The Boda Ride

Nairobi roads— chaos alive. Trailers thunder. Matatus slice. Horns scream. Engines growl. And me? I’m just holding on. On a boda. No helmet. No shield. Only faith— and the grip of my hands tight on a stranger’s back. He swerves wrong side, threads through spaces too thin for breath. I stop breathing. Heart racing. Mind pleading— God, just let me arrive. But time is cruel. And the boda— the boda is a gamble. Reckless. Raw. Yet faster than traffic, faster than lateness, faster than regret. They say: On these roads, assume you are the only sane one. So I scan the crowd, choose the older riders, wrinkles written in patience, grey hairs painted in caution. That’s my hope. That’s my logic. That’s my prayer. And today— by mercy, by grace— I step off. Feet on holy ground. Heart still pounding. Breath still catching. But safe. Sound. Grateful.