Every morning of every day, the first few movements of the first few moments of my waking up are mainly made mechanically. While still dazed in that grey zone that divides sleep and wakefulness, I do actually accomplish a number of tasks with minimal mental aid. Usually, by the time I’m fully awake, and my eyes get accustomed to the early dawn’s dithering darkness, I’ve made my way west and I’m well over a kilometre away from home. By then and without the aid of any light, I’ve dressed up, put on my akala sandals, and would be pushing my mkoko well past isolated homesteads towards the only water source in my village. Usually, as I leave home, all I can see are outlines of various shapes about me but by the time I reach the usually dry river bed, which only boast of flowing water during the rainy seasons, darkness has waned and there would be enough light to see about.
My mkoko, a hand drawn cart, is a sturdy contraption constructed of rough-hewn wood. It looks like a crude squat coffin with straight sides and no lid. Centrally placed is a pair of wheels, made of rolled steel blades, three inches wide, with iron spokes. Since the wheels turn on a thick iron rod axle, it is essential to keep the joints well-greased to reduce a screechy noise due to friction and hence reduce wear and tear. Arranged two by twos, the mkoko carries ten round plastic Jerry cans of twenty litres of water each. By chiefly peddling water before and after school, I’m just about able to earn the