Evanso.

“Every habit builds a place around it — and sometimes that place quietly builds a part of who we are.”

I only know him as Evanso.

A young fellow — average height, probably twenty, bursting with the restless energy that only belongs to that age. From the first encounter I was almost certain he was from Meru. Aren’t most Muguka sellers from Meru anyway? There’s a rhythm to the way he talks, a certain ease with customers that feels inherited, like trade passed down through generations.

What struck me immediately wasn’t the Muguka. It was the warmth.

Late November last year, my car broke down. Before that, my chewing ritual was private. I’d sit in my car or hang around Omoko’s, chewing quietly, contained in my own moving space. Losing the car forced me into the open. Suddenly, I needed a new baze. That’s how I ended up at Evanso’s Veve Baze.

The place is always full — packed to capacity like a tiny universe expanding against its walls. It’s a dingy structure, no luxury in sight, but it has everything that matters. A powerful sound system that pumps life into the air. Strong Wi-Fi that keeps everyone tethered to the outside world. And a power extension snaking across the table like a vein. A jerrycan of clean drinking water standing in the corner like a silent promise of hospitality.

What else does mtu wa jaba really need?

This baze is more than a stall. It’s a sanctuary. On one wall hangs a board labeled “Sheria Za Baze” — the unwritten constitution of the place, turned into humor and law at the same time. The rules are half joke, half serious, and entirely necessary. They remind you that even in chaos, people create order. It’s a crazy place, I tell you. But it works.

Over time, Evanso and I grew familiar. Then comfortable. Then something close to friends. We trade stories the way regulars do — fragments of past high school adventures, reckless teenage energy preserved in memory. Conversations stretch lazily across nights. He’s the kind of company that makes time slip by unnoticed. You come for Muguka and stay for the stories.

I’ve been chewing there long enough to earn a strange badge of honor: credit. At one point my deni hit 1,200 shillings. Think about that. One sachet costs 50 bob. To chew your way into a four-figure credit line isn’t just business anymore. It’s trust. It’s a relationship. Somewhere between customer and friend, the lines blur.

There are days when clarity hits me and I announce, with the conviction of a man standing at a crossroads, “This is my last day chewing.”

Evanso never argues. He just laughs softly — a knowing chuckle — and says, “Haya, tutaona.” We’ll see.

And sure enough, the next day I’m back at his counter like a man answering a quiet summons. “Niwekee kamoja.” We laugh, reset the clock, and the cycle continues. These are the small shenanigans of jaba life — familiar, almost ceremonial. Each visit feels like pressing play on a story that never quite ends.

What fascinates me is how a Veve Baze becomes a social anchor. People drift in and out, carrying their own burdens, ambitions, and unfinished sentences. For a few hours, they synchronize. Conversations overlap. Music fills the gaps. Laughter rises unexpectedly. In that cramped space, strangers become recurring characters in each other’s lives.

There’s a raw honesty to it. Nobody pretends to be more than they are. The baze strips away performance. You’re just another person chewing, talking, existing. And in that simplicity there’s a strange comfort.

Of course, indulgence has its shadows. Muguka isn’t just a pastime; it’s a rhythm that seeps into your routine. There are moments of self-reflection when I question the habit — when the laughter fades and I wonder about the quiet cost of repetition. Yet even those thoughts are part of the experience. They sit beside the camaraderie, not in opposition to it.

Evanso understands this balance instinctively. He doesn’t preach. He doesn’t encourage excess. He simply runs his base with a steady hand and an open heart. Customers come and go, but the atmosphere remains constant: welcoming, alive, human.

In many ways, Evanso's Veve Baze mirrors the informal institutions that shape urban life. It’s a micro-community built on shared ritual. A place where economic exchange blends seamlessly with social connection. Where credit isn’t just financial — it’s emotional. You’re trusted to return, to continue the conversation, to remain part of the circle.

And I do return.

Because beyond the Muguka, beyond the habit itself, there’s a sense of belonging. A recognition that life is often measured in these small, recurring scenes: the familiar counter, the friendly greeting, the laughter that follows a predictable joke. They form a quiet architecture of memory.

There’s another character in this unfolding story — a fellow known as Kibe. Dramatic, unpredictable, unforgettable. Just the other day, I hired him to help with some woodwork, and the experience deserves its own chapter. His presence at the baze adds another layer to the narrative, another thread in the tapestry of personalities that pass through.

But that’s a story for another day.

For now, Evanso's Veve Baze stands as a testament to the ordinary places that become extraordinary through repetition and relationship. It’s where habit meets humanity. Where a simple act of chewing Muguka opens a doorway into friendship, storytelling, and the shared pulse of everyday life.

And somewhere behind the counter, Evanso keeps smiling — the quiet architect of a space that means more to its regulars than it ever appears from the outside.

THE END!