My matatu ride inside a plane

A few weeks ago, a family member travelled by air for the first time. When I asked how the flight was, they responded,

"Kama kupanda shuttle."

I was left wondering if they meant that it was super comfortable or that they didn't see the difference between a matatu shuttle and the aeroplane. I have not been on a plane for the past 5 years, so I was looking forward to this particular one this week just in case I have to wait another five years. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Anyway.

I have noticed that a lot of times when people post pictures of passports and boarding passes on social media, the class section is always covered. You may think it's angling for creative shots but no...it's for hiding. Hiding that they will be on seated in/on the economy class. Why? See suggested reasons below. I found a couple of similarities between matatus and the economy section.

1. Legroom

Do you ever get the feeling that a new bus or matatu comes fitted with just enough seats to allow everyone adequate legroom? Then the businessmen decide, "Comfort for who?"and install 100 extra seats? Well, I think that's what happens with planes as well. Kwanza if you are 6 feet tall and traveling on economy and your flight is meant to take more than one hour, #Resist! Just #Boycott.

2. Manspreading

So si people have hand luggage? And luggage is supposed to be put in those compartments up there? Ehe! My seatmate decided to sit with his many hand luggages which included a smaller version of these Naija bags, a briefcase and some sling bag there. Imagine! Meanwhile kumbuka tu tuko economy, legroom ni tricky! So I suggested (In English) that he put at least two overhead. Kumbe msee haelewi English. IssaFrencher! I try hand signals but by the time he gets the point, compartments are full. Don't ask how those things were arranged between his legs, therefore facilitating extreme manspreading. Sigh. I suffered. But not too much. I kept making random internal guesses on what he was carrying that he couldn't part with. What I found extremely hilarious though, was how the flight attendant tried to push the naija bag under the seat but it wouldn't budge. Reminds me of how conductors do that in matatus when they run out of space in the boot.gg

3. Language Barrier

Maybe this just happens to me, but have you ever travelled on a matatu where a random human decides to talk to you in a language of their choice that is neither English nor Kiswahili and expects you to understand? Me? Many times! And they insist even when you respond with a "sorry?" In their heads, they think you don't know sorry in whatever language they are insisting on. Again, let me shine the light on my seatmate.
As indicated earlier, I think his first language is French. Let me tell you how this man wanted to beat stories with me in French. Me I am not understanding. And I try to 'tell' him so. I should have taken them French lessons in primary school seriously. He points out the window and asks something in French, I shake my head. Repeat. Looks at me with eyes of "but why are you seated next to me if you can't speak my language?" I look at the time. Walalala. Twenty more minutes! Wait the food trolley reaches us. He orders coffee then asks for juice. After coffee and croissant combo, he realizes he might not want the juice after all. He offers it to me, again, in French. I think I have understood him and say no. He continues speaking. I think he doesn't understand why I am declining this gift. Ah. He hands it to the attendant who looks at it woefully.

4. The Hapa ni wapi people.

The place askers. We have all encountered them, no? They are usually pretty harmless curious sweethearts until they poke you from your sleep to ask you, "tuko wapi?" Again, mine is a pretty informed guess. I think my seatmate asked me where we were while cruising at sijui how many thousands of feet. Believe it or not, I looked out to where he was pointing and answered "Entebbe," and he nodded in appreciation. At least I did something right this time around.

5. Glued Shut windows

I used to get offended when I would find that matatu operators have glued the windows shut. Then I realized they were protecting us from those phone stealers on the prowl during traffic jams. Si aeroplane windows also don't open? The only difference is at least there is AC in the plane where you can inhale recycled air, as opposed to matatus where you just recycle air. Period.

I have therefore come to a conclusion.   Stop envying people posting images of passports and boarding passes. Sometimes kumbe it's economy class which can be a struggle. The way you felt the days you would used a 14-seater matatu then a 10-seater shuttle overtakes you and say in your heart that one day you will reach that class, is the same way you will feel when you enter a plane and you have to walk to the baaaaaaack past the first and business classes. Humans never stop wanting or reaching for more, which is healthy most of the times. Just be sure to enjoy the good things at your current station as you eye 'better' things.

Bonus: Yogurt slurping monster! People are given spoon for drinking super thick yogurt but trashing happens. Then begins the loud prolonged slurpation and lip smacking. Let me just tell you won't miss a person or two who reminds you of that guy who buys food at every stop and chews as loudly as they can causing you to either salivate or feel extreme anger.

This plane has landed! See you next week!

Pedestrian woes in this our Nairobi

If you are anything like me, you always do a mental prep and give yourself a pep talk before going into town. Bible verses work well...

"Psalm 56
[13]For You have delivered my life from death, yes, and my feet from falling, that I may walk before God in the light of life and of the living."

When you survive the matatu madness and manage to get the conductor to give you complete change, you know you have only won the battle, the real war awaits. You now have to walk among fellow mortals and stay alive. Why is this of great concern? I am glad you asked.

1. Humans. They that move like bulldozers. It is very easy to lose a shoulder on these streets. People are running sijui where. Most Nairobians walk fast to look busy and to fit in. Imagine!! Otherwise, how would you explain their stopping abruptly (no hazards or nothing) to read the newspaper headline. Meanwhile, that human following you has to reenact some moves they see in movies so they don't flatten their faces on your back. These ones are in good company too; the ones who again, stop in the middle of the street to tie their laces. But why!!! I want to include short people who use their umbrellas on sheltered pavements while it is raining in this category, but I risk losing friends in the process. Seriously though. Why? If you only knew how many stomachs you have butchered while at it, you will repent for the sins of your forefathers too.

2. The small mkokotenis. Guys, have you ever seen how confident these hand  trolley operators are? You would think they are driving a Mercedes. In fact, I am convinced they think they are, because some of them even have number plates. Woe unto you if you find yourself in the CBD in the evening during rush hour when most of the country buses have arrived; business is fast and urgent.  You should see them weaving through and past our poor feet as we also try to avoid the bulldozers, their grips firm on the 'steering wheel.' The only warning they give is an irritating shout seconds away from you or none at all. So, while watching out for pickpockets and bulldozers, one needs to keep an ear out for the Mercedes trolleys. All senses need to be activated. Ukikaa mbaya, utaenda home bila shoulder na mguu.

3. Hawkers.They who have infiltrated the CBD like a plague now own the pavements! I often find myself playing hop scotch while trying to avoid their wares. If you are one who sees the glass as half full, their wares will look like artwork on the ground. Beautiful colours and shapes forming a collage of sorts. However, if you are in a hurry and just wants to walk home or wherever in peace, you will find this very annoying. I hated Maths, yet here I am calculating angle thetas in order to avoid nyanyas and inevitably, a glory of abuses. Oh, trust me. You don't want a hawker to draw attention to you. The colleagues jump in for solidarity forever and the shame is something you don't want.
We need a Moses to deliver us from this plague.  The pavements are our inheritance and right as pedestrians. We resist you hawkers! Let my people go!!

4. Last, but definitely not least, motorbikes! Ghai! What is peace of mind? It is overrated. The bikes, just like hawkers, think the pavements are too wide to be used by humans on foot only. They use them as escape routes when they can't fit in between the buses and matatus. This, after trading insults with the drivers. Even as a passenger, one feels it would be safer on foot, but you quickly change your mind when you see your fellow hustlers scamper for and to safety. I can't say much about these, I am traumatized by the number of times my mother has been hit. It is for serious.

I have a couple more hazards on my list, but I feel my blood pressure rising with every paragraph. So I'll stop and maybe let you add more in the comment section. Indulge me for a few more seconds as I tell you about a first. I conductor rolled his eyes on me and said "Oh my God!"
I know what you are thinking. No, it was a man. It is all my fault though. I was pestering him for a five shilling discount and preaching to him how he should be humble and let God use him. He was so cute! He had dimples! It is my opinion that a conductor who has dimples can't afford to be rude or too firm. Smile for us!  So I fished out that card and played it! It worked! I just complimented his smile and voila!! Five shilling discount! Not before he rolled his eyes on me though.

See? There is hope.

Have a safe week, won't you? 

Jua ya mvua and other stories

During the 2007/08 post election violence period, I developed a habit while using public transport; secretly spying on my fellow passengers and being extra watchful aboard public transport. Things were bad, and because I was of and from the 'wrong tribe,' I had to be extra careful. I have narrated before how my colleagues would offer advice on how to make sure I made it home safe and sound.

They would, for instance, tell me to avoid any eye contact with anyone. I was encouraged to mind my own business, even feign sleep if possible. When people from my tribe began fleeing the county, the perceived owners started getting more comfortable. Only one language was spoken in matatus, and no, it wasn't Kiswahili or English. The knobs on the radios stayed put as well on selected venarcular radio stations. I was born, bred and raised here. However, I could only speak in and understand my native language, English and Kiswahili. I could only catch a smattering of other Kenyan languages, greetings and the like. If someone was to strike a conversation with me in the said language, I was to;

a) Act disinterested, but not in arrogance.
b) Feign deafness
c) Just listen, nod and say "eeh" or "iii."

As you can tell, I survived.
Barely.
Story for another day.

And so, the habit developed. I size up everyone the second I enter a matatu. Here in Nairobi, it has served to help me be more vigilant, what with  smartly dressed thugs everywhere. This is partly why Matatu Chronicles was started. I had too many observations. Some down right hilarious, others scary. I began recording smells, sounds and auras around me. In 2014 for instance, the most dominant smells were of mandazis, perfumes, colognes and stuffy air in the mornings, and fries, groundnuts and sweat in the evenings. I mostly need a life.

Today, I am headed to Nairobi West in a 14-seater matatu. As usual, head and legroom are a myth for me. I stay hunched over at the second last row. I had hoped to cover a couple of pages on my current read, Red Helmet. Yeah. That's not going to happen.

The woman next to me is a reader too. She is on page 66 of "How to make your marriage a life long love affair." The gold jewelry she has on compliment her chocolate brown skin. She must have thought about the outfit too; black trousers, a black pull neck and a black and brown animal print loose chiffon top. I steal a quick glance up. A short weave with brown and gold highlights. While trying to guess her age, my eyes rove to the young lady two seats ahead.

She is handing the conductor her fare. Her dark skin glows as the mid day sun's rays find her face. I am sometimes jealous of my melanin endowed sisters. The way they just glow when it is hot, as opposed to some of us who turn red and pink and in my case, rock a sweaty nose too. She has on what looks like a thousand kilograms worth of hair falling from right above her forehead to just above the curve where her back meets her butt. It looks heavy, for real, but she holds her head steady so it does not seem to weigh her down. Such is her boldness that I can's seem to gather the courage to suggest some edge laying gel for African hair, (also natural hair on these streets) since the one she has on is killing it! No, not the Urban dictionary definition. Her edges are not laid and the gel is caked white. Sigh.

The sun on this Tuesday afternoon is that one for the rain, that is, "jua ya mvua." I'll explain for the non-Kenyans. Every single Kenyan, whether born today or in the 1900s knows of this specific type of heat the sun emits a few hours before it rains. Here, we rarely rely on cloud cover and characteristics to predict rain. No one wants to stumble on the NASA tallying centre up there. We don't trust the weatherman either, not since the legendary Nguatah Francis left the airwaves anyway. Whoever gives the weather girls updates has been taking us for a ride a while. Now we just sniff the air for the sweat concentration and feel our foreheads. The number of umbrellas in the matatu today reinforces the accuracy of mental forecasts.

The conductor is wearing a USA cap. I drift off to the USA for a couple of seconds. Surely, even with this Trump guy, they must be having a better time than us Kenyans. I conduct a head count of the relatives who might offer me shelter and start thinking of where I will get the fare. I am holding ten thousand shillings in debt collection when a grave thought suddenly stops me in my nerve tracks. Putting up with relatives for a period exceeding three days can be such a pain! Hands up if you agree.

Day 1: Shangwe na vigelegele! Welcome visitor! Please have a seat! Drink? Here, let me wash your feet and can I offer you a head massage?

Day 2: Breakfast is served. Do you shower with hot, cold, or lukewarm water? Cold? No...We don't want our people saying you came and caught diseases here. Don't worry about the clothes, kuna mama was kufua. Do you eat spaghetti?

Day 3: How long are you staying by the way? Oooh. No, no reason. These spoiled brats of mine just wanted to know how long there were supposed to give up their bedroom. Kids! Don't mind them! Do you often drink smoothies in the village? You seem to love the avocado and kiwi one going by how you have been drinking it, ha ha ha!

Also, winter is only exciting during Game of Thrones which I stopped watching hapo season two.

"Wale wanashuka mwisho kujeni!"

We are being transferred to another matatu. No cause for alarm. Happens often in Nairobi. It is well with my soul and knees too, because I manage to get a seat in the front cabin with the driver. Now I can read a page or two. The story is about an executive city girl who falls in love, and marries a handsome guy who works in a coal mine somewhere. In short, manzi wa Nairobi, ule anaown biashara zake massive Westy afall na mguyz wa kuchimba gold kule Shimakhokho. Imagine! Na wamarike! Alright, the book is exciting!

The driver's continuous clicking distracts me. He is upset at the conductor for not counting the passengers that were transferred. They are too many, yet the transfer period has ended and the other matatu had made an about turn. He shouts instructions in a native language the conductor understands and soon,  the excess passengers are out trekking with him. There is a cop at the roundabout and it is too early to get caught and the driver asks who has the money to give these lazy cops. We wait for them a few metres from the roundabout. The person next to me alights and I am joined by a light skinned lady who looks flushed after walking in that jua ya mvua. She doesn't seem upset, not by the fact that she had to walk like that for no mistake of her own or that the conductor who was more urgent in his steps kept urging her, "Madam harakisha twende!"

I have just realized I might have began this article on quite an alarmist tone. I'm sorry. Ni intro tu. Nothing horrifying happened during this ride, on the contrary. I didn't have to haggle with a conductor for my change, or share a space with a man who spreads his legs wide. There were a few whiffs of concentrated sweat to endure, but that's jua ya mvua's fault, isn't it?

What's that on your wrist?

What is that thing you wear? 

I met a pleasant driver this morning. He responded to my greetings with a smile as I slid onto the seat next to his. My sister took the one next to the door. We engaged in scattered banter as we navigated the slow morning traffic on Jogoo Road.
"Kwani mlilala airport?"
He must have been wondering about the heavy trench coats we had on while he seemed warm enough in his short sleeved light blue shirt.
"Kwanini?"
He pointed past me with his mouth. My sister. She was sleeping.
I laughed. "We were up at 4am."
"I wake up at 4 or earlier daily."
"Everyday? So if you work well throughout the day the money is good, eh?"
"Yes."
Later on, when the conductor was trying to swindle us and claim our twenty bob in change, he firmly told him off. Good man.

The air in this Mololine Shuttle van is heavy, almost musty. There are only four windows that can open; two at the front cabin and the other two on the row behind the driver. The rest are glued shut. The two women occupying the window seats open them on request then close them after five seconds. I think thoughts. Maybe if someone farted, no, released two lethal hisses, they would be forced to keep them open. Oh why didn't I eat the boiled groundnuts that usually cause my intestines to twist and turn in angles ballerinas would be jealous of? Ah. Wasted chance. I will just sit here and hope I don't pass out.

The driver is playing some local gospel songs. They make the air a little lighter. They always do, especially when Eunice Njeri and the Jimmy Gait of old are featured. Kwanza that 'Appointment' song. Nice. Love it.

There are a couple of things that my mind and heart can never get over. Some beautiful and others, well, heartbreaking. One of the former is the golden sight of Mt. Longonot at sunset, viewed from the Rift Valley viewpoint along the Nairobi-Nakuru highway. Every time I am traveling that route, I make sure to take the window seat to the left of the matatu so I can capture the sight in mind and device. It is the third most photographed thing on my phone after my face (of course) and avocado.

Today, I unconsciously sat on the right and only realized my undoing when I lifted my head from The Lovely Bones and my eyes danced with glee. 
The scene is a welcome relief from the gut wrenching novel I am reading; about a teenager who was lured by a paedophile to an underground bunker, raped and then murdered. She is narrating the story from what she calls 'her heaven.'

The Oxford dictionary has not yet included words that can descriptively do justice to this stunner. I have not found a suitable arrangement of the available words either, yet, I try. The clouds had moved from the sky in even softer layers of mist-like consistency and positioned themselves around Mt. Longonot. It is as if they were trying to delicately hug the mountain off its rock hard stance. Meanwhile, the sun was setting and the orange gold mix of color was crowning the crater.

I think this was the beautifulest I have ever seen it. Yes. That's English. I don't have photographic evidence. I tried. Nothing. Well, not really nothing. I capture this instead.

I review the photo and decide to keep it. It aroused some nostalgia in me. I can't quite put a finger to it. Something.

These things we wear.

Notice that beaded bracelet in the middle? I counted four in the matatu. This one belonged to a lady, seemingly in her seventies. She slept for most of the trip, clutching to that handle for support as she did. Earlier when the driver didn't use the usual University Way route, she asked me, "Anahepa polisi, eh?"
The guy behind her also had one. He seemed to be having the same struggle with legroom as I was. Tight. I must have sparked some curiosity in him when I almost broke my neck desperate for that view of Longonot. He would look at me then follow my gaze outside probably in an attempt to understand what it was that was picqing my interest.
I caught a glimpse of the third one as I turned to fix my seat belt. The only thing I remember about the owner was that his neighbor was in a Karaoke session belting out every tune from the speakers.

I am certain if I had everyone lift their arms for a wrist inspection, there would have been more.

You counted three, the fourth one was mine. I bought it from a Maasai guy for fifty or a hundred shillings. I am not sure. I do remember that I felt some sort of pride and a sense of belonging. A Kenyan-ness if you will. A while back a section of Kenyans got excited when they spotted one on Uhuru Kenyatta. "How humble," they mused. That's the other thing that baffles me about us Kenyans, how humility can be used to describe everything. One is always expected to say "I am humbled" when a compliment is thrown their way. Otherwise, stop with your pride. Anyway, I digress. Even kids under five get fitted for this beaded replica of our national flag, complete with the four symbolic colors;

Black - People
White - Peace
Red - Blood that was shed during the struggle for Independence. (Also, that which runs in the people's veins)
Green - Motherland

We know this because we were taught this in History lessons in primary school. However, I have been wondering if we really do get it. If, the last time you sang the national anthem you took note of the words. A scroll through social media  will give you the answer. Most of us have sunk to pitiful levels of ignorance. This is quite baffling especially this being a generation that has claimed and redefined the word 'woke.' To recount matters state of the nation would be a waste. We have all been present. We have seen and heard everything or even most of it. We have justified things we should not have. Death. We have spoken to each other with so much disrespect and dishonor. Like trash. Now people are calling for secession. I submit to you, that I no longer know what it means to be Kenyan.

I had an idea, but I now get conflicted with every sun rise and set. Ah. That nostalgia. I know what it was. It is what it felt like to be Kenyan. That thing on your wrist, what do you see, feel, when you look at it? Pride? Betrayal? Oppression? Hope? Love? Belonging? Anger? Loss? Pity? Contempt? Why do you wear it? If you have never thought about it, take a moment and reflect. Have a meeting with your self and tell yourself the truth about the kind of being you have evolved to. Are you still human? Or are you going through a mutation process? Are you ok with it?

We prayed in church the other day. We declared that Kenya will not burn. Future tense. I am afraid Kenya is burning. Now. The flames and smoke can be seen, but they are not big enough to cause burn marks and scars, are they? Yet somewhere, a mother is grieving the only child who survived after the several miscarriages she had gone through. The father is in no shape to comfort the mother. A girl is burying her father whom she lived with after he and her mother separated. Oh, yeah. There is that woman heard her son say, "They hurt me mum. I won't make it." Then watched him die.

Remember the things that my heart and mind can never get over? Forget? The heart breaking one is that of a man pointing at my family and I with a panga and saying, "You are next."

What magnitude of fire are we looking out for to jerk us into a sincere move to rescue ourselves and consequently the land that is Kenya? Can you imagine the green on your wrist turning red as the land is soiled with blood?

I can't. I don't want to. But this eerie calm people are calling peace? It sends chills down my spine. Will we be singing Eric Wainaina's Daima Mimi Mkenya a few hours, days, weeks to come? Go have that meeting with self.

That thing you wear, what does it mean to you?

The One Thousand Shilling Note

I don't who I should be lodging a complaint with, but something needs to be done. I mean, why are the door steps to the mini buses and buses placed ever so high? Imagine ladies the world over (mostly Nairobi) are suffering!

Imagined response to that first paragraph...

Women: (Encore) Yes we are!!

Men: Now they even want affirmative action in matatus! Eh!

Matatu Owners Association: We shall form a commission of inquiry. We are in the business of delivering quality service to our clients.

Mike Sonko: Sonko rescue team to the rescue! When I become governor, we shall provide portable ladders for our women.Where possible, mini lifts will be installed in every bus.  Women are very important to the general well being of Nairobi Country! This is why my running mate's mother is a woman... (There's more. You know politicians and talk...)

These people, whoever is concerned...Have they ever considered how hard it is to climb that mountain of a step while wearing a mini skirt, or one just above the knee? Not just those, but also these pencil maxi skirts that have become Nairobi uniform? Meanwhile, the people (mostly men) in line just think we like making weird body shapes while boarding matatus. Me I  think this is also hard for old people and those with arthritis...Serikali!! 

There were only two people inside when I finally proved that no step fashioned against me would prosper. A speech was in order, but my audience didn't seem interested. Instead, I hummed to Common and Yolanda Adams' rendition of 'Glory!' as I sought a seat befitting my stature. I found one, and convinced myself that it had better legroom than the three pairs I had just inspected. I sank into it. 10pm. Yeah. The matatu would take more than a minute to fill up.

I retrieved the beef samosa from that fast food joint next to the now closed Ukwala Supermarket on Tom Mboya Street. I contemplated saving  a it for later when I got home, letting the aroma waft through the matatu as we rode home...then looking  to see who was swallowing saliva longingly. That thought lasted two seconds because I would be among those swallowing hard. Also, hunger.

I bit into the samosa. I am not sure, but I think I rolled my eyes when I tasted no pilipili. What is a beef samosa without pilipili? No, what is any food without pilipili? I reached into the side zipper of my Chanel (Ha. Ha. Ha) bag and felt it. Akabanga chili oil. Yes. Imagine I carry chili oil in my bag! See the way it was about to save my life. A drop was enough magic.

Across the street, hawkers were having a shouting contest. The ones next to Ukwala's orange doors were holding up coats and leggings. For a moment, my mind took a trip up that lane every Kenyan takes when happy thoughts threaten to invade, maize flour (loosely translated to mean the economy, inflation). Imagine the tens of people who lost their jobs when Ukwala closed. How were they making ends meet? It must be hard for them. Good thing it is campaign season and politicians are dishing out 50bobs left, right and center, right?  What made me even sadder was that since their closure, I couldn't find that uji flour they used to stock. You know, the one that's made from terere? Why do bad things happen to good people? Anyway, no need dwelling on sad thoughts.

It happened sooner than I expected. The bus was pulled into the highway and off we drove into the loving arms of...well, different people different strokes.

I looked at him and decided he was not going to give me a hard time. He was quite short. Ok, very short and had a kind face (or, I chose to see kindness) and a black hoodie on. I watched him approach my seat and said a quick prayer.

"Lord please let him not be a jerk!" They are all the same, aren't they? BUT. He could be an exception.

I fished out a thousand shillings note, the only money I had on me save for the two shillings in my coin purse. My neighbor was holding a fifty shillings note.

Flashback (Phonecall made moments before the matatu filled up)

Me: (Taking mini satisfying bites on the fast diminishing pastry that was samosa) Imagine I am in a mat with a thao na fare ni forty bob!

Friend who seeks to remain anonymous (I think she would): Aaah. You are finished. But just be humble and smile. Don't raise your voice or engage him when he starts scolding you.

Me:  Ok. I'll call you when this is over! Pray for me!

(But why is this a crime?)

If you have ever used Kenyan matatus, you know that the conductors think it is your responsibility to pay with 'pesa ndogo' aka small money aka small denominations. Anything above a two hundred shilling note will earn you, in the least, a deathly look complete with an eeriely dramatic music track (your mind will rise to the occasion and play this on behalf of the matatu). We have accepted this bullying because, above anything else, you don't want to start an argument with a conductor; especially if his sweat is the kind that gangsters use to choke victims to unconsciousness. So most of us go about conducting (see what I did there? No? Ok. Now see) our businesses, constantly reminding ourselves to keep a ka hundred bob somewhere for fare. It is our responsibility (sic) to make the conductor's work easier.

Haya.

He looked at it then at me.

"Sina ingine." I blurted out before I was asked. We all know he was going to ask.

Mbona hukusema ukiingia? Slight agitation noted. Maybe something milder.

I responded with a blank look.

"...just be humble and smile. Don't raise your voice or engage him when he starts  scolding you."

"Basi utangoja." There wasn't a hint of death in his voice. It was just that. A statement asking me to wait for my change.

Now, usually, when a conductor tells you to wait, you will know from his tone whether you will wait till kingdom come or just a bit. There are those who will make you suffer and make you feel like a criminal when you remind them that they owe you change. When they ultimately pay you, it will come with a shower of insults and saliva and topped up with that grave look, leaving you feeling all type of things.

As you can probably guess, I didn't have to wait long for my change. In fact, it was given almost immediately. First a five hundred shilling note, then four one hundred shilling notes handed in quick succession.

"Hiyo ni ngapi?"

Awwww! We were even doing the math together. Sigh!

"Nine hundred."

He then placed three twenty shilling coins on my palm and walked back to the front.

I say a thank you, almost inaudible. That he had not started a World War III because of that blessed one thousand shillings was a miracle.

I placed the notes neatly in my purse, savouring how 'heavy' it felt. But we all know how fast a thousand shillings note disappears once it is 'broken.' Oh well! At least I'll have small money for my ride home tomorrow.

***
Side Note: How you respond to a confrontation determines the direction it takes. Lessons everywhere!!

They are not all the same! No, not men...Conductors. Also, men.

Pray, always!

Quote of the day: Ati gari ina joto sana? Shuka upande fridge. 

THIS MAN

Name: I don't know

Gender: Male

Height: Over 6ft

Route: Eastleigh - CBD

That's it. 

That's all I have. 

I am looking for this man. I know it is not much to go with, but it is a start. 

I was on my way to work, worried I was going to be late having snubbed a few matatus on account of their being full. I do not like standing in matatus; not only is it against the law, but unsafe too. I also find it disrespectful to the seated passengers who sometimes have to contend with a stranger's butt on their faces. Please, wait for one that has empty seats...or just walk.

So this No.6 pulls up and I ask the conductor;

"Kuna kiti?"

"Ingia ukae. Viti ziko." He says with a smile.

Side Note: I never trust them when they say this. You are hardly in and the bus starts moving. Your inquiring eyes meet pale, uninspired faces as you seek an empty seat. There is none. You look back at the conductor and ask,

"Si ulisema kuna viti?"

"Madam si viti ndio hizi ndani ya gari. Ni vile tu zimekaliwa. Watu wanashuka hapo mbele utakaa. Tulia." He retorts as he calls out for more passengers. It is an old tired joke, and one I don't appreciate hearing in the morning.

Back to my guy up there. I ask him if he's sure. 

There is a seat at the back. Not the most prized seat, but it is unoccupied, and I am running late. It is a tight squeeze, only a quarter of my butt fits. 

He is standing there looking at me. I take that as a signal to have my fare ready for collection. A couple of people get off at the next stop. I move further upfront to a more comfortable seat as more passengers file in. This was the last stop. The bus does not stop again until we are in the CBD. He shuts the door and starts collecting fare from the new entrants. When he gets to my seat, he looks at the twenty shillings coin I am holding out and moves along. Maybe he did not see it? Has the fare been increased? I tap him on his way back.

"Umelipiwa." He says and moves swiftly to his spot at the front. He smiles at my confused face and continues counting his money.

The notorious globe roundabout traffic makes the usual ten minute ride twenty. As I alight, I try to pay again. 

"I paid for you. Remember? Have a nice day." That charming smile again.

I thank him and run off to catch my next bus. 

I didn't see him for another week. I was not looking out for him anyway.

He shows up on a Friday and again, does not let me pay; letting me know that as long as I am in his matatu, he would not allow it. And so it went on. I was sometimes embarrassed and disappointed with myself that I let him get away with it, but there were days I was just grateful. Thankful that I was able to save that twenty shillings too. 

At first, my guard went up. I know (or have heard of) these type of men and I was not going to entertain him; but with time, I saw that he was genuine. He would always say "goodmorning" and "have a nice day." Sometimes, I got a compliment on my get up. That was it. There were no sexual innuendos with him. He never made reference to my body. He was just kind. I found it unusual, especially in this industry where both parties never find it necessary to be civil with one another. 

Then I never saw him again. 

It has been over a year. There are days while waiting at the bus stop, I find myself hoping that he will be in the next bus that stops. I pray it happens soon. I want to ask his name and maybe thank him for all those free rides.

I know what this sounds like. No, I did not fall for Mr. Nice Guy, but he sure left a mark. No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted. I hope the same goodness he showed me, and mercy, followed him wherever he is. 

Be good to someone today. 

 #RandomSentimentalPost #Day6WritingChallenge