Between crosses and crescents by Barnice Agenyo

Published in Qwani 04

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6:18 a.m. and Nairobi is serving Siberia realness. The trench coat on my back is just for show: thin, cheap, performative, just like people, just like hope, just like me, the previous night faking my moans. All I can do is hope the weather doesn’t pull a fast one and turn me into an undertaker in the afternoon sun. I’m in the Super Metro queue, trying to beat traffic. Spoiler alert: I failed. The line stretches like a 2022 ballot count, and buses are playing hide-and-seek. I consider grabbing kangumus and chai from this Rwandese guy in his late twenties, but my Fuliza chuckles menacingly and whispers, “Behave.”I reach for my earphones, searching for solace in Baridi by Nviiri, but my bag is silent. No wires, no music. Just the raw morning, something similar to the morning wood I had, and Juja's hymn of hooting horns, calling touts, and the occasional “Tao tuende.”Then, they come, the street evangelists. They arrive with speakers and righteousness, voices echoing through the chill, naming sins I didn’t ask to remember. Clad in long coats and longer judgment, they speak of bodies and punishment. I wonder, not for the first time, if silence is also a kind of sermon.At last, a bus arrives like the second coming that the preachers were talking about. I rush in and secure a window seat; heart racing. The Super Metro pulls out in a noisy groan once it fills. I squint at the Pochi la Biashara number, punch in the digits, and fuliza the inflated fare.The conductor makes his rounds. I show him my M-Pesa message, but his face shifts. “Sioni hiyo,” he says. My pulse quickens, “Aii, how now?” The transaction went through, I know it did, I just hope Safaricom isn’t playing games on me. After some confusion, I tell him my name, “Wangari.” He expected a different name. A Muslim one. Something like Aisha or Amina.And just like that, my identity is under scrutiny. It’s wild how a name can make people question your soul.

The thing is, I converted two years ago. I was raised in a deeply Christian home, the prayers before dinner, shouting “Amen!” before breakfast, and playing Mary during Sunday School Christmas plays. However, my faith led me somewhere else. My family, hardcore Christians, thought I was just skipping church like every other youth, but then I pulled a full plot twist and reintroduced myself as Maryam. Let's just say... Jesus wept.Sasa kubadilisha jina ni kitu ya kufanya mtu akukasirike? Hey, at least I’m not pregnant. Wait till I tell them I’m not planning on having kids. Maybe I should just keep their blood pressure high for sport.This “small” change caused a nationwide emergency in my family group chat. One aunt even leaned in close and whispered, “Uko sure hujaingizwa kwa Al-Shabaab?” C’mon. The last major attack we lived through was the Westgate Mall siege in 2013, then Garissa University in 2015, and the DusitD2 attack in 2019. Real tragedies, but apparently, now a name change equals a national threat.I get it, fear sells. And the media? They package fear so well, you'd think it was a Black Friday deal. The problem is,mainstream media rarely shows the peaceful, everyday stories of people like me. They prefer a scary headline over balanced reporting. So my folks consumed panic, not facts and I can’t blame them. I used to—I did but now, I understand.The conductor gives me a weak smile; half apology, half “it’s just my job” look as he muttered, “Pole madam, ni mboka.” This isn’t the first time. In shops, when I pay via M-Pesa, I get the same confused pause. “I was expecting a name like Aisha,” they say, and I give a polite smile as if to say that it’s okay.The bus hums along. I lean my head against the window, the glass cool, the sun just starting to rise over billboards and the impatient traffic. I think of my interview, cross my fingers, and whisper a wish. Just let me be on time.At Roysambu, the mat opens its belly and out come passengers. Others climb in. One of them is a hawker with charisma and breath control. He’s selling Tropkos, Patco, and gum with jokes so good they should be taxed.He alights a few stops later, and just as I think the ride will go quiet again, a man in a shiny grey suit jumps in. No mic, no speakers, just lungs. He clears his throat like a performer about to drop bars.

“BWANA ASIFIWE!” Ah. It’s time.The script is familiar: a short sermon, a long backstory, and a dramatic plea for sadaka. “I was lost, now I’m found. I quit drugs, now I preach. Toa ulicho nacho.”

Sir.

It’s not my spirit that’s dry. Okay, I may have had some Gilbey shots yesterday.

However, it’s my Fuliza. I’d love to give, but Shamba la Mawe already took.I avoid eye contact with Olympic-level focus and thank God when he hops off at Ngara. Not long after, I also alight, the traffic is mad, and my stop is just a few minutes away. I take about twenty determined steps before, like clockwork, the jam untangles and vehicles zoom past like they were never stuck. Classic Nairobi. I swear, if I’d stayed on that bus, the jam would’ve dragged on till sunset just to spite me.I adjust my hijab just enough to reveal my middle part, and from the corner of my eye, I catch a hard stare from a woman in her 40s, dera and matching headscarf in full force. Is it the glimpse of hair? The trousers? I can’t tell. I shrug it off because this sixth sense of judgement is not something I’m ready for. I tell myself it’s just fabric, just trousers, but the stare lingers anyway.Google Maps doesn’t betray me today, and I find the building with ease. I walk into the waiting room and immediately feel it, something’s off.

Oh God(something I also muttered this morning,insert wink), not this again.The room screams “network marketing.” They’ll tell me to sell insurance, soap, supplements, or dreams for 15K a week. The dream is too good to be true.I think of the hours spent tailoring my outfit. The hopes, the prayers. All leading to a glorified pyramid scheme. I let out a dry laugh. I’ve fallen for this before. Twice, actually. Fool me twice, can’t put the blame on you. At this point, I might just be the clown.I shut the door behind me like it’s a bad chapter and start walking toward salvation found in the holy trinity of smokie, kachumbari, and chapo. Something warm, greasy, and judgment-free to dull the sting of disappointment.I am tempted to sit on one of the benches along Moi Avenue, but the thought of staying alert, always on edge, clutching my bag like it's my last asset, puts me off. Instead, I get into a Metro, grateful for the cheaper fare, annoyed it took leaving town to afford it.The stereo blasts Hot Grabba 4, and even though the playlist flings me back to high school days where there was dorm gossip, twerk contests during entertainment, and stealing skirts for funkies, my mind won’t settle. I’m going home. Not by choice, but by defeat. It’s a long holiday. I might as well surrender to “family time.”

I find myself circling back to the hijab;the love, the tension. The thrill of experimenting with chiffon and jersey, the Pinterest boards, the mirror selfies. The way I took it off. The questions, soft but loaded, from people I thought were safe. The guilt that followed.It’s a veil, yes but also a mirror of discipline, devotion, and sometimes, the struggle to carry both with grace.I think of how religion taught me about hell early, just swapped the soundtrack when I changed pews for prayer mats. Religion has always been complicated for me. It’s comforting and chaotic. On one hand, it wraps me in purpose and softness. On the other, it whispers that I’m never quite enough. The scripts are the same: cover this, don’t do this, do this, and feel bad forever. However, under the guilt, there’s also longing. Not for rules, but for meaning. For something deeper than checklists and shame cycles.As the Metro curves toward Archives, the adhan floats through cracked windows. It brushes against me like a ghost of who I was trying to be.Tomorrow, I’ll lay the hijab down, not in protest, but in prayer. A quiet one. One that says: I’m confused, and that has to be okay. I’ll step back from the noise of what I should be and make space for who I might become. Tomorrow, I won’t answer to the guilt. I’ll just listen to what’s left underneath it and when they find out, my auntie will quote a verse from Proverbs, probably one about rebellion or the prodigal son. No one will mention me by name, but the Holy Spirit will do the tagging. I’ll scroll, stare, and leave the message on blue ticks ,as I fold my hijabs into a drawer I don’t yet know if I’ll open again,not out of spite, but because this version of me hasn’t found the words yet.

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Photo by Edanur Sonkaya