“What do we need to do to always have a life like today?“ Kali asked in the dark.
“It's not possible. Even those who do it sometimes do it because they work or steal on other days.”
“Can we do it again tomorrow?”
“Maybe the day after tomorrow,” Hussein reassured him.
“And then what will happen?”
“We'll go back to Wajir and tell our people that we got lost in the desert.”
“I don't want to go back to Wajir!“ said Moko firmly.
“Where do you want to go?”
“I want to stay here and find a job. Any job is better than herding cows for a plate of rice and beans.”
“I want to be a driver like Nyongo!” said Kali.
“I'll be the boss, like you two, stubborn heads... and tomorrow we'll have more fun!” added Hussein.
The three fell asleep in their palace on the third floor of the Riverside, fantasizing about their future lives and reliving that eventful day like a video clip.
They entered Beef & Bitings dressed like Nyongo's real nephews, ate the best grilled meat in the world with a mountain of chips, milkshakes, and Sprite.
Then they went around Uhuru Park, taking lots of photos and selfies, one with Mzee Kenyatta behind them and one with Mzee Nyongo with them. Finally, a fantastic trip to Junction Mall on Ngong Road, with video games and raids on sweets, chocolate, and peanuts at the supermarket. And the warriors' weapons: Moko had chosen a light-up space sword, Kali a machine gun that jammed, and Hussein a switchblade, despite Nyongo's attempts to stop him.
They had said goodbye to the old man just before sunset in Pangani, pretending to be outside their mother's house. From there, they had walked to Eastleigh on adrenaline.
Hussein woke up once again before his friends and climbed up the bathroom pipe.
They had spent only 50,000 shillings, with more than 80,000 left over. But he was certain they couldn't afford another day like the previous one.
“Where are we going today, boss?” were Kali's first words.
“First, we're going to buy two bicycles.”
“Only two?”
“You ride behind me, Kali.”
“But...”
“Then when Moko gets tired, you take over. We have to save money!”
“What are we going to eat?”
“There's a Somali place that makes chapati with chicken and other delicious things inside. My mother took me there once.”
They didn't need to hire an adult to rent the bikes.
They found them at a bravi with a red beard on Eighth Street. Two small, aggressive black biker bikes, easy to wheelie.
“Our posh shirts aren't right for these,“ said the boss.
“We need to buy a T-shirt and a cap each!” confirmed Moko.
Moko and Kali had no doubts when they saw the stall: Liverpool shirts. For Moko, Salah's number 11 (“his name is Mohamed, like me”), for Kali, the Kenyan Origi's number 27.
Hussein preferred a flamboyant German national team shirt with a huge black bird of prey with a snake's tongue and lion's paws printed on it. One was wielding a sword, the other a quiver of arrows.
They roamed far and wide through Eastleigh and Kariobangi, dodging cars, motorcycles, and shacks on the sides of busy streets, slipping into alleys that often led nowhere, climbing hills created by garbage, and jumping over greenish ditches with terrible smells.
“Enjoy it, Kali, enjoy it!”
Before the astonished eyes of the youngest of the three, the imposing structure of the Kasarani stadium appeared.
“Fantastic!”
“Shall we try to get in?”
It wasn't difficult to bribe one of the askaris. A thousand shillings was enough.
They left their bicycles in the gatehouse and walked onto the grass where their national team was playing.
“Wanyama, Johanna, Olunga!”
They improvised a game without a ball, with triangles, headers, and sprints from midfield to the huge goal. Here, an invisible cross from Hussein was deflected with the heel by Moko for Kali's decisive diving header. The three ran in circles to the corner flag, shouting like crazy, and then went under the curve to pay homage to the fans.
Kali thought he distinctly heard “Iugnevauoccalon iugnevauoccalon...”
The askari brought them back to reality.
“The federation officials will be here soon, you have to leave.”
“Okay... just wait a minute! With a thousand shillings, we'll at least be entitled to a few photos?”
Salah and Origi posing on the penalty spot, the best one.
Hussein couldn't find the Somali chapati restaurant, but perhaps that was just an excuse to end up in the street where his mother lived. They stayed on the corner for a few minutes, then from a distance the boss saw Kyra coming out and signaled to Moko to ride on.
They found chapati even better than he remembered in New Mathare and returned to the hotel.
The owner was beginning to wonder who these three spoiled kids were, especially since their father was so unassuming, albeit cultured and elegant. Upon entering their room, he had noticed packets of cookies, candy wrappers, bags of peanuts, and boxes of fruit juice, as well as Strathmore College student clothing.
“So your father is coming to pick you up tomorrow morning?” he asked Hussein.
“Eh... yes, he should... but if he doesn't, he sent me money in mpesa and I can pay another day.”
“We don't accept unaccompanied children.”
“Not even with a thousand extra shillings.”
“Per head, though.”
“Deal, including bike parking!”
“Are they yours?”
“Of course, we didn't steal them... we bought them from Sheikh Barbarossa on Eighth Street... want to see the receipt?”
Lola had stopped halfway up the stairs to listen to the conversation.
Her faux leather miniskirt was so short that if her swollen thighs hadn't been pressed together, standing in Moko's position, about to climb the first step, the African origin of the world would have been revealed to him. The girl signaled to her partner Debbie to hurry up.
“Hey, guys! You look so cool in those T-shirts... I wonder how much they cost.”
“At least a thousand shillings each,“ said Debbie, slightly slimmer than Lola and sheathed in a gold-colored tube dress that looked like mayonnaise waiting to be squeezed.
“Dad treats us well, he's a businessman,” replied Hussein, without deigning to glance at her.
“I'd like to meet your father,” Lola winked.
Her intuition and experience directed her to the hesitant Moko, who, like a teenage Moses of the internet age, was perhaps waiting for his thighs to separate.
“In the meantime, the five of us can be friends, what do you say? We have another friend too... I saw you have a Samsung... shall we take some selfies in our room? I want to wear your T-shirt!”
“I want Origi, he's so hot!” said Debbie, turning around and shaking the bottom of the mayonnaise tube from side to side.
The two Liverpool fans smiled and started to follow them, but Hussein blocked their way with his body pressed against the wall and his arm on the balcony railing like a railroad crossing.
“Sorry, ladies, but my dad won't let us go into other rooms or let other people into ours.”
“Hey, we're not strangers... we live here, everyone knows us...”
At the sight of a woman dressed up like his mother, Hussein became colder and more mature than any 18-year-old in Wajir.
“The day you introduce me to your husband, maybe we'll go for a cup of tea together.”
“Fuck off, spider... who do you think you are... you don't know anything about life, about love... we just wanted to entertain you... we know how to deal with people your age.”
“I know how to deal with girls MY age too,” Hussein concluded, while Moko and Kali leaned on his arm like parakeets on a perch, with a look somewhere between resignation and admiration for their leader.
The FA Cup final was scheduled for that evening.
Two young Masai men were enough to get them into Da Place on 18th Street. The three ordered three Tangawizis and enjoyed the first game of their lives sitting at a table in a pub.
“They serve food here too!” Kali pointed out, indicating the grills in a small garden surrounded by dwarf palm trees.
They ordered three half chickens, stewed cabbage, and the usual, inevitable French fries.
“Shall we try?“ Moko suddenly asked, looking at his friends with a challenging gaze and pointing to the Tusker logo painted on the wall.
“They'll never give it to us...” said Kali.
Hussein didn't care about drinking; he knew he would soon crave the brown bottle again.
But he was the boss and couldn't refuse the challenge.
“You can do anything if you pay for it.”
The bartender scanned the room to make sure there were no cops around.
One Pilsner cost them exactly double.
The second one cost three times as much.
When Manchester City scored their fourth goal, the three staggered out of the bar and headed home.
It wasn't very late, and the sugar fermentation had run its course.
“Let's go for a bike ride at night... cool!”
“Yeah, let's go to the CBD!” shouted Kali.
“Shhh... what CBD, they'll arrest us right away... let's stay here in Eastleigh, in Mathare if anything.”
Moko struggled to keep up with Hussein, despite carrying a tarantula that was flailing its arms and legs as if in the throes of an epileptic fit, and gave him directions with his now legendary impalpable slaps.
If he managed to get on the right track, he would catch up with him at the corner and seemed to be able to overtake him. This was the case for a moment as they zigzagged between a comatose old man, an abandoned cart, and two cables supporting a rickety lamppost. Then, on the straight stretch of First Avenue, Hussein caught up, but when they turned onto Eighth to return to the hotel, there was still a margin. But then the unexpected happened: a fat woman with a bag almost bigger than herself emerged from a small door, carrying second-hand underwear to sell at the Bus Stage market in Kariobangi. Hussein was riding on the side of the road and managed to avoid her, swerving into a parked Probox and throwing Kali off the seat. Moko, busy chasing with his head down, crashed into the large woman, hitting her shoulder with the handlebars, remaining face to face with her for a moment and sending most of the thongs and bras flying into the air.
“You bastards!” screamed the unfortunate woman from the ground.
Moko straightened the handlebars and decided it wasn't worth stopping to help her.
Hussein had picked up Kali and was already turning onto 11th Street.
From the corner of the two streets, a short, stocky individual with the air of an askari on leave saw the scene and hurried to help the woman.
“Little hooligans, they almost broke my arm... and look at my merchandise. Please, Nasser, give me a hand picking it up... but this isn't over... do you know that gang?”
“Everyone's been talking about them since yesterday... they always have money in their pockets and sleep at the Riverside... it seems their father left them there, paying, and hasn't come back to get them yet. Until now, they've behaved themselves.”
“Yes, but the one who attacked me smelled of alcohol and couldn't have been more than twelve years old!”
“Ah, that's serious...” said the short man, ”as a volunteer patrolman for Nyumba Kumi, I'll have to notify the local police tomorrow.”
“Good, Nasser, and they'll have to pay for my torn suit and medical treatment for my shoulder.”
Everything was quiet at the Riverside. Hussein noticed that someone had entered room 313 and moved his space sword.
He shuddered and rushed to the bathroom pipe.
All thirty thousand shillings were still there.
He did the math in his head: 8,000 to get back to Wajir, including the matatus to Nairobi and one last lunch fit for a king, 6,000 for another day at the hotel, and the rest for his last purchases.
Kali had already collapsed but was tossing and turning in bed, complaining about the bruises from the fall, while Moko was decidedly tipsy and munching noisily on coconut biscuits.
No, he would never make it alone in Nairobbery.

(end of episode four - tuesday is the final episode)
Photo by Leni Frau