Mulmulwas on the move…

Public transit has a strange way of turning strangers into performers, the train car into a stage, and an unsuspecting commuter into an audience. That evening, exhausted and running on fumes, I collapsed into my seat, prepared for nothing more than mindless scrolling. But then they arrived—an unstoppable force of nature that turned the mundane into the extraordinary. Enter: The Hurricane Family.

The train doors hadn’t even fully opened at Yorkdale Station when they charged in, a chaotic army with Dad at the helm. He wasn’t speaking—he was commanding. “Seats ahead! MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!” His booming voice carried the kind of authority you’d expect from someone evacuating a burning building. Behind him, Mom trudged along, dragging a stroller, a grocery bag overflowing with snacks, and the haunted look of someone who’d fought too many battles today.

Their eldest son lunged for the window seat like a paratrooper landing behind enemy lines. “I call the window!” he shouted, his precision impeccable. Meanwhile, his sister—dressed in a tutu, a tiara sparkling like a crown—took her place on the sticky train seat as if it were a throne. She meticulously arranged her stuffed animals around her, a queen addressing her court. “You’re embarrassing us,” her brother hissed. Without hesitation, she twirled, her tiara catching the fluorescent light. “That’s my job!” she said, her tone dripping with royal disdain.

And then came the toddler—a pint-sized agent of chaos wielding a juice box like a grenade. He scanned the car with an intensity that made us all uneasy before proclaiming, with the booming confidence of a dictator, “I’M POOPING!” The train collectively froze. “He’s not,” Mom whispered, though her voice trembled as if unsure. Passengers exchanged skeptical glances. Was he? Wasn’t he? The toddler stared us down, unblinking, daring us to question his claim. Meanwhile, Mom began chucking snacks like she was leading a famine relief effort, distributing bananas and crackers to anyone within reach.

When the train screeched to a stop at Pioneer Village Station, Dad barked, “Troops, let’s roll!” The family rose, a whirlwind of energy, chaos, and crumbs. The tiara princess gave one last regal wave to her loyal subjects (which was no one), and they were gone, leaving the train in a stunned silence.

But if that was a performance, my next memory was an epic saga.

Years ago, after a festive village Christmas, I boarded a rickety bus back to college. The bus was half-empty, but the driver and conductor had decided the bus would leave whether it filled up or not. Their mission: pick up anybody going anywhere along the trajectory of their destiny—Nairobi City! No questions asked, no passengers denied. It was a strategy born of desperation and chaos, a recipe for adventure.

Somewhere along the bumpy road, the bus screeched to a halt with the drama of a soap opera cliffhanger. Enter the man: He looked like a walking exclamation point, except someone replaced the dot at the bottom with a drum. His torso was so wide it could host a family picnic, but his head—oh, his head—looked like it had been borrowed from a much smaller, far less ambitious body. Perched on his shoulders like a cherry on an oversized ice cream, it bounced around as if it were constantly surprised to find itself attached to such a grand display of mass. From afar, he resembled a potato that had somehow sprouted arms, legs, and a hat-sized head-Mulmulwas. He waddled forward with the swagger of someone who regularly negotiated with angels and maybe owed a few favors in heaven. Chewing on a chunk of boiled maize as though it contained the answers to life’s greatest mysteries, he cleared his throat and unleashed his query: “Nairobi pesa ngapi?” The words emerged muffled, as though the maize had first demanded a bribe to let him speak.

The conductor, clearly unimpressed, shot back without missing a beat: “Sisi hatuuzi Nairobi! Unaenda au hauendi?” It was less a question and more a challenge, like a verbal slap to wake him up. The man froze mid-chew, his eyes narrowing in deep thought as if the price of Nairobi would unlock the mysteries of the universe. Then, after swallowing dramatically, he turned to his wife, who was perched precariously on a twenty-litre jerrican of water like a village empress. 

“Ati abolanga shina?” he asked her, his words hanging in the air with the weight of a philosophical inquiry. But before her majesty could issue a response, the conductor, a man with zero patience for dramatic pauses, cut in. “Wangapi wanaenda?” he demanded, scanning the family suspiciously.

Before the wife could open her mouth, a little boy, no taller than the conductor’s belt, stepped forward, clutching eshimwinywi like it was the key to his inheritance. He piped up confidently, “Sisi wote!” The conductor’s jaw dropped. “Eish!” he exclaimed, his shock reverberating through the bus like a mini earthquake. He leaned out of the door and let out a sharp, theatrical whistle: “Shwiuuuuch!” It was the kind of whistle that carries over hills, valleys, and ancestral lands.

“Nyinyi wote mnaenda Nairobi?!” he asked incredulously, waving his hands as if trying to count invisible people. A chorus of tiny voices rang out from behind the man and his wife, confirming his worst fears with an enthusiastic, “Ndiyo!”

The conductor disembarked from the bus, stood there, staring at them as though they had just announced they were moving an entire village to Nairobi. The mother, sitting on her throne of water, nodded slowly and majestically, punctuating the family’s collective declaration with a simple, firm, and final “Mmmh.”

It was the kind of “Mmmh” that brooked no argument, the kind that said, Yes, we are a battalion, we are traveling as one, and we will not be questioned.

The conductor sighed, already imagining the chaos that awaited him. This was no ordinary family—this was a production.

The conductor, now visibly sweating and muttering under his breath, shuffled back into the bus to count the seats. He reemerged moments later with the look of a man facing an unsolvable riddle. Arms crossed, he stared at the family—choir might be the more accurate term—and then glanced at the bus as if waiting for it to magically expand. His lips moved silently as he tried to calculate how to stuff what appeared to be an entire household, complete with livestock, into a vehicle already flirting with capacity.

Forget about the so-called staircase birth plans you hear in hospital dramas—this was logistical chaos at its finest. Picture this: furniture that looked like it had been borrowed straight from a village chief’s hut, water jerricans stacked precariously like they were auditioning for a circus act, utensils jangling loudly, and, to top it all off, a radio draped in a yellow cloth adorned with green floral embroidery. It was less of a radio and more of a shrine. And the gunias? Oh, those burlap sacks held mysteries best left unspoken, bulging as if they housed contraband or exotic creatures.

And, of course, there was the esimba or osera—because what’s a family journey without a woven grass mat to complete the picture? Let’s not forget the family of chickens clucking in protest from inside a box pierced in several places for air, and the cat—a gray, perpetually annoyed feline—perched on top of the luggage, purring with the menace of an engine about to explode. The cat’s glare alone could start a riot.

The bus carrier above was already groaning under the weight of similar luggage, sagging like an overloaded donkey. The conductor squinted up at it, as if hoping the gods of transport would intervene and make space where none existed. But no divine miracle came, so he did what any self-respecting Kenyan conductor would do: he called for reinforcements.

 “Dere kuja unisaidie hapa!” he shouted, his voice tinged with equal parts desperation and disbelief.

The driver, leaning back lazily in his seat, didn’t even look up. “Unajua hiyo siyo kazi yangu,” he retorted, with the cool confidence of a man who had long mastered the art of dodging extra duties. “Wewe panga hao watu haraka twende. Kwani ni nini ngumu hapo?”

But the conductor wasn’t backing down. The driver let out a long, theatrical sigh, finally climbing out of his seat, mumbling curses under his breath. He strolled around the bus with the reluctant gait of a man being dragged into someone else’s drama.

Then he saw them—the man, his choir, and their carnival of luggage. His jaw nearly hit the dusty road. He stood there, stunned, his hands instinctively landing on his hips like he was preparing to mediate an international border dispute.

“Wangapi wanaenda?” the driver asked cautiously, hoping against hope it wasn’t the whole family and artefacts-the spectacle before him.

“Si ni hawa tu,” the man replied with a casual shrug, gesturing at his battalion of children as if introducing two sacks of potatoes. Behind him, the family chaos continued unabated.

“Basi iko kibarua hapa,” the driver muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. He turned his gaze to the mountain of luggage that loomed like an unscalable fortress. “Na hii mizigo yote?”

The woman, seated regally on her water jerrican throne like a queen surveying her kingdom, calmly responded without even looking up, “Pia inaenda jameni.”

At this point, she was ladling porridge into tiny cups for her younger children, who were alternating between sipping and chewing on sweet potatoes. It was as if she was hosting a roadside buffet, completely unfazed by the logistical nightmare unfolding around her.

At this point, my patience was wearing thinner than the bus tires on that dusty road. I had to get to Maseno before nightfall, and this theatrical production was eating into my precious time. Frustrated, I leaned out of the window and shouted, “Malizeni twende tunachelewa!”

The moment the words left my mouth, the entire bus went silent, save for the squawking chicken tied to a gunia in the aisle. Heads turned in unison, their expressions a mix of shock, disbelief, and the universal who-does-this-guy-think-he-is? glare. It was as though I had insulted an elder or suggested canceling Christmas.

I considered alighting from the bus altogether—cutting my losses and finding another way to Maseno—but just as I was weighing the risks of hitchhiking against the growing absurdity of this situation, a tiny figure approached. It was the little boy with the eshimwinywi, marching with the confidence of a general heading into battle.

He slid into the seat next to me, clutching his precious cargo like it was the Ark of the Covenant. Without hesitation, he leaned toward the window in front of me and yelled out, “Enywe si muinjire khutsie!” His voice carried authority far beyond his years, and his siblings, as if hypnotized, began clambering into the bus like obedient soldiers following a commander’s orders.

I watched, half amused, half amazed, as he took charge of the situation with zero regard for the opinions of the passengers—or the fact that they were all staring. The conductor, the driver, and even the passengers were reduced to background noise in the little boy’s world. He had a singular mission: ensure the safe boarding of his siblings and, most importantly, protect his prized possession—the eshimwinywi.

One thing became clear to me as I observed him: nothing and no one was going to mess with his chick. The way he cradled it, whispered to it, and even occasionally shot warning glares to anyone who so much as glanced at it, you’d think it was a family heirloom. Somewhere along the journey, I learned it wasn’t just a random bird. This was a gift from his grandmother, and in his eyes, it might as well have been a royal decree to protect it at all costs.

For a moment, I forgot my frustration. Watching this bold little chap, I realized he was the real star of this unfolding drama—a pint-sized protector, utterly unbothered by the chaos around him. While the adults fretted over logistics, and I simmered in impatience, he was laser-focused on what mattered most: his eshimwinywi and his family. And honestly? He made it look easy.

By now, the driver and the conductor had completely surrendered to the unstoppable force that was the Choir Family. Like cattle herded into a dip, the battalion began trooping into the bus with a single-minded determination that ignored all laws of physics, personal space, and common sense. Luggage was shoved into every conceivable nook and cranny, and passengers stared in disbelief as the bus transformed into a mobile Noah’s Ark.

Realizing they’d reached critical capacity, the conductor, in a last-ditch effort to restore some order, barked out, “Bebaneni ndio mtoshee!”

And just like that, chaos blossomed into drama. The conductor’s command unearthed a deep, simmering chasm among the choir members—one that had clearly been building since their last family gathering. Suddenly, alliances were formed, grudges rekindled, and loyalties tested.

The younger siblings clung to the older ones they hadn’t quarreled with over Christmas. The eldest, with the air of an exasperated babysitter, reluctantly agreed to carry two of the smaller ones, but not before muttering, “Msinichafue.”

Meanwhile, one of the middle siblings refused to sit on her brother’s lap, hissing, “Wewe ulisema nanuka juu siogangi, sikai na wewe!”. Another pair reconciled long enough to share a seat, only for one to blurt out mid-sit, “Na usianze kuninyambia ile mayai na maharagwe ulikula.”

Finally, Mulmulwas made his grand entrance into the bus, surveying the barely controlled chaos like a general inspecting his troops. He squeezed past the maze of passengers, luggage, chickens, and the occasional stray foot, making his way to where his wife sat.

“Umeweka wapi chakula na maji?” he asked, his tone more curious than concerned, as if the survival of the family on this epic journey depended entirely on her organizational skills.

Without missing a beat, the wife gestured with the calm efficiency of someone who had planned a thousand journeys like this before. The food—sweet potatoes, boiled maize, bananas—was safely tucked under her seat, guarded like a dragon hoarding treasure. As for the water? It had been carefully stashed in the carrier on top of the bus, jerricans swaying precariously with every bump in the road.

I overheard her muttering to herself in a steady monologue, the kind you’d expect from someone who had long accepted life’s curveballs. “… Hata tukifika kwa nyumba tupate maji hakuna, tutapika tu … hiyo maji itatosha.” 

It wasn’t a statement; it was a manifesto. Her words carried the weight of a woman who had solved every problem thrown her way—broken stoves, missing shoes, hungry kids—and come out victorious.

As she adjusted the jerrican beneath her feet and handed a piece of sweet potato to the youngest child, I couldn’t help but admire her unshakable confidence. In her world, there was no crisis that couldn’t be solved with a little improvisation, a lot of patience, and, apparently, a stash of porridge and boiled maize.

Mulmulwas, now fully aboard the bus, quickly realized one glaring problem: there wasn’t a single seat left for him. He stood in the aisle, towering over the chaos like a referee at a wrestling match, and calmly surveyed the sardine-packed bus. Then, as if the question had been stewing in his mind all day, he asked, “Nyinyi kwa nini hamshughulikii ipusi? Ama mnataka nimwache saa hii, halafu niskie eti panya imeniuma tukifika kwa nyumba!”

The bus erupted in muffled chuckles, passengers hiding their smiles behind hands and kerchiefs. But the man wasn’t joking. The cat in question—a gray-and-black menace perched on a stack of gunias—let out a purr so rough it sounded like an old engine struggling to start. It stared at the man, then at the passengers, as if daring anyone to suggest it didn’t belong on this journey.

The conductor, already drowning in logistical nightmares, shoved his way into the bus and took stock of the situation. Spotting the man standing awkwardly in the aisle, he decided to sacrifice some seating for the sake of paternal dignity. “Nyinyi watoto msimame baba yenu akae ala!” he barked, clapping his hands like a coach motivating a team.

The children, though grumbling about fairness and accusing each other of being “heavier than a sack of maize,” begrudgingly stood up to make space. The man finally lowered himself into the seat, settling in with the same authority as a king ascending his throne.

The cat, now emboldened by its owner’s seating victory, let out a triumphant yowl, earning itself a chunk of omena tossed by one of the children. It curled up on its stack of gunias, clearly pleased with its place in this chaotic symphony of life. Meanwhile, the bus rumbled on, as packed as it was noisy, hurtling toward its destination like a circus on wheels.

Mulmulwas finally found a seat and sat down with the air of a general returning from war. No sooner had he planted himself than he turned to his wife and, without ceremony, demanded, “Leta kitu nikule.” The man clearly knew his priorities—comfort first, food second, and everything else a distant third.

His ever-efficient wife, already prepared for such a request, handed him a plastic cup of uji and a well-loved old Blue Band tin filled with nyoyo. She opened it with the care of someone presenting a treasured family heirloom. The aroma wafted through the bus, causing a few heads to turn in mild envy as the man took his first bite with the gusto of someone who had truly “earned it.”

But before he could make it past the second spoonful, the conductor loomed over him, arms crossed and ready to settle the matter of fare. “Mzee, leta pesa ya watu wako,” the conductor said, cutting straight to business.

The wife, quick to defend her husband’s moment of peace, interrupted with the sharpness of a woman who had seen enough nonsense for one day. “Jameni mwache mzee akule kidogo apate nguvu. Si umeona ile kazi amefanya?” she retorted, pointing toward her husband with a sweeping gesture of pride.

The conductor paused, raising an eyebrow. He looked at Mulmulwas—now happily munching on nyoyo—and then glanced at the choir, who were noisily occupying half the bus and some laps, the cat purring aggressively atop the luggage, and the chickens clucking away as though they were in their own village baraza.

It was clear the conductor didn’t quite interpret her words the way she intended. His face twisted in disbelief as if silently asking, kazi gani? He scanned the scene again, his expression now teetering between exasperation and outright resignation.

Did the “ile kazi amefanya” refer to the herculean task of loading luggage onto the bus carrier, or was it a sly nod to the broadcasting of seeds that had produced the thriving, unstoppable choir now dominating half the bus? I sat there pondering this layered enigma, the question turning circles in my head like a goat tied to a post.

But before I could settle on an answer, the man, seemingly unbothered by the depth of the statement, embarked on his next assignment: leading the choir into what could only be described as The Great Bus Feast. With the air of a conductor starting an orchestra, he unwrapped a piece of roasted maize from a corner of his jacket and bit into it with theatrical precision. This was the signal.

One by one, the rest of the choir followed their leader. Like magicians pulling rabbits from hats, they began retrieving food from every conceivable nook and cranny—pockets, bags, even a scarf that had been doubling as a napkin. Out came bananas, sweet potatoes, sugarcane, boiled maize, and kumbe kumbe in well-worn containers. A small sachet of salt even appeared, passed around like holy communion for those with roasted maize.

The chewing wasn’t just loud—it was a full-blown symphony of crunches, slurps, and exaggerated swallows, accompanied by commentary that could rival a sports broadcast. “Yangu ni tamu kuliko yako!” one child declared, holding up a half-eaten piece of sugarcane like a trophy. “Wewe haujui!” came the retort from another sibling, vigorously gnawing on boiled maize. “Kula kumbekumbe yako polepole!” a third chimed in, clearly offended that their snack preferences were being questioned. The banter was relentless, as if each bite needed a verbal defense.

Amidst all this noise and drama, one little member of the choir caught my attention. He was about five years old—although, honestly, he could have been eight or even ten. It was hard to tell because all the choir members looked like age-mates, regardless of height or behavior. They had the kind of energy that made them appear simultaneously young enough to argue over snacks and old enough to organize a village meeting.

This particular one—the ageless one—was in a league of his own. He had pulled out a piece of sugarcane from what seemed like a hidden stash, and with the meticulousness of a craftsman, he began his work. Each bite was precise, each chew deliberate, as though he were extracting the very essence of life itself from that sugarcane. Every drop of sugar juice was swallowed with an audible thud in his throat, a sound so profound it felt like a proclamation of satisfaction.

But it didn’t stop there. The act of pulling the juice out created a hissing sound so distinct and persistent that even the cat, who had been lounging in bored indifference, suddenly perked up, its ears twitching with suspicion. The feline’s wide eyes darted around the bus, clearly convinced that a snake had somehow slithered aboard and was hiding among the chaos. It stared at the boy, then at the sugarcane, its tail flicking as though it were preparing for battle.

Meanwhile, the boy remained blissfully unaware of the panic he was causing in the feline world. His focus was unshakable. The sugarcane husks, which had started out green and vibrant, were now turning a pale yellow as he systematically wrung every last drop of sweetness out of them. By the time he was done with one piece, it looked like it had been through a dehydration machine.

He didn’t engage in the lively banter happening around him, nor did he seem interested in the squabbles over whose snack was tastier. He was completely lost in his own sugary paradise, chewing and swallowing with a zen-like calm that bordered on meditative. The world around him could have exploded into flames, and I doubt he would have looked up. For him, that sugarcane was all that mattered.

It was a fascinating sight to behold—a child with the wisdom of an old man, savoring a treat like it was the last sweetness he’d ever taste. Even the cat, after a while, gave up its snake-hunting fantasies and went back to sulking, defeated by the boy’s unwavering dedication to his craft.

Then there was her—a middle-aged-looking girl who, despite her casual and slightly chaotic appearance, radiated a kind of confidence that made her the self-appointed spokesperson of the Choir Family. She was built for the spotlight, and boy, did she use it. Within minutes of boarding, she had claimed her role as the bus’s primary broadcaster, narrating everything she saw, imagined, or invented with the enthusiasm of a TV presenter on their debut episode.

“Unajua Nairobi?” she began, her voice cutting through the chewing and chatter like a hot knife through butter. “Huko hakuna giza kabisa!” She paused for dramatic effect, ensuring all ears were tuned in before continuing. “Taa zinawaka usiku yote! Na magari? Kila mahali! Ukitembea tu hivi—gari!” she added, stretching out her hands as though she were conjuring vehicles out of thin air.

In no time, the entire bus knew her life story—or at least the version she chose to share. She told us how she had traveled with her father from Nairobi for Christmas, only to be summoned urgently back to the city because, apparently, her father was a very important man. “Huyu baba usimuone hivi. Ni mtu mkubwa huko Nairobi. Kama hayuko gate ya estate haifunguki,” she explained with a flourish, as though the estate’s very foundation would crumble without her father’s presence.

We also learned the real reason why the entire family—food, chickens, cat, and all—was making this grand pilgrimage back to Nairobi. According to her, there was simply no one trustworthy enough to leave behind with their prized possessions. “Utawachia nani?”

The most shocking revelation, however, came when she turned her attention to her mother, seated stoically with her porridge. With a mix of pride and pity, she declared to no one in particular, “Mama yangu hajawahi fika Nairobi. Hata Kisumu hajui!” Her tone suggested she was introducing her mother as a rare artifact from a forgotten era, someone untouched by the wonders of modern civilization.

For her, Nairobi wasn’t just a city; it was a utopia. “Huko hakuna Kwenda mtoni, ama kwa shamba” she said, the other passengers nodded politely, some amused, others exasperated, but she was too immersed in her sermon to notice.

And so, for twenty solid minutes, the chatterbox turned the bus into her personal TED Talk, enlightening everyone about the marvels of Nairobi while simultaneously painting her family as the most important travelers to ever grace this dusty road. By the time she paused to catch her breath, even the chickens seemed to understand they were headed for greatness.

The chatterbox was multitasking in true Choir Family style, balancing her running commentary about Nairobi with carrying a younger sibling—a toddler who, to the bemusement of the passengers, had decided to turn the bus into his personal wind tunnel. The little one was passing gas with the carefree abandon of someone who hadn’t yet learned the concept of social etiquette.

For the rest of the choir, however, this was pure entertainment. His siblings gleefully kept count, as though tallying points in an Olympic event. The boy with the eshimwinywi took it a step further, offering his expert analysis: “Kwanza jana alikula mrere, nyoyo, maindi choma, maindi chemusha, mihogo, mapera, na mayai chemusha kwa mjomba.”

His delivery was so serious it could have been mistaken for a medical report, but the chatterbox wasn’t about to let his words settle. With the precision of a journalist digging for the juiciest headline, she interrupted, “Na leo asubuhi?” 

At this point, the entire bus, myself included, leaned in slightly, waiting for the next revelation. The toddler, unbothered by the interrogation, wiggled in her lap, his mischief evident in every movement. His siblings fell silent, and for a moment, it seemed like we might actually get an answer.

But instead of elaborating, the chatterbox broke the suspense with a dismissive wave of her hand and a commanding, “Eish, hamujui? Munyamaze muwache kababa kalale.”

It was the kind of statement that ended all discussion, leaving both the choir and the passengers in stunned silence. The toddler, oblivious to the chaos he was causing, let out another unapologetic toot, and the bus erupted into muffled laughter. Meanwhile, the chatterbox simply adjusted kababa on her lap, completely unfazed, and resumed her commentary about how Nairobi’s lights never go off.

The moment was pure comedy gold—a perfect mix of innocence, absurdity, and the peculiar brand of chaos that only the Choir Family could deliver.

Indeed, kababa was a mystery. Even in his blissful sleep, punctuated by unannounced bouts of wind that kept the rest of us on edge, he clung tightly to something in his tiny fist. At first, it looked like a secret treasure, but upon closer inspection, it was revealed to be a half-eaten piece of boiled sweet potato—his “work in progress.” It seemed even his dreams revolved around snacks.

The atmosphere in the bus, however, was becoming increasingly uninhabitable. The occasional breeze from the open windows was no match for the olfactory assault we endured. I swear, we needed air masks to survive, but since none were forthcoming, I resolved to keep my window permanently open, despite the high-velocity wind slapping my face like an impatient relative.

Amidst the symphony of smells and sibling squabbles, one choir member suddenly remembered the family cat. The poor feline, who had been perched atop the luggage like a forgotten artifact, had long given up hope of joining the party. The cat’s posture said it all: ears flattened, tail flicking with disdain, and eyes scanning the bus for the snake it was convinced was hiding somewhere.

The Good Samaritan of the group—a girl with a determined look—quietly got up and made her way to the cat. She gently picked up the sulking creature and carried it to her mother, whispering her concern. The mother, a magician when it came to conjuring food, reached into the abyss beneath her feet and pulled out a fistful of omena as if she were summoning a sacred offering. The girl accepted it with reverence and hurried back to her seat to share the treasure with the neglected feline.

The entry of the cat into the dining festivities was nothing short of dramatic. Once the omena was placed on a piece of polythene paper under the seat, the cat sprang into action, purring loudly as it fought invisible enemies over the prized fish. Its movements were erratic, as if defending the food from phantom thieves. It swiped, sniffed, and munched with a vigor that matched the human choir’s enthusiasm for sugarcane and boiled maize.

The soundscape of the bus shifted yet again—now featuring the crackle of sugarcane, the munching of nyoyo, the occasional toot from the toddler, and the cat’s determined growls over its omena feast. It was a chaotic harmony that only the Choir Family could orchestrate, and I, stuck in the middle of it all, couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. One thing was certain: this wasn’t just a journey—it was an experience, and the cat was now officially part of the party.

The conductor, now clearly at his wit’s end, stood up and addressed the situation with a dramatic sigh, waving his hands in disbelief. “Tutaenda hivi mpaka Nairobi?” he asked, gesturing at the spectacle that was the Choir Family—a bus bursting at the seams with snacks, chickens, a cat, and a toddler who had turned passing wind into an Olympic sport.

The choir, unfazed, responded in near-perfect unison, led by the ever-confident chatterbox: “Eeeee kwani unatakaje?” Her tone carried the weight of a warning, daring the conductor to even think of interrupting their culinary celebrations. She paused briefly, her look suggesting he could talk about anything—but food was strictly off-limits. Sensing danger, the conductor wisely sidestepped her verbal missile and turned his attention to Mulmulwas.

“Haya mzee, leta pesa sasa?” the conductor asked, folding his arms and raising an eyebrow.

The man looked up from his half-eaten sweet potato, clearly annoyed that his moment of peace was being disrupted. “Pesa ngapi ndugu?” he asked, squinting like someone calculating whether the fare was worth the trouble of continuing this journey.

“Kila mtu mia tano tano,” replied the conductor, his voice firm.

The man shook his head slowly and leaned forward, his tone calm but firm. “Atse kijana yangu, punguza jameni, hawa ni watoto.” He gestured to his battalion of offspring as if he were offering them for charity.

The conductor was unimpressed. “Mzee, hakuna watoto hapa. Si wamekalia viti zote saba, na yako na mama nane, na tena wanakula sana!” His voice rose slightly, as if the sheer audacity of this family taking up so much space and consuming so much food was beyond comprehension.

The chatterbox was not about to let this slide. She immediately sprang to her father’s defense, her voice cutting through the bus like a sharp knife. “Chakula gani? Ni wewe umetupea? Wachana na sisi!” she fired back, her eyes flashing with righteous indignation.

The mother, ever the diplomat, stepped in to cool things down. “Jameni, punguzia mzee… unaona hata hatuna pesa ya maji tukifika ndiyo hata tumebeba maji mtoto yangu,” she pleaded, her tone weary but polite.

But the conductor, hardened by years of dealing with passengers like these, was unmoved. “Hiyo ndiyo bei, mama, ama mushuke” he declared, his arms crossed and his patience depleted.

Mulmulwas sighed heavily, clearly realizing that resistance was futile. After a moment of silence, he did some quick mental math, his lips moving as he calculated the logistics. With a resigned shrug, he issued new orders to his choir: they would need to rearrange themselves, carrying one another to create space for three new passengers. The choir accepted the plan without complaint, their ability to adapt to absurdity both impressive and terrifying.

As the children climbed and clambered over one another to form human pyramids, I watched with growing dread. The thought of squeezing three more passengers into the bus, amidst the sugarcane, maize, omena, and a cat that had now fully embraced its role as the family mascot, felt like tempting fate. But the choir was unfazed, treating the rearrangement like a game of musical chairs, laughing and negotiating who would sit on whose lap.

Then it happened. What I feared most. “Maseno wakuje haraka!” barked the conductor, signaling that my stop was near. My stomach sank. It was time for me to alight.

As much as I wanted to reach my destination, I hated the idea of leaving behind this traveling circus. I would miss the chatterbox’s endless commentary, the toddler’s unapologetic flatulence, the cat’s omena feast, and the man’s casual leadership of his chaotic yet lovable army.

As I gathered my things, I couldn’t help but think: How I wished I was going to Nairobi! Because this was more than a journey—it was a once-in-a-lifetime performance, and I wasn’t ready for the curtain to fall.