The fourth morning felt different before it even began.
6:37 a.m.
The street was quieter than usual. A light mist hung over the road, and the sun struggled to break through the clouds. The mandazi seller was late. Even the matatus seemed slower.
But he was there.
Of course he was.
Standing at the same spot, brown jacket slightly wrinkled, black bag hanging from his hand like it had been part of his life forever.
This time he was already smiling when I approached.
“You’re early,” he said.
“So are you,” I replied.
He chuckled softly.
We stood side by side, watching the road like two men expecting something neither of us could explain.
Then he spoke.
“Daniel hated this jacket.”
I looked at it again. It was worn, faded in places, the fabric softened by years of use.
“Why?” I asked.
“Said it made me look like an old movie character,” the man laughed.
“But every time I tried to throw it away, he would hide it somewhere in the house.”
I smiled.
“So now you keep wearing it?”
The man nodded slowly.
“It reminds me of how stubborn he was.”
A matatu screeched to a stop beside us.
“TOWN! TOWN! LAST TWO!”
The conductor looked at us expectantly.
Neither of us moved.
The matatu roared away again.
After a moment, the man pointed toward the road.
“You see that corner?” he asked.
I nodded.
“That’s where he used to appear. Every single morning. Running sometimes, because he was always late.”
The old man shook his head and laughed quietly.
“Always late… but never missed our talk.”
For a few seconds we both stared at that same corner.
Cars passed. Boda bodas weaved through traffic. Someone shouted across the street.
But the corner remained empty.
Still, the man didn’t look disappointed.
Instead, he spoke in a calm voice.
“You know something funny?”
“What?”
“The world thinks grief is loud.”
He paused.
“But most of the time… it’s just quiet routines like this.”
The words sat heavily between us.
At exactly 7:00 a.m., like clockwork, he checked his watch.
But this time he didn’t move immediately.
Instead, he looked back at the corner once more.
Then he sighed—not a sad sigh, but the kind someone makes after finishing a long conversation.
“Alright, Daniel,” he murmured softly.
“Same time tomorrow.”
Then he turned, lifted his worn black bag, and walked down the road again.
And just like every morning before it—
The city swallowed him whole.