Nairobi Stories

In these days of hateful Mugabe tub-thumping, race is again to the fore in Africa. But I have to admit that I had never thought much about my own race – except perhaps as a generic "white" – until I went looking for a new house.

One small ad on the wall in my local shopping centre seemed about right. But when I called the landlord – a man with an Indian accent, let's call him Mr Vijay – there were some strange questions.

"What are you?" he queried sharply before I could even ask for directions. Then, hearing my puzzled silence, he qualified the question. "What race? Are you an African, an Asian or a European?" I mumbled something about being "an Irish". Right answer. "Okay," he said, "please come."

Mr Vijay explained that the rental apartment was still occupied, so he would show me around his own, identical place on the floor above. In the lounge, his wife sat wearing a sari and watching Indian television on satellite. One of the bedrooms was crammed with clay lamps and praying Hindu goddesses – Mr Vijay's private temple.

Everything was fine – right place, neighbourhood and rent – but I was wondering about the race question. He answered straight up. "It's because we don't want to rent to Africans, you see," he said. "You bring in one, then they all follow. And they mess the place up." Not, he added, that he had ever rented to one – these were reports from his friends.

And what if I invited African friends round? Ah, now that could be a problem. Even a girlfriend? Realising this was a real possibility, Mr Vijay's tone blunted. "Well, then I couldn't rent to you," he said. I quietly made my excuses and left.

Mr Vijay's raw prejudice is not representative of all Kenyan Asians. A few weeks later I found myself drinking beer at a friend's house. He is an Indian; his wife is a black Kenyan. They jokingly refer to themselves as a "zebra" couple. But they are the exception rather than the rule. Many Asians tend to stick to caste and clan for business and marriage, something Africans often resent them for.

The divide is also economic. At the smart shopping centre where I found Mr Vijay's ad, two-thirds of the faces are brown, maybe one-quarter white and only the remainder (excluding shop staff) are black – the demographic inverse of the heaving, bustling streets outside.

The matatu – Nairobi's unique contribution to both world art and road fatality statistics – is in danger of disappearing.

Driven by virile men with a sense of immortality and a taste for the drug-leaf miraa, these public minibuses careen recklessly along the broken streets, weaving between potholes and other vehicles. When traffic is too heavy, they simply ramp up on to the pavement.

Passengers are treated with absolute contempt: deafened with violent, misogynist rap music and packed into cramped spaces like sacks of potatoes. For the pleasure, they pay about 20 shillings (15p). On the outside, matatus are covered in elaborate spray-paint celebrating Puff Daddy, David Beckham, Jesus Christ, and all manner of obscure phenomena such as "Hong Kong radio".

Other road users, especially this one, hate matatus with a passion. Dented metal and fresh paint jobs testify to thousands of tips and bumps; the crowded obituary pages of local newspapers are the result of more serious collisions. But they are also an almost perfect embodiment of an overcrowded city's edgy, aggressive spirit.

Now, after years of bitter complaint, the Matatu Owners' Association is finally promising change. According to new regulations, the boom-box music systems and graffiti will go and the crews will become "presentable" young men, decked out in clean uniforms. Best of all, the drivers will promise not to drink or take drugs while at work. Few are holding their breath.