By by Beatrice Atieno Otieno
Let me tell you something small, just a tiny warning from someone who has lived long enough in Nairobi: Never trust clear skies. That bright blue sky smiling down on you at 9am might just be the setup for the betrayal of the century at 3pm.
I learned this lesson the hard way, of course. Nairobi doesn’t teach gently. It throws you in the deep end, laughs at your struggle, then offers you a plastic bag when you’re already soaked, your hairstyle destroyed, your dignity in shreds.
It all began one Tuesday, the kind of day that tricks you into believing the world is on your side. The sun was up early, the birds were chirping like they were paid, and I, a young, foolish Nairobian, left the house without my umbrella. I even remember checking the sky and thinking, “Kwenda uko, rain. Today, I walk free.”Fast forward to 2:47pm. I was somewhere between Railways and nowhere, surrounded by people running like they were auditioning for the Olympics. The rain came out of nowhere, like a gospel choir from the clouds — all of a sudden and with full power. No warning, no drizzle, no polite droplets. Just brrrraaaaaa!
Within seconds, my white shirt had turned transparent. Some mama selling mutura offered me a black plastic bag, but it was too late. I was already looking like a poorly wrapped chapati. I stood there, soaking, questioning all my life choices. A small boy even asked me if I had fallen into a swimming pool. I hadn’t. But emotionally, I had.That day changed me. That was the last time I let Nairobi get the upper hand. Since then, I carry an umbrella the way some people carry power banks or holy water—with religious commitment. Sun or no sun, if I’m stepping out, that umbrella is coming with me.
And don’t be fooled by the color of the sky. Nairobi has a talent for throwing shade and showers at the same time. You’ll leave the house in full sunshine, and by the time you reach town, it’s like God turned on a car wash and forgot to turn it off.People laugh at me, especially when I show up at events holding an umbrella while the sun is roasting everyone like mbuzi choma. “Eh, boss, si uko na hope,” they joke. I smile politely. Because I know. I know what they don’t: Rain in Nairobi doesn’t follow rules. It rains because it can. It rains when your phone is at 2%. It rains when your shoe has a hole. It rains when you just got your hair done. That’s when it strikes.
Once, I went for a wedding in Lang’ata. The sky was clear, the kind of blue that poets write about. Everyone was dressed to kill, including me. My suit was sharp, my socks were matching, and I had even practiced how to walk confidently across the lawn. Then came that traitor of a cloud. Just one. At first, it looked like a decoration in the sky. Cute. Harmless. Then it moved slowly—like a thief who knows the owner is watching—and parked directly above the tent. The rest, as they say, is history. People were running with plates of pilau, heels were sinking into mud, and the bride’s makeup began to weep before she did.Guess who didn’t run? Me. Standing tall under my big black umbrella, eating my cake in peace. Someone’s auntie even offered me a ride home just for sheltering her purse. See? Umbrellas open doors.
But the umbrella life has its moments too. Carrying an umbrella on a sunny day means everyone thinks you’re dramatic. Matatu conductors look at you like you’re carrying a shotgun. Security guards at banks ask you to leave it at the door like it’s a weapon of mass destruction. And don’t even get me started on those tiny umbrellas from supermarkets. The ones that promise “wind resistance” and then snap at the first sign of breeze, like emotionally weak friends. Useless.So, I’ve upgraded. I now own what I call “The Commander.” It’s large, black, strong, and can probably be used to build a tent in case of emergencies. People respect me when I open it. Birds fly away. Boda guys give me space. I’ve even considered opening an umbrella rental business.
Because the truth is, Nairobi is not your friend. Nairobi will act calm, then humble you in front of strangers. But not me. Not anymore. Rain, sun, wind, or storm—I’m ready.So next time you see me on Tom Mboya Street, umbrella in hand, sun in the sky, and a slight smirk on my face—don’t laugh. Just know that I’ve seen things. I’ve been through the wet wars. And now, I carry my umbrella not just for the weather, but for peace of mind.
Because in Nairobi, clear skies are just a trap.
