For whatever reason, we’ve managed to create the illusion that we at Diasporadical have something against the Vitz. Alas, we do not. They are perfectly sound vehicles, albeit small and laughable. But nay, Vitz owners, do not fret; there is yet hope. You see, I’ve gone out on the streets of this fair city and found 10 cars that are more useless than the Toyota Vitz. And here they are in no particular order. Continue reading →
Like I said in Part 1, my cab guy works small miracles for a small fee. I’m never mad to pay him; he earns every single penny. It also helps that he’s hopelessly honest and pretty damn focused. 20 something with several cars in several cities; you can’t hate on that if you tried.
So that Friday morning, he was getting his insurance papers sorted out; all those PSV stickers that make no sense to the layman. He then took his car for servicing and spared no expense ensuring his vehicle was up to standard.
The good thing about sober, focused taxi drivers is that they know exactly how to avoid trouble; it’s not by driving faster or using the backroad. It’s not by bribery or lying. It’s by doing your job and shutting up.
By 10am, he was done with ensuring his vehicle was legal and up to par and running checks on his other cars and drivers. He drove out of Adams and before he got to the roundabout, a lady flagged him down.
She didn’t say anything beyond that. So he began driving towards town. When he got to the Kenyatta avenue round-a she said “Globe Cinema”. She wasn’t chatty and had no intention of playing nice. He didn’t mind. Halfway up K-Ave, his phone rang to life. It was me. I explained my conundrum and he calmed me down and told me he’d send someone.
He calls his friend and sends him my way. Right at that time, he sees a waving black baton being flailed by a chubby officer of the law. Continue reading →
It was 10am on a Friday in a busy dusty Nairobi. The sun was shining just bright enough to provide camouflage for the bone rattling chill. And it did so expertly; the treacherous glow had however convinced the masses to underdress.
But not I, Popeye. I anticipated this deceit and layered up.
I can’t stop glancing at my watch doing mental mathematics: I was meant to have an appointment at 11am at a hotel in Gigiri and had just gotten out of one in the CBD. Unlike the wealthier lot of you, my chauffeur was not waiting for me at the door when I came out, but instead at the bus stop where I was headed. ‘If I hop on a 106 or a 107 I’d make it to that area in 20 minutes or less and be half an hour early.’ So I stroll leisurely towards the stage.
10:20am: I’m waiting for a Matatu so we can leave.
What could’ve been one of the best games in the World Cup thus far turned into a sloppy display of wasted talent, false sportsmanship and bad officiating.
At the beginning of the match, I was supporting Les Elephants but by the end of it, I couldn’t decide who I hated more between them and the referee. I’ve made no secret of my disgust with them or the game. But it’s really hard to tell when exactly it all began to go wrong.
I think it all started with Brazil scoring. To be perfectly fair, it was no secret that Brazil was going to hit the back of the net, the question was really “How many times?” Anyhow, as soon as the first goal went in, everybody began going crazy. The vuvuzelas got louder and the antics hit hyperdrive. And that’s where the sh** and the fan collided. Continue reading →