From playful toddlers to elders, everyone in Shamakhokho village is talking.

At the market, by the river, even outside the chief’s office—one name is on everyone’s lips.

Shimonjero.

The self-proclaimed village guide has vanished, and the village is bursting with rumors.

And why wouldn’t they talk? If you got lost in Shamakhokho, Shimonjero found you.

If you were a visitor, he showed you around—for a price, of course.

Shimonjero knew every shortcut, every home, and every secret in Shamakhokho. That’s how he made good money off tourists.

Some say he ran off with a mzungu woman who visited our village.

Others whisper that he angered the wrong people and had to flee. A few even claim karma finally caught up with him.

For most people, his disappearance was just gossip. But for me, it was personal.

Before he vanished, Shimonjero played me—and my aching muscles still remind me of that day.

It was the year I had just finished high school, caught in that restless in-between stage before campus.

My pockets were empty, and I hated asking my parents for money.

Every day, I watched the sand miners—Boys wa Mchanga—march past our home, spades slung over their shoulders like warriors heading to battle.

They walked with a confidence I envied.

Not that they were rich, but at least they had something—money they didn’t have to beg for. The more I watched them, the more it made sense. If they could do it, so could I.

How hard could it be? Digging sand, loading it onto lorries, getting paid—it sounded simple.

So one morning, I grabbed our spade and joined them.

The sun was barely up when we reached the river. That’s where I saw him—Shimonjero.

Unlike the rest of us, he wasn’t digging. He stood on the riverbank, overseeing everything like a boss.

His eyes landed on me, and a crooked smile spread across his face, revealing his malfunctioning dental formula.

"Wewe kijana, uko sure unataka hii kazi?" (Young man, are you sure you want this job?)

I nodded.

"Fine," he shrugged. "Fetch sand from the deep water and throw it onto the riverbank.

You see that hip-size pile? Once your sand reaches that size, you get Ksh 100. The real money is in loading lorries—Ksh 200 per trip....

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