It took my wallet to be stolen together with my earthly savings of 300 shillings, and a friend conning me a cool 1.4 milly, for me to finally realise that haiya kumbe living in Nairobi City wasn’t for the fainthearted. Well, ever since I did that rural-urban migration thingy decades ago while Lewinsky was still busy minting Bill’s groin, Nairobi has always had surprises for me.
In fact, Nairobi did have a surprise for me the day I arrived. By the time the domineering Akamba Bus was hitting Uthiru heading towards Kangemi, I immediately knew I was screwed. I saw miserable chaps pulling carts; frustrated mama mboga’s selling withered and miserable kales, while cunning hawkers were selling frustrated roasted maize worth a bride prize in the village. And yet here I was so sure I was going to Canaan.
Fast track four years later. I was part of the fundraising committee to help a friend go to Yues for further studies. Aki si we fundraised religiously for the chap for two years! Some of us contributed to our last coin. In fact, we had reached a point of even donating our livers to help a brother go chew books abroad. Long story short: the rascal never made it past Jogoo Road, leave alone the Airport. Till today he has never bothered to explain why he never left. He just lives his uneventful life as if nothing ever happened. Once in a while I have been tempted to ask for a refund.
Of course, Nairobi still wasn’t done with me. Having squeezed a salary increment at my place of work, it was only natural that I moved up the food chain. It was time to upgrade my residential address and move to a kinda slightly safer neighbourhood. Well, that’s how Njoro, a towering chap who looked like he was still being created, came into the picture. His legendary tales in sniffing vacant houses miles away was told in whispers and great awe. A month later, Njoro had disappeared in thin air with my cool 3K deposit, a worthy amount enough to cause inflation in my village.
Two months later, without delay, the gods of love had bara gacha’d my tender village heart thanks to the beauty of Stellah, a freshly minted damsel born and brought up in the hills and slopes of Taita Taveta. Her charm arrested my southern tropical. Her beauty dismantled my knees, and her smile clobbered my heart into total submission. I met her at my favourite local tavern. She was nursing white wine while starring at me as if I had died in a grisly road accident years ago, and she has never moved on.
We began dating a month later. She was a worthy catch that would have propelled my credentials, popularity and conquest back in the village to the dimensions of the People’s President. Eight months later, she sent me this chilling, cold message that felt like it originated from a morgue: “My ex is in town. It was nice knowing you.” I tell you, mama was right when she warned me, while quoting John 16:33, the night before I left the village, to be careful, lest big-legged Nairobi women kill me.