Save us from the madness that has crept back into the matatu industry

Dear Mr John Michuki,

There are many things we can talk about. As my former lecturer, Dr Airo Akothe, used to say, we can talk about inflason, we can talk about devaluason of the Kenyan siling or we can talk about your recent decison to campaign for a new constituson. However, I want to talk about something personal.

My message to you sir, is urgent because your good friend, Mr Chirau Mwakwere, recently recaptured his Matuga parliamentary seat. And, as you are aware, he was campaigning on the platform of getting his ministerial flag back.

For people who have longed for a decent and modern public transport system, the news carried the weight of a disaster. For a moment, I thought the people of Matuga were inflicting the man on the rest of the country, but then I remembered that they were merely exercising their democratic right.

Anyway, sir, I thought you should know that every time I board a matatu, I have to hang my dignity on the sliding door. Chances are if a fourth passenger is not squeezed in next to me at the terminus, he will surely be half way through my journey. I feel assaulted as it is an sign to me that the days when the number of passengers was regulated could soon be history.

Of course, there are times when a bout of good neighbourliness attacks me and I do not mind so much. But at times I feel robbed, especially when charged way above the usual fare. Whenever these things happen, I remember the rules you introduced to transform public transport back in 2003.

Oh, how you emboldened wananchi at the time! I still remember with nostalgia how we used to effect citizens’ arrests of corrupt traffic policemen, how we would stand up for what was right and how, when it became necessary, we transformed ourselves into a walking nation to enforce your word, which was law then.

If you had asked us, we could have uprooted coffee bushes. It is so sad that all those courageous people have since migrated. And those left have allowed matatu operators to ride roughshod over them. The only time there was a glimmer of hope was when I had to share a matatu with an ill woman.

Pleas by passengers for the driver to lower the radio’s volume fell on deaf ears until they implied that they could commandeer the vehicle. The music, needless to say Sir, was switched off and our fellow passenger had an easier time. And I, good Sir, had time to munch some food for thought, hence this missive.

The other day, I too struck a blow against impunity when a tout tried to squeeze in next to me after he had “sold” his seat to a well-endowed commuter. Like, Rosa Parks, who refused to give up her bus seat for a white passenger, I refused to budge. When he eventually got a seat after several stops, he did not sell it again. No, don’t clap for me, Sir. Clap for all those who choose to borrow a leaf from Rosa Parks today.

And sir, since there are now many people who will vote ‘Yes’ just because you have said ‘Yes’, do not stop there. Because these people are likely to listen to you, please tell them not to board full matatus. Tell them to wear their indignation like a red badge of courage and proudly display it when they are unhappy with the service.

And just in case they have forgotten, tell them that this is one way to reduce road accidents and protect the environment. Oh, and mention to your good boss that the people have asked for a new transport minister. Tell him they don’t want a person who will “regarega style hiyo hiyo”.

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Who wants to make money without sweat?

My dream of an early and richly rewarding retirement is about to become true, thanks to a man called Ngoma. Never mind that where I come from, the name is used to refer to the devil himself, not his deputy.

This man sent me a letter by post, ostensibly from South Africa, informing me that he was a bank manager there and that one of his clients died 10 years ago, leaving him with an account holding $18 million. No, his client was not from Zimbabwe. He was one of those lucky chaps who inherited a gold mine, so he was just picking his money from the ground.

What Ngoma wants is a way to get these loads of cash from the gold miner’s dormant bank account and into mine, after which, I guess, I would pay him his cut, say 10 per cent, for choosing me as the lucky recipient of this windfall — before walking into an early retirement to live a life of riches beyond measure.

How Ngoma got my address still baffles me. But who am I to question the wisdom of the gods, especially when they choose to favour me through a man who shares a name with the devil? Anyway, since I suspect that my humble bank account would sag heavily under the weight of this new-found wealth, I have decided to be generous like the Polish multi-billionaire George Soros, who is said to have grown fabulously rich by giving away his money.

So, if you want to share my expected windfall, just send me a line telling me how much you want and why I should give it to you. And now that this is settled, I have to say that it still amazes me that people are still being taken in by fraudsters who claim that they can double their money through prayer or some other form of magic other than investing.

It is understandable when one gives money to a stranger who pretends to be in need. Even if one were to fall for such lines, that is not too bad since one does not expect returns from it. But to believe, without any evidence, that another person can double your money without much effort is to stretch your luck too far.

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Fatherhood opens eyes to innocence of children

A man took his daughter to kindergarten and when she returned home after her first day in school, he asked: “Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Very much,” the girl replied.
“What was your favourite activity?” he asked, glad that his daughter was doing so well in school.
“Break-time,” the girl answered with a big smile.

But the same could not be said of the niece of a friend who had always been pestering his mother to be taken to school. Well, the day finally dawned and the boy was taken to school where he had the time of his life. The following morning, his mother dutifully went to wake him up at around 6am.

“It is time to go to school,” she said. The boy could not believe his ears. “Again?” he asked in disbelief. Well, these are just some of the gems that I have been sharing with my friends in the recent past after I too joined the club of fatherhood.

But the story that I still recall though it was told to me many years ago was of sanctimonious father who was trying to demonstrate to his son just how much advantage the boy’s generation enjoyed compared to his father’s. “In our time,” the father said, “we used to go to school without shoes.”

“Ah,” the boy answered after some thought. “That means you would walk all the way in socks?” I am told that as a boy, my father had threatened to abandon my grandmother in the bushes by the road after she and I had a quarrel while travelling.

According to the tale, we had just been stopped by the police when I asked my father whether he had brought along his gun when my grandmother pinched me for being “careless” with words. And every time we came across a bush, I would joyfully ask: “Is this one good enough, daddy?”