Sometimes, I still feel that familiar flicker of embarrassment when I climb into a matatu.
It’s not the matatu itself. It’s not the noise or the conductor shouting “tao! tao!” or the woman beside me holding a baby and a bag of groceries and somehow still managing to take a call. It’s not even the wait, it’s how time bends and twists around Nairobi traffic until 20 minutes becomes an hour and you just sit, trapped in it. No. That’s not what gets to me.
It’s the memory of panic.
You know that moment when you’re already seated, the ride has started, and suddenly, you remember: your M-PESA balance is too low. Maybe you knew before boarding, but hoped they’d take cash. Or maybe you lied to yourself: “I think I have enough. I think I topped up.”
But then the conductor walks down the aisle, collecting fares. You open the app. The screen loads. You already know what it will say.
11 bob.
I’ve been there more times than I want to admit. I’ve sent those frantic “nitumie 50 bob” texts. I’ve pretended to still be calculating my fare just to buy a few more seconds. I’ve asked the conductor in a low voice, “Can I send when I get there?”—and watched the side-eye he gives, already tired of excuses.
I used to carry that kind of panic everywhere. Not just on matatus. It showed up at supermarket tills, in restaurants when the bill came, even during the quiet moments at home, wondering how I’d stretch the last 500 bob to Friday.
And it wasn’t even about the money, not really.
It was the shame. The smallness. The constant feeling that life could crumble with one unexpected bill, one forgotten payment, one sick relative. The way your body tenses up when someone says, “Let’s split the bill” and you don’t know if you’ll have to fake a phone call just to avoid it. That was the real weight. The unpredictability of being broke. Not the actual lack of money, but the emotional gymnastics required to pretend everything was fine.
I didn’t grow up poor. But I didn’t grow up buffered either.
We were that in-between class. The “we’re okay” kind of okay. The “we have food, but don’t ask for new shoes” okay. The kind of upbringing where you learn early how to read moods, avoid unnecessary expenses, and make your own fun. We had joy. But we also had fear. Subtle, quiet fear that one bad month could change everything.
So when I started working, freelancing, side-hustling, building, I carried that scarcity mindset like luggage. I chased gigs not because I loved the work, but because I couldn’t bear the silence of an unpaid invoice. I undercharged. Overdelivered. Burned out. Smiled through it.
And yes, I still boarded matatus.
But back then, every trip was layered with quiet calculations. “How much is fare? Do I have change? Can I withdraw without being charged that annoying 11 bob fee?”
I don’t remember the exact moment it shifted.
There wasn’t a viral moment, no big client, no dramatic payday. Just small changes. I started tracking my spending—not to control it, but to understand it. I stopped lying to myself about how much things cost. I raised my rates. Once. Then again. I started keeping a little emergency balance on M-PESA, not because I had “made it,” but because I respected my peace.
Now?
Now I still use matatus. Sometimes it’s faster. Sometimes it’s just easier than dealing with parking or bolt drivers canceling. Sometimes it reminds me of where I came from. But now, when I open the M-PESA app and see the balance—it’s not panic I feel. It’s presence.
I see it. I know I’m okay.
I don’t mean rich. I mean okay. There’s enough. Enough for fare. Enough for a backup. Enough to not feel like I’ll crumble when a conductor taps my shoulder.
And more than that—there’s enough inside me.
Enough awareness. Enough self-trust. Enough self-respect to know that my worth isn’t measured by how many zeros are on my balance, or whether I can Uber to every location, or if I choose to take a matatu like everyone else.
Do I still flinch a little when someone asks “uko na ya kutoa?” Sure. Habits die slow.
But now, I don’t spiral. I don’t feel that tightness in my chest. I don’t feel like I’m failing at adulthood because I chose the public route. There’s no shame in being grounded. In being frugal. In being real.
Sometimes, the biggest flex is not needing to perform.
Not needing to show off a lifestyle you can’t sustain. Not needing to prove you’re okay by avoiding things that are simply part of Nairobi life. Because the truth is—many of us are still healing our relationship with money. With class. With perceived status.
We’re still learning that being at peace is wealth.
So when I say, “I still use matatus. But now I don’t panic when my M-PESA balance is low,” I’m not just talking about fare.
I’m talking about healing.
I’m talking about no longer needing financial theater to feel enough. I’m talking about the quiet kind of progress that doesn’t look like a new car or designer shoes but feels like exhaling in peace after paying rent early.
It’s a small win. But it’s real.
And I’ll take that over hype any day.