By James Okoth
Transport and business are thriving again in Bondo.
At Kang’o ka Jaramogi and its surrounding villages, a fleet of cars, matatus and buses in all colours and models has become the new norm.
The road to Bondo now feels alive. From the shores of Kisumu, the tarmac stretches like a silver ribbon under the morning sun. A white Toyota, dust trailing behind, snakes through Ahero, speeds past Akala and finally dips into the winding valleys of Siaya. Inside, passengers lean to the window, some in silence, some lost in thought, others clutching small flags and portraits. Every turn of the wheel feels like a journey home, a tribute in motion.
Children wake early. Before dawn, the small boy from Nyamonye rushes through his morning. He fetches water, feeds the chicken, gulps his tea and runs barefoot to the roadside. There, he joins others, their faces bright with curiosity. Together, they wait for the endless stream of vehicles. Each flashing headlight is a story, each convoy a spectacle. The children cheer, wave and point at the buses. To them, the road is a moving celebration.
Local traders are shifting their focus. The decades-old selling points of Bondo town are losing their grip. New markets are forming near Kang’o and Opoda. Stalls sprout like mushrooms. Vendors move where the people are.
“I used to sell vegetables at the Bondo bus park,” says Jackline Atieno, a trader who now runs a small stall near Kang’o ka Jaramogi. “These days I sell more bottled water and hats than vegetables. People want a memory to take home,” she joyfully remarks.
Public transport is reshaped. One travelling to Bondo is assumed to be heading to either Kang’o ka Jaramogi or Opoda farm. Those catching a ride back are believed to have come from there. The tales from these journeys unite strangers and friends. Each matatu ride becomes a shared story, each passenger a witness to something larger than a burial.
Victor Carilus Okoth, a matatu operator belonging to Bungoma line and used to ply Kisumu-Siaya route but shifted to Kisumu-Bondo, says the roads are never empty. “From dawn to dusk, our vehicles are full,” he says. “It is like a pilgrimage. People come to see, to feel, to belong,” he says, clutching the steering wheel ready to takeoff.
New trades have emerged. Caps and hats called the “Raila Odinga hat.” Luo relics. Branded T-shirts and wristbands. Emotion, passion and pride drive both sellers and buyers.
Online, the words “Bondo,” “Opoda farm,” and “Kang’o ka Jaramogi” top search engines.
Locals say the Enigma saw it all coming. He had the roads tarmacked, the paths widened. They ask, what would this movement have looked like if the roads were still rough and dusty?
As dusk falls, a bus leaves Bondo. Its windows glow gold in the fading light. Inside, passengers sit shoulder to shoulder, some holding souvenirs, others humming quiet tunes. A woman clutches a folded T-shirt, a young man scrolls through photos of Kang’o, while an old man whispers stories of the Enigma he once met. Their faces carry conviction, pride and peace. The hum of the bus mingles with laughter and silence alike.
Bondo disappears behind them, still alive, still calling.
What began as mourning has turned into motion.
And motion, here in Bondo, is life.
