The morning sun rose like a weak apology, bleeding pale light over the cracked roofs and muddy alleys of the old district. Ethan hadn't slept much; his body had, but his mind had wandered through storms. The smell of garbage, smoke, and damp earth filled his lungs as he blinked awake.
Uncle Riko was already up, squatting by a small charcoal stove made from a cut tin barrel, fanning a thin flame with a broken piece of cardboard. A dented sufuria sat on top, and inside it, something boiled — maybe tea, maybe water, maybe nothing at all.
Ethan sat up on the torn sack he'd used as a bed. "You don't sleep much, do you?" he muttered, voice dry.
Riko looked over his shoulder, grinning through his missing teeth. "You think Nairobi sleeps, boy? City's a beast. You blink too long, it eats you."
He laughed quietly at his own words, poured something that looked like tea into two cracked cups, and handed one to Ethan. "Careful , no sugar, no milk. Just fire and hope."
Ethan took the cup and blew on it. It was bitter, almost metallic, but the warmth pushed life into his chest.
"Today," Riko said, standing and stretching, "you learn how to survive. Picking bottles ain't just picking trash. It's business — dirty business, but business still. There's a rhythm to it. You find where the rich drink, not where the poor sleep."
Ethan nodded slowly, still half-asleep but listening. "Rich drink, not poor sleep. Got it."
Riko chuckled. "Good. You're already smarter than half the boys who try this. Most go digging in the dumps. You go to Kileleshwa, Westlands, or outside nightclubs in the morning. Bottles there still shine. People throw away more than you can dream."
He slung a dirty sack over his shoulder and tossed another to Ethan. "Let's go, before the others wake."
They started walking. The slums stretched endlessly ,rusted iron sheets, narrow lanes filled with mud, children running barefoot, dogs scavenging, women sweeping in front of kiosks that sold tea and mandazi. Ethan's stomach growled when the smell of frying dough hit him, but he said nothing.
He didn't want pity. He wanted purpose.
As they reached the bus stage, Riko pointed toward a matatu. "We'll walk. Save fare. Feet are still free."
Ethan followed. They walked past tall billboards advertising expensive phones and cars, each one feeling like a cruel joke. At one corner, they passed a group of high schoolers in neat uniforms laughing loudly. Ethan felt a sting , the kind of ache that wasn't hunger.
"I used to be one of them," he whispered under his breath.
Riko turned. "What's that?""Nothing," Ethan said, tightening his grip on the sack. "Let's keep going."
By the time they reached the city's edge, the sun was already bright and harsh. The streets of Westlands looked like another world — clean pavements, glass buildings, perfumed air. Ethan's torn shirt made him invisible and too visible at once.
Riko led him to the back of a popular club called Velvet Lounge. Empty beer bottles lined the alley behind it, scattered like jewels in the trash.
"Here," Riko said. "Welcome to the mine."
They bent down and started picking. The sound of glass clinking filled the silence between them. Ethan's fingers trembled at first — the bottles were cold, some still dripping with old beer , but he got used to it.
Every few minutes, Riko cracked a joke or hummed an old reggae tune. Ethan barely smiled, but he listened.
After about an hour, they had half a sack each.
"How much does this sell for?" Ethan asked.
Riko shrugged. "Depends. One kilo, ten shillings. You fill five sacks, you eat. You fill ten, you live. You fill twenty, you can dream."
Ethan looked down at his single half-filled sack and exhaled. "Then I guess I'll need to dream a lot smaller."
Riko laughed again. "Dream small, start small, grow big. That's the rule."
They kept working through the heat. Sweat mixed with dust on Ethan's face. At some point, a white SUV pulled into the alley. A man in a suit stepped out, frowned at them, and muttered, "Disgusting," before slamming the car door and leaving.
Ethan's jaw tightened.
He wanted to shout , You think you're better than me? but he said nothing. He just picked another bottle.
In his chest, though, something shifted. A quiet vow formed. One day, I'll drive a car better than that. One day, you'll look at me differently.
Hours passed. The sun moved from gold to white to dull gray. They dragged their sacks to a recycling center a dusty open yard stacked with bottles and metal scraps. The owner, a large man with a scar across his cheek, weighed their sacks and scribbled on a notebook.
"Two hundred and seventy shillings," he said, handing Riko a few coins. "Next."
Riko took them, counted, and handed Ethan half. "Your share."
Ethan stared at the coins small, greasy, insufficient but real. His first honest money since being thrown out.
He held it in his palm, feeling its rough edges.
That's when the exhaustion hit him — the kind that sinks past skin and bone. But under it, something else burned: the stubborn fire that says don't stop.
They sat on the curb afterward, sharing a plate of githeri from a street vendor.
Riko ate fast. Ethan slower, savoring every bite as if memorizing what survival tasted like.
"You got potential, boy," Riko said, wiping his hands on his trousers. "You learn quick. Don't let this place break you."
Ethan nodded silently.
"I won't," he said. "Not again."
Riko looked at him, eyes narrowing as if measuring the truth in his tone. "Good. Because this city only respects one thing."
"What's that?"
"Winners."
As evening descended, the city changed its face. The golden lights of bars flickered to life, the streets began to hum with laughter and car horns, and the scent of roasted meat floated through the humid air.
Ethan and Riko walked back toward the slums, their sacks empty now, dragging along the dusty roadside. The day's exhaustion settled in their bones, but there was a strange comfort in it — the kind that comes when you've earned your survival.
"First day, huh?" Riko said, adjusting his torn cap. "You did good. You didn't complain, you didn't run. Most boys do."
Ethan shrugged lightly. "What's the point of running? Hunger follows you anyway."
Riko laughed. "True. You got wisdom for your age. You been to school?"
"Yeah," Ethan said. "Was in Form Four. Almost done."
"Almost?"
He nodded, gaze fixed on the road ahead. "Got expelled. Couldn't pay fees."
Riko clicked his tongue softly. "Ah. Life has a way of spitting on the wrong people."
Ethan didn't respond. His throat tightened at the memory — the headmaster's cold stare, the laughter of classmates when he packed his few books into a plastic bag. He remembered standing at the gate, hearing someone whisper, 'That's what happens when you act rich but you're not.'
He forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It's fine. I'll find another way."
Riko patted his shoulder. "You already have."
They reached the settlement just as darkness swallowed the horizon. Smoke rose from small cooking fires. Radios played gospel songs and football commentary. The world here was noisy and alive in its own broken way.
When they arrived at Riko's shack, the old man rummaged through a box and pulled out a torn blanket. "Here. You can use this tonight. Tomorrow, we start earlier. The trick is beating the sun."
Ethan took the blanket, murmured thanks, and stepped outside for a moment. The air was cooler now. He walked a few meters away, standing near a ditch that shimmered faintly under the moonlight.
Children were playing with a flattened football nearby, their laughter echoing across the mud walls. For a brief second, he almost smiled. He remembered when life was simple , when dreams were about exam results and school crushes, not survival.
A small boy suddenly tripped, falling face-first into the mud. The other kids laughed and ran away. Ethan hesitated, then walked over, offering his hand.
"You okay?"
The boy sniffed, wiping his nose. "Yeah."
Ethan helped him up, brushing mud off his torn shirt. "What's your name?"
"Sammy."
"Next time you fall," Ethan said, "stand up before they laugh too much."
The boy grinned through missing teeth. "Okay."
As the child ran back to play, something in Ethan softened. He felt that rare, quiet warmth — the one that comes from helping someone even when you have nothing.
He turned back toward Riko's shack. The fire inside flickered weakly. The air smelled like smoke and burnt tea leaves. He lay down on his makeshift sack bed, pulling the blanket close.
Riko was already half-asleep, mumbling to himself. "Tomorrow… market side… bottles near Uhuru Park…"
Ethan stared at the ceiling of tin and wood. Every sound around him distant laughter, barking dogs, clanging metal became part of a new rhythm, one that whispered: You're still alive.
And for the first time since being thrown out, he believed that maybe survival wasn't losing. Maybe it was just the first step toward winning.
He closed his eyes.
Somewhere in the city, miles away…
Inside a high-rise office with glass walls overlooking Nairobi, an elderly man in a gray suit sat alone at a large desk. His nameplate read "Mr. Criphine – Private Executor." He scrolled through a digital file labeled Confidential – Ethan Cole.
Beside him, a younger woman stood, adjusting her glasses. "Sir, are you sure he's the right one? He's… picking bottles."
Criphine smiled faintly, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "That's exactly why he's the right one. A man who's lost everything fears nothing."
He leaned back in his chair. "Send the first payment. Let's see what he does with it."
The woman hesitated. "And the message?"
"Not yet. Let him crawl a little longer. The strongest roots grow underground."
He closed the file. Outside, lightning flashed briefly over the skyline, illuminating the words Skyline Group Headquarters on the glass.
Back in the slum, Ethan stirred in his sleep. He didn't know that somewhere, someone had just pressed a button that would change his life forever.
He dreamed of a city full of light tall buildings, laughter, clean clothes, his parents smiling. He saw himself walking through it, no longer invisible.
And then the dream faded into darkness.
Morning was only a few hours away.