By Chelangat Caren,
By the time the sun begins to dip behind the sugarcane fields of western Kenya, the highway outside
Malaba takes on a life of its own. Engines hum softly, radios crackle with old rhumba tunes, and men in
grease-stained overalls stretch their legs beside trucks that have not moved for hours—sometimes days.
For the uninitiated, the sight is baffling: kilometres upon kilometres of articulated lorries frozen in place,
like a metallic snake basking in the heat. But for the drivers, this is familiar territory. This is the slow lane
of life, where time bends and patience becomes both skill and survival instinct.
David Mwangi knows this road too well. Perched high in the cabin of his truck at Kocholya market, he
watches the world pass him by—hawkers weaving between tyres, boda boda riders darting through
narrow gaps, and children staring wide-eyed at machines bigger than their homes. His destination,
Malaba border, is just 11 kilometres away. Yet that short distance can take two days on a good run.
“You learn to live one hour at a time,” he says with a shrug, as if discussing the weather. “If you think too
far ahead, you’ll lose your mind.”
To pass the time, drivers trade stories the way others trade phone numbers. Tales of breakdowns in the
Rift Valley, near misses with wandering cattle, and the eternal mystery of customs delays are shared over
cups of overly sweet tea from roadside kiosks. Laughter comes easily here—perhaps because it has to.
Without it, the long waits would be unbearable.
The trucks, for all their size and noise, have quietly shaped the towns they pass through. Where they stop, businesses bloom. Food stalls appear overnight. Mechanics set up
shop under trees. Women balance trays of fruit on their heads, calling out prices with the confidence of seasoned marketers. A driver may be stuck for hours, but he will not go
hungry.
As evening falls, the border towns take on a different rhythm. Chapati sizzle on open pans, beans simmer slowly, and conversations stretch late into the night. Some traders
spread blankets beside their stalls and sleep there, ready to serve the next early riser. The border never truly sleeps; it merely dozes with one eye open.
There is also a quieter, less visible world that thrives in these spaces. Small-scale traders slip back and forth across invisible lines, carrying bananas, groundnuts, or cassava. It is
a trade built on trust, hustle and an intimate understanding of prices on either side. For many women, it has become a lifeline—paying school fees, putting food on the table,
and offering a measure of independence in uncertain times.
For the drivers, dawn brings renewed hope. Perhaps today the line will move faster. Perhaps the paperwork will be stamped without fuss. Engines roar back to life one by one,
and the metallic snake inches forward.
And if it doesn’t? Well, there’s always another story to tell, another song on the radio, another cup of tea by the roadside. On this highway, life is not measured in kilometres, but
in moments patiently endured.
For the drivers, dawn brings renewed hope. Perhaps today the line will move faster. Perhaps the paperwork will be stamped without fuss. Engines roar back to life one by one, and
the metallic snake inches forward.
And if it doesn’t? Well, there’s always another story to tell, another song on the radio, another cup of tea by the roadside. On this highway, life is not measured in kilometres, but in
moments patiently endured.