Cheap Repairs, Expensive Lessons

"Anto, hii gari yako inalia kama blender inasaga mawe," my wife said as we pulled into the estate gate.

Kisa na maana, there was a tiny squeaking sound coming from under the bonnet.

She expected me to take the car to a high-end garage in Industrial Area with waiting lounges and free Wi-Fi.

I wasn't going to.

Senzii, akae. Pesa haitafutwi na kukaa kwa sofa ya leather ukikunywa espresso. Pesa inafutwa na kuokoa ile mia tano unaweza okoa.

See, my neighbor Baba Stacy had recommended a local estate mechanic named "Fundi Njoro."

"Huyo kijana ni hatari," Baba Stacy had assured me earlier that morning. "Anatengenezanga hata ma-Prado ya wazito. Hakuna shida ya gari asijui."

That was mistake number one.

We drove to Njoro’s "garage"—which was basically a shade under a giant jacaranda tree right behind a local kinyozi.

Fundi Njoro walked out wearing overalls that hadn't seen soap or water since the 2022 general elections. He wiped his greasy hands on an old rag, leaned over my open bonnet, and listened to the engine like a cardiologist diagnosing a heart attack.

"Mkubwa Anto," Njoro said, shaking his head with deep sorrow. "Hii si fan belt. Hii ni timing chain inagongana na alternator, na gasket inataka kulipuka."

My wife leaned out of the passenger window. "Babe, hiyo jina 'gasket' inakaa shida kubwa. Tusiende home kwanza?"

"Tulia babe," I said, putting on my expert face. "Njoro anajua chenye anafanya."

Mistake number two.

Before I could even ask for a price quotation, Njoro grabbed a size 14 spanner from his wooden box. Clack! Clack! Clack!

Within twelve minutes, Fundi Njoro had dismantled half of my engine and spread the parts on a dirty black polythene paper laid...