32 Days of Christmas: Day 3.
My sister studied at KU—the great KU, with its enormous and famous gate. When she was in Uni, I was barely out of primary school. She gave me my first tour of the city, back when coming to Nairobi was still a dream to me. I remember when we arrived to take her for admission day, we used my uncle’s old double-cabin pickup. Driving along Thika Superhighway felt like driving in a foreign city, and normal city things like the KU gate mesmerized me.
Amidst all that amazement, I didn’t own a phone at the time. Again, I was barely out of primary school. My sister had a phone though. Since she had studied in Wepukulu’s backyard in Bunyore, the city wasn’t familiar territory to either of us. We didn’t know there were people who made a living out of relieving people of their belongings. We casually strolled around KU’s massive campus with her phone almost always in her back pocket. Our uncle warned her—and us too—to take care of our stuff, to keep our belongings out of sight. At that time, comrades could afford ugali for seven shillings, so they weren’t hungry enough to prey on others. It was outsiders he warned us about: people masquerading as students who would steal your things.
I personally didn’t believe that was actually a thing. I had grown up in the merry, communal life of the sugarcane plantations in Nyanza. Even the cane cutters weren’t the type to steal your phone from your pocket. Unless you wandered into their work area (the plantations), then they’d remind you to stay in your lane.
I don’t know if my sister heeded, or even heard, our uncle’s advice, because in her four-plus years at Uni, her phone was stolen at least twice. I remember her calls home to my mom every time it happened. New numbers that took my mom more than two rings to answer. On the other end would be my sister, crying and probably panicking over yet another lost phone. I used to overhear those calls and blame her for being irresponsible.
Until I lost my aunt’s phone at a graduation ceremony at the KMTC on Mbagathi Road. She had trusted me to hold her phone, and I had foolishly put it in my back pocket while she went to greet a few friends. By the time I was walking back to our car, my trousers felt lighter, and my pocket empty. I remember being dizzy for a minute. I was introduced to the city’s way of life well before my time, and since then I’ve always been cautious. Once bitten, twice shy kind of thing.
A year ago on this exact date, my friend was also introduced to a certain way of life. This time far from the city.
Let’s call her Belinda.
She was a freshman who had just joined the varsity choir. A songbird, with a voice as beautiful as herself. One day, after a rough start to classes with exasperating lecturers, she went for choir practice as usual—gassed and excited for this new adventure in her life. The practices were always after class, so she had her bag with her. Her trousers that day didn’t have pockets, nor did her blouse. So the most sensible thing to do was put her phone in her bag as she went on stage to practice. It would have hindered her singing and dancing if she’d had it on her. There was also no one around to hold it for her. Trust with her new colleagues hadn’t been established yet.
As the singing and dancing went on, Belinda’s eyes were always on her bag, fully aware of the dangers of leaving your belongings around campus. I, being the good and experienced friend I am, had already warned her to be vigilant. She didn’t get that phone easily, and she knew it.
But I wouldn’t be writing this story if she still had her phone after practice, would I? The thief was swift and tactical. He (I’m assuming it was a he, because I don’t want the feminists attacking me) pounced at just the right moment—when my friend was wiping sweat off her brow. Her phone, which was hidden under a pile of voluminous books (you know how freshers are), was… gone!
Panic.
Fast heartbeat.
Denial.
Denial is always the first emotion. No one ever believes their phone could be stolen from them, until all your pockets are out and the ringing in your head has gone silent. That’s when it hits you that it’s gone, swinging in someone else’s pocket like a newly married couple.
She couldn’t believe it. This was a whole new feeling for her. She’d never lost anything before. She hadn’t yet been inducted into the way of life I had been introduced to at an early age. It’s a disgusting feeling to be robbed. Like someone held a knife to your heart, because you want to die but also live long enough to search for your phone.
The hall had cleared by then. All the other choir members had long gone to supper with their phones. She still stood there, ransacking her bag, hoping her phone would appear miraculously out of one of the pockets. She didn’t know whether to scream or cry. Whether to follow everyone who’d been at practice and check their bags. Whether to report it immediately or not. All her money was there. Her chats, contacts, school documents, photos—the whole lot.
To make things worse, it was a new phone. Barely four months old. It was like a baby to her—or so she put it. Imagine someone stealing your baby. That’s how she felt. Her friend Ginger (no, she isn’t red like Ed Sheeran) saw her standing there, flicking her bag up and down, tears welling in her eyes. Being the good friend she is, Ginger immediately realized the phone was gone. And like with a grieving person, you don’t say “Sorry, all will be well” right away. You let them process their emotions and let them out however they please.
Ginger was there for her. She let her cry and go through all the stages of grief. She endured her anger at everyone and everything. She listened as she bargained with the universe to return her phone safely—even offering to pay a ransom. She was there when Belinda was depressed for weeks, when she cried herself to sleep every night in their hostel, grieving her phone. When trauma made Belinda start locking her hostel doors at 6 p.m., afraid someone would steal Ginger’s or her other roommates’ phones too. When she’d wake up in the middle of the night to check if the phone fairy had placed it under her pillow, whispering, “Walai nikipata hii simu yangu tena sitarudia.” Ginger was there. Let’s all strive to be a friend like Ginger.
When she finally completed her grieving and accepted that her phone was gone, I gathered the courage to tell her I was sorry. Happens to the best of us.
But she wasn’t having any of it, because a few weeks earlier on her admission day—in full remembrance of my aunt’s phone—I had warned her to keep her belongings, especially her phone, safe. Reminding her that no one on campus is her brother or sister.
She still claims I jinxed it, and she hasn’t forgiven me for it a year later.
✍🏽Reagan.