Nairobi Damsel

s to be precise. I was back to my Ghetto routine and I didn't have my wine bottle with me. I didn't go back to the mall to get one because it could have cost me more to

oung men. You could say I was living a life and they were passing time. Oh! I had a Sofa! A sofa typically meant I was a boss in my own humble dwelling. The young men of the Ghetto had this kind of life with most of them without meaningful employment. This is why, anything goes in Ghetto. Giving a stranger direction in Ghetto was worth money. It was a job. I could have made a lot of money from Olivia just by giving her direction and going further to accompany her.

uld come later. There was no presumption of innocence until proven otherwise in Ghetto. Spending a night as a guest of the state in a police cell wasn't something worth talking about because it was the ordinary custom of life. In Ghetto, alcohol and brothels characterize the norm with rates as low as a fifth of a dollar. There was a bar

at could possibly emerge out of Ghetto. My discipline was admirable and often folks had their fingers towards me whenever their sons and daughters erred including referring them to me for counseling. I was a victim by default. Ghetto wasn't my place and it was always my desire to get out of the messy dwelling. But I loved the people here. They were an example of how life was full of simplicity. What we ate, drunk and where we slept were epitome of meager livi

e vibes. In the Ghetto reggae music was everything. It was soothing mostly because of its theme of poverty and Ghetto sufferers. You see, the kind of music in Ghetto mattered. Rhythm and Blues had no home here. Ghetto love is bigger than romance, I guess. But then again, what's love when there's no means to love. We dated from the Ghetto and of the Ghetto without any occasional moments of romantic dates. I cracked up the volume of my small radio nodding and dancing to the vibe "there's nothing to smile about" by Morgan

re else and for as many times as my buddies could coerce me into taking a sip, I remained a saint. There was the infamous holy herb a puff, puff pass kind of ritual. Jonte, my chum and leader of my small group of young men truly loyal, was one of those jobless lots that participated in the ritual. He was like my bodyguard in the Ghetto and could answer to my call of distress even by faking a cough. Despite his engaging in the puff, puff pass ritual with his gang of vigilante boys purporting to offer security in the area, my house was holy ground and whenever he came to my abode he was aware of the rule. I could not entertain a