HOPE, HURT AND HOMELAND

Sweat trickled down my forehead, the sun an unrelenting tyrant overhead. I leaned against the wall, crouched, and even tried a half-sit that left my thighs trembling. My legs ached terribly. Despite arriving at the crack of dawn, I was still standing here six hours later, clutching my documents and praying to be served.

The crowd was suffocating. It wasn’t just us, the hopeful applicants, but an army of hustlers looking to make a quick buck. Hawkers darted through the throng, calling out their wares: “Umbrellas for the sun! Snacks, fresh snacks! Pens for your documents!” A man nearby whispered, “Bro, need a shortcut? For 1,000 bob, I can get you in faster.” Desperation had turned everyone into opportunists.

“Eh, these lines, my friend,” muttered an older man next to me, shaking his head. “Even if you come early, it’s all about who you know. Connections, or pesa. That’s what moves things in this country.”
I nodded grimly. He wasn’t wrong.

“Those renewing passports, step forward! The rest, move back!” barked a guard at the gate.

The line shuffled, a chaotic surge forward. I found myself behind a young woman holding a brown envelope like mine. Her caramel skin glowed under the sun, and her afro was neatly styled, her edges framing her delicate face.

“Pole sana,” I said, breaking the ice. “These queues are something else.”
She sighed, shifting her weight. “Eh, it’s madness. I’ve been here since four. But I can’t leave without this passport. It’s my ticket out.”

“Out? Where are you going?”
“Saudi Arabia,” she said with a hint of pride. “I’m one of the nurses selected to work there.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Congratulations. But... aren’t you worried? I’ve heard stories—some women end up in bad situations.”

She laughed bitterly. “You think staying here is any better? At the hospital where I worked, people died every day. No medicine, no equipment. Doctors were too busy in their private clinics. And us? We got nothing but prayers to offer patients.” Her voice cracked, and she looked away. “This... this is my only hope.”

I hesitated. Her optimism clashed with the grim reality I’d seen in news reports—young women lured abroad, only to face modern-day slavery. I wanted to warn her, but how could I extinguish her hope when it was all she had?

As we spoke, I found my mind drifting to Mueni.

Mueni. Even now, her name stirred a knot in my chest. She was my first love, a girl with eyes that sparkled like stars over Mombasa nights. We had made promises—vows whispered under a moonlit sky—that after school, we would marry. I still remembered our first kiss. It was clumsy, rushed, and perfect in its imperfection.

But promises are fragile things. While I sat my national exams, Mueni’s parents decided her fate. A rich Swahili man from Zanzibar arrived with his potbelly, gold chains, and a dowry that made their eyes gleam. Cows, camels, cash, and gold. It was more than they could have hoped for.

I was shattered. I couldn’t eat for days, haunted by thoughts of her trapped with a man old enough to be her father. I imagined his bloated frame, his fingers on her skin. My stomach churned with disgust, not just for him but for the system that reduced love to a transaction.

“Yusuf,” my mother had said when she found me brooding one evening, “you must let it go. Life is not fair, but you are strong. Your time will come.”

Perhaps she was right. But even now, standing in this endless queue, I wondered if I had ever really let Mueni go.

Leila’s voice pulled me back to the present. “Yusuf, you’ve gone quiet. What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, just... life,” I said vaguely.

Her lips curled into a faint smile. “Life here is tough, huh?”

“It is,” I admitted. “But it’s also all we’ve known. Leaving... it’s not always as easy as it sounds.”

She tilted her head, studying me. “You speak like someone who has seen things. What’s your story?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but a commotion near the gate interrupted. Two men had pushed forward, demanding to be let in, while the guard shouted at them to step back. The crowd surged, voices rising in anger. Leila clutched her envelope tighter.

“This isn’t going to end well,” she murmured.

I nodded. The frustration of waiting, the injustice of favoritism, and the desperation to be served were a volatile mix. A woman in front of us fainted, and people scrambled to help her. But the line barely moved.

As the chaos simmered, my thoughts raced. Leila’s hope, the memory of Mueni’s betrayal, the stark reality of our broken country—everything collided in my mind.

When my turn finally came, I stepped into the suffocating interior of Nyayo House. Behind a desk sat a man in a rumpled suit, his face set in a permanent scowl.

“Habari ya asubuhi,” I greeted him politely.

He barely glanced up. “Wewe umechoka na hii nchi?”

The question, more accusation than inquiry, caught me off guard. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, his tone biting. “Umechoka na Kenya? That’s why you want to leave, si ndio?”

I fumbled for words. “No, sir, I just need my—”

“Wait.” He held up a hand, silencing me.

I watched helplessly as a suited man walked in, bypassing the queue. He greeted the official in Kikuyu, their conversation flowing effortlessly. Papers exchanged hands, and within minutes, the man walked out, his work complete.

The official turned back to me, his scowl deeper than before. “Come back next week,” he said curtly.

“But I’ve been waiting all morning,” I protested.

“I said next week!” he snapped, his voice rising.

Humiliated, I stepped aside, my chest tight with frustration. As I left the building, Leila caught my eye and offered a sympathetic smile.

Outside, the sun blazed hotter than before. The weight of the system bore down on me, a reminder of why so many dreamed of leaving. Yet as I looked at the homeless men across the street and the hawkers still weaving through the crowd, I couldn’t shake the question: Was leaving the answer?

“Yusuf,” Leila said, her voice softer now. “Do you think it’ll ever change?”

I stared at her, unsure how to answer. The hope in her eyes seemed fragile, like glass on the edge of a table. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But maybe... maybe people like us can make it better.”