Nairobi is an interesting city, full of surprises. Public transport system is a tad off the civilization rails - but, hey, it's cutely vibrant.
A rich culture. The iconic 14-seater van, especially. The Matatu's. Colorful. Heavily pimped. Surreal music systems. Awesome graffiti.
Payment is purely cash - and, boy, oh, boy - herein thrives the drama.
Prices hike for no reason, or for something fickle.
Say, a sudden rain shower? It doubles, instantly. Excited campus students in a rioting mood after, say, a loss in an epic EPL match. The fare will double.
If the students attempt to disfigure a national monument, the cops will be summoned to firewall it. The fares will then be triple.
It's normal, and highly recommended to haggle in that authentic Kenyan way, before boarding a Matatu.
So, one day a Matatu crew on a Buru Buru-Town Route get a customer not unlike the regulars. This route is popular with college students, and the hippy working young. The van is banging, with a Mbogi Genje track.
This customer is an elderly gentleman, clearly from upcountry on a city run.
Perhaps, to visit a relative in Buru Buru - a medical appointment - a follow up on some delayed pension thing - he doesn't say.
Usually, on off-peak, standard fees for this ride is Ksh50. He'd probably asked someone, befor he boards, and sits silently - clutching a Ksh100 note in a tight fist. The van takes off. Almost immediately, the conductor starts demanding the fare.
The old man hands over his Ksh100 note. He's expecting his change. Meanwhile, the conductor ignores him. The drama starts when he'd collected from everyone, and had settled in his seat, near the door.
The old man asks the driver to turn down the music - his ears are aching. That rarely happens in a Nairobi Matatu, but, hey, this is an elderly client.
It's quiet. The elderly man turns to the conductor.
Old Man: Hey, my son. Give me my fare.
The Conductor: What change? You have paid 100 bob, old man.
Old Man: Yes. But didn't you tell me it's only 50? My change. I have other things to think about.
The Conductor: (Chuckles) What things? Our 5th president?
Old Man: No. My son. He recently moved out.
The Conductor: That's being a man. A man needs his own house.
Old Man: (Tiredly) Ok. He visits thrice a week, like clockwork.
The Conductor: So? Ain't that a good thing?
Old Man: I can't say if he misses us, or he's just hungry and needs some food.
Surprisingly, he speaks in a rich, British accent. This one, in his days, must have been a Seville Row kind of a corporate honcho.
The delivery? Flawless. He was right at home addressing a UN convention. No sweat.
A second thing happens in that Matatu that was out of the norm. It was a day of several firsts.
The conductor hands over Ksh50 bob to the elderly man.
That hardly EVER happens in a Nairobi Matatu. All kinds of tussles are common. Perhaps, it was the polished eloquence of the elderly gentleman that floored the arrogant crew.
There is a lady in the back seat - gnawing on a roasted maize cob.
The kind that fill the entire van with its lingering aroma like some cheap perfume. Everyone is fidgeting, fresh hunger pains. It doesn't matter if you had an entire fried goat for lunch - you'll still be hungry.
It's a little unkind, but, shall we not discuss that global issue for now?
Anyways, the lady asks, offhandedly - to no one in particular.
Lady: Hey, English man, what would you have done if he hadn't returned your change?
Old Man: I would have done what I did in 1984.
He doesn't miss a step. He doesn't even turn to see who wants to know. He's cool, like that. He's what you'd like in your Grandpa.
The Matatu rumbles over bumps and potholes for a while, in total silence. Everyone in the van is losing it.
Who is this?
What did he do in 1984?
Can he tell us what he did in 1984?
Did he go to jail for it?
Can I search what he did in 1984 on my browser? I wasn't even born yet.
Shortly, the old man beckons to alight. He'd reached his get-off point.
As he alights, the conductor leans towards him, and asks:
"Mzee, what did you do in 1984?"
The old man stares at him briefly, and, says:
"Oh, 1984. Uh-uh. A guy refused with my change in the bus. When I got to my point, I got off, picked my bag and walked home."
The laughter that erupted in that van almost had the lady in the back choking to death on her roast maize.
Moral of this Story: Do not eat roast maize in a packed Matatu. Everyone else starts starving.
