Home time

It's close of business again, well, a little past close of business and I'm on my way home. Fresh out of a 12-hour shift, I can't decide if I'll eat first when I get home or just collapse into slumber right at the door. In the matatu, I could swear everyone is deliberating the very same decision Iam. Soft music plays on classic FM as if trying to remedy our tired bodies and mind. Just about everyone is on their phones. If I listen intently enough, I can almost hear the pitter patter of their thumbs going at it with the keyboard. In essence, everyone is in their own little world, only brought back to this realm by the conductor demanding his due. He passes around a tiny piece of paper with his mpesa number on it and we, who are cashless, calmly wait for our turn. After confirming the mpesa receiver's name, everyone runs back to their screens but not without throwing a pitiful glance at the long, long chain of cars also called Thika road. Iam not a mind reader but I could swear everyone is praying to their God for the traffic jam to open up. Sometimes He does listen but on other days, He's not as merciful. Every once in a while someone throws a rather spiteful eye at the opposing lane that has traffic flowing like it's getting paid to do so. Occasionally, the cute girl at the front chats up the driver who's busy folding up a 50 bob note to grease the long arm of the law later. After exchanging 'pleasantries' with the law, the engine that sounds like it's pushing 90 roars, well coughs, back to life and again we go. There's something I admire about these Nairobi matatu drivers and it's their skills behind the wheel. Dodging traffic, breaking traffic rules, driving on opposing lanes top their rap sheets next to driving skills like a wrc driver. I'm lost in a train of thought that I have no idea what about when someone yells the name of my stop. 

Anyway, this is my stop.

_a very tired storyteller