Why are mechanics stingy with information?
Mechanics are so stingy with information that you would think they have sworn a brotherhood code of secrecy against car owners.
Psychoeducation is a new term I learned while undergoing therapy. Counsellors no longer merely soothe you with soft words and tissue boxes. They teach.
They explain what is wrong, why it is wrong, how it became wrong, and what you can do about it. You walk into a therapy room, a trembling mess, and leave with a mind map, a worksheet, a book recommendation, a movie to watch and online channels to follow.
After the third session of therapy, you throw around concepts like attachment styles, trauma bonds, hyper-independence and coping mechanisms. Therapists have become incredibly generous with information, which has made healing from heart wounds accessible and possible. They provide us with the ‘user manual’ to our emotions.
Why don't mechanics do the same?
Mechanics are so stingy with information that you would think they have sworn a brotherhood code of secrecy against car owners. If the car owner is a woman, make that oath as elusive as the Mau Mau one.
Consider this scenario: your car starts making a sound that can only be described as a goat trying to ululate. It jerks when you brake, stalls when you turn, and smells faintly of roasted regret. You are worried. You love this car. You talk to it. You beg it not to die on Lang’ata Road during rush hour.
So, you take it to your trusted mechanic, Mutiso. Mutiso squints at the engine, frowns like he just saw a text from his ex, then proceeds to work on your car silently for three hours. No questions. No updates. No, "How long have you been driving with one brake pad?" Nothing. Eventually, he emerges from beneath your car - smeared in grease, victorious - and says, “Ni oxygen sensor.”
”The what now?”
You pause. Mutiso pauses. “What does it do?”
“It senses oxygen,” Mutiso says. “Now, test the car.” You do, and the sweet girl is back to her speedy self. Mutiso hands you the bill.
That is it. No charts. No diagrams. No, “This happened because you’ve been ignoring your service schedule.” No practical tips like, “Avoid potholes the size of Ndurusabu hill.” No “Here’s how you can listen for early warning signs next time.”
Mechanics have somehow agreed, as a profession, that you do not need to understand what just happened. They treat your car like a patient under anaesthesia—silent, sacred, and not your business.
Even our gynaecologists are better, at least they do selective psychoeducation. You walk in with hot flashes, random crying spells, and an urgent desire to fight your partner for chewing too loudly. She nods sympathetically and says, “Your estrogen is low. Here’s a cream.”
You blink. “A cream?”
She nods. “Apply nightly. Internally.”
You sit there, legs crossed tightly. “Is it safe? What does it do? Will it reverse the urge to auction my ex to aliens when they come for human dummies?” She offers a brief explanation about hormones and menopause.
Even your dentist, when he discovers a cavity, gives you a short Engage Talk on enamel erosion, sugar acids, and how brushing after every snack might be excessive but helpful. He even shows you a cartoon of bacteria invading a molar. But your mechanic? Tight-lipped. Like the DCI with their findings. Imagine if they had flip charts, animations, or - dream with me - infographics. Imagine a mechanic with a pointer stick saying:
“Here is your exhaust system. This little guy here? Oxygen sensor. It regulates the fuel-to-air ratio. Yours was choked, like your emotions when your spouse finds sleep after a fight.”
What if they said, “You’ve been using counterfeit fuel filters. Let me show you what a good one looks like. This is your car’s version of junk food, cheap, but it clogs arteries.”
If therapists teach us about our trauma, surely mechanics can teach us about our transmission fluid. We are in the information age, and some of us want to learn. Is it too much to ask for a “what went wrong and how to avoid it” checklist with every service? Perhaps even a certificate? I want to drive out of a garage the way I leave therapy: emotionally lighter, with a coping plan, and a flier titled, “10 Signs Your Car is Gasping for Help.”
Dear mechanics, take a cue from our therapists. Do not just fix it. Explain it. Enlighten us. Educate us.