It is 9pm in downtown Nairobi. Inside a small, buzzing nail salon, a group of young men—mostly in baggy jeans and faded t-shirts—huddle around clients’ hands with focused intensity. Rwandan music hums from a corner speaker as greetings fly in Kinyarwanda. For a moment, it feels like Kigali, not Nairobi.
Most of them are nail technicians; a few are second-hand clothes and shoe vendors who have stopped by to say hello. A young woman walks in carrying a bucket of food. She serves the men swiftly—some pay, others say something in Kinyarwanda that makes her giggle before she slips out.
