By Natachi Onwuamaegbu
with help from cultural guide and translator Dianne Saliamo & photographer and visual lead Carly Steyer
Photos by Carly Steyer
Moses Wekhanya Wenani has become good at mediating – a skill he’s perfected in his role as Kenyatta Market’s chairman.
It’s a useful skill, especially when it comes to resolving the many market disputes; one hairdresser complains that another is poaching her customers, encroaching on her salon space, taking more fake hair than she paid for. In the old days (well, about a decade ago) of Kenyatta Market, such a conflict would be solved in the pathways and behind backs. But when Moses became the chairman of Kenyatta Market seven years ago, things changed.
Now there’s a structure, an order, to the 600 businesses in Kenyatta Market, of which about 500 of them are hair dressing establishments. Quarreling hair braiders have somewhere to go to resolve their issues. They have meetings instead of gossip sessions when there are urgent problems in the market. They have someone advocating for them who meets with politicians about the state of the market. They have someone to respect.
“When there is a dispute, I educate [the hairbraiders] on how they can solve without conflict,” said Moses. “And then over a very long period of time, they thought of me as now being the person who can guide them.”
Chairman Moses Wenani sitting in his menswear shop, stall 495. Carly Steyer
But mediating doesn’t solve everything. Now, as the market recoils from the poor government implementation of Covid relief funds and prepares for the plans the new administration holds, Moses has no choice but to hope that things in the market get better like they did before the pandemic – and bank for a brighter future.
Unofficially, Moses has been playing this role for years. He’s been in the market for almost 30 years, and has operated two shops (stalls 495 and 105) for over a decade. And – he doesn’t braid hair. In fact, his hair, cropped close to his scalp, can’t be manipulated in many ways at all. He had no idea how big hair braiding as an industry is until he came to sell men’s dress wear in the market.
Given the number of hair businesses in the market, one might find it odd that the person elected to monitor the activities of the market is not only a man, but a man who’s never had hair longer than an inch. And a man who came into the market with little clue about how a salon operates.
Moses thinks of himself as a businessman: a Kenyatta Market man. He doesn’t see himself working anywhere else any time soon. But he’s also educated, more so than many of the women in the market, and considers that to be an asset rather than yet another trait that distances him from the very women he presides over.
“Even if you ask [the hairbraiders], they will tell you, ‘well, we have the right person in the right place,’” said Moses, leaning forward on his large desk in his small shop. Stacks and stacks of dress shoes surround him, placed precariously on floor-to-ceiling built-in shelves on all sides of the store – except for the open entrance facing the alley. There is that fear that if anyone steps too hard or turns too quickly, shoes would fly. And there is also that confusion. Leather shoes perfect for a hardworking man or woman glued to a desk feel out of place in the market, where dust covers everything.
And yet:
“I’m very successful,” he said. “The market has been good to me.”
Except for when it hasn’t. In 2020, the business owners of Kenyatta Market were left hung out to dry. The government instituted “Covid-19 recovery fund,” a fund for small businesses, and Moses describes waiting days, weeks, months, for any government official to come by the market and offer assistance to the employees of Kenyatta Market. As you can guess, they never came.
It was a dark year for Moses, in the way it was for many of the hair braiders without the capital to sustain themselves. He could barely support his four children. There were no clients, there was no shop, there was no help. Some landlords waived their storefront rent during the pandemic, but Moses’ did not. But before and after Covid, Moses had hope. Hope to turn the market around, to support the women who work there.
Wenani in front of stall 105. Carly Steyer
We first meet Moses at his other shop – the one that specializes in dress clothes to accompany the dress shoes. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, standing in front of his well-lit storefront. It’s easy to imagine him poised in the same position when the former President, Uhuru Kenyatta, visited the market in 2016.
It’s easy to imagine him explaining the problems of the market to Uhuru, walking him through the alleys lined with litter and debris and balls of hair, guiding him under the series of cobbled together tarps which try and fail to shield the market from the sun, helping him avoid the endless puddles of rain water from the lack of drainage. It’s easy to imagine him pointing to the place where the entrance sign used to be, ignoring the flies overhead and the crowded bathroom.
And it’s easy to imagine his smile when Uhuru nods and agrees to take a look at the potential changes. And it’s easy to imagine his relief a year later when many of those changes actually happen.
Maybe that’s why, despite the failures of the administration during the pandemic, Moses has hope again.
“This president is a people’s president,” said Moses, shaking his head in response to the government potentially prioritizing money over the wellbeing of the market laborers. “The women, braiders of Kenyatta Market, will come first in any future plans we have.”
Carly Steyer
One of those future plans? After discussions with President Ruto and Nairobi’s governor, Sakaja Johnson, Moses now believes Kenyatta Market could turn into a mall, one that rivals nearby competition. Think multiple stories and nearly 10 times the number of store fronts. Forget uniform plastic rooftops, here comes concrete and air conditioner. It’s almost too good to be true – and some believe it is.
A few braiders in the market speculate that this mall will lead to the permanent destruction of Kenyatta Market, and that the hair braiders who work there won’t be able to afford rent in the new building. But Moses doesn’t think such a displacement is possible. He imagines the construction taking place on one half of the lot while business continues on the other half. No one stops working and everyone can find a space. After all, the hair braiders are the heart of the market, and a mall would only allow for more space for more businesses and more employees. But it also makes sense that new businesses and employees would have more capital to afford the expenses of the mall.
And the women of the market would not.
Regardless of the future of the market (which is unconfirmed and won’t be known for several years), Moses doesn’t dream of continuing work outside of Kenyatta. He’s a “market man” and no calls to government or fancier shops will stop him from contributing to the bettering of the place he’s called home.
“I want to remain here to assist people,” said Moses, finally settling in and letting his back rest on his plastic chair. A high heel threatens to topple, and he rights it silently with his left hand. “Even if there should be a transformation, I should be one of the shop owners here. I like doing my own business. I can venture into other things like public office. But nothing that cannot make me disconnect with my people here in Kenyatta market.”
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