In the chaos of Gikomba where chickens panic, sufurias sing, and “viazi tano kumi!” is basically a national anthem, Akinyi leans in to tell the juiciest “scandal” in the market: two widows, Njeri and Adhis, have fallen into a quiet, tender love that grows not with roses, but with extra sukuma bundles, shared thermos tea, and baskets lifted before a back gives in.

Of course, every love story needs a villain, and theirs comes wrapped in a Kamba accent and unlimited airtime: Kamene, the CNN of Gikomba, whose gossip has more salt than the Indian Ocean. She turns stolen glances into BREAKING NEWS, dowry into sukuma bundles, and romance into a ridiculous rumor cyclone, until the market realizes her noise is doing the opposite of harm. Her exaggerations become a shield.

After his homophobic dad kicks him out, Kamau drags his “I’ve been exiled” bag to his guka’s house in the village, expecting judgment, maybe a lecture, definitely not muratina. Instead, Guka Kinyanjui reacts like a chaotic elder with zero fear and too much tea: he roasts Kamau’s dad, asks wildly inappropriate “so who’s the girl?” questions, then casually drops the bombshell, he once had a secret Mau Mau lover.

Enter Gichuki wa MaThighs: a legendary freedom fighter with hips that preached, thighs that could distract a hyena mid-hunt, and enough rizz to turn roasted maize into foreplay under a mugumo tree. Through hilarious memory lapses, filthy one-liners, and war stories that swing between ambush and aftercare, Guka recounts “shoot and smooch” romance in the forest, kisses with gunpowder on the breath, love as rebellion, and tenderness hidden inside a revolution.

By the end, Kamau doesn’t just find shelter he finds inheritance: a ridiculous, raunchy, unexpectedly healing queer history lesson… plus the horrifying realization that his guka is never running out of details.

A breathless pirate-radio presenter goes live from the mabati maze of Dandora, running for his life as DCI boots, drones, dogs, and Subaru doors hunt him down. His crew has already been folded into the backseat, their studio at the dumpsite ripped apart like it’s contraband, because their “crime” was building a queer frequency: Dandora Dreamscape, the station where erased people could still hear themselves exist.

As he ducks through alleys and chang’aa dens, the broadcast turns into a prophecy: this static isn’t noise, it’s memory. Love notes disguised as playlists. USB sticks traded like currency. Names that refuse to die.

With the raid closing in, he does a final roll call of the last-seen, a guide on how to become a transmitter when the signal dies: write memories behind bus tickets, graffiti what algorithms can’t scan, tuck love into chapati, breathe like breathing is broadcast. Then the lock rattles, the door slams, and the mic explodes into static.