Nairobi at night was a whole different world. Gone were the crowded streets and blaring horns of the day, replaced by the quiet hum of a few passing cars, the occasional shout from an alleyway, and the flickering of streetlights struggling to stay lit. The city that had been bursting with life under the scorching sun was now cloaked in shadows, with only pockets of neon light cutting through the darkness. As I walked, my footsteps seemed unnaturally loud against the concrete, the echoes bouncing off the tall, silent buildings that loomed on either side of the street.
The air was thick with the scent of the city—dust, smoke, and the faint aroma of fried food wafting from late-night vendors still trying to make a sale. A woman sold smoky, boiled eggs , roasted maize from a small cart, the charred kernels popping quietly as they cooked. Her tired eyes met mine as I walked past, and I felt a pang of sympathy for her—working late into the night for just a few coins. A small group of young men leaned against a wall nearby, passing around a single cigarette and speaking in low, urgent tones. Their eyes tracked me as I moved, and I quickened my pace, my mind racing with the realization that I was far from home.
Every turn brought new sounds—a distant honk, the faint wail of a siren, the scuffle of feet from a dark alleyway. Nairobi, even at this hour, was alive in its own way. There was a rawness to the city that I could feel under my skin, like it was revealing a side of itself reserved only for those daring enough to wander its streets at night. It wasn’t safe to roam around at this hour, but the adrenaline coursing through me from the journey and the anticipation of Mombasa kept me alert.
As I walked, my mind drifted back to Koelel and the events that had led me here. I could almost hear the distant echoes of the school bell, the sound of boots crunching against gravel as we marched to the dining hall. I remembered the final conversation with Muss in the school dormitory, the way his face creased with concern when he realized I was serious about leaving. “Buda unatuacha tu hivo unaenda home kujibamba solo yaani?” he had asked, disbelief in his voice. I had laughed it off then, but now, his words lingered in my mind, mingling with the sounds of the city.
What would happen if they found out I was gone to see a girl-the love of my life in Mombasa? Also what if the school administration finds out that I had snuck out? The thought sent a shiver down my spine. Expulsion. Disgrace. The disappointment in my parents’ eyes. The whispers that would follow me long after I left the gates of Koelel. And yet, none of it had been enough to keep me from sneaking out, from boarding that matatu to Nairobi with nothing but a handful of cash and a promise from a girl I had never met in person.
I shook my head, trying to banish the doubts that clung to my thoughts like cobwebs. I needed to focus on here and now. The journey wasn’t over yet—I still had a long way to go before I reached Mombasa, before I saw Nadia.
After what felt like hours of walking, I finally reached Tea Room. It wasn’t the most glamorous part of Nairobi, but it was bustling at all hours with matatus coming and going, their headlights slicing through the night. The familiar sound of a tout’s voice calling out destinations—*“Emba! Emba! Buruburu, Donholm, Kayole!”*—echoed through the streets, cutting through the quiet murmur of the city. Despite the late hour, a few matatus from Embassava Sacco were still waiting on the street, their neon lights flashing rhythmically as they idled at the curb.
These matatus were like lifelines in the night, waiting patiently for the last stragglers of the city—drunkards stumbling out of bars, lovers parting ways under the dim glow of streetlights, and workers catching the last ride home after a long shift. Some drivers sat outside their vehicles, smoking or chatting with each other, while the touts lingered by the doors, their eyes scanning the streets for potential passengers-spanking the sides of the matatus.
I watched as one of the touts helped a tipsy woman into a matatu, offering a steadying hand as the woman clumsily climbed into the vehicle. The driver exchanged a few words with the tout before slamming the door shut and revving the engine, the matatu’s loud music blaring as it roared off into the night. The sight brought a strange sense of comfort; even in the shadows, the city’s rhythms carried on, and the matatus remained a constant presence, a reminder that the city never truly slept.
But I wasn’t here to catch a ride. I needed a place to sleep until morning, and I knew exactly where to go. Tea Room also had its fair share of cheap hotels—exactly what I needed for the night. I wandered the area, glancing at the faded signs advertising “rooms available” until I found a place that seemed just bearable. It was a run-down building squeezed between two taller ones, a relic of a time when Nairobi’s city center had been more prosperous. The neon sign flickered above the entrance, casting an eerie glow on the sidewalk. A small bar occupied the ground floor, and I could hear loud music and laughter spilling out into the street. I hesitated for a moment, but the thought of a bed, however uncomfortable, was better than wandering the streets.
Stepping inside, I was immediately hit by the warm, suffocating smell of alcohol, sweat, and cheap perfume. The bar was packed with people—mostly men nursing their drinks, but there were also a few ladies sitting around, their eyes scanning the room. I was barely inside for more than a second when I felt their gaze shift to me, like vultures eyeing fresh prey.
“Eh, kijana! Karibu sana,” one of the women called out, her voice heavy with an enticing drawl. She was seated at the far corner, legs crossed, and eyeing me in a way that made me uncomfortable. Her friends giggled, and I could feel the weight of their stares as I walked past. Her eyes lingered on me, sizing me up, and I caught a flash of curiosity mixed with something more predatory. I forced a nervous smile, giving a small nod as I moved past, trying to avoid any unnecessary conversation.
Another woman, seated near the door, leaned toward me as I passed, her fingers lightly brushing my arm. “Unakuja kunywa au kukaa na sisi?” she asked, a sly smile playing on her lips. The invitation was clear, and for a moment, I froze, uncertain of how to respond. Her cheap perfume was overpowering, a sweet, cloying scent that made my head spin.
“A..a…apana… nimekuja tu kulala,” I stammered, finally managing to extricate myself from her grip. Her smile faltered, replaced by a look of mild disappointment, but she let me go, turning back to her drink with a shrug.
I kept moving, weaving my way through the maze of tables and bodies, feeling the stares follow me until I reached the back of the bar. The staircase leading up to the rooms was tucked away in a shadowed corner, narrow and dimly lit. Each step creaked beneath my weight, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that the entire structure might give way at any moment. As I reached the third floor, I found a small, dingy reception desk. The man behind the counter was half-asleep, barely lifting his head as I approached.
“Room moja,” I said, handing him the crumpled notes from my pocket. He glanced at the money, then at me, his expression unreadable.
“Kwani ungelala kwa room mbili wewe waria?”
“Pole mzee” I said respectfully.
“Mzee ni babako?” He grunted, took the money, and slid a key across the counter. “Hapo juu mwisho, toka hapa!” he mumbled, pointing lazily down the hall. His disinterest in me was almost comforting after the unsettling welcome I had received downstairs.
The hallway stretched out before me, dimly lit by a single, flickering bulb. The carpet underfoot was worn thin, the pattern faded from years of neglect. I counted the doors as I walked, each one identical, each one hiding a different story behind its chipped paint and rusty lock. At the end of the hall, I found my room, its number barely visible on the tarnished brass plate. But I could see the faded number 13 on the door.
The door creaked as I pushed it open, revealing a small, dingy space with a very old small bed pushed up against the wall. The mattress sagged in the middle, the blanket was thin and stained, and the lightbulb flickered every few seconds, casting brief shadows that danced across the walls. The bulb switch on the wall wasn’t working so that means the bulb will be flickering the whole night. A small window overlooked the street below, where I could still hear the distant sounds of the bar, the drunkards and music tracks changing from the latest mixtapes of Dj Kym’s Nickdee entertainment ( I know this from Olal back in Koelel), and the occasional matatu horn from the Embassava drivers outside, trying to coax one last passenger before the night grew colder.
I sighed, locking the door behind me. It wasn’t much, but it would do for the night. I sat on the edge of the bed, my body finally feeling the weight of exhaustion creeping in. I kicked off my shoes and lay back on the bed.
As I was staring at the cracked ceiling, my mind still racing about this whole events.
The journey so far had been anything but smooth, and the road ahead was long. But thoughts of Mombasa, of Nadia waiting for me, gave me a renewed sense of purpose. With every bump in the road, every restless hour spent in unfamiliar places, I kept returning to the image of her—bright and vivid in my mind. I could see it all so clearly, as if it were a scene playing out before my eyes. The moment I’d step off the bus, and there she’d be, waiting with that smile I had come to know so well through her pictures.
I imagined the way the sun would catch her hair, glinting off it like gold, the way her laughter would sound against the background of the bustling Mombasa streets. She’d call my name, and I’d wave back, trying to hide the excitement that would surely be written all over my face. We’d walk along the sandy beaches of the Indian Ocean, the water cool against our feet as the waves rolled in. I could almost feel the warmth of her hand slipping into mine, her fingers interlocking with mine as we strolled under the palm trees.
The picture in my head was perfect—like something out of a dream. We’d share stories, talk about everything and nothing, and laugh until our sides hurt. I imagined how her face would light up when she saw the little gifts I’d managed to bring along, despite my limited budget. And when evening came, we’d sit together on the shore, watching the sun dip below the horizon, turning the sky into a canvas of orange and pink. She’d rest her head on my shoulder, and I’d wrap my arm around her, feeling like the luckiest guy in the world.
This vision filled me with a kind of warmth I had never known before. It was the promise of something new, something beautiful waiting just around the corner. It was what kept me going, kept my steps steady through the dark and unfamiliar streets of Nairobi. It made the dingy hotel room feel a little less lonely, made the hunger and exhaustion easier to bear. It was the thought that, after all of this, there would be a moment where everything would fall into place, where the journey would be worth every sacrifice, every sleepless night.
And as I lay on that lumpy bed, the image of Nadia was as real to me as the flickering light above. Tomorrow, I would finally be with her. The long road would end with us standing together, and that thought alone filled me with a hope that pushed away every shadow of the night.
As sleep began to take over, I couldn’t help but wonder if she was thinking about me too, just as excited about our meeting as I was. The excitement helped push aside the discomfort of the lumpy mattress and the cold drafts slipping through the window. For now, I let myself believe that this risk, this gamble, would be worth it. I closed my eyes, the last sounds I heard being the distant hum of the city and the rumble of a matatu pulling away, carrying its passengers off into the night. Just from the sound for sure I knew that matatu was “Unbwogable” from Embakasi because I grew up in Fedha Estate.
I slept.
