Kudos to parents who take their children to the Show
A mother and her child enjoy candy floss during a past ASK trade fair at Jamhuri grounds in Nairobi on October 3, 2013. PHOTO | FILE
What you need to know:
- By the time we reached the grounds, we had spent an hour on the jam, a distance that would have taken us a few minutes to cover had we been on foot. By then, I was sweaty, and frustration was beginning to creep in. Next was the ticket line, which took another 45 minutes.
- At some point, I had to carry my son, who was by then bored and tired, and therefore irritable.
- We finally got in, only to be met by a sea of adults like me and an even bigger sea of children, all moving in different directions. For a second, I stood still, observing the scene before me with trepidation and lots of confusion, wondering where to begin.
It must be more than 25 years ago, but the memory of that day my father took me to the Show has stayed with me.
It is a fuzzy memory, but it is a memory all the same; me going round and round in a humongous merry-go-round high above the ground, screaming in mock horror as my father waited patiently among the crowd of other parents who had brought their children to the Nairobi Agricultural Society of Kenya’s show at Jamhuri Park. Later on, he must have bought me and my elder brother chips – a treat like no other for a six-year-old.
Fast-forward to two years ago when I, recalling all the fun I had those many years ago at the show, decided to take my then four-year-old son to the show. As we made our way there, I imagined how much fun he would have, and could not wait to see the glee on his face when he saw the massive merry-go-rounds, slides and trains.
My excitement and anticipation on behalf of my child was, however, cut short way before we even got to the showground gates. To begin with was the impossible traffic jam leading to the grounds. Vehicles were bumper to bumper, moving at a snail’s pace for a few seconds and then stopping for 30 minutes.
By the time we reached the grounds, we had spent an hour on the jam, a distance that would have taken us a few minutes to cover had we been on foot. By then, I was sweaty, and frustration was beginning to creep in. Next was the ticket line, which took another 45 minutes. At some point, I had to carry my son, who was by then bored and tired, and therefore irritable.
SHOW BEGINS
We finally got in, only to be met by a sea of adults like me and an even bigger sea of children, all moving in different directions. For a second, I stood still, observing the scene before me with trepidation and lots of confusion, wondering where to begin. Pray, is this what my father had felt when he brought me to the show those many years ago?
Since I was there, I forged forward, my son’s tiny hand in mine. I finally managed to locate the merry-go-round which, as I stood there looking at it whirling at a dizzying speed, wondered whether it was safe. He was pulling at my hand impatiently, smiling with glee as he gazed at the monstrous thing.
I started walking, only to realise that there was a queue from here to Timbuktu, a queue of parents with tortured looks on their faces and impatient, hyper children. Thirty minutes later, we made it to the front of the queue, and up went my son, my heart in my mouth as he clambered onto the swing. Mercifully, the thing finally stopped after a few dizzying minutes, the look on my son’s face priceless.
We then went in search of something else that would excite him. By then, we were covered with red dust from head to toe, thanks to the multitudes that had had the not so bright idea to bring their children to the show, and on a Saturday, for that matter. The sun was also out in full force, adding to the lethargy.
An hour later, the boy started to complain of hunger, and off I went, looking for food, chips specifically, because for some reason, children don’t consider it a treat unless you buy them chips. Everywhere I looked though, there were never-ending queues – what is it with this country and queues anyway?
I finally bought the chips, which were too oily and too little for 100 bob. And then came the biggest trial of the week. My son was on a camel’s back when, suddenly, the skies opened up and it started raining. We were in an open field, with no shelter to talk of, but an ageing tree with sparse leaves. By the time we managed to make it to the nearby food stalls, we were drenched to the skin. By then I had had it.
If you have ever taken your children to the show, you are a dedicated and committed parent, let no one ever tell you otherwise.
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I loved your article about how matatus and boda bodas are causing deaths on our roads. Many laws have been passed to tame matatus and boda bodas but none has come close to bringing order to the industry. Why? Because of conflict of interest. MCAs, senators, governors, cabinet secretaries and police officers and individuals of influence own matatus or are importers and suppliers. Hence, the mission to introduce stringent measures will always be in vain because they cannot allow formulation and implementation of laws that will strangle their investments. Which investors would pass laws meant to kill his cash cow? None. What we need in Nairobi is a county managed mass transport system. No public-private partnership because this creates conflict of interest. But this is a far-fetched dream considering our leaders love boasting about political supremacy rather than articulating issues that affect the public.
Irungu
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As you wrote in your article, it’s actually true the rate of road accidents is on the rise. We need careful drivers.
Dennis
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Good laws alone cannot stop road accidents. It is our attitude that has to change. Matatu drivers and boda bodas don’t come from overseas. They are our brothers, and fathers. Until we change our attitude and stop waiting for police to save us, then accidents will continue.
Fredrick
