Listen, listen, and bend your ear closer, for this is a story carried by the night wind and told at the fire when the embers are still red.
Ngugi arrived at Ciaro International Airport when the moon was still awake and the cocks had not yet cleared their throats. It was Friday, and the clock whispered three in the morning. This was Ngugi’s maiden journey to Ciaro, a land he had only known through stories and pictures sent on glowing phones. He had come for his cousin’s wedding, a celebration that would happen the following weekend, a wedding that promised drums, laughter, and long speeches from uncles who never sit down.
At the airport arrival gate stood Brayo, his cousin, waiting with a wide smile and eyes that looked like they had not slept. Brayo had moved to Ciaro when he was only four seasons old. Now he was twenty-two, tall, sharp in speech, and dressed like the city itself. They embraced like children of the same soil meeting after many rains.
The plan was simple, or so Ngugi thought. From the airport, they would go straight to Keniti, their home place, where elders woke early and tea was always ready. But the city has its own plans, and Brayo had other drums beating in his chest.
“Let us pass somewhere small first,” Brayo said, smiling the smile of a man who knows secrets. Before Ngugi could ask where, the car turned, and soon they were at Murata Club.
Ah! Murata Club.
Even before they entered, the night breathed smoke into their faces. Music poured out like a river that had broken its banks. Inside, the club was alive in a way Ngugi had never seen. There were many young women, and many women who were no longer young but still danced like fire. They were more than the men. Beer bottles sweated in every hand, and bodies moved as if the drums were inside their bones. Every man had a woman to dance with, and where men were few, women danced with women, laughing without shame. The air was thick, not just with smoke, but with things Ngugi could not name, smells that made his head light and his thoughts slow.
Ngugi stood still, his eyes wide. Back home, clubs were whispers, not places entered at dawn. Back home, Brayo had been the quiet child who followed elders and greeted everyone properly. Ngugi did not even know Brayo knew such places existed.
But as the minutes passed, and bottles emptied, and Brayo’s eyes grew red and restless, Ngugi understood something heavy. This was not just beer. This was more. Brayo drank, then disappeared into corners and returned different, laughing too hard, breathing too fast. That early morning taught Ngugi a painful lesson: Brayo was an addict, not only of alcohol, but of hard things that eat the mind quietly.
When the sun began to stretch its fingers toward the horizon, Brayo clapped his hands. “Let us go home,” he said, as if nothing had happened.
They left Murata Club and drove toward Keniti. The road was long and quiet, but Brayo was not. He sang, then went silent, then sang again. Suddenly, lights appeared ahead—blue and red, flashing like angry spirits. Police patrol.
Brayo’s hands began to shake on the steering wheel. His lips moved quickly, whispering prayers. “Please, please,” he muttered, “this is now DUI.”
Ngugi did not know that word. DUI meant nothing to him. Back home, a man could drink, stagger, and still ride a bicycle without fear. Drinking while intoxicated was not a big issue there; it was almost a joke told the next morning. But here, Ngugi saw fear sitting beside him in the driver’s seat.
He did not know then that Brayo was putting not only his own life, but Ngugi’s life too, into deep danger. He did not know that that very morning, he could have been sent back across the ocean, deported not because he lacked papers, not because he had broken any law, but simply because he was in the company of a drunkard whose choices were heavier than his pockets.
The patrol car passed them without stopping. Brayo exhaled like a man who had been pulled back from a river.
They reached Keniti safely, but Ngugi was no longer the same man who had landed at Ciaro at three in the morning. He had learned that the city teaches fast lessons, that cousins can grow into strangers, and that freedom without wisdom is like fire in dry grass.
And so, elders say, when you travel far, do not only ask who will receive you—ask also where they will take you, and what roads they walk when the sun is asleep. For sometimes, danger does not come wearing the face of an enemy, but the smile of your own blood.
Ngugi arrived at Ciaro International Airport when the moon was still awake and the cocks had not yet cleared their throats. It was Friday, and the clock whispered three in the morning. This was Ngugi’s maiden journey to Ciaro, a land he had only known through stories and pictures sent on glowing phones. He had come for his cousin’s wedding, a celebration that would happen the following weekend, a wedding that promised drums, laughter, and long speeches from uncles who never sit down.
At the airport arrival gate stood Brayo, his cousin, waiting with a wide smile and eyes that looked like they had not slept. Brayo had moved to Ciaro when he was only four seasons old. Now he was twenty-two, tall, sharp in speech, and dressed like the city itself. They embraced like children of the same soil meeting after many rains.
The plan was simple, or so Ngugi thought. From the airport, they would go straight to Keniti, their home place, where elders woke early and tea was always ready. But the city has its own plans, and Brayo had other drums beating in his chest.
“Let us pass somewhere small first,” Brayo said, smiling the smile of a man who knows secrets. Before Ngugi could ask where, the car turned, and soon they were at Murata Club.
Ah! Murata Club.
Even before they entered, the night breathed smoke into their faces. Music poured out like a river that had broken its banks. Inside, the club was alive in a way Ngugi had never seen. There were many young women, and many women who were no longer young but still danced like fire. They were more than the men. Beer bottles sweated in every hand, and bodies moved as if the drums were inside their bones. Every man had a woman to dance with, and where men were few, women danced with women, laughing without shame. The air was thick, not just with smoke, but with things Ngugi could not name, smells that made his head light and his thoughts slow.
Ngugi stood still, his eyes wide. Back home, clubs were whispers, not places entered at dawn. Back home, Brayo had been the quiet child who followed elders and greeted everyone properly. Ngugi did not even know Brayo knew such places existed.
But as the minutes passed, and bottles emptied, and Brayo’s eyes grew red and restless, Ngugi understood something heavy. This was not just beer. This was more. Brayo drank, then disappeared into corners and returned different, laughing too hard, breathing too fast. That early morning taught Ngugi a painful lesson: Brayo was an addict, not only of alcohol, but of hard things that eat the mind quietly.
When the sun began to stretch its fingers toward the horizon, Brayo clapped his hands. “Let us go home,” he said, as if nothing had happened.
They left Murata Club and drove toward Keniti. The road was long and quiet, but Brayo was not. He sang, then went silent, then sang again. Suddenly, lights appeared ahead—blue and red, flashing like angry spirits. Police patrol.
Brayo’s hands began to shake on the steering wheel. His lips moved quickly, whispering prayers. “Please, please,” he muttered, “this is now DUI.”
Ngugi did not know that word. DUI meant nothing to him. Back home, a man could drink, stagger, and still ride a bicycle without fear. Drinking while intoxicated was not a big issue there; it was almost a joke told the next morning. But here, Ngugi saw fear sitting beside him in the driver’s seat.
He did not know then that Brayo was putting not only his own life, but Ngugi’s life too, into deep danger. He did not know that that very morning, he could have been sent back across the ocean, deported not because he lacked papers, not because he had broken any law, but simply because he was in the company of a drunkard whose choices were heavier than his pockets.
The patrol car passed them without stopping. Brayo exhaled like a man who had been pulled back from a river.
They reached Keniti safely, but Ngugi was no longer the same man who had landed at Ciaro at three in the morning. He had learned that the city teaches fast lessons, that cousins can grow into strangers, and that freedom without wisdom is like fire in dry grass.
And so, elders say, when you travel far, do not only ask who will receive you—ask also where they will take you, and what roads they walk when the sun is asleep. For sometimes, danger does not come wearing the face of an enemy, but the smile of your own blood.
