KENYANS LEARNED BUT MAJORITY ARE NOT INTELLIGENT

KENYANS LEARNED BUT MAJORITY ARE NOT INTELLIGENT

By Momanyi Lilian

I am in a matatu. Thika is my destination and a date is my reason to be heading there.

The matatu is unusually silent, no Wakirtitho or Tarimbo booming from it speakers; noo, this one is a quiet matatu, a pin in a haystack.

It’s not overcrowded either, everyone has their own seat, a space to breath, a space where you can actually move your hands and not come in contact with that of another body.

Am seated at the very end, at the right corner. Perfect spot to observe people and create their own narrations in my head.

I like imagining am Ford (from Westworld) and these are just my puppets, my hosts.

There is a woman seated at the far left from me.

She looks sad and spends the entire journey looking out the window, sighing occasionally.

In my head, she has just found out that her husband cheated and she is going to Thika to confront the mistress.

But Angela, won’t she be angrier than sad then?
Shut up stupid brain, am the Ford here.

A young girl, probably seventeen, is seated between us.

She is constantly letting out small chuckles as she types continuously on her Oppo phone.

She made me curious, wondered if she was talking to Trevor Noah; so I peeked through her phone.

Turns out, she was texting in some WhatsApp group with her girlfriends about a horrible date one of them had gone to.

A man with a bald head is seated in front of me; and I imagine his reason for going to Thika is to see his son from his third baby-momma. He reeks of baby mammas that one.

I am just about to move to the girl seated next to him when I get interrupted by a phone ringing.

The phone belongs to the woman seated next to the driver.

“Haroooo,” she answers it in a heavily Kikuyu-accented voice.

I don’t understand Kikuyu so I do not know what she says in that conversation.

However, I understand humans, and intonation and voices and am pretty sure this phone call is making this mama anxious, afraid, frustrated and confused.

The call goes on for about one minute before she hangs up rather abruptly.

I cannot see her face, but I can see her body.
It’s trembling.

I start making up stories about the phone call, who had called, what they were saying; when another phone rings.

This one belongs to the man seated next to the Kikuyu woman.

He’s a big man with an even bigger kitambi and a bigger head. He looks like a man people call Biggie.

“Hello,” Biggie answers his phone.
Turns out Biggie has a big voice so I can hear what he is saying.

“Who is this?” he says after a few seconds on which I imagine the caller talks.

He is silent for a while, and from where am sitting I can see his kisogo.

It’s sweating.
“Unadhani mimi ni mjinga eeeh? “he says after a while then hangs up.

I observe his big kisogo some more. It’s still sweating. He looks shaken up.

Like before, I almost make up a story about Biggie’s phone call when am interrupted by yet another one.

This one from the boy sitting just behind Biggie. He is a young lad, probably a University student and his phone was on vibration.

He speaks silently; but like Biggie and the Kikuyu woman; he trembles as he speaks and hangs up rather quickly.

Another call follows his, and it’s for the guy sitting next to him.

That’s when I start noticing the pattern, and the fear radiating inside this silent spacious matatu.

I look at all the passengers who have received the calls; the Kikuyu woman, Biggie, University lad, the guy next to University lad.

I can only observe their backs but if I could see their eyes, I already know what I will find there.
Fear.

Funny enough, there is no fear in my eyes; only curiosity so I look at the next passenger; whom according to the pattern I have detected, will receive the next call.

I look at her (she is an old shosho) and I wait and wait and wait.

Just then; the tune of If you gonna lie by Fletcher fills the matatu and involuntarily my body jumps a little.

My phone is the one ringing.

I take it out of my bag, all the while trying as much as I can to keep calm.

I don’t recognize the number on the screen, and I almost don’t answer it. My curiosity gets the better of me.

“Hey, hello.” I say.
“Is this Angela?” the caller is a man.
His voice is alto.

He sounds calm, like one of those callers who call you to tell you have just been called in for an interview in a company you had applied a job for.

“Yeah, this is she.”
I don’t ask him why he is asking. I presume he will tell me anyway.

“Are you in a matatu with number plate KAD876Y?”
That’s’ his next statement.

My heart is beating fast; and I really hope, as I look at the faint number plate printed on the window pane, that it’s not KAD876Y.
“Yes.”

My heart is almost tearing up my ribcage as I wait for his next words.
“You are a very observant girl Angela.

Am sure you have seen your other passengers receiving phone calls. We just have a simple message for you.” his voice is till calm and alto and I almost expect him to tell me I have been called for an interview.

“Angela, the matatu you are in, it has a bomb.

You and all the other passengers in the matatu have been selected to serve as warning to the government.

Don’t you find that noble? Now, now. Don’t panic.

The purpose of this call is to let you know you have around ten minutes to say your Goodbyes to your friends and family.

Do not waste time on calling the Police.”
He hangs up.