A few nights ago, somewhere between trying to catch my breath after a long day and wondering if I’ll ever get myself to the shower, the lights went out. Classic KPLC blackout. The kids hadn’t even been sent to bed yet. I was mentally preparing for a long evening of negotiating with the boys during the bedtime stories session in the dark. But just as I was about to spiral into frustration, a strange wave of nostalgia crept in, triggered not by scent or sound, but by the pitch-black silence. It was the kind of darkness that felt… familiar.
And then it hit me.
Barracks – The men to hard-core soldiers barracks – the factory itself. Week three or four, there. Zero dark confusion. You see, back in the day, in the early, glorious, and slightly traumatic days of military training, we used to wake up before the sun had even thought of rising. Orientation? Non-existent. Geography? Optional. Our internal compasses were set to “just follow the guy in front.” I couldn’t find my way back, honestly, if I were to get left behind. The only true north was the name of your division and the name of your platoon, which was still a mistake to be left behind!
Every morning, still half-asleep and wholly terrified, we’d leap out into the cold darkness. The standard mode of movement was a cocktail of frog jumps, half-sprints, slogs, and jogs accompanied by military chants that sounded more like creative musical insults than motivation. Somewhere in the middle of that mess, we’d arrive at a massive building that we would learn was the armoury. Kinda feels like this was a way to confuse anyone who had ill intentions in the early days. You know Rambo could pretend to be a recruit and leave with a truckload of guns… But how could he in this case if he couldn’t even tell where he had frog jumped from at 4:30 am? Honestly, back then, we couldn’t tell if we were in the Rift Valley or halfway to Uganda. But we followed the crowd, like moths to a lightbulb.
Inside that dim fortress, rows upon rows of Heckler & Koch rifles stood waiting; cold, silent, beautiful. Well, some were beautiful with age. Handled by hundreds of thousands of gallant soldiers & veterans before. We didn’t know much, but we knew enough to grab one and pretend we knew what we were doing. We were still so green we squeaked when we walked. Literally squeaked. Some couldn’t even tell the right leg from the left leg.
But here’s where it gets juicy.
Just a few more weeks in, some of us had evolved. We discovered the sacred art of swapping handguards like Formula 1 pit stops. Before we swap hand guards, did I ever tell you the story of that guy who wanted to show us how to cork that rifle? You know, at the pull of the corking handle, the whole village knows there is a mercenary in the neighbourhood? That thing made noise like a county council tractor. The beating that followed was one for the books…. So… we discovered the sacred art of swapping hand guards… a one-man formula one pit stop. You had exactly three to five seconds between picking your rifle and walking out of the armoury – and in those seconds, a full trade could go down. Silent. Swift. Legendary. I mean, removing and reinstalling two push pins to a 0.5mm diameter hole, was not a small feat.
Why? Because Kinuthia (who had somehow become the unofficial rifle reviewer) swore the perforated & slim handguard “felt more balanced.” And easier on the hand, especially for route marches, as compared to the solid block hand guard. So there we were – in the middle of military madness – bartering like back-alley gun dealers. Hoping you won’t get spotted. Because the removal of a piece of a firearm is close to treason. I mean you’re stealing a military weapon or a component of it. What are you planing Abner? Huh? But what was funny how you would notice the changing hand guards during parades. They were few. Like 3 in a platoon of 51. today it would be on Maina’s rifle, tomorrow on Kiptoon’s, the next day or a week later on Lemaiyan’s rifle… The real masters were those who would swap them across companies. Those were the real ninjas.
Of course, it didn’t go unnoticed. Try explaining to an instructor why you swapped parts mid-issue like an underground gunsmith. Needless to say, the punishment was brutal. But deep down? I believe – I know – those instructors were secretly proud. They were looking at future Special Ops & PMC material. Improvisation, risk-taking, and team dynamics? Check, check, and check. But mud. Huh! The mud bath was a must after that proverbial beating of a street canine.
And that night, as the blackout wrapped our house in that same pitch-dark nostalgia, I saw them again – those glorious rows of G3 Rifles. Racks of steel, stacked like soldiers, whispering memories I’ll never forget. I could feel the smell of stale gun oil and gun powder exciting my adrenaline.
There’s something sacred about the kind of darkness that doesn’t scare you at all. Because it once trained you to see with your ears, move with your gut, and trust nobody but your instinct & the intensity of your goosebumps…
Ah, the good life.
'Blessed be the Lord my Rock, Who trains my hands for war, And my fingers for battle— My lovingkindness and my fortress, My high tower and my deliverer, My shield and the One in whom I take refuge, Who subdues my people under me.'
Psalms 144:1-2