The day after acquiring "Phoenix,"(Peugeot 405 GR-Asian owned) the ironic nickname now felt cruel, my automotive odyssey took a sharp turn south. Stuck in the infamous jam on Outering Road, near Embakasi Pipeline, the engine sputtered and died, spewing a plume of smoke that could rival a dragon's breath. Panic gnawed at me, but a beacon of hope appeared in the form of a roadside mechanic, a "kawaya" with grease-stained overalls and a reassuring smile.

He popped the hood, muttering diagnoses in a language that seemed to involve more hand gestures than actual words. After a flurry of tinkering, we performed a push-start, the engine roaring back to life like a reluctant beast. Relief washed over me, and I tipped him generously, my naivety mistaking his grease-stained grin for genuine concern. We exchanged numbers, and I, blinded by gratitude, readily agreed for him to come over the next day for a more thorough electrical check and engine cleaning. Big mistake.

The next morning, the kawaya arrived promptly, a picture of efficiency. Trustingly, I handed him the keys, picturing a sparkling engine and purring pistons in my mind's eye. Little did I know, my car was about to embark on a joyride I hadn't bargained for.

While I slaved away at work, my "mechanic" was busy creating his own brand of car care chaos. Instead of cleaning, he apparently decided to drown the engine in a deluge of water, a move that would make any car shudder. Then, in his attempt to revive the waterlogged beast, he burnt the clutch to a crisp, the acrid smell a testament to his "expertise."

Realizing the mess he'd made, panic set in for the kawaya. He ripped out the battery, claiming he needed it for charging, and with a practiced sleight of hand, convinced the security guards he was authorized to take it. That was the last I saw of him, the battery, and, unfortunately, the car key.

My heart plummeted faster than a stone thrown off the Nithi Bridge. My dream car, now a waterlogged, clutch-fried nightmare. The battery had vanished along with the kawaya and my precious key. The "angel" had turned into a demon, leaving me stranded in a sea of bad decisions and empty promises.

The following days were a blur of police reports, frantic searches, and the crushing realization of loss of my hard-earned money. The experience left a bitter taste in my mouth, a cautionary tale etched in grease and betrayal.

But even in the ashes of this disaster, a flicker of hope remained. The ordeal, though painful, taught me a valuable lesson: not every smile is genuine, and trust, especially in the realm of used car mechanics, is a luxury one can't afford. It forced me to become my own advocate, to learn the basics of car maintenance, and to approach any future "kawaya" encounters with a healthy dose of skepticism.

The Peugeot 405 GR saga may have ended on a sour note, but it became a pivotal chapter in my motoring journey. It was a harsh reminder that the road to car ownership can be riddled with potholes, but with each bump, we learn, we adapt, and we emerge stronger, wiser drivers, ready to navigate the asphalt jungle with a newfound awareness and a healthy dose of caution.

So, to anyone embarking on their own car-buying adventure, remember my tale. Let it be a beacon, urging you to tread carefully, to research thoroughly, and to never, ever let a kawaya near your car keys unsupervised. The open road awaits, but be warned, it's paved with both good intentions and mechanical gremlins. Drive safely, and may your journey be filled with more purrs than sputters!

WATCH OUT FOR PART 3