The Girl in the Matatu

Photo Credits: Msingi Sasis

By Kisauti

You’re seated in her living room remembering how you met. It was in a Matatu along Thika Road. The music was loud to the point that it made the windows vibrate. You were seated at the back; she was on your left. Heavy breasts, wide hips, round-thin-rimmed glasses. You breathed in the air around her, it was rich with the flavor of cocoa butter.

She looked like a student, a mature student with a cloak and dagger aura about her. The kind that gets sixty-year-old males’ pension in a twist and their hearts racing when they see her because things in them stir that haven’t stirred since they were adolescent boys.

The lights in the Matatu were dimmed to a dull blue so that from an angle everybody looked attractive. Except for her, she looked like a sexpot. The light from the Matatu and from her behemoth smartphone was hitting her face just right heightening her beauty to unprecedented levels.

You were squeezed in the back to the point of your faces rubbing against each other every time the Matatu hit a bump. You stared at her phone screen, I mean it was right there. She could barely keep up with the notifications because they were coming in furiously, threatening to combust her phone into a raging Valhalla.

‘I know a brilliant social media manager,’ you wanted to whisper but you needed to be more creative than that if you were to compete with all the suitors that were streaming in her phone.

“Hi, what’s your name?”

You typed on your phone’s notepad and tapped on her soft delicate shoulder. It felt like sinking your hand into a cloud. She looked at the message and giggled then got back to her chaotic phone.

“I promise; I won’t say your name in vain,” you typed then tapped your hand on the cloud again.

You watched her in suspense as she closed her WhatsApp and opened her notepad.

“I’m not God, you know?”

“No, you’re a goddess.”

She wore a smile that will never wash out of your brain.

“I’m Naydine,” she typed.

Gym Class Heroes, Stereo Hearts was playing through the speakers, ‘Make me your radio and turn me up when you feel low…’ it boomed.

You got back to your notepad, her face stuck on your phone screen as if you were about to share Coca-Cola’s recipe.

“Nice to meet you Naydine, I wouldn’t mind being your radio.”

“You’re in luck, I happen to be in the market for a one.”

That is how you found yourself sleeping late texting each other. She was unlike any other beautiful girl you had met before. She didn’t play games, she wasn’t coy. She was straight to the point, abrasive almost. It was on a dull evening, around 18:00hrs when she texted you. ‘I’m making pork, come over.’ You thought she was kidding but then she sent you the pin to her location.

You got her wrong, she’s not in school. She’s a waitress in one of the many restaurants mushrooming in Nairobi. Working her way up to the maître d’. She says, salaciously as if the word communicates something other than what it was meant too.

Her house is neat. There is a kitchenette with a balcony, with clothes on the line, mostly silk dresses and skirts. In the kitchenette is a small fridge and a two burner cooker. Next to it is a toilet that doubles as the bathroom. The sitting room is spacious. Spacious in the sense that it accommodates a sofa-set and a twenty one inch TV screen without straining. You sniff the air and the scent of pork hitting hot oil burns your nostrils. You are home.

The door is knocked. “Naydine, there is someone at the door,” you call out but she doesn’t hear you over the din of Trace Mziki. You get up and open it. It’s a gent. He’s in a blue shirt, unbuttoned so that you can see his chest hair peaking. His tie is loosened and his grey trousers sagged. He looks like a shit-wheel, like he just got buttered by his boss and he badly needs to blow off steam.

“Is Naydine around?” he says casually like a neighbor who has come over to borrow salt.

“Yes, let me call her.”

You rush to the kitchenette and Naydine is soon talking to him outside the door. You can’t hear a thing they are saying not with the racket of Drake’s Kiki permeating the house.

The second knock comes in after she has served supper. She bolts from her seat as if there are safari ants in her clothes. You’re tearing into the pork when you get a second thought and reduce the volume. Its another heavy base voice, different from the previous one.

“I drove all this way, you should have called and cancelled.”

“Next time, I’ll make it worth your while, promise.”

“Neighbors can be a nuisance,” she says while closing the door behind her and regarding you with her piercing brown eyes. “Ready for dessert?”

You both know what dessert means. Her delicate curves makes your brain stall, I mean the world is changing rapidly, waitressing must be evolving too. Your testosterone kicks in full throttle and you start readying your taste buds for the sugar to come only she has already taken your role as the man holding your hand and leading you to the bedroom reducing you to the role of a wench.

“Maybe we should take it slow, I didn’t carry rubber,” you stammer.

“Don’t be silly, I’ve got you,” she roars carnivorously.

The dresser next to her King-size bed zings open and she comes out with a durex feather-light condom. The friend in your boxers is mash-soft as if confirming what your head already knows. She sinks to her knees, with flair, as if, how, can I put it, as if she does it for a living.

“Let me wake him up for you,” she groans.

A terrible foreboding washes over you. “I need some air, I will be right back,” you rush to the seating room, pick your phone and keys on the coffee table that is now clattered with plates of half eaten pork and ugali and make for the door. There is a man on the other side.

“Is Naydine in?”

“She’s all yours.”

You go down the stairs and out the gate like an arrow and start walking fast, then break into a small jog that soon grows into a full blown sprint to the stage.

(I have never really done this guest posting thing before. Not with prose. Did it with poetry there for a second then, to use a phrase I have heard used so much lately, life happened 🙂

But Kisauti pens a mean tale and if you are thirsty for more of his work, feel free to quench your thirst at

Meantime, I might give this guest posting gig another whirl. See where the path leads. You have something that you are confident is brilliant that you feel I could share, shoot me an email, and we’ll see how it goes.)

Oh, almost forgot. Grab a copy of my book ZOO if you haven’t already. Goes for 900/= only, sent to Paybill Number 762362 under account number ZOO. Do that and I will call you about the delivery. You also get to meet the requisite delivery costs.

Photo Credits: Robert Asimba.
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  1. I have a feeling this could/should have taken a different turn … am taking it up from here, so if you’re interested hit me up 😉


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