Riverside Apartments

You see those tall sturdy eucalyptus trees? Those small patches of Napier grass spread unevenly on the fertile red loam soil. And arrowroots growing near the small river. A river that’s clean and fresh. In a few years, there will be nothing left of them. Probably they will be replaced by an apartment block named ‘riverside apartments.’. Named after a nonexistent river. I took this photo inside an apartment block which sits in slightly under one acre of land.

Probably, many years ago, this was a maize field. A source of livelihood for a family. The family was kicked out of their farm to pave way modernity; the land sold at a throw away price and since they didn’t have money management skill, they eat (well, the man did) most of the money and now they live in a double room in Mwimuto. The man of the house is now a construction worker. The wife is a mama fua. Attached to the place she used to call home. Now as a stranger. The home owners who do not know her well treat her suspiciously.

As she washes the clothes and hangs them on a top floor of the flat. She remembers how she dreamt that one day she could put up such a house for her family. She didn’t know how, but there must be a way. Now, that dream is buried deep into this house along with the tears she cried when the husband told her that he had sold their ancestral land. A deal was made in some bar near Wangige market with two men perched on a sina taabu seats sipping some cheap whiskey and boiled goat meat. On the right, a famous land broker in the area and on the left the owner of the land.

They are having a conversation in hushed tones.

“Mzee.” The broker speaking, “nimepata mtu wa kununua ile shamba. Ulisema title uko nayo?”

“Eeeh, niko nayo hata saa hii. Unajua mzee haachi mali yake nyuma.” They both laugh, the land broker laughs harder. In a deep expectant laugh. He knows this deal is a good as done.

After a few rounds, it’s now 7pm. The broker excuses himself and tells the guy, “Niko namteja mwingine nafaa kuona, tupatane kesho kwa wakili, nitakuja na tajiri, ooh, na usisahau title, na usiambie mama.”

Pats him on the back and then walks out. Another successful day in the office.

When going home later that evening, he humming lyrics from Kenny Roger’s song, The Gambler. “You never count your money when you're sitting at the table There'll be time enough for counting When the deal's done’ He knows soon he will have lots of money. He will earn the respect of his peers who always look down on him.

The following day he woke up, dress up like a millionaire he will soon be. He wore his only navy blue jacket, a white shirt and a slightly oversize khaki pants. At 9am, he linked up with the land broker who drove him in his brand new swanky Mercedes benz. He sat back left, in anticipation of his new status. At the office, after negotiations, they settled for a price, two million. The biggest amount of money he had held at a go was 30,000 when he sold a cow. His mind could not imagine two million. The guy told him he will pay him in four instalments of Five hundred thousand each. Then he handed him a bundle of one hundred thousand. He nervously shifted in his seat while breaking some sweat. He didn’t know how to carry the money home let alone what to do with it. As expected, he went home after two weeks, broke, confused and remorseful.

When asked where he had been, he lied. He said he had been kidnapped. When asked what if he lost anything, he said that he almost lost his mind. hehe He didn’t mention the title deed. He left it with the new land owner. Again, after his account was credited with the money, he disappeared. Now this time the wife was convinced that he had another family somewhere. But she had no evidence. So she waited for him to resurfaced. He came back carrying two kgs of meat with torn green plastic bag.

The wife would not learn about it until later. She only learnt about it when they got an eviction order. She cried. Her husband of 15 years had auctioned their home and somehow the future of their children. When she confronted him, he arrogantly said “si ni kwangu na nyinyi ni wangu.’ Before he could say anything else, she fainted. She woke up a few hours later wearing a horrified face. Despite losing consciousness, her mind was still racing about how bleak their future is.

Thankfully, the guy had not squandered everything. He still had the last installment pending and some two hundred thousand remaining in the account. He took fifty thousand, and gave the wife the rest of the money to do whatever she wished. She bought some land not too far away from where they now live; smaller and less productive, but still better than nothing. With no shelter, she rented a double room in Mwimuto for her and her children. They started their life a fresh as she was condemned to daily rounds looking for laundry duties. Her husband would up show two months later begging for forgiveness. She forgave him. He would live under her roof, by her terms. Now he brings home everything he earns because there is an eviction order hanging on his neck. Karma!

Theirs is not a unique story, it is fate that has befallen many people. People whose productive land has been sold behind their backs to satisfy the huge demand for modern houses, especially in Kiambu. Such stories are turning Kiambu into a concrete jungle.  The rivers are drying up. The dairy farmers have to buy fodder, and the tall trees are quickly being replaced by tall apartments blocks. The small shrubs being replaced by expansive bungalows. And now raw sewage flows in what used to be courses of permanent rivers. A county that used to be a net exporter of food might soon be a net importer of food; moving from having a milk glut to houses glut.