I’m a traveller. Wait, my name is not the traveller. Do not get confused about that. It’s just that I’ve been to many places and I’ve seen alot of people. Yes, I have been passed through many hands. I’m a Kenyan, if you’re wondering about my nationality. The next question I’m sure you’d ask is, “what is your name?”
Well, my name is a 100. You’d wonder why I have such an odd name. Or why my name would be in figures instead of letters. I’m a hundred shillings note to be precise. Well with that clarified, we can begin our little story.
We are many. Very many. We are all identified by our serial numbers. Atleast that can be used to tell us apart. Our physical differences can also be used . Some of us might appear as crisply new notes, others crumpled. Some are patched up by pieces of cellotape or rather sticky tapes, while others are dead. When I say dead, I mean they are shredded and their very essence disappears.
My life mostly revolves around travelling from one place to another. I was in born in Kiambu County. A kind of fertile area in the former Central province in Kenya. Our place of origin was known as Dela Rue. We were fresh clean, crisp and sharp. We do have elder siblings above us. Though they seem too bossy towards us. Yes.
Our divine leader was Ms. 1000. She went by many names; Ndovu, Tenga, Elfu, K, Jeez, Thao, Brown and many others. She was a sight more beautiful than anything. You could see men foolishly grin and be happy at the sight of holding her in their palms. She was lovely and beautiful. You could go green with jealous as thumbs would caress her both ways. Well our divine leader was the type that preached water and drunk wine. She swung both ways.
500 shillings note
I hate how Ms. 1000 always stills the show. Older sister has no morals when it comes to matters of sexuality. I pity her. But of course she’s the one who calls the shots. All worship her. The more she increases and multiplies to create colonies, the more she goes berserk.
I wouldn’t blame her for whoring ways.
Oi, I never introduced myself properly. I’m 500. Don’t worry our family is usually named in numericals. I’m the high priest from Dela Rue. Though religion has never been my thing. I love to wander along. I go to the places where older sister has been to. I want to explore and feel the world on my own. I want to live my own life and feel everything and the world just like sister tells me. Problems arise simply cause I find myself at the wrong places at the wrong time. I hate noise. I’m not comfortable with crowds. But somehow I find myself being passed around like no ones business. I never stay in one place for long.
At least the church people treat me with utmost care. It’s hard to find my kind in such areas especially on a Sunday. Most of us end up in sweaty palms of cashiers and drunk people. Let me not even begin on the behaviors of my whoribble sister.
“Why do they call her the divine one?” I wonder. She’s rarely close to any religious activity. Instead she’s usually flaunting her titties and let men and women stare at her bossom in the most weird and ludicrous places.
I hate the night life. I guess I’m becoming accustomed to it. I like the lights, the smoke, the crazy polluted noise of Nairobi city, and of course all the glamour that comes with it. But I know my place.
200 shillings note.
I don’t know why I always have to be in church or some sort of dukawhallas. The eff is wrong with this world. I hate the smell of shops. I alwasy get sick at the sight of them. I don’t like the way women with manicured nails crumple me like I’m sort of toilet paper.
“Heeeeey, can you hear my thoughts?” I ask, but they never listen.
Occasionally I’d find my way into pubs. That normally happens when damn ninja’s are too broke to afford any vodka or whiskey.
I hate my own kindred. We are always used as change. There is nothing fancy about us. It’s either I’m in a van, or I’m being exchanged for something else. I scretly envy brother 100’s life.
100 Shillings Note
It seems we are back to me. I have been to many places. I’m not envious of any of my predecessors lives.
Nope. I’m content with where I am. Yes I have been to the shadiest dingy places. Wait. I even enjoy the mutura delicacy. Sweet I tell you. Especially with the kachumbari and the thing they call pili pili, or ka firi firi in my local language.
I love the stories men tell. Women normally trade me for packets of milk or fruits. I have no issues with fruits. But hey dispose me properly next time. Okay?
I travel from point A to B, I’d find myself in the local pubs. Ofcourse if my wielder feels thirsty and doesn’t have any money to spend. I’m in good terms with my kind. We often meet from various towns, and whenever we meet it’s hard breathing in and hard breathing out. We enjoy each others’ company as good as it ever gets. And we would party. Louder, Harder, Better as good as it ever gets. Cause there’s always a reason to celebrate.
Whenever one said they had no moneyz they meant they had us. It was comforting simply because they weren’t willing to part with us whenever they didn’t know where they’d get their other source of income.
Surely the cops were another sight to reminisce about. Drivers were the worst cuplrits. They’d crumple us and drop us on the road. Then the over sized potbellied cop would run to us and pick us in a smile. This was a common occurrence on the highways.
I’m a church person. Yes. I do find myself in church every Sunday. Perhaps I’m exaggerating abit. Whenever I go to church, a heavy sigh escapes me. He would rant on how we spent our weekends on binge drinking, smoking cigarettes and he doesn’t forget our philandering ways we had with women. I love women. Yes. Just women.
At times the preacher’s words wouldn’t sink in into our heads, then I’d meet him at the local pub and he’d say, “I remember you, I’ve seen you before”. As he squinted his eyes.
“Yes pastor, I remember every soul I’ve seen in that church”. I’d reply with defiance. Besides what was he doing in such a place.
Atleast my cousins doesn’t get such weird looks or remarks. I love their style of being ratchets and the social misfits of the society.
50 shillings note.
I got nothing to say. I’m from the ghetto.