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?
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