Every few kilometers, the matatu made a stop, and every time it did, the conductor would push me out to let someone else out.
“Nashukaa!” one of the drunk men would yell, stumbling to the door as we pulled into Naivasha. The matatu barely stopped moving before the conductor banged on the roof, signaling for the driver to go.
I was squeezed next to the door, sharing a tiny part of the seat with the conductor, and each time we stopped, I had to get up and step out so someone could alight.
“Simama tu hapo nje!” the conductor grumbled as we stopped in Kinungi, motioning for me to stand outside as another drunkard wobbled his way out.
I stood outside the matatu, trying not to freeze in the cold, waiting for the drunk man to gather himself enough to exit. He stumbled out, grinning and giving me a thumbs-up as if we were old friends. I rolled my eyes and got back in, squishing myself into the cramped seat once again.
The cycle continued at every stop: Limuru, Kinoo, Kabete, and then finally Westlands. Each time, it was the same story. Drunk passengers yelling “Shukisha!” and me awkwardly shuffling out to let them off, only to squeeze back in next to the conductor.
At one point, as we hit a particularly large bump, the conductor elbowed me, trying to make space for himself.
“Wee kijana, utaenda Nairobi ama unataka kushuka hapa?” he teased, chuckling at my discomfort.
“Nairobi tu,” I replied, barely able to move in the cramped space. “Lakini ni kama leo tumebeba pombe tu, si watu.”
“Ah, hawa ni wateja wa kawaida,” the conductor laughed. “Wakimaliza safari, unaskia tu ‘unipeleke kwa stage’ halafu wanasahau hata walikuwa wanashuka wapi.”