Running with the river

For some of these girls, long-term boyfriends were a myth. Heck, even short-term ones seemed elusive. It was always one or the other—or neither. And on Valentine’s day, the unspoken rule is that you need at least one serious person to claim as your own. At least that’s how it is to most people. They had none. Whether by choice or unfortunate circumstance, they found themselves plan-less on the day of lovers. So, in a moment of defiance (or sheer boredom), they decided to go swimming in the river flowing behind their school.

I didn’t think people swam in rivers anymore. Social media has accustomed me into believing that only chlorine-filled pools with floating drink holders count as water recreation. But as it turns out, rivers still hold their charm—fast-moving, mysterious, and utterly indifferent to the human experience. Turns out people still relish in the joy of swimming in fast-moving water.

If you ever find yourself drawn to river swimming, here’s some unsolicited advice: don’t overthink what’s floating downstream. If you do, out of sheer disgust, you’ll leap out of the water faster than a cat in a basin of water. Also, avoid making eye contact with the locals scrubbing their garments or washing the sins off their bodies. People get testy when you stare at them naked. (Who wouldn’t?) I’ve come to appreciate clothing more—because, honestly, everyone looks vastly different when bent over a river, scrubbing their undies or rinsing their hairy legs. Also don’t trust every rock you step on as being a rock, or still waters. Wahenga might have been a bunch of jaba fellows but they were still right: still waters do run deep. Literally. Always stick to the moving current.

But back to these girls.

It wasn’t the betrayal of a rock that marred their experience. They were here to escape the endless Instagram posts of flower bouquets and matching sneakers. To make the adventure even better, they tagged along a few of their equally single male friends—because, let’s face it, things are more fun with the opposite gender. Plus, nothing quite fuels male ego like the chance to hold one’s breath underwater for an unreasonably long time, just to impress the ladies. Show them how long you can last at things.

The river was magnificent that midday, winding its way through the dense bushes and tangled thickets that stood guard along its banks, flowing purposefully toward the vast embrace of Victoria. Its surface gleamed under the unforgiving sun, turning it into a shimmering ribbon of gold. Yet beneath that brilliant sheen lay a murky, untold depth—brown and impenetrable, concealing whatever it carried in its ceaseless journey. Rivers take everything in their path—humans, cows, basins, sugarcane, snakes—sweeping away anything that dare cross their path. Takes without discrimination. And when swollen with rage, they don’t just take: they destroy, uprooting even their closest friends, the riverbank bushes.

The four girls made their way down the well-worn path, first hearing the river’s patient murmur, a soft whisper among the reeds. And as they neared, its voice grew—rising from a gentle hum to a full-throated roar, a reminder of its restless power. A few swimmers were already there, plunging into the cool embrace of the water, while others sprawled across a massive sun-warmed rock in their unmentionables, marinating under the midday sun—letting the afternoon drift by in the river’s presence.

As soon as they reached the riverbank, the girls wasted no time. Sand clung briefly to their feet before being washed away as they waded in, the cool water embracing them like an old friend. Shrieks of delight filled the air as they sank deeper, their bodies disappearing into the thick brown waters. It was as if the river had been calling them all along, and now, finally, they had answered. And it was beautiful to look at.

Every time they rose from the river, water dripped down their braided locks, others down to their bosoms, others all the way to their derriere, and a few droplets to their freshly-shaved legs. The midday sun kissed their damp, dark skin, making it shimmer like polished mahogany, each droplet clinging to their curves before sliding off into the rippling water below. Their swimsuits—bold yet teasing—clung to their bodies, outlining their beauty without giving away too much. It hugged them just right, revealing only enough to make you do a double take, but not enough to quench curiosity. One was in a pink swim suit. She adjusted her straps, laughing as she flicked water at her friend in the deep blue two-piece, whose toned thighs peeked from the flow of water below. The other one in the dark swimsuit which blended effortlessly with her rich complexion, leaned back, floating, her long braids fanning out like tendrils on the surface. The fourth and youngest one was more quiet and shy due to all the onlookers. They moved with effortless grace, their bodies gliding through the water, diving beneath and emerging with gasps and laughter, their joy echoing through the riverside.

They climbed onto the broad shoulders of their male friends, shrieking with delight as they tried to push each other off into the water, their laughter ringing louder than the music from the old Bluetooth speaker on the shore—urban gengetone, I believe. The river splashed high as one of them jumped off a rock, a cascade of droplets catching the sunlight, forming tiny rainbows before disappearing back into the depths. Their male friends, enthralled, felt their pulses quicken whenever a thigh brushed theirs under the murky water, but the girls were lost in their own fun, twirling, dipping, and swaying to the rhythm of the songs, only to burst into giggles when they lost their balance. The cool water hugged their skin, clinging to them in ways that made even the onlookers shift in place, envious of the river's touch. But they were here for the thrill, for the raw, unfiltered joy of the moment—nothing more, nothing less.

“There’s a waterfall farther down! Behind those bushes. Let’s go!?” one of them suggested. The one in the blue two-piece. Excited by the idea of extending their little getaway, the other three friends agreed. One of the guys, already exhausted, opted to stay behind, lounging on the sun-warmed rock. They therefore gave him the duty of taking care of the group’s bag of belongings. The Bluetooth speaker had been played to its ends, so it was put in one bag together with the friends’ phones. The other males also opted to head back home; they’d had their fair amount of fun.

Confident that their stuff were safe, they headed out the river, the sand tickling their feet as they left footprints towards the small waterfall nearby. It was everything they had hoped for—majestic, thrilling, and freezing cold. But with the sun overhead, the water quickly warmed their skin. The screams of joy continued. Only one of them had stayed with her phone to capture the moment. They laughed, snapped pictures, and took turns standing under the rushing cascade, allowing the water to cleanse their bodies. All their worries, thoughts and sins had been washed away by that rushing, soothing water. It refreshed them; made them feel a new enthusiasm to continue living amidst their university-induced stress.

Soon it was time to head back. They tiptoed through the brush tickling their legs, giggling as they navigated the uneven path. But as they reached the riverbank, they were greeted by new faces. They didn’t see their friend. It felt as though the world beyond the river had kept turning, while theirs remained frozen beneath the waterfall. New faces had appeared—other people drawn to the refreshing embrace of nature’s waters. Yet, none of the familiar faces remaining had seen their missing friend. Neither did the surrounding crowd, who were too captivated by the striking beauty of the girls to focus on anything else. Their friend was gone. The other male friends ditched, claiming it was a ‘you problem'. The bag was gone. And their hearts immediately sank.

A girl sitting on a rock nearby had seen it all. She had come to the river seeking solitude away from the bustle of campus life, but instead, she became an unwilling witness to unfolding drama. She saw the girls arrive, their laughter filling the air. She saw the men around discreetly take photos of them. She saw them leave for the waterfall. And she saw their so-called “friend” slowly stand up, take the bag, and walk away. It had all unfolded before her eyes without turning a hair of hers.

The girls, now bone-dry and several shades paler thanks to the sun’s relentless assault, were in shambles. The youngest one was at the verge of tears. Fingers pointed in every direction. They blamed the one who suggested leaving their things by the shore. Then they blamed the one who insisted on taking pictures. Why was she the only one who stayed with her phone? Then they blamed themselves for trusting a guy they barely knew.

The observant girl, wasn’t just an observer however. She broke their little blame game. Perhaps out of pity, she told them where the boy lived. Because, lucky for them, he was a local—much like herself. With fresh determination, they made their way toward his home—up the muddy, cow dung-filled path—their frustration momentarily outweighing their embarrassment of walking in nothing but swimsuits, covering only the most crucial parts. The bag which the boy had stolen contained their towels and dry clothes too. It was a terrible situation to be in. They felt shy, shivering from the wind, but they only had two hands to cover themselves and their privacy.

Eventually, they found their bag discarded by the side of the road. “That jerk!” they cursed, yanking it open. Their clothes were still inside—thankfully—but their phones and BT speaker were gone. They quickly dried off and changed into their dry clothes, clicking their tongues in frustration at every chance they got. At least half their problems were solved. Now, their fury shifted to Mark. How could he do this? They had invited him for a swim when he was probably bored to death at home, let him carry them on his shoulders, felt his touch against their wet skin under the water, and even trusted him enough to watch over their phones. And this was how he repaid their kindness? Na-ah. Revenge burned in their eyes. The blame game was over. Now, every ounce of their effort was focused on taking this boy down.

As they neared his home, they found his mother outside, diligently hanging laundry. They composed themselves, exchanged polite greetings (as is customary when addressing an elder), and got straight to the point.

“Is Mark home?” the boldest of them asked. The owner of the blue two-piece.

The mother’s face lit up, her smile warm and inviting. ‘Finally,’ she must have thought, ‘my son is attracting girls.’

“Oh, he was just here! He came back from the river, changed clothes, and left again.”

The girls, devastated, exchanged glances. Before they could reveal Mark’s true nature, the mother interrupted, squinting at their sun-scorched skin.

“You were swimming too, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” the leader admitted. The owner of the blue two-piece. “We left our phones with Mark, and we’ve come to collect them.” She was clever enough not to mention anything to do with theft, or how he had dumped their bag by the roadside like some trash.

The mother, unaware of her son’s thieving tendencies, assured them she hadn’t seen any phones. After all, she was bent over doing laundry, couldn’t see what her son carried home from the river. She even offered them hot porridge as they waited for Mark—an offer they quickly and politely declined, not because they weren’t hungry, but because their rage was bubbling too close to the surface. Deep in their hearts they wanted to burn Mark’s face with that porridge. But it was majorly because they wanted to get back to their hostels, freshen up, at least apply some oil to their skin, and then come back for Mark’s neck. Plus, let’s be honest, they were Fanta Passion baridi type of girls.

The mother eventually accepted their humble declines, though reluctantly, and told them to come back later in the evening when she was certain Mark would be home helping around with the chores. Just as they turned to leave, the creaking of a rusty back gate caught their attention. They whipped around. Mark!

“Ndio huyo!” one of them shouted. Unfortunately, she also made the impulsive mistake of yelling “Mwizi!” while pointing towards Mark’s direction.

Mark bolted, panicking.

The girls didn’t hesitate. They were quick, their movements fueled by anger. They chased him like a man with a price on his head, knowing they couldn’t afford to wait for him to return home—if he even dared. If he got away, their phones would be gone before they could catch their breath.

The self-proclaimed leader was the fastest (the owner of the blue two-piece), tearing through the trees and onto the main road. Shopkeepers paused, eyes wide, as a boy sprinted past, pursued by a dry-skinned young lady with fury etched across her face. Behind her, the rest of the group screamed "Mwizi!"—pointing at the fleeing figure. That was all it took. The entire marketplace turned to watch, and within moments, a few motorcycle riders revved up, joining the chase without a second thought. They didn’t need details; all they saw was a guy who had wronged a group of young girls. You don’t mess with campus girls, especially ones who are willing to chase you down the market.

But Mark was lucky. He had vanished into the thick vegetation surrounding the small shopping center, slipping away before the town could close in on him. And in a place like this, when the whole community is after you—especially boda boda guys—you don’t get second chances. No lawyer in the world could save him from the kind of justice that awaited him had he been caught.

By the time this story reached my desk, Mark had yet to return home. His widowed mother, consumed by fear, pleaded with the authorities to protect him from the wrath of the now enraged townspeople. She never knew her son was a thief. Now, all she wanted was for him to come back alive—even if it meant behind bars.

The girls never recovered their phones, only their bag and clothes. They still wait for Mark to resurface. The residents wait for a fugitive. And a mother waits in agony, praying for a son who may never return.

✍🏽Reagan.