There is a shout. Startled, he looks back. Now, his phone is gone. He was out jogging, phone held in the hand, the beat synchronised to his strides. The boys, really young, three of them on a motorbike, laced in silver – rings and teeth. ‘Typical,’ he thinks. It rains. Heavily. The El Nino rains – on and off. He hurries home in the downpour, drenched. He is among a few lonely souls on the almost deserted stretch of road, poorly light. There is a soft honk. A lovely smile beams at him. Could be his daughter. He hops in. That’s how he is unrobed – Mpesa, Fuliza, two banks accounts linked to his smartphone. He will no longer be doing mobile banking. Christmas is here, Nairobi style. He takes a detour off his Christmas tunes – Boney M to Elvis. Before that, that kingly tune set in Chicago… ‘… on a cold and grey Chicago morn… and his momma cries…’ On the second alley, music blares – reggae, rhumba - young men with bowls, begging to bury their friends, their comrades. A few pairs of sh
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