Rich beggars of Nairobi: Why begging is more lucrative than the taxi business

 I soon gather that they are landlords

Nairobi beggars are rather animated with stories laden with hearty laughter I chat with two of them and soon gather that they are landlords! I reflect on my own life and take stock on the irony and inconsistencies it bears

Just arrived in town from the garage where I had gone to check on my car.

It gave birth a few days while driving along Mbagathi way and developed complications shortly thereafter and had to be admitted for further diagnosis.

As we speak, yours truly is a man without a plot and torn between two extremes; go home and sleep my troubles away or just loiter the streets of Nairobi like any other Kenyan.

I settle for the latter as I take a seat at a shoe shining kibandaski. I’ll have a game plan before he’s done with my shoes, I figure.

A few metres away sits two men, one has a stump for a leg, and a wheelchair by his side. His cohort looks just fine in shape and form. Their begging bowls stand in the way of passers-by, almost tripping some.

They are rather animated with stories laden with hearty laughter. I’m intrigued and tune into their conversation.

They are talking about how they both ended up on the streets almost twenty years ago. Half-leg sustained injuries at the hands of his ex-wife one night after he woke up for a glass of water only to find her just staring at him with a face that rattled his every organ to the point of almost wetting himself.

His worries would be confirmed in a bit as she set on him with a panga that lay on the floor aiming for his tenders but missed by an inch and instead landed on his thigh.

He fled never to return. The wound festered and doctors advised amputation to avoid future complications. The rest is history, they say.

The other chap was a construction worker, until that is, a nine-by-nine brick came hurtling from the third floor landing on his head, subsequently sending him into a three-week coma.

 He woke up later but had lost the motor functions of his left leg and arm. With no one to turn to, he ended up on the streets as a last resort.

That, however, is not what has me glued into their talk wearing my silly face. No. Far from it. In fact, it’s something else altogether! I soon gather that they are landlords!

Both of them, no less! Half-leg is almost done with the shutter at his Ngong flats project, while Coma has just finished the paint work at Embakasi!

Through a trust fund, they have managed to save enough from their meagre beggings which has enabled them to accomplish it all!

My street life is virtually over, Coma says with a big smile. You can say that again, and retire before fifty. Half-leg replies.

I take one good look at the men; I mean, a really good one and for the life of me, see nothing apart from two cripples slogging through life.

Then in a fleeting moment, I reflect on my own life and take stock, scratching my beard. I see nothing but irony and inconsistencies there.

 The silly look on my face refuses to go away. “Boss, iko sawa!” The shoe shiner retracts me back to the present with a nudge.

Perhaps I should consider the trade that is begging. Hii taxi haileti shangwe! I figure, adjusting my suspenders ready to leave.

I just need to make sure that whatever lands me on the streets doesn’t kill me first. But what!