A Kenyan man's day starts at 4 a.m. Not because he loves mornings. Because if he does not start moving at 4 a.m., he will miss his matatu. And if he misses his matatu, he will be late to work. And if he is late to work, his boss will dock his salary.
So at 4 a.m., he wakes up. The house is still dark. His children are sleeping. His wife is sleeping. He sees them for maybe five minutes before he leaves. He does not kiss them. He does not say goodbye. He just goes.
The matatu ride to Industrial Area takes an hour. Maybe two. The matatu is packed with fifty people who should fit in thirty. Everyone is sleeping on everyone. He falls asleep on a stranger's shoulder. The stranger falls asleep on his shoulder. They are like lovers, except they hate each other.
He arrives at work at 7 a.m. Exhausted. He has not even started working and he is already tired.
At lunchtime, he is hungry. But lunch costs 200 shillings. If he buys lunch, he will not have money for transport home. So he does not eat lunch. Instead, he goes to sit in a park. Or under a tree. Or in the mall just to be around people and feel less lonely. He sits there for an hour pretending he is not hungry.
By 6 p.m., he is done with work. But here is the trick. If he takes the 5 p.m. matatu, it costs 100 shillings. If he waits until 7 p.m., it costs 80 shillings. If he waits until 9 p.m., it costs 50 shillings.
So he waits. He sits somewhere. He kills time. He waits for the fares to drop because his salary is too small.
By 10 p.m., he finally gets home. The house is dark. His children are sleeping. His wife is sleeping. He does not see them. He just collapses on the bed.
The next morning, the alarm goes off at 4 a.m. And the cycle repeats.
He sees his children for maybe five minutes a day. Five minutes. That is all he gets.
On Sunday, when he does not have to work, he spends the day with his family. One day. Seven days a week, and he gets one.
But even on Sunday, he is tired. So tired that he just sleeps. His children want to play with him. But he sleeps. His wife wants to talk to him. But he sleeps.
This is Kenyan life. This is what we do. We wake up early. We sit in packed matatus. We skip lunch. We wait for cheap fares. We get home when everyone is sleeping. We see our families on Sundays.
And we call this normal. We call this life.
But it is not life. It is survival. It is a system that has convinced us that this is acceptable. That this is how things should be.
A man works forty hours a week. He should see his family. He should eat lunch. He should not have to choose between transport and food.
But in Kenya, he does. And tomorrow, he will wake up at 4 a.m. and do it all again.
Dismas wa Tabu. Dreaming in installments. Billed in full.