Blessed are those who own vehicles, I always say, for they are surely in heaven. Hell is the dominion of public vehicles. And God knows, I can’t wait to get a contraption of my own even if the only thing that hold it together is the grace of God. Just as long as it get me from one place to the other, that will be fine with me.
Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against the machine, it is people that are the bare of my life. Those that man them and those that are carried.
The most irritating person in my list is the matatu conductor. These are people for whom all spaces in the matatu are always wide and all people are one size-small. If the back sit take five persons it shall take five, never mind that one of those five is a potential winner of a ” widest body contest”
These guys will demand fare barely ten metres from the stage and retain the balance till my throat achs from numerous shouting I make asking for it. Good day if I get it while still on the journey. Worse still are the stickers on the matatus ” Kulipa ni lazima, Change ni kukumbuka”.
Did I tell you about their month full of green sap? Can’t help to think they placed a bet with their cows on who is the best on chewing cuds.
Closely following the matatu conductor on my list is the other member of his crew- the matatu driver. For him all spaces are also wide. That is, spaces between vehicles on the road. Time is the essence of their work, and they zoom in and out of spaces an angel wouldn’t dare tread. And I hold my breath and hope God doesn’t take to it to answer for my many sins.
Maybe I should blame the owner but I never see them and I have got to vent my anger on the immediate cause of my misery. There is only one good thing with the matatu, they stop at exactly where I want. Unless the long arm of the law is looking in the vicinity. But wait, a well folded fifty shillings note does all the miracles of blinding the men in blue and cutting short the arm.
Now let’s come to the skulls that are carried. The one I loathe most are those who are told by the matatu conductor that there is space yonder there and they promptly head there without so much as checking to verify facts. They then come and sit on you as if you are the space indicated.
Just a breath behind are those slay queens who want to engage you in a conversation just to show the conductor like you are together. Cursed is the day you give a 100 note, expecting a balance of fifty shillings and the conductor goes like “Mmoja Ama wawili ?” I usually think they signed an MOU. kieleweke, not that am that introverted, my earphones and a book at hand is just a a way of protecting my 50 bob.
There are others who think they paid for three quarters of the seat and leave me perched on the edge struggling to stay afloat or squeezed on the side with no breathing space. Where do they think they are? In their grandmother’s fireplace?
What about the gap between the seat? where a wooden bar, famously known is sambaza is placed, I better not say anything. Bora Uhai.
As for the of odours! Not just unwashed bodies which emit an unlimited variety. There are those who think their favorite perfume is everybody’s idea of life and literally take a perfume shower. I don’t know if they understand why we have different brands on the market. It is because people’s nose take in different things. They make me wish I had no sense of smell when the different smell wrestle with each other and threaten to asphyxiate me.