kill imani.

I still remember that Friday night in Kilimani like it was yesterday.

By 9 p.m., Argwings Kodhek Road was glowing. German machines purred at every parking lot—G-Wagons, Range Rovers, M4s, and one matte-black Lamborghini that looked like it paid rent on the road. I had just stepped out of my cousin's old Mazda Demio, trying to look like I belonged.

"Leo tuko high-end, bana," I told myself.

Inside the club, everybody looked expensive. The perfume alone could probably pay my rent. Beautiful women floated from table to table like they owned the building. Every guy was either wearing designer clothes or pretending they were designer.

My friend Kev slapped my shoulder.

"Bro, usiangalie sana. Hapa ukistarehe vibaya, unaweza fikiria waiter ndiye billionaire."

He wasn't lying.

One guy walked in wearing sunglasses at night. Another was carrying a tiny dog that looked wealthier than everyone from my estate.

I laughed.

"Kwani hiyo mbwa inafanya forex?"...