Despite the exhaustion and discomfort, I couldn’t help but chuckle. The chaos around me was so absurd it was almost entertaining. The conductor kept pushing me out at every stop, and each time I stepped back into the matatu, I felt more like a human yo-yo than a passenger.
By the time we rolled into Nairobi, it was 2 a.m., and I was utterly drained. The city was quiet, the streets almost deserted except for a few taxis, Embassava buses infront of Accra Plaza obviously waiting for drunkards who want to get home from “Dunda” and some street vendors huddled under blankets to ward off the night chill.
The conductor tapped my shoulder and nodded toward the door.
“Hii ni ya mwisho,” he said. “Hapo Tea Room unashuka.”
I nodded, grateful to finally escape the cramped matatu. As I stepped off, the conductor gave me a pat on the back.
“Safari njema kijana,” he said, giving me a grin. “Ukifika Mombasa, usisahau kututumia salamu!” He was actually so nice to me throughout the journey.
He kept telling me how I look like his childhood friend, Abdi, who later moved to US. But I wasn’t surprised since most Kenyans say all Somalis do look alike.
I gave him a tired smile, pulling my jacket tighter around me as I walked toward the Tea Room area, where I could find a place to crash for the night. The journey wasn’t over yet, but at least I had made it this far.
The adventure was just beginning.