Confessions of the Poor People

I rarely have money on me because cash and I have trust issues. Every time I carry it, something dramatic happens. Last weekend, a friend visited and blessed me with a few thousand shillings to make my new house feel “warm.” I was this close to depositing it into M-Pesa but decided, for once, to live dangerously. I pulled out the famous lines , “kwani iko nini,” “If I perish, I perish,” and chose to walk around with it.

So today, I picked a crisp 1,000 bob note from the brown threaded bag my grandmother gifted me last week, slipped it into my purse, and left the house feeling like heaven had approved my budget for the day. ( It was a good feeling my guys).

I boarded a bus and paid the conductor. I was hesitant to give him the 1,000-bob note, but it was all I had, so I handed it over anyway. After he finished collecting bus fares, I reminded him about my balance. He said, “Sina change, nitakupatia.”

I reminded him a second time, and he literally showed me his empty hands like, “Madam, sina pesa, nitakupatia”

At that point, my anxiety wasn’t just high , it was above the roof of the bus, hanging on the rails like an extra passenger. My heart was beating fast. I couldn’t settle. I needed my money if I was going to enjoy that journey to town.

What if I forgot? What if he forgot? No. No way.

Just as I was planning on what to do next, my phone started vibrating. Who was distracting me at such a critical moment? I picked it up anyway.

And just like that, within a few seconds, I was laughing loudly on the phone, completely forgetting that I had a very serious mission.

We hit traffic. People alighted. I followed, still on the phone, not knowing I was also walking away from my own money. I got to work and did my usual errands like a financially stable citizen of this nation.

Fast forward to midday. I packed my bag and began my journey to the bus stage.

Walking along the streets of Nairobi, it’s impossible to stay invisible when you have money. One eye contact with a street vendor and suddenly you’re looking through every single thing they’re selling. Today, that “one look” led me straight to a bag I’d been thinking about.I bargained like the professional I am and reached into my purse to pay.

And then the world stopped.

Empty.

My purse was EMPTY.

A cold wave rushed through me. I checked again. Then again. I stepped aside and opened my purse wider, like the money was hiding in the stitching. Nothing. I emptied everything from my bag into a carrier bag that I had.

Don’t judge me, guys, I’m just a girl. I found a half-eaten granola bar from last week, two pens that never write (but might someday under the right circumstances), supermarket receipts, lip balm that’s almost gone but somehow survives, a bus ticket from three weeks ago, chewing gum hardened into a brick, a tiny notebook that carried all my secrets, and a slightly squashed tissue I was keeping out of guilt because, well, I’m a lady and supposed to have one when someone asks.

By this point, I didn’t care about the onlookers. Kila mtu na shughuli zake, buana.

And then it hit me like a slap from reality. The morning bus conductor hadn’t given me my balance. Of course! All that digging through weird stuff in my bag. Laying my entire life outside… for nothing. No.

I quickly paid the bag seller with M-Pesa and started walking toward the bus stage, my heart racing and panic brewing like a WhatsApp message meant for your boyfriend accidentally sent to the youth group, and you cannot delete it for everyone.

But how was I going to find that bus? No number plate. No M-Pesa message. No name. Nothing. Just a blurry memory of the conductor’s face.

Who would believe me anyway? Who could I even tell?

My steps slowed. My throat tightened. I pulled out my phone and called my best friend. My voice cracked before I even said hello. She picked up, calm as ever.

“Hello…”

I croaked my hello back. She paused, then asked, “Unalia why?” And just like that, she burst out laughing.

“J amefanya nini tena? Atanimalizia rafiki bana!” We both laughed. Imagine being known like that.

I narrated everything,between laughter, suppressed tears, frustration, and shock. She wondered aloud how I had that kind of money when I’d survived last week on Fuliza and her money. “Mambo ya God,” I told her, and we laughed again because honestly… what else could we do?

At the end of my narration came the inevitable question that we ask each other before giving suggestions ,“Sasa utado?” We laughed again.

Wasn’t that exactly why I’d called? I needed to borrow her brain for a moment.

After interrogation, the only useful clues I had were:

1. The conductor was tall.

2. He carried enough tropical mints to last him the long matatu rides.

So those were my “weapons”. She wished me luck, and I proceeded to the stage, confidence hiding under the bed and self-respect clearly on vacation.

I approached the first conductor I saw of the bus company I had boarded. I narrated my story. He stared at me and said, “Madam, thao yote hii tarehe? .”

Please.

Still, he pointed me to someone who looked like management. I walked to him.

I narrated again.

He called two drivers.

I narrated again.

At this point, my story deserved royalties.

One driver said his tout chewed mints because he smoked a lot. A tiny spark of hope lit up inside me. He called him over.

Minutes passed.

And then,

He appeared.

Tall.

Mint-filled pocket.

The man himself.

I narrated the story again,

“Yes, nilikupa balance,” he declared confidently.

I stared at him, offended on behalf of my ancestors.

Would I be chasing him through Nairobi if he had given me the money?

I explained again. He insisted that he had given me

Finally, the boss stepped in. Words were exchanged. Looks were thrown. The truth was cornered.

At last,reluctantly,he handed me my 930 shillings.

I didn’t care, as long as I got it.

I thanked everyone, walked out with whatever dignity I had left, crossed the road, and deposited that money faster than a politician denying allegations and reminding you he’s an Adventist. Then I went straight home and deposited the rest.

Hii mambo sitaki tena. Never again. If you ever see me carrying cash, just know I’m living dangerously against my will.

CREDITS

Authored by Christine Karori (TRC 254 MEMBER)

Edited and narrated by Lorret Trizah Mong'ina, connect with her on Instagram & Threads and Facebook for additional content