Dark Corners of Mlolongo: A Journey of Unbelievable Encounters

Stuffy. Dingy. Surrounded by corroded iron sheets.

I am struggling to breathe. I think at some point, I totally stopped. My eyes keep moving erratically, hoping to get a sense of the unbelievable scene around me.

"Don't stare, Elsa. I don't think they will like it," I told myself as I hurried to catch up with my two friends.

This was right in the heart of Mlolongo. In a matter of moments, we had traversed three shadowy alleys, passing what I was meant to understand as areas where call girls openly displayed their services to potential customers.

The conversation, which had begun in Detective Odada's well-lit and airy sitting room, had led us to explore a place I had never in my wildest dreams imagined existed.

"Kwani Mathes, hujui there are places where one can get it for Ksh. 50?" Detective Odada inquired.

"Hata twenty!" our other friend exclaimed.

The shock on my face said it all. You see, these two gentlemen have been my friends since my juvenile days. We all grew up in a settlement scheme in Muhoroni and faced the challenges of adapting to city life together. To them, I am known as Mathes, a nickname my parents bestowed upon me in my childhood.

I digress. Back to Mlolongo. Fueled by curiosity, I decided to see for myself. The sight of young, capable girls lining up along the infamous Matharau street was heart-wrenching. At this point, I fought back the urge to cry or to stop and ask why they had resorted to this.

I quickly grasped the way the system operated. The minuscule rooms, barely spacious enough to accommodate a bed and a duffle bag of personal belongings, were under the authority of the proprietors of the dimly lit, stuffy bar.

When a client had imbibed enough and felt an urge, they would discreetly exit through the back door, leading to a row of rooms openly displaying some with scantily clad women seated on the beds.

If a client found their preference, they would enter and negotiate a price, which would then be divided between the call girl and the bar owner. This creates a repetitive cycle that leaves the call girls with only enough for their daily necessities, ensuring their return the next day to lay it all out again.

I am not one to judge. Life has dealt me a few tough hands, but I have also been fortunate to have the support of my family and friends. As we walked through what felt like an eternity, we eventually emerged from the place onto a pedestrian walkway filled with a line of transit lorries.

"Are you okay?" my friends asked as they looked back. I couldn't answer. If I did, my eyelids would have surrendered to the tears welling up in my eyes.

It has been a month since we visited Detective Odada and decided to take a tour around the area. I still experience countless panic attacks when I recall some of the young faces I saw on that street. My skin breaks out in hives when I remember some of those squalid rooms I stole glances at. The stench is still etched in my mind.

They say things happen for a reason. I still wonder why the universe led me there. I resisted the urge to document this experience because I'm uncertain of what more I can contribute. Perhaps you have a suggestion on where we can start.