Why a Good Brassiere is as Important as a Helmet and Other Stories

I don’t know why I am a last minute person, but I am. I am headed to the CBD then outside town, but no worries, right? It is only four-thirty in the afternoon. Also, the journey has not even began. I am standing at the stage. All matatus coming are hosting live concerts with the craziest boom twaf sound systems. Ladies and gentlemen, there are times when you have to admit to yourself not just your real age, but also the capacity of your organs to endure certain stresses and pressures of life. Look, my ears and heart can’t anymore, so I wisely ignore all of them moving discos and wait for one that is good for my fragile heart. 

When one stops and the conductor asks, “unaenda siste?” I say yes but not with your matatu. Me si I have told you before that I am born again so I do not like telling lies? He asks why and I say siwesmek hiyo disco. Two young girls who have just alighted laugh and reassure me that I am not old, that they were also haboring regrets about boarding it. This kind of affirmation is what I need in life, honestly. So for the public record, I am not old. I am old-ish.

“Unadai?”

“Ah. Zi.Zi.”

A brief conversation between a man and a passing teenager smoking bhangi.

The bystander, me, is trying not to choke from the smell of that thing.

“Wanafikiria hiyo ni raha. Na wakishikwa sasa?”

I nod in acknowledgement. He takes this as license to continue. I am then fed a whole, slightly informative thesis about these boys who pretend to have no homes but are actually stubborn run aways who refuse to live by the rules at home.

Another discotheque slows down. Out come three excited boys. They can’t be older than fifteen. 

“Do you know that’s what they do everyday? They jump from one matatu to another learning how to dandia."

“Wait, what?”

Another license.

“He! You didn’t know? Haiya! That’s how they pass time since covid started and schools were closed.”

I watch the boys cross over to the opposite side and sure enough, they stand at the bus stop seemingly waiting for another bus to dandia back home or wherever. 

“So it is like some sort of internship? It doesn’t look like these makangas are discouraging it!”

“Imagine these boys are training to be kamageras. When schools re-open, they will refuse to go back because where is the fun in that?”

It is a while before a decent matatu for the aged swings by. Thirty minutes later, I am aboard an out of town bound matatu. I am sitting pale back seat. But guys, be careful what you say. I seem to have angered the back seat gods the other day when I talked about the back seat being the only non VIP seat these days. But mi sikuwa na ubaya. Imagine they came to punish me. They made sure that I was running late so sitting at the back would be the only option if I was to make it to my destination before darkness descended the earth angalau. Fate accepted, I sat and prayed for a safe journey. 

PS: I should have prayed for a comfortable one too. This is the story of a lady with a big bossom and pain.

Traffic on Mombasa road at this time of day is fire to be basked from afar. The driver, in all his infinite wisdom decides instead of exercising patience and following the other vehicles, to take an alternative route – a short cut if you will. This route would have us going to Marsabit and back before we join Mombasa road again. The road to Marsabit is even afadhali. This short cut has potholes that sends the back benchers, two men and a lady, flying in the air. 

While the men only think of protecting their heads and perhaps backs, this lady is suffering quadruple injustices. Is it the head I will protect or the back? Or the twins?

I know ladies – especially us who have been blessed with nice big boobs will relate. Sometimes you just want to wear a nice bra that won’t feel like you are wearing one, you know, to make sure they are not hanging huko kwa stomach and causing shoulder and/or back aches. A lot of times these ones leave the twins enough room to dance and sway. Of course there is a disclaimer. You have to make sure your activities are on the minimal on these days. Yaani uko tu. Just there. Dancing and swaying. No vigour. Otherwise, do wear something akin to the breastplate of righteousness because wueh! These soft tissues do not take violence well.

So in short, kwa ufupi kapsaa, I wasn’t prepared for the violence the back seat inflicted. By the time we were joining Mombasa Road at Airtel from Bunyala Road (someone explain to me how this shortcut helped anyone) poor babies were looking at me as if I knew what I was doing coming into a war without a breastplate. But in the midst of pain we hugged and they forgave me. It is not like they have anywhere else to go (Muhahahaha). We are stronger together.

Kind appeal to the male species or small chested sisters: Next time you see one of us headed to the back seat because there is no other option, si we exchange? Offer us your seat. Watu ni kusaidiana.

Matatu Methali of the Day: It is true what they say, nyuma haiko sawa 😭