I comfortably sit on this minibus, note the sarcasm. It has free Wi-Fi though, that is why I am able to write this article easily. The strong perfumes worn by our brothers and sisters in their unique, respected hijabs and kanzus insults my naive nostrils. Anyway, what can I do about it? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I sit in silence but I awkwardly get these psychic feelings. Please note, I apparently do not posses any psychic abilities. I just get some sort of sensations which are indescribable.  I get a feeling that something terribly bad will happen. I wholly trust my guts. 

I wonder if this feeling is courtesy of the book that I have been reading lately. Ghost Files by Apryl Baker. I know what you are thinking right now, that I am a geek! I know right! 

I choose to keep my thoughts to myself while the minibus navigates our congested roads. 

As I approach Starehe School and Centre, which is a few metres away from my home, something totally bizarre happens in the matatu I am in. There, at the back, two seats behind me, a fair young lady with sandy blond hair (which I strongly believe it’s not her natural hair) struggles. 

I steal a glance at her and what catches my eyes are tears, real tears, making wet tracks down her face. What is happening there? Or maybe this is the feeling I earlier on had, it must be, because the atmosphere here is not anything that can impresses anyone. 

The helpless lady is surrounded by four men. Are you thinking what I am thinking? That cannot possibly happen in a public service vehicle. It must not happen in any case! The few metres I had talked about earlier on now seems like a thousand miles! 

The same men are now trying to access her soft flesh underneath. This is absurd! I’m I having a Deja Vu? I believe not. Mind you I am supposed to alight that matatu.

What must I do? Should I scream or cry? Wait a minute, I cannot possibly cry, I am a tough lad and crying appears not to be in my genetic makeup. 

Unfortunately, I alight that matatu and it drives away quickly. I feel frustrated as I walk towards our estate. I should have done something at least! I curse myself for being so stupid and insensitive. What if it were my sister, mother (God forbid!) or my girlfriend?

As I walk up the stairway, I swear that nobody will know what I encountered today. It is shameful to narrate to someone what actually happened only for them to toss this other question to you; 

“What did they do then, to rescue her? ”

That is the moment you feel that shame mount on you with its  full force, not bothering whether it makes you uncomfortable or not because you fairly deserve it!I call that moment, the moment of shame. 

Courtesy of Nairobi Matatu culture.
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12 thoughts on “My Moment of Shame. 

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