This archive report was first published on 10 May 2020.
On a Saturday night in May 2020, the streets of Nairobi were eerily quiet. The city, home to 4.4 million people, was under a nationwide curfew, and the usually bustling streets were deserted.
As I navigated the city with Weekends Managing Editor Bernard Mwinzi, we encountered a landscape that was both familiar and alien. The smell of dirty water and kerosene stove fumes hung in the air, a constant reminder of the city's informal settlements.
But despite the familiar scent, the silence was unsettling. The usually vibrant neighborhoods of Zimmerman, Kahawa West, and Marurui were dark and still, with only the occasional sound of a car driving by breaking the silence.
As we made our way through the city, we encountered a breakdown truck blocking Thika Road at Mountain Mall. The officers manning the checkpoint were aggressive but not terribly alert, and the road was empty except for a solitary ambulance.
Thika Road Mall was a desolate landscape, with curtains flapping in the wind but no signs of life. The city was a ghost town, with only the occasional sound of a car breaking the silence.
As we continued our journey, we encountered a Probox with dark windows parked on the opposite side of the road, its hazards blazing. The watchmen were still awake, and the vehicles were many, but the streets were empty.
At Uncle Sam in Githurai 44, another Probox was parked off the outbound lane, engine running. The neighborhood was dark, but there was more to it than met the eye.
Nairobi had become like Prohibition-era America, where partying took place behind closed curtains. A blue vehicle with its lights dimmed drove slowly on the opposite lane, and we felt like we were being hunted.
As we made our way through the city, we encountered a dead zone in Kahawa West, where the streets were dark and silent. The Friday night crowds, the mutura and sausage roadside jikos, and the heavy partying crowds were all gone.
Between Kahawa West and Marurui, two loaders were guarding a broken-down truck on the roadside, and we hoped they made it to the morning. Thome was genteel, silent, dark, and asleep, but Kasarani was a different story.
Inside the estate, the roads were lined with vehicles, leaving a narrow path for just one car. It was an ambush waiting to happen, and a drunk couple emerged from a building, clinging to each other for balance. A police officer in uniform followed, his heavy eyelids flapping over eyes like burning coals.
Unlike the road to hell, Mwiki Road was not paved with good intentions. For large sections, the surface was nasty, and there were too many vehicles that seemed to have no business on the road more than three hours into the curfew.
At Sandton, two Subarus pulled alongside in the opposite lane, and the occupants lowered their windows. From the reflections off their face masks, and muzzles, they were packed. You could cut the air of menace with a knife, and a confrontation was postponed as they drove further on and parked on the roadside.
Mwiki had a history of being popular with long-hair, sect people, and there were stories of a man with snuff-encrusted nostrils who would arrive with his mates and a line of beat-up Isuzu Direct trucks, carrying thin layers of construction materials.
