Once the drunk ladies had made off with my nyama choma, I leaned back, smiling at the absurdity of the night. I hadn’t eaten as much as I wanted, but there was enough in my belly to keep me going for the long journey ahead. The night had grown colder, the wind cutting through my jacket as I waited by the roadside, hoping for a matatu to Nairobi. Kikopey was falling silent, with fewer cars passing by, and the uncertainty of how long I would wait gnawed at me.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I heard the distant roar of an engine, and a matatu from Nakuru screeched to a stop in front of me. The doors swung open, and I was immediately hit by a potent mix of alcohol, sweat, and stale air. Inside, the matatu was packed with rowdy passengers, most of them clearly drunk, laughing and yelling at each other.
I hesitated, the stench alone making me reconsider, but I didn’t have many options. If I was going to get to Nairobi and eventually Mombasa to meet Nadia, this was it.
“Eh, kijana! Unaingia ama unangoja ndege?” the conductor barked impatiently, motioning for me to hurry up.
I forced a smile and squeezed into the cramped space near the back, wedged between two boisterous men who smelled like they had spent the entire night drinking. The moment I sat down, one of them turned to me with a grin on his face.
“Unajua hii wimbo?” he asked, swaying toward me, his breath heavy with alcohol as he pointed at the speakers blaring a Kikuyu song.
I blinked, caught off guard. He was clearly drunk, and it was obvious to anyone that I was Somali from my appearance, but here he was, asking me if I knew a Kikuyu song. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be annoyed.
“Ndugu, huwezi jua huu wimbo?” he pressed, his voice slurred but insistent. “Ngoma kali sana, hizi ndizo zetu!”
I shook my head politely, offering a small smile. “Sijui hii wimbo, boss.”
“Ah, utajua tu!” he declared, bursting into an off-key rendition of the song, swaying in his seat as if he were the star of his own concert.
His friend, equally drunk, nudged him and grumbled, “Acha kuharibu ngoma, ebu weka ngoma ingine dere!”
They argued over the song choice as I leaned back, trying to ignore them. I stared out of the window, watching the night pass by as the matatu sped down the highway, bouncing over every pothole and crack in the road. My thoughts drifted to Mombasa, to Nadia, and to the promise of seeing her.