WLL no.27 notes


There was no electricity. But there was plenty of light: the warm muted glow of a kerosene lamp in the middle and ghostly candles flickering up the stairs and along the walls. It was like an indoor campfire or a seance and most cozy. We had a generator disturbing the street outside, the music was chilled out and… you had to be there.

Nyairo was not there but we tried to summon his ghost via Skype but failed after almost succeeding.

No.27 was a big deal because we finally launched our first printed work, Manure Fresh Vol.1, Going Down Moi Avenue. We will be selling it at the next WLL for 350 bob. Next WLL is on 10th May 2014 at the same place and time.


Glow worms.




Last things first. Can’t remember much about WLL 20. WLL 21 did not happen because of the Westgate attack. WLL 22 did not happen because some guy locked the place and disappeared with the key. WLL 23 was very quiet, about six of us simply celebrated Nyairo’s birthday and chilled out a bit. Because of all the above, WLL 24 was the loudest yet.

We needed the momentum back so we decided to make it one big party. Everyone must have been in the same spirit because the last guests left around 4am!

We started late, around 9pm. At 10, instead of the usual topical discussion, people discussed their best reads of 2013. It was a most lively chat, nicely co-ordinated by Nyairo and Ray, the new choirmasters. The book swap that followed was short and sweet, if you got a book it very likely was a good one, thanks to the great contributions. After the swap came the party, a perfect start to the holiday season. The DJs did very good things, as everyone who was there will tell you. No cartons were hurt during the making.

This year, well, who knows?

Next WLL is on the February 8th at the same place, same time. Stay with us at facebook.com/pmbclibrary and follow @pmbclibrary for whatever. Have a blessed new year!

WLL 19 Notes


An Afropolitan is a widely-travelled African who listens to Fela in Bang & Olufsens . No, it is a new type of confident  African rising against old stereotypes of begging bowls and machetes. New type of African? It is a new stereotype.  Smart, well-dressed, well read. No, it is stupid, just a look, superficial material wrapped in Kente cloth. It is the new Negritude. What’s that? Fuck that. It is reactionary. No, it is forward. I disagree. Who needs this attitude? We do, don’t you? It is good. It is bad. Yay. Nay. What’s an Afropolitan anyway?

And then the DJ played some nice tunes, including a preview of an upcoming project titled Funkorino, the happy Italians came late but brought a good vybe, as usual, and that was WLL19.

Afropolitanism is our topic for the next 4 weeks, submitted by good old Nali. Please send your submission to freshmanurelit at gmail dot com. And if you visit our facebook page you will see an interesting discussion on the same by Amandla Ooko-Ombaka, a cheerful soul who was part of the lively crowd on a most interactive night.

WLL20 is on August 9.

PS: Topics to be covered til January 2014 are: Boys vs Girls, Chaos, Love, Transhumanism, Hurray for Development and Purpose.


WLL 18 Notes



Ambala lost the key to her post office box. She told us about this while in Tanzania. Two days before WLL 18. It was going to be a train wreck, because there was no way to access all the letters sent in for the WLL 17 challenge. But the train took an interesting detour and we ended up hypnotized for an hour by the mad man eyes of Allan Moore.

About 10 people sat around the TV watching The Mindscapes of Allan Moore, an interview in which the writer of V for Vendetta, The Watchmen and more talks about his early life, how he got into writing, why he writes, what art and writing are for, magic, sex, science, religion and nothing about Jay Z.

Meanwhile, the world whirs ever faster. Moore says that human culture is boiling, about to turn into steam. But where’s the writing?

So we decided to re-energize the WLL writing challenge by announcing an annual WLL writing prize. We have no idea how it will be done but it will. Maybe we could make a panel of judges. Ideas welcome. In the meantime, we need topics/themes for the next 6 WLL challenges. Is there a topic you would like writers to address in any of the forthcoming events? Please send your suggestion to freshmanurelit@gmail.com, and please back up your topic with a reason why. The first 6 topics in our inbox go.

Moritz played Dizzee Rascal bonkers, Fred danced for once, two girls got nicely drunk, one more than the other, and good times were had by nearly everyone. And the books in the bin were nice.

WLL 19 is on July 13. WLL 17 letters will be read then.

Chaos to all.


WLL 17 Notes.


The night of May 11th was a little wet. Guys made it out though, and in good time. The Lesleigh Inc girls were leading the sermon this time. Linda took the stage and awkwardly but resiliently led us, as we questioned ourselves on why it mattered that Chinua Achebe was dead. If it mattered at all.

The result was an invigorating discussion on the following:

1.       Biafra, Pwani si Kenya and the political apathy of Kenyan writers

2.       “..maybe I just want to write about a girl I f*cked”- and other valid points.

3.       Using “the masters tools”- The English language in African writing.

4.       Racist coconuts.

5.       Writing on one thing for Sixty-something  years- Pros and Cons.

6.       Achebe the relic- Another cultural vegetable that we are supposed to revere but honestly don’t give two sh*ts about.

And many more.

In the end, Achebe is dead and we have a reason to explore his works with fresh eyes.

Lesleigh gave the first three submissions books including an Achebe and a collection of East African poetry. Wonder if the winners will actually read them. Hmmmn..

The bookswap saw probablythe best selection of books yet. Wilde,Herbert, that guy who wrote girl with a dragon tattoo etc. People are getting over their separation anxiety when it comes to their books.

Later on, we partied to the sounds of trap music, drank, talked some more on Achebe and other grand fathers and then people went home.

A nice time all in all.

Shaz for PmbcLibrary.


BIAFRA – Daisy Moraa

A tribute to Chinua Achebe after reading his book of poetry COLLECTED POEMS

  I have not seen you

 Touched you

 Known the boundaries that mark you,


 I do not know all your philosophies,

 Your real strength

 Your real vision.

 I do not know if you won or lost,

 If you were a child of sin or not

 If you are sick of the blood quenching you;

 All I know of you, I have felt from Chinua’s


 Words like pain, sun-stricken

 Furious, conquest

 Identify me to you;

 They give me strength to write

 about more than myself. To be contrite.

 Thank you Biafra.

 Thank you Chinua.


ImageThere is something about the way those two play music together, Eki and Collo. It is as much fun to look at as it is to move to. And they picked up nicely with some high energy electro-housy stuff right after Shaz’s classy “brown hip-hop” set. Brown hip-hop is that Dilla/Q-tip sound, because the samples and bass feel sepia.

There should have been a bit more to the part where we read the FreshManure stories and engaged their writers, I felt. Maybe it was because most people had not read them yet, so from now on we shall be posting the submissions as soon as we receive them. Please check them out somewhere in this blog, browse by category.

Party ended slightly past midnight. Someone broke a chair. Abdi helped get a cab for akina Nora after their boda boda guys failed to show up. The studio was still blue with smoke following day past noon.

One more thing. We need a web designer to join the team and help get the podcast back on. And then take over the world.

The next WLL party, no.17, happens on May 11th, same place/time. The topic/challenge/prompt/whatever is simply: Chinua Achebe.


John Coffey (Green Mile – Stephen King) on Tom Mboya Street – Njeri Tunguru

John Coffey, like the drink but spelt with a y, woke up with a start. He’d heard a startlingly loud noise which he had never heard before, and sensed everything was not okay. He opened his eyes and quickly shut them. What he saw surprised him.

He was no longer lying on his usual bunk at Cold Mountain State Penitentiary. The bars that stood between him and his freedom were no longer there. The green linoleum floor right outside his cell was no longer there. The darkness that he disliked was no longer there.

He opened his eyes again.

He saw that he was lying on a dirty pavement on a noisy street with huge metallic animals with black, circular, rubbery legs. These animals had people in them – sometimes just one person holding a round contraption that protruded from where he supposed was the inside of the animal’s mouth, sometimes it had the person holding that contraption and more people just sitting there, all facing one direction.

He saw huge masses of human beings as he had never seen before, all purposeful in their poise and hurry. He wondered where they were all headed to, so uniformly, like machines. He thought to himself that maybe the machines had colonized the human race.

He sat up. He was still in his prison clothes. He felt a bit woozy and his stomach grumbled. That did not bother him. The noise surrounding him did. What was this place he had found himself? Why did these people have such dark thoughts? These huge masses of people, each and every one of them seemingly disturbed. Now more than ever he wished his abilities could leave him. The noise was terrorizing.

He stood up. All 6’8” of him. His powerful frame made a few individuals in the sea of men stare at him, but they quickly resumed their hurry, maybe a bit too fast than before but he couldn’t notice it.  What he didn’t know was that he scared the hapless Nairobians who thought he would actually try to rob from them. Heaven forbid that he does, he would be no match to any of them.

The road which the metallic animals were using was separated by a white line that ran across its length. On one side cars went from left to right, on the other from right to left. In the middle there was a small pavement with a sign on it. Something strange was written on the sign. He could make out the word ‘Tom’, but the other word seemed strange, like maybe an alien had had it for dinner and unable to swallow it, puked it out. ‘M-B-OY-A’. What is a ‘M-B-OY-A’? He didn’t know. He had never had of it before. But then again, his memory was never the best.

He looked at his surroundings. He was standing outside a red and white building. How did I get here? He made a few steps toward the sea of humanity. The noise went up. Being sensitive to peoples’ feelings and thoughts coupled with being so close to such a huge crowd of humanity was making his head almost explode with all the noise. His heart was breaking bit by bit from all the hurt that these people seemed to be carrying around with them, and he wept quietly. He could not stop the noises. He could not help them. His empathy would be the end of him!

He left me. I feel lost. How am I ever going to live this life? A woman’s thoughts reached him.

I can’t believe my own blood parent, my own father, would kick me out of home. Is he even my father?! Where am I supposed to sleep tonight? What am I supposed to live on? A young man with a backpack strapped on him thought.

My daughter slept hungry. God, please, today let someone sleep with me today so I can get money for her dinner.

An F?! My mum will do her interior decorating with my brains tonight. Must go to gram’s place or else I won’t see tomorrow!

She can’t be dead! Mama can’t be dead! No no no no no no…

He could no longer stand the noise. It was all too much! He leaned against the white wall, dirty from neglect, and gradually crouched.

That horrible con. He will pay me back my money. He must!

Oh no, she’s calling me again. I’m so tired of this woman, can’t she get a hint?

She’s pregnant? Screw her, she’ll do the rest alone. She’ll never hear from me. Not ever. She only wants my money anyway.

He clasped his head with both hands and closed his eyes, and rocked back and forth, wishing this nightmare away. It was an almost comical site. A huge giant of a man, rocking back and forth on a crowded street like a lost seven year old would. His form was a huge chocolate-brown boulder next to a forgetful white wall. Make it stop. Make it stop. Those were the words that kept ringing in his head.

Make. It. Stop.

Suddenly, all was quiet again. He opened one eye first, then the other. A comfortable rush of warmth at the familiar sights coursed though him. The Green Mile, the bars, the uncomfortable bunk bed, his legs hanging from the end. He sat up on the bed, and wiped his tears. It was only a dream. A bad bad bad dream.

Dear God, I hope that there’s no place that horrible in the world, he thought to himself as he fell back into slumber.

The Black Man with a Horn has an Epiphany on the L3 – Raphael Kariuki

Rows of bright yellow plasteel seats on white rubberized floors, strips of aluminium-alloy and clear plasteel panes, the world outside streaks past in colour-coded blurs between programmed stops. Efficient whirs precise hisses. It’s the giant sequencer playing the giant song, and now, on another quiet, chilly dawn, a lone note walks along the staff, a few octaves down.



An unremarkable book

A few weeks ago, in an agreeably empty coach in the Tom Mboya L3 at around 5.00am, I found a book. Nothing special, just a book forgotten in a MATT. 

A book!

To call me old would be inaccurate. I am immortal. And for longer than history have I cultivated the habit of a keener sniff, with many wonderful tales to tell as a result. And here was the beginning of another one. Now, chances of finding a book anywhere in this or any other city on earth in this age are very, very, very thin. Not impossible, just thin thin. But being a book wasn’t the only thing fascinating about the book. Something seemed curiously inviting about its situation. No, it felt practically thrust at your face by the starkly contrasting yellow of the cold, faceless seat. Of course I picked it up, and was immediately struck by the remarkable state of its preservation (it was a paperback). Disappointingly though, novelty was about all there was to it, about a third of the way through, and I was tempted on many occasions to forget it as well in some random coach. Still, I read on, one story at a time (it was a collection), always in the MATT, half-hoping to maybe meet the owner, who might be a frequent commuter of my current haunt on the L3.

When you have witnessed the risings and fallings of oceans and continents, when you have blinked back at the earliest stars at the first dusk, you acquire, er, a taste for adventure. And, now and then and a lot, you have these experiences that serve as constant, pleasant reminders that you are still, what, surprisable.  A blessing indeed. They often leave one with an energizing sense of wonder, a refreshing anointing of sorts…

The book of the matter was Cthulhu 2000, “A spine-tingling collection of the macabre inspired by H.P Lovecraft,” edited by Jim Turner. It was a first edition, first printed in 1999. A rather under-whelming collection of stories that did not quite live up to the association with the legendary writer’s name so prominently placed, no, emblazoned across its cliché cover. Still, one story at a time. Until I got to the one that, with absolutely no warning, opened up and swallowed me whole with the turning of a page. 

I landed head first in the deliciously bizarre piece of drama that follows.


            Black Man with a Horn, by T.E.D Klein

The story was titled “Black Man with a Horn,” by a septuagenarian author at the end of his tether, one T.E.D Klein who is at pains at the beginning to establish that it is not a work of fiction. Even though it is written in first-person past tense, the reader should not presume the mystery solved, on the strength of the obvious fact that writer must have survived whatever perils to tell the story. Not so, stresses Klein – and quite the opposite, it turns out. He is only writing what he can before the unstoppable creature of darkness catches up with him too. And even beyond that, the ancient abomination lurks in the shadows still…

What follows is an entertaining one-hour read that is part Tin-Tin, part Indiana Jones, part Catherine Miles. Klein even mentions that he would have liked to make works of fiction out of the events surrounding Mortimer’s encounter with the extinct Tchortchos of the islands of Malaya, they provided him with sufficient material for “two or three plots.” Unfortunately, he never gets to work on any story. Instead, the aged writer leaves us with a simple, quivering account of the events that eventually led to our meeting, him and I, and his subsequent demise.

Klein was from 1970s New York and jaded. He had seen all there was to see in his time. Back here, this superstreet was just getting started. Anyway, Mr.Klein seems to have heard of me for the first time from a former missionary suffering paranoid delusions, on a shared Air Malay flight to New York from London. The man claimed to be on the run, being trailed across the continents from Eastern Asia by this mysterious black man with a horn, the herald of death. Mortimer was the fugitive’s name.

Mortimer narrates a harrowing story of the missionary experience with natives and cults and so on, leading up to an assignment in an unknown region of the Malayan archipelago that brings him into contact with the dark forces that had haunted his shadow since.  Having downed both his faith and tools, he was intent on making it to the safe shelter of a familiar, normal American life.

Death catches up with Mortimer in America nevertheless. Somehow, his passing is connected to a mysterious man with a Malaysian passport, who has been staying for a long time in a hotel in Mortimer’s town. The man has been seen with a negro child at times…

A boy detective still alive in T.E.D Klein starts hunting for the clues, in museums, libraries, newspapers and other secondary sources between New York and Miami. Through the forgotten transcript of an obscure documentary recorded decades earlier, the trail ends in dark Asian jungles whose true names will never again find utterance, where, he meets his quarry, the demon Shoo Goron. The demon gets identified in a scene where a child sketches its picture on an exercise book, as they always do, and spells out the name. The picture is of a dark man blowing a large horn. “no blow out, blow in.” Knowing the demon’s name and last recorded location seems to achieve nothing for Mr.Klein apart from solidify the sense of dread that’s been growing in him. Now he knows the nightmare is real and his turn is next…


My reaction

The part in the documentary where they identify the horn-blower as a demon, I nearly hit the alloy roof during evening rush hour. That was the moment I decided to write a short story of my own.


            My story

In ages recently past but long forgotten, we spent much time with the scattered humans of the jungles and wilds. Over generations, protocols and traditions had evolved to guide the affairs of the varied souls of the forests. It was a more interesting ecology then, when spirits were not strangers. I must confess that I still consider the woodland savannah that grew here then, long before the GRID, more, what, wholesome. Quieter times, when the horn was heard as the music of the wind. They were wild days, but these ones are far wilder, in their ever increasing new ways. The jungle has never been thicker.

I frequented East Asia a lot, as a matter of social preference, before the ever-restless winds of humanity started blowing across the earth in new streams. Our interactions with the people referred to as the TchoTcho/Chaucha/Tchortcho/etc lasted up until, at last, the new order had to be, ending with the great final parting.

WTF, so I am the demon? Shoo Goron, the black man with the horn? Yes. No. Wait, wait. Remember that this story has primarily been based on Mortimer’s recollections, which are by no means irrefutable. Indeed, Mortimer does not appear to have held robust enough a mind for an accurate recount of the events at the heart of this comedy. I’ll have to tell you a bit of old Morty’s story before we proceed.


            Jehovah’s Juggernaut goes partying

Mortimer was a middle-aged Christian missionary, those “infernal nuisances”, destroyers of civilizations, of the gentle type known as Giant Zealots. They are valued highly for their combination of evangelistic zeal with football-player bulk.

Mortimer “The Holy Bear” was already some sort of celebrity around the islands of New Guinea, where he had settled some tricky issue by challenging a great chief to an epic wrestling duel, which he won with divine assistance. “Heaven’s Heavyweight!”

But by the time Mortimer was landing on the muddy mangrove beaches of his last assignment, here to provide much needed muscle for the planting of a new post deep in the rainforest, he was a man firmly in the choke-hold of a personal crisis that slowly, secretly, tightened its grip. You could see the turmoil within on the giant zealot’s honest eyes. Let’s just say he was not in the best state for the kind of encounter through which we were to meet.

People draw too many conclusions from those so-called first impressions. The thing is many humans never really pay attention, themselves too occupied of their own presentation to notice yours. Equally complicated are those situations where someone creates and sets an impression of you before their eyes without having seen you, or without looking. A spectacular variety of fears, desires, prejudices, assumptions, passions, traumas, regrets, vanities and many other insects are constantly flying noisily in and out of human heads, through the orifices and in the brains.

The moon of the night was sublime. Full and radiant against a clear, dark sky. The jungle felt extraordinarily alive. The celebrations in the clearing had been picking up the energy steadily. The glittering voices of playing children rose up with the sparks of the many fires burning in the great circle, joining beetles, moths and flies of all hues and timbre in the energetic air above the clearing, you could touch the buzz. A midnight carnival of dance, revelry and a healthy amount of what men like Mortimer and Klein feel happy to label “pagan rites”. It was after one such rite, this one meant to officially welcome the spirits of the forest into the gathering, that we were meant to manifest. And manifest we did.

Mortimer was at the party. The party happened to be happening a few days after the sudden disappearance of his Christian Man Friday. Please allow a quick diversion, we’ll be back at the party but this information will help much in understanding the upcoming incident involving the missionary. Circumstances surrounding the grounds-keeper’s disappearance differ significantly from Mortimer’s recollection to Klein, as re-told in the latter’s writing. The thing is, Mortimer had, over the years in the East, acquired a thorn in the flesh in the form of a liking for a certain local preparation made with tincture of poppy. This unholy appetite was at the root of the lonely struggle of God’s Gorilla, so far from home… By the time he had made contact with the Chaucha, the increasingly worldly-wise man had lost a great deal of his original fervor. Consequently, he approached this latest task with, well, a more open mind. This led to a state of rather comfortable compromise with the heathens that was not unnoticed by the grounds-keeper, a dependable man still loyal to the head of the mission over at Borneo. Hence his disappearance.

Anyway, on that night, old Morty sat back on a long, low cane chair in a state of pure bliss, on a pleasant, surreal mushroom trip accentuated by the gay sights and sounds awash over him.  He also seemed to be enjoying the company of two teenage girls, both apprentices of the medicine-woman, both probably sent to him by the chief, both old friends of mine.

The drums start a slow, steady, hypnotic ascent over the party noise.

A few sleeping insects stir.

The drums grow stronger, heavier, faster, until the forest now seems to reverberate with a deep syncopated rumble… I blow a few teasing notes through the trees, we’re all poised on the tips of our toenails on taut piano wire, waiting-

A swarm is forming around Mortimer’s head.

– for the drums to stop dead. Then the soul-drying scream of a talented virgin, at that very moment of the hush, tears a bleeding gash through the shocked air, trailing off in singular moans that echo across the world, searching through trees…

We manifested.  Right in the middle of the circle, holy chaos of creation, another riot! Our set for the night started with an intro from my horn, and I fittingly opened with a hurricane, ruffling the heads of trees in the periphery before every being in the vicinity jumped in, and the tree trunks rumbled and vibrated all around. A true spectacle, always enjoyable, the dance of the mixing of spirits.

One guest did not appreciate the idea, unfortunately. Constantly in the torment of a deeply buried conviction (one that lay in cold, dank coils just beyond the reaches of his conscious mind secreting a stream of toxic guilt into the soul, unnoticed) Mortimer was helplessly in the grip of a very strong notion in his mind that he was due for a great and deserved punishment, he had sinned with foreign gods, he lusted after foreign women… In that moment Mortimer realized that all his life, he had been living for this moment, this was where his road ended, where the just wages of sin finally catch up with him. Death. And here it is. In this infested Sodom and Gomorrah in the forest, wallowing in wickedness and iniquity, the betrayer of the lord faces his nightmare, at last.

A bunch of high spirits enters the party in style.

A hoard of dark demonic beings emerges out of the very foul air of a feast of sin and evil, landing on the earth only a few yards away, in an orgy of the most foul dancing of godless savages and with so much terror that all sphincter control immediately gives way. This is followed by dozens of sharp, sudden internal stabbings, as shards of guilt and loathing, originating from deep inside, trigger a flurry of mercifully light heart attacks that nevertheless leave the big sinner unconscious. The following morning, struggling to get the sound, no, the voices of the great loathsome horn out of his head, he rows the yellow dingy out into the lagoon and away, never to be seen again. He floats in hazy silence through the shrieks and screams of hundreds of millions of cursed cicadas and birds, at a loss to explain his reanimation, distantly accepting it as a second chance…

And that’s where the story actually starts.


A loose end

About the Malaysian passport holder and the negro child, investigations found the matter to be of more importance to the immigration department.


The end of Mortimer’s story

Whatever good old T.E.D Klein learnt from his friend Mortimer, his own, first-hand experience of the hellish “scuba negro” is almost certainly the most interesting part of his story, for he did not live to tell.


Meanwhile, back in the L3

Tom Mboya L3, superstreet, is as alive and mysterious a place today as it ever was. Despite the concrete/alloy lattice that is the GRID, which has replaced the sky with an energy-efficient light distribution system, despite nearly all the minds running MESH in the background nearly all the time, despite the Consumer Credit Control, a soul that was never born, an immortal affair, is happy to have a supply of constant surprises that never seems to run out of material for plots. It is never boring.

            Grow old along with me,

            The best is yet to come.




01. The 4L Urban Transit System

The 4 tier carriageway system of Tom Mboya accords it the status of Superstreet, core trunks of the city’s famous 4L Urban Transit System. The four tiers are designated L4, L3, L2, L1. L4 is at ground level, corresponding closely to the original street layout of the city, though with certain significant alterations done in places to align closer to the greater, multi-level GRID. L4 is used almost exclusively for industrial/commercial transport.

The next level above, L3 where you find the Mass Transit Track or the MATT. This is an elaborate, fully automated affair built around thousands of independent MATT coaches that circulate one way or the other around the track or oscillate between two stations, on frequencies determined by a computer that makes predictions of traffic patterns based on incoming commuter route requests, sampled in 5 minute intervals. L3 is, as would be expected, a most energetic zone of trade, and the shops in the grid at this level are literally stacked above each other like the cartons that hold their wares. The L3 tier holds an average of 8 million people at any given moment, and rush hour peaks of double that number surprise nobody.

L2, above, is essentially a semi-private MATT, for those willing/able to pay significantly higher credit for the added prestige, more and better shopping, more and less crowded coffee bars. Above it is the L1, reserved for government and VIP traffic. This is the only level where private, human-driven cars are allowed. There are no trains here.

The multi-level carriageways of the 4L run stacked above each other in an elegant yet utilitarian design universally considered an architectural wonder. The 6pm traffic management spectacle is just as celebrated, for its remarkable efficacy.

The 4L system is the main factor behind the rise of the complex, interconnected superstructures that give Nairobi its singular topographic profile, dominated by the new great pyramids.


02. Wapi mat za buru?

Excuse me, wapi mat za buru buru? Mimi ni mgeni, sijawahi kuingia tao…

Er, ok. Sasa hivi tuko L3, Tom Mboya Superstreet. Ukitaka kwenda buru, kwanza unafaa kujua iko zone gani. Tumia info-terminal kama hii hapa, ama uliza MESH. Ukishajua zone, kwa mfano najua buru inakuanga East Zone, enda kwa MATT station kama ile pale, ungojee the next coach yenye inaflash “EastZone” kwa kibao. Hizi ma-coach ni mingi, so hautakaa hata 5 minutes. Ukishapanda moja utajua inapofika station ya east. Ukiwa east, tafuta ka-interface kama haka, enter destination kutoka hii drop-down menu, halafu utapatiwa a choice of routes, na pia estimate ya time and credit. Reply with the route of your choice halafu utapatiwa S-MATT Card disposable yenye imeprogramiwa route yako. Ukifika EastZone exchange, swipe kuingia gate ya route yako. Haitawork ukiswipe kwa gate ambayo haiko kwa card.