NAVIGATING THE MAZE

 NAVIGATING THE MAZE

In a few minutes David was in the next Matatu towards Kahawa Wendani and alighted a few minutes later. His mind raced. Kahawa Wendani was a chaotic maze of high-rise apartments, narrow alleys, and unmarked shops. Finding one hidden room without an address was close to impossible. He dialed Sarah’s phone again. “The subscriber you are trying to reach is currently unavailable.” Switched off. "Come on, Sarah! Pick up!" David said silently. He now needed a lead and from Joyce would it probably be. Joyce knew the campus social circles. He called Joyce, the friend Sarah had been angry at. "Hey, David? What's up?" Joyce answered rather casually. "Joyce, where is Sarah? Do you know any illegal clinics in Wendani? The ones students talk about?" David asked, his voice full of panic. Joyce's tone also shifted to an instant panic, "What? Why would I know— wait, is Sarah...?" "She’s at one right now, Joyce! Her phone is off. If you know anything, any building, any name, tell me now!" David said, now sounding impatient. "There’s... there’s a place people whisper about near the Matatu stage, behind the grocery shops. A multi-story flat with green gates. They call the guy 'Doc,' but he isn't a doctor. David, don't let her go in there" David ran past the food stalls, his eyes scanning the maze of concrete buildings. Every alley looked the same. Dusty paths, hanging laundry, and hundreds of doors. "Green gates... green gates..." He spotted it—a faded, rusting green metal gate tucked behind a row of wooden kiosks. The building looked rundown, with no signage. He sprinted inside the courtyard, his heart in his throat. He didn't know which floor, which room, or if he was already too late. He pounded on doors and shouted Sarah's name on every floor, but his cries only met blank stares from residents and other business owners. When he finally forced open the door to the hidden clinic on the third floor, the room was empty except lab coats, and a stethoscope hanging on the wall above the table, cluttered with all manner of things. Sarah was already gone. Panic turning into cold dread, David raced back down to the main road and hailed a motorbike to Sarah's apartment complex. He took the stairs to her third-floor unit in a desperate blur, his hands shaking so violently he could barely slide his spare key into the lock. He threw the door open and stopped dead in his tracks. Sarah was there, sitting on the edge of her small sofa, wrapped tightly in a thick fleece blanket despite the afternoon heat. She looked utterly drained, her face completely pale, staring blankly at a cold cup of tea on the coffee table. "Sarah!" David choked out, dropping his keys as he rushed to her side and knelt on the floor. She flinched slightly at the sound, her eyes slowly focusing on him. A tear rolled down her cheek, but her voice was a flat, exhausted whisper. "I almost did it, David. Sarah said sobbing. "The Doctor threw me out after you called" David embraced her and let out a long sigh of relief. "Am really sorry Sarah" David said, " Thank God you are safe"

©Stephen Mungai

POLITICAL SURVIVAL

 POLITICAL SURVIVAL

Honorable Mwangi stared out the window of his Kileleshwa penthouse. It was only 5:00 AM, but his phone was already buzzing relentlessly on the nightstand. For Mwangi, this was not a sign of duty toward his constituents, but the raw hum of political survival. A new day of maneuvering had begun, and honesty was a luxury he could not afford. His first meeting at 6:30 AM took him to the dim, discreet corner of a luxury hotel in Westlands. A foreign investor sat waiting, flanked by a nervous local real estate developer. The objective was simple: clear a protected urban wetland for a massive shopping mall project. Mwangi sipped his cup of coffee as the developer slid a heavy, bulging manila envelope beneath the table. "The first tranche, Mheshimiwa," the man whispered. Mwangi felt the weight of the crisp, tightly banded one-hundred-dollar notes. He flashed his well-rehearsed, fatherly smile, patted the envelope, and promised that the NEMA environmental clearance certificates would be on their desks by the next day. ‘The frogs and birds of the swamp had no vote in the upcoming election, but this cash would certainly translate into votes.’ Mwangi thought. By 10:00 AM, Mwangi’s swapped his designer jacket for a collarless Kitenge shirt. Escorted by a convoy of three pitch-black, tinted V8 SUVs, he rolled into a dusty, impoverished settlement in his constituency. He had planned a meeting with local leaders in the area social hall. The hall was full when he got up on the stage to address them. He explained how corruption in past regimes had left ordinary citizens to starve but that he and the government were working day and night to fix things up. The crowd roared and cheered. After the meeting, safely shielded behind the tinted glass of his vehicle, he gestured for a local youth gang leader to step inside. Mwangi pulled a thick stack of cash and pressed it into the young man's hand. "My rival is holding a rally here on Saturday," Mwangi whispered coldly. "Make sure it gets loud, chaotic, and disruptive. No casualties, but enough commotion to dominate the evening news." The afternoon was reserved for state bureaucracy, the most lucrative discipline of all. At 2:30 PM, Mwangi sat in the air-conditioned boardroom of a government ministry. On the table was the allocation of a multi-million-shilling tender for specialized medical equipment. The chairman of the procurement committee, a loyal ally that Mwangi had personally placed in that seat, gave him a knowing nod. This deal going as planned would have thirty percent of the total project value wired as a kickback to an offshore account in Mauritius for Mwangi. The fact that the equipment was substandard and likely to fail under pressure was a problem for future patients, not him. By 7:00 PM Mwangi arrived at an exclusive, members-only cigar lounge in Kilimani to meet his digital strategist. On the laptop screen before them lay manipulated audio clips and fabricated financial documents framing his primary political opponent in a career-ending scandal. He had to end the rival’s career in good time before elections and things were going as planned. It was well past midnight when his V8 finally turned into the heavily guarded driveway of his mansion in Runda. In his wood-paneled study, he poured a glass of whiskey, walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, and looked down at the glittering lights of the city below. He had lied, cheated, compromised the environment, financed political violence, and jeopardized public healthcare all in a single day's work. He raised his glass to his own reflection and smiled. It had been a highly productive day in Kenyan politics and tomorrow, he would do it all over again because, how else would he defend his seat in the coming elections? Survival was key.

©Stephen Mungai

DIGNITY A DAY

 

DIGNITY A DAY

It was still dark as his alarm went off and footsteps outside were already increasing as it was normal at the hour for people to rush to their workplaces. Inside his ten-by-ten timber room, Juma sprang from bed, wiped his body with a wet rag and dressed up. He adjusted the collar of his crisp, white shirt. It was frayed at the edges, but he had spent an hour the night before pressing it with a charcoal iron box until the seams were sharp enough to cut. Juma was a security guard at a high-end mall in Nairobi’s Westlands area. Every day, his journey was a stark transition between two completely different Kenyas."Baba Mwangi, please hurry up so that you are not late for the work," his wife, Wanjiku, called out gently, handing him a plastic cup of tea. "I think I have enough time. With early police control nowadays, traffic is not that bad on Juja road," Juma replied with a small smile. He drank the tea quickly, hugged his young daughter and stepped out into the bustling Nairobi morning. By 8:00 AM, Juma was standing at the entrance of the gleaming glass mall. His job was simple yet exhausting: stand straight for twelve hours, smile, and scan every luxury vehicle that passed through the security barrier. To many of the drivers, Juma was invisible, just a uniform that opened gates. They would roll up their windows, ignore his polite "Habari ya asubuhi," and drive past without a glance. At 2:00 PM, a sleek black SUV pulled up to the gate. Juma stepped forward, holding his handheld metal detector. He bowed slightly, maintaining his professional posture. “Good afternoon, sir. Kindly roll down the rear window for a quick check," Juma said in clear, courteous Swahili. The driver, a well-dressed businessman on a Bluetooth call, didn't look at him. He tapped his steering wheel impatiently and revved the engine. "Young man, open the gate. I am in a hurry. Do you know who I am? “Juma felt the familiar sting of humiliation. It was a phrase he heard too often—an attempt to erase his presence and worth because of the uniform he wore. But Juma looked the man directly in the eye, his expression calm and resolute. “I respect your time, sir," Juma said, his voice steady and polite. "But my job is to keep everyone inside this mall safe. That includes you. “The businessman paused his phone conversation. For the first time, he looked at Juma. He saw the immaculate alignment of the guard's nametag, the unyielding posture, and the quiet pride in his eyes. The tension in the air softened. The driver slowly rolled down the back window, allowed the check, and as the barrier lifted, he gave Juma a brief, respectful nod. “Thank you, officer," the driver said. Those three words carried a massive weight. Juma stood a little taller as the car drove through. Later that evening, the heavy Nairobi rain began to pour, turning the city roads into gridlock. Juma’s shift ended at 8:00 PM, but by the time he navigated the flooded roads and crowded matatus back to Mathare, it was nearly midnight. His boots were caked in thick, dark mud, and his shoulders ached from the hours of standing. He scraped the mud off his shoes at the doorstep before entering his dark room. Wanjiku was awake, waiting by the small kerosene stove. She poured warm water into a plastic basin so he could wash his feet. As Juma sat on the edge of the bed, watching the steam rise in the small room, he looked at his clean shirt hanging on the wall. He did not own the land he lived on, and he did not have a wealthy title to his name. But as he looked at his family sleeping safely, he knew that his dignity did not depend on the cars he scanned or the wealth of the people he served. It was carried in his honesty, his resilience, and the unshakeable respect he demanded for his labor and his humanity.

©Stephen Mungai

THE ANSWERED CALL

 THE ANSWERED CALL

The phone kept vibrating, the buzzing sound scraping against Sarah’s raw nerves. The practitioner stepped closer, his face darkening with impatience. "I told you to turn that off. Now." He said. Sarah’s hand shot out. Instead of hitting the end-call button, her thumb slid across the green icon. She pressed the phone tightly to her ear, her knuckles white. "David?" Sarah whispered frantically. "Sarah? Sarah, please don't hang up. I’m so sorry. I know I’ve been distant. I’ve been terrified, but I talked to Tabitha. She made me see things clearly. We need to talk. I’m coming over to Wendani right now." David was on the other end, his voice breathless and cracked with emotion. "David, you're too late. I’m... I’m not at the bedsitter." Sarah said softly, a sob escaping her throat. On the other side of the line, David heard the sharp, metallic clink of a tray moving. He stopped walking. "What do you mean you're not home? Sarah, where are you? What is that noise?" David sounded very worried. "Hang up that phone! Are you crazy? You want to bring the police to my doorstep?" The practitioner tried snatching Sarah's arm, his voice a harsh whisper. David heard the strange man's voice through the speaker. Panicked, he began to shout. "Sarah! Who is that? Are you at a clinic? Don't do anything, please! Tell me where you are!" Sarah was now crying openly, shrinking away from the practitioner "I couldn't face my parents, David. You weren't picking up... I didn't know what else to do." The Practitioner aggressively grabbed the phone from her hand "This session is over." He said. He disconnected the call, throwing the phone onto the chair. He glared at Sarah, his demeanor completely stripped of any professional pretense. "Get your things and get out. You are a liability. I don’t risk my business for dramatic University students" The line went dead with a sharp click. David stood frozen on the pavement, the phone still pressed to his ear, his heart hammering against his ribs. The cold panic in Sarah’s voice and the harsh, threatening tone of the man in the background echoed in his mind.“I didn't know what else to do.” He knew exactly what she was doing. He had heard the rumors on campus about the shady backstreet rooms hidden inside the residential blocks of Kahawa Wendani. He stood still in a moment of shock and confusion. He knew that he needed to act very fast to save the baby or atleast save sarah from the risky procedure. He felt a heavy hate on himself for abandoning her. "Stupid, David. So stupid. You left her alone." He kept muttering to himself and immediately decided he would look for her. He sprang up and ran towards matatu stage, praying that he would make it before the damage was done. 

@Stephen Mungai

HEART OF A MAN

 HEART OF A MAN

Augustine was an ancient philosopher and the bishop of Hippo Regius which is said to be the modern-day city of Annaba in Algeria. While reflecting on his youthful shenanigans, he was dumbfounded about how inclined to evil he and his friends had been. In his confessions, he writes as follows, “Near our vineyard stood a pear tree laden with fruit that was plentiful but unsightly and unpalatable. We young men set out in the dead of night—having spent the time until then playing ruinous games in the streets—to shake down and carry off this fruit; we did so without a shred of shame or decency. We hauled away huge loads, not to eat them, but to throw them to the pigs. And if we did eat a little of it, it was only because doing so allowed us to commit a forbidden act. Behold my heart, O my God—behold the heart upon which You had mercy in the depths of its wickedness. Behold, let my heart now tell You what it sought there: that I was evil for no reason, and the only cause of my malice was malice itself. It was loathsome, yet I loved it; I loved my own ruin, I loved my transgression. It was not the object that caused my fall—no, I loved the fall itself; when, in the depravity of my soul, I plunged from Your firm foundation into ruin, I did not crave some shameful object, but the shame itself. I lacked justice—indeed, I loathed it—and I was stifled by malice. For I stole what I already possessed in abundance—and of far better quality, too. Nor did I wish to enjoy what the theft procured for me, but rather the act of stealing itself and the sin.” Augustine’s confession seems to be of a man standing on the border of good and evil, ashamed of the senseless evil of his past but also focusing on a transformation into a virtuous life. What does his confession remind you of? Did you have a mischievous childhood also or are you still inclined to occasional thrilling ungodly escapades? My boyhood was equally mischievous. As boys for instance, to buy one mango, we would give the seller a bigger bill so as to force him to look for change and, in the meantime, drop as many as ten mangoes into a paper bag eventually buying 10 mangoes for the price of one. Snatching bread from smaller kids sent to purchase bread from local shops also thrilled us as boys. Did we need those things? No. But the inclination to evil was fun and thrilling. And so are the inclinations powered by selfishness and ‘who cares?’ attitude of modern-day times. Just how does someone judge the Sh. 65M in cash discovered in the house of Nairobi County Chief of Urban Planning, Patrick Akivanga? Did he direly need all the money and allegedly get it through dubious means? Maybe not. What of those who keep secret partners behind their real partner’s back? What of the small debts that someone refuses to pay, not for lack but just not feeling like? What of the conspiracies for wrongful gain? Jeremiah 17:9 describes the human heart as deceitful above all things and desperately wicked, but the good thing is that we always know what is right because God’s laws are written in our hearts reducing our duties to just obey it. May God help us to stay on the path of obedience.

@Stephen Mungai

THE HIDDEN ROOM

 THE HIDDEN ROOM

Days crawled too slowly for Sarah. She was so stressed and David's absence made the situation so unbearable. Sarah got to a point where she could not take it anymore. She began to seek information on how to get rid of it and with time, she got a contact and made all arrangements. It was not very expensive. It was only Sh.15,000 between her and her freedom. The planned day came. The air inside the room was heavy with the sharp smell of cheap disinfectant masking damp walls. Sarah sat on the edge of a vinyl-covered examination table, her fingers digging into the fabric of her handbag. The practitioner was a man in his late forties wearing a faded, unbuttoned lab coat over casual clothes. He didn’t look up from his desk as he scribbled on a plain notepad. "You said on the phone you are two months along?" He asked. "Two, maybe three. I… I’m not entirely sure. The method I was using failed." Sarah said, Her voice trembling. "Methods fail all the time. That is why this place exists. But let us be clear before we begin. Once we start, there is no turning back. Do you have the money?" Sarah Nodded, reaching into her bag "Yes. The fifteen thousand shillings. It’s all here." She placed the envelope of folded cash on the desk. He picked it up immediately, counting the bills with practiced efficiency before sliding it into his drawer. He stood up and walked toward a metal tray covered by a worn towel. The metallic clink of instruments made Sarah’s stomach twist. "Good. Lie down on the table. Strip from the waist down." "Is… is it safe? Will it hurt?" Sarah asked. She was very afraid more so after noticing the rusted edges of the tray. The practitioner turned to face her. "Young lady, you came to me. If you want safety guarantees and a soft bed, go to a referral hospital. Of course she knew that such a request in a government facility would make them call the police on her. "I just want it over with. David isn't speaking to me. I can't do this alone." Sarah said with tears welling up her eyes. The man seemed annoyed. "David is not here. Please lie down. If you tense up or scream, it makes my job harder, and you will bleed more. Do we understand each other?" Sarah slowly lay back, staring up at the water-stained ceiling tiles. Just as the practitioner picked up a syringe, her phone vibrated violently inside her handbag on the chair. As she reached out to it, the screen lit up with the caller ID: David. The Practitioner frowned pointing at the bag, "Turn that off. No distractions." Sarah stared at the flashing screen not knowing whether to pick it or not. "But why David, why?" She thought. Maybe he was too late. A simple procedure was the only licence to her freedom. "Leave me alone, David" She returned the phone back to her bag. She was almost a free human being.

@Stephen Mungai

REVIEWED FOREIGN AID PROTOCOL

 REVIEWED FOREIGN AID PROTOCOL

The small, sun-drenched nation of Karachua now stood at a crossroads. A new solar grid that would be capable of powering four of its twelve provinces was the latest foreign aid package. But the ribbon hadn’t even dried before the attached demands arrived: open the protected coastal waters to deep-sea trawlers and devalue the local currency to favor imports. President Kuraiha was pressed with the stark contrast of his country’s realities echoing around him. So far, he could not underestimate the impact that foreign aid had had on moving his country forward. Talk of eradication of the last remnants of polio, roads that connected rural farmers to urban markets, hospitals stocked with medicine and schools with enough textbooks for learners. Yet, with every receipt of such capital, a piece of Karachua’s sovereignty felt quietly bartered away and worse, Karachua seemed to be losing grip in control of some important pieces of its being. The President’s economic advisors were locked in a tense standoff. The Minister of Finance argued the necessity of the funds, pointing to the industrial boost that the funds would create and employment opportunities that would be created for the youth. Without the aid, the fragile economy would buckle, and inflation would quickly outpace wage growth. Conversely, the Minister of Agriculture warned of the impending devastation to local communities. Opening the coast to industrial fleets would starve the local fishermen who had sustained coastal villages for generations. "They give a tilapia on one hand and take a Nile perch with the other," the Minister had cautioned during a late-night cabinet meeting. " We risk becoming tenants in our own land if we accept these conditions" To Kuraiha, the reservations of the agriculture minister made a lot of sense. The terms of the foreign aid protocol had been reported by the local media houses and was causing public protests especially from the would-be affected coastal communities. The president remained with no options than to find a third option, a balance between rejecting and accepting. He could not simply reject the aid and condemn his people to preventable hardships, nor could he blindly accept terms that compromised the country's future. He initiated a series of closed-door negotiations, leveraging Karachua's strategic geographic position and its rich reserves of critical minerals. He proposed joint ventures with regional development banks and smaller international donors to ensure competitive bidding, refusing to be bound to a single geopolitical power. Kuraiha pushed back on the currency devaluation arguing that a stable local currency was essential for domestic businesses to thrive and transition Karachua from an aid-dependent state to a resilient, self-sufficient economy. He compromised by offering tax incentives for foreign tech investments, provided the corporations hired and trained a majority-local workforce. Ultimately, Karachua accepted the infrastructure aid, but on their own terms. The solar grid was built, but the fishing water remained fiercely protected. The nation had walked a tightrope, balancing the life-saving need for external resources with the fierce, non-negotiable demand for self-determination. The publication of the new aid protocol quelled the unrest seeming to be a better path for the nation. Henceforth, any development deal would only be taken with an ultimate gain assured for Karachua.

@Stephen Mungai