By the Idler-in-Chief
The Nyagenke nation has a new darling.
The babe on rails is Nyagenke Express, a metallic snake that slithers from the coast of Nyagenke to the capital in fewer hours than it once took to cook proper porridge.
It’s shiny, one-metre-gauge, and so sleek I’m convinced it glides on butter rather than rails.
The engineers call it a modern marvel; the Idler-in-Chief calls it a tamed dragon with a schedule.
Of course, it’s an upgrade from our ancient Nyagenke Lunatic, that gallant relic from the first decade of the last century, which ran on firewood, fumes, and sheer optimism.
The Lunatic was never just transport; it was a moving theatre of survival, its wooden coaches rattling so loudly that conversation was replaced by interpretive shouting, and no wonder strangers confuse our conversations with shouting.
In those days, some travellers sat, others stood, and a few dangled from the doorway like scarecrows.
The fare ladies, resplendent in resilience, roamed the carriages collecting coins and glances in equal measure.
Tickets were hand-torn from what looked like recycled sugar paper, and your fare depended on your charm, your nose, or your blood relation to the driver.
Booking in advance? Nonsense.
You simply turned up, shouted your destination, and hoped the gods and the driver were listening.
So you can imagine my awe when I first boarded the new metallic serpent to the coast.
Luxurious seats, digital screens, and a harmless voice that politely told you not to litter in English, Kiswahili, and what I suspect was broken German.
I couldn’t understand why Kinyagenke, the dominant language of the Nyagenkeans was left out and my protest note must be rotting in their feedback box.
-The Idler-in-Chief
Coffee arrived in proper cups instead of thermos lids, and the restroom smelled less like a political rally in the rain and more like fruits eating joint.
The train even had Wi-Fi which, true to Nyagenke spirit, occassionaly vanished mysteriously as we reduced geographical distance to our destination.
But nostalgia is a stubborn companion.
On my way back, I betrayed the serpent for the Lunatic, that ageing iron grandmother still parked at the NiKimau terminus.
Her body was scarred but proud, her engine wheezed like a market goat that swallowed polythene.
When she roared to life, passengers turned not out of curiosity, but to confirm that the apocalypse hadn’t begun.
Seats creaked, windows sulked, and one had to mind his head, lest it knocked the neighbour’s.
Halfway through, the Lunatic broke into its trademark dance; a rhythmic convulsion caused by uneven tracks and mischief.
The left side rose to the heavens, the right side dipped into reflection, and for a brief moment, I saw passengers clapping as if their ancestors had waved from beyond.
When the brakes screeched, chickens scattered, children screamed, sinners remembered their catechism and I prayed for my back.
I swear, if you could bottle that sound, it could halt a political scandal mid-signing.
Now that the good people of Nyagenke dream of upgrading to an electric train, I fear progress may steal our noise, our chaos, our identity.
For what’s a silent train to a people whose national anthem is composed entirely of honks, hoots, and hopeful prayers?
Yes, the Nyagenke Express may symbolise progress, but give me the Lunatic any day: loud, unpredictable, and gloriously alive.
For in that rickety ride lies our history, our humour, and our eternal faith that however rough the journey, we shall arrive, eventually.