Black Mamba

The Bicycle That Refuses to Die

When someone says black mamba, I know where your mind went. That snake. The one that makes a grown man forget he ever went to school and suddenly remember how to climb a tree. And no, I am not talking about cobras either. I see you, my Egyptian people, you and your eyeliner (wink). I am talking about something far more powerful, far more loyal, and far less likely to bite you for no reason.

I am talking about the bicycle.

Let me take you back. Class 6, Kakamega. The land where the sugarcane is sweeter than your sugar daddy and the sun is hotter than your girlfriend on a good day. And before anyone argues, my people from Kisumu can vouch for me. The Western sun does not play. Hii ya Nairobi ni child’s play, just a rumour. Our sun clocks in early and refuses to take lunch. The air though, clean enough to embarrass Muthurwa, where matatu fumes and the smell of fried things fight for your nostrils like co-wives. As the Luhyas say, “Member’s, mwavolakho.”

The roads were not tarmacked, because my MP keeps eating our ingokho and then voting yes on the Finance Bill, but that man does not deserve a second term.

This story is about a bicycle that has seen things.

The Black Mamba is not a bicycle the way a croissant is bread. Technically yes, philosophically no. This is a two wheeled cathedral of black steel, forged in a factory that hated the concept of “lightweight,”(Najua walevi mnanjijua) assembled by people who looked at gravity and said “we shall conquer you, and also carry forty litres of milk while doing so.” From Pogačar climbing those punishing mountains in Tour de france all the way down to my village, bicycles come in many forms. The Colnagos. The Cervélos. But only one humbles them all, that looks at carbon fibre and laughs in Luhya. Strong as Kobe’s mamba mentality, God rest his soul. So tough it does not need gears, suspension.

Here is where it gets spiritual. A Black Mamba is not bought. It is inherited. Your grandfather bought it in 1974 to ferry fish from the lake. Your father used it for the same fish, plus the occasional courtship mission, because nothing said “I am a serious man with prospects” like arriving at a girl’s home on a gleaming black bicycle. That bike has delivered love letters. It has been parked outside churches, clinics, chief’s camps, and one funeral where it was, frankly, the most reliable attendee. By the time it reaches you, it is older than your accumulated wisdom and twice as durable. You did nothing to earn it. You simply outlived the others.

Mine ferried me to school for years without complaint. We had a boda rider, Ambwere, named after the rich Ambwere who owns Ambwere Complex in Kakamega town. Naming your son after a rich man is our African version of a vision board(don’t get me started on Nigerian names), you speak prosperity over the child and pray it transfers. Our Ambwere did not own a complex. He owned calves. Mazigwembe like two pieces of firewood that refused to break.

He picked us up while we were still finishing tea and amapwoni (ngwaci for you diaspora peeps). I held my sister’s bag, because that is the law of being a firstborn, and we boarded the padded, lovingly modified seat. Modified by who, nobody knows. It just appeared one day, soft like a blessing. Uphill, Ambwere stood and grunted like a man arguing with a debt collector saying “nitakutafutia wapi”. Downhill he became a whole Tour de France stage, the wind whistling, my sister screaming in her soul, my heart leaving my body briefly and returning. Two children, two bags. We were basically cargo. Pogačar never carried this kind of weight, and you do not see me disrespecting Ambwere.

Life was great then. Simple. Sweet potato sweet.

And the thing will not die. People have tried. Crashed it into trees, dropped it from lorries, used it as a goat tethering post. It simply rusts decoratively and continues. It does not need a mechanic, it needs a witness. When something goes wrong you do not repair it, you negotiate with it, usually by hitting the relevant part with a stone you found nearby. This always works. The only known case in engineering where maintenance is peer reviewed.

So mzee Otieno will ride that thing from Bondo to the market, no helmet, one slipper, dramatically downhill at a speed that would alarm an F1 pit crew, ringing that little bell like a weapon. And somehow that ting carries the disappointment of three full generations.

I have watched it work from when I was a small boy with ashy knees to right now, this very year. Still rolling. Still refusing to retire. Still cycling like it has plenty of life left to give.

And honestly? Same. Same.

Ting.