Finding Home – Margaret Muthee

The market roared with rage. Vehicles hummed outside, vendors chanted as they called passersby to their wares, and self-made street preachers strategically planted their pulpits among the traders. There was the krik-krak of moving carts, the occasional sound of music from a nearby church, and the one-man guitarist, who sometimes played here on Saturdays. 

All that they were used to, but Diana’s scream – desperate and heart-wrenching, came in spates, not once, not twice, not thrice. It tore through their hearts like shards of shattering glass. It was the kind of scream that made your blood run cold, the kind of scream that made your hair stand on end. 

“Mama eeh! Wamemchukua mtoto wangu!” she cried out for her child.

From an aerial view, Diana seemed like a man dancing to the tune of the wind, and then when she started to move, like a mad bull charging towards an enemy. When she turned towards some vendors, unsure of her direction, she slipped and fell. She uttered her first words after the screams while rising and dusting off her dress, too short of time perhaps.

“Mama eeh nianze wapi?” she cried out for her child, her eyes desperately darting in different directions. The words came out fitfully, the sounds swallowed by the panic that tied a tight knot in her throat.

Diana ran towards a woman selling second-hand clothes, her quick steps leading her on. Her face told a story before she could speak. Her eyes were puffy and pale from crying; their hollowness opened a window into her soul, desperation cast in every bit of her being. The rain puddles on the narrow streets did not deter her. Diana jumped haphazardly, stepping on a stone in one of the puddles – a bridge of sorts. This was Gikomba. A few drops of rain and the gumboots hiring business would pick up. Two more stones lay ahead, an upward climb to the platform the clothes vendor had created, to her make-shift dais. Clothes lay spread all over the raised area as the trader continued calling.

“Bei mbili, mbili bei.” The traders spoke a different language here. Moja meant one hundred, mbili two hundred, tatu three hundred shillings. Diana knew this too well. Her first time in the city had taught her a lot.

“Mbili ni how much?” she’d asked a hawker in town when she’d first arrived in the city.

The buyers glanced at her while the hawker went on with his business, cajoling new buyers. “Mbili ni how much?” she’d repeated many times, her voice growing louder and hoarser each time.

“Madam, kwani umetoka wapi? Where are you from? Akisema mbili, ni two hundred.” When they say two, they mean two hundred, one of the buyers had explained. It was only then that she understood the weird glances, the giggles behind her, and the ‘mbili bei’ hawker who blatantly ignored her.

On a good day, Diana would have glanced at the merchandise the woman was selling. Finding something to fit her small frame had always been an easy task. Unlike the women buyers who held on to their bags like they were an extension of their bodies while quickly searching for what they wanted, she had learnt to take her time and hand over the money only after the exchange. The running battles between the hawkers and kanjo – the city council officials, whose only job seemed to be to harass them, had once left her with one shoe and no bus fare. This was the first time she had visited her aunt, who worked as a house manager, a title she proudly carried like a badge of honour. She, too, had hoped to be one and more. Aunt Wanja would teach her. She had advised her to move to the city with the child. 

“You’re no sack of potatoes or a bag of dry beans to be beaten every day! Noooo! Muache – leave him!” she’d advised.

When the clothes vendor saw Diana storm towards her, she carried on arranging the pile of clothes that stood in old hangers like angry in-laws who did not want to be disturbed. She moved the clothes from one side to the other, sorting out the sizes and the colours. Diana had walked over to the woman and grabbed her arms tightly, shaking them. When she let go, the woman adjusted the falling leso around her waist. She lifted it beyond her waist and fastened it tighter as if to arm herself against whatever was coming. Diana had started immediately.

“Umemwona msichana wangu? Where is she? I left her for a few minutes, and now… and now… she’s gone…” She sobbed.

“I haven’t seen any little girl,” the woman replied, pulling herself further away from her.

Diana fell to the ground. She placed her hands on her head, her dress rising as well, her whole body tagging along in a new dance, her bags and their contents tumbling to the ground as if following the tune.

“Mtoto wangu! They’ve taken her! My daughter!” she screamed.

Men walked past her, pushing their carts piled high with clothes. Women sold their wares, unconscious of anything odd happening. The guitar man went on entertaining, the sound of his music the only lulling sound amidst the chaos. They were used to the gimmicks here, fake pastors, con artists, mad men and women all trying to survive in the best way they knew how. Unattended customers cast a glance at Diana, whispering to each other. The men threw words at her. “Wacha wazimu wewe! Stop this madness!” someone shouted. “Peleka wazimu nyumbani,” they said, as if madness was something that you unloaded at home. The men went on selling their wares, uncaring of the unchanging tides in her life.

Diana’s mind swirled with too many thoughts, and so did her body. She imagined her daughter, her small frame squeezed in between sweaty bodies, moving, her eyes only catching a glimpse of the light from the angry skies. She imagined a fire raging through the market, consuming, flames leaping from one kibanda to another, wisps of smoke rising to the clouds. Where is my Nina? She thought.

After making a few steps, Diana heard her phone ringing. She rummaged through her things and picked out a lightweight phone that easily slid into her palms before falling to the ground.

“I found your daughter.”

“Where?”

“Tuma Mpesa, 50k. Tukutane Kencom, kwa saa.”

“Okay,” Diana had agreed, flashing a smile even though she knew the Ksh 30,000 in her Mpesa was all she had to start a new life. She sent it anyway.

Diana rushed up the city. A crowd soared somewhere. A young lady, a man on a bike, and a snatched phone were the centre of attention. Diana walked past the searing crowd that had a life of its own, past the line of men that sat down facing each other playing kamari, a game of pebbles, past campaigners who were passing on posters for a politician. She hurriedly walked past it. Her body brushed against different fabrics; some were razor sharp, others were rough like sand. She moved with the bodies and against bodies, their arms pulling her backwards, but she had to move. She was ready to part with all her savings for her daughter’s life. When she got to Kencom, she stood next to the clock as the caller had suggested; she was the only one who stood still in a moving world, and soon a swirling feeling engulfed her. She tried calling again, but no one answered.

Tidying up her kibanda, an older woman watched Diana from the corner of her eye as she made her way back into the market. She had tasted loss; she knew the depths of its hollowness and almost shared her pain. She watched quietly as Diana continued interrogating the clothes vendor. 

“You do know! You know Naomi, right? She was here. Right here!”

“Whom are you talking about Mama?”

“That woman Naomi. This is her kibanda, right? She invited us in. You work together, right? She has my Nina.”

“I am sorry, Mama, but sijui mtu kama huyo. There is no one here by the name Naomi, and I don’t work with anyone else except my son, who…”

As the woman finished her last statement, words spattered out of Diana’s mouth like froth, creating mountains before them. They drew lines straight, curved, wavy, and tumbled down from her mouth like molten lava. These words captured the attention of passersby; a small crowd gathered, listening to the intricacies around which Nina had gone missing.

“Mtoto wangu alikuwa hapa! She was here, and now she’s gone!” Diana cried.

“Mama this is a market you don’t expect other people to be looking after your daughter!” a man in the crowd shouted. The words cut through Diana’s heart. She let her tears flow freely. She crouched to the floor, uncaring of the bags of clothes that she had purchased earlier, uncaring of what people would say when they saw a grown woman seated on the ground, uncaring of what would happen next.

“Ondoka kwa njia Mama,” shouted a young man pulling a cart as he told her to move out of the way. The kid moved like his legs had hinges. He wobbled, followed by the cart that wheeled an open bale of secondhand clothes. As he moved, so did the sweaty stink, too strong for any detergent to clean. Flies too followed in his direction, accompanied by a young couple, probably the owners of the merchandise.

The young man’s words had startled Diana. Business had not stopped because Nina was missing. The old woman followed her and gave her a warm embrace.

“Utapata mtoto wako. Kuna polisi pale nje.” The woman gave her hope that the policemen at the station close by would help her find Nina.

*

The scenes of the day rolled in Diana’s mind like a film. She remembered. The hum of moving vehicles outside, the bellowing smoke at a distance, the men carrying wares pushing her and Nina aside, the mkokoteni cart that had propelled them towards a vendor, the middle-aged woman selling clothes, nothing unusual, just a smile that drew them closer.

In the woman’s stall were rows and rows of clothes – a world of its own set apart from the rest of the world. “Kupima ni bure! You can try for free!” the woman had said, enticing them in.

Diana had come to the market to buy Nina some new jumpers. She was growing up fast, and besides, they had left most of her clothes back in the village. There was something that had drawn her to the woman. A forced handshake? The insistence in her voice? Perhaps the happy smile that she wore. A greenish-blue gown had also caught her attention. She imagined herself in it, the smooth, silky fabric brushing against her skin. “Ingieni ndani,” the woman ushered them into her kibanda.

As she went into the dressing space, a box made of old curtains, there was nothing else on Diana’s mind. For a moment, she’d watched the woman play with Nina before she’d disappeared into the changing room. It was dark, but her mind was light with happy thoughts. This was going to be a new beginning for her and Nina. New home. New school. New job. 

“Unaitwa nani? The woman had asked the little girl’s name. She had then picked her up and placed her on a pile of clothes. That was the last thing Diana saw while she peeped through a hole on one side of the curtain.

“Nina. Na wewe?” the little girl, always polite, inquired about the woman’s name too, leaning in to touch the braids on her head.

“Naomi. Jina langu ni Naomi,” the woman said, smiling. 

Diana had missed most of the conversation, only catching a few phrases here and there. “Shule, school yetu ni Angels Academy – baba…Baba alichapa mama tukamuacha – home alone…” The conversation had gone on, but most of the gaps were filled with giggles and laughter and then silence, something that Diana had missed.

When she emerged, looking at herself in the mirror that had been placed in front of her, Diana did not notice the silence that embraced her. When she lifted her eyes, there was no one to greet her or to tell her how she looked. And for a moment, she stood there shaken, her thoughts overtaking her. The woman had probably taken Nina to the washrooms, or for entertainment outside, where a man had a display of fruits on the ground, preaching to a growing crowd about how each fruit entered your body and the magic it worked, saving you from diabetes, hypertension, HIV, impotence… His list of ailments was endless.

She had sat there quietly waiting. Occasionally, a customer would stop at the stall, but the woman who had introduced herself as Naomi was nowhere in sight. 

“Hii ni ngapi?” a woman with a full bag asked for a price, pointing at a long pink flowing dress made of soft satin fabric. Its arms were short and folded at the end, and its semicircular high collar neck gave it an upward appeal. Diana glanced at it for a second before answering the woman.

“Sijui – I don’t know!” she shouted. “Sio mimi nauza. I am not selling.”

It was only when the woman had walked for a distance that she noticed her full bag and realised that this kibanda was unusually isolated. It was at one corner, far away from the rest, and the only people who walked by it were leaving.

What have I done? Diana thought to herself. It suddenly dawned on her that Nina was not coming back.

*

Their lives changed two months ago. That night, her husband came home staggering. They sat down to eat. She had prepared ugali, chicken, and kale. He looked at the food with disgust. And then with rage. His favourite part was missing. Where is the chicken breast? He’d asked in a tone that was as loud as it was quiet. She explained that Nina had cried for the piece and how she had given in and let her have it.

As if possessed by a ghost, he had grabbed her by the neck and squeezed her narrow shoulders inwards so tightly that she could not breathe. He then slapped her before shoving her towards the wooden table. The round ceramic plate had crashed onto the floor and with it, its contents. Nina stood still, watching silently for a few minutes. She then ran off into the night.

The following day, Diana had taken her daughter and left, leaving everything behind. The plan was to get a job in the city and live peacefully away from anyone and anything that would cause her anguish. But now it seemed pain and anguish lived in her. They were housemates who emerged to torture her every time they thought she was attaining a measure of success.

*

The sun mercilessly pounded everyone in the market. Sweat glistened on the faces of the overflowing sea of people going about their business. The salty odour of sweat mixed with the old mitumba clothes and the aroma of different foods and spices gave the market a unique scent. It hung in the air so heavily that Diana could almost taste it. She made her way through the maze of stalls that lined the shallow, dusty pavements that poured drones of people into the city streets. The streets loved dirty shoes. For a moment, she imagined the number of shoes that had trudged the same roads. She imagined the stories they would tell if they could speak. She imagined her daughter’s shoes and wished she could read her imprints on the ground. She imagined her daughter in the arms of a stranger and wondered whether she was crying or smiling. Did she throw a tantrum or try to escape? Was she comfortable? She had to find Nina.

The policeman at the desk did not move when he saw Diana walk into the station crying. He did not utter a word even as she trudged on towards him, her back dented from fatigue.

“Mama, tukusaidie aje – what is the problem?” he asked, standing up when she finally got to his desk.

“They’ve taken my daughter,” she replied.

“Nani? Who has your daughter?”

“Her name was…is…Naomi.” she stuttered.

The policeman stared at her, his eyes boring into her as if he could see what was inside her heart as she stumbled on her words, her voice shaking. He patiently waited for her to complete the sentence, his eyes not for once faltering.

“Mama keti pale – take a seat, and compose yourself,” the policeman said, hitting his desk with a pen as if agitated, dismissing her seemingly confused state. He had probably listened to a thousand other such incidents, and it helped when one showed up with clear information.

Diana looked at his blue uniform keenly as if searching for a clue. He was the embodiment of authority, with a gun idly lying on his waist and a wooden rungu in hand, the complete picture of someone in power. 

“Compose yourself! We’ll talk when you have! Ukiweza kujieleza tunaweza zungumza,” he told her, ushering in the next person.

“Nakwambia mtoto wangu amepotea! Nahitaji usaidizi. I’m telling you my child is lost. I need help!” Diana shouted, imploring for his assistance.

“Ehe. You’re speaking to an officer like that? Unataka tukurushe ndani – Do you want to be arrested?” the officer quibbled, irritated by her tone.

“I need your help. Help me find Nina!”

The policeman paced around the room. He wielded his rungu and started pounding it on his hands, his head bowed to the ground as if pondering.

“Na nikuulize, was the child alone?” he asked reluctantly, bending over his desk to take further details.

“Tulikuwa nayeye Gikomba. I was with her in the market!” she repeated as if to ensure that he heard everything right.

“Aaah! Na unauhakika, are you sure you did not sell your child?”

Diana’s face glistened. Her narrowed eyes turned rigid and cold; there was deadness to them that could not be explained. Her body stiffened as her tense muscles gave away her anger. She clenched her fist as she rose.

“Will you help me or not?” Diana barked. 

 “Watoto wanapigwa bei na wazazi hii Nairobi – some parents sell their children,” the officer said, his tone implying that she could have sold her child.

“Sijauza mtoto wangu! I didn’t sell my baby!” Diana thundered before turning to leave, angered by his implication.

“We! We mama!” the officer called, as she walked away from the station. 

*

Diana wandered around town searching the faces of every child that passed her. She stopped at the Kenya International Conference Centre, where people would stop and get the standby photographers to take photos that made you seem like you were touching the top of the building. Nina was not here for sure. Where would Nina be? She wondered. Her daughter did not know much about the city, but she knew about the Nairobi National Park. Would Nina have gone to the park? The national park was 4 miles away from the city centre; no way for a child to walk. She imagined Nina seeing the big five that she’d always talked about, and a slight smile formed around her rounded lips, but did not linger as it dawned on her, someone had taken Nina.

Diana boarded a bus once in a while looking to see if Nina had ended up in a bus alone or with someone. On the crowded streets, she bumped into people – lovers strolling hand in hand, housewives hustling their way for fresh produce, vendors scampering for space to sell their wares, as office men and women hurried across the streets to important meetings. Diana looked into their eyes, trying to find clues as to where Naomi might have taken her daughter.

The night crept in as fast as a shadow at midday. Lights went on, dotting the streets, some seeping into the street alleys that stood unnoticed. The lights were coloured – orange, red. Blue. Green, orange, red. The array of colours reminded her of the colours of the rainbow and the colour that Nina brought into her life.

Diana walked through these streets; she let them carry her. The only thing on her mind was Nina. Earlier, she had walked in and out of churches, restaurants, stations, and shops. She had been swallowed by the masses, the sweltering heat burning her skin without mercy. She had walked around the ‘jobless corner’ many times, weaving her way around Tom Mboya and its surrounding streets, the heart of the city. 

She had walked back downtown to Gikomba Market, her eyes desperately searching for Nina. Everywhere she turned, toys, shoes, furniture, perfumes, shoes, jewellery, clothes, shoes lay spread on the ground. On a different day, she might have bought the two-hundred-dollar shoes, which a buyer only realises is not a bargain when they get home.

The darkness walked in with fatigue. It was only then that she remembered that she had no money to take a bus back to Kawangware. She’d lost everything when her bag had spilt open earlier in the day. She had been too distraught to gather her things again. She leaned heavily against one of the shop’s walls on Tom Mboya, and her body gave in. She slipped to the ground and did not stand again. Here, the pain and desperation had taken over her body and paralysed her. 

*

The vans came in drones. Their vrooming sound was audible from a distance.

“Ni kubaya! Ni gava!” She heard a street boy shout. The boy was running, and his small voice followed him. What did this mean? She wondered.

“Wamekuja kutumaliza! – They have come to finish us!” another blurted out, bolting away. The street beggars took to their heels, while some snaked away into the darkly lit alleys that formed a maze around the city. The rest of the street families scattered like disturbed chickens in a coop.

Before Diana could move, a van stopped in front of her. Several men jumped out, scattering in different directions. Two of them walked up, grabbed her arms, and dragged her toward the vehicle.

“Mimi sio wa hapa – I do not belong here. I am searching for Nina, natafuta mtoto wangu amepotea!” she screamed.

“What were you doing here?” one of the men asked as they bundled her into the back of the van. A number of boys were brought from different directions and thrown in. Inside, they were packed like slices of bread on a serving tray.

The van drove around the city in circles. It went around Jeevanjee Gardens and into all the narrow streets, picking up more people. When the van left the city, it was hard to tell where they were going. The burning lights of oncoming vehicles blinded them.

“Tunaenda? Where are they taking us?” Diana asked the kids who were bundled in with her. The only other woman had a baby slung around her waist and seemed to be asleep.

“Wanataka kutumaliza – They want to finish us!” the same boy she’d seen running replied.

“What does that mean? What is he talking about?” she asked a boy huddled in a corner.

“Hii ni operation ya ku clean up mtaa.” The woman she thought was asleep answered, adjusting the baby she carried. “Naskia Obama ama sijui Nyetanyahu analand kesho.” Was this what a visit by Obama or Netanyahu meant? Cleaning the city streets of all its so-called filth? 

The vehicle stopped outside a building that stood isolated in a clearing. They had travelled quite a distance and Diana could not tell where they were. When the van stopped, they realised that two other vans had followed them with more street families in them.

Inside the hall, street families were packed like shoes in boxes. Although the hall was reasonably big, having filled up, it felt small and cramped. 

“Ingieni,” the askaris demanded, pushing them inside. The smaller boys went in first, making their way through the masses of bodies and into their own dark corners. Slim mattresses were spread across the hall. The children who had been here earlier knew all too well what to do. They scrambled for the light blankets and mattresses and crouched together in a group. This would do for the night. Diana resisted being escorted into the hall. 

“I was just looking for my daughter, officer. I don’t live in the streets,” she begged.

“Unadanganya nani sasa? Who do you think you are cheating?” Diana wished she were lying and that her daughter was not missing. She felt the bile rise into her throat.

“Mama eeh! Mama eeh! Where are you, my child?” She wailed, falling to the ground.

“Huyu pelekeni Mathare. Inaonekana ana shida – Take her to Mathare. She seems to have a problem.”

“I am not mad, officer. Mama eeh! She continued to scream as they bundled her into the van again.

*

Diana was surrounded by near darkness; a small window was the only opening in the room. Fluorescent light streamed in through the openings, burning her eyes. She gazed at her hands and legs, etched with bruises inflicted on her as they dragged her here.

They had not believed her.

Outside, she had not seen much, except the blue gate that stood like a guard, the blue metal rails, the paint chipped away by years of neglect. The path that led to the entrance was littered with patches of grass and random bits of rubbish. The narrow hallways stretched like a thread. For the most part, they were crammed with patients; on trolleys, on the floor, alone, with family, and occasionally with a nurse dressed in white. The fluorescent light flickered, adding a deathly feel to the already tainted, dull walls that stood unafraid.

Now, as Diana sat on the floor, she could hear two of the askaris who had brought her in talking with a nurse.

“She can stay here – just for a couple of days,” one of the askaris was saying.

“Nimeona she’s okay, Itabidi muongeze kitu, I’ll need more money,” the nurse had replied.

“Ala! We are also working.”

Diana gazed at her clothes again, tattered and worn out, as if to remind her that indeed she was present in this place. She could hear the nurse bargain a higher price for her time here, and it broke her. Nina was still missing.

“Nawaskia! I just want to find my daughter,” she shouted, banging on the metallic door.

“I can’t keep her here for too long! I don’t want trouble with the boss!”

“Sawa – Okay.” The askaris had agreed, leaving her behind.

Diana continued pounding on the door, but it would not budge. Later that night, two nurses moved her into the main ward. The beds that occupied the space were barely enough for the growing number of patients that thronged the ward daily. You were lucky to occupy a bed alone. Diana noticed some patients who lay on the cold, dusty floors.

An old woman sat on the next bed. She rocked her body back and forth like a child on a swing, far away from the current reality. The hospital was supposed to be a place of refuge, but with its tattered bedding, peeling ceiling, and empty window frames, comfort was just a word, an idea, or a state of mind that you switched to for your sanity if you hadn’t already gone mad by going through that blue gate.

Another woman stared at her; her uncombed hair stood on end, and Diana wondered whether this represented her state of mind. Still another came around, searching her face. “You’re my long-lost daughter. Welcome home, my dear,” she’d said, beaming.

Diana buried herself underneath the bed sheet. She did not wake up even as the chattering, laughter, and shouting went on deep into the night. She did not wake up even as the nurses did their usual rounds, administering medication. She did not wake up even when the woman next to her defecated on the floor and screamed.

*

“You are free to go,” the doctor said the following morning.

Diana did not say a word as she walked out through the open door. She let her legs carry her in the direction of the light. Diana was happy to leave, not only because she was free but because she had resolved in her mind that she would never stop looking for her daughter.

*

Diana went back to the clothes stall where Nina had disappeared. She found the clothes vendor there, suspended on a pile of clothes. She had not seen Diana approaching as she held a cup of tea in one hand and a mandazi in the other. She continued chattering with her friends until Diana brushed her arm.

“We need to talk,” she said, grabbing her by the neck and pulling her aside.

“Sema? She whispered, startled by Diana’s unmoving presence.

“Itabidi uniambie kuhusu Naomi – Tell me about Naomi! You know she took my daughter. Otherwise, I’ll assume you’re an accomplice.”

The woman took Diana by the arm and led her away, a safe distance from her friends and away from the early customers who needed to be attended to before the day broke.

“Kuwa mpole, I can only tell you one… She can never hurt a child.” She said, stuttering.

“How do I find her? Where did she take my daughter?”

After pacing around for a while, the woman reached into her handbag and wrote an address on a crumpled piece of paper. Diana observed the slight shiver in her hand as she moved her hand to write.

“Kayole. You’ll find her there,” she said, handing back the piece of paper. “Please do not, do not get me involved in this. Mimi staki noma! I just know that she can never hurt her.”

“Did you say Kayole?” Diana’s heart sank. She had listened to countless news stories on child theft syndicates in Kayole. The baby-selling business was booming. There, a girl was simply known as maharagwe–bean, while a boy was known as mahindi–maize. Two words, a language that played a role in the child theft syndicates.

The woman slid away from the scene before Diana could ask more questions. 

At the police station, Diana was apprehensive. She kept pacing around before the same policeman she’d met earlier noticed and approached her.

“Mama, you’re back. Mbio zilikuwa za nini – Where were you hurrying to?” he asked with disdain in his voice. 

“I need your help,” she replied.

It took a while to convince the officers that they needed to accompany her. Most were slumped at their desks, watching what seemed to be a stack of unfiled paperwork. Others listened to one of them narrate how the national team, Harambee Stars, had missed the goal by a whisker. But finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she was riding at the back of a police truck headed to Kayole.

*

The inner city of Kayole grew out of cracked streets. Less than half an hour from Nairobi, the buildings looked more crippled. Still, they stood defiant of age and the weather. Most were awash with dirt, a splash of colour here and there, their only redeeming point. Some had names, weird names like Ni Mkono wa Bwana, Wa Miko building, Sukuma Wiki House, Rose Towers (even when there was nothing rosy about the building) or Pinnacle Towers (when the building was three-floors high and leaning on one side like a loose protruding tooth).

The air here was heavy and foul. It was like a concoction of different things: deep sewage, marashi, sweat, chapati, sharp ammonia, and pilau spices. The smells hung loosely in the air, persistent, like an uninvited guest unwilling to leave. 

Human life flowed from the tiny houses that stood alone from the countless doors in big apartment complexes, from the few backyards that remained, from the shops and makeshift vibandas that lined the streets. On one corner, a woman made chapati. Customers, mostly men, lined up waiting for their turn to order. Nyama choma joints and vibandas were starting to open up, meat sizzling on barbeques, and stray dogs buying their time. 

Shoppers swarmed the streets, mostly selling food, charcoal, and clothes. There were touts running to their hooting mathree, women hurrying to the market, students, mkokoteni guys fetching water, and the office types dressed in their matching suits, official wear. With each passing human was a story. The sounds around her were familiar sounds to Diana – water gushing from a tap, a knock on someone’s door, a crying child, and music playing from a distance.

Once they got to the address that the clothes vendor had scribbled down, Diana held the policemen back. She wanted to get answers on her own. She had wondered why! Why would a woman take a child she did not birth? She needed answers, and the only person who could give them to her was Naomi.

From the outside, the house seemed abandoned. The fence was falling over, and a crowd of weeds grew around a rusty steel gate that seemed like it had not been opened in ages. A few scattered shops lay a distance ahead. 

After watching the house for a while, Diana led the officers towards the front door. Just as she was about to knock, it swung open. Naomi and Nina stepped out. Naomi held the little girl with one hand and held onto a backpack with the other.

“Mummy!” The little girl screamed on seeing her.

Diana ran to her and knelt beside her daughter. Naomi wouldn’t let go of her hand. She grabbed the little girl and pushed Diana to the ground. 

“What is wrong with you?” Diana shouted, getting back onto her two feet.

Naomi walked a few steps forward, dragging the screaming girl. 

“Let her go”, the officer in charge fired up at the woman. She held on tightly to the little girl who was now crying.

“Why? Why would you do this?” Diana asked, tears welling up in her eyes.

“You can never understand,” the woman said, blocking the little girl with her body.

“Why?”

“The pain. The pain of losing a child.”

“I did lose her for a while when you took her away from me,” Diana shouted, looking around the compound. Cobwebs hung loosely on the walls of the house. Gaps in the roof let in light from the sky. A thick undergrowth of weeds lined the gutters.

“I lost mine forever. I lost her at birth. She would have been her age.” Naomi spoke again.

“Is that why you stole my daughter?” Diana demanded.

“She has her traits. The same round face and heart-shaped lips. And friendly, just like…”

“You are crazy!” You cannot go around kidnapping other people’s children!”

 “Wouldn’t you do the same?” she asked, gazing dispiritedly at Diana, as the police led her away.

Margaret Muthee is a writer from Kenya. Her short stories have been published by One Throne Magazine, Lawino Magazine, Brittle Paper, Agbowo Magazine, and Bahati Books. Margaret has also published various children’s books with Nabu.org. and StoryMoja Africa. She was part of the 2015 Writivism Workshop and the 2017 Miles Morland Workshop. She has also attended various Storymoja Africa workshops as well as Corporeal Writing workshops in Portland, where she is currently based. Margaret Muthee is currently an MFA in Creative Writing student at Portland State University. She enjoys organising literary festivals and events and has previously worked with Kwani Trust and the Macondo Literary Festival. Margaret Muthee’s short story collection A Season for Mending was shortlisted for the Iskanchi Book Prize 2025. The story ‘Finding Home’ was written as part of an anthology project dubbed Humans of Nairobi, by a group of eight writers who came together to share raw stories about the city of Nairobi. ‘Finding Home’ is one of the stories that inspired Maimouna Jallow’s highly acclaimed film ‘Tales of the Accidental City.’

*Image by Photos By Beks on Unsplash