I gripped my spade tighter and stepped into the river. The water was cold against my skin. My feet sank into the soft mud, but I felt strong. I dug my first scoop and flung the wet sand onto the riverbank.

It was easy.

By the twentieth scoop, my confidence was gone.

My arms burned. My fingers ached from gripping the spade. My back felt like it would snap in half.

The sun climbed higher, turning the river into a furnace. Sweat poured down my face. The water, once refreshing, now made my limbs heavy.

I glanced around. The other miners—lean, muscled, used to this life—barely broke a sweat. Scoop, throw, repeat. Their rhythm was effortless. I was slowing down.

Shimonjero stood at the riverbank watching. There were no contracts, no safety rules—just sweat, sand, and the hope that ten lorries would come so that I could walk away with Ksh 2000 that day.

I had heard whispers of boys being mistreated here, but I had ignored them. Now, as my body screamed in protest, I realized those stories were probably true.

I told myself, just one more scoop.

But my body had other plans.

My arms trembled. My back throbbed. My legs wobbled like they would collapse.

I gritted my teeth and tried to lift the spade, but my hands gave up. It slipped from my grip, splashing into the water.

Shimonjero chuckled.

"Wewe kijana, ulidhani hii kazi ni rahisi," he said, shaking his head. (Young man, you thought this work was easy.)

I stood there, gasping for air, my vision spinning.

This wasn’t for me. I was done.

I dragged myself out of the water, my clothes heavy with mud, my pride shattered.

The other boys laughed. I ignored them and walked straight to Shimonjero.

"Where’s my money for that heap of sand I have raised?" I asked, trying to sound firm.

He gave a crooked smile, like he had seen this play out a hundred times. "Which money? Your sand hasn’t reached the right heap."

I frowned. "But I raised a whole pile!"

He shrugged. "And did a lorry come to pick it up?"

I turned. My pile of sand sat untouched. There was no lorry approaching.

I had broken my back for nothing. Was I going to wait for the lorry to come? I didn’t have that energy.

Shimonjero patted my shoulder. "Kijana, pumzika. This work is not for you." Then he walked away. Just like that.

I stood there, staring at the river, then at my empty hands.

Shimonjero disappearing meant I wasn’t getting my Ksh 100 anytime soon.