For an outsider recently visiting Nairobi, Kenya, as I decided to move around the town one evening, it weighed on me that anyone could see I was clearly not from around here because of my pace.
From all directions, men, women, children, most of them barely saying a word to one another, rushed up and down the streets. A gentleman shoved me out of his way as he hurried past, shooting me an angry look to boot; I guess if he had not been in such a hurry he would have paused to chastise me for walking so slowly.
Before I could regain my balance, a voice behind me called out: “Excuse me!”
A young lady lightly pushed me out of her way. I composed myself and eventually started moving at the pace of those around me, going after…I don’t know what.
“In Nairobi, people move very fast as if they are chasing something. Someone will knock you and will not say sorry. He will just look behind as if to make sure you have fallen and he will continue,” Ruth Othieno an acquaintance in the city later told me.
Being a first-timer here, I noticed various things I had not seen back home as I moved from my hotel down to Moi avenue. From the beautiful roads, to the big leisure parks in the middle of the town; from the cameras monitoring traffic to the many tall buildings differentiating the Nairobi skyline from Kampala’s. “Now, this is called a city,” I said to myself.
It was just 7pm when I entered the city centre on foot; a lone Ugandan soul in the middle of a big Kenyan city for the first time. Above me a big banner screamed, “WELCOME TO NAIROBI COUNTY”.
Far ahead of me, I could see business going on, as shopkeepers closed up and street vendors poured in, describing their goods and prices in a language not popular to the typical central Ugandan that I am: Kiswahili.
Their merchandise spread out on the walkways on both sides of the road. Clothes, books, and other things transformed the formerly- clean, wide streets before my eyes.
With a population of at least 3 million people according to UN data, any type of business can surely thrive in Nairobi. By this time, traffic on all roads in the city was heavy, something I later learnt was usual Monday to Saturday.
Commuter taxis commonly known as matatus call for passenger by the roadsides and it is a real struggle to get on one as pushing and shoving ensue the moment the door slides open.
In Kenyan matatus, which by the way are owned by Saccos, what welcomes you is loud Bongo music. Loud enough for one not to hear what one’s neighbour is saying, yet most of the passengers look comfortably at home with the noise.
However, I liked the fact that inside the various matatus that I used had similar decorations; Kenyan idols ranging from politician Raila Odinga to Oscar winner Lupita Nyong’o. Others had Tottenham Hotspurs midfielder Victor Wanyama or Olympic gold medallist Kipchoge. Nairobi worships Kenyan nationals flying their flag high on the international stage.
“This is Kenyan spirit. We get inspiration from those icons you see over there. Not just us but our children too. Many want to be like Lupita or Wanyama; when they see those pictures in these matatus, they get inspired,” said the elderly Joseph Kamau, my neighbour during one matatu ride.
What was rather intriguing was the fact that one had to practically jump onto the matatu as it moved and the same applied to when one was alighting. I wonder how there are no countless Kenyans hobbling along sidewalks on crutches at this rate!
The crazy drivers do not stop; even as he approaches the stage to pick up more passengers, he is at full speed.
“Is this how they always drive here?” I asked a gentleman standing next to me, who actually ignored me before jumping on to the moving matatu.
As I stood there surprised, a convoy of private cars pulled up from my left – about 15 cars driving at breakneck speed towards a roundabout. On top of the vehicles various youths in green football jerseys sat screaming in Kiswahili and others pushing their heads through the windows blowing whistles.
Movement around me stopped apart from that of the convoy as everyone struggled to get a glimpse of these daredevils riding on car rooftops.
“So, Gor Mahia has won. Wow,” said a smiling gentleman about a metre away.
Gor Mahia is one of the powerful local football clubs playing in the Kenyan league, and they seemed to have won a football match that day.
My one week in Kenya was full of new experiences too; first were the problems with speaking Kiswahili. Next was mentally determining the Ugandan shilling’s equivalent of a certain price of a commodity before I bought it, and then there was the difficulty explaining to the matatu conductors where I was going.
“I see you are a Ugandan,” said a motorcyclist after I tried giving him directions to my hotel in broken Kiswahili.
The rest of his colleagues at the boda boda stage laughed in unison, prompting me to turn angrily to the group. One, however, caught my eye. On the front of his motorcycle was a Luganda word written in white bold letters: “Mugamba Ki”, meaning “how are you doing?”
Impulsively, I smiled and headed directly to this particular fellow, speaking in Luganda and telling him my destination. Our expatriate, Jude, refused to tell me his second name or why he left Uganda six years ago to ply his boda boda business in Kenya.
We shot through the night on the streets at a speed similar to his counterparts in Kampala. Nairobi nights are colourful. I am saying this because I went to three different clubs from the city centre to the Westlands, stood by the roadside to observe and danced with street kids outside one pub, all in one night.
However, my disappointment was not hearing a single Ugandan song play the whole night wherever I went. My mind wandered back home where Kenyan jams play in various clubs from Sauti Sol’s Shake Yo’ Bam Bam to Redsan’s Shoulder Back.
Could it be I chose the wrong night out, or are the DJs really anti-Ugandan?
Nairobi mornings are equally different from Ugandan ones; here, the hurry is in high gear. Now I know why mornings and evenings are called rush hours…
This morning experience came when I slept outside my designated hotel on the outskirts of the city at a relative’s place. Armed with a hand-drawn map of the routes I was to take to get to my hotel – courtesy of my sister who got married in Kenya – I headed for the city but got lost anyway (for the second time during my visit) because the matatu dropped me at a spot that was not on my map.
As I found my way through the city, I was astonished by the culture of reading newspapers I observed. From seemingly corporate gentlemen to baton-wielding security men manning entrances to various commercial buildings and matatu conductors, everyone seemed to be reading a newspaper in the morning.
Most were reading The Standard or The Citizen newspapers, giving me the impression that these were the biggest dailies in the city. A few hours after this morning walk, I was on a flight back to Entebbe.
At least one score was for Team Uganda on my way back: the brown you see over Kenyan air space and the green you see once you enter Ugandan space. This, and the various experiences in Kenya – from getting lost to jumping onto speeding commuter taxis – made me realise why I do not wish to live anywhere other than Uganda.
