down ngong road

inspired by a meja mwangi reading circle

gladys tells me that she always sets aside the softest mahindi choma (roast maize) for me.

“ah, welcome! my favourite customer!” she beams. the impatient prado behind me hoots, annoyed, swerving recklessly, ignoring my hazards.

“i keep these two fresh fresh for you, including your pili pili,” she says, flashing her signature thousand-kilo-watt smile. “but sometimes when you don’t come, i give it to that young girl, because you know,” she points out a lithe, barely-pregnant twenty-something in a snug sweater dress, who waves at gladys, from her boda. it’s twenty-five degrees but she’s always in the warmest knitwear. sometimes boots.

“nakuombea, my sister,” gladys says. “i pray for you.”

and at that moment, gladys’ mahindi choma, off ngong road, feels like communion.

i’d like to think i am actually her favourite customer. but maybe it’s just a trick she uses with everyone, to make you feel special. she tells me her sister has been in hospital, again. that her grandchild does not like school. she asks me about my two boys, and smiles at the photo i share. “they look smart!”

she is kinder to me than i deserve.

twilight falls, traffic thickens. the lights of the matatus glare brighter. is it me, or are they actually more aggressive at twilight, careening into the road? eager touts confront hurrying crowds, all hustling for rides home.

this moment: this angry snarl of twilight traffic, weighed‑down buses honking into the dark—it’s the closest thing i’ve felt to being back in my hometown of chennai.

and it almost makes me cry with relief and nostalgia.

it’s the sense of equalness. of belonging, amidst the chaos. an invisible thread—of end-of-day-traffic, the hurried, purposeful, home-ward journeys—binding us.

my boys and i play our favourite games while i drive down ngong. which matatus have the best art; a sense of style. they love the anime ones, football clubs, and stylised graffiti tags. “there’s your favourite feminist matatu!” the boys point out. “and that one,” they point to a bare, sky-blue sacco headed towards rongai. “he hasn’t even tried!” they shake their heads in disbelief. “who would ride that?”

we sometimes debate the merits of spending on the massive new stadium that is mushrooming off ngong. there are toilet seats sold right outside it. the satire writes itself. shiny new white elephants grow into existence, next to informal settlements with no sanitation. while porcelain crappers are sold at the entrance.

ngong road, nairobi’s shitty crucible of impossible dreams.

artisans jostle for space on its sidewalks. a corrugated metal giraffe, ungainly and tall, stands next to graves of wooden beds, motley garden furniture, lamps. funeral homes comfort, next to fruit stalls that ripen with avocados. spare part shops brim with shiny hub caps, rubbing shoulders with a kienyeji chicken shop. dusty expanses, piles of rubble. punctuated with sugarcane juice stands. a spiderman backpack gleams amidst heaps of black and brown handbags, hats, and coats—kenya’s supposedly thriving mitumba industry.

there’s lots to get frustrated about, down ngong road.

the traffic is interminable. the construction is endless. cranes and trucks run you off the road. there are concrete stairwells to nowhere. and yet.

there’s both a grace and a fragile hope that ngong road harbours, that upmarket leafy garden suburbs—as tranquil as they might seem—simply cannot emulate.

is it that construction-site feel of it? signs of a city-in-development, a city that aspires, a symbol of the tenuous promise of failed neoliberal dreams? or is it because it throbs with the undercurrent of this vital human connection—frustration notwithstanding? hawkers thread the gridlocked road—armed with everything from footballs to ubiquitous stephen covey and his seven bloody habits. greasy packets of chips. knife-sharpeners. chess sets. there’s something for everyone. and every man for himself. no one has time for anything, but traffic makes you slowdown enough to be just as important as everyone else.

ngong suddenly juxtaposes the completely different worlds we inhabit—upper class madam that i am, eye-to-eye with the street hawker who works impossibly hard. but just for that fragile moment, there’s a human connection in the chaos. a care—a community, even. a sense of belonging that makes us feel like, despite—or perhaps because of the dust and crowds—we are not alone.

and there’s the hidden gems—the radical feminist bookshop where you can grab a mandazi and cup of tea while listening to nairobi booklovers share their observations of the world. in deliberate, writerly fashion. there’s someone’s favourite seamstress, who conjures up fashionable catwalk replicas, in kitenge and satin alike. there’s the buzzing hair salon, the sleepy clinic, and the computer hub where savvy youth have learnt how to outfox AI. there’s a tiny and endearing art gallery, iridiscent with local art. there’s the used car dealership and the showrooms for middle class interiors. colourful and extraordinary jugglers dodge cement trucks to showcase their skills.

awe abuts the mundane.

ngong road is rife with paradox—and perhaps that is its charm.

in the early evening, ngong pulses with a different heartbeat. there are the intrepid walkers determined to find beauty in the short stretches, dodging traffic. there’s the languid school children, strolling arm-in-arm, savouring fresh smokies. the lab technician, her coat barely concealing her quiet focus. the startup hustler with a spring in his step. the sinewy cyclist, determined to make her day’s fitness goals, steadfast amidst the chaos.

ngong is a lifeline, a never-ending construction site. its angry fingers scrape a jagged line right through the city.

but ngong is also a conversation, quite literally bridging disparate suburbs and settlements that are galaxies apart. it is a maze of angry motorists, cheeky matatu drivers, and fearless boda boda drivers. i have cursed and told people off, more on ngong road, than on all others. i have witnessed bang-ups and fistfights, ungodly accidents, all on this dusty multi-kilometer stretch of almost-tarmac.

i have strong feelings on ngong road. it often brings out the worst in me, and i get enraged, even just thinking of it, sometimes.

it feels like fury.

but then, i remember gladys.

holding me in her heart, praying for me. setting her softest maize aside for me, her favourite customer.

on the corner of that angry, exasperating, impossible road full of paradoxes and injustices.

she is full of grace.

and i smile.