I, for one, consider no activity more delightful than hopping into a quiet matatu in Nairobi CBD after work, headed home. For context, I stay along Thika Road and my day job usually ends around 5-ish, so you can pretty much tell where I’m going, not home, but to my point.
It takes me about 40 minutes to get to my place, depending on the notorious gridlock Thika Road dwellers know all too well. (When I say 40 minutes, I mean a lot of time, enough for a fast reader to finish a few chapters or even knock out a whole book.)
I always carry a good book in my backpack. There’s nothing I enjoy more than creasing a paperback open in one hand and bending my head down to read as the matatu whirs along, provided it's not blaring club music. These days, I actually loathe loud matatus. Once inside, I’ll unzip my bag, grab my book and start reading.
But reading in public transport in Nairobi these days can feel like a rare, almost endangered ritual. Every so often, I catch someone giving me a look, half curious, half amused. A silent “Ahh, at least someone still reads in public.” I’ll turn a few pages, then glance up. Around me, people are either glued to their phones or staring blankly out the window
Reading on the way home used to be a delight. That is, until recently, when two 20-somethings, my age mates, sat next to me and ruined it.
"Me, I could neverrrrr," the other chimed in, before dropping the universal mean Nairobi girl slight: “I wish I had your confidence.”
They then spent the next half hour roping me into their small talk. From what I could gather, there was nothing particularly profound or respectful about their conversation. Just vibes. And volume.
I don’t know when reading in public became a signal that you’re open to unsolicited chatter. But more often than not, it’s the opposite. Hear me out. Just like it's creepy to hit on someone half your age, it’s equally rude to interrupt someone, of any age or gender, when they’re immersed in a book.
Because in doing so, you’re making two false assumptions. One, that what they’re doing isn’t important. Two, that your desire to talk is more important than their desire to read.
People don’t read in matatus because there’s nothing else to do. They read because they’ve carved out this slice of their day for quiet, for learning, for a little joy. Even if someone is heading home from work, that time matters. They could just as easily doomscroll or zone out, but they didn’t.
And what annoys me most? It's when someone uses the book as a conversation starter. They’ve noticed I’m occupied, and still decide their presence is more important than my peace. It’s the equivalent of interrupting someone deep in a phone call or mid-prayer.
And to be blunt, your failure to bring your own source of entertainment isn’t my problem. You wouldn’t poke someone who’s meditating. So why do it to someone reading?
Honestly, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve wanted to say: “I'm not trying to prove anything here. I'm not performing. I just want to enjoy my book in this rare moment of calm, without my deadlines, without my boss, without noise.” But I never do. Because then, it turns into a whole thing.
These days, reading in public is considered cringe, or worse, performative. I've seen people on social media openly mocking strangers who read in “weird” places like matatus. Often, someone posts a smug tweet or TikTok mocking a “bookworm on a bus.”
Not too long ago, during the peak of corny millennial humor, Kenyans, and everyone else globally used to romanticise this. We’d joke about how cool it was to see someone reading in public. Now? God forbid anyone (hot, enchanting women included) dares enjoy a little escapism during the recent happenings (read protests) in Kenya. They risk ending up in someone’s snide Instagram story or worse, being roasted on X for reading a book in public.
Photo credit: Shutterstock
It’s called “performative reading” not necessarily because the person isn’t reading, but because people assume they want to be seen reading. They assume the book is a prop, a signal, a subtle flex. Especially if the title is a heavy hitter—Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, Wole Soyinka, Ben Okri. Literature with a capital “L.” The thicker and more obscure, the more likely it’ll attract criticism.
But honestly, you have to be a special kind of insecure to be threatened by a stranger’s reading list. This obsession with "curated aesthetics" and personal branding has gotten out of hand. People can’t even enjoy a wholesome, quiet hobby without someone accusing them of putting on a show.
We’re in a scary place when it comes to books. Lecturers say students can’t finish whole novels anymore. Gen Z parents aren’t reading to their children. TikTok has trained us to lose focus after 30 seconds. AI slop is flooding the internet.
We live in an era of instant gratification. Our phones have rewired our brains. According to a 2018 research from the University of British Columbia, the brain prefers the easy way out. If it has to choose between reading, say, “Of Deadbeats, Bastard Children & Pagan Wives” – my current read by the way, or watching TikTok videos, guess what it’ll pick?
That’s exactly why you’ve got to fight back. Be that person who pulls out a book in a sea of phone zombies. Be the light. Don’t shrink. Don’t apologise. Read everywhere. Matatus. Parks. Coffee shops. Airport lounges. Don’t be a chump.
Read everywhere, and read often.
