Editor’s note: Robert Maina, a student at a Kenyan university, describes his experience of being “exiled” on campus.
The other night, I became a refugee in my own life.
Not the dramatic kind with UN tents – no. The ordinary Kenyan university kind. The kind where your roommate clears his throat, avoids eye contact, and casually informs you that his girlfriend will be “around” for the afternoon up to late evening. That, my friends, is exile.
On campus, exile is not debated. It is obeyed.
The honourable thing to do is to jipa shughuli – vanish quietly until recalled, like a civil servant after a reshuffle. So, I grabbed my phone, dignity, and a thin jacket and began my migration into the darker parts of Kisauni.
My destination was a cubicle owned by a friend called Mangale, who also happens to ride boda boda for a living.
A legendary cubicle. I had a spare key. Mangale himself was safely exiled to the Kilifi countryside, breathing fresh air and minding goats.
I saw no need to disturb his peace. After all, how bad could one night be?
Before heading out, I realised I needed some mints to chew as I walked. So, I stopped by a kiosk – and that’s where fate cleared its throat.
She was there. Fresh. Clean. Smelling like sunlight and promise. The kind of girl who looks like she attends lectures and understands them. We chatted. Laughed. The easy, foolish confidence of a campus man overtook me.
I jokingly asked her to accompany me to my place.
She said yes.
Immediately.
That’s when fear punched me in the stomach.
You see, when a Kenyan campus girl agrees too fast, she has expectations. Reasonable ones. At minimum: a room with windows that close, a bed without wildlife, and a general atmosphere that suggests ambition.
As we walked, I prayed silently. Maybe Mangale had cleaned. Maybe miracles still existed.
They did not.
The first red flag was the window. One side had no panes – just open commitment to the elements. I blamed the June 2024 Gen Z protests. National tragedy is always a reliable excuse.
She nodded politely.
Then she saw the cow dung at the doorstep.
Fresh. Bold. Unapologetic.
I considered running. Instead, I opened the door and walked into my downfall.
The smell hit us like a slap. Rotten flour. Old ugali. A historical sufuria sitting on the floor like evidence in a corruption case.
On its rim: two malnourished cockroaches, clearly in a relationship. A rat, startled by our ambition, sprinted into the darkness.
My visitor froze.
“Ah… even if…” she muttered, shaking her head.
Pity? Shock? Anthropological curiosity? I was too stunned to speak.
I invited her to sit on the bed. There were no chairs. This was a minimalist establishment.
We hadn’t even settled when a bedbug – fat, fearless, and bloodthirsty – marched toward her like it paid rent. She saw it. I saw my life flash.
Before I could react, she crushed it between her fingers. My blood splattered the floor.
“Yuck,” she said, wiping her hand.
I pretended to be surprised.
She laughed. The dangerous kind.
“Stop acting shocked. This looks… normal to you.”
I cut her off.
“You thought I lived in a maisonette with a six-by-six Slumberland bed?”
She smiled. The smile of someone mentally booking a matatu home.
About an hour and a half later, at 7 p.m., I was escorting Bree to the terminus. She boarded safely. Before leaving, I asked – out of pure delusion – if we could meet again.
“K,” she said. “Certainly soon.”
That night, social media finished me.
I logged into Facebook and Instagram and found a friend request. Bree Bells. Accepted. Seconds later—tagged photos.
Cow dung.
The sufuria.
The cubicle.
Likes were pouring in.
Mangale had liked the post.
That’s when I realised my mistake. I had left her alone while fetching soda.
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When I called Mangale to complain, he laughed like a villain in a low-budget movie.
“You’ve been using my cubicle for exile projects,” he said.
“Four times. No payment.”
Apparently, there was an exile fee. KSh 400 per project.
“If you had paid,” he added sweetly, “the place would have been cleaner.”
I ate humble pie. Cold. With no salt.
Campus teaches many things. Economics. Politics. Survival.
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