Kenyan matatu: Necessary evil or unnecessary noise?

So far we have seen how the matatu industry came into being and beat the odds - the odds being the Kenya Bus Service, the Nairobi City Council and the Kenya Police - to claim an ever-growing slice of the transport pie.

Their misadventures a decade after independence have brought them to the doorstep of President Jomo Kenyatta...

Legalize It: Recognition & Deregulation - 1973

The failure of the police to make a significant dent in matatu operations led to a hilarious showdown between the service and the city council, with each side blaming the other for the continued existence of the still-illegal transporters.

The council declared that law enforcement was a far cry from its mandate; the police, in turn, said that Nairobi's burgeoning population was creating opportunities for crimes far worse than unlicensed transport; and that these worse crimes deserved their attention more than wasting time playing coyote and roadrunner with a business that seemed almost invincible.

The post-independence nationalist fervour and Mzee Kenyatta's call for the spirit of Harambee were not lost on the matatu industry. Since 1963, the country's new leadership had been exhorting citizens to get involved in national development activities, and how indigenous Africans could break into businesses previously reserved for Asians: retail and transport.

The matatu operators believed they were the best embodiment of the Harambee ideology: they had identified a gap in the market and responded immediately and on their own initiative. By investing in an independent business, they had risked their livelihoods; and the return in terms of financial profit was well deserved.

After all, they were enjoying the fruits of hard work, or in their own words: "earning a living by constitutional means" and were therefore ideal citizens. So why should the authorities want to shut them down and keep them out? That would be against the spirit of Harambee, and criminalising the business would encourage corruption through bribery.

It was a very persuasive argument, to be honest, but its potential impact was not lost on the competition. Arthur Kent of the Kenya Bus Service appealed to Seth Lugonzo, then mayor of Nairobi, for stronger action.

"A real war must be declared on the pirates," Kent said in January 1968. "Pirates are a menace to the KBS and to the mwananchi (he had no idea how prophetic these words were); they should be eliminated.

Legally licensed taxi services, such as the white-owned Kenya National Transport Co-operative Society (Kenatco) and South Asian-owned saloon car hire companies, also caused a stir in the government, unnecessarily as they served a different market to the matatus.

The expansion of the matatu industry also meant that some matatus dabbled in interurban transport, stepping on the toes of licensed rural bus operators. It was one of these rural bus operators who triggered the events that followed.

Also Read: How Kenatco was driven into receivership – and parked for twenty years

Dedan Nduati, owner of Jogoo Kimakia Bus Service, visited President Kenyatta at his Gatundu citadel to ask the C-in-C to ban matatus altogether. Kenyatta looked at him askance and demanded to know how many matatus Nduati could buy if he sold one of his buses.

“Several”

Rumour has it that Kenyatta told Nduati to do just that: sell his buses and invest in matatus. The ugly duckling had been informally endorsed by Father Swan himself.

But that wasn't the threshold of legal recognition. The government's anti-piracy efforts escalated and took on a public relations dimension, with senior police inspectors tasked with securing court convictions against illegal operators, which they did with devastating effect.

The number of high-profile court cases and resulting convictions, and their subsequent publicity in the mainstream media, showed that no matter how brave you are, you can never really beat the system. What saved the day for the matatu operators came from an unlikely source: racial tensions among Kenyan citizens.

You see, to retain a modicum of power and control - and to keep the Africans at bay - the white man whipped these Africans into a racist frenzy, convincing them that the South Asians were taking what was theirs in the form of retail business. This little battle would keep both sides occupied for a while, allowing the white man to go about his business without fear of an uprising from the newly independent natives.

The local leaders found themselves embroiled in this complicated affair in which the Asians saw the Africans as clumsy and childish; while the Africans saw the Asians as perfidious and crotchety. The whites did not mind being seen as arrogant and privileged, provided the Africans and Asians kept each other busy with their mutual suspicions.

However, local leadership quickly picked up the rhetoric and escalated it. Kenyatta himself made an ominous speech in 1967, accusing Asians of infractions against the ideology of Harambee and calling into question their legitimacy as actual Kenyans; further admonishing them to make a stand as to which side they really lean on.

In true follow-the-leader style, MPs started echoing Kenyatta’s sentiments all over the country. This empowered and emboldened native Africans while it made the Asians understandably uneasy. It did not help matters that major newspapers got in on the act as well, publishing discriminatory content deriding everything from Asian cultural practices to their driving habits.

Ever the opportunists, matatu operators hopped into the muck with both feet. When confronted by police, the operators would be quick to ask uncomfortable questions about ancestry, citizenry and why Asian transporters and their car hire/carpooling taxi services were immune to the same treatment. This worked.

Also Read:60 years of matatu culture: A special look at Kenya's public transport

Asian hired vehicles posed no threat to matatus, but general anti-Asian sentiment could be leveraged for other advantages such as finagling your way out of police scrutiny through guilt-tripping. Whenever the issue of Asian taxis came up, local leaders were boxed in by their own pro-Harambee commentary to act on it in favor of the African matatu operartors. They couldn’t backtrack.

In January 1973, Joseph Mwaura Nderi, a matatu owner in the company of four others, found himself in the exact same position his Jogoo Kimakia compadre was in before: pleading with Jomo Kenyatta to do something about  matatus; the difference being Mr.Nderi wanted them licensed, not banned. It came as a pleasant surprise to the five men then that less than half a year later on Madaraka Day (June 1), while celebrating a decade of independence, Kenyatta did not license matatus, he did them one better.

He deregulated the industry. No vehicle under three tons would be required to pay for a road license with immediate effect. Mr. Nderi’s pleas had borne more fruit than he imagined.

But the local leadership quickly took up the rhetoric and escalated it. Kenyatta himself made an ominous speech in 1967, accusing Asians of violating the ideology of harambee, questioning their legitimacy as true Kenyans, and admonishing them to take a stand on which side they were really on.

In true follow-the-leader style, MPs across the country began to echo Kenyatta's sentiments. This empowered and emboldened the indigenous Africans, while making the Asians understandably uncomfortable. It did not help that major newspapers got in on the act, publishing discriminatory content mocking everything from Asian cultural practices to their driving habits.

Matatu operators, ever the opportunists, jumped into the fray with both feet. When confronted by the police, operators were quick to ask uncomfortable questions about ancestry, citizenship and why Asian transporters and their car hire/shuttle taxi services were immune from the same treatment. It worked.

Asian hired vehicles posed no threat to matatus, but the general anti-Asian sentiment could be used for other benefits, such as guilt-tripping their way out of police scrutiny. Whenever the issue of Asian taxis came up, local leaders were trapped by their own pro-Harambee commentary into acting in favour of African matatu operators. They couldn't back down.

In January 1973, Joseph Mwaura Nderi, a matatu owner with four others, found himself in exactly the same position as his Jogoo Kimakia comrade: pleading with Jomo Kenyatta to do something about matatus; the difference being that Mr Nderi wanted them licensed, not banned.

It came as a pleasant surprise to the five men when, less than six months later, on Madaraka Day (1 June), as Kenyatta celebrated a decade of independence, he did not license matatus, he did them one better. He deregulated the industry. With immediate effect, no vehicle under three tonnes would have to pay for a road licence.

Mr Nderi's pleas had borne more fruit than he could have imagined.

Moi 1984: Not So Fast

The cheers that followed the announcement could have been heard to the moon, and the standing ovation that accompanied it must have been seen from there; but Kenyatta was well aware that he had opened a Pandora's box, as the Trade and Licensing Board (TLB, but not as you know it today) quietly pointed out. Jomo was quick to throw a word in the direction of the matatus, asking them to justify his benevolence by driving carefully and using serviceable vehicles now that their biggest roadblock had been removed in one fell swoop.

Needless to say, Kenyatta's pronouncements were not well received in all quarters (remember Kenya Bus?), but that is a story for another day.

Kenyatta's decree also created a huge grey area in that no one was initially sure what it actually meant. Were matatus now conceptually legal, or were the vehicles themselves simply exempt from licensing? Or was it both? There was also concern that things had gone against expectations: all those campaigning for the legalisation of the industry had assumed that there would be some form of regulation to keep the industry in check, and that licensing would force operators to obey the law in exchange for legitimacy.

The timing of deregulation was also somewhat unfortunate, coming as it did at a time when road accidents were rising exponentially. What had been a moment of celebration quickly turned into concern.

Also Read: Murkomen allows matatus back on Nairobi Expressway

Ronald Ngala, Minister for Transport and Communications, introduced a novel Traffic Amendment Bill in Parliament, hoping to stem the flow of blood on the roads.

Jeremiah Nyagah, Minister of Agriculture, argued that although matatus were unlicensed, they were not above being prosecuted for traffic offences.

They would face the law if they overloaded their vehicles or drove recklessly for the sake of higher margins... margins they needed to pay the increasingly hefty fines imposed on them. And so a vicious circle was created: the more lawlessly they operated, the higher the fines they paid; and the higher the fines, the higher the degree of recklessness they practised. Nyagah believed that compulsory licensing could break this stalemate. Attorney General Charles Njonjo nodded in agreement.

The debate gained traction and raged on, with one Grace Onyango, the Kisumu MP and the only woman in parliament at the time, making an impassioned plea for the government to come to its senses - unlike Ngala, who had recently received a strange biblical vision asking him to do a U-turn and declare the KBS sufficient for Nairobi's transport needs and therefore matatus no longer needed.

However, it was one Martin Shikuku who laid down the law in a thunderous diatribe peppered with sarcasm and rhetorical questions that could best be summarised in two parts: what exactly would happen if the government licensed a few matatus? Would the government collapse? Like the police in their earlier debate with the NCC, Shikuku went on to list a litany of national problems far more pressing than refusing to license matatus.

Kenyatta may have foreseen that licensing matatus would give operators too much leeway, granting them rights and freedoms that would be difficult, if not impossible, to revoke in the future. This may explain why the matatu industry has always had a reputation for stubbornness: like the classic tale of the Arab and his entitled camel, once they got their head and neck in the door, shoulders and feet would surely follow.

Also Read: State not doing enough to stop loud matatu music

Whether or not the tent explodes, scattering its contents into the harmattan, depends entirely on how well it is stitched together. The tent in this case is modern society. The same dynamic applies to how the squatter problem has always been dealt with.

This evasion of the licensing issue allowed the industry to grow unchecked. Anyone with two bronze coins to rub together bought a matatu, while existing operators descended into a cesspool of unroadworthy vehicles, recklessness, overloading and corruption.

It was around this time that matatu branding took a turn for the self-referential. Vehicles began to boast nomenclature and slogans that alluded to the speed at which they were driven and the fact that getting to your destination in one piece was now a matter of luck.

President Moi, Kenyatta's successor, couldn't take it any more. In 1984, he put his foot down and raised his rungu, demanding that the matatus be licensed and inspected if they were to continue to operate. Had the matatus finally met their match?

Also Read: 14-seater matatus on way out in city

A Law Unto Itself: The Reign of Anarchy – 1994

President Moi's compulsory licensing and inspection system certainly slowed, if not halted, the rate of decline, but other effects were immediate.

A large number of opportunistic but ultimately less wealthy operators found themselves faced with a financial hurdle they could not overcome: that of paying for licences and inspections as well as keeping their vehicles in order, and so they dropped out like flies.

The wealthier investors who remained in the industry found themselves in a vast sandbox ripe for imperialism, and like their forebears 21 years earlier, they acted quickly, amassing and consolidating power and influence through unions, saccos and associations - some of which still exist today.

The associations had a positive effect. By the 1990s, the intense competition that had resulted from the large number of fragmented operators had all but disappeared.

Matatu routes became more organised. Road safety statistics improved. Everyone was happy, including the associations, whose power and public goodwill grew exponentially. With power comes unscrupulousness and villainy.

Fewer entrants in the matatu business meant that monopolisation and protectionism were not only easy to practise, but became widespread.  Routes were controlled by these organisations and anyone who wanted in had to pay to play, a phenomenon that persisted until recently. In fact, it still exists, only it has been sanitised as "sacco membership".

However, monopolies also meant tighter controls (of their own kind) and higher returns for members. The controls and increased revenues meant that operators put state-of-the-art vehicles on the road.

Where there had been plain Jane Nissan Urvans and Toyota Hiace Tornados, there were now Nissan Caravan GL-Ls and Toyota Hiace Super GLs with sunroofs, electric windows and air conditioning. The cars were better, safer, more comfortable and more luxurious.

Additional features such as heavy-duty sound systems, televisions and tinted windows became commonplace. The matatu was no longer a ragged piece of patchwork, it had become something flashy enough to compete with your own car in a spec vs. spec battle... and win. This rise in status was accompanied by a corresponding rise in passengers. They became more discerning, demanding that operators behave and conduct their business in an orderly fashion.

These Eden-like conditions may make for good reading, but they also attract parasites. Enter the vigilantes.

Also Read: Loud music, rude touts make ride in matatus trying for passengers

John Michuki: Don't Rattle A Snake

The most notorious of these ne'er-do-wells was the Mungiki sect. This is another grey area: I've met a few self-proclaimed members of the so-called Mungiki, and they insist that the people I'm referring to are a formless bunch of identity thieves too cowardly to come up with their own brand, they're not real Mungiki.

Mungiki's ideals are far removed from the criminal tendencies embodied by these other thugs. It's not for me to decide who's telling the truth, but the fact remains that in the late 1990s, the Mungiki sect and a few other ragtag armies swept into this sunroofed transport hub uninvited to impose their will and make law as they went along.

They ran roughshod over the industry for a few years, which only served to spur them on to further diversify their portfolio.

After gaining full control of various bus terminals in the city (ironic, given that matatus once fought the Nairobi City Council for operating privileges, they now had to pay criminals for the same privileges; criminals who had scared the council away without firing a shot), these gangs began offering their services as thugs for hire to any politician who desperately needed a mass of ill-behaved individuals to further his agenda, especially around election time.

This is where matatus became fully politicised: the industry funded these criminals through extortionate 'protection' fees paid per vehicle, and these thugs played a huge role in who got to say what politically. If you control the matatu industry, you control the politics of the country.

Also Read: Alarm as matatus, hawkers hog city streets, flout rules

Something had to be done before what was once a fringe industry overpowered an entire government, and one John Michuki stepped into the breach in grand style.

The famous (infamous) Michuki Rules should be familiar to most of us, but their scope was astonishing in its audacity and daring. John Michuki proposed things that the general public could bet their last fares would never happen in this lifetime. His proposals were so ambitious that matatu operators initially laughed them off, literally.

Gone were the trendy, hip-hop-inspired dress codes the crews boasted of, replaced by uniforms: blue for the driver, red for the conductor. The driver had to go one step further and display a full-length photograph of himself in plain view of passengers for easy identification. Cars had to be fitted with mandatory speed governors, set to intervene and cut off the fuel supply to the engine at speeds above 80km/h.

Seating was now allocated on the basis of actual measurements rather than eyeball estimations, with the result that Japanese microbuses from Nissan and Toyota were immediately relegated from 18 to 14 seats. No more standing passengers, everyone should be seated when the vehicle is in motion, including the conductor himself.

All seats should be fitted with functional seat belts. Any PSV with less than 33 seats would have to have a yellow belt around the waist; and no G-strings here, miss. The belt must be at least 15cm wide.

Also Read: 'Michuki rules' drive matatus off the roads

They laughed it off at first. When they realised that Hon. Michuki was serious, they tried to negotiate terms with him, but Michuki refused. The matatus had to comply with his list of demands or they would have to find another way to make a living.

Negotiations degenerated into tears and then threats of industrial action, something the industry uses to great effect (the NTSA re-test has since been suspended following threats of a go-slow).

Michuki urged them to make good on their threats and when they get tired of throwing tantrums like children, would they please submit their vehicles for compliance checks? Don't forget seat belts and yellow lines. Thank you.

What had happened was that an immovable object had met an unstoppable force, and the unstoppable force had finally been stopped. Hon. John Michuki had achieved the impossible: he had successfully reined in the miasma of disobedience that had been the matatu industry for 40 years.

Also Read: It's end of the road for rogue matatus

Unpacking matatu industry

The unpacking of the matatu industry can only be fully realised in weighty and voluminous tomes, not a mere pair of articles like mine - but here we wrap it up.

The origin of the matatu (an unmet need), its history (a quest for legitimacy), its tactics (stubborn opportunism and unwavering resilience) and its present (a slow regression to the dark ages) should paint a clear enough picture of why I wasn't surprised when the drivers failed the NTSA test, and neither should you.

Matatus have always been a self-governing ecosystem that plays by its own rules. The last two articles have highlighted anecdotal evidence from some 60 years ago that would still be familiar today, and that is because history has a tendency to repeat itself if we refuse to learn from it.

As calls for road safety and Vision Zero intensify, and as we move deeper into the 21st century, perhaps it's time to modernise public transport; not necessarily at the expense of the matatu, but with their involvement. (I made a proposal on this back in 2018).

And for us to successfully modernise in a system where well-intentioned road safety measures are met with yet another threat of industrial action, perhaps we need another John Michuki to step up and force the issue.