Aboard Kenya’s 2013 election matatu
By Ted Malanda
It is dawn, the air fresh and chilly. The country stirs awake as gangsters lie in wait for the early bird and matatus hit the roads.
They come in all shapes and sizes — stereos blaring, full lights beaming, faulty mechanical parts rattling and horns honking madly, like Armageddon is afoot, which is probably right.
Sleepy eyed passengers stand by the roadside. They too, come in all shapes and sizes. The smart office worker in an executive suit, for which the office hawker is still demanding payment; mama mboga with her dirty sacks of merchandise, the barmaid with her cache of money looted from drunken and drugged patrons, the beggars and pickpockets hurrying to their stations — everyone.
Fooled
They all have one hope: To catch the earliest matatu, one that will take them to their destination quickest and safest. They are itching to build the nation — in different ways.
The matatus announce their arrival from a mile off, each in its own unique and special way.
They are colourful to a fault and noisy. Cord, Jubilee, Pambazuka — you name it. They all claim to be the coolest, the safest, and the fastest.
Passengers, long resigned to the shenanigans of public transport — the lies, the violence, the insults, the foul manners — are not fooled. But what to do?
The rotting mechanical pieces of junk pull up, not at the station for order is not and has never been their forte. They stop anywhere — even slap in the middle of the road.
Foul manners
And then the circus begins. Touts, their zippers open, their mouths agape to spray yesterday’s fish, stale beer and cigarettes and foul manners on distinguished and not so distinguished citizens, run, hop, bang, scream.
They harangue, plead, lie, cajole and even forcefully frog match the meek into their decrepit pieces of junk.
“This is the fastest, mine the safest, ours is the coolest, this one won’t stop anywhere, our fares are the cheapest, our driver is the best...” the lies fly fast and furious.
Meanwhile, the driver in question is nonchalantly puffing away at a cigarette, which is against the law. He has never owned a driving license, which is criminal. And you wouldn’t know it by looking at him but he knocked down a police officer last week, slapped a female passenger yesterday and is an accomplice in several crimes.
A section of the police are looking for him — the section he hasn’t bribed, yet.
What you would, however, never guess is that he has no intention of driving you to your destination.
He is only part of the coalition meant to taste the waters, muddy them a bit, make a quick buck and exit at the next stage for yet another lout of a driver.
In any case, three kilometres from your destination, the new driver pulls up and, without consulting the passengers, says, “Hii ndio mwisho wa gari! watu wa 2013 washuke! (end of jouney! Alight, everyone!)”
And so you get sold to another mbus, and another driver, without knowing whether your fare has been paid up or whether the new scoundrel will get you safely to your destination or sell you once more.
If his touts don’t kill you.
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