From the archives
During the matatu enforcement rules, there were hardly any public means to jav from place to place. Being a person who takes two matatus to work I had to pay twice the price in both instances. So there I was, an intern in a government institution, not getting any monetary compensation for going to work and back, then paid twice the price to get to a job that I didn’t even like, overworked and to add the icing to the cake was late, not fashionably late but extremely late because it was a warfare getting a matatu, a cat and dog fight for the over two hundred people fighting for one thirty-three-seater bus. Eventually I got into a matatu and instead of relief I was an angry mama bear. I thought about all my friends with cars and how oblivious they might be to the situation at hand. Maybe I should get out of this country, maybe I should go to America where the minimum wage is way higher than a high school teacher’s salary. Maybe I should go and scrub people’s toilets, change old people’s diapers and keep my head low until I save enough money to build apartments in Kenya. Then maybe I might return here and just be slightly cool and a little bit higher ranked than the middle-class Kenyan citizen. Then maybe such enforcement wouldn’t affect me because I will at least own my Vitz or better yet Probox and then maybe I will fit into my own country, and security guards will smile at me and call me “mkubwa” and during such enforcement I will give the common mwananchi free rides and ask them if they have ever thought of going to America so they can change their fate of being “middle class citizens”. I was rudely interrupted from my Probox fantasy by the traffic jam that began just ten minutes after we boarded the bus. let me not even start lamenting about the dual carriage road that was promised by the governor a few years ago.
Photo by @ceekaymoney