“Are you ready? Sure you want to do this?” Shlomi asked, with the casual tone of a man inviting you to brunch, not a descent into the rectal cavity of urban despair. I looked at him—unsure, unprepared, and utterly incapable of backing down. Why? Because if I did, this bastard would hang it over my head for the rest of eternity like the Sword of Damocles, except less sword and more insufferable smugness.
“Is it going to be worse than the hotel in London you booked me into last year?” I fired back, already dreading the answer.
“Possibly,” he said, and I swear he almost smiled. “This is East Africa’s biggest slum you’re heading into. I’m afraid even London looks like a vacation in the Caribs compared to that.”
Now, let’s pause. Shlomi—the same lunatic who twelve months prior catapulted me into the seedy underworld of London’s underbelly—a third-class brothel disguised as a hotel—had apparently decided that my life lacked texture. That particular hotel, I should note, would have made a Rhodesia refugee camp look like New York’s Four Seasons. It was the kind of place where even the cockroaches filed complaints, and the plumbing screamed like it was possessed by the tormented souls of failed Roman-era plumbers.
None of that mattered now. Because here I was, climbing into the back seat of a Toyota Land Cruiser, ready to eject myself directly into Nairobi’s most infamous human blender: Kibera. A place so notorious that even nightmares hesitate to go there. A place where dreams beyond your next meal are a luxury no one can afford. A place where empathy is a foreign concept, likely confused for a new strain of malaria.
And me? I was a walking ATM with legs. No credit card swipe necessary—just a smile, a firm handshake, and your wallet, kidneys, and possibly your soul were fair game.
Welcome to Kibera.
Let’s dance.
An opening excerpt from this chapter remains available here.
The full manuscript is currently reserved for submission and publication.
Marcel Romdane—
pulling the plug on my mental drain, and waiting to see what circles the hell-water takes.
This door doesn’t open for Instagram.
Here I stood — camera in hand, ego in shambles — stepping into Kibera’s human blender. No white saviour theatrics, no elephant orphanage props. Just a brutal doorway into a world that ignores your lenses.
From Riches to Rags, Part III – Shots Fired: How a Camera Took Me from the High Life to Nairobi’s Human Blender.
Beware the lens that claims to save. Sometimes it only shows how deep you’ve buried yourself.
This isn’t a Hallmark moment. This is the Nairobi reality I never saw in brochures: A girl in a wheelchair, cradled by routine and resilience, while her caretaker braids defiance into every strand. No filters. No pity. Just the brutal poetry of human strength disguised as a weekday chore.
From From Riches to Rags: An African Odyssey, Part III – Shots Fired.
Where the camera stops lying and starts weeping.
A young boy in Kibera, Kenya, wearing a red shirt with a fading heart — staring down the lens like he knows the world won't flinch first. Captured in From Riches to Rags: Part III – Shots Fired, this image marks Marcel Romdane’s turning point: when the camera stopped being a tool and started becoming a mirror.
Welcome to Kibera — Nairobi’s corrugated labyrinth of survival, rust, and reality. A cluster of kids gather around a jerrycan like it’s holy water, framed by fences made from broken promises and roof sheets one gust away from becoming machetes.
This isn’t poverty porn. It’s From Riches to Rags: Part III – Shots Fired — the moment Marcel Romdane stopped being a photographer and started becoming collateral damage in his own philanthropic delusion.
Reality Check, Turn-Down Service Not Included.
Welcome to Nairobi’s no-frills chamber of resilience — where threadbare blankets, mosquito nets, and institutional beige are the luxury suite. This wasn’t just a sleeping room. This was the moment I realised “doing good” came with night sweats, broken fans, and a new understanding of what “comfort zone” meant when all comforts were removed.
Excerpt from From Riches to Rags: An African Odyssey, Part III – Shots Fired.
Young boy in Kibera balancing plastic basins on his head like a Nairobi Cirque du Soleil act — slum rooftops sprawling behind him like rusted dominoes of poverty and perseverance. From Riches to Rags: Part III – Shots Fired.
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