The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and rusted metal. Samatar sat on the edge of his bed—a creaky, makeshift frame he'd salvaged from a nearby scrapyard. The thin mattress beneath him was worn, the springs threatening to poke through. He stared at the faded comic book in his hands, the pages creased and fraying at the edges.
He had read the story countless times before, but it still gave him a sense of hope. The hero—a lone warrior standing against impossible odds—reminded him of what he used to believe in. That anyone, no matter where they came from, could make a difference. But in his world, those beliefs felt like childish dreams.
Outside, the sun was already climbing, its light filtering through the cracks in the corrugated metal roof. His house—or what passed for one—stood at the edge of a sprawling settlement. The walls were patched with old wooden planks, and the windows were covered with plastic sheeting to keep out the rain.
Samatar stood, stretching his lanky frame. His muscles ached from yesterday's odd job—hauling sacks of cement at a construction site for a wage barely worth the effort. The pay had been enough to buy a small bag of maize flour and a few vegetables, but it wouldn't last long.
"Another day," he muttered to himself, grabbing his tattered jacket from a hook on the wall.
The settlement was alive with its usual chaos. Vendors lined the dirt roads, shouting over each other to sell their wares. Children darted between the crowds, their laughter mingling with the distant hum of matatus navigating the congested streets.
Samatar walked with purpose, his eyes scanning the faces around him. Life here was unpredictable. You could lose your day's earnings to a pickpocket or find yourself caught in the middle of a fight over something as trivial as a spilled drink.
He turned a corner, heading toward the city center. The contrast was stark. The glass towers and paved roads of Nairobi's business district loomed in the distance, a world apart from where he stood. Samatar used to dream of working there, imagining himself in a crisp suit, walking into an office with air conditioning and endless coffee.
Now, those dreams felt like cruel jokes.
As he approached a small café where he hoped to find a day's work, something caught his attention. A black SUV with tinted windows idled at the corner, its engine rumbling softly. It wasn't unusual to see expensive cars in the area—politicians and businessmen often passed through—but this one felt different.
The doors opened, and two men stepped out. They were dressed in dark suits, their faces expressionless. They moved with precision, scanning their surroundings before heading toward a nearby alley.
Samatar's curiosity got the better of him. He followed at a distance, careful to stay out of sight. The men stopped in front of a small shop, its windows covered with faded posters. They knocked twice, and the door opened just enough for them to slip inside.
Something wasn't right. Samatar could feel it in his gut.
He edged closer, pretending to browse a nearby stall. From his position, he could hear faint voices coming from the shop. Words like "shipment" and "selection" floated through the air, spoken in hushed tones.
Before he could piece together what was happening, a hand clamped down on his shoulder.
"What are you doing here?"
Samatar turned to find himself face-to-face with one of the men from the SUV. His heart raced, but he forced himself to stay calm.
"Nothing, just… passing by," he said, his voice steady.
The man studied him for a moment before letting go. "Keep it that way."
Samatar nodded, retreating quickly. As he walked away, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had just stumbled onto something far bigger than he could understand.
That night, as Samatar lay in his bed, he couldn't stop thinking about the men and the shop. He told himself to let it go, to focus on surviving another day. But deep down, he knew he wouldn't be able to.
Some doors, once opened, could never be closed.