Matatu chronicles

I boarded a matatu one early morning, half-asleep, heading to town. You know that Nairobi silence at 6:30 a.m. everyone looks serious, like we’re all shareholders in stress.
The conductor leaned in and said, “Fifty bob.”
I nodded confidently. I knew this route. Or at least I thought I did.
So I sat, put on my earphones, and started mentally planning my life—how I’ll save money, get rich, maybe even start greeting people properly instead of just nodding.
Halfway through the journey, the conductor came back. This time, his tone had… history.
“Na fare?”
I handed him the fifty bob like a responsible citizen. He looked at it. Then looked at me. Then looked back at the fifty like it had personally offended him.
“Hii ni ya wapi?” he asked.
I blinked. “Si ulisema fifty?”
The entire matatu suddenly became interested in our conversation. Even the guy pretending to sleep opened one eye.
The conductor laughed. Not a happy laugh. The kind that says you are about to learn something today.
“Boss, hii route ni eighty.”
Eighty?!
Now I’m calculating my life choices. Do I argue? Do I pretend I misunderstood english? Do I jump out at the next bump?
Before I could decide, an older woman in the front said, “Acha tu, ni asubuhi. Mwachie.”
The conductor sighed like he was forgiving a personal betrayal and walked away.
I sat there, humbled. Reflecting.