I can still recall my very first glimpse of Nairobi, its neon lights and deafening bustle. It returns to me with a tinge of dread.
Africa's urban landscape is changing at an unprecedented pace, offering a glimpse into its future. "My City", a series of personal essays, portrays the lives of individuals and communities across the continent, exposing the deep soul of each city and giving it a distinctive character.
Nairobi first came to me as a name, a dream. In Ifo Nuura, the small town in Kenya where I was born, the bus from the capital arrived once a day, its roaring siren cutting through the sleepy afternoon air. It was always laden with large mattresses and packed full of boxes upon boxes stiff with goods. Almost everything we had in Ifo Nuura came from Nairobi.
On the radio and in the old newspapers, we learnt of a city that had a life much richer than we could imagine. Nairobi cut deals. It negotiated with other capitals. It made silly remarks that provoked the ire of the outside world. In a sense, Nairobi had the temperament of a teenager and, a teenager myself, I was drawn to it.
I had heard personal stories of Nairobi as well. My mother spoke of the tall, glitzy buildings she saw on her trip to the city. My sister, who lived in America and had spent more time in Nairobi than my mother, reminisced about selling tea by the cup in the city's dusty streets. In these stories, Nairobi had an energy, a grand allure that made it clear to me that this was the only city in the country that mattered and I wanted to be there.
So in 2011, during a school break, I boarded the bus to Nairobi. I got as far as Garissa, the nearest city to Ifo Nuura and still over 300 km from the capital, where I was arrested. My protestations that I was too young to obtain an ID made no difference. I spent the night in jail before my family bailed me out and summoned me home.
That was when I finally realised why the residents of our town only ordered goods from Nairobi but never travelled there. Because we were refugees, we were confined to our town. That epithet that encompassed our lives - refugee - previously held little meaning for me but now I understood. Earlier that year Kenya had sent troops into Somalia to fight al-Shabaab. Security was heightened and the checkpoints were more rigid than ever before.
Though my attempt had been thwarted, my desire to reach the city was too all-consuming and I was not ready to give up. I hatched another plan. I persuaded the driver of a lorry full of luggage to let me hitch a ride. Whenever we approached a police checkpoint, I hid in the cargo.
All these years later, I can still recall my very first glimpse of Nairobi, its neon lights and deafening bustle. It returns to me with a tinge of dread. I arrived in the city late at night and had no place to stay because the friend who was supposed to host me had fallen asleep.
I quickly missed the familiarity of my small town as I roamed the streets all night. Occasionally I would steal a glance at my silhouette, checking to see if anyone was treading my shadow. Like an ant, I kept close to the lights, figuring I would rather die in the light than in the darkness. I kept moving to avoid drawing attention to myself and finally made my way to Eastleigh, the city's Somali neighbourhood.
Over the next three weeks, Nairobi slowly unfolded to me. Bookish, I scurried the streets for dogeared paperbacks. The city's booksellers had no literary taste and sold self-help books alongside the classics.
Walking from street to street, I was gripped by an intense curiosity to master the city and discover its secrets. Nairobi was disorganised and had no respect for maps. It could only be explored physically. Its streets and the routes of its matatus had to be committed to memory. Wary of strangers discovering I was a refugee, I rarely asked for directions. I walked during the day and, when I finally got lost, I hitched a boda boda back home. To fully grasp Nairobi, I needed faith more than anything else. Like a Rubik's cube, I had to trust it would eventually fall into place, piece by piece.
I had too much time and energy. Once confident in my knowledge of one neighbourhood, I moved to the next and then the next. Pangani, with its cramped police stations. Kasarani, its stadium, empty and much smaller than it had seemed on television. Westland, with its shiny escalators. Donholm, its many street kiosks. Langata, its long, paved roads. Gikomba, its cheap market. I walked and walked until a large swath of the city, once intimidating and foreign, became familiar and divulged its secrets.
In the mornings, cars filled the roads and left no space for pedestrians. The traffic moved like a snail and I spent hours on the road. Stuck in matatus, I devoured one paperback after another. Like my exploration of the city, my readings were driven by faith and had no direction. I trusted all would eventually fall into place.
Besides the streets, I was interested in people and stories. I eavesdropped on conversations in restaurants, chatted with the kids on the streets, and sat with tailors as they recounted their lives. I read the Daily Nation, which reported on the city's voice ringing around the world.
I only listened and was reticent. I let on no details about myself and lived in hiding. As a refugee, I was not permitted in the city. Curiosity had turned me into a fugitive, and I proudly flaunted the law. Still, I watched out for the police. Occasionally, I was betrayed by my Somali appearance, which made me susceptible to demands for bribes from the police. Nairobi itself disregarded ethnicity and drew its talent from across the country. Still, I was somehow considered a stranger by virtue of mine and accosted in the streets.
Despite the police, I still felt at home in Nairobi and fell in love with the city. Sometimes officers would detain me, and since I had no money to free myself, I would go on patrol with them all night, discovering neighbourhoods I had never visited before.
At the end of the school break I returned to my hometown. Having set my eyes on Nairobi, I was in love and could no longer contain myself in Ifo Nuura. I snuck into Nairobi again and again, as though compelled by a spirit.
In 2012 the war in Somalia came to Ifo Nuura and al-Shabaab regularly struck our town. The teachers, who were Kenyans, fled our schools. I also left and enrolled at a school in Kisii, a city in the southwest of the country.
From Nairobi to Kisii, the roads were tarmacked. There no checkpoints and no scrutiny from the police. In this part of Kenya, belonging was taken for granted and rarely had to be proved with documentation. I could now tell the distinction between the northeast, which was dirt poor and dry, and the southwest, which was richer and greener. But Nairobi, located in the heart of the country, was bigger than all the rest and kept its grip on me. Nairobi was too close to home and, as the attacks from al-Shabaab increased, I knew I would be discovered if I stayed too long in the city.
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In transit, I could hide. In transit, I was safe. But transit also bolstered my obsession with the city.
In the hiding, I hatched a life for myself in Nairobi. I reported for the Daily Nation, the country's largest newspaper. I briefly attended Brookhouse, a school in the city's richest neighbourhood. I even managed to get my parents to visit the city without papers. But still rooted in Ifo Nuura and still a refugee, my relationship with Nairobi was limited, fraught.
In 2018, without ever living freely in Nairobi, I left the country to study at Princeton. Having gone to America as a refugee, I was again forbidden from travelling and couldn't return to Nairobi for four years.
But the city stayed with me and came back in memories. I could recall the terror of my first arrival there. The nights I had spent on patrol with the police. Dining with friends in the city's best restaurants. In these memories, I was no longer a foreigner and Nairobi finally belonged to me.
In the summers, classmates from Kenya satiated my yearning and brought me notebooks, copies of the Daily Nation, and stories from the city. Once again, I experienced Nairobi second-hand, as I had done as a child all those years ago.
Forbidden from returning home, I was cut off from Nairobi and my memories eventually narrowed down to one episode: the night my friends and I were robbed in the middle of the city before one of the robbers recognised me and returned our belongings. To me, Nairobi is special. It is the only city in the world where even the robbers recognise me.
Asad Hussein is a writer living in Oxford, UK.
