It’s been a month since Shimonjero vanished from Shamakhokho, which means the village guide position is wide open.
A golden opportunity.
And who better to take over than me?
Unlike sand mining, guiding visitors doesn’t involve breaking my back in the river or chasing after Ksh 100 that might never come.
No, this is a clean hustle—talk nicely, walk confidently, and pretend to know the way.
“It's so easy polycarp.”At least, that’s what my medulla oblongata told me.
Before I could start, I had to learn every panya route in Shamakhokho.
Two weeks ago, I asked the old men at the market for directions, but they ended up giving me history lessons about cows that fought in wars.
I followed school kids, thinking they knew the best shortcuts, but they took the longest routes just to steal guavas.
Two days ago, I stood in front of my mirror, practicing my introduction.
"Welcome to Shamakhokho! I am your guide. This way, please!"
I sounded like a government officer from the Ministry of Tourism. Perfect, right?
So yesterday, I felt ready. And just like that, my first client arrived.
My first customer was a middle-aged man with a belly so big, he looked like he had swallowed a cooking pot.
He wanted a full tour of Shamakhokho.
I straightened my back, cleared my throat, and said, "Welcome to Shamakhokho, sir! I am your guide. This way, please!"
There is only one problem—I didn’t know all the routes.
Shimonjero had made it look easy, but Shamakhokho is a maze—narrow footpaths slicing through maize farms, hidden shortcuts only cows seem to know, and dead-end trails that lead to pure regrets.
As we walked, the visitor started asking questions.
"So, what is Shamakhokho famous for?"
"Why are there so many cows?"
"Where does this road lead?"
I did what any fake guide would—I made stuff up.
"Ah, Shamakhokho is famous for... uh... maize! The best maize in the country!"
"The cows? Ah, they all belong to the chief. Every single one."
"This road? Ah, it leads to a historical site... um... where warriors used to train."
The man nodded, impressed. I started thinking maybe—just maybe—I could pull this off.
Then, disaster struck.
I took a wrong turn. We ended up deep inside Mama Atoti’s maize farm.
Before I could react, the air exploded.
"WEWE! What are you doing in my shamba?!"
I turned to see Mama Atoti charging at us, waving a cooking stick like a warrior ready for battle.
The visitor panicked. I panicked.
"RUN!" I shouted.
We ran. I ran so fast my lungs begged for mercy. The maize leaves slapped my face as I tore through the farm. Behind me, Mama Atoti unleashed insults so creative, they could win awards.
The visitor wheezed like an old bicycle, struggling to keep up. At one point, I thought he might collapse, but the fear of Mama Atoti’s cooking stick gave him supernatural strength.
Finally, we burst onto the main road, panting like dying goats.
The visitor wiped his forehead, his sweaty face covered in dust. He stared at me for a long moment, then shook his head.
"This was... quite the adventure," he said between gasps. "But next time, I think I’ll explore on my own."
And just like that, I lost my first customer. No payment, no tip, just dust and shame.
As I stood there, still catching my breath, watching him disappear into the distance, one thing became painfully clear—This guiding business isn't as easy as I thought.
Next time, I need to learn Shamakhokho inside out... or I’d spend my days running for my life.
