The Backseat Theology: A Matatu Chronicle

The dust at the upcountry stage had that nostalgic scent — a mix of red earth, roasting maize, and diesel. I was standing there. I was mentally preparing for the long squeeze back to Nairobi. A sharp, rhythmic whistle pierced the air.

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“Oi, msee! Ni wewe?”

It was my childhood friend. Back in the day. We shared desks and dreams. Now, he was a seasoned makanga (conductor). His hands were full of crumpled notes and his voice was toughened by years of shouting routes. We enjoyed a quick “rewind” at a nearby kiosk. We had a plate of smokie-pasua. We laughed about how far we’d come from being barefoot boys in the village.

When his matatu finally hit the front of the line, he grabbed my bag with a grin. “Nimekuwekea ‘VIP’ seat kule nyuma,” he winked. “Enjoy the ride, mzito.”

The “Friendly” Commotion

I finished my snack and headed to the van, but the atmosphere inside was already “chemka.” A mini-drama was unfolding at the door.

Man One was clearly “mlevi” (drunk). He had a green stain of miraa on his lips. He was shouting at Man Two. “Wewe! Don’t touch that bag! The kanga said that seat is reserved. Hiyo ni mali ya wenyewe!”

Man Two looked insulted. “Aii, kwani unaniona aje? I’m not a thief!” He turned to me as I approached. “Ingia kwanza, ndugu. Sit down so this man doesn’t keep accusing me of wizi. Sit there so I can follow you.”

I obliged just to keep the peace, and we all squeezed into the back row. I thought we were settled. Kumbe, the drama was just getting its second wind.

Thayu and the Timing of the Ancestors

As we hit the highway, Man One felt the full effects of the veve. He started repeating the story of the bag like a broken record. “Is the bag okay? Is it still there?”

Man Two finally snapped. “I told you I didn’t touch it! Thayu! (Peace!)”

That word triggered something. The conversation suddenly shifted from bags to the deep roots of Gikuyu culture. Man Three, a quiet guy in the corner, chimed in. “You can’t just say Thayu anytime, my friend. There is a protocol. Thaii is for the morning, when the sun is climbing. That’s when you seek the blessing. But after 3:00 PM, as the day settles, you say Thayu. Peace must follow the sun.”

It was a fascinating moment — three men in a loud, bumping matatu discussing the ancient timing of their forefathers.

The Mukurino and the Bucket

The whole time, a Mukurino had been sitting next to them. He looked like a pillar of purity in his white turban. He clutched his Bible in one hand and a bright yellow plastic bucket in the other. He had stayed silent, his eyes closed as if in a trance, until Man One poked the hornet’s nest.

“Na wewe, Mukurino? What’s your take? Is it Thaii or Thayu for a man of the cloth?”

The Mukurino didn’t just answer; he exploded. He gripped his bucket and Bible so hard his knuckles turned white.

“God forbid!” he roared, his voice drowning out the radio. “I believe in one God who died for our sins through His son, Jesus Christ! These things you are saying — Thaii, Thayu — that is pure uchawi (witchcraft)! It is darkness! I am a child of the Light, and I will not let those words linger in my ears!”

He was shaking with anger and fear. It was as if the mere mention of his own culture’s greetings had “tainted” his spirit.

The Exit

Just as the tension reached a boiling point, the matatu slowed down. It was Man One’s stage. As he stood up to alight, he tried to offer a shaky, drunken apology. “Sorry, Mukurino, was just joking…”

The Mukurino didn’t even look at him. He just gripped his bucket tighter and stared straight ahead, praying under his breath to wash away the “heathen” conversation. The rest of the passengers burst into a mix of awkward laughter and murmurs.

The Big Question

As we drove on, the laughter died down, leaving me with a heavy thought.

We were all in the same matatu, heading to the same city, but we were living in different worlds. Why does our religion often demand that we treat our culture like a crime? Can we hold the Bible in one hand? Can we also respect the Thayu of our ancestors in the other?

Or are we destined to keep fighting over “bags” and “blessings” in the backseat of life?

Wakarimy

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