The water did not knock; it simply walked in. In the dead of night, the residents of Nyalenda found themselves at war with nature as flash floods tore through their homes, turning a quiet neighborhood into a terrifying seascape of sewage, debris, and desperation.

It started as a drizzle, then a roar. By dawn, I was standing on my roof, the cold water lapping at my ankles. The smell was the first thing that hit you—a thick, suffocating mix of river mud and broken septic tanks. Below me, my house, the place where I had stored my memories, was being dismantled plank by plank by a current that seemed to have a personal vendetta.

A Night of Darkness

The blackout was instant. When the transformer blew, it sparked once—a dying star in the heavy rain—and then we were plunged into total darkness. In the void, the sounds were amplified. I heard Wanjiku, my neighbor, screaming for her baby. I heard the groan of metal as a kibanda folded under the pressure. I heard a goat bleating, a high, thin sound that was suddenly cut short.

I clutched a plastic bag containing my identity: my ID card, two shirts, and my mother’s wedding photo. It was a pathetic inventory of a life, but it was all I could save. Beside me, Wanjiku held a flickering torch, its weak beam slicing through the rain to reveal a fridge floating past, turning slowly like a lazy crocodile.

• The Human Chain: Survival was not an individual act. It was a collective heave. From the darkness, Mama Njeri’s voice cracked out orders. "Otieno, usiruke! Maji itakuchukua!" (Otieno, don't jump! The water will take you!). We formed a chain of voices in the dark, checking on each other, anchoring each other against the panic.
• The Aftermath: When the sun finally rose, it revealed a landscape rearranged. Streets were rivers. Living rooms were swimming pools. But in the devastation, there was humanity. Neighbors who had lost everything were already sharing bread. Young men waded through chest-deep water to carry the elderly to safety.

Rebuilding from the Mud

The flood took our things, but it gave us something back: the realization of who we are. We are not just neighbors; we are a battalion. As we scraped the mud from our floors and dried our clothes on the remaining power lines, we didn't cry for what was lost. We worked for what remained.

This flood came to rearrange us, to test the structural integrity of our community. It found our houses weak, but our spirit unbreakable. We are Nyalenda. We bend, but we do not drown.