99 problems and ... they’re all matatu related

@njerish

njerimuchai@outlook.com

You know how, when you enter a matatu, you pick the seat of least resistance in the hope that no one will sit on you, step on you, unwittingly – or otherwise – fondle you or pick your pocket? No? Well, most of us do. It doesn't always work. In fact, it rarely does.

Public transport is the cheapest, safest, most comfortable form of transportation in Kenya. Or at least it should be. As it stands, Matatu drivers are ninjas, every single one of them. Notice how they carry on conversations with passengers, their makanga and whoever is on the other end of that mobile phone in their hand, overtake at 120kph in dense traffic, evade arrest and wear their uniforms all at the same time.

One hand is on the steering wheel at all times and the rear-view mirror is all but unnecessary; they prefer to turn their heads and look!

Put on a track with Lewis Hamilton, they might not follow the rules, but they’d beat him every time because, short cuts and flawless multi-tasking, are what it’s all about. Of course, they crush – a lot less than you’d expect – kill and maim thousands every year, themselves included.

The treachery, however, begins before you even enter the matatu.  In many parts of the country, the drivers, intent on catching the fish their competitors are also making eyes at, will drive right onto the curb, forcing pedestrians and clients alike to dive into whatever nearby bush is available. Or worse, straight into oncoming traffic! 

But they don’t stop there! The makanga proceeds to shove you into his vessel having whispered a ridiculously low fare into your ear. And that would be really good too, if he wasn’t taking you 100 kilometres away from your destination. 

They always assume they know where you’re going. On the off chance that you are going where they’re taking you, the driver then proceeds to drive off at full speed, when you only have one foot in the car. He’s a ninja, see?

Once you’re inside a matatu with ninja Kamau at the wheel, you feel instantly safe that he will get you where you need to go. That, or you suddenly get the urge to take up long distance running as a way of life, rather than as a sport.

If you choose the former, you still have the makanga to contend with. And that independence seat just behind the conductor offers no respite. If the dude did not shower that morning or is overly prone to perspiration, you’re getting a whiff of him whether you like it or not. And his manly scent is not the worst of it.

If we ever had the misfortune of entertaining Lady Ebola in Kenya, a makanga would most likely be to blame for your catching it. 

They’re swift, aren’t they? How they wipe the sweat off their brow, pick their nose, scratch their crotch, ‘welcome’ another passenger into the already fully occupied vessel and hand you your change in one fell swoop! Mind boggling. 

New Olympic sport
Makangaring should be an Olympic sport; a test in swiftness. We thank God, don’t we, that Aids is not as easily transmitted as televangelist Pat Robertson seems to think it is. We ordinary, matatu-taking Kenyans would have ceased to exist in the 90s, and an Elysium of sorts, populated by only those with personal cars, resulted. 

You see, aside Nyayo Buses (DAFs, we called them) and Kenya Buses, matatus and sometimes friendly neighbours, were the only other way of getting from one side of the country to the other.

Out of all 99 matatu related problems, death by accident and death by Ebola, are the most obviously frightening.  

Then there’s the cashlessness issue. We were supposed to have gone totally digital by July 2014. Tomorrow is November, and cash is till passing from one sweaty hand to another. This is not only unsanitary, but it also gives conductors and drivers room to play with the fare prices. 

How about the fact that cops do not check if passengers are wearing belts, or if they even exist to begin with? Not only that but, some people just don’t fit. They’re either too minute or too large. Some occupy half a seat; some occupy a lot more. The skinny get squashed and fly out of their belts in an accident. The hefty do the squashing and fly out of the windscreen because the belts were not designed accommodate them. They’re jua kali seatbelts, hastily installed in the fear that not doing so would rattle Michuki’s snakes.

And then there’s the little matter of being touched against your will. Ever notice that, when you’re unfortunate enough to share a seat, the guy next to you always has his money in the pocket that’s in contact with your hip. Why is it never in the breast pocket or even ensconced in someone’s cleavage?

And God forbid that Mr Conductor should take your fare or hand you your change without touching you. He has to grab the tip of the note between your thumb and forefinger, with all five of his phalanges. Sometimes, all ten! Ninja! The rest of that note that you’re not touching is not money. No! It couldn't possibly be worth anything is their logic.

Again, why does the makanga never give you crisp notes or shiny new coins in change? Two parts of a 50bob note are always glued together with tape and the coins always show signs of having been in a fire... or an accident.

Also, when is the Nyayo Bus coming back?