The boy goes by The Sun when it is sunny, The Rain when it is raining.
He is sitting on the ground with a small cardboard model in front of him, building a miniature house with a care that would put even my sister to shame — the architect in the family.

I sit down beside him, I see the wall surrounding the compound of his little house and ask whether he plans to put a gate somewhere; he glances at me sideways, serious, with a piece of sticky tape in his mouth, and waves his hand to tell me to be patient — he is concentrating on the outdoor kitchen.

I take advantage of the silence that strangely surrounds us — all the other boys are busy painting on two coloured sheets that will soon become the sides of a matatu, that will soon become a carnival float — to try to understand this boy sitting beside me; I would like to be able to imagine how he lives, what he thinks in the morning when he wakes up, what he is looking for when he wanders through the streets of this city, why he is here with us today.

The Sun answers every question I ask with great kindness, continuing to work on his little house, while he opens a gate in the wall and tries with masking tape to keep everything standing upright as it should.

He tells me that his home is not far from where we are; he lives alone because he is an orphan, his siblings are in a care home and he almost never sees them. He is the eldest of four brothers and sisters, all of whom still go to school. He says he is about 24 years old; he is very tall and one of the most serious in the group — and also one of the least solemn: he always welcomes us with big smiles and always gives us a hand managing the more exuberant boys.

Read all the articles on the Carnival! Nairobi project

– "And what do you do in the morning, after you get up?"
– "I look for odd jobs around to earn something. Or I collect plastic and metal, which I then sell at a place not far from here. A kilo of plastic is worth 15 shillings, a kilo of metal as much as 30 shillings. On average I manage to collect around 200 shillings a day (about €1.50); I set aside 100 and with the rest I buy myself something to eat. Rent at the end of the month costs me 1,800 shillings, so I get by fine."

While he talks to me he continues building his home with precision and in great detail, and from time to time he brings to his mouth this cloth soaked in petrol — a type of drug used by very many people living on the streets of Nairobi; it dulls you and slows your movements, and over time it becomes hard to follow what people are saying and to stay focused on anything.

I ask him why he uses it, and he answers calmly: "To quieten my thoughts."
He explains that without this drug his head would be too full: "I have no parents, no family, I live as best I can; if I really stopped to listen to my own mind I don't know how I could survive."

I look up: the others are no longer using their colour-laden brushes on the sheets but on themselves, painting their faces and bodies, so around me now there is one with a green face, one with a pink face, another rainbow-coloured. Other boys in the group are using the paint to write their names on their hoodies, or to add a splash of colour to their overly plain jeans.

Then they all lift the two sheets together and start running across the field, imagining they are inside a matatu with the music blaring; they sing and dance while I watch them, spellbound.

Afterwards we pull out a football and all throw ourselves into the game, forgetting who we are, why we are there, and all the thoughts crowding our minds.