FINGERS FOR A LIVING

FINGERS FOR A LIVING

If morality were stripped away from the conversation, Korogocho would still remain a difficult place for many to call home. Yet, hidden beneath its rough edges lies a peculiar charm. It is a settlement where countless worlds collide within a maze of dusty paths and corrugated iron roofs. Here, dreamers and disappointments share the same space. Hustlers walk alongside preachers. Children chase worn-out footballs through narrow alleys while grandmothers negotiate over vegetables. The sane coexist with the eccentric, and those searching for purpose mingle freely with those escaping reality through intoxication.

Amid all these contradictions, one profession has stood the test of time with remarkable resilience: pickpocketing.

It is an art refined through necessity and perfected through practice. Quiet, swift, and astonishingly precise, it requires a level of skill that might earn admiration in a different setting. In Korogocho, however, it remains one of the many informal careers born out of survival. For some, life is sustained by nothing more than two fingers.

I have often joked that everyone should be pickpocketed at least once in their lifetime. Not out of malice, but because there are lessons that only loss can teach. Few experiences sharpen awareness more effectively than discovering that your belongings have quietly changed ownership without your permission.

Not long ago, my friend Wario, who also happens to be my in-law, and I embarked on what we proudly described as an important errand. In truth, we were merely pursuing the familiar comfort of khat leaves. Long before the leaves reached our mouths, anticipation alone had already elevated our spirits. Convinced that all was well in the universe, we left our room unlocked and wandered off, placing our faith in the goodwill of our neighbours.

The flaw in our reasoning was painfully simple: our neighbours were equally committed to achieving their own levels of enlightenment.

Before leaving, Wario had plugged his power bank into the wall socket, leaving the charging cable hanging beneath it. To us, it was an ordinary sight. To someone with criminal instincts and sharp observation skills, however, it must have looked like an invitation.

When we returned, the socket stood empty.

The power bank had mysteriously developed legs. The charging cable had apparently decided to accompany it. The only thing left behind was the evidence of our carelessness.

Wario stared at the vacant socket as though the missing gadget might suddenly return and offer an explanation.

"Maybe you moved it," I...