Nakupenda — Mombasa, Kenya | March 2001
Matatu Wangu
Uncomfortably folded, I find myself glued behind the driver of a Nissan matatu, the heavy R&B bass vibrating through my entrails. Next to me sits a veiled lady who, “Kidogo, kidogo,” signals that I should move up just a little further. So far, there are only nine other passengers seated in the minibus, so it will take some time before the driver, aggressively revving the accelerator, will leave for Mtwapa.
“Mtwapa, Ferry, Bamburi, Docks,” mantra of the matatu conductors, quashing Mombasa’s mosques. Our conductor — fake shirt, fake jeans, original thousand miles (sandals made from discarded car tires), a ten-shilling coin stuck in his left ear — desperately tries to convince everybody in his vicinity to board the rusty minibus. Asking, shouting, pulling, pushing, whining, begging… Eventually a hearty smile, “Hakuna matata!” on to his next victim.
Those who are looking for transport might be seduced by the fluorescent graffiti, Beat The Reaper, or the orangeyellowbluegreen light show, at night a single stripe of black light, but mostly they just seem to follow the hypnotising bass.
Gradually more people have managed to squeeze inside, among them an old Maasai warrior in traditional dress, casually placing his spear in a corner, and two school girls in uniform — whoever came up with the idea of making a jumper mandatory around the equator?
Finally, we start moving, only to come to an abrupt stop after a couple of metres. Our conductor is now dancing around a colourfully dressed heavyset woman, holding many bags and a single child. She stares straight through him and only gives in, “Asante Mama,” after the conductor has made her bags disappear underneath a front seat and settles her child — being luggage, not a passenger — on the lap of the old Maasai. With difficulty, she makes her way past the first couple of rows and wriggles her plump hips in between the four sober-suited men occupying the back bench.
Now fully stuffed with the legally allowed eighteen passengers, the door slides shut and we speed up. The stereo volume is increased and the schoolgirls behind me happily sing along.
We’re going fast now, but still stop a few times. The money made from these extra passengers will be split between the driver and the conductor, instead of going to the matatu’s owner. It’s time to pay. This is made clear by the hand, coins clinking and sorted by size, which appears in front of me.
“Bombolulu,” I shout my destination over the music. The conductor nods to confirm. Freeing my right hand — with the left you do very different things — I give him the exact fare. He grins dismally when he sees the twenty shillings. A Mzungu who knows prices, always a pity.
In the distance appears the trail of huts and butchery-bar-hotels which make up the small seaside village of Bombolulu. With two sharp taps against the roof, I remind the conductor of my destination. The driver immediately slows down and the door is opened. Before we come to a complete stop, I slide out, a final vibration of the bass trembling through my body. As soon as my feet hit the ground, the driver hits the gas and storms off in a cloud of dust and black exhaust fumes.
It’s counterintuitive, but I love these matatu rides. Fortunately, it’s just a couple of hours before I head back to the city, once again warmly embraced by the pulsating bass.
Brenda Fassie. Nakupenda (I Love You) on Amadlozi [CD]. Johannesburg, South Africa: EMI Music (2000)
This autobiographical sketch comes from my bundle In the Moment: A Disjointed Audiobiography which is available at Amazon.com. (USD 9.50 for a paperback or USD 4.50 for the Kindle version)
