You know how everyone says Nairobi is the capital of Africa? How tourists marvel at how all Nairobians are super stylish and always look and smell good? How insanely beautiful are the women and good looking are the men? How you find the biggest malls in East Africa with literally every service under the sun? How world class restaurants found a home in this big city? How Nairobi is the place to be if you want to do serious business and create wealth? How Nairobi, the city that never sleeps, is the dream, or rather, where dreams come to fruition.
So, when this NGO that had just recruited me gave me the option of working from my home town of Nanyuki or the head office in Nairobi, it was a no brainer.
It had to be The Green City under the Sun!!!
My sister insisted that I should visit first and get a grip on how things really are like kwa ground…because, according to her, Nairobi is no less like a prison; programmed to receive, but no one ever leaves. Everyone is in for life.
I arrive mid-afternoon with quite a load of luggage my mother had prepped for her kids and grandkids who are ever too busy to visit. As we are transferring the gunias from one car boot to the other, a kanjo woman taps me on the shoulder and asks if she can help.
‘Njoki, finally umefika? Mimi na sista yako tumekungoja sana.’
I’m taken aback! Does she belong to the same lot of city council askaris everyone loathes? Ama niko nchi ingine?
When we’re finally alone, I ask my sister who she was and if we know her.
‘Huyo mnyama amenikula thao mbili tu sasa kwa sababu ya kuingia na wrong side!’
Now I’m wishing I should have just taken an Uber instead of asking her for this favor. But hey, Ubers don’t do pickups in downtown Nairobi cos’ of the heavy traffic and congestion. Bodabodas on the other hand charge as much as I pay from Nanyuki to Nairobi and trolley guys always have a habit of vanishing amidst the crowds with your luggage.
En route Rongai, the chaos on every road is beyond imagination. No motorist adheres to the traffic lights, cops are ever causing more confusion than guidance at roundabouts, Nganyas are always overlapping, bodabodas zigzagging and pedestrians constantly jumping in-front of your car as they cross the street. I bet everyone’s brakes are in perfect condition.
What further picked my nerves were the huge crowds of hawkers along the streets. Does everyone in Nairobi moonlight as a hawker cos’ these sellers were all smartly dressed and spoke perfect English. It doesn’t take long to self-teach Never to give them an Eye Contact. Eye Contact equals Consent. They don’t take No for an Answer and you’ll find yourself getting giddy if you think shaking your head No will drive them away.
Hatuwezi kosana bei is the prevalent line that gets you hooked. There’s no way to escaping them. Help comes in when the traffic cop waves you to proceed.
By the time we get to my sister’s place, I calculate that we spent more or less the exact time from Nairobi to Rongai as I did from Nanyuki to Nairobi.
Next day is when I’m to have the full working class Nairobi experience. My sister says we can’t use a private vehicle cos’ fuel is too expensive for everyday use, traffic too heavy – we better use buses that know how to overlap and over-speed while bribing the police, parking so hard to find and you have to pay another person to watch over your car for the day or else you’ll find it scrapped to its skeleton.
I hated that we had to have three pairs of shoes. One to wear from the house to the bus stop. High heels from the bus stop to the city. Flat shoes for the day at the office.
I hated that there are literally hawkers everyone. They take up all the footpaths and pedestrians have to battle for walking space between the fast speeding matatus and bodas. These hawkers still chase you further in an attempt to grab your arm and sell you a second hand Levis mom jeans or crop top that’s ‘Size Yako’.
I hated that every seller has to bash you down and mess with your esteem in order to make a sale. My shoes needed polishing, my beautiful kinky black curls needed salon work, my beautiful melanin of dripping chocolate beauty needed bleaching mafuta, my UV free natural ivory nails needed gel polish, my well toned tummy needed to be fed. I can’t take a walk without someone trying to ‘katia’ me a ticket to Mombasa or shove me in their matatu. Every other once quiet, green and scenic corner is now bombarded by neo-photographers wanting to snap your photo.
I hated that I have to look right, then left, then right again, then left, and keep darting my eyes around as I cross the street at a zebra crossing. I hated that I almost got ran over twice, once by a car and funny enough, a mkokoteni. I hated that no one said Hi back, no one offered to help with directions, no one apologized when they stepped on my shoes, no one alerted me when my phone was being pickpocketed. I hated that everyone had a frown on their face, earpods on their ears, and an overall haggard look.
I hated how long the queues were, the music loud and obscene, the rides bumpy, the streets filthy, the air stuffy, the water stenchy, the men never gentle, the makangas ever arrogant, the rides endless, the city overpopulated; one big slum of a city; one big dirty, overpopulated, chaotic and depressing sight of a slum in the name of a city.
I can’t believe people used to make fun of me for having been born, grown in, schooled at and working in a rural area, when all along they were out here being engulfed by this crowd of unfathomable pollution of a metropolis.
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