The Midnight passenger at Miti Moja

The mist in Nakuru doesn't just sit; it crawls. It’s that heavy, grey blanket that smells of wet cedar and charcoal smoke. It was pushing 11:30 PM, and the stage was deserted, save for a few drunkards and a stray dog shivering near a closed kiosk.

Jomo was desperate. His daughter, Ciku, was graduating from UoN the next morning. He had her gift—a gold-plated watch wrapped in a Sunday newspaper—clutched tight in his jacket pocket. He couldn’t miss that bus.

Then, out of the fog, a white Nissan matatu slid into the bay. No engine noise. No *manamba* shouting "Nai! Nai! Sato!" It just... appeared. On the back, written in that old-school calligraphy, was the name: **AMANI**.

The conductor climbed out. He was unusually tall, wearing a brown trench coat that had seen better decades. He didn't look at Jomo. He just tapped the side of the van. *Cling. Cling.*

"Nairobi?" Jomo asked, his breath misting in the air.

"Fifty bob," the man rasped.

Jomo frowned. Fifty bob? That’s the price of a soda, not a trip to the city. But the cold was biting through his thin cardigan, and the hunger in his stomach made him stop questioning his luck. He climbed into the back seat.

The interior was freezing. It smelled like a grave—damp earth and something metallic, like old coins. There were six other...