Iwas born in the misty ridges of the Aberdare in forests that smelled of rain and moss. My body was clear and cold, my voice young and strong. I sang down the slopes, feeding valleys and dreams, until I found the city they named after me, Nairobi.
Back then, I was free. Children dipped their palms to drink from me. Women washed clothes by my banks as fish wagged their tails between my shadows. I was the city’s lifeline. I was alive, generous, and proud.
But cities grow the way rivers flow unstoppable, often careless.
As Nairobi rose, it leaned closer to me. It dumped, drained, and demanded. Factories lined along my path, whispering their waste into my veins. Plastics began to float where lilies once bloomed. Oil coated my surface like a bruise. The scent of forgotten promises clung to me.
They say I am dirty now. They turn away when they cross my bridges. But I became this because of them every careless toss, every factory’s secret, every drop of detergent that found its way into me. And I do not complain. I only carry.
They call it pollution, but I call it memory.
I remember everything the bright paint from a mechanic’s brush, the chemicals from a hidden pipe, the tears of a child with a rash after bathing in me and the human waste deposited on my belly. Tests have shown what I already feel in my flow, heavy metals like lead, chromium are far beyond safe levels. What poisons me poisons them too.
This is not just my problem; it is a public health crisis.
Still, I move on, winding through slums and estates, past bridges where people throw both prayers and plastic bottles into my body. Even in my pain, some find life along my banks. They are survivors of my misfortune Men with magnetic hooks pull scrap metal from my bed everyday
“Ni maisha,” they say. “It’s survival.”
Children chase stray footballs that fall into my shallows, laughing, unaware that sickness hides beneath my woes.
They smile for the cameras, then drive away before the next rain washes more filth into my veins.
Yet, not all is lost.From afar there is a whisper of hope.
Sometimes I feel gentle hands lifting bottles from my belly. Young voices chanting, “Let’s reclaim our river!”
And for a moment, I feel light again.
The President has promised to restore me. Nairobi County vows to bring me back to life. I have heard these voices before but this time, I sense a different rhythm.
Maybe, just maybe, the city is finally listening.
I am still here. Beneath the dark water, I still move. I still remember the songs of the hills, the laughter of the first children who played on my banks.
Clean me, and I will breathe again.Heal me, and I will heal you.
I am not gone I am Nairobi River.
Still flowing. Still carrying. Still hoping.
By Gilbert Rono
