Mteja 2

Let's rewind to 1:00 PM when she had texted:  

“Souley, 

go to this place in Ngara, 

ask for a guy called Musyoka. 

He has the samples. 

Just call me when you get there, 

I’ll guide you.”

Simple, right? 

Now it’s 2:44. I’m here. I’ve found Musyoka. He’s chewing miraa, eyeing me like I’m slowing down his evening high.  

“Oyaa, 

niko na samples. 

Si useme venye madam alisema. 

Ni hizi ama zile?”

I freeze. I don’t know. I was told to wait for her instructions. I try to call her again.

Mteja.

I text. Double tick. No blue. I even WhatsApp call her, desperate moves, you know? Musyoka is now shifting his weight like a man about to disappear. I try calling her again, muttering under my breath, 

“This woman will be the end of me.”

Then the rain starts. Nairobi rain doesn’t fall, it attacks. Boda guys scatter, hawkers scramble to save their goods, and I’m there, hunched under a mabati shade, holding a phone that won't ring, with Musyoka halfway back to wherever miraa takes him. I start questioning everything. 

Is this a test? 

A prank? 

Who sends someone across town on an errand,

 then ghosts?

4:58 PM. 

The rain has subsided for a bit. My phone rings. Her name flashes. I pick up so fast it almost flies out of my hand. She laughs softly after I have received her call. Niko zile za huyu anacheka nini na tangu 2:43pm nimechill nikimngoja, hadi mvua ikanipata, sahii natetemeka tu.

“My phone died and I was in a meeting. 

You’re there already?”

I'm very angry at this lady, but I have to be a professional, so I exhale, part relief, part disbelief, trying to contain my anger, then I respond calmly, 

“Yes. I’m here. 

Nimenyeshewa ka silly. 

Musyoka’s about to sell the samples to someone else.”

“Oh nooo! 

Pole. 

Tell him the grey and white one. 

Then come straight to me, 

I owe you.”

I hung up. I turn to Musyoka. 

“Grey and white.”

He hands me the samples with a smirk. 

“Wanawake watakuua, bro.”

I smile, tuck the samples under my arm, and brace myself for the boda ride through the wet Nairobi streets. Somewhere deep down, I pray I never have a client that ghosts me the way she did it. I finally deliver her samples to her, wet, cold, and shivering and she pays me my dues for the errand plus extra for the inconvenience, and being rained on. Here's to hoping against all odds, sitapata homa.