He Came From Kasarani: A Nairobi Love Trap

Shiko had two addresses. The one she used for interviews was Apartment B4, Kileleshwa. Quiet compound, jacaranda trees, guard who says "karibu madam." The real one was behind Seasons, Kasarani. One room, mabati extension, rent 7,000, and a mattress that touched all four walls. She was holding two different shoes. One heel had a broken strap. The other was borrowed from her cousin and a size too small. Her phone buzzed. "Shiko, wapi? HR is already here. Don't wear that green blouse tena." She looked at the green blouse on the bed. It was the only ironed one. She had graduated six months ago with a Second Upper in Communications. Since then she had become a professional at three things: writing cover letters that started with "Passionate and highly motivated," waiting for matatus at Mwiki stage at 5 a.m., and lying about where she lived. If she said Kasarani, their faces changed. They assumed she would be late. They assumed she would steal office milk. So she said Kileleshwa. And she left home at 4:30 a.m. to make it true. The interview was at Upper Hill. A marketing agency that called itself "a family." The pay was 35k internship, but they wanted three years experience. At the stage, the cold bit her toes through the borrowed shoe. A boda guy shouted, "Madam, Twende?" "Not today." She squeezed into a matatu that smelled of boiled eggs and sweat. Someone's speaker was playing gospel. She closed her eyes and rehearsed. "My name is Faith Wanjiku, but my friends call me Shiko. I am a digital storyteller..." Across town, Kevin was also lying. He told his mother he had a job in IT. He told his landlord he would pay on Friday. He told girls he lived in Roysambu, not deep inside Kasarani where the sewage runs open when it rains. Kevin had a diploma in IT and a laptop with a cracked screen. He fixed phones, installed Windows, wrote CVs at 200 bob, and on bad days, followed people who looked lost at TRM and offered to "help them carry." That morning he was at a cyber in Mwiki, printing 20 CVs at 10 bob each. His last 200 bob. "Bro, you still applying?" the cyber guy asked. "Until something sticks," Kevin said. His phone rang. Unknown number. "Hello, is this Kevin Otieno? We got your profile from an online platform. Can you do a simple product video? Small payment, 3k." Kevin sat up straight. "Yes. Yes, I can. Video editing is my specialty." He had edited exactly two videos in his life. One was his cousin's ruracio. "Come to Upper Hill, 10 a.m. Bring your laptop." Kevin looked at his cracked laptop. Looked at his shoes. He said, "I'll be there." Shiko and Kevin met at 9:47 a.m. at the Kencom bus stop, because all of Nairobi must meet at Kencom whether you like it or not. She was running. He was running. She knocked into him. Her CVs flew. "Sorry! Sorry!" she said, bending to pick them up. Her borrowed shoe gave up completely. The sole flapped. He picked up a CV. Faith Wanjiku, Communications. He saw the address: Kileleshwa. He was about to give it back when he saw the Kasarani matatu receipt stuck to the back of it. She snatched it. "You're also going to Upper Hill?" he asked. She looked at him. T-shirt that said "Trust The Process" but faded. Jeans that had seen too many washes. But eyes that were not tired yet. "Interview," she said. "Me too. Let's share a matatu, it will be cheaper." "I don't share matatus with strangers." "We are not strangers now. I'm Kevin. You are... Kileleshwa." She almost smiled. On the matatu to Upper Hill, they didn't talk much. Nairobi traffic gave them time to pretend they were not nervous. She held her broken shoe together with her toes. He hid his cracked laptop under his jacket. At 10:15, they arrived. The same building. They looked at each other. "No way," she said. They were both there for the same company. The receptionist looked at them sweating and said, "Interview was 10. You're late. Wait." They sat next to each other in the waiting bay. Her stomach growled. His did too. "Have you eaten?" he asked. "I'm fasting," she lied. "Me too. Spiritual fasting." And for the first time that morning, they both laughed for real. Two Kasarani kids lying about Kileleshwa and Roysambu, sitting in an Upper Hill office with AC too cold for their thin clothes. The HR lady came out and said, "Faith Wanjiku?" Shiko stood up, her shoe flapping loud. Kevin whispered, "Rock that Kileleshwa accent." She wanted to kill him. But she also wanted him to still be there when she came back.