KS

The Kawangware streets are cruel and unforgiving. You have to be strong and persistent to survive here. Those who know of this place call it the slums but everyone who lives here call it KS or the K streets. The K streets are located in the east part of 254, also known as Eastlands.

254 has four regions in the country, each region houses criminal organizations each controlling a specific crime niche. But that is not to say that it is easy, the ADU patrols the cities, mostly protecting the paying clients but they are not to be messed with. Each unit officer carries lethal weapons with an open policy of shoot now ask questions never. Still, citizens that are not of any particular influence protect their small possessions by hiring private securities which some are run by criminal organizations.

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The heavy creak of the door announced Musa’s presence.

He slipped in, his face shadowed and serious, Ali trailing behind him. Shiko came behind them shouting, “We’re back fuckers.”

The safe house wasn’t much—just an abandoned old church on the outskirts of KS, hidden among overgrown weeds and rusting cars. The roof leaked when it rained, and rats scurried through the shadows, but it was theirs. Here, in the heart of nothingness. By dawn, the safe house buzzed with activity as groups of teens converged. Zuri arrived last, soaked and exhausted.

“What happened?” Musa asked.
“Police. We had to swim through the sewage system to shake them,” she replied, wringing out her shirt.

“Shit. What about France’s boys? Are they okay?” Musa asked
“Yeah, I sent them on their way with the goods. They should make it to her base, I’m waiting for her signal.”
Ali laughed. “You’re hardcore, Kendi. Did you crawl through the shit too?”

“No. I slipped away and hid in the trees,” Kendi said, grinning shyly

A sharp whistle echoed through the room. Moments later, Eazy appeared, stepping through the door strutting confidently. His boots left muddy prints on the concrete floor, and his trademark smirk played across his face. He carried nothing but a small black notebook tucked into his brown overgrown jacket.

“Wakati wa Mboka,” He said, scanning the room full of teens.

“Looks like you had fun.” He said looking at Zuri
Musa frowned. “You’re late.”

“I’m a busy man Musa,” Eazy replied pulling out the notebook and flipped through its pages. “Okay group A, give me your report.”
JC explained his crew had raided a bus, collected wallets and phones. He dropped his bag with the goods in front of Eazy and sat down.

“Next, group B.”
Musa’s team handed over their earned loot. Zuri’s bags of stolen electronics were worth far more than anyone else’s takings. The 30 phones they had collected would accumulate approximately 450,000 shillings.

“Good work, group C,” Eazy said collecting the loot. “Leave the one laptop for use. Ali has been grinding me for one the entire month. An upgrade on the beat up one. I’ll make the drop and return with your cut.”

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As the leaders exited the safe house, Eazy lit a cigarette.

“This isn’t enough,” he said bluntly. “We’re barely scraping by. We need a bigger score.”
JC frowned removing his lakers cap. “Why not give everyone their share? Let them fend for themselves.”

“No,” Eazy replied. “The young ones would waste it on drugs and gambling. We pool the resources. That’s the only way we survive.”
Musa nodded reluctantly; his expression grim. Survival wasn’t just a matter of skill—it was a matter of unity. And in the ruthless K streets, that unity was all they had.

FURTHER INFO FROM THE CHAPTER

Wakati wa Mboka – Time for work