Once in a while the nation breaks into a dance that makes the government froth in righteous fury. Deadlines shatter like cheap glass. We brook no rules because we break them anyway.
The authorities respond by foaming at the mouth, adding more time to expired deadlines while we continue to move to the frenetic rhythm of our daily lives, hips and elbows swinging to some invisible national soundtrack.
Look closely at the streets. The ladies glide across the city in six-inch pumps, hips swaying gently to a rumba only they can hear. The men stride forward with determined faces, arms swinging like impatient pendulums, their shoes slapping the pavement in brisk little bursts of urgency. Everyone is rushing somewhere very important. Then—suddenly—they all cut the same crucial corner that leads to a government building.
There, at the entrance, awaits the Kenyan national monument: the Queue.
One look at the maze of shuffling bodies and tired faces is enough to test your faith in civilization. The religious will mutter under their breath, “Shit!” The non-believers will whisper reverently, “Jesus!”
And somewhere inside the building, the government will begin ranting so loudly you might think the mad men of America have just declared war on a new species of terrorists.
Our government is very generous with deadlines. Six months for this. Eight months for that. A whole year if they are feeling particularly benevolent. But when the final day arrives, the entire country suddenly remembers that something must be done. Offices flood with people. Lines coil around buildings like overfed pythons. Online payment platforms collapse. Nothing moves.
The bewildered government then appears on national television. A senior official clutches the microphone as though it might escape. His eyes bulge. His finger wags. He scolds the entire republic like a disappointed headmaster.
“YOU WERE GIVEN ENOUGH TIME.”
Then, after a theatrical pause, he grants the nation a one-week extension.
Instantly, the queues disappear. The offices become quiet again. Kenyans vanish back into the ecosystem of side hustles, church fellowships, chama meetings, funeral fundraisers, evening classes, gossip sessions, political debates over beer, and urgent entrepreneurial schemes that promise quick riches.
The government building sits there lonely and abandoned. Until the new deadline day.
Then—like the wildebeest crossing the Mara River—the nation migrates again. Suddenly everyone must submit the form today. Online platforms collapse. Online portals overflow. Government clerks develop thousand-yard stares. And the complaints begin.
“Why are there only two clerks?”
“These people are lazy!”
“They are humiliating us!”
“Why can’t they extend the deadline?”
But shame is not a Kenyan emotion. We are a special people. We are the rock upon which time stubs its toe.
Besides, we are busy. Salaries alone cannot feed ambition. After work Kenyans rush to a second job, a third hustle, or a fourth meeting. Someone is organizing a wedding. Someone is organizing a funeral. Someone is organizing a committee to organize the other committees. Somewhere, someone is selling smokies while discussing national politics with the confidence of a cabinet minister.
With the cost of living rising like impatient steam, every extra coin matters. Now observe the government attempting reform.
Recently, they have been trying to make the matatu industry cashless. This idea was introduced with the enthusiasm of a missionary and the funding of the World Bank, which dreams of a sleek digital future where every Kenyan citizen has a digital ID and every transaction leaves a polite electronic footprint in their quest for a dystopian digital prison.
The plan sounded simple.
Passengers would pay fares using cards or phones. Owners could track revenue in real time. Fraud would shrink. Efficiency would bloom. Unfortunately, the matatu industry is not famous for blooming efficiency.
Matatus are the gladiators of Kenyan roads—loud, colourful, rebellious mechanical beasts driven by men who treat traffic rules as creative suggestions.
When the National Transport and Safety Authority announced that all PSV operators must adopt cashless payments in 2014, the industry responded with polite indifference.
Deadline day arrived.
Very few operators had bothered.
Government bureaucrats screamed so loudly you would think someone had stolen their plate of ugali. Threats were issued. Regulations were repeated. Fingers wagged violently.
Then, fearing that Nairobi might wake up one morning with no transport at all, the government quietly tucked its tail between its legs and extended the deadline.
Again.
On the next deadline day, chaos bloomed beautifully. Passengers ran around town searching for fare cards like desperate treasure hunters. Most matatus had no gadgets to read them, anyway. Those that did possessed machines from Company X that refused to recognize cards from Company Y.
The technology was supposed to rely on contactless payment systems using Near Field Communication. In theory, a commuter would simply tap a device and glide smoothly to their destination.
In practice, the machine blinked angrily and demanded cash.
Once again the government stomped its feet, shouted, threatened, and finally granted the transport industry yet another year to fix the problem.
It failed.
But the truth is this: Kenyans do understand deadlines.
What we do not understand is why a government that spends most of its time pilfering public funds suddenly expects perfect punctuality from citizens who are busy surviving.
Life turned out differently from what we imagined. The grand party we expected after independence has become a slightly chaotic survival marathon. So we hustle. We improvise. We adapt.
Even our funerals obey this national rhythm.
When a Kenyan funeral is scheduled for ten in the morning, guests will begin arriving at noon. The speeches will stretch heroically into the afternoon. The burial time will drift further and further away like a distant mirage.
And somehow nobody is surprised. After all, we are probably the only people on earth capable of arriving late for our own funeral. Which is poetic justice.
Because dead people, as we like to say, are called the late.