Nothing describes Monday blues better than getting stuck at your folks’ upcountry home at the start of the week. This week fate cunningly conspired to spice up my day with a rather bitter-sweet experience—the obvious concoction of my old man, his not-so-new jalopy, and a broken engine belt.
The out-of-ordinary rapidly checked in when the farm and I joined the harmonious set-up. That did not break the steel chink of my old man’s cool demeanor, but I guess it fortified it for two valid reasons. One is that his son has conquered a million urban demons and returned in one piece. Two, that he has acquired an extra farmhand absolutely free.
I am busy putting the final touches to a peaceful but dreamless night’s slumber when I faintly hear an all-too-familiar voice calling out. I squint at the clock, and it’s 6 a.m. The earliest I put down my feet at my bedsit is 9 a.m.
The voice at first was a gentle nudge, then a command, but the bellow got me started. I kicked the duvet and punched the sheets, just trying to gather some wake-up hype. As I pass by the mirror, for a second, I just can’t figure out that ugly stranger staring back at me.
Mornings are the perfect time to confirm your facial factory settings. I forlornly stepped out to receive the morning memo from my old man.
The marching orders are fatherly but quite clear and crisp. Pick the assorted gardening tools and pack them into the jalopy. I grab a hurried breakfast, half-standing and half-seated, swallowing in gulps with eyes popping out.
On my way out of the kitchen, I decided to check my dear bedding through the keyhole. I was hoping against hope to find them weeping and wailing at my unplanned departure, but there they were, cuddling peacefully on one corner of the bed. The unbothered sight didn’t do any good to my soul, but there were more urgent matters to take care of.
The Journey to the Farm
Off we go and into the car, two eagerly looking forward to the task ahead, and the third, a reluctant tug-along. I can see hundreds of tree seedlings and a family friend Wa Mary, who has a reputation for hard work, in the co-driver’s seat.
The farm is a few kilometers away, which gives me barely enough time to get my psyche up. My old man drives us there, humming some Kikuyu traditional songs and giving me suggestive side glances. You can obviously tell there is a message he is trying to pass, and I am tempted to respond, but think it wise to let it pass.
We get to the farm, and the division of labor is immediately and accordingly done. I enjoy being at the farm as we can freely interact with Mzee. Here, he is usually in his element. Explaining tree types, planting seasons, and which trees and herbs are good for this and that. The Mexican marigold always gives me ideas about a certain Caribbean herb, but they are just ideas, nothing concrete.
The Broken Engine Belt
By noon, we are done, and it is time to return home. The journey back is calm and peaceful, when suddenly the car produces an unusual sound followed by a smell of burning rubber. Mzee slowly stops the car and orders us outside. He pops the bonnet, and being the know-it-all keyboard gear head, I open the bonnet at lightning speed.
I analytically survey around to no solution. By now, mzee has joined these diagnostic geniuses at the bonnet. In a split second, he identifies the issue as a broken engine belt, specifically the alternator belt, of course with a glare and a sneer thrown my direction.
He seems unbothered and says these are common-place road occurrences when owning a car. I curiously asked about the belt’s purpose and what could have caused it to break. By now, he is getting irritated, and a solution would have been the best thing to come out of my mouth. Given that we are about a kilometer away from his in-house mechanic, he decides to drive slowly to Kingori’s.
Kingori excitedly waves at Mzee to park at an empty spot in the garage. He proceeds to check the extent of the damage expertly, but the diagnosis is calmly cut short. Mzee assures him that he knows his car well and that he is certain there isn’t any further damage. True to his word, no other mechanism is damaged.
Garages can be nasty, especially to new car owners. A quack can tell you that a car’s side mirror is shorting with the rear bumper without blinking.
As the mech fixes the broken engine belt, my old man tells me to ask Kingori those questions I was asking him. Kingori is glad to explain his craft; I understand the different engine belts from here.
In the next article, we will explain in detail what each belt does and how to detect and mitigate damage. Stay tuned. Let’s fix this keyboard gear head ignorance piece by piece.
