Diaries of a strong boy by Lewis-Miller Kaphira

Published in Qwani 01

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The other day, my kibarua at some mjengo in Westie came to a grinding halt- something about the owner running out of money to go on with the construction. So, the whole lot of us have no work now. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to find work these days. But you see, a strong boy like me has to eat, pay dues owed to my mama mboga, find money for mathe’s diabetes medication as well as send money for Shiro’s hairdo. Wait. Have I told you about Shiro?

Picture this; it’s on a moody Monday morning and your friend Maish woke up so sickly that he couldn’t go to work. So he let you borrow his nduthi so you could go make some few coins ferrying passengers around Umo then give him his cut at the end of the day. You ferry your first passenger from Umo to the CBD. It is still peak rush hour in the CBD so you decide to stick around. You could make a better killing there.

It’s 8:30 am and you are on Tom Mboya Street doing rounds on your friend’s nduthi. Within a breath, what was a mere drizzle, morphs and matures into heavy, angry rain drops. You pat yourself on the back for listening to your inner instinct and not unscrewing the nduthi’s umbrella as Maish had suggested when you were borrowing the bike. Then you see her. What you see first is her long, lovely, chocolate coloured legs that rise to become killer vivacious thighs right where her mellow coloured, floral dress ends. She has an ample bosom that her dress is struggling to contain. Her girlies look as though they could pour out of that dress on the slightest bend. At this point, your racing, racy mind could give Omanyala a run for his money. Hehe. She’s holding a small leather bag over her head to protect her wig from the rain. It’s barely holding. I tactfully halt in front of her right when she is about to cross the street. She says that she is running late for an exam at the University of Nairobi and asks whether I could ferry her there.

She is holding tightly against my waist and I can feel her well rounded jugs against my back and her sturdy nipples threaten to drill tiny holes into my back. We’re swerving and ducking in between traffic at neck breaking speed. In my head I imagine it to look like that part in the music video to the song “Senorita” where Shawn Mendes picks up Camilla Cabello on his bike and they are speeding away with the wind blowing into Camilla’s beautiful hair…

I love it when you call me Senorita, 

I wish I could pretend I didn’t need you,

But every touch is ooh la la,

It’s true la la la

Ooh, I should be running…

But it’s 8:53 am, it’s raining cats and dogs and we’re on bloody Moi Avenue not somewhere in Miami and this is a nduthi not a 1969 Triumph Motorcycle and I’m certainly not as hot as Shawn Mendes. Nowhere close.

We’re on University Way, right in front of the University’s main gate and she has alighted. She has no cash and offers to pay via Mpesa. I acquiesced and before I could ask her name she dashed off. She wades through my mind, incessantly, for the rest of the day. I am dying to see her again. Then it hits my mind that she paid via Mpesa and so her phone number should reflect on the payment message. Sheila Wanjiru is the name that’s on the payment message. I wait till evening and call. She thanks me for coming in handy and insists that I should call her Shiro instead. She’s a third year Bachelor of Arts student at the University of Nairobi. More to that, she is a beginner model who’s slowly climbing up the ranks of the cat walking industry. After the call, we chatted late into the night.

Fast forward to 7 months later; none of my boys believe that I bagged such a beauty. Neither do I. We hang on weekends; sometimes she comes over to my digs at Umo. Migwatos is over the roof. I send her money for shopping, money for her hair and pay her rent too. It spreads me thin alright but it’s the price you have to pay for love hii Nairobi. Furthermore, didn’t I tell you that I am a strong boy?

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It’s been three weeks since the Kibarua huko Westie ended and nothing seems to give. I go back to my side hustle; I am in the nyongolo business in tao, around archives, together with some of my boys who also lost their vibaruas at the construction site in Westie. One thing had to give. In this business we relieve unsuspecting Kenyans in the streets on Nairobi off their extra cash and small electronic gadgets. If you care to ask anyone of us in this business, we’ll tell you that we don’t see it as burglary. No, no. Instead, we’ll tell you that we’re doing an important job in helping the government redistribute incomes. Furthermore, we are offering employment by recruiting boys that are looking for an easy kill into our gang, that way, we are lending the government a hand in reducing youth unemployment levels in this city. Talk about killing two birds with a single stone!

This is often a very high risk business. To the untrained eye, it seems like a business that requires loads of brawn. But no. This business requires tact and a smattering of physics and mathematics. Tact comes in handy when sizing up potential clients. Tact helps you sniff out anyone who’s looking even slightly disoriented. You gauge just how tightly they are clutching onto their bags or purses or phones and quickly snatch before they realize what’s happening. Sometimes, clients could be problematic (this is where brawn comes in) and you have to grab them by the neck- just a little, nothing too serious, just business. When they are too problematic, we have to draw our tools of trade (read daggers and pen knives) again, nothing too serious, just business. Physics and mathematics come in handy when dashing from the scene of crime. You have to know how to negotiate 90 degree corners as smoothly as possible and in the shortest time possible. When you are running, your body is matter in motion and so you have to at least have even the slightest whiff of Newton’s laws of motion lest you undo yourself and that is physics.

I am re-entering this business during the low-season. The economy is bad. Inflation is at an all time high we hear. Our clients’ pockets seem to be drier than ours. There seems to be no incomes to help the government redistribute. What’s even worse is that the government has issued a crackdown on those of us in this business. Masansee are swarming the CBD in droves these days. They like to mill around archives, which was hitherto my work station. Wameharibu soko. Bad, bad. Now I am forced to transfer to less lucrative areas of the city. I shift to areas around Nyamakima in downtown Nairobi.

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There are days when you wake up with a premonition that your day is going to be bad. Often, you ignore that kafeeling and choose to go about your day regardless because Ugali has to be put on the table anyway. You however go about your day anxiously, wishing that kafeeling away but it keeps nagging you and tagging at your sleeve. You can’t do anything about it because you just don’t know what it is pre-empting. A very abstract kafeeling.

On the second day in my new workstation around Nyamakima and its environs, I carry this kafeeling. It’s stuck on my clothes and skin like a pungent smell that just won’t go away. It hangs over my head like the sword of Damocles.

On that morning, I woke up to a text from Shiro.

“Otis, kama hii ndio mapenzi, wacha ikae,”

It had been a week since she’d texted me asking for salon money. My response was “Itajipa”.

On that day, despite the kafeeling, I went to work with an extra dose of motivation running through my veins like someone who’s just from reading “Gifted Hands” by Ben Carson or some other best selling motivational book. Nyamakima was its usual self; busy, teeming and threatening to burst at the seams with Nairobians who ever seem to be in a hurry. If you want to witness Kenya’s diversity in its rawest form, this is the place to be; Dholuo, Kikuyu, Kikamba hang over the air and marry unfettered. An Omondi is as eloquent in Kikuyu, just as Njeri can seamlessly switch between Kikuyu and Kikamba while trying to convince Wambua to buy wares from her. This is business! Beautiful chaos!

The day rolled off painfully slowly, traders pushing carts all over, no prospective customers in sight. Then at the stroke of midday, at high noon when the pangs of hunger are on steroids I spot this mubabaz; Shining bald head, succulent brown cheeks, an awkward potbelly that’s threatening to undo his shirt, a fitting pinstripe suit and Oxford brogues to boot. He’s definitely not someone from here and he certainly didn’t get the memo: you don’t dress like that when you’re coming down to Nyamakima. He has this smell that distinctly hangs over him. The smell of money! I see heaven opening. Lady luck has smiled upon me. It’s my time to eat. Nay. Feast! I plot how to lay him.

I am walking behind him. Short, brisk steps. He’s proving difficult to keep up with. But I’m up to the task. He’s approaching a corner to a crowded part of the street. If he cuts that corner before I reach him he’ll have slipped off my fingers. I hasten my steps. One… two… three…pounce! The unthinkable happens. He grabs me by the arm that’s trying to do a vice-grip on his neck from behind and pulls me forward, judo-esque style - pwagu kampata pwaguzi! It all happens at lighting speed. I am on the street pavement, my back is hurting and for the first time in ages I see butterflies in Nairobi - beautiful, beautiful butterflies dancing right above my head. Then the butterfly dance is rudely interrupted by a gigantic Oxford brogue that’s threatening to pound my head. I roll over and the Oxford brogue misses by a whisker. I smell death and I am up on my feet scampering for safety.

“Shika huyo!” Mubabaz shouts.

He’s hot on my heels and a group of boda boda fellas join him. Adrenaline galore! I look over my shoulder and they are relentless in their pursuit. It’s only a matter of time before they catch me or I trip and fall. On my left there’s a small alley lined with traders of all sorts of wares and I duck in there. I’ve lost the mob, but only momentarily. I am still running and ducking and panting. Right at the end of the alley where it turns into a wider street, there’s an old woman selling veggies on a cart. I duck under the cart and motion her to keep calm and silent. The cart has gunias hanging over its sides so it sort of hides me almost perfectly. Underneath the cart, my heart is pumping ferociously; threatening to break out of my chest. My palms are sweaty and at that very moment, my life flashes in front of me like a movie trailer. I see mathe and her diabetes medication, I see my boys from the construction site in Westie, I see Shiro all lovey dovey with the same mubabaz that has been chasing me. Suddenly my revelation is broken by the noise of a mob. Under the cart, I hold my breath…

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Photo by Nicholas Githiri