What the Flames Didn’t Burn

Glossary

Charcoal jikos – Small, round stoves fueled by charcoal. Almost every Kenyan household has one—or grew up with one. Perfect for boiling tea or warming food. The smoke? Unforgiving. The flavor? Elite.

Dubai Original – The ultimate sales pitch in Nairobi, Kenya. It doesn’t mean the item came from Dubai. It just means the vendor wants you to believe it’s top-tier, imported, and not a cheap knock-off. Basically, “Dubai Original” means “trust me, it’s legit”… even when it’s not.

Gikomba – Nairobi’s most chaotic, most iconic open-air market. If it exists, it’s being sold there—thrifted clothes, furniture, utensils, you name it. It’s loud, it’s smoky, it’s packed… but it’s home to hustle.

Ksh. – Short for Kenyan Shillings, our currency. When we say “Ksh 134,000,” just know we mean serious money—sweat, sacrifice, and several sleepless nights.

Leso – A colorful rectangular cloth that every East African woman owns. You can tie it around your waist, use it to carry babies, cover your head, wipe sweat, or even rescue a child from a burning stall if you’re Rimu. Functional, cultural, and always present.

Matatu – Our wild, pimped-out public minibuses. Loud music, flashing lights, graffiti art, and vibes for days. If you’ve never been squished into one during rush hour, have you even lived?

M-Shwari – A mobile loan service in Kenya. One of those “help me now, punish me later” apps. Instant cash straight to your phone, but delay a payment? You’ll feel it in your soul.

***

The market was always half-awake at dawn, like a beast stretching its limbs. Rimu crouched in her stall, folding a pile of men’s jeans while the kettle hissed behind her.

The scent of damp fabric clung to her clothes.

She wiped her hands on her leso and glanced outside.

Gikomba was breathing.

Hawkers shouting half-heartedly.

Steam rising from charcoal jikos.

Achieng’ already had her stall open, trying to convince a picky customer that her rubber shoes were “Dubai original.”

Rimu’s eyes drifted to the mattress in the backroom. Hidden underneath it, in a cut-out square of plywood, was her future.

Months of sacrifice.

Every night she counted and re-counted the 1000-KSH. (approximately $8) notes, picturing a different life. One where her son slept on a real bed, where she didn’t have to wake before the sun or worry about fires, floods, or thieves.

She turned the stove lower and reached for her cup.

That’s when it hit her.

A sharp, chemical scent. Not the usual garbage fire that often smoldered in alleyways.

Burning plastic.

She frowned. Moved to the flap that acted as her door and peered out. People were moving—but not like usual. Someone was shouting. Then another. A vendor stumbled past, eyes wide, clutching a sack of clothes.

“Ni moto! Moto!”

(It's a fire! Fire!)

***

Something boomed two stalls down. A wave of heat rushed through the aisle like a curse. Screams followed.

Rimu’s heart slammed into her ribs. She turned to grab her bag. She’d leave now—before it spread.

Then she heard it.

“Auntie! Auntie Rimu!”

Her breath caught. Junior.

She spun around.

The backroom was darker now, the curtain dancing with the flickers of fire. Junior had wandered inside again, drawn by the toy she kept in a red basin for him.

He was frozen, his tiny hands shaking.

“Junior!” she shouted, stepping in.

The smoke clawed at her lungs. Her eyes watered instantly. The mattress—the one holding her dreams—was only a few feet away. So was Junior.

She paused. For a second.

Her gaze darted to the mattress. She knew the weight of that money to the exact shilling. Ksh. 134,000—approximately $1,031. Enough for months’ worth of rent in a bedsitter. Enough for school fees. Enough to finally stop borrowing money and taking loans left, right, and center.

No more lip trembling when M-Shwari was overdue.

No more lying to escape debts.

That money would have changed her life.

This wasn’t her child.

But Achieng’ had come through for her once—when Rimu’s own son was hospitalized with pneumonia and she had nothing left. Achieng’ had quietly handed her Ksh. 2,000 (approximately $15) that day and never asked for it back.

No drama.

No public pity.

Just care.

Junior coughed. “Au...ntie…”

Tears stung her eyes—not from smoke, but from the split inside her chest. Her future was right there. But so was the boy.

Rimu grabbed him, shielding him with her body. The curtain caught fire behind them as she stumbled forward, nearly tripping on a fallen hanger. She pushed through, coughing, her leso catching a spark. Someone poured water on her as she emerged, collapsing onto the dusty aisle.

The mattress was gone.

The stall burned with the rage of everything she’d ever survived.

Achieng’ screamed when she saw them, falling to her knees, hugging her son, sobbing prayers and thanks.

Rimu just sat, watching the smoke rise. All her years of work evaporating into the sky.

The business co-owner, her brother appeared, breathless. “Rimu… oh my God. You—are you okay?”

She didn’t speak.

Not yet.

The fire brigade came too late, as always.

She would have to start over.

Again.

But as she sat there, watching Achieng’ cradle her son and cry, Rimu realized something strange.

She didn’t feel empty.

Not really.

***

Hours later, the ashes still smoked.

Vendors wandered back slowly, picking through the remains with long sticks and broken hearts.

Achieng’ came over, eyes red, holding a flask of tea and two plastic cups.

She handed Rimu one silently, then sat beside her.

“Wacha tu nisikudangaye…” Achieng’ said, her voice shaking.. “Kama kitu ingemhappenia, I’d be so devastated. Singesurvive.”

(Let me not lie, if anything happened to him? I don’t think I’d have survived.)

Rimu didn’t answer immediately. She stared at the sky instead, as if waiting for something more to burn.

“You saved my baby,” Achieng’ whispered. “And I know what you lost. I know how hard you’ve worked. Rimu, I’m so sorry.”

Rimu finally looked at her. Her voice was raw but steady. “I just… heard him cry.”

Achieng’ started crying again, her hand gripping Rimu’s forearm.

“I know that money meant everything,” she said.

“It did,” Rimu admitted. “But not more than him. Not more than doing the right thing.”

A pause.

“Kusema ukweli? (Honestly?),” she responded. “Glad it was me. Glad I’m the one who had to make that choice.”

Achieng’ nodded, tears falling again.

“I owe you…”

“No, my dear…” Rimu said. “You already paid it forward. This… this was just my turn.”

They sipped their tea in silence. Two women among ruins. Bound by something greater than loss.

***

Later That Night

Rimu sat outside her brother's house. Staring at the sky through the rusted iron grill of the veranda gate.

She was wrapped in an old shawl.

Palms still smelling faintly of smoke.

Her body? Sore in places she hadn’t noticed earlier.

Somewhere nearby, someone was laughing. A matatu honked.

A baby cried.

Rimu closed her eyes.

In her mind, she saw the mattress again—her mattress. Folded at the corners, always a little lumpy, with a secret space underneath that only she knew about. Every time she tucked money there, it felt like tucking hope away for safekeeping.

Not flashy dreams.

Just enough to live better.

Breathe easier.

Escape.

She felt the ache return.

She would have moved. Painted her new bedsitter herself. Bought curtains with little sunflowers. Enrolled her son in a better school. Maybe even started stocking handbags, or proper school uniforms.

Dreams, but not too big.

And now?

Now she had nothing.

But her soul… her soul didn’t feel as defeated as it should’ve. There was no shame sitting in her chest.

No guilt chewing at the corners of her mind.

She had made a decision. A hard one. A holy one.

“God,” she whispered into the night, “I hope you saw that.”

She smiled to herself. A sad, tired smile. But real.

Tomorrow, she’d wake up early again. Somehow. Go help Achieng’ clean up.

Rebuild.

Because the fire didn’t burn everything.

Not the things that mattered most.

She had nothing left—but for the first time in a long time, she felt rich in the right way.