A flash of madness.

There are plenty of things that can annoy you in a matatu. More often than not, it’s not even the vehicle itself but the people in and around it. You count yourself lucky if you experience a smooth, fast, and silent ride—especially after a long day at work or school.

It can start with the aggressive touch and shove of zealous touts, coercing you into the most battered matatus before wedging you between two heavily built passengers. Or, if you’re a bit lucky, you get the nganyas. Nganyas are matatus so drenched in layers of graffiti and clashing neon lights that they look like moving art galleries. Inside, they are a forest of subwoofers and speakers pulsed like a nightclub on wheels, each bass drop seemingly propelling the vehicle. These bass drops rattle every loose panel as they conspicuously slither through traffic like overburdened beasts. They don’t just move; they lurch as if overwhelmed by their own chaotic style, and driven by the urgency of making as many round trips as possible.

In a nganya, even if you get your own seat, the pounding music makes your ears bleed. Or maybe it’s the music itself—you know, those songs where the artist sounds like he’s in a heated argument with the microphone? Yea, those ones. That song you have in mind is exactly the one I’m talking about. Those are the nganya anthems—the ones that make the entire vehicle and parts of the body vibrate, the ones that you are compelled to listen to for your entire commute. The songs that worm into your head against your will. Then later in the day, or even in your sleep, you find yourself humming a Wakadinali song you never intended to remember, and suddenly, your whole day feels cursed.

And then there are the corpulent passengers (I am under strict instruction not to call anyone fat). Matatu seats are already thin and dusty; the last thing you need is a moody, oversized passenger piling their attitude—and body—onto you. Now, not only are you fighting for space, but also for peace of mind as they spit attitude-laced complaints into your ear. Your shoulder is in constant contact with theirs, and soon, sweat forms on the touchpoint. Hygiene becomes a secondary concern; all you want is space. To sit in a matatu and not be involuntarily pressed against the window, that is also shaking incessantly due to the terrible music blaring from the speakers. But where will they move to? They’ve already occupied the aisle, their seat and half of yours.

But the music isn’t always terrible, abi. (I’ve been reading a lot of Nigerian literature lately.) Sometimes, it depends on the age and taste of the driver. Like the time I sat in a matatu driven by a white-haired man—Justus, I still remember his name and kind gaze. It was through him that I Shazamed Franco Luambo Makiadi’s timeless Non. That day, I discovered an unrealized love for rhumba, strummed with guitars and breathed through brass trumpets. Just like bad music lingers in your mind rent and tax free, good music does too—but instead of frustration, it leaves you smiling like a madman on the street, humming Madilu’s Vice Versa, oblivious to the reckless nganyas speeding past. One day someone will come across me on the street struggling to form a coherent Congolese-French sentence, and they might think I've just had my own Pentecost moment, suddenly speaking in foreign tongues like an apostolic madman.

Speaking of music, do you know what else fills the air in a matatu? Sweat. Stale, weary sweat. Board a matatu after a long day, and you are greeted by an oppressive wave of tired sweat—sweat that has been marinating in the vehicle, hovering above the heads of exhausted, daydreaming passengers. Late-hour matatus reek of fatigue, dampness, and almost tangible despair. The touts at the door contribute generously to the stench too. "Kuna kiti huko nyuma, bro," they bark, their breath a lethal mix of jaba (or whatever else they chew) and dental neglect. And then, there’s that one passenger who, for a million of their own justified reasons—cold, asthma, paranoia—refuses to open the window, locking you into a chamber of smells.

But none of these were my worst experiences. You get used to the deafening music and the loud, unkempt touts. You tolerate the large passengers—because what will you do? Tell them not to sit next to you? You’d be crucified for being ‘inconsiderate.’
What you don’t get used to is a man flashing his manhood at a young woman sitting across from you.

She was probably in her early twenties, sitting on the seat opposite mine. To her right, a disheveled man—clearly a user of bangi or miraa. (Forgive me, I’m neither well-versed nor at all interested in the specifics of drugs. I just know they all smell bad, and I should stay away from them.) It was around 8:30 p.m., and the matatu was dim, save for a few flickering blue and red lights. Because I wasn’t seated at my favorite window spot, I was left staring blankly, lost in thought, fantasizing about what to write this weekend. Sitting by the aisle is terrible because everybody hits your shoulders with their luggage, and people unapologetically step on your new sneakers.

I turned my head toward the lady, you know, just to confirm if she was truly as pretty as I initially thought—or if the red lights were deceiving me. People appear both sexy and intimidating under red lights. To my surprise, she immediately shoved her phone onto my bag on my lap. The dimly lit screen was shielded by one of those privacy screen protectors, but I could make out the words typed in a notepad:

"Nisaidie!! This man kando yangu has unzipped his trouser!!"

My eyes widened. My heart pounded for reasons I couldn’t explain. This was a first. I’d heard stories of people subtly planting phones on strangers and then staging a ‘thief!’ moment, but I had never had someone directly ask me for help in such a way. Instinctively, I pushed the phone back toward her, almost making it fall. But before I could dismiss it as her silly little scheme and turn away, she touched my shoulder. That touch sent a chilling sensation through me. I haven’t been touched by a woman in so long that my entire system jolted at the unfamiliarity. For a fleeting moment it made me forget that she might be a potential threat.

However, she leaned in, whispering in the most angelic but terrified voice, “Huyu jamaa kando yangu ananionyesha kitu yake aki…” Then she pulled back, locking eyes with me—hers pleading for help, mine frozen in a mix of shock and uncertainty.

What did she actually expect me to do? Women are a confusing species. They might not always say what they mean, or mean what they say, but somehow, you're supposed to decipher both with precision. For a few slow-matching seconds, we just stared at each other, my mind zoned out in thought, her waiting for me to do something. I initially wanted to just ignore her and wait for my stage to alight, but we were still too far out. All other seats were taken too so I couldn’t switch seats to avoid her. I strive as much as possible to leave people to their own dealings and shenanigans; coz when I’ll have a knife to my stomach on the street being robbed, everybody else would be busy minding their own business.

Then the man nudged her shoulder.

I snapped out of my daze and turned to look. His trousers were pulled down to his thighs, partially concealed by a baggy t-shirt, but his ‘tool’ was defiantly exposed. He signaled her to look down. Instead, she looked straight at me, this time with a cloud of tears forming in her eyes. She must have been a young girl just starting life around, and was still understandably timid and scared around Nairobi’s uncouth society. Boarding matatus for your first times can be intimidating, coz who knew people act like this in public transport?

I immediately stood up and stepped back into the aisle, tilting my head toward my seat—a silent cue for her to take it. She jumped at the opportunity, shifting next to an older woman who had been sitting beside me. A huge sigh of relief escaped her, followed by a whispered "Thank you." She looked visibly calmer, no longer trembling. I nodded back, suppressing a smile. That small feeling of satisfaction made my hairs tingle.

When she alighted, she turned back, as if to take one last look at the ‘hero’ who had saved her from what was probably her first traumatic matatu experience. I smiled back awkwardly, as I always do, as she disappeared into the darkness of the night. (I wonder why I smile a lot even when it is not necessary, it vexes me to my feet.) A part of me, though, was glad she hadn’t been robbed or hurt. I didn’t take her number. Kids, not every encounter is meant to be an exchange of contacts. Besides, introducing her to another Nairobi weirdo would have been too much for one week.

Back in her initial seat, I was now next to the degenerate himself whom I thought would change his ways coz the target audience had left, but instead—to my horror—introduced me to his little show. He shifted and adjusted his trousers, as if preparing for a second act. Nausea churned in my stomach. I wanted to punch him, to strangle him by the collar and demand repentance; but The Lord already showed Peter that brutality is not the way of salvation. Either way, I couldn’t be the deliverer of vigilante justice in a matatu; tables can turn pretty quickly in a congested public setting.

I felt like chopping off that little thing and throw it out the window. What could possibly make someone want to show his tool in public like that? Is that a mirror of just how society has gotten rotten to its core? Or is it just a few outliers who cannot control their fetishes and behaviors? Even so, there was no excuse whatsoever!

I stared at his bloodshot eyes, with no expression on my face other than disgust and regret that this is what men have turned out to be in my age. That there are animals like the one sat next to me who tarnish the name of hardworking men like us, by animalistic and appalling behaviors like that. Behaviors that make young women feel uncomfortable, and even make other men lose respect for society. He seemed to be deluded and unbothered, coz even when I put him up for the staring contest he was just smiling and finally tried to pull his trousers up. He must have realized I’d seen a lot in this world in my short stint alive that few things ignite my reaction. He fastened his belt, and stared out the window for the rest of the commute.

When I finally arrived at my stage, I debated giving him a parting gift, for the girl he’d traumatized—a punch to the back of his head—but realized this wasn’t the MCU. Instead, I stepped off and left him to his wretchedness. A man bold enough to flash himself in a public matatu is crazy enough to chase me into the night. Again, leave people to their shenanigans.

An ear-piercing cacophony of music. A moody, oversized woman crushing you against a rattling window. A stench of sweat, spit, and fatigue. Somebody’s phone exchanging owners. A man flashing his genitals. A baby wailing. A delayed ride because a mischievous comrade decided to play M-Pesa games with the tout. Yeah, sounds like a normal nganya ride to me.

I can’t wait to own a car—when even the most trivial errands like going to buy salt or matchboxes I’ll drive myself. I’ve tried Ubers, but they too are tainted by modernity’s uncultured behavior and lack of grace. They haven’t solved my frustrations, and perhaps they haven’t solved hers either.

✍🏽Reagan.