So this
cold weather in Nairobi has some of us opting for cab rides over boda’s. So I figured - why not devote this
blog post to these masters of movement?
Plus it’s a
well known fact that taxi drivers are the most fascinating individuals this
part of the galaxy. They spend their days entertaining passengers,
accommodating their rants, accepting unbelievable escapades as gospel truth as
if in hope of an eternal reward. Then, they synthesis and triangulate unrelated
stories from their many interactions to create perspectives on life that are as
absurd as they are entertaining.
Take my
friend, Kama, my cabby-guy of choice. He’s a young fella; not quite thirty but a
long way from two decades. Kama is a careful driver which is why I refrain from
placing my life in anyone else’s hands. This particular day we exchange our
usual pleasantries before he unloads a revelation so heavy, he slows the bike
down to help me grasp his every syllable.
“Buda,
unafaa uoe dame kiatu,” he tells me. (My
friend, you should marry a girl who isn’t pretty).
I’m unsure
of what prompted such a bizarre declaration.
He
continues, “Unajua dame msawa hawezi tembea kutoka hao mpaka stage bila
kusalimiwa. Lakini damme kiatu ataenda na arudi bila stress.” (A beautiful girl can’t get to the bus stop
without being noticed.)
The sincerity
of Kama’s voice allowed me to imagine the expression on his face even while
seated behind him. For the trip’s duration, he narrated a handful of stories
that supported his pose. They all started with an established man who was
perfectly fine before he met a damsel. She’d storm into his life, creating such
worry and distress that he’d end up with some strain of a lifestyle disease, causing him to spend his substantial fortune
on medication until his reserves were dry and the only thing left for him to do
was to drop dead. He was so convinced that the downfall of any gentleman was a
gorgeous woman. When I finally alighted I chose not to tell him how imaginatively
absurd he was. How could I withdraw a reality so clenched by his soul?
Fabian is
yet another philosophical transporter who ferries my mass from time to time. He
has a clean taxi (a rarity in our county) and offers unorthodox relationship
advice. He’s a practicing chauvinist of the highest order and of the least
reservation yet somehow happily married with three children. Fabians’ very
existence is the undoing of feminists around the world.
He once recounted
to me how he left his wife stranded at a village near her parents’ home because
she decided to test him. While deciding on what to marvel at – his guts or the
fact that he was still married – he landed yet another revelation that almost
launched me into the anal of the back seat.
“Njoro,
hawa wanawake haufai kuwapembeleza. Watakukanyaga na roller kama za barabara,”
he told me, carrying all the conviction of an altar call. (Njoro, never be placid with these women. They’ll run you over.)
I thought
about my childhood and how the Mr. Nice Guy act left me single until after high
school. Could this the breakthrough I needed to unlock the forces of
single-hood? What if my mother, knowing the potential damage I could have
achieved with this knowledge, purposefully reared a kind, responsible man,
knowing full well that I would be disadvantaged by exuding these traits? Thanks
Mum.
The
numerous other theories and hypothesis I’ve come across from my taxi guys
warrant a series of posts. Scratch that, a whole other blog! I may very well
publish a set book entitled, “Storo za Madere” and donate the profits to the guys
who get paid to tell stories while driving. So the next time you find a taxi
guy with Peter Jackson tales, you better pay up gladly. For the ride and for
the vibe.
