My name is SM and I am a cab driver. I have been in the business for 10 years now. I finally own the cab I drive, and my grand plan is to have my own group of taxis one day. Ah, the stories I can tell you. The lives and times of my passengers range from sad to funny—with the occasional sprinkling of bizarre. Take ‘Ruth’ for instance, one of my regular customers. She is single, classy and very easy on the eye. She elicits the third, and inevitably fourth glance, each time she walks by.

The first time Ruth approached my taxi, right outside Zeep bar, it was heading to midnight and I had dozed off after an evening of inactivity. A sharp rap on the window punched me up from my haze and I peered through sleepy eyes to see a curvaceous silhouette on my window. Opening the door, a sweet sounding voice inquired: “South B, how much?”

“Five hundred,” was my quick, hopeful reply and I was glad that she didn’t hesitate or bargain. “Give me a second,” she requested and walked away towards a classy VW Touareg, parked a few metres behind me.

“I hope you have change for a thousand,” she said as she planted her luscious rear on the passenger seat. Thereafter, I was always guaranteed business from her on Fridays, Saturdays and the occasional Wednesdays. I noted, however that she would be dropped off by different cars each time. The only regular feature was the Touareg and a certain Rav

4. (I reserved judgement until I knew the facts.) Over time, Ruth and I moved from silent journeys to an occasional “Biashara iko aje?” Before long, we were talking about the rising price of fuel, selfish behaviour of politicians and the unpredictable Nairobi weather.

Over time we became more comfortable around each other and she began talking about herself. She is a 25 year-old lady that works for an NGO as a PA to some country director. She is determined to live a life of riches and will only settle down with a man that can take care of all her needs. Currently, the one that can – the Touareg owner – is married and not willing to leave his wife. The man that is single and truly in love with her - Rav4 owner - is not rich enough yet. She hangs out with men of means who can provide for her. She didn’t go into details of what they get in return, but my curiosity and imagination filled in all the blanks.

One Friday, she approached my cab and asked me for a favour. Seems she had a clash in her calendar and was to meet the second of her two “main men” barely fifteen minutes after she was done with the first. She asked that I drive her around the block until the first date had left and then drop her off at Jazz Bar on Moi Avenue. As usual, she had obtained cab fare from the first date (Mr Touareg) and he performed his usual ritual of watching me drive off with her before heading off in the opposite direction. I would usually turn left at the Moi Avenue junction next to Galitos, he would turn right.

Just like that, a new business venture was born. In return for a small cut, I would pretend to drive Ruth home and she would obtain cab fare from her various male companions. I would then double back and drop her at the next Nairobi hot spot where, another gullible cab fare provider was waiting for the oh-so-lovely Ruth.

All in all, this was a workable and profitable arrangement for me, until I started having a major crush on Ruth, that is. One evening, in drunken hysteria, she poured out her heart to me about the way Mr Touareg was taking her for granted and how Mr Rav4 was pressuring her to move in with him. As she ranted on and on, gesticulating furiously, her skimpy top shifted slightly and exposed part of her ample bosom. My beady eyes ravenously took in this sight and from then on I decided I had to have her, by hook or by crook. So began my plan to get Mr Touareg and Mr Rav4 out of the way to pave the path for my romance with Ruth.

(to be continued…)

Once in a while I catch the television segment Who Owns Kenya? ) A crude version of it is replayed here on the Street almost every single day. The Street version is not Who Owns Nairobi? But more like Who Is More Nairobi? The reasoning is this, just like citizens of a country enjoy some privileges as compared to non-citizens, those who are “more Nairobi” should also enjoy some extra benefits by that virtue.

Such benefits, unlike those of citizens, are not clearly stipulated, but generally have to do with competition for clients. Not that girls sit down and discuss who is more Nairobi than others, it’s rather more manifested in their usage of statements which tend to be exclusive or imply ownership. The most common of the statements is always; “What do you know about Nairobi?” which is always said in a dismissive manner. A girl may drop such a line to intimidate another in order to win over a client.

The criteria for deciding who is “more Nairobi” is always an issue in the streets. There are those like Nini who feel they have more right to Nairobi because they were born and bred in the city. Nini will say things like “ Eh I was born here! There is nothing you can tell me about Nairobi.” She will throw this during an argument which is normally a polite way of saying “Back off! This is my territory.”

Then there are those like Cheupe who admit to being foreigners in Nairobi, but still claim more rights because they feel they have figured out the city - sometimes even better than those who were born in it. “We came and conquered” they tend to imply in sentences like; “ We understand the ways of Nairobi.” And it is that understanding that has made them thrive in the city.

Other girls use their place of residence as a measure of how Nairobi one is. Agnes is the master of this and will often say “I come from Kayole, what can you show me?” This might be directed at a girl from a lesser Nairobi section such as Westlands or Gachie.

Not having been born in Nairobi, I would claim to be more Nairobi on the basis of where I live; Pangani. But I find such a justification weak. Thus, when pushed to claim my Nairobiness I say I am more Nairobi because I can grab several of the city’s opportunities. “ There are other things I could do,” is my classical line at such times. Of course all the above measures of Nairobiness are debatable, and the winner is usually the one who is able to push his position in a convincing manner.

Ironically as much as we brag of being more Nairobi than others, none of us wants a client who is more Nairobi than us. Such clients will have understood our ways, meaning we may not have an upper hand when it comes to the amount we charge or any other of our trickery. There are hints which tell us how much of Nairobi a man is. It is all in the way he speaks, his composure as he picks a girl and the way he reacts to what we say. However at times we miss such hints.

The other day a man came to the Street and three of us surrounded his car. “ How much?” he asked no one in particular. “Ksh1,500,” Cheupe shouted . The man laughed then said “What for? I will pay Ksh500.” We all pulled back and started hurling insults at him. A week later, a man came by. When we surrounded him he didn’t ask how much we were charging, rather he remained silent then waved at me. Only when inside his car did I realize he was the same man we had insulted. We ended up spending an hour negotiating the price of a 30 minute session. Now, there was a man who was more Nairobi than I was, but I should have known; his rather relaxed look when picking me was a dead giveaway.

Many of my friends and family know that I am a nurse at a leading hospital—always doing the night shift. But such a bluff, however risky or silly, will satisfy a girl’s ego and possibly command better prices. The street, like the rest of the city, runs on escapism, pretenses and appearances. These are important attributes for one to remain sane, and at least succeed in the trade. Most girls in the street are never sure when they will quit, they would rather live in denial with escapist thoughts as “I am doing it to raise money to start a business. I will quit in a month’s time.”

However deep down each one of us knows how impossible this is. Imagine working for over two years with no savings or exit plan. It is an ugly reality, one that would not motivate a girl to come to the street the following day.

Most of us are also good at keeping appearances—those that give a client the impressions such as ‘Okay, I am a prostitute, but it is not like I have nothing else to do or family to go to. If you are not okay with my terms you can bounce!’

A bluff it is but in reality, most girls are cornered when it comes to economic matters. A few have the courage to face their families when cornered about their real jobs. My friends and family know that I am a nurse at a leading hospital—always doing the night shift. But such a bluff, however risky or silly, will satisfy a girl’s ego and possibly command better prices.

Men too, especially the married ones and those coming to the street for the first time, weave a lot of lies to justify their ‘need’ for prostitutes. Excuses such as ‘my wife doesn’t excite me anymore’ or ‘I am doing this for adventure’ or ‘I am just trying to help a girl out’ are in plenty. The latter excuse is one many girls exploit to their advantage. A few weeks back, a man (let’s call him Don), driving a flashy Suzuki slowed down at our corner then zoomed off.

Then came again, almost stopped, but when the girls started rushing towards his car, he sped off. That’s a big hint that a man is a novice, possibly one who has never picked up a prostitute. Such a man will be a little jittery having heard all sort of things said about prostitutes – both positive and negative. Some of the good include ‘prostitutes are daring, and will go all the way to satisfy a man’ while the bad being ‘girls from the street will drug you and steal all your cash. Indeed, some of the girls work in collaboration with the watchmen to steal from clients. Minutes later, Don mastered the courage to stop his car. Like all typical street ‘freshmen’, it took a while before Don picked a particular girl. Actually he didn’t.

He was confused about his next move. In such cases, if any of his car doors is unlocked, the first girl to jump in carries the day. You may not be the man’s favorite but in his state of confusion he will have no option but drive off with you. That is what I did. I could tell the man was uneasy, and so I tried to cheer him up.

“You look great,” I said. He grunted. We drove in silence towards a hotel in Milimani. Before we headed to the room, he murmured something to the guard and one of the waitresses. I imagined he must have warned them not let me out without his permission. Inside the room, he did not make any move, preferring instead to sit in the chair beside his bed. “I don’t plan to steal from you,” I said “I didn’t say that’s what you are planning,” he answered. “You look worried. Let’s get over with this.” “Why do you do this?” he asked. Somehow I was expecting the question. And I knew the trick was to play the damsel in distress. “I have no job, and got to feed and dress,” I said

“Are you sure there is nothing else you could have done? You are a beautiful girl and should not waste yourself out in the streets.” “If I had an alternative, I would take it immediately. Lack of choice,” I said, almost crying. “I am sure there is something better you could have done. This is very risky, what with all the diseases?” “I take care of myself. And death won’t come until it’s your time.” “How much were you to charge me?” he asked. “Two thousand bob,” I responded. He removed his wallet and gave me 2,500 shillings. The extra 500 must have been out of sympathy. We chatted for about half an hour, before he offered to drive me back to town, claiming that he could not bring himself to sleep with me seated there. “Why would you offer cash to a stranger for nothing in return?”

I asked myself. Maybe Don is angelic and truly wanted to help, but I felt that he was a ‘failure’. I was back on the streets, smiling and telling myself that I will quit in the next one month. That was about five months ago.

Many men are attracted to girls from the streets because they are free to choose where to spend time with them. Unlike girls in downtown bars and brothels, who insist on having sex in-house in stuffy rooms on tattered mattresses, girls on the streets are more inclined to risk going with a man. Not that we have much choice. When I get into a car, I usually have no idea where the man will take me. It may sound stupid, but it’s a foolishness I charge a premium for. A man may consider such factors as cost, privacy and convenience in determining the destination.

Men don’t say where they are taking me until I ask. Their assumption may be that a girl on the street will go anywhere. Perhaps they also fear the girl will change her mind if told the destination. True, there are places that would make a girl uncomfortable. For instance, going near a neighbourhood where she stole from a client. Or to a hotel where she was

short changed, created a scene or embarrassed the establishment. There are also men who love going to a prostitute’s house. This is perhaps because of the way prostitutes are portrayed in movies; they are often shown as husky-voiced, cigarette-smoking women who live in dim candlelit rooms, with erotica hanging on the wall next to the bed.

The truth is girls here don’t live that way. Most of the girls downtown live in congested neighbourhoods, just a notch above slums. If you asked a girl at Sabina Joy, a local pub, where she comes from the answer would be Kayole, Githurai , Huruma, Mwiki, Mathare North or Mlango Kubwa. Or maybe Gachie or Wangige. Few girls, if any, admit to living in the slums.

To some extent, it’s an ego thing, but it’s also because they fear the effect this information might have on their business given the stereotyping of prostitutes and slum residents as thieves. Men will assume that a prostitute from the slums is dirty but also treacherous.

Here on the street, it’s a different story. Few girls admit to living in the estates where the brothel girls live. To do so would erode the slight decency expected of girls on the streets. However, some of my colleagues live in such estates, even in slums. Though such low-income places may offer convenience in terms of cost, they are a big inconvenience when it comes to the logistics of business. Life in such areas is characterized by arbitrary police roundups, known as msako. Woe unto you if you are caught in the msako on your way to work.

Besides the msako, there is always a serious risk of bumping into policemen on patrol. Police in such areas have a superiority complex and try to exploit the residents’ perceived inferiority. They are certain to arrest or harass you for no good reason. Thus if you live in such a place, you might be forced to leave home for work before dark. And if you work here on the street, where business doesn’t pick up till after 10, that is just too much time to kill,

time which could have been better spent doing something else, perhaps sleeping.

A smarter plan, which many of ushave adopted, is to live near the money. We pick relatively decent places, slightly expensive but with some comfort and peace of mind. After all, if you have to spend the night in the cold, chasing cars and shouting “Honey!”, you should be

able to enjoy the fruits of your labour in a calm setting. So you will find a number of girls living in Pangani, Westlands, Buru Buru, Kariobangi South and Kiambu town.

Sometimes, two or three girls will come together and rent a one- or two- bedroom house in an upmarket area. I live in a bedsit in Pangani. It takes about 20 minutes to get to the city centre—and I can leave or arrive home at any time without worrying about security. I guess none of my neighbours know what I do for a living. Although the watchman may have an idea because of my odd hours, he doesn’t ask any questions. I like it that way.

I love the beauty of living a private life. No matter how the night has been, I usually find solace in my house. It is a special place, sacred in its own way. And for that reason I made a rule to preserve it only for myself and not entertain anyone there. But rules can be broken. The hours between 3.45 am and 5 am are the hardest for prostitutes. If a man hasn’t

picked you by then, despair sets in. That does not mean a girl cannot be picked within those hours, she can, but the quality of men who visit the street at that hour is not the best. Most have been partying all night, are drunk, demanding and hard to negotiate with. The sober ones are likely to have emotional problems and to be rather unpredictable. If there is a serial killer hour, then it’s during this time.

Some time ago a man picked me a few minutes after 4 am. He was in a suit, good-looking and sober. He said he only had 1,000 shillings on him, not enough to book a room and pay me. “Could we go to your house and I give you the whole amount?” he asked. I didn’t think

twice. I was financially cornered. I said yes, thinking one man would make no difference.

Afterwards, when he was dressed, he said he couldn’t find the money in his pockets—one of the oldest tricks in the book. “I left the money in my car,” he said. I followed him to the car, which was parked outside the gate. I stood a short distance away. I saw him bend over as if looking for the money under his seat. Then suddenly, the car engine roared and off he drove. I wanted to shout “Thief!” and have him stopped before he got to the main road.

But I held my tongue. If he was stopped, someone would ask: “What has he stolen?”

Never again have I serviced a customer in my house. And I never will.