C2 LAST NIGHT IN UMOJA

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I went back to Umoja with 500k in my phone and I didn't know how to walk.

Matatu stage, everyone shouting "Rongai! Rongai! Umoja! Inner! Inner!" Same noise, same dust, same smell of fried chips and open sewage that we breathe daily like air. Women with big sacks, men with mkokoteni, preachers with loudspeaker shouting "Yesu anakuja!" Nothing changed. But I was no longer same. In my small Nokia bag was a contract that said I was wife to a billionaire. Paper that smelled like Runda perfume and said AMARA WANJIKU KING.

500k. Half a million. In my M-Pesa. I kept checking M-Pesa balance because I thought Safaricom made mistake. 500,000.00. Last week I was begging mama mboga to give me 50 bob credit for tomatoes. Today I could buy the whole mama mboga stall.

My bedsitter door was open. That door never locks, lock broken 3 months. Mama was sitting on the floor, trying to wash my small brother Brian's uniform, her hands shaking too much to hold soap. Water was grey. Her legs swollen like she sat on them. She saw me and smiled yellow smile, teeth yellow from illness.

"Amara, you came early? Hospital said you went?"

I knelt on that cold floor that we share with cockroaches and hugged her. She smelled like medicine and sweat and Dettol we use to clean her wounds.

"Mama, we have money. For hospital. For transplant."

She pushed me away, scared. "Where? You stole? Amara you stole? Police will come! Did you go to those loan apps?"

Her fear was real. In Eastlands, when young girl gets money fast, everyone thinks she sold body or joined illuminati.

I could not tell her I sold myself for one year marriage to a man who didn't love me, who thought I smelled like Gikomba. So I lied. First big lie of many.

"I got job, Mama. Big company in Runda. PA to CEO. Salary advance, they give advance because I'm good. Real job, with contract."

She looked at phone again. She cannot read well, but she can read numbers. "Five... five hundred thousand? For PA job? Amara what company gives 500k advance? Is it Wash Wash?"

"Mama it's King Group. They build houses, they have money. They liked me because I'm honest."

Brian jumped from corner where he was doing homework on floor with no light. He was 9, but small for age because no food sometimes.

"Runda! Sister will live in Runda? With swimming pool? And big gate? And dog? Like on Citizen TV?"

He thought Runda was America. He never went beyond Donholm.

I started packing. One bag, Ethan said one bag only, Carol repeated three times — "Boss hates clutter, one bag." What do you pack when leaving Umoja forever? When you leave the life you knew for 23 years? I had two dresses, one borrowed from Njeri last December for church, one jeans that had hole behind that I cover with long top. I had one bra good, two bad. I had plastic slippers, one school bag with my certificates — KCPE 348, KCSE B-, Certificate in Hairdressing from Umoja Polytechnic that I never used because no capital.

I took Mama's old Bible, small Kikuyu Bible with her name Wanjiku written inside 1989. I took photo of my father, dead father in military uniform that was not his, it was borrowed for photo.

Njeri came. My neighbor, my sister, my only friend since Class 2. She entered without knocking, like always, with two samosas.

"Eh Amara, you are leaving? Landlord was shouting you are making noise packing. He said if you leave without paying January rent he will burn your mattress."

She saw my one bag, saw my face red from crying.

I hugged her so tight samosas fell.

"Njeri, I'm moving. Runda. Today."

She laughed, loud, "Runda? Weh! Stop jokes, you? Runda where they don't even allow boda?"

Then she saw my eyes were serious and my M-Pesa balance. I showed her phone.

She screamed. Real scream. "WEEEH! AMARA YOU WHAT? 500K? Did you win SportPesa?"

I pulled her inside, closed curtain that is our door.

"I married," I whispered.

She screamed again, louder. "YOU WHAT? YOU MARRIED? WHO? THAT BODA GUY WHO GIVES YOU FREE RIDE?"

I told her everything fast, fast, because car was coming. Contract. One year. 3M total, 500k advance today, 2.5M after divorce. Ethan King, billionaire heir, cold like mortuary fridge. No love, no sex, just act wife for grandfather will. If I fail, I pay back 500k plus interest, I could go to jail.

She sat on my mattress, which was on floor, no bed.

"Weh! Amara you will be wife of mzungu? That Ethan King I saw on Instagram? He is fine! Fine like... like... like those Nigerian movies! And rich! Amara you have hit jackpot!"

"Fine and cold like Kenyatta Hospital mortuary," I said. "He looked at me like I was mitumba. He said I smell."

We laughed. Then we cried. Because we knew after tomorrow, I will not be Umoja girl. Runda changes people. My cousin went to work in Karen as maid, after one month she no longer answered our calls, she said Umoja has dust.

Njeri held my hand. "Amara, remember us. Don't become those Runda wives who speak through nose. And don't let him beat you. If he beats, run back, we will beat him with sufuria."

We promised.

Night came. Last night in Eastlands. Dogs barking, gengetone from next door full bass shaking our iron sheet wall, church loudspeaker across road shouting "TUNAPOKARIBIA MWISHO..." Pastors never sleep in Umoja. I sat outside on small stool with Mama, looking at sky that you can't see stars because of too much light from security lights.

Mama was better small because I bought her good medicine with 5k from the 500k. Her eyes less yellow.

"Mama, I will take you to Aga Khan tomorrow. Best hospital. No more Kenyatta queue. You will get dialysis every day, not once a week."

She held my hand, thin bones, veins green.

"Amara, don't do bad things for me. I am old. I lived. If God wants me to go, let me go. Don't sell your body, don't sell your soul. I didn't raise you to be small wife for rich man who will use and throw."

Tears came.

"God wants you to live," I said hard, angry because I was scared. "God brought this chance. It's not selling body, it's job. Like acting. One year only."

She didn't believe, but she nodded because she was tired.

Brian slept on my lap, his head big. He asked sleepy, "Sister, will you forget us when you become rich? Will you still eat omena with us? Will you still speak sheng?"

I kissed his head that had no oil because oil finished.

"Never. This is just one year. I will come back and we will open that chapati shop you want, big one, near stage. And we will buy that plot in Joska."

But inside I was scared. Runda people don't come back to Umoja. Runda people start saying "Eastlands is insecure." I was scared I would forget how to speak sheng. I was scared I would become like Ethan's mother.

At 4am, a car came. Not matatu. Not even normal car. Black Range Rover V8, 2023, shiny even in darkness. It parked outside my plot and everyone woke up to look — landlord, mama mboga, chang'aa seller, even dogs quiet. No car like that ever entered Umoja Inner, our roads have big potholes. Door opened, Carol, with driver in suit.

"Amara, boss says you should come early. Wedding dress fitting at 6am. And media will come at 9am, so you must learn how to smile."

Wedding dress fitting. Me, who wears second-hand dresses that Njeri fixes with needle.

I carried my one bag, Nokia bag with broken zip held by safety pin. Mama cried, real tears now. Brian cried, hugging my leg. Njeri held them, crying too. Landlord stood far, not shouting for rent for first time.

I entered that Range Rover and smelled leather that cost more than our plot rent for 10 years. Seat was warm, like sitting on cloud. Driver closed door soft, _phew_, not like matatu _BANG_.

As car drove off, over potholes slowly, I looked back through tinted window. Umoja getting small. My whole life — that bedsitter with cockroach, that Gikomba stall with bras, that hospital bench where I cried — getting small, disappearing in dust.

Carol said without looking at me, "Don't look back, Amara. Runda girls don't look back at Eastlands. If you look back, you will never survive in Runda."

We passed Outer Ring Road, then entered Runda gates and my cheap phone rang. Unknown number. Ethan. Voice cold, no hello.

"Amara. Rule number one. From today, you don't speak sheng in my house. You don't wear those Umoja dresses outside. You don't say you are from Eastlands. You are now Amara King. You went to Riara, not Umoja Primary. You met me at Sankara, not Facebook. Understand?"

I held phone tight with sweaty hands, leaving marks on screen. The Range Rover was passing mansions bigger than our whole church, with flowers and askari and electric fence.

"Yes," I whispered, voice shaking.

"Good. Second rule. Don't fall in love with me. You will get hurt. I don't love you. I will never love a Gikomba girl. This is business."

Phone cut.

I looked at my hands. Rough hands from washing clothes for neighbors for 200 bob per bundle. Tomorrow those hands will wear diamond ring worth 800k.

Carol touched my rough hand and said, "Don't worry, they have lotion in Runda."

What have I done?

And what will happen when Ethan's family sees these rough hands?