THE CULTIVATED CITY

They told us—

Hustle.

Wake up before the rooster.

Chase the sun like it owes you rent.

Plan your life like effort is enough.

But nobody warned us that in this country,

hard work is not currency.

I come from a place where hope

is sold in plastic bags—

ten bob dreams,

twenty bob faith,

no receipt.

Where mothers pray over biashara

that never get licenses

and fathers die knowing

their sweat built cities

they were never allowed to enter.

Welcome to The Cultivated City.

Where skyscrapers rise faster

than minimum wage,

and roads are smooth only

where power lives.

In Nairobi,

dreams die quietly at Huduma Centres.

“Come back tomorrow.”

Tomorrow becomes a year.

A year becomes a life.

You queue with certificates

like begging bowls.

Degree?

Masters?

PhD?

They look at you and ask:

“Who sent you?”

Because in this city,

qualifications...