CLAIRE!

 It’s 3:15 p.m. when I step out of the class. The corridors are alive with chatter and stomping feet, but my mind is already on the parking lot. There she is, my trusty Toyota Yaris, WHITE KNIGHT, crouching in the sun-drenched school lot, gathering a thin film of dust. I pop the trunk, grab the rag I keep there, and give her a quick wipe-down. Dust-free and gleaming, she looks ready to conquer Nairobi’s streets. I ditch my blazer and tie, roll up my sleeves, and switch on the apps.

The first ping comes from Uber: a pickup at The Waterfront. Perfect. I head out, navigating the chaos of Langata Road, and pull up at the shopping mall entrance. She’s waiting.

Claire. She’s mid-40s, tall, with the kind of posture that commands attention. Her blond hair is tied back in a loose ponytail, and she’s dressed in a sleek, casual outfit—white sneakers, dark jeans, and a light blue linen shirt. She slides into the backseat with a practiced grace, her leather tote landing beside her.

“Nice car,” she says nonchalantly, her eyes darting around the interior. “And clean.”

I offer a polite smile. “Thank you. Where to?”

“Karen Hills,” she replies, tapping on her phone. “A gated community.”

The drive is smooth. She doesn’t talk much, and I respect the silence. The route to Karen Hills winds through leafy suburbs, the air fresher with every kilometer. Her home emerges like something out of a luxury magazine: a picturesque house with sprawling glass windows and manicured gardens, all set against the dramatic backdrop of the Ngong Hills. The golden-hour sun makes the place look almost ethereal.

As I park at her gate, she leans forward, handing me a crisp 500-shilling note. “Keep the change,” she says, before pausing. “Can you be here tomorrow at 5:40 a.m.? I have a meeting in Gigiri.”

It’s a tempting offer. Early morning rides mean no traffic, no noise, and a decent fare. But it’s also a dilemma. I’ve got to be back in school by 7:30 a.m., ready to wrangle middle-class chaos.

“I’ll be here,” I find myself saying. Because in this line of work, opportunities don’t knock twice.

Claire nods, stepping out gracefully. The gate slides shut behind her, and I’m left staring at the silhouette of her home against the fading light. There’s something about her—a quiet confidence, a subtle loneliness—that lingers as I drive away.

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P.S. - This life behind the wheel is unpredictable, exhausting, and sometimes infuriating. But it’s never boring. And every now and then, it reminds me why I love it—even when I don’t.