56 Minutes in a Probox

Sometimes back, we were doing farming...long story, and I remember when the push came to shove and we had to fold our tools. My trip to the city remains memorable. 

Our singular mission was clear: find a way back to Nairobi, the bustling urban heart, before twilight's curtain descended. The clock had struck 4 pm, and being stranded in the remote reaches of Machakos County was far from an appealing prospect. 

Stepping off the 14-seater minivan at Makutano ma Mwala, we stood poised on the roadside, a sea of uncertainty before us. Like a swift current diverting our course, a stranger seized my hand. With a Kamba accent dancing on his tongue, he inquired about our destination. Responding with the fluency of a local, I uttered, "Kithimani." Our journey veered in the opposite direction, as we began our traverse across the road, but fate had other designs.

A metallic beast, known as a Probox, materialized before us. A 5-seater on paper...but a 17-seater in reality. Peering within its confines, we noted five souls already ensconced, and the available space seemed as cramped as an afterthought. One couple hesitated, their faces a canvas of uncertainty. Our eyes collectively scanned for an alternative – an escape from the impending sardine can on wheels. Another vehicle beckoned from the wings, and we retreated to await its arrival.

Yet, choices dwindled, and time's relentless stride spurred a decision. The overcrowded Probox now appeared as our salvation. A rapid reshuffling of bodies took place – an impromptu orchestration of dimensions. Like pieces fitting into an unpredictable puzzle, each passenger found a place in this automotive mosaic.

Seated amidst the amalgamation of humanity, I observed our eccentric driver. His eyes, bloodshot like a nocturnal creature's, exuded an air of nonchalance. As we embarked on this odyssey, he seemed to declare that a single bottle of petrol would guide our way, though skepticism tugged at my thoughts. Munching on miraa, gulping down sodas, the glasses tilted at odd angles, he drove with the fervor of a jester in pursuit of frivolous delight. And one couldn't ignore the enigma of the "ng'ombe" – a yellow calf with thin stripes, an emblem that one of the drivers professed to decipher.

As our journey unfurled, another Probox emerged in our midst, a harbinger of unforeseen theatrics. Gripping the wheel with unwavering resolve, our driver's pupils seemed to consume his gaze. A temporary suspension of his miraa munching marked his attempt to demonstrate his Probox supremacy. Engaging a higher gear, our vessel took flight, an airborne marvel on four wheels.

Overtaking the competition demanded a relentless exertion of both speed and will. Our passengers erupted in a chorus of exclamations, but the driver remained impervious. An exhilarating dance with velocity ensued, culminating in an overtaking maneuver that evoked triumph, etched on the driver's countenance. Strangely, as the rival Probox fell behind, our victor conceded defeat, pulling to a halt just a stone's throw ahead. A bemused thought fluttered through my mind – what drove this duel of speed?

With fleeting moments as our currency, we lingered more at stops than in motion. Fury could have been an option, but the theater of our driver's antics kept us amused, our fear tantalizingly close to the surface. Our dance with destiny coursed on, and as we arrived at Kithimani, the time had come to alight. But the driver, bereft of change, embarked on a quest for coins. Engaged in an animated exchange with his peers, his purpose momentarily escaped him. Like a flickering candle, his memory fluttered. Yet, he prevailed, handing us our due change, a gentle pat on my back, and a parting "Nashukuru."

In a probox crammed with souls and stories, we found ourselves swept up in a 56-minute odyssey, a symphony of madness, laughter, and a driver's insatiable need for velocity, we got back to the city in one peace though.