Thursday 15th January 2026 – Hotel Ezri, Meru
I woke early in my crisp hotel bed, at 06:00, refreshed and full of optimism. Outside, Meru was already humming—traffic buzzing like impatient bees, street vendors setting up for the day, the air carrying that familiar mix of dust, diesel, and frying dough. Today’s plan was simple: Meru to Embu. A straightforward journey. What could possibly go wrong?
I checked out of the hotel at 09:30, after a very mediocre breakfast, and hailed a boda boda.
“Embu matatu, please,” I said.
“Yes yes,” the driver replied. “Slow or Direct Express Service?”
Naturally, I chose Direct Express.
We reached the matatu stage and instantly became the centre of attention. A human tidal wave surrounded us. People pushed, pulled, shouted—mostly at the boda boda driver, occasionally at me. I dismounted, paid up, and stood there while the crowd performed whatever ritual this was. Eventually, like a storm passing, it calmed. I walked on.
I found a shuttle marked “Embu Direct.” The only one. Its ticket sellers had the enthusiasm of market traders who could smell a hesitant customer from fifty paces. They asked for 600 shillings (£3.50). I countered with 400. We settled at 500—a small diplomatic victory, though I still suspected daylight robbery.
Reluctantly, I boarded. The seats were not seats. They were punishment devices.
An hour crawled by. The shuttle was almost full, yet new passengers eyed it suspiciously, as if it had personally offended them. Maybe it was because of me—very possibly the only white guy in the vicinity—sitting there like an unscheduled attraction. The temperature climbed. The air thickened. My stress levels followed suit. Every instinct told me to abandon this particular van and run.
Eventually, the last holdouts gave in and squeezed aboard. We should have been on our way. Sadly, not quite.
The roof-loading ceremony commenced: bags, boxes, and sacks of every shape and size were heaved into place.
Somewhere around 10:30, we finally departed. Spirits were low. Sweat levels were high.
Then the entertainment began. A music video. Very loud. Reggae-style.
The bass vibrated directly into my skull. A headache soon announced itself.
Further on into the journey, an angry young man half-jumped into the van, clinging to the door as we sped along like a Formula One car. He immediately began arguing with a lady passenger. She shut him down with such authority that the entire matatu fell silent.
Plot twist: he was the conductor. Customer service clearly wasn’t in his job description.
It slowly dawned on me—this was not going to be a Direct Express Service.
We stopped. And stopped. And stopped again. People got on. People got off. The roof was unloaded. The roof was loaded.
By now, my arse had officially resigned. Every speed bump felt personal, launching me slightly into the air before slamming me back onto the rock-hard seat of regret.
Finally—mercifully—we rolled (sped) into Embu at 13:15.
I have not been so relieved to exit a vehicle in a long time. I stepped out bow-legged, slightly traumatised, but victorious.
I had survived.
My Embu overnight stopover was spent in an okay hotel near the matatu stage. That evening I treated myself to dinner at a nearby upmarket place—a genuinely fabulous meal that almost made me forgive the day.
Ironically, the Embu–Nairobi leg of my journey, the following morning, was a completely different experience: smooth, calm, almost civilised. We arrived in Nairobi at precisely 09:30. I booked an Uber and wondered briefly if the previous day had been some kind of fever dream.
Note to self: in future, choose your matatu carefully.
