No spam from us, pinky swear.

    Join 78,884 other subscribers.

    It rains in the city
    Sleet drives against the windows
    Of the immobile fourty-two seater
    And water flows on the tarmac like a river.
    We are jam-packed like sardines in the traffic jam.

    The conductor is dirty and rude
    He laughs as he speaks on the phone
    “I am carrying a busload of women alone
    Should I take them to town or my home?”
    We glare at him but he goes on.

    The windows won’t open
    It is hot like an oven
    We are baking with rage
    The idiot catcalls a young girl by the stage
    It is obvious she is underage.

    “You women are too many these days,” he says
    “With your gender and maendeleo and FIDA nonsense
    Me I don’t give a damn, I’m poor anyways
    The place of a woman is in the kitchen with hens
    We are meant to be up and you women down
    So why are so many of you headed to town?”

    We sit there, late for work and important things
    We don’t have the time for this fool
    We are close, oh so close to just losing our cool
    And the fool pushes us to the limit
    He gives incorrect change, comments on our breasts
    Insults us and steps on our bags and our feet.
    We are mad.
    We have had it.
    Something is about to explode.

    Thunder cracks like gunshots above
    A motorcycle backfires
    A child in the bus starts to scream and wail
    And the driver just turned up the reggae.
    We go mad from the heat and the music and screams
    We attack the conductor with boots and high heels
    We finish him, stuff his corpse under the seats
    The reggae beat plays on repeat, on repeat…

    Then the feeling passes.
    We sit down clutching our purses
    The downpour decides to suddenly subside
    The traffic clears up, we are moving
    The reggae music is still loud and annoying
    But some girls in the back seat are grooving.

    We alight on the pavements, muddy and flooded
    Bend to wash our hands and feet, bloody and dirtied
    We cross into taxis, small shops, and back alleys
    Disappear, right before their searching eyes.
    And the bosom of Nairobi city grants us invisibility.
    It rains in Nairobi city.

    Image Credit

    Writer and Film-maker who intends to improve the quality of local Film/TV content & find new ways of generating & maintaining earnings in local Film/TV biz.

    0 0 votes
    Article Rating
    Notify of
    Newest Most Voted
    Inline Feedbacks
    View all comments
    Abigail Arunga

    I didn’t see that going like that.
    Also that bird is SO KYOOOOOOOOOT.

    See what I did there?


    Hi Magunga, I wrote a poem I’d love to share. How may I?

    Alexander Ikawa, lovely piece.

    Jeremiah Wakaya

    Great poetry.You have without a doubt mastered the art of the game. All the best!

    Share via
    Copy link
    Powered by Social Snap
    %d bloggers like this: