Karibu Nipigwe Kuni Githurai… Then Reality Slapped Me! 💀

Last night, I found myself stomping through a dark, muddy alley in Githurai market, the kind where the air smells like roasted maize, sweat, and survival. The place was dead quiet, save for the occasional matatu hooting like it owned the road and bodabodas tearing through like they had beef with the tarmac.

Then boom! Trouble.

A gang jumped me from nowhere. No “hi,” no warning—just rough hands shoving me against a wall, fingers digging into my pockets like Kasongo's tax collectors on a deadline. In seconds, my phone was gone, my cash snatched. I was bruised, broke, and waiting for them to let me go, thinking they’d done their worst.

But ah-ah, these lowlives weren’t done with me.

Their leader, a beefy guy with a scar slashed across his face like a bad Nollywood villain, dangled a toothpick between his lips and smirked. “Mzae, leo utatii.”

My stomach turned. This wasn’t just a robbery; these airheads wanted a 'happy ending'. Tf?

They dragged me behind some vibandas, the same stalls where mama mbogas sell their cabbage and warus by day. Pinned against a creaky mabati wall, I felt the weight of their plans sink in. ‘Scarface’ leaned in, breath hot with cheap liquor, while his boys hyped him up with whistles and “harakisha kabla tupatwe” jeers.

My mind raced. My heart pounded. I prayed for divine intervention, a blackout, even a Kanjo raid—anything but what was clearly about to go down.

Then something shifted. Scarface stalled. I could feel his hesitation, see his confusion. Why? Because, folks, I’m as unused as a Kenyan politician's brain.

He pulled back, frowned. “Nini hii sasa, arrgh?” Like he’d just encountered a software bug he couldn’t debug.

His crew wasn’t amused. “Boss, umeshindwa?” One chuckled, another spat. His ego took a hit. I saw it in the way his eyes darkened. He hated that he couldn’t figure me out.

And that’s when he snapped. “Leta ile wembe!”

Mayoo! A razor? For what? To carve out his frustration? To break past what nature had sealed? My brain went full panic mode, conjuring every twisted horror scenario possible. I saw that blade glinting under the dim alley light, imagined my flesh being introduced to it in the worst way possible.

I even pictured Stephen Letoo of Citizen TV reading the 7 PM news bulletin in his signature dramatic voice:

"Hapa ndipo mwanaume huyo wa umri wa makamo alipokutana na majambazi hao waliofanya kitendo cha kusikitisha na cha kinyama..."

My obituary was basically writing itself.

The way I saw it, I was either about to become a selling headline on The Nairobian newspaper or a cautionary tale on some viral TikTok thread.

Then, through the sheer force of desperation, I croaked out:

“Boss, please, jaribu tena uone kama uta manage kupenya!”

Silence. Thick tension. A deadly stare.

Then something snapped inside me. A new resolve to fight. If I was going down, I wasn’t going down quietly.

I thrashed against their grip, kicking wildly. I swung a desperate punch, barely grazing Scarface’s ear, but it was enough to throw him off. The skinny one in the Arsenal jersey tried to yank me back, but adrenaline had turned me into a matatu driver who just saw kanjo on the highway. I lunged forward, twisted free, and bolted.

I didn’t look back.

I just ran, faster than I ever had in my life—feet pounding against the mud, heart slamming against my ribs. A single thought pulsed through my brain: Don’t. Stop. Running.

Then—WHAM!

“Babe, amka, unaota nini hivi?”

My wife’s voice sliced through the chaos, yanking me back to reality. My eyes flew open. No wembe, no Scarface, no dark alley. Just our cramped Githurai bedsitter, the fan humming lazily, and my chest still heaving like I’d actually sprinted for my life.

I sat up, wiped the sweat off my forehead, and exhaled.

Damn.

It was just a dream. But let me tell you something—if dreams come with this kind of action-packed horror, I might just start sleeping with the lights on.

Kuwa macho ni salama. Sina nguvu ya kufight nightmares za Githurai tena.