Today I became a matatu conductor for one hour and I enjoyed the power of controlling when and where the matatu stops.
You see, I was the last passenger to fill this conductor-less matatu and the driver requested me to collect the money from all the passengers on his behalf. I do not know what quality he saw in me to trust me with such a huge task. Maybe it was because I was the last one to board and I would sit at the door and this would make me the ideal person to open and close the door for passengers without so much friction.
I agreed without giving it much thought. In fact, I saw the adventurous side of it. It would be fun, I thought, tapping at the shoulders of passengers with some aura of authority and folding bundles of notes in between my fingers.
I had carried the novel, “Their eyes were watching God” by Zora Neale Hurston and when the journey commenced, I unfolded the page I was reading last night and hooked my eyes on the neatly typed words. I knew it was rude asking for fares immediately so I decided to give 'my passengers' some time to relax and feel at home. You know, some grace period to sort out their finances, at least mentally. The onset of the journey was rather quiet and uneventful.
The matatu snaking its way in between the traffic jam along Mombasa road. When we were approaching City Cabanas, I thought I had given my passengers ample time to relax and so I pulled out the Sh100 note I had from my trouser pocket. With this note folded between the fingers of my left hand, I tapped the shoulders of the three passengers sitting right behind the driver and told one of them to tap the shoulders of the two passengers sitting with the driver. As these front passengers were busy fidgeting with their handbags and breast pockets, I turned and announced to the rest of the passengers, “Pesa, Pesa Kwa mkono! Ni wakati wa Kulipa rent.”
My humble passengers did not disturb me. They did not even doubt me. The courage with which I had taken to this task of collecting tax erased all the doubts that some of them, especially the pretty girl, who sat at the back of the Matatu and kept giving me an “I hate you” face, had. Like obedient servants of God who are used to paying their tithes without fail, they handed me their money and I did not disappoint in giving them their balance in due time.
“Nashuka!” I heard someone say but it was like I did not hear properly so I ignored and the matatu zoomed with the same tempo or I should I say speed?
“Nashuka!” I heard again and turned around. It was the pretty girl who was talking.
“Nashuka City Cabanas! Kwani uko na maskio ya Monitor Lizard!” she roared.
“Kuwa mpole mathe. Mimi si bwanako.” I retorted.
“Nami pia usiniite mathe. Mimi si mamako.” She rejoined. “Dere, weka Cabanas,” I instructed the driver, a little bit too late but being a driver with experience, he brought the assemblage of scrap metals to a screeching halt. I struggled to pull open the door and when I got some success, the pretty girl squeezed her bumpy buttocks out of the matatu. Once outside, I bid her farewell,”Na uwe na siku njema mathe.” She did not reply. She just wriggled her bumpy buttocks this way and that way towards what seemed like a factory building. I slapped the cheeks of our Matatu and we resumed our journey with such a high speed as if we were travelling to Migori.
No sooner had I settled my eyes on the book I was reading that a certain short, fat, rotund man said he was alighting.
“Wapi?” I enquired.
“Hapo Airtel.” he answered in brief syllables. “Sawa. Dere, weka Airtel.” I instructed the driver and he started slowing down.
“Na hujanipea change.” The rotund man added.
“Change gani? Si nimekurudishia finje?” I asked him, puzzled.
“But si nilikupea soo? Kwani Airtel hapa ni fifty, si forty?” he answered my question with another question.
“Airtel ni Fifty bro.” I hammered a final nail into this back and forth conversation.
“Wewe ni mwizi lakini ni sawa tu. Siku moja nyinyi conductors mtalipa fare na mtajua,” he said with a final resignation.
“Usijali brathe.” I consoled a dead soul.
We made a brief stop Opposite Airtel during which the short man ejected himself from the matatu. We zoomed past the traffic jam, sometimes overlapping dangerously. Another guy, who was sitting in front, alighted at Popo road. Two more passengers boarded and we resumed our journey to town.
When our driver made a U-turn near Capital centre in a bid to escape the Mombasa road jam, three passengers shouted at me, almost in unison and demanded to know why I never told them that the matatu would follow Jogoo road. I told them that we are avoiding the jam but they could hear none of it. They ordered me to stop the vehicle in South B and refund them apart of their fares.
I instructed the driver to stop but he assumed he never heard me. He blatantly ignored my repeated orders. Instead, he made his way through the industrial area and in less than ten minutes we were easing into the Jogoo road traffic near Muthurua market.
All this while, gigantic abuses were being hurled at me but I gave a deaf ear. Sometimes a matatu conductor too gets tired of abuses! Every human does.