THE MATATU CHRONICLES

I was standing by the roadside, watching the sun struggle to break through the early morning haze—sluggish, half-hearted, and full of regret, just like me after ignoring my alarm five times. It was 8 AM, rush hour, the time when the city turns into a chaotic ballet of honking, shouting, and people sprinting after public transport like their lives depend on it—because, let’s be honest, they do. I was about to board a matatu, the legendary East African public transport system that operates under the philosophy of faster, louder, and slightly illegal.

Calling a matatu a mare bus would be an insult to its personality. These machines are more than just vehicles. They are moving discos, high-speed art exhibits, and unregulated social experiments all at once. Decked out in graffiti-style artwork that ranges from famous musicians to action movie stars, flashing LED lights that belong in a nightclub, and music so loud it could wake ancestors. Matatus don’t just transport people. They deliver experiences. If you’re looking for a ride that’s predictable, quiet, or follows road safety rules, you might as well walk. But really, why would anyone choose a boring private car when the matatu gives you affordable thrills, free in-car entertainment, and a true taste of life on the edge?

When my ride arrived, I heard it before I saw it. The bass was so monstrous it could have loosened my teeth, and the matatu screeched to a stop as if it had just escaped from a high-speed police chase. Hanging out of the open door was the conductor, a wiry, fast-talking dynamo fueled entirely by chaos and caffeine. He slapped the side of the vehicle with the urgency of a man defusing a bomb, as if every second meant life or death.

I climbed in, ducking quickly to avoid hitting my head on the low doorframe, and was immediately assaulted by a wall of scents—a heady cocktail of overpowering cologne, sweat, fried snacks, and a mystery note of something that might once have been air freshener but had long since given up the fight. The seating arrangement was the epitome of creative space-saving. I squeezed into a spot between a university student whose backpack could double as a mini-fridge and a middle-aged woman clutching a paper bag. And inside that bag? A live chicken, flapping about like it had just discovered its freedom. It gave one dramatic flutter, showering my arm with a sprinkle of feathers. I sighed. Just another morning in the wild, unpredictable carnival that is a matatu ride.

The music today was deafening, but I decided to be bold. I leaned toward the conductor and asked, “Could you lower the volume a bit?” He turned and looked at me as if I had just asked him to sell his soul. “Sister, buy your own car if you don’t like loud music—or get your ears checked!” he retorted with a mischievous grin. The other passengers chuckled, and even the chicken clucked in disapproval. Welcome to Africa, where hakuna matata means no worries and we let things slide because, let’s be honest, I’m too broke to argue.

The fare was higher than usual, but that was no surprise. Matatu fares operate on a mysterious, ever-changing algorithm that no economist could explain. Rain? Prices up. Too much sun? Prices up. A full moon? Prices up. Today’s excuse? A strike in another part of the city, which somehow justified inflating our fare like a hot air balloon on a gusty day.

At the next stop, a mother and her suspiciously grown “twelve-year-old” daughter got in. The girl was clearly a fully developed teenager, but in matatu economics, if a kid rides on a parent’s lap, the fare magically disappears. The girl’s long legs dangled awkwardly over the knee of the unfortunate passenger beside her, but no one batted an eye. We had seen worse.

Shortly after, a man entered and chose to stand in the aisle, determined to pay only half-fare. A true professional, he had calculated his savings down to the last coin, balancing his pride and wallet with remarkable precision.

Then, as if the matatu had become a stage for life’s little dramas, the door swung open again, and in stepped a charismatic pastor. Dressed in a shiny suit, he immediately launched into an impromptu sermon about blessings and miracles. His booming voice filled the cramped space as he urged us to open our hearts—and wallets. It was clear from the start that his real miracle was avoiding fare. We exchanged knowing glances. Another hustler in the church business.

By now, the matatu was full. Or so I thought.

The conductor had other ideas. “Still space!” he shouted.

The driver, channeling his inner Formula One racer, floored the accelerator. Then, as if the universe wanted extra entertainment, we hit an unexpected pothole. The entire matatu bounced like a trampoline, sending passengers leaping off their seats and giving us a brief taste of zero gravity. The chicken squawked in terror, and someone in the back yelled, “We’re flying!”

As we sped down the road, the driver maneuvered through traffic like he was dodging bullets. Inevitably, a police officer flagged us down. The driver pulled over with the dramatic flair of a movie star. The officer strolled up, his face fixed in the universal expression and the conductor slipped a crumpled note into his palm, and just like that, case dismissed. Classic chai—because nothing oils the wheels of justice like a well-placed bribe.

Then, at the front, a well-dressed young man tapped the conductor’s shoulder. “Please drop me at the next stop.” The conductor turned slowly, an amused grin spreading across his face. “The next stop?” The young man nodded, full of hopeful anticipation. The conductor then smacked the side of the matatu three times—PAP! PAP! PAP!—a universal signal that, in this realm, rarely meant what it was supposed to.

Instead of stopping, the driver did the exact opposite and floored the accelerator. The young man’s expression shifted from mild concern to pure horror as his stop zipped by in a blur. “Wait! You’ve passed my stop!” he shouted. Unfazed, the conductor leaned casually against the door. “Don’t worry, my friend. We’ll drop you off with style.”

At that very moment, the driver executed what can only be described as the emergency eject maneuver. He slammed on the brakes with the suddenness of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Physics took over, and the young man went flying forward, barely catching himself. Before he could protest, the conductor grabbed his arm, the door swung open, and he was launched onto the pavement like a skydiver without a parachute.

Finally, my stop approached. The conductor, ever efficient, executed my “VIP exit treatment” with precision—a firm tug, a swift shove, and a door slam so fast it could’ve won an Olympic gold. I stumbled onto the pavement with all the grace of a dropped sack of potatoes.

Just as I was regaining my balance, a voice rang out. “Tuck in your shirt!” I looked up to see the conductor leaning against the window, smirking. With a slow shake of his head, he added, “Eh, sister, tuck in your shirt before your boss fires you today!” Laughter erupted from the matatu as it sped off, leaving me standing there, thoroughly humbled.