The slogan on the side of the taxi-van told the world that its name was 2fast 2furious; the reggae was pumping, and the tout hung out of the sliding door hollering fares and destinations as the van lunged towards the kerb for a stop.
Squeezed into the narrow seats were commuters with briefcases on their laps and housewives clutching shopping bags; for them this Nissan minibus, painted as if expecting a bunch of bikini-clad girls for a hip-hop video, is an everyday essential.
The matatu is Nairobi’s answer to the transport problems of a city where buses are infrequent, cars cost a fortune, and most citizens could no more afford to hail a taxi than charter a private helicopter. They are the city’s life-blood, but are also universally reviled. To be told that ”you drive like a matatu driver” is not a compliment.
As his passengers clutched seat-backs and roof-straps, the driver of 2fast 2furious showed off the road-handling skills he appeared to have learned on an arcade game. Playing chicken with oncoming traffic was an occupational hazard but taking bumps at speed was pure pleasure.
According to the traffic police, matatus bear the blame for around half the 3 000 fatal accidents on Kenya’s roads each year – the second-worst safety record on the continent after South Africa.
Most victims are pedestrians who fail to get out of the way in time. Other drivers fear matatus because there is little warning when they will swerve off the road to pick up a passenger – or zoom back on. Now Kenya’s transport minister, John Michuki, has them in his sights, insisting that all matatus be fitted with seatbelts and speed regulators by the end of this month.
Matatu firms claim the edict will push up fares, but a strike in November revealed a lack of public sympathy, as commuters wrote to newspapers backing the crackdown and insisting they would walk to work for as long as it took to bring the rogue taxis into line.
There is little sign of the matatus backing down. A previous government edict that they should remove their graffiti logos and bring in crew uniforms was ignored. ”If you have a vehicle without these decorations it will be hard to get customers on,” said George Ndugi, tout of 2fast 2furious. ”People want entertainment. They like it funky-funky.”
It is true that robbing matatus of their names would strip Nairobi’s streets of a sort of poetry; nicknames range from the musically inspired ”Beat Architect” and the self-explanatory ”Deathwish” to the mystifying ”Balkans”. While the decor borrows from Hollywood and black America, matatu vocabulary is quaintly English; ”ten bob” (about eight pence) is the usual fare to any destination. Once there, the tout will politely inquire: ”You alighting here?”
Ndugi is calm in the face of government threats. ”Only people going long-distance want safety belts,” he says. Pointing at Jimmy, gyrating behind the steering wheel in time to the throbbing stereo, he adds: ”The government is saying drivers have to be over 35. He is 20 – is he going to sit at home for 15 years and wait? These matatu are run by people from the poor part of society. If you put them out of a job, the crime rate will go up.”
His passengers take a stoical view of the dispute. For them, as housewife Josephine Sabana says, there is little choice. ”In the area where I live there are no buses, only matatus, so we need them.”
Every regular matatu commuter has experienced a rough ride or a drunken driver at some time, but there are many who are less fortunate. Just after dawn in Kibera, Nairobi’s slum quarter, pavements become as packed as Oxford Street before Christmas.
A river of men and women pour out of the shanty houses and start walking many miles to work in the town centre or in the wealthier neighbourhoods. It is a reminder that in the poorest parts of Nairobi, even ten bob for a matatu can be too much. — Guardian Unlimited Â