The footloose pensioner is not new to Mt. Longonot. Let us be clear. I am a veteran of that hill—a decorated survivor. A man who has gone up and down its dusty spine so many times, I should be paying rent or at least collecting loyalty points.
So when I joined yet another party heading that way, there was no drama. No fear. No trembling of the knees. Just quiet confidence. This was Longonot, not Elephant Hill, in July
And, more importantly, there was a powerful anticipation of nyama choma at Mai Mahiu. Because every seasoned hiker knows: you do not climb Longonot for fitness. You climb it to earn the right to indulge in nyama choma and a cold beer.
The Ascent: Business as Usual
The climb began as it always does—with false humility. I greeted the mountain like an old acquaintance.
“Ah, Longonot. Still here? Good. Let’s not make this dramatic.”
The legs were cooperating. The lungs were purring like a recently serviced car. I even had enough breath to offer unsolicited advice to first-timers, which is the clearest sign of overconfidence.
I did not tell you this, but remember anyway. Remember that at the escarpment I bought a present for the Demons of Longonot. At the first resting huts, it was time for the Maize ritual
This, dear reader, is where the story takes a dark turn.
The Maize: A Silent Conspiracy
It started innocently enough. One bite. Crunchy. Sweet. Charred to perfection.
Second bite. Even better. By the third bite, I was convinced this was the best decision I had made all year.
By the fourth…. kavagara! something shifted. There was a small, almost polite discomfort. Nothing alarming. Just a whisper from the stomach: “We need to talk.”
I ignored it because I am not a man who negotiates with maize.
The Crater Rim: Where Respect Ends
We proceeded to the crater rim.
Now, as a Longonot regular, I understand the rhythm: up, down, up again, regret, repeat. But this time, something was off. Each step came with… internal commentary.
The stomach, previously a cooperative partner, had now formed an opposition party. There were sounds. Acrimonious and serious policy disagreements.
Suddenly, the beautiful scenery—the crater, the horizon, the poetic vastness of nature—meant absolutely nothing. My entire existence narrowed down to one objective:
Find a bush. Any bush. Immediately.
The Crisis: A Man vs. Nature (In the Wrong Way)
Let me explain something about Mt. Longonot. It is many things— dusty, scenic, challenging, character-building. But it is not accommodating.
There is nowhere to disappear with dignity. Nowhere to pretend you are “just admiring the view.” Nowhere to handle… internal emergencies.
I began walking faster. Then slower. Then, in a very specific, controlled manner known only to people in distress. At one point, I considered my options:
- Maintain dignity and risk disaster
- Abandon dignity and secure survival
These are not choices one expects to make on a “casual hike.”
The Descent: Negotiations Collapse
The descent was no longer about hiking. It was about survival. Each step downhill a countdown. My knees were complaining, yes—but they were not the priority anymore. Greater forces were at play. Fellow hikers greeted me cheerfully.
“Uko sawa?”
I nodded with the seriousness of a man carrying classified information. No one needed to know. This was between me, the maize, and the demons of Longonot.
The Redemption Arc: Mai Mahiu
Miraculously, I made it down. Changed. Humbled. Slightly suspicious of vegetables. And then, like a beacon of hope, there it was:
Mai Mahiu.
The smell of nyama choma filled the air. Glorious. Redemptive. Almost holy. I sat down, ordered meat, and reflected on life.
Had I learned anything?
Yes.
- Never trust maize at altitude
- Confidence is temporary
- The human body is capable of betrayal at the worst possible moments
But most importantly:
Every great story begins with a small, seemingly harmless decision.
Epilogue: The Beginning of Trouble
That evening, as I rested, I had a new discomfort. Not from the maize this time. Something else. A small issue. A minor thing. A… mole hill, if you will.
And like all small things ignored by proud men, it would soon demand attention. But that, my friends, is a story for another day.
Or, as it would later be known: how a mole almost became a family event.