Kanjo Toilets

A heartfelt shoutout to the genius who dreamt up Nairobi Kanjo toilets. Honestly, you deserve a Nobel Prize in Public Convenience. Without you, the streets would be a maze of desperate bathroom scavenger hunts and awkward squats behind random buildings. Your contribution to humanity—and our bladders—will never be forgotten!

Bwana, Mungu Akubariki!

One Saturday, after tackling the usual errand-a-thon, I ended up downtown, right on cue, like a moth to a flame. Naturally, my stomach took charge—like a luhya, it’s the true CEO of my life—marching me straight to my favorite spot on Panya Lane. There, I indulged in a fish feast so fine, it felt like I should’ve been wearing a crown and waving to peasants. Hunger met happiness, and together, we dined like royalty.

To top it all off, I downed a yoghurt—the supposed grand finale, the culinary mic drop, the sweet encore to my seafood symphony. It was meant to be the dessert equivalent of a standing ovation, but let’s face it, yoghurt is more like the polite applause at the end of a school play.

With no other business left downtown, it was time to call it a day and head back home. Since I hadn’t yet joined the elite club of automobile owners, my chariot of choice was public transport. So, off I went to Accra Road, where Umoja Innercore matatus—those colorful, loud, and slightly chaotic urban warriors—waited to whisk me away to my destination.

As I approached the matatu stage, I was greeted by an overly enthusiastic young man with a jawline working overtime. Depending on your geography, you’d call what he was chewing miraa, muguka, or jaba—though his right cheek looked like it had decided to inflate independently, resembling a lopsided balloon. Despite his slightly disheveled look, his vibe was oddly charming. He was the bus conductor also known as konkodi or Konda or Kange.

“Umo Innercore, Umo Innercore, Beba, Beba” he shouted, “Unaishia brathe?” he asked on seeing me, his energy at full volume. Before I could even answer, he hit me with another one: “Hebu nigotee mtu nguyas,” extending his clenched fist my way. I cautiously mirrored his action, extending my own clenched fist. Our fists met for a brief, ceremonial moment before he withdrew his, knocked his chest with theatrical flair, and pointed skyward, chanting something in a dialect only he and the clouds could understand. It was like witnessing a sacred street handshake—cryptic, intense, and undeniably entertaining. Anyway, I didn’t need to decode the chanting—whatever ancient mystery they were summoning was clearly above my clearance level. The invitation ritual alone gave me plenty to chew on. So, I moseyed over to the vehicle, peeked through the door, and did a quick survey of my potential throne options. Two choices: a seat at the back or the front seat snugly wedged between the driver and a current occupant.

First, I assessed the back seat. It had potential, but just as I prepared to commit, my inner diva whispered, “Thou shalt not stoop to conquer.” The front seat it was! Confident in my decision, I sidled up to the door, ready to claim my spot. But alas, reality had other plans.

Upon closer inspection, I realized I had underestimated my rival for space. The other passenger—a man of considerable culinary dedication—was deeply engrossed in demolishing mahindi choma. That wasn’t the issue, though. The issue was his presence. Not just his physical presence but the gravitational pull of his being, which claimed not only his seat but also half of mine. It was like the man was engaged in an unspoken battle with spatial boundaries…and winning.

The conductor swung the door open and, with the authority of a traffic cop, told the passenger to shift. “Kaa square, buda.” Without a word, the Sumo-sized gentleman dutifully shuffled to the side, and the vehicle groaned in protest—a long, creaking lamentation. The result of all this effort? A sliver of space so small, it might as well have been a suggestion rather than a seat.

I hesitated, glancing at the passenger, who was now observing me with the calm confidence of someone who knows gravity is on their side. Our eyes met for the first time, and through a burst of mahindi choma crumbs, he muttered, “Usijali, jaribu tu utatoshea. Hii space ni kubwa.” I blinked. “Kubwa”? To whom? On closer inspection, I realized that his left arm had colonized what little space was available. If I dared to squeeze in, I wouldn’t just be sharing space—I’d be doubling as his armrest.

Before I could decide whether to risk spinal misalignment or dignity, a new contender entered the scene—a scrawny chap with a sagging pair of trousers and enough bling to light up a small town. He confidently strutted toward the front seat, his jangling accessories declaring war on silence.

I immediately recognized a miracle when I saw one. Surrendering the front seat without hesitation, I retreated to the back, slipping in with the quiet resignation of someone avoiding a bad life choice.

Up front, the unlikely pairing of Sumo-sized passenger and skinny-bling chap somehow worked. Amazingly, the big man didn’t even have to move an inch—proof that, sometimes, the universe just makes room…for those who refuse to budge.

The moment I finally planted myself in the back seat, our beloved driver hopped onto his throne and simultaneously fired up two things at once: the engine, and some extremely loud Reggae music that led to a feeling of mini earthquake. It felt like the matatu had just decided it was auditioning for a role in “Fast & Furious: Kingston Edition!”

At first, everyone seemed cool with it—until I dared to speak up with a semi-polite “Punguza kidogo, dere!” The driver obliged and dialed down the volume. But no sooner had the thunder softened than another backbench DJ hollered, “Dere, ongeza kidogo, hakusema uzime ngoma!”

Suddenly, the entire matatu erupted in near-unison agreement, “Hapo sawa!”—and as if on cue, the speakers launched into Claude “Claudja” Barry’s “Nobody can stop reggae.” Bwana, in this democracy on wheels, the majority was on the side of the reggae enthusiasts, so I shut my mouth and patiently waited for Umoja Innercore letting the pulse of bass carry me to my destination.

But alas, my stomach had more pressing matters to attend to. The fish from lunch and the yogurt topping had declared war on each other, converting my digestive tract into a new Kosovo! The battle lines were drawn, and the “exit strategy” of choice was, shall we say, rear-facing. I started sweating bullets; a cold dread overshadowed the reggae beats in the matatu.

We were just rolling around OTC when I felt DEFCON 1 in my gut. “Dere, weka hapo!” I barked from the back, shoving my fifty-bob fare at the conductor. But the driver wasn’t having it: “Hapa hakuna stage!” he retorted. My only comeback in that moment of crisis was a desperate, “Buda shukisha tu tafadhali”.

Reluctantly, the driver conceded— “Haya, shuka na jam”—and I staggered out like a trapped animal finally freed. I don’t even remember my graceful matatu dismount; next thing I knew, I was sprinting for the Kanjo washrooms. Let’s just say I made it in the nick of time… For those of you who have never ventured into the Kanjo washrooms, let me enlighten you on the delicate protocol involved. First, you line up—because apparently, nature is never in a hurry for us mere mortals. Next, you hand over ten bob or five bob, depending on the seriousness of the “summons.” Finally, you’re issued that precious commodity known as tissue paper.

In my case, I had no time for etiquette. In that instance, even Usain Bolt had nothing on me, I charged in like a last-minute marathon runner, skipping the queue entirely and bulldozed straight into an available cubicle. Let’s just say, in that frantic moment, I discovered that belts can suddenly morph into complicated machinery. But once I finally got everything unbuckled, I experienced sweet, sweet relief—pure bliss, even.

That’s when cold, unforgiving reality drop-kicked me in the soul: I hadn’t paid. No payment, no tissue! My friends, my fellow survivors of bad decisions, it was in that moment—much like Newton discovering gravity after a casual apple assault—that I uncovered a groundbreaking revelation: socks have alternative uses. Oh yes, those humble foot sheaths, once mere guardians of my toes, were about to become the unsung heroes of an unforgettable chapter in my life. Let’s just say necessity isn’t just the mother of invention—it’s the mother of desperate, sock-related genius.

VIVA SOCKS!