was curious. I had first heard about the trip when my older siblings talked about it. They said that our family was going to visit my grandparents for the first time in my nine years of life. I had only met my grandmother a few times when she came to visit us in Nairobi, so her face was somewhat familiar. But I’d never met my grandfather, though I’d heard stories about him. People often said I looked like him, that I had his charming eyes, and some even joked that I’d inherited his playful nature. He was known to say that “women were the spice of the earth,” which always made people laugh.
When the plans were finally confirmed, I found out that I would be traveling with my father and older brother. My mother couldn’t join us right away because she worked at Cussons and couldn’t get leave until later in December. She’d join us in Kisumu two weeks after we left. My mother even bought me a new pair of jeans, a shirt, and brown boots for the trip. I was beyond excited to show off this outfit, imagining how impressed my friends would be when they saw me dressed up for the journey.
We left for Kisumu at the start of the school holidays in late November. To my delight, we would be traveling by train, a rare experience for us. My uncle, who worked with Kenya Railways, managed to get us tickets at a discount, which meant we paid only half the usual price. We arrived at the Nairobi train station around 3 p.m., checked in, and waited with other passengers. By 6 p.m., an announcement on the speakers told us the train would arrive in five minutes and would depart at 6:30 p.m. The atmosphere was alive with excitement, and people were eagerly waiting to board.
When the train finally arrived, there was a scramble to get on. People were pushing, and those who had boarded early had already taken most of the seats. My father, trying his best to keep us together, struggled to find any empty space. In the end, he decided to lift me and my brother through one of the wide train windows to make sure we got inside. I was perched on someone’s foot by the window, while my brother got pushed further into the coach.
The train began its journey right on time, leaving the Nairobi station and making its way through the streets, then into Kibera, a crowded slum area. As the train moved through the slums, I saw people going about their evening routines, cooking over fires and children playing along the railway line. Kibera’s residents were known for their bold way of getting the government’s attention; they would often uproot sections of the railway tracks whenever they felt ignored, halting train service and causing disruptions even as far as Uganda. The sight of Kibera buzzing with life was thrilling to see from the train window.
As night fell and the train approached the cooler region of Limuru, vendors began moving through the crowded aisles, selling tea, roasted maize, and boiled eggs. It was challenging to hold a hot cup of tea or unwrap a maize cob with so many people packed around. The train was so full that lifting your foot meant you risked losing your spot on the floor. Thankfully, my spot near the window allowed me a bit more comfort, and even though it was dark, I could occasionally catch glimpses of the coaches swaying as the train moved along the tracks.
Around midnight, two ticket inspectors appeared, carrying large flashlights and checking each passenger’s ticket. When they reached me, they punched two holes in my ticket and moved along. By 1 a.m., the train had slowed down as we reached Nakuru, a well-known stop and the halfway point on the journey to Kisumu. Nakuru was a place where passengers could stretch their legs, buy refreshments, and let the engine cool down.
My brother and I were carefully helped out through the window, where we joined my father on the chilly Nakuru platform. Vendors were waiting with steaming cups of milk tea, and we each enjoyed a cup. Soon after, the train horn sounded, calling everyone back. We quickly found our coach, which was ninth in the line, and climbed back through the window.
Shortly after Nakuru, near a place called Elburgon, the train suddenly came to an emergency stop. We were informed that the engine had broken down and would need to be replaced. It was now 3 a.m., and we were stuck in the middle of the forest. A replacement engine was being sent from Nakuru, but until it arrived, we were asked to stay in the train for our own safety. The hours crawled by, and in the silence of the night, I could hear the distant calls of animals, which only added to the feeling of being in the middle of nowhere.
Three hours later, with a new engine in place, the train resumed its journey, winding down the slopes of the Rift Valley. As dawn broke, I gazed out the window at the breathtaking scenery. I could see buffalo, zebras, giraffes, and gazelles dotting the plains, grazing peacefully under the rising sun. The landscape stretched out as far as I could see, a picture of untouched beauty. Just as I was lost in the view, the train entered a tunnel, casting us all into sudden darkness. But a few seconds later, we emerged back into the sunlight, and I felt a rush of excitement as the journey continued.
The train made several stops at small stations, where passengers got on and off. By the time we neared Kisumu, the sun was high in the sky. My heart pounded with excitement as I spotted the glistening waters of Lake Victoria. Finally, the train rolled into the Kisumu station, and we stepped out, tired but thrilled to have arrived.
My father quickly found a boda-boda to take us to my grandmother’s house. We rode through Kisumu’s lively streets, with bustling markets and the scent of fresh fish from the lake. By the time we reached my grandmother’s place, I was exhausted but overjoyed. My grandmother was waiting for us with a big smile. She pulled me into a warm hug, and I felt a deep sense of happiness. Finally, I had made it to Kisumu.
Over the next few days, I explored the area, met relatives I didn’t know I had, and finally met my grandfather. He was tall and had the same eyes everyone said I did. He had a warm smile, and he held my hand as he told me stories about the old days and our family’s history.