I enter the bus in a state of confusion, trying not to consume anymore of the other passengers’ precious time. I know, I know, being late has always been kind of fashion but it seems these guys in the bus aren’t as amused. I stand in the bus aisle, look at the ticket on my hand clearly inscribed 4A and head to the only vacant seat on the bus. It has been pretty long since I got into one of these and I struggle to settle, chaotically throwing my bags at the luggage carrier at the top and hastily trying to fasten my seatbelt. Everyone seems to be impatient with me now, of course except the driver who waits until I settle, until I am comfortable and he starts the engine. I wonder why I am still not rich enough to afford a plane ticket. Ah! Story for another day.
The bus diesel engine roars to life and it trundles from the bus station. The bus rocks us from side to side as we travel through familiar roads, affording each one of us a chance to daydream. I am more conscious of my surrounding and the first few minutes allow me to profile my ‘neighbors’. Everyone in the bus seems to be after something. I mean, that is why we are all in this bus heading to the big city.
The guy on my direct left is a college student, probably going back to school after a long weekend home in Kisumu. The neighbor on the front left, is a young woman. She hugs her bags closely and covers herself in a lesso. This must be her first time going to the city because she looks pretty excited. She is probably going to work as a house help to one of the rich families in Westlands. I know this because first her phone keeps ringing and she keeps referring to her caller as ‘Madam’ and the fact that she later alights at Safaricom, si you know, there at Westlands. The neighbor at the back is a mother, with two screaming toddlers. She seems to have much on her plate. Probably getting back from home to the city. She probably went back to ushago because she had a disagreement with her husband. Her husband maybe is an alcoholic, probably a wife batterer. Her children are not making the day easier for her, they keep on calling her mama…mama this, mama that with screams in between for candy, or some biscuits or one hit the other. I can feel from her every response that she is exhausted. She makes me second guess if I really want children in my future.
I put my earphones on and I open Biko Zulu’s past blogs. I am still trying to catch up with his reads that I had missed in those years when my way of unwinding was in a fluorescent lit pub, with vodka in my glass and a joint in hand. That was a 100 years ago. I promise. Chuckles.
The road is a detour passing through all the major towns and cities. Naivasha has always been one of my favorite places. Maybe once I am rich enough it will be a frequent getaway destination for me.
We finally get to Nairobi. They say it is a city where everything happens, where most dreams come true. However, it is a noisy place for a girl like me who values serene environments. We are first hit by the crowd on the streets. The crowd has a life of its own, each person responding in predictable ways, each of them with a goal to achieve the day. I watch from my bus window. Chatters between sellers and buyers, and old friends catching up, new friends being made. There is an unholy agglomeration of perfumes, body odor and over-applied colognes as we hit the road to the main town. Police sirens, ambulance sirens, shouting from matatu touts. This city is what a town becomes with no city planning and a great enthusiasm of architecture. Every building is different, borrowing this and that from another era. There is a lot of fast-food stalls selling fast food galore, make shift, shanty houses, tin, graffiti on walls, plastic. Urggh! I wonder why I am even here.
The bus finally gets to it’s parking station and after about 30 minutes of traffic at the entry, we get inside. The driver turns off the engine and everyone in the bus stands and reaches out for their luggage. I sit, waiting to alight last. I finally reach the bus door and watch the crowd outside, detecting a subtle change in accents and local vocabulary. I hold my luggage and phone tight. To say I feel drown in crowds makes as much sense as a raindrop protesting to join the ocean. Then I see him in the crowd, smiling, waiting for me with open arms. My heart finally settles. It all makes sense now…this is why I am even here…