Nerima
Peace Mbengei
Peace Mbengei
Our Nerima is dead. Someone found her body in a bloody sack along Thika highway. A sack! The yellow striped ones used to package vegetables for sale at Kariorkor market and second-hand clothes in Muthurwa. Disbelief kidnaps our coherence, transforming us into mumbling zombies. Our Nerima is in a sack? The police say it was a hit and run, but we do not understand. Why were there stab wounds all over her chest? Why were her bare feet mud-stained? Where are her favourite red purse and glitter-covered smartphone? Nerima would never leave home without them. How did she end up in a sack? We ask and ask but nobody listens. They do not care about Nerima because she was one of us.
We are Akello, Njeri, Makena, Mumo or Halima. If you like, you can call us Stella, Melanie, Karen, Rose or Hannah. We have afros, weaves, wigs, braids, locks, knots or cornrows in different colours and textures and we wear pink, red, brown, orange or blue paint that hides the cracks on our lips. We are blackberries, coconuts, mangoes or in-between—depending on how often we apply Caro Light to our skins. We are wives, widows, divorcees, or single. We have parents, siblings, children and relatives. We are primary school dropouts or educated with certificates, diplomas and degrees. We are teenagers, twenty, thirty, forty years old or old enough to be your mother.
Our job is like any other. If you are smart, you will strategize and advertise to get ahead. If you are beautiful like Nerima was, you are lucky. She knew how to make her dark eyes big and round like Mama G’s chapatis. Our wilted spinach faces could not match the pothole on her left cheek and her bee-stung lips. Whenever they came to us, Nerima was a firefly. We sulked as they flocked to her. She liked to stand with one foot slightly raised in front of the other at an angle, balancing a hand on her hip with her back straight like those models on glossy magazine covers. When we imitated her, we looked like chickens with broken legs.
Nerima shared her dreams with us. She hoped a prince would rescue her like in a fairy tale. We laughed at the audacity of her imagination. What would a prince be doing in a dump like this? Princes did not exist in Nairobi anyway; at least, not the kind she wanted. Whenever she returned after a night with yet another pot-bellied drunk, we made fun of her. “Where is your crown, Princess? Where are the diamonds?” Nostrils flaring and eyes narrowing—she would say that when he finally came, we would be sorry. We brushed it off. She said weird things all the time. Things like her father strangled her mother and then forced Nerima to take her place. It is not that we thought she was a liar; it is just that we all have a story. Other people’s worst nightmare was our reality before we came here. Circumstances drove us to this and even though we remained, we wished for change, but we did not know how to leave. How would we even start? Where would we go? On Sundays, when we found time to squeeze into the back pews of churches, hushed whispers, crinkled foreheads and upturned mouths criticized us. Judgement floated in the room; we breathed it in and exhaled self-condemnation. Still, in our chambers, we prayed with heads bowed, ashamed to show our faces. Yet, He heard us. Now, we wonder if Nerima prayed. Was her death an answer to her desire for a better life?
She was featured in the newspaper today—a one-paragraph report at the left-hand bottom corner of the back page:
Body of Unknown Female found along Thika Highway
A sack containing the decomposed remains of a young unidentified female was found along Thika Highway early Saturday morning by a passer-by who alerted the police. The naked corpse had multiple stab wounds all over the chest. The district Policemen say investigations are underway, but they think it could be a crime of passion. As earlier reported, the Nairobi police boss advised Kenyans to seek mental health services and to solve domestic disputes amicably. He called on families and relatives whose kin had gone missing to report to the police for quick identification. For now, no suspect has been arrested. Police have moved the woman’s body to the city morgue and awaiting the post-mortem.
We tear out the page with the story, crumple it up, throw it on the ground and stomp on it. We pick it up, fling it against the wall and then follow as it rolls down the back alley of Tom Mboya Street. When it halts at an overflowing city council trash can, we pick it up and unfold it, straightening out the creases with our palms. Then we read it again. We find the contacts of the editor and send him a message: We have more information on one of your stories; the one about the body in a sack. We are unable to call him because our pockets are nearly empty. We have not worked for two days because of Nerima. We have worn sadness like an ill-fitting dress and repelled our regulars. Our tears dissolve our cheap mascara, tracing black lines on our hollow cheeks. Our broken hearts are bleeding, and our bleeding hearts are broken. Will there be no justice for Nerima?
Armed with placards and Nerima’s picture, we march to the tall dome-shaped glass building on Haile Selassie Avenue, surrounded by a sea of shops. Mannequins in jeans, mobile phones from China, fast-food joints, Mpesa shops and cyber cafes fight for our attention, but we wave our placards and demand to see the editor. A security guard in dark blue uniform stops us at the entrance, saying we cannot go in without an appointment. He is lying. Other people—fat, skinny, men, women, suited, casual—stroll in, regardless of the noise made by the metal detector. Do they all have appointments, we ask? His look belittles us and he blocks the entrance. “They do not pay you enough to act like this”; we tell him.
“Malaya! At least I am not like you” he yells.
The insult lands on our faces and slides off without leaving a mark.
We turn the pavement into a theatre, dancing and chanting Nerima’s name. Some people pass by without a glance; eyeballs fixed on their phones; their feet pounding the dusty ground. Others observe us briefly before resuming their conversations, dismissing our presence the way fatigued parents handle hyperactive toddlers. But most of them stop and stare; growing into a massive crowd. Apart from three rowdy teenagers who move closer to ogle at Nerima’s picture, whistling and thrusting their bony hips, an invisible line separates us. Big suited men walk outside the building, while the security guard salutes and bows. We show them the wrinkled article. “What do you want us to do?” they ask, and we tell them about our suspect; the Prince who finally came for Nerima. After their first night together, she came back with ten crisp one thousand-shilling notes, and yet they had done nothing but talk. He found her leaning on a rusty street lamp pole when raindrops changed the texture of her blow-dried hair, and the wind whipped the exposed thighs jutting out of the frayed hem of her denim skirt. She had climbed into the back seat of his white range rover and asked what he wanted. He had laughed, tinkling like the bell over the entrance door of Shop One Hundred along Muindi Mbingu Street. He was a bull with a billboard face and he smelled of Diani, champagne, happiness and everything she ever wanted. He had loaded her with compliments then taken her to an Italian restaurant; the one on the rooftop of that new revolving building in Westlands. Over wine, pasta and bolognese, her admiration had deepened. Stares from the waiters and nosy diners had burned the back of her neck but his reassuring smile and bewitching eyes had made her stay; answering all his questions. Where did she go to school? Why did she stop? Did she have any family? Had she ever travelled anywhere? No? Would she like to? They had parted at two in the morning, exchanging contacts and planning the next date.
When Nerima arrived, we had so many questions. What was his name? What did he do? What did he want? Nerima hid this from us, afraid of jinxing her fairy tale before it had even begun. For a month, he came for her every day; driving different vehicles. It upset Nerima when she found us recording the number plates. So we stopped because our concern was misconstrued as jealousy. Everything changed: her shoes, clothes, nails, and attitude. The more she stopped looking like us, the greater the distance between us grew. The last thing she told us before we lost contact was that he had asked her to move into his Karen mansion. She would work at one of his nightclubs along Thika Road as a hostess. At the same time, he was planning their trip to Dubai in a month’s time. We cried as she packed her things. Could we visit? No? At least tell us his name, then. She smiled and then said “Prince” in her annoying new accent, making it sound like ‘prr-ai-ns’. The last pickup was in a black Mercedes with government number plates.
One of the big men holds up his hand to silence us. “Do you have evidence?” he asks. We tell him if Nerima’s story airs on the news, the police will investigate her case. He invites us inside his office. We march past the shrivelled security guard, into the lift, onto the tenth floor and inside a conference room with a wide shiny mahogany table and some swinging black chairs. Hanging on the wall is a curved smart TV running advertisements. We whisper and nudge each other. Who will be on the screen telling our story? Everybody volunteers, turning the room into Marikiti market. We are still discussing when police barge in with handcuffs and force us outside. We cry “This is a mistake! We are here for an interview, and we have a story to tell.” They hit us with their batons and drag us on the floor. We see the big man in a suit watching our ordeal from his office as we pass by. His gaze shifts to his computer, pretending not to see us.
Outside the building, they throw us inside the back of a police van. People stare from a distance but nobody intervenes. Some of them take pictures. Handcuffs restrain our hands but cannot shut our mouths. We scream Nerima’s name and stomp our feet. An officer swings his cane back and forth indiscriminately —sweat staining his light blue shirt around the armpits. Our cries grow louder and wilder. We are quiet only when he unbuckles his gun and pushes the muzzle inside the mouth of one of us. Just as his dirty fingernail squeezes the trigger, fear blocks our vocal cords.
At the station, they force us into a dark room without booking. One after another, officers come in and take what they want. We spend the night in a dingy cell, mould on the walls and heaviness in our chests. Hope trickles out of our eyes, pooling on the cemented floor. We have heard stories of people like us getting locked up and ending up at the Langata Women prison; serving ten-year sentences, because they could not afford a lawyer. Memories of our babies, sisters, brothers, mothers and friends lull us to sleep. We dream of police vans and bloody sacks, princes and editors. We dream of Nerima.
In the morning, they unlock our cell and order us to leave without an explanation. We pick up our torn clothes and traumatized bodies. Our dignity cannot be coaxed to follow us. We leave it shattered and scattered all over the floor. Outside, a flurry of flashing cameras and people in printed white t-shirts meet us; “Human rights for all!” Their t-shirts read in block letters. They show us the photo of our arrest trending on twitter. It has thirty-three thousand retweets, half a million likes and ten thousand comments.
@Mali-10 Imagine; if it was your mother, sister or daughter? Would you feel the same way?
@Jonte we need police reforms. Such unnecessary violence!
@ BrendaMSome all of you judging them do even worse things. At least they get paid!
As human rights activists, they had posted bail for us and would make sure the charges were dropped. “What about Nerima?” we ask. “What about Nerima?” they, too ask. They gather around us and perform for the camera, spitting saliva and pumping their fists. “How can innocent citizens be arrested and detained without charges?” “Are we wild animals or do we have a government?” They go on and on, taking turns to condemn the police. When they finish, we take the microphone and talk about her Prince, the police and her murder. The activists give us two hundred shillings each for fare and their business card, promising to be in touch. “You will get justice,” they say, but they do not ask what happened to us.
Later in the evening, we watch The Prime-Time News. Our story comes on after the headlines. We cheer when we see ourselves leaving the police station. The clip is labelled: human rights group protests unlawful arrests. They do not air our speech. There is nothing about Nerima. We call the activists and ask what happened. They disconnect the call and send a message saying that they will call us tomorrow. Months come and go, but tomorrow never comes. We see them on TV several times, demanding justice for other things. Who are we to ask for more than they have given us? At least, we now have our freedom.
We wonder; is it possible for pain to overflow or are we bottomless vessels? If we cry until we are empty, where will we find joy to fill the space? When did we become invisible? What do we have to do to be seen? New girls join us and life goes on. We talk about Nerima less and less but think about her more and more. Tomorrow, it will be one of us again in a sack. But today, we work.
We are Akello, Njeri, Makena, Mumo or Halima. If you like, you can call us Stella, Melanie, Karen, Rose or Hannah. We have afros, weaves, wigs, braids, locks, knots or cornrows in different colours and textures and we wear pink, red, brown, orange or blue paint that hides the cracks on our lips. We are blackberries, coconuts, mangoes or in-between—depending on how often we apply Caro Light to our skins. We are wives, widows, divorcees, or single. We have parents, siblings, children and relatives. We are primary school dropouts or educated with certificates, diplomas and degrees. We are teenagers, twenty, thirty, forty years old or old enough to be your mother.
Our job is like any other. If you are smart, you will strategize and advertise to get ahead. If you are beautiful like Nerima was, you are lucky. She knew how to make her dark eyes big and round like Mama G’s chapatis. Our wilted spinach faces could not match the pothole on her left cheek and her bee-stung lips. Whenever they came to us, Nerima was a firefly. We sulked as they flocked to her. She liked to stand with one foot slightly raised in front of the other at an angle, balancing a hand on her hip with her back straight like those models on glossy magazine covers. When we imitated her, we looked like chickens with broken legs.
Nerima shared her dreams with us. She hoped a prince would rescue her like in a fairy tale. We laughed at the audacity of her imagination. What would a prince be doing in a dump like this? Princes did not exist in Nairobi anyway; at least, not the kind she wanted. Whenever she returned after a night with yet another pot-bellied drunk, we made fun of her. “Where is your crown, Princess? Where are the diamonds?” Nostrils flaring and eyes narrowing—she would say that when he finally came, we would be sorry. We brushed it off. She said weird things all the time. Things like her father strangled her mother and then forced Nerima to take her place. It is not that we thought she was a liar; it is just that we all have a story. Other people’s worst nightmare was our reality before we came here. Circumstances drove us to this and even though we remained, we wished for change, but we did not know how to leave. How would we even start? Where would we go? On Sundays, when we found time to squeeze into the back pews of churches, hushed whispers, crinkled foreheads and upturned mouths criticized us. Judgement floated in the room; we breathed it in and exhaled self-condemnation. Still, in our chambers, we prayed with heads bowed, ashamed to show our faces. Yet, He heard us. Now, we wonder if Nerima prayed. Was her death an answer to her desire for a better life?
She was featured in the newspaper today—a one-paragraph report at the left-hand bottom corner of the back page:
Body of Unknown Female found along Thika Highway
A sack containing the decomposed remains of a young unidentified female was found along Thika Highway early Saturday morning by a passer-by who alerted the police. The naked corpse had multiple stab wounds all over the chest. The district Policemen say investigations are underway, but they think it could be a crime of passion. As earlier reported, the Nairobi police boss advised Kenyans to seek mental health services and to solve domestic disputes amicably. He called on families and relatives whose kin had gone missing to report to the police for quick identification. For now, no suspect has been arrested. Police have moved the woman’s body to the city morgue and awaiting the post-mortem.
We tear out the page with the story, crumple it up, throw it on the ground and stomp on it. We pick it up, fling it against the wall and then follow as it rolls down the back alley of Tom Mboya Street. When it halts at an overflowing city council trash can, we pick it up and unfold it, straightening out the creases with our palms. Then we read it again. We find the contacts of the editor and send him a message: We have more information on one of your stories; the one about the body in a sack. We are unable to call him because our pockets are nearly empty. We have not worked for two days because of Nerima. We have worn sadness like an ill-fitting dress and repelled our regulars. Our tears dissolve our cheap mascara, tracing black lines on our hollow cheeks. Our broken hearts are bleeding, and our bleeding hearts are broken. Will there be no justice for Nerima?
Armed with placards and Nerima’s picture, we march to the tall dome-shaped glass building on Haile Selassie Avenue, surrounded by a sea of shops. Mannequins in jeans, mobile phones from China, fast-food joints, Mpesa shops and cyber cafes fight for our attention, but we wave our placards and demand to see the editor. A security guard in dark blue uniform stops us at the entrance, saying we cannot go in without an appointment. He is lying. Other people—fat, skinny, men, women, suited, casual—stroll in, regardless of the noise made by the metal detector. Do they all have appointments, we ask? His look belittles us and he blocks the entrance. “They do not pay you enough to act like this”; we tell him.
“Malaya! At least I am not like you” he yells.
The insult lands on our faces and slides off without leaving a mark.
We turn the pavement into a theatre, dancing and chanting Nerima’s name. Some people pass by without a glance; eyeballs fixed on their phones; their feet pounding the dusty ground. Others observe us briefly before resuming their conversations, dismissing our presence the way fatigued parents handle hyperactive toddlers. But most of them stop and stare; growing into a massive crowd. Apart from three rowdy teenagers who move closer to ogle at Nerima’s picture, whistling and thrusting their bony hips, an invisible line separates us. Big suited men walk outside the building, while the security guard salutes and bows. We show them the wrinkled article. “What do you want us to do?” they ask, and we tell them about our suspect; the Prince who finally came for Nerima. After their first night together, she came back with ten crisp one thousand-shilling notes, and yet they had done nothing but talk. He found her leaning on a rusty street lamp pole when raindrops changed the texture of her blow-dried hair, and the wind whipped the exposed thighs jutting out of the frayed hem of her denim skirt. She had climbed into the back seat of his white range rover and asked what he wanted. He had laughed, tinkling like the bell over the entrance door of Shop One Hundred along Muindi Mbingu Street. He was a bull with a billboard face and he smelled of Diani, champagne, happiness and everything she ever wanted. He had loaded her with compliments then taken her to an Italian restaurant; the one on the rooftop of that new revolving building in Westlands. Over wine, pasta and bolognese, her admiration had deepened. Stares from the waiters and nosy diners had burned the back of her neck but his reassuring smile and bewitching eyes had made her stay; answering all his questions. Where did she go to school? Why did she stop? Did she have any family? Had she ever travelled anywhere? No? Would she like to? They had parted at two in the morning, exchanging contacts and planning the next date.
When Nerima arrived, we had so many questions. What was his name? What did he do? What did he want? Nerima hid this from us, afraid of jinxing her fairy tale before it had even begun. For a month, he came for her every day; driving different vehicles. It upset Nerima when she found us recording the number plates. So we stopped because our concern was misconstrued as jealousy. Everything changed: her shoes, clothes, nails, and attitude. The more she stopped looking like us, the greater the distance between us grew. The last thing she told us before we lost contact was that he had asked her to move into his Karen mansion. She would work at one of his nightclubs along Thika Road as a hostess. At the same time, he was planning their trip to Dubai in a month’s time. We cried as she packed her things. Could we visit? No? At least tell us his name, then. She smiled and then said “Prince” in her annoying new accent, making it sound like ‘prr-ai-ns’. The last pickup was in a black Mercedes with government number plates.
One of the big men holds up his hand to silence us. “Do you have evidence?” he asks. We tell him if Nerima’s story airs on the news, the police will investigate her case. He invites us inside his office. We march past the shrivelled security guard, into the lift, onto the tenth floor and inside a conference room with a wide shiny mahogany table and some swinging black chairs. Hanging on the wall is a curved smart TV running advertisements. We whisper and nudge each other. Who will be on the screen telling our story? Everybody volunteers, turning the room into Marikiti market. We are still discussing when police barge in with handcuffs and force us outside. We cry “This is a mistake! We are here for an interview, and we have a story to tell.” They hit us with their batons and drag us on the floor. We see the big man in a suit watching our ordeal from his office as we pass by. His gaze shifts to his computer, pretending not to see us.
Outside the building, they throw us inside the back of a police van. People stare from a distance but nobody intervenes. Some of them take pictures. Handcuffs restrain our hands but cannot shut our mouths. We scream Nerima’s name and stomp our feet. An officer swings his cane back and forth indiscriminately —sweat staining his light blue shirt around the armpits. Our cries grow louder and wilder. We are quiet only when he unbuckles his gun and pushes the muzzle inside the mouth of one of us. Just as his dirty fingernail squeezes the trigger, fear blocks our vocal cords.
At the station, they force us into a dark room without booking. One after another, officers come in and take what they want. We spend the night in a dingy cell, mould on the walls and heaviness in our chests. Hope trickles out of our eyes, pooling on the cemented floor. We have heard stories of people like us getting locked up and ending up at the Langata Women prison; serving ten-year sentences, because they could not afford a lawyer. Memories of our babies, sisters, brothers, mothers and friends lull us to sleep. We dream of police vans and bloody sacks, princes and editors. We dream of Nerima.
In the morning, they unlock our cell and order us to leave without an explanation. We pick up our torn clothes and traumatized bodies. Our dignity cannot be coaxed to follow us. We leave it shattered and scattered all over the floor. Outside, a flurry of flashing cameras and people in printed white t-shirts meet us; “Human rights for all!” Their t-shirts read in block letters. They show us the photo of our arrest trending on twitter. It has thirty-three thousand retweets, half a million likes and ten thousand comments.
@Mali-10 Imagine; if it was your mother, sister or daughter? Would you feel the same way?
@Jonte we need police reforms. Such unnecessary violence!
@ BrendaMSome all of you judging them do even worse things. At least they get paid!
As human rights activists, they had posted bail for us and would make sure the charges were dropped. “What about Nerima?” we ask. “What about Nerima?” they, too ask. They gather around us and perform for the camera, spitting saliva and pumping their fists. “How can innocent citizens be arrested and detained without charges?” “Are we wild animals or do we have a government?” They go on and on, taking turns to condemn the police. When they finish, we take the microphone and talk about her Prince, the police and her murder. The activists give us two hundred shillings each for fare and their business card, promising to be in touch. “You will get justice,” they say, but they do not ask what happened to us.
Later in the evening, we watch The Prime-Time News. Our story comes on after the headlines. We cheer when we see ourselves leaving the police station. The clip is labelled: human rights group protests unlawful arrests. They do not air our speech. There is nothing about Nerima. We call the activists and ask what happened. They disconnect the call and send a message saying that they will call us tomorrow. Months come and go, but tomorrow never comes. We see them on TV several times, demanding justice for other things. Who are we to ask for more than they have given us? At least, we now have our freedom.
We wonder; is it possible for pain to overflow or are we bottomless vessels? If we cry until we are empty, where will we find joy to fill the space? When did we become invisible? What do we have to do to be seen? New girls join us and life goes on. We talk about Nerima less and less but think about her more and more. Tomorrow, it will be one of us again in a sack. But today, we work.
Peace Mbengei is a Kenyan scriptwriter, playwright, fiction writer and medical doctor. She was longlisted for the 2019 Writivism short story prize and her work has appeared in African Writer, Praxis Magazine, Kalahari Review and is forthcoming in the Ilanot Review and the Halcyone. She caught the writing bug when she was a little girl. Fortunately, they are yet to find a cure. Twitter: @PeaceMbengei