A Matatu story
So this week I’ve decided to pay homage to the much maligned mascots of the Kenyan transport scene — The Matatu.
Now I know what you're thinking…, so allow me to quickly dispense any notions that this article will discuss quality of sound systems, DVD screens, paint jobs, graffiti, and music. This is simply not that kind of story.
Having said that, I’m not ashamed to admit, that as a young man, I selected my matatus solely on the strength of their speakers. I hasten to add that this was many, many years ago.
Back to the story at hand. It begins on the 5th of march 2013, which, as I recall was a very cold day. I’d been standing at the bust stop for around fifteen minutes, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the next matatu. In typical Kenyan fashion, I’d waited until 2:40, to leave for a three o'clock meeting. To make matters worse, to get to my destination, I’d need to get on two matatus.
But God was on my side. #Godsplan
An old, beaten down matatu sputtered to halt in front of me. On another day, I probably wouldn't have got on it. But in my current state of extreme lateness, I got on after the conductor had pried the door open.
And it was packed. It did in fact, seem to have more people than a Justin Bieber concert, at an all girls high school, in Norway.
A bit of backstory here. Way back in 2014, the biebs graced Norway with his presence, and so excited were the girls to receive him, that 49 of them actually needed treatment in the aftermath of a stampede at one of his shows.
This actually happened. If you want more details on this, you can follow this link.
So anyway, back to my story. I was in the mat, it was packed, and there was only one spot available. The dreaded invisible seat. You know the one.. that bit of space between the conductors seat and the second row of passenger seats. In the grand scheme of things, occupying the invisible seat isn't such a bad experience…IF you’ve got the equipment for it. However, If you’re skinny like me ,
It can be quite the challenge.
And a bicep workout.
My situation was further exacerbated by the fact that there was this absolutely stunning Ethiopian Girl (is there any other kind?) seated to the right of the patch of air I was occupying. Hanging off her seat to prevent myself from sinking to the floor, was not image of I wanted to leave her with.
Eventually I arrived at the stage where I would be hopping onto my next matatu. There were a lot, and I mean a lot of people waiting at that stage.
23 to be exact.
Now for those people wondering how I knew the exact number, two things. Firstly , there weren't a lot matatus with free space coming along, so what else could I could I do but take stock of the number people I’d have to battle it out with when an empty one finally arrived. Secondly, after my latest experience with Nairobbery, my phone looked like this at the time.
So no Facebook, WhatsApp, Instagram, etc.
At this point, I was a good thirty minutes late for the meeting, and was becoming increasingly desperate to be the first person on the next matatu . I deftly elbowed my way through the crowd and positioned myself as close to the road as I could. A short, rather tinylady in one of those unnecessarily shiny skirt suits, also emerged from the crowd and took up a position to my right. Evidently, she too had come to the conclusion that greater proximity to the roadside offered the best chance of success.
I nodded a greeting in her direction. The ancient art of Matatu hopping, should never go unappreciated.
Sure enough, when the next mat came around, it stopped right in front of us, and there was only one empty seat. With the memory of the invisible seat still fresh in my mind, I barely had enough time to look across at my closest rival (the skirt suit lady), before we began an epic struggle for access to the mat.
Now I’m not proud of it, but these were, as they say, desperate times.
For someone so tiny she put up quite a fight! We each had one foot inside the mat, when my nostrils were assailed by what was quite possibly, the worst smell I had ever, or will ever , experience in my lifetime. Now I’m not saying that all matatus smell bad. However, every once in a while, If you use them often enough, you come across a smell is exceptionally terrible. The fifth of March 2013 at 3:34 pm was that day for me. It was the unholy trilogy of sweat, closed windows, and the dampness that follows Nairobi’s rainy season.
I mean, just to put this in perspective. This matatu smelled so bad, that the woman, who, less than a minute ago had been furiously trying to push me out of the way, took a step back, and waved me onto the mat.
I got on.
We were about halfway to my destination when a squabble over bus fare broke out between the conductor, and these two middle aged ladies seated at the back of the bus.The passengers claimed that they ALWAYS paid 20 bob on this route, and were wondering why the conductor had raised the fare to 30 bob. After much discussion, the women reluctantly pay the 30 bob fee, and peace was restored to the matatu…or so I thought.
A short while after the supposedly peaceful resolution of the bus fare crisis, a rather loud conversation broke out between the two women
Woman 1: I can’t believe he charged us thirty bob.
Woman 2: Don’t worry about it, huyo ni makanga tu, si you know their behaviour.
Woman 1: enyewe that’s true hata hiyo 20 itamsaida aje…si bado atabaki makanga tu!!
Woman 2: in fact ata tutamuongezea 20 bob ingine.
Woman 1 then removed an additional 20 bob coin from her purse, and offered it to the conductor, citing all manner of ways in which the 20 bob coin would NOT help him get a better job and/or lifestyle.
By this point, everyone in the matatu had been drawn into their conversation. One guy even took off his headphones to ensure he didn't miss a word. The conductor, to his credit, did his best to carry on as if nothing was going on, but it must've been difficult to ignore the chuckles and giggles from the the rest of the passengers in the mat.
I’ve got to say, I sympathised with the guy. Just a little bit. I mean, my route is 46 after all. A little bit of rain and the bus fare could jump from 50–100 bob.
So yeah, a little bit of sympathy.
Anyway, we finally got to my stage, and the conductor pulled open the door…which fell off the matatu onto the sidewalk below.
I don’t mean a part of the door fell off. The whole door, fell clean of its frame. I quickly got off, eager to find out what had happened, and also thankful that my journey had come to an end safely. To lesser mortals, the door falling off a car/bus is a sign that something’s not right, and perhaps, a trip to the garage would be in order.
Not so for this conductor.
The guy simply picked up the door, and slammed it back in place, all the while calling out to the few guys waiting at that stage. I’ve never been one of those guys who took down number plates of bad drivers or dodgy vehicles.
But to this day, I still have that mat’s number plate on my phone. If only so I don’t get on it again.
