This is not another rant about the horrors of matatus. I have been spending so much time in them that I have got comfortable in them. So comfortable in fact that I have been accused of living in them, a suggestion I am seriously contemplating.

Or perhaps I can get a job as a matatu conductor, in one of the ritzy ones. I'd probably have more money than I do now, access to illegal drugs, and I could watch bongo videos all day, maybe slip in a little bit of crunk, too.  No, this is not about all that. This is about the guy I met last night on a matatu. Now usually people in matatus are weird, yeah, I'm  included. Mornings are special. Everyone falls asleep and the conductor has to start waking people up when we are close to the city. Evenings are more fun to watch. The young couple bold enough to make out in the back seat but shy enough to stop when I stare in encouraging admiration. The tired woman eating chips and chicken in the seat somewhere in the middle of the matatu, I suppose in the hope that if she gets home and her assorted family members are still there, and waiting for her to fix dinner, she can just fake a headache and go to bed. The really drunk old fool who is inspired by local politics and must tell everyone about it. And the horny idiot who settles in the seat next to mine and tries to grope me. Yeah, he shouldn't have tried that. Rugby, four brothers and general dislike of being groped by sweat-stinking, not very suave strangers has honed a few skills in me that make for uncomfortable sensations when you are on the receiving end. 

No, this is not about that either. And it is not about me falling in love with this guy I met last night. It is not surprising to hear me declare my love for someone I met three days ago. It happens to me a lot. Then I have to figure out how to convince a whole lot of people who expect total exclusive devotion from me, that I love them totally, and still love everyone else too. Don't say it. I know. I even have a name for it. Someone calls it, and me, Drama Queendom. Anyway, I am not anywhere close to falling in love with this guy. 

His name is Langston Hughes Omondi. He tells me his Dad studied African History with a bit of African-American Literature at the University of Wisconsin. That explains the name. I am not sure if it explains the massive attitude. He comes over to the bus stop. I am anxious to get home, but not enthusiastic to pay 80 bob bus fare. That's about 100% more than the usual fares. So I pace and pace waiting for one of the matatus that I have been spending too much time in. They are usually hyped, 'souped-up' rags that operate when the traffic police are not on patrol. The seats are comfortable, the shock absorbers still work and they have DVD players with a screen or screens placed at a point where everyone in the matatu can watch. 

Anyway, the Harlem renaissance poet's namesake watches me pace, then comes over and, just like that, no fidgeting, no circling, just, "Hi, are you nuts? Hey I'm Langston! Langston Hughes Omondi. Stop pacing here is a matatu. 100 bob fare." 

Okay, I think aliens took over. 100 bob is more than 80 bob? Are you sure? I got into the matatu, and sat next to Langston Hughes. He looks at me, sideways, and from head to toe, too. 

"So what are you? Struggling artist? Writer? What?" You don't talk to people like that! It is rude and weird and I like it. 

"Uh, I'm not sure. Writer maybe. What are you?" He grins. Well, maybe I ran over him at a rugby club somewhere. He sounds familiar. A lot like I sound in my head. 

"Nothing. Going to figure it out now. I was an accountant. Then it didn't work out." 

"Did not work out? What you got fired? What did you do?" 

"Nothing." He grins. I get it. He did absolutely nothing. I can see why a company would fire someone who did nothing.

"Okay, so you do nothing but walk on streets asking tired girls if they are nuts? What do you want to do?" 

"You seem familiar." Now he throws the hook? 

"No, if we had met I would have remembered. The attitude and the name!" 

"What is wrong with my attitude?"          

"Nothing." 

The music is very loud. Langston does not mind competing with it or with the old politician behind us. So he talks on. About work, about Kenya, about life, about everything. And I listen. That is the weird part, I guess. I am listening to guy who does not want to make sense, but does anyway. Okay, so he dared himself to talk to the one person at the bus stop who seemed interesting. Yes, I seem interesting, to psycho strangers and groping drunks.

"So why do you dare yourself to pick up psychos?" I want to know just in case it is a philosophy I can subscribe to. The most I do with strangers that I don't have to deal with is ignore or stare. Stare mostly. I have become more and more convinced that something is increasingly going wrong upstairs. I caught myself staring at this girl with a massive afro, and dressed like something from Yahoo! avatars. I stopped to stare, and caused a few people to stop, some to stare at her and others to stare at me staring at her. All I was thinking then was how much style I could pick from her. I would never have stopped her to ask her if she was nuts. Not even on a dare. 

"Well, I realized that I had closed myself in an ugly little box. I decided to get out of it and see what the world is like. So I did. Left the car at home, carried only one phone..." Oh floss, man from near Victoria Lake. "Took the matatu to work and back, spent less time on the internet and went out to meet people instead, and talked to a stranger."

"Why not go out to a club or something like that? Why talk to strangers at bus stops? I could have been tired and hormonal, I could have hit you with something for calling me nuts." 

"I wanted to do something different." 

"Talking to strangers at bus stops is not different. The manambas do it all the time and piss the hell out of me, too." 

"It is for me. Life is structured for me. I needed to do something to break the monotony, and figure out what I need to add to it. It's a beautiful world! What do you know about the octopus? Girl, that thing does not die till it is dead!" 

That conjures up funny memories of the neighbor who came home with a baby octopus and gave it to his wife for dinner. She was young, and new to sea food, so she had not learnt how to prepare the octopus. She knew it had to be boiled, though. So she emptied the contents of a large fishing jar into boiling water, then watched with shock as the octopus climbed out of the pot and walked away to join her husband under a tree where he was sipping on mnazi(palm wine) waiting for dinner. The old man had no idea whether to share his mnazi with the creature or go home and yell at his wife. 

I realize that we have arrived at my stop. I am not sure whether I want to get off yet. I am off the matatu and he is hanging out of a window. 

"Hey! What's your name? And what's your number?" He calls as the matatu roars off. 

I laugh and yell, "First rule Langston, find out her name and number really fast!" 

I can see the lights of the matatu in a distance, I am still laughing. I won't die till I am dead. That's a philosophy, no?