A Chaotic Journey to the Lakeside

It was Friday, 28th March 2025. I embarked on what should have been a routine journey to the lakeside to attend my sister's father-in-law's funeral scheduled for Saturday. Being the impulsive, last-minute planner that I am, I found myself weighing transportation options with mere hours to spare.

Option one: drive myself, blasting reggae roots music while cruising down the highway—my usual preference for long road trips. Option two: take the modern ENA Coach that plies the Nairobi-Kisumu route, allowing me to read, write, or perhaps salvage my plummeting ELO points on Chess.com.

I quickly settled on the bus option. After all, convenience won the day—my house practically kisses the highway, with the booking office just across the street. Board near home, alight near home. Perfect, right? Oh, sweet summer child that I was.

On the eve of my journey, I waltzed into the ENA Coach booking office, only to discover that the universe and Eid-ul-Fitr holiday makers had conspired against me. Every single bus was fully booked through Saturday. The nearby shuttle service offered only one remaining spot—the dreaded middle front seat, squeezed between the driver and another passenger. With my generous proportions, this would've been torture disguised as transportation.

Enter my knight in shining ambiguity—a "connected" gentleman who promised to secure me passage on another bus plying the same route. "Trust me," he winked, "I'll get you on a bus. They always have space." Little did I know what awaited me.

At 9:00 PM, I stood faithfully at the pickup point. By 10:15 PM, following a biblical downpour that had me questioning my life choices, our bus finally graced us with its presence. We were hurriedly ushered aboard the still-moving vehicle—a tactic I later realized was designed to prevent customer refunds once we witnessed the horror that awaited.

The interior resembled less of a passenger bus and more of a traveling hardware store's warehouse. Luggage everywhere. Metal windows that had seen better days in the 90s. Welded seats with mysterious sharp edges. At least eight mid-sized tyres stacked haphazardly. Finding my assigned seat involved an impromptu mountaineering expedition across a landscape of boxes, bags, and what I'm fairly certain was someone's entire household moving collection.

My fellow passengers and I somehow contorted ourselves into what could charitably be called "seated positions," though "precariously perched" might be more accurate. Located at the back of this mechanical beast, every bump sent us launching toward the ceiling, followed by bone-jarring reunions with our seats. The only silver lining was the surprisingly decent music system, transitioning from gospel hits to reggae riddims as we bounced toward our destination.

The entertainment peaked when we approached the dreaded weigh bridge. The conductor, channeling his inner game show host, announced: "We need 20 volunteers to exit the bus, cross the weigh bridge separately, and rejoin us at the next stop!" I half-expected prizes to be offered.

Most fascinating was how we breezed through police roadblocks with barely a pause—no officer dared venture inside our mobile cargo hold. Clearly, the owner enjoyed connections that would make political fixers jealous. John Michuki would indeed be performing acrobatics in his grave.

Finding solace in chaos is my superpower, so I buried myself in Chess.com, miraculously improving my ELO points from a struggling 1200 to nearly 1500 by journey's end. Perhaps terror sharpens the mind.

My souvenir from this expedition? A deep cut on my left knee, courtesy of a welded metal seat that took both my trouser and skin as tribute. A woman five rows ahead took a flying tyre to the head when the bus hit a particularly enthusiastic bump. We weren't passengers; we were survivors.

When we finally reached Kisumu, my "Hurrah!" could have powered a small village. From there, it was just a short distance to Seme, Kit Mikayi—a UNESCO World Heritage site and major tourist attraction in Nyanza that I was too traumatized to fully appreciate at that moment.

Curious about the bus that had both traumatized and transported me, I later researched its origins and discovered the fascinating story of Mbukinya Bus Services. The company derives its name from its founder, Paul Mburu Muthumbi, whose remarkable journey from humble egg hawker to transport magnate could inspire a Kenyan version of "The Wolf of Wall Street"—minus the criminal charges, plus a lot more chickens.

When Muthumbi told his secondary school classmates he would dominate the country's public transport sector, they laughed. Classic origin story. Born and raised in Limuru, the now 80-plus-year-old entrepreneur was apparently mesmerized by buses passing through his village and developed an obsession with public transport. Instead of seeking employment after completing school in 1952, he began selling eggs and chickens in Limuru town—a detail that explains why my bus ride felt suspiciously like being inside a crate of poultry during transport.

After 11 years of egg-selling persistence (a level of patience I clearly lack after my 10-hour bus ordeal), Muthumbi had saved Sh6,000. He invested Sh3,000 of his egg money plus a Sh5,000 loan to purchase his first second-hand bus. From there, he graduated to a second-hand Mercedes Benz bus, serving as his own driver while hiring just one conductor.

The true turning point came in 1972 when he bought his first new bus and began operating long-distance routes to places like Kisumu and Kakamega. By the 1980s, his Mbukinya empire boasted 48 buses, though insurance premiums later forced him to scale back. In recent years, he expanded again with 21 new Hino buses from Toyota Kenya, who recognized him as their oldest and most loyal customer.

Today, all his children work in different departments of the family business—though I suspect none volunteered for "Passenger Comfort Research." The patriarch himself, now in his eighties, remains involved in day-to-day operations, which explains much about my journey.

So there you have it—my accidental participation in a Kenyan business success story, complete with bruises to show for it. Next time, I'm driving. Or walking. Or possibly training carrier pigeons to transport me piece by piece. Anything but that bus.

Though I must admit, my chess game has never been better, and I now have profound respect for anyone who can transform egg money into an empire of mechanical beasts that somehow pass for public transportation.

And for those wondering: yes, I did make it to the funeral on time, looking like I had survived an extreme sport rather than public transport. My family's concern quickly turned to laughter as I recounted my journey, becoming the unexpected entertainment at what would otherwise have been a somber occasion.

As we Kenyans say, "Hii Kenya ni yetu!" This is our Kenya—unpredictable, challenging, but never, ever boring.

Have you had a memorable matatu or bus experience in Kenya? Share in the comments below!

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