“Racecourse Thirty, Karen Fifty, Ngong Eighty!” A tout shouts from the top of his voice while hanging on the side of the door. My mind briefly wanders- have they ever fallen? Not in a bad way, but more during their first days of touting. Did they miscalculate a jump and hit the cold yet hot Nairobi tarmac? Or did they lose their footing while that bus was going at 50 kph on Ngong road and fell? Are we there yet? No. We haven’t even started.
“Racecourse Thirty, Karen Fifty, Ngong Eighty!” He calls out again. He looks impatient, and I look back at him. I don’t want our eyes to make contact because if they do, I shall have to board his vehicle. He has carried me five times in the past month, and I am confident he can remember my face. Only this time, I got a cold at work, and I am wearing a mask. I am sure he won’t recognize me as our eyes briefly cross.
“Kuna kiti!” He shouts again. I look at my watch and contemplate boarding the bus. It is no Super Metro, nor any Metro Trans, but it’s 7:15 p.m., and I have a meeting at 8 p.m.
I am on probation in one company while working full-time in another. It is my second last month in the other company, and I am contemplating resigning from the company I have just worked from and accepting the offer of the other company I have a meeting within the next hour. My girlfriend texts me and informs me that she has just finished doing the laundry and is set to begin cooking. I type a quick “Thank you! What will I do without you?” and sigh. What will I do without her?
We moved in together last month, and she has been picking up my slack for a while now. I promised her that I would be helping more often around the house, but work has been at my throat, and I haven’t even had time to massage her for over three months. “I’ll do the dishes… I’ll do the laundry… I’ll do grocery shopping!” I always say but miss, and she does them repeatedly. I will not talk about the time I squandered money I meant to save for our house deposit and rent, and she had to step in at the last minute. I won’t talk about that.
I feel like I am being unfair to her, and I want to do better for her, but at the moment, I cannot. I know I am being unfair to her as the tout calls one last time, “Racecourse Thirty, Karen Fifty, Ngong Eighty!” I drag my feet from the pillar I was seated on and make my way to the bus. I make a mental note to thank her better when I reach home, but at the back of my head, I know I will continue disappointing her, which makes me feel some type of way.

The driver revs the engine, and the bus jerks forward before I fully enter. I guess I have the answer to one of my questions- a tout must have fallen because I almost fell back on the road. My eyes dart to the rail by the door, and instinctively, my hands reach out to steady myself when I look at where my hands are headed. Two women were seated by the door, and both had short skirts. I stopped my hand mid-motion abruptly. The only available space was literally between one of their legs.
If I got ahold of the rail, wouldn’t it look like my hand would be attempting to go down her skirt? Won’t that be immoral? Won’t I have invaded her space? I could already hear the “What are you doing to her?” chants. My heart starts to beat a little louder. And with cancel culture history, how fast could that lead to sexual assault and harassment charges? Statements that “I intended to touch her inappropriately,” or “I touched her without consent,” or some blown out of proportion, that “I grabbed her and sexually assaulted her.” I decide against grabbing the rail, and instead, I hoist myself up and grab the rails from the bus’s roof. I sigh in relief. That was a close one.
The bus hurtles past Prestige and Quiver Lounge. My heart was still beating so loud that I hadn’t noticed the music playing in the background. Burna Boy’s City Boy is on full blast, and while he is one of my favourite artists, I am appalled that he is being played on Kenyan radio. Recently, I was put on a music-themed podcast, The 30% Podcast, which talks about Kenyan music and the industry. My mind immediately recalled their core message that only 30 to 40% of Kenyan music is being played on Kenyan radio, and I felt irate at the radio hosts who played Burna Boy. Petrooz, Mutoriah, Xeniah, and Lisa-Oduor-Noah were not getting any airtime, yet my favourite African artiste was. My blood started boiling, but then I remembered all the different cogs in play. Could it be Payola? Are we there yet? No.
I was jerked off my inner rant by another passenger trying to make his way past me. I hadn’t yet sat down, so I was in the bus corridor. I looked around and saw no seats available but sad and tired faces. My Burna vent was shelved as all those tragic and tired faces looked back at me. Then it hit me; they all have different lives that I would never know. But at that moment, all of us were sharing the same life- one inside this bus to Zambia, Ngong. Or rather, at least where I alight.
With nowhere to sit, I continue standing, occupying the entire space from the bus floor to the bus roof. A man of my stature and height often has issues with public transportation. My tallness is partially why I no longer board matatus home, but I would rather wait for a bus for half an hour. As I adjust my neck, I notice that a man seated to my left is betting. He has placed a bet for Tottenham against Aston Villa.
On an ordinary day, Tottenham would have had a walk in the park with this game, but Unai Emery has been on a different level this season. At some point, Aston Villa looked like they would be a solid top-four contender in the premier league. I know that that would not be an easy call to make. I look up from his phone to his face and see desperation in his eyes. I hope Tottenham wins for his sake. His hands are chapped, and I wonder what kind of industry he works in. He is probably like the millions of other Kenyans who gamble because their life depends on it.
He takes another five bets, and then it hits me that he is going for the Mega Jackpot. I can’t quite see the amount, but I reckon it is hundreds of millions. To the best of my memory, I can recall that only two people have won it, and I presume that his betting would increase his chances of being the third rather than not betting at all. Does he have a family to feed from the proceeds of his bets? Does he have a loan he wants to pay off before those million calls start coming in? Is he unemployed and wants to get some money to get by? Is he employed and wants to get some cash to get by? Is he betting while telling himself that he can stop anytime? Is he addicted to gambling? Are we there yet? No.
I do quick, tired boy math and think of the odds of winning the Mega Jackpot. For thirty-one games, I presume that each game has three outcomes. So, thirty-one by three gives me ninety-three, and for each game, there are thirty-one others like them, so I add another zero to provide me with nine hundred and thirty. Tired boy math. If I were to place a bet on each outcome based on my math, I would need ninety-three thousand shillings, and one would have to win, right? So I would need a hundred thousand to be a millionaire? I quickly text my girlfriend my calculations, and a smile creeps in. I would never have to bend my neck in public transportation ever again! Again, tired boy math.

After standing forever, we passed by Junction, and a few passengers alight. A space opens at the back of the bus, and I hurry to put my tired back down. At the second to last seat, a young lady looks up at my hair, and I can’t tell if she is blushing or in awe. I smile, but she will never know I smiled since I have a mask. I sit next to her as the bus speeds to Corner. She looks away to the seat by the window and says, “Sijui nipigie mum atume pesa tena…” to other passengers, I presume, were her friends. Are we there yet? Not even close.
“Why?” Another woman seated by the window asks her.
“Because if I go to school tomorrow, I will not have enough transport money for the shoot next week.”
“Weeuh…” A guy seated between the two ladies interjects.
“Nikikaa kwangu, I can save fare…” She continues. I can tell by her voice that she is at a crossroads. “But pia, I will miss my classes. And I have already missed two. Nikimiss ya tatu kila kitu itanipita.”
I want to tell her I understand, but I am beaten to it by other intrusive thoughts. I drift away from their conversation for a while and think of how I started working while still on campus, how I attended only one class for the entire semester, and what my results portal looks like.
“Nisaidie pods!” The “window” woman whispers loudly. My attention shifts to them while my eyes stare, my ears doing all the scouting.
“Weka tuskize wote!” the lady beside me tells her, but she insists.
“Siweziskia na hii kelele yote!”
“Kwani pia sisi hatutaki kuskia kitu unaskia?”
Their banter continues for a while, and I realize that the “window” girl is a little intoxicated when she starts singing loudly to the music in her pods. The girl next to me cringes in embarrassment, and I let out a chuckle. I have been there, too—on both ends of the situation—the singer and the cringing fan.
The Bus speeds past Corner, and an old lady boards and sits before me. The conductor comes to collect the fare, and I get anxious. For the record, I usually make the world a better place by having my STK ready so that it’s typically fast and seamless when it reaches my time to pay. My Safaricom app seems to be hanging on the main menu, and the tout is two seats ahead of me. I keep pressing M-PESA, but it doesn’t go through. My girlfriend always tells me to carry cash, but I skirt my way to an M-Pesa agent to withdraw funds. It seems that the karmic gods wanted to teach me a lesson today. Are we there yet? Still far away.
“Madam, pesa.” The conductor asks. My head is down, looking at my phone screen as I frantically try to make M-Pesa work against all odds. I hope against hope that the conductor was not referring to me but to someone else. I have been confused for a lady by touts because of my rasta more times than I can count. I hope this was not one of those times.
“Nashuka hapo mbele,” the old lady says and looks out the window. The conductor does not budge.
“Madam, pesa.”
The old lady doesn’t budge either. I, on the other hand, am doing much budging with Safaricom. It is still not responding.
“Madam, pesa.” The conductor asks for a third time, but the old lady does not say anything or do anything.
“Racecourse!” Another passenger yells.
“Shukisha hapo!” The conductor yells to a tout hanging by the door, who obliges. The Racecourse passenger alights hurriedly, and for a moment, the conductor is unsure whether he collected fare from him. He follows him out to confirm. He then comes to the old lady’s window and asks what he is due. The old lady ignores him once more.
“Madam shuka kama hauna pesa!” The conductor instructs her, agitated. The old lady starts whining, and they go back and forth for a minute before another passenger offers to pay for her fare.
“Ni twenty bob tu!” The Good Samaritan mentions as she pays for the old woman.
The conductor comes back inside and asks for my fare. I am agnostic, but I prayed for Safaricom to work at that moment lest I have another fiasco on this bus. Lucky for me, it did almost immediately. I handed him my phone and paid my fare on time. Safaricom sent out a notice that their services were down later that evening. They could have cost me my life! Are we there yet? No.
The Bus stops at Karen after the old lady has alighted. Her benefactor had alighted, too. I move from the back to the middle seats since they are free while waiting for other passengers to board. “Bul Thirty, Ngong Forty!” The tout shouts outside. My thoughts run to what he is doing. I wonder if he is paid to bring passengers at every stop while the conductor does what he does on the bus. We pick up two more passengers and then leave for Ngong. While going at 80 kph on Ngong Road, the conductor comes and sits next to me. I shift uncomfortably further to the window.
“Huyo mama amezoea.” He states.

“Huh?” I say beneath my mask.
“Ule mwenye hakutaka kulipa fare…”
“Oohh, mwenye alikuwa amekaa huko nyuma?” I point to the back seats. “Eeh, huyo.” The conductor continues. “Namjua. Huwa anapanda gari na halipi.”
“Kila saa?” I ask, edging him on as I try to maintain the conversation. He is the third stranger to talk to me today, and I thought the least I could do was maintain a conversation. The first was a rasta guy who said “Aje” to me as I walked through Yaya Center. The second one was a tout at the Prestige stage who said, “Ndio kuenda town?” after a dab. Before I had rastas, I was virtually invincible. After I kept them, I am a walking lighthouse. Many people greet me, dab me, nod to me, and in one case, a woman objectified me sexually in public.
“Eeh, amezoea sana.” The conductor says. “Watu kama hao nawajua.” Before I could say something, he headed to the front and resumed collecting fare.
Was that woman a con artist? Was she preying on people to pay for her fare? How many times has she done that? To how many people? We pass Embulbul, but the questions still linger in my head. Was she trying to do the same today, and was the conductor having none of it? This begs the question, how many times has he encountered the same? I think of all the times I have boarded the same bus to and from work. How many times have the conductors noticed me? Do they know they’ll always find me there when they reach Zambia at 8:30 a.m.? Do they know I always alight at Prestige? Or do they not care as long as I pay the fare? Are we there yet? Nope, but we are close.
One thing about moving to a new place is that you will never be confident knowing when you are close to alighting- at least, that was for me for the first few weeks, and as it stands, today was a day in those weeks. I have been living in Zambia for over a month, but I still have a gut feeling that I don’t quite know where to alight. I know, but I do not at the same time. I know that when I see Westgate, Sarit is a minute away, regardless of the direction I am coming from. But that is not the case with Zambia. I still don’t know many places, and to make it worse, I have yet to come home while the sun is still shining, so I have missed some crucial landmarks of my own volition.
We speed past Raila’s place, and I remember that Nyx “saw” him leaving his house one morning, yet he was in Ethiopia at the time of question. Since then, that has always been our inside joke, and I laughed softly. At least, that is a landmark I can relate to. I quickly send my live location on WhatsApp to her so that she can know how far out I am, but in a real sense, it is so that I can know how far out I am. I see Zambia Road a few hundred meters ahead, and my heart relaxes. I am close to home.
I move close to the door and sit on the seats that would have been my undoing. I lightly tap the conductor and tell him I’ll alight at Zambia, to which he nods. At times, that is usually the most challenging part of any travel since I would not like to shout, and frequently, those seats are filled. The story of how I boarded the wrong car to Mwimuto from town, went to Mwimuto, returned to town, and then boarded the right car because I didn’t want to yell, “Shukisha!” is a story for another day. I sigh in relief as the bus screeches to a halt in Zambia.
As I alight, the “window” woman giggles, and I remember that I also have my complexities. To all the passengers on the bus, I was just another passenger wanting to get home. I arrive home a few minutes later, do the Sheldon knock, and hug my girlfriend. She also has a life I am glad to be a part of. A life I want to make better. A life I want to be soft and free of labour. I look deep into her eyes and kiss her. “Thank you…” I break. “For everything.” Are we there yet? Yes, we are.
“Racecourse Thirty, Karen Fifty, Ngong Eighty!” It rings again in my ear. If only I had known, who could put a price on such a Nganya experience? I think of tomorrow’s calls and let out a chuckle. “Kenyatta… Ambassadeur… Tao… BEBA!”
From Me to You

I have been writing short stories for as long as I can remember. That’s what compositions were in primary and high school, right? This is one of the many short stories I wrote this year, and I am glad you read it to completion. Are we there yet? Are you kidding me? Yes, you are, Champez!
Sonder first crossed my mind when I walked from work through Westlands to Lower Kabete before moving to Ngong. I looked across the roundabout at ABC Place and, at that moment, saw a lot more people than I had ever seen in my entire life. All these people that I don’t know are living their lives, which are as complicated as mine, or even more. I knew then that I had to write my experience and share it with the world, hoping everyone who reads can see a glimpse into my life through the experiences of others.
On other notes, Bikozulu and Rehema Sifa have written some amazing stories that have had my jaw on the floor for the past few days.
Another month is here, and that’s a whole bunch of June babies. I honestly don’t know why most people I know are born in June/July- almost 68% of all my friends! But don’t worry, I have enough love to share with all of you. Jay, Tamara, Charis, and all birthday gals and guys, I hope your M-pesa never runs dry, and for this month only, when you pay for stuff, you never look at your bank balance and let your microwave be silent at 3 a.m.
As always, what are you waiting for if you haven’t subscribed? If you have, share the story so our experiences can merge while maintaining their original complexity.
I bet you haven’t had enough of my stories. I wrote about checking on the men in your life here: Cyborg has a heart, too.
Discover more from Coffee with Lee
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
😂😂😂😂This was very intriguing 😂😂I am curious as to what the conductor would have done if there wasn’t a good Samaritan. Would he have thrown her out? Would he have said this is the last time and let her be? Would he have continued yelling and as a result the rest of the car boos at him and mostly I am curious…how did you get lost and go through Mwimuto?? Or did you just want a more scenic view?
😂😂😂I can say his actions would have been interesting to watch.
I had two cars confused, but I appreciated the view😂😂😂🥳
I felt like a passenger right there with you all through. 😂💯 Good stuff my good sir.
😂😂😂 “we’re all passengers”
Pingback: Today, I met a woman. | Coffee with Lee