Morning Blues

The sweat has severely drenched my shirt and shone on my oily skin yet it is only 9:15 am. The throbbing of my own eyes reminds me that I might arrive to work later still. The hammering in my head still hasn't stopped and I can literally hear the thumping of my heart against my chest.

8:02 am.

It was helter skelter as I rushed to leave home so that I could be at work by 8:30 am. Quite an optimist I was, although I knew boss lady would pardon me for being (at most) half an hour late. She either had a soft spot for people who could not afford private means of transport or young lads straight from campus who had mastered the true use of incognito mode on their computers. My female colleagues of course think it is the latter....but I digress.
Anyway, I left the house in quite the rush, fumbling with keys as my coat hang over my head like someone being rained on and ran down the flight of stairs. I may not be the most punctual guy in the world, all things considered.

8:06 am.

I often find queuing for matatus a tedium I would rather die than indulge in. My high school days have probably shaped that sense of self-entitlement hence I felt I had to wait for the next one. At last, I got into the next one, preferring to be sandwiched between the driver and the lady who'd beat me to the coveted shotgun seat by the window. She swiftly alighted and let me get in to the left-over seat. I smiled meekly but she gave me the stern look that said a thousand unpleasant words. I said hi to the driver. He nodded...something was off. My breathe maybe...In my morning rush, I had forgotten to brush my teeth. Natures way of limiting my bickering, I presumed.

8:15 am.

The traffic at Pangani junction was immense. I quipped to the lady beside me that the traffic officers ought to do better on regulating the flow of traffic. I also mentioned the inconvenience of making people who had important morning meetings wait. She gradually looked away, subtly sticking her head outside the window. I took the hint. I did not bother her again.

8:32 am.

We were finally past the diabolical junction and into the free flowing traffic. I listened pensively as Maina and King'angi debated on whether or not wives' dress codes ought to be determined by their spouses. I, for one, had my opinion on the matter but thought better than humiliating myself on the third time of asking. Once bitten, twice shy.
The matatu came to a disappointing stop at Ng'ara where vehicles had decided to camp on the highway so that yours truly would arrive late to work. I together with the lady to my left were tapped by the front sitting pedestrian; presumably for fare. That is when the trouble started...

8:37 am.

We were still stuck in traffic and the same hand relentlessly tagged at my trapezius muscle. That bloody moron seemed too zealous to do a job that did not put food on his table. My lady friend had dutifully passed 1000/= and unnecessarily bellowed "mtu mmoja." I had left my phone and wallet at home. Yet there I sat, in a cheap two piece suit - waiting for the axe to fall.

8:56 am.

"Pesa yako wewe hapo mbele!" The conductor shrieked as I begrudgingly acquiesced, pretending to reach into my pockets. My hands involuntarily shook in my pockets. My fingers are curled into a fist, nails digging into my palm. Fear churned my stomach and gave me this massive urge to urinate. I had no idea what conductors do to people who do not pay, but I'd heard stories. I'd heard stories of grown men who'd been locked in the matatu and a gang of manambas invited in to work on the truant fellow. I had heard stories of men who'd been brought to the emergency ward at KNH after being hit on the head with golf balls wrapped in a sock - the reason was almost always unpaid fare. I had heard cases of torture, stripping and sexual assault.....God forbid! Ngai. In that moment I made an impromptu prayer. I assured God that if he got me out of this I not only attend church without fail but also would pay my tithe to the last cent. I would quit sportpesa and give my surplus to the poor. I also promised not to covet the female caretaker. Nyasaye!

9:02 am.

The matatu finally arrived at the stage. The fear that had engulfed me had turned into a calmness I was suspicious of. I checked my pants to ensure they were still dry. They were. The lady alighted and stood by the door. I had then decided to let the chips fall where they may. I would take the beating like a man. I would even take the golf ball to the head with some minute dignity. It was the sexual assault that made me cringe and think about wailing in my mother tongue or fake insanity. I was a drowning man, with no straws to clutch on. Then it hit me, there were still about four people standing outside (including the friendly woman with 1000/=) for the conductor who seemed to be prostituting himself (he made begging gestures) to shopkeepers for change. My eyes lit up.

It is 9:15 am. I am still running. I alighted at Odeon bus station. I am now approaching Muthurwa. I work in Koinange Street. I feel like a fugitive, an outlaw and a criminal. The feeling is thrilling. I cannot remember the last time I felt so alive. Yet I have no money on me, no phone, bloodhounds who would kill for 40/= probably in pursuit and at least an hour late to work. All in an hour's work.