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

Flashback...

 January 2008

I panic a little as I look up at the clock. It is almost home time. It hasn’t been a busy day at work, just some UN and Red Cross workers and a few locals have been coming in. I am lost in thought as I take the inventory, you know, New Year resolutions and all.

The streets are awfully empty these days. My colleagues and I walk in silence, careful not to attract unwarranted attention.  At my stop, I bid them goodbye and get into the matatu labeled ‘Whitehouse.’ It takes a little longer to fill up. It has been like this the past week. A few more minutes and we are off.

I have been trained well.

“If someone speaks to you in Kikuyu, just nod and iiii, eeeh; otherwise, don’t speak to anyone.”

“You’ll be fine. You are light skinned so you can pass for one.”

So I sit, hoping and praying to God that no one will turn to me asking about…well, stuff. The radio is tuned to Kamene FM. I can’t speak the language, but I can make up a few words. My thoughts shift to earlier today at lunch time when a Red Cross guy walks in and tells us that a man has just been hacked to death. He was from the wrong tribe, of course.  I get home safe and breathe a sigh of relief. I can see the relief on my parents’ faces too. It has been a tense couple of weeks, with groups of people pointing at our house with pangas and machetes.  I was supposed to get home a bit early so I could help mum pack. We are leaving tonight.

May 2016

I am in a matatu scrolling through my Face book timeline and I see people arguing about the IEBC demos. I panic a little. I haven’t had enough time to practice. I can only say ‘iii’ and ‘eeeh.’  I’m sure it won’t be as bad as last time…but just in case…

Matatu Chronicles: Uganda Edition, Part 2

PS: Read part one here.

The sun and her sisters were already up as we made our way out of the Uganda National Theatre where the Mash bus had parked. As soon as I disembarked from the bus, I felt different. Actually, that is a lie, the only different thing was that I had accidentally switched on the roaming button on my phone, left the data on and Safaricom and/MTN had eaten all my airtime. Great! No chance of posting ‘I have arrived, #vacaythings’ on Instagram. My knees were killing me, and I was definitely sleep deprived, so I couldn’t wait to put my feet up and get a shut eye.

We have a few boda boda bikes in Nairobi; (speaking of which, have you seen this ad on TV, “Boxer inaokoa?” SMH. Story for another day) where was I? Yes. We have a few bodas in Nairobi, but they are in strategic places, you wouldn’t find them everywhere in the capital city. Kampala gave me quite a shocker. It’s as if the ratio of bodas to people is 1:1. You know the way every student is required to bring a hockey stick on the first day of high school? I suspect Ugandans are asked to bring a boda on their first day in town! The number of bodas grew as we made our way to the ‘stage’ (terminal sounds funny) and I was soon whispering a prayer with every turn. We got there alright (thankfully) and paid Ush. 2000 (sigh)

See this life...

.  

Their Bus Station equivalent is huge! There were all these Nissans with blue lines round their waists and the sign ‘Taxi’ on their heads.  Most of them looked thirsty and beat up. They stood there waiting, as the men next to them advertised them to the masses milling around. I have always wondered, do matatus feel violated, with people hitting on their sides and behinds all the time, having to contend with all manner of humans all up in their space? I think we should stop with all this violence.
Side note: Just in case you are wondering, what the real taxi are called in Uganda, I got you. They are known as 'Special'.

Anyway, turns out the Masajja matatus were moved to another stage and to my absolute horror, I was to endure another bike ride to the other side of town.

At this point, I am just following my cousin’s direction because, well, I am new in this place, and I can’t speak Luganda to save my life. So we hop on and I tell you that ride got me confessing my sins, considering my headstone epitaph and appreciating speed governors all at once. The manner in which we snaked through traffic, always cutting right through seconds before a car whizzed by in top speed or pulling the brakes just in time was terrifying. Please, I hear some of you saying that sounds like fun, exhilarating and that I should loosen up a little and enjoy. Well, my parents are still waiting for a granddaughter (because they have two grandsons already) and I am sure there would be no smile on my face if I end up a ‘Death by Boda’ statistic. Seriously though, I think the ever convenient bodas should somehow be regulated, especially going by the fact that in the biggest referral hospital’s accident wing, 90% of the cases are boda boda related. Again, we got there alright, paid the Ush. 2000 and I quickly got away with my life, phew!

Over the next few days I would notice a few things; like the way the conductors don’t poke at your necks and shoulders saying “Centi hapo mbele”, People power dictates that they pay when they get to their destination. Woe unto the conductor if on a slow day, they are given a Ush. 10, 000 note and the person needs Ush. 9000 in change.  One of the things I appreciated most is the drivers and conductors etiquette, something their Kenyan counterparts could pick up on. The Ssebos know well enough not to bite the hand that feeds them, and that was quite refreshing! One strange thing though, is, apart from the trans-border buses,  there were no, at least I didn’t see any,  big commuter vehicles, just the Nissans. I think they are much smaller than the ones we have here, because my knees and neck were cursing at me for taking them through all this torture. Am I really that tall? Don’t answer that.

I am the one on the left sitting sideways :( the struggle!! 

Generally, all flaws aside, the Kenyan matatu culture is quite cool and unique, the most diverse in the region, I think. We have pimped up rides, (I saw on the news the other day that they now have water dispensers too) that more often than not let a stranger in on what Kenyans value, what music they are listening to and what’s trending. Some are so comfortable we wish we could live in them.  Heck, we even have methali stickers to offer us life lessons. There is none of that in Uganda, or at least in Kampala where I spent most of my time. Kwanza, the gava apparently banned radios, why you ask? Because the drivers couldn’t hear the traffic police officers. Why do traffic police officers need to be heard? Because on their first day at work, the officers are given brand new pure white uniforms and wait for it, a whistle. Yes. So one had to go, and in the end, the radio got quite a blow from the whistle. I hope the officers are paid well. That seems like quite some work.

I had a good time huko,..but if I am going to spend an hour or two in traffic, I better have some good music, WiFi and enough legroom to make it all worth it. So, it feels  good to be back home!

Matatu Chronicles: Uganda Edition

Happy New Year person!!

I hope you are having a great one so far!

2015 was a good year for My Matatu Chronicles and the team here (urrrm, that’s just me) is ready for a bigger and better one! Amen?

We start on a Diaspora note this new year. I spent the first few days of 2016 in Uganda, and came back with a few stories for your pleasure (if you like :) ) It is going to be a two part series, I hope you enjoy it! If you have been on this route and experienced it differently, let me know! Now dig in!

****

The journey started at 10:30PM. I boarded the Mash cool bus, but was utterly disappointed that the leg room would give me nothing but misery for the over 10 hour trip, and it did. I made a mental note to save for a flight next time, but then, we wouldn’t have a matatu chronicles article, would we? It was too dark to scrutinize the passengers, except the 7 foot man who just laid out a mattress on the aisle and slept. I counted my blessings then, at least I fit into that limited leg room! We had a pretty uneventful trip to the Kenya-Busia border, getting there at 4:30 AM. My cousin wakes me up and tells me, “Hapa ni masaa! I hope uko na biro.” Lol! I always have a biro (pen) with me.

The border was quite a buzz. Buses were offloading passengers and getting checked. We had to go queue up at the office to get our passes. Those who had passports only had to get it stamped and they were on their way. The rest had to fill a form to get a temporary pass. My cousin then goes, “Hakuna haja ya kuchafua passport na stamp za E.Africa! Let’s get a temporary pass.” But alas! There was a form missing, so we had to buy an alternative one that would cost us Ksh. 300. The excuse: Nairobi had not sent or done photocopies, something… Hapo naona ni kama tulichezwa. Haidhuru.

Once we had gotten hold of the forms, some guy directs and accompanies us to a place where we would get a photocopy of the ID and some passport photos taken. I was impressed at how helpful everyone was at 4AM. We get there and there is already a bunch of people awaiting the service. I overhear someone ask, “Ni how much?”

“Four hundred bob!” came the reply.

What? Four hundred Kenya shillings for four copies that will be taken at 4am with cobwebs around my red swollen eyes?  Come on! No wonder we were literally chauffeured to this place. Brokers had to get their share! My cousin tells me to pay up, but I swore I was not going to pay four hundred bob! Asi! I took the photo then handed the guy a five hundred shilling note and firmly said, “Usitoe more than two hundred kwa hiyo pesa.” Now, on a normal easy day, I am told I have a serious RBF (Resting Bitch Face). You can imagine how menacing I looked then, my 6 foot self, sleepy and stressed. Hehe! It worked! I was given back my three hundred bob change and I galloped away before they realized I was bluffing, because I wouldn’t have done anything if they had charged me four hundred. Time was of the essence, and it wasn’t like I would walk to Kampala if the bus left me cos’ of four hundred bob.

Back at the office, I look at the photos and again, make a mental note (seems like I’ll be making lots of these) to have passport photos and photocopies of my ID in every purse I own. Turns out I only needed two photos, what a waste! I am keeping the other two as souvenirs though. I have often heard that there is always drama at the border, and sure as daylight, there was! At one corner a high-pitched voice was summoning two ladies who had tried to sneak into Uganda. The border official they had tried to cheat was bad news. She was short (they always have a temper :D ) and had legwarmers on that somehow made her look even more brutal. She bundled them into the office, sat them down and gave them an earful, telling them watalala ndani if they didn’t explain what mischief they were up to.

By the time I was getting my first stamp, they were nowhere near resolving the issue. Their bus conductor had come to check on his clients and was now in the mix trying to help sort this out so they could move along. Kampala was another 3 hours away.

I crossed over to the Uganda office, where I had to fill up another form and get an entry stamp. `I then realized that I had left my pen at the photo booth. Yaani my first action in Uganda was to borrow a pen. This Indian like character ahead of me bailed me out. I’ll need another blog post to describe him though (chuckle)! I finally got my entry stamp and started back to the bus. My cousin advices me to change some of the Kenya shillings I had to Ugandan shillings to save us time once we got to Kampala. I decided on Ksh. 2000 and asked him what the rate was. 32 bob. You should have seen the smile on my face once I was handed 64,000 Ugandan shillings! Sema kuwa baller! That lifted my spirits immediately! I stuffed them into my wallet and walked back to the bus. I drifted back to sleep soon after and was only awakened by my cousin when we got to Jinja, to see the River Nile at dawn. I almost shed a tear. It was the most beautiful thing I had laid my eyes on in a while. I made a mental note (again) to travel at the same time next time so I can behold the sight again.

The first thing I saw when I woke up again was a pick up full of green bananas. I smiled. We were in Uganda alright. It was 8:30AM.

The day I met Babu Royal Swift

“Gari iko poa, dere yuko smart, konda ni msawa lakini abiria ni sumbua. Iko nini?”

I saw this in a matatu a while back, and only recently did it make sense for me…because let’s face it: Magari mob hazikuwangi poa, dere hakuangi smart na konda huwa ako tricky. I don’t know what it is with Ngara-Eastleigh matatus, but after 7pm, things take a serious roundabout sharp turn (what?) Conductors are intoxicated, drivers are rude, and the matatus are as rickety as a cricket (again, what?) But Alas! This past Saturday, the Lord had me board this excellent matatu plying the Mombasa road route. I have not been the same. 

Someone had suggested that I go get a matatu at Railways Bus Station, but I think the man upstairs was guiding me a good one, because as soon as I got into one Babu Royal Swift, I reached! First point of excitement, LEGROOM! Sufficient legroom! Only six footers will understand why this would take someone to cloud nine (apart from Bro. Ochola’s prowess, of course.) Halafu konda was clean, he was even wearing a Bluetooth device! Imagine. I am sure dere alikuwa nayo pia. I felt safe. 

Rarely do I encounter such kondas. This one was calm, cool and collected. He did not shout, “Pesa mkononi, na mjue sina change. Coins tafadhali!!” Sigh! On my ride to town this morning, there was a sticker, “Ujinga ni kutoa thao na fare ni mbao.” You would never find such on Royal Swift. Here you find the ones that say, “Customer is king” or “Hakuna stage ya ten bob” or “Why settle for less, when you can have more?” I leaned back on my clean bedbug-free seat and smiled. 

When we got to the Nyayo Stadium roundabout, Safaricom sent me a text, “Dear Customer, your Data Bundle is almost finished. Dial *544# to check your data bundle balance.” Lakini Safaricom wako na ufala! Just when you are about to update something meaningful like the pure awesomeness of Babu Royal Swift, they do this. Then ghafla bin vu! I see this;

Name: Babu

Password: babybabu01

Could it be true? Second point of excitement: WIFI! Wait, does it work? The Rongai mats have usernames and passwords but almost never work. I hear their sockets work though; at least you can charge your phone. I tested it, OMG it works! WORKING WIFI! Sema kuupdate picha tatu Instagram zikifuatana, and linking them to all social media profiles?! You know how Instagram sucks up data bundles? I wasn’t about to take chances! I looked around and wondered why everyone was so calm even with such a gift, given freely, like salvation (I was later told, wamezoea. That Route 33 matatus are always stepping up) I was having such a good time with this super fast wifi that when the konda shouted,”Sameer!” I felt like telling him, “Si hapa!” I alighted and asked him if he knew where Purpose Centre Church is. While he was busy pointing at corners and instructing on which dirt path to take, my last photo uploaded. Ha! Oh, did I mention they also had surveillance. Weh! 

See the camera on the right?

So apparently us people from Ngara, Parky and Eastleigh have been missing out, eh? Isorait. I hope someone from the Eastleigh Sacco reads this.