This story was originally shared by the witty Watetu Mwai (Emma Kabeu). A tale of road trips, “budget” decisions, and the tactical genius of Nyandarua’s fiercest residents: the safari ants.

The Theology of Meat Bones in Ol Kalou

Listen, let’s get one thing straight before we even leave Nairobi: throwing meat bones out of your car window in Ol Kalou is a sin. It’s not just a “social blunder”—it is a transgression against the Almighty, and frankly, even the Devil himself finds it distasteful.

You all know Ol Kalou. That place is dark, it’s damp, and it is colder than a heartbreak in January. When you toss a bone into that darkness, you aren’t just littering; you are sending out a formal invitation to the siafu (safari ants). And let me tell you, those ants have a collective IQ higher than most of our political leaders. They don’t just bite; they strategize. They wait. They linger like a bad regret until the moment you are most vulnerable.

This is the story of our ill-fated safari to Sopili.

The Budget vs. The Ambition

We left Nairobi late. Very late. The kind of “late” where you realize your grand plan of reaching Nyahururu for the night is starting to look like a hallucination. The crew consisted of myselefu (the narrator and chaos coordinator), my friend Anne—our resident “Akûrînû finest”—and one unpatented male adult we’d tagged along for security. Let’s call him the Son of Sceva.

Now, Anne had carried an attitude that stretched all the way from the CBD to Kinoo. Why? Because she had “Panari Resort” dreams, but our bank accounts were operating on a Kijana Msafi budget. You know the vibe: clean, organized, but definitely not “luxury spa” level.

By the time we hit that “orphaned” town of Ol Kalou (orphaned because their MP passed on and left them to the capable, yet singular, hands of Methu), we were starving. We all agreed to stop for nyama choma. It was the only thing we agreed on all night.

Survival of the Fittest (and the Thickest)

To survive a night in Ol Kalou, you have to wear every single piece of clothing you own. You don’t “dress up”; you armor yourself in layers. Myselefu and the Son of Sceva had the memo. We were bundled up like onions. Anne, however, decided that her faith and a kilemba (turban) were enough to keep her warm.

We left her in the car to guard our dignity while the Son of Sceva and I went to supervise the chef. We stood by that grill like we were watching over a national treasure, making sure the fat was rendered to crispy perfection. What we didn’t know was that while we were supervising the meat, the local siafu brigade was supervising us.

We ate. We enjoyed. We threw bones. We committed the Sin.

The Ambush at the Strait of Hormuz

We piled back into the car, satisfied and warm, ready for the final leg to Nyahururu. We were barely five minutes into the drive when the first tactical strike occurred.

The first nduru (scream) pierced the dark Nyandarua night. It came from the Son of Sceva. Luckily, he wasn’t the one behind the wheel, or we would have ended up in a potato farm. Anne, in her infinite “Akûrînû” wisdom, switched on the cabin light so we could “see what the problem was.”

Mistake. Huge mistake.

The Son of Sceva was in the middle of a full-blown crisis. There was a disturbance in his “Nyandarua County”—the lower regions, the places where a man’s dignity resides. We started laughing. We laughed so hard the car was shaking.

And then, I felt it.

The ants had completed their reconnaissance. They had bypassed my outer layers and reached the Strait of Hormuz. They don’t negotiate. They don’t bite your arm or your toe. No, these ants are highly specialized; they only attack the “Upper Thigh to Waist” corridor.

Wacha tukulwe! (eaten!)

There I was, wearing five layers of clothes, trying to perform a frantic, seated exorcism while the ants enjoyed a five-course meal on my skin. It was a massacre. Interestingly, Anne—our celibate finest—remained completely untouched. I’m convinced the siafu have a “No-Fly Zone” policy for practicing saints. They looked at her and said, “Huyu ni wa Bwana, tuwachane naye,” then turned back to us sinners with renewed appetite.

The Sopili Redemption

Needless to say, we never made it to Nyahururu that night. The ants won. We surrendered and took the nearest shelter in Ol Kalou, scratching our way through the night like we had a collective case of chickenpox.

We finally crawled into Sopili the next day, humbled and slightly traumatized. To make peace with Anne for the “Kijana Msafi” budget and the ant-infested detour, I bought her two kamwala (sodas) and one kangumu (the hardest, most reliable local donut known to man).

She was happy. We were scarred. And the ants of Ol Kalou? They are probably still there, waiting for the next person to toss a bone into the dark.

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