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 shoes line the electric
line above – fallen soldiers. Deep in the night, at a time when the Saviour
will be borne in a few days, there is a shouting, a robbing. Shepherds – the
police – have forgot to tend to their flock. Human rights haven’t been kind to
them – the sentiment.
The perfume shop, the Mpesa shop –
modern-day equivalent of gifts to the Christ-child, they have been hit twice
this month. Now, they close early – their owners now wise and in defiance of
Herod – the 24 hour economy. ‘You better watch out…’ The opening line to the
Carol aptly portrays the kind of Christmas prevalent in Nairobi hoods. Santa
won’t risk bringing gift to this part of the world.
The days, long, dry, now that El Nino rains
have been switched off. The cackle of small children and hens, Nairobians too
broke to travel upcountry or Mombasa – where their hearts really are. There is
always rent and school fees and food and school uniform to think about. Their
accounts are depleted, yet January looms large. Scepticism, cynicism and
negativism rent the air, though the price of unga has gone down – always,
political undertones driving this campaign on mainstream and social media.
Yet, in a few souls, there is a rekindling.
There is a planning for the New Year. There is a renewal – a hoping and a
prayer – that this other year that lingers, might be a year of salvation. Of
progress. And so, they retire early to their homes – evading the troubles and
the sorrows that lurk in the dark of December.
NB: Meanwhile, I have a small ask:- I am
running a campaign that will enable me launch my two books in February, end,
2024. I humbly ask of your donations of 20KES/20Kshs/20bob, towards this. The
campaign is dubbed #20BobSanaa. Thanks in advance. You can also support by
liking and sharing this content, or by buying these books using the following
links:
‘A Funeral Dress for
Nyasuguta’ available at: https://nuriakenya.com/product/a-funeral-dress-for-nyasuguta-by-mark-mwangi/
‘Love Told, Poetry
Souled, Family Bold’ – available on Amazon Kindle at http://shorturl.at/hzALY
Buy Good Till Number: 9080911, Gatere
Mwangi
Send Money: 0708 276 622, Mark Gatere
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