The Day Nairobi Played me – Season I

The year was 2010. I was about two years into living in Nairobi - the City in the Sun - and I hadn't yet met the worst of its cons.

I had just finished a private tuition class in Nairobi West, just opposite Nyayo Stadium (someone had  tried renaming it Coca-Cola Stadium). I walked through the alley between Nairobi West Hospital and a housing estate - one of the safest alleys in the city back then. Is it still there?

The bus stop was at the intersection of Lusaka Road and Mombasa Road next to Shell Petrol Station. The expressway didn't exist yet.

From the five matatus available, I chose one of those nganya types - stylish, loud music, booming speakers, massive screens, expanded wheels, some sort of hella flush vibe. The kind of therapy a young man like me needed after a long day.

As the matatu fired up, the conductor started collecting fares - unusually early in the journey. Should've raised red flags, but I handed him a fresh Ksh 500 note from my tuition client. He was supposed to give me Ksh 480 change.

I kept checking on him. His responses? "Tulia." "Bado." "Ngoja." "Sikatai na pesa zako…"

Then he'd flash a few other Ksh 500 notes and ask, "Mbona hawa wengine hawazushi?" (Why aren't these others complaining?)

At Bellevue stage South B/C, a guy boarded with a laptop bag - unusually long, overlapping both sides of his lap when he sat. (I later learned it was a tool of trade. A modern-day fisherman's net.)

The game was about to begin.

I had a new phone, two weeks old, maybe  Motorola, no, Nokia or one of those 2010 types, before smartphones became commonplace. It cost me Ksh 2,300. (18 USD)

The matatu filled up. A few skirmishes between the conductor and kamageras, and off we went towards Cabanas. I lived in Pipeline estate.

Around Sameer Park/General Motors, someone shouted, "Polisi! Tie your seatbelts!" Michuki rules were still hot those days.

In the commotion, as I reached for my seatbelt on the right side, my phone was smoothly pickpocketed from my left trouser pocket.

Next stage: Imara Daima.

The guy with the laptop bag alighted. Interestingly, the same guy who had shouted "Polisi! Polisi!" now screamed, "Wameniiba simu!" (They've stolen my phone!)

Then two more people did the same - genuine victims, I believe.

I touched my left pocket.

Phone, gone!

I looked outside. The guy had started crossing the 4-to-6 lanes of the busy Mombasa Road, wide median strip and all.

I dashed out of the matatu, tried crossing, but speeding vehicles blocked me. Then I remembered - the conductor still had my Ksh 480 change! I turned back, waving frantically.

The conductor, knowing well he had my money, ignored me completely and the matatu sped off.

So I walked. Through Imara Daima to Pipeline. Sad. Dejected. Mad.

When I got home, I called my number using my old phone.

The guy picked. Made a devilish laugh. Hung up.

A few months later, someone tried the same nonsense on Thika Road. I laughed out loud as I held my phone high in the air to safety. Tusha wajua. (We know the game now.)

To this day, I don't board nganyas unless it's an emergency. For me, only quiet matatus, no screens, no long laptop bags or heavy jackets, newspapers, envelopes, nothing.