DUSK IN KANAIRO

The City Clock tells me it is 6.30 pm.

The street is abuzz with activity. It is Tuesday and most people are hurrying to get home from work.

The street hawkers have laid down their wares and they are calling out to whoever will listen to come buy their stuff.

They will be lucky if kanjo does not make an appearance today. 

Usually they show up unannounced and take everything with them and if one cannot run away, they get arrested.

I chuckle as I remember that day I was mistaken for a hawker and was arrested. I spent the night in a cell because I did not have money to bribe them. They let me go in the morning when they realized it would be pointless to take me to court.

That was just a bad day. Usually I am very alert on these streets. And I run when I sense kanjo, usually before even the hawkers themselves know they are coming.

I look at a woman bending over to look at an item of clothing; I cannot tell what it is from where I am sitting.

She has a nice, round ass. I squint my eyes to see if there is a panty line. There isn’t.

What is it with Nairobi women and not wearing panties, I wonder to myself. 

I pay attention to her as she straightens up. She is holding a tank top (at least I think that is what they are called) and she is now bargaining for it.

She looks to be in her thirties. She does not look like she lives a soft life. She probably works in one of those shady offices on the wrong side of Tom Mboya street, helping to make fake documents for tens of Nairobians wanting to game the system.

She gets paid nonsense money that cannot meet her needs. It is likely she has a child with an absent baby daddy and she is angry at someone 90% of her existence.

She intrigues me and now I can feel an erection working its way up. I look away.

A man walks by speaking on his phone, oblivious at the danger of using his cell phone out in the open like this.

He seems angry at the person on the other end. His voice is raised and he is gesticulating wildly with his free hand.

He is dressed in a gray suit, a cheap one. Let me see; I think he looks like a bank teller. One of those young ones who work at Equity and are paid peanuts.

He is probably talking to his wife. That is why he is angry. These people do not have happy marriages. Because of the money. It is never enough.

I sigh and watch him walk away to his miserable life.

A couple is walking towards me. They look like college types. The young man has black, raggedy looking hair beloved by many young people these days. He is wearing a black hoodie. 

She has raggedy looking hair too. She is very cute, as only a young woman whose character has not yet been developed can look. She is also wearing a black hoodie, probably to match his.

They are holding hands as they walk. Probably her idea, not his.

She seems to be very animated, telling him something exciting. I think she had an interesting day and she is getting it off her chest.

He has earphones stuck in his ears. He is definitely not listening to her; he looks bored.

I suddenly feel sorry for her and a little angry at him for this strange dynamic.

Young love. It never ends well.

As darknes

s sets in, illuminated by Nairobi street lights, I feel a familiar melancholy set in.

Soon, all these people I have been watching will be home, eating warm meals and getting into warm beds.

I reach into my grimy pocket and remove it, a stale piece of bread. Damn, I will need some water to wash this down.