I leave the office feeling fulfilled. I have written and produced stories for the day… so what? I board a matatu and wait for it to fill up as I watch elderly women selling groceries along the street at Afya Centre.
They had faithfully sat on a regular line, braving the occasional showers of Nairobi. For a second I try to recall the last time I ate a fruit. I fancy the idea of getting off just to get a piece of some raunchy looking guavas.
My mind goes south as I try to recall what KeNHA stands for… “When will Lady Moureen produce a song on sleeping in Tanzanian jail for a week?” I twitch at the thought of the Ohangla musician in jail.
I am busy wondering if my adventurous brother could be on those trending pics of #IfikieWazazi when all of a sudden the women grocers scamper away!!!
Their fruits fall all over the place as they run! Suddenly two stone-faced men walk fiercely towards the running women. I have never seen anything like this!!! The tout who was beseeching busy Nairobians to board his car, started collecting the fruits for the women.
He safely moves them aside hoping the women would return. By the time it dawns on me that the women are running away from Kanjo, they are already bundled up in a Maria.
My fren’ my heart ached, my tummy rumbled. My unbelieving eyes stared at the women, who were honourably hustling for a living, being driven away in that police car. For some reason, I felt helpless. A helpless journalist.
An elderly man with a bag full of tomatoes pleas with one of the cops to let him pay a grocery lady for the tomatoes. He is brushed off. As we drive away, the tout says, “Hao lazima wachomoe mia tano ndio watoke hapo.”