After what felt like hours of walking, I finally reached Tea Room. It wasn’t the most glamorous part of Nairobi, but it was bustling at all hours with matatus coming and going, their headlights slicing through the night. The familiar sound of a tout’s voice calling out destinations—*“Emba! Emba! Buruburu, Donholm, Kayole!”*—echoed through the streets, cutting through the quiet murmur of the city. Despite the late hour, a few matatus from Embassava Sacco were still waiting on the street, their neon lights flashing rhythmically as they idled at the curb.
These matatus were like lifelines in the night, waiting patiently for the last stragglers of the city—drunkards stumbling out of bars, lovers parting ways under the dim glow of streetlights, and workers catching the last ride home after a long shift. Some drivers sat outside their vehicles, smoking or chatting with each other, while the touts lingered by the doors, their eyes scanning the streets for potential passengers-spanking the sides of the matatus.
I watched as one of the touts helped a tipsy woman into a matatu, offering a steadying hand as the woman clumsily climbed into the vehicle. The driver exchanged a few words with the tout before slamming the door shut and revving the engine, the matatu’s loud music blaring as it roared off into the night. The sight brought a strange sense of comfort; even in the shadows, the city’s rhythms carried on, and the matatus remained a constant presence, a reminder that the city never truly slept.