The Day I Can't Remember

The afternoon sun beat down on the bustling streets of Nairobi as I left my tuition classes, my backpack heavy with books and my mind still swimming with mathematical equations. I was fifteen then, a tenth-grade student with the usual teenage concerns – upcoming exams, friendship drama, and getting home before my favorite TV show started.

The matatu stand was crowded as always, filled with the familiar chaos of conductors calling out routes and passengers haggling over fares. The air was thick with diesel fumes and the sweet scent of roasting maize from a nearby vendor. I stood there, counting the coins in my pocket, when I heard a gentle voice behind me.

"Excuse me, young lady."

I turned to find an elderly gentleman, probably in his sixties, wearing a well-pressed gray suit that seemed a size too large for his frame. His smile was grandfatherly, his eyes kind behind wire-rimmed glasses. He held a piece of paper in his trembling hands.

"I'm trying to find this address," he said, his voice carrying the weight of wisdom that automatically commands respect in our culture. "Could you help an old man?"

I remember looking at the paper, though now I can't recall what was written on it. I was raised to respect my elders, to offer help when needed. It was as natural as breathing to say yes.

What happened next exists in fragments, like pieces of a broken mirror reflecting distorted memories. I remember walking beside him, his pace unhurried, his voice a soft murmur as he asked about my studies. The familiar streets of my neighborhood seemed to blur at the edges, my steps becoming increasingly uncertain.

The next clear memory is of my own living room. Our modest but comfortable home, where my mother had carefully arranged our furniture, proud of the flat-screen TV she'd bought after months of saving. Her work computer sat on the desk in the corner, essential for her job as an accountant.

I remember the old man's voice, now somehow different, more commanding. My hands moved as if controlled by invisible strings, disconnected from my thoughts. I watched, as if from outside my body, as I handed over the TV, then the computer. There was no fear, no resistance – just a strange, floating sensation.

The last image before darkness claimed me was of our empty TV stand, the dust outline of where our television had been the only evidence it had ever existed.

When consciousness returned, it was to my mother's frightened voice calling my name. The living room was bathed in the orange glow of sunset, and my head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. Her questions came in rapid succession – Where was the TV? The computer? What happened?

I had no answers, only confusion and a growing sense of dread as the fog in my mind refused to lift.

It wasn't until my mother checked the CCTV footage that the horrible truth emerged. Frame by frame, we watched as I docilely helped a stranger steal from our home. The cameras captured what my memory couldn't – how he must have slipped something into my water bottle when I wasn't looking, how my movements became increasingly uncoordinated as we walked, how he calmly directed me to hand over our belongings before leaving me unconscious on the couch.

The police report was filed, but the man was never found. They told us similar incidents had been reported – elderly con men using various drugs to rob unsuspecting victims. I was lucky, they said. Many victims had woken up in far worse situations, or hadn't woken up at all.

Years later, I still get chills thinking about that afternoon. The missing memories haunt me more than the actual recollections – the dark spaces in my mind where anything could have happened. My mother installed better security systems and gave me strict instructions never to help strangers again, no matter how harmless they seemed.

The incident changed me in subtle ways. I became more cautious, less trusting. But it also taught me a valuable lesson about the deceptive nature of appearances. Danger doesn't always present itself with warning signs and threatening gestures. Sometimes it comes with a grandfatherly smile and a polite request for directions.

In Nairobi's matatu stands today, I often see young students like I once was, their faces bright with innocence and trust. Sometimes I want to warn them, to tell them my story. But instead, I watch them carefully, ready to step in if I see an elderly gentleman with kind eyes and a paper in his trembling hands, asking for directions.

The TV and computer were eventually replaced, but something else was lost that day – a piece of childhood innocence that can never be recovered. Yet I consider myself fortunate. In the end, I lost only possessions and memories. I got to wake up. I got to come home. Not everyone does.