So I’ve been away for a few days, shoot me! It’s been a challenging few weeks. There have been several experiences but a couple that stood out… I don’t know if the narration is clear enough for this one but let’s hope for the best right?

So the other day I was making my way home by public means, it was quite the journey. A few things happened as I was in that matatu (13-seater minivan, for my readers in the Diaspora). I get into the ride and the driver takes the long shortcut as the highway is full… as we wind in the streets of the CBD, rolling down hill, the driver swerves into a lane and almost knocks over a stubborn pedestrian. This caused the pedestrian to break out in a flurry of words and the driver had his compilation of insults as well prepared. One would expect the pedestrian to yell at the driver hands flailing and all and the driver would get the upper hand as is the case in our Nairobi City. However this was not the case, before any of us could guess, we (passengers) heard a loud slap, no echoes, no warning, just that sound, not a thud nor a missed finger slap, it was a proper manly slap. The pedestrian (guy) had landed a large wet (sweaty) hand squarely in the driver’s cheek… needless to say this was hilarious as the driver was at a loss of words and he was instantly healed of his verbal diarrhea.

From there you would ask yourself “what lesson can one actually learn from this?” I wonder too… this leads to the rest of the story…

Now, for those of you who are avid matatu users, you know that there is this habit that hustler ma3s (these are the semi-old vehicles that have the original radio installed with one working station, a loud manual engine with heat emanating from behind the driver’s seat and an exposed car battery) have on running with about 2 and a half liters (KES 200) of fuel.  I resolved to my tweeting and before I knew it the matatu was coughing… literally… we coasted along along the pedestrian walkway, annoying some young boys who threw large stones, (about 15kg builders rocks) into the matatu’s path, skillfully the driver swerved and made it to the petrol station (gas station, for those in the Diaspora) … the matatu stopped just as we got to the pump… as if this was not enough… there was no fuel in the petrol station (or so they said).

Somehow through all the heavy traffic I made it home that night. Late. Mrs. Me had waited until she fell asleep on the couch… I watched the late night news to find that an increase in pump prices had been announced to be effective midnight. Petrol stations were holding stock waiting for midnight.

I should have just left the office early that day…

#LessonLearnt: There’s no place like home

Until next post…

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2 thoughts on “Getting Home – The drama

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