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?