EssayStoryJournalBook reviewReflectionResearchLetterPoemMemoir3,323 words16 min readAutosave enabledReimagining the afternoon's mundane yet necessary errand, I find myself reluctantly drawn to the familiarity of the worn salon chair. The walls of the tiny room, nestled in the bustling heart of Moi Avenue in Nairobi, hold stories told by peeling paint — a testament to its many years of service. It's a refuge I've frequented since my days of dreadlocks began, a time that now feels like a distant memory. Loyalty has long since been replaced by a weary resignation; the thought of hunting for a salon with a stylist skilled in more than the basic 'all-lines-back' seems a quest from another life. Once, I cared about variety and style, but those days have faded into apathy. The only thing that spurs me to maintain a semblance of neatness is society's side-eye — not that it truly bothers me. Yet, here I am, capitulating to the norms for the sake of an upcoming video interview. Surely, appearing somewhat groomed isn't an unrealistic aim. Glancing at the clock, the hands point to 3.00 pm. I've been here long enough for the dye to set, gripping a towel fiercely around my neck — a protective barrier for the beloved t-shirt beneath. The graveyard of my once vibrant wardrobe, prematurely retired due to accidental dye casualties, won't be claiming this one. My excursions for new clothes have dwindled to nearly none, the thrill of such simple pleasures now lost on me. In the midst of these ruminations, my phone breaks the silence — it's 'Kim Bro' lighting up the screen. His calls are few and far between, signaling something of note. "Hey, Happy birthday! What's new with you? Feel like dropping by?" he chimes. It's been over a year since we last connected, the swift passage of time never ceasing to astonish me. The conversation concludes with a spontaneous decision — off to Roysambu I go. Going home first isn't an option; I'm well aware of the energy reserves dipping too low for a second departure. The salon mirror reflects a version of me that seems stuck, while outside, life flows incessantly like Nairobi's never-ending traffic. I envy the constant motion of the world, a stark contrast to my own stasis. It's time to defy this gravitational pull of inertia that anchors me — after all, I'm only two decades shy of a midlife marker that promises no more excitement than this. It's not a pretty prospect, but for today, at least, I'm in motion, and the dye hasn't seeped onto my t-shirt. It's a small victory, but I'll take it. In the kinetic tapestry of Nairobi, where the pulse of the city beats along Tom Mboya Street, I find myself threading through the human weave with purpose. The destination is clear: those buses emblazoned with 'Roysambu' perched atop their metal crowns. Striding with intent, I dodge the siren calls of eager conductors promising rides to Kangemi. Their chants, a familiar soundtrack to the city's hustle — "Ni 50 bob tu!" , "Madam unafika wapi?"— are a chorus I skillfully ignore. Navigating the streets with a blend of haste and resolve, I reach my embarkation point in under twenty minutes. Saturdays here unfold in a riot of activity; the streets are a living organism, pulsing with energy. Pedestrians become impromptu window shoppers, lured by sidewalk bargains of clothing for a mere 10 bob. These sudden halts in the human current stir a twinge of frustration — the march of time has little patience for such pauses. TRM looms into view, a shorter journey than expected, albeit at a non-negotiable fare. Still, a small triumph — 10 bob saved from the electronic clutches of M-Pesa. The economy of the commute is a game played in small wins. Then comes the dance of haggling with a motorbike rider, whose insistence on a 100 bob fare seems a steep climb for a short ride. True enough, the journey is a brief one, and soon enough, the gates of my destination beckon. A wry smile crosses my lips; perhaps my feet alone would have sufficed. Nairobi teaches its lessons harshly — it's a realm where only the fittest thrive, a concrete jungle drenched in the survival of the shrewdest, unless, of course, one's pockets rain dollars. The ascent to our reunion spot is an arduous climb, a five-story challenge that rivals the city's hustle. Each step is a testament to our collective tenacity, a steep path mirroring the climb we make through life's myriad hurdles. Panting yet persistent, we climb, each floor gained marking our resilience, a silent pact to surmount the steepness of life's demands. Reaching the summit, breaths caught and spirits high, the sight of long-missed faces ignites a warmth within. In this urban sprawl, where time is as precious as the city's frenetic energy, these moments of connection are the true oases. Reconnecting with this cherished circle, the strain of the climb fades into insignificance — the camaraderie at the peak makes every strenuous step worthwhile. The evening unfurled with an act steeped in simplicity, yet resonant with significance—a shared toast, our glasses brimming with gin. Across from me, Kim, a brother in every sense, raised his glass. To my right, my baby sister, her laughter the melody to our gathering. Next to her, Eden, his presence a familiar comfort. Indeed, this is the same guy who ascended five flights of stairs without breaking a sweat, while I gasped for air at each landing, grappling with the gravity of my own exertion. And to my left, Kim's girlfriend, her smile the evening’s gentle light. The air was thick with a familial warmth that I hadn't realized I’d been craving, a stark contrast to the cold companionship of screens that often held my gaze—phone, laptop, TV, and the drowsy half-world of sleep. The chime of glass against glass was a bell tolling for the passage of time. It seemed only a breath had passed since we were kids, a mere heartbeat in the grand clockwork of the cosmos. Yet, here we were, three decades woven into the tapestry of life. Time, that enigmatic trickster, with its Einsteinian quirks, was at play in our midst—elastic, malleable, and ever-flowing. This night, tradition took a backseat to the unconventional; the usual celebratory cake was usurped by a dish of hearty Ugali, flanked by a bottle of gin. And let’s not forget the beef stew—a culinary masterpiece courtesy of my cousin’s partner, whose prowess in the kitchen had become legendary among us. Later, we spilled onto the balcony, a tableau framed by a sky jeweled with stars, our voices a soft murmur against the backdrop of the cosmos. Time, it seemed, was a capricious companion, racing with the ferocity of a torrent in moments of joy, then slowing to a tender crawl in the stillness of contemplation. There, suspended between the laughter-filled present and the echoing corridors of memories, time danced to the rhythm of our hearts. In these shared moments, time was no longer the thief of youth but a weaver of stories, each second a stitch in the fabric of our shared existence. And there, amidst the reverie, time's relativity became not just a concept, but a felt truth, ebbing and flowing with the tide of our emotions. Opting out of the traditional birthday cake was less about tradition and more a quiet rebellion against the expected milestones of life—though, if I'm honest, it was also a matter of economics (birthday budgets don't always stretch to confectionery). Our little act of defiance was a statement: we wouldn't be boxed in by the ticking of the clock or the accumulation of years. We were the sculptors of our own temporal experience, not mere subjects to its whims. Amidst the hum of background tunes, Ed Sheeran's "Shape of You" morphed into the soundtrack of our musings. A whimsical thought of forming a band fluttered through the conversation. I found a quiet pride in dredging up lyrics from the depths of memory—though, truthfully, carrying a tune was a skill that had always eluded me. Our glasses, vessels of the evening's spirit, clinked in a salute to life's fluid pace. Opposite myself, my cousin and his partner sat close, their bond a visible force. They seemed less like two people and more like two notes struck in perfect harmony, resonating with a melody that had begun in their schoolyard days. They laughed in sync, a duet of joy at the punchlines of shared jokes; they spoke in echoes, their words a testament to a journey walked in step. In them, I glimpsed the embodiment of our quest for meaning—a meaning they had unwittingly danced around since the days of hopscotch and homework. In their togetherness, I saw a love that had quietly defied the relentless march of seconds and minutes, a love that had bloomed fully only after years of being overlooked. Their story was a gentle reminder that epiphanies of the heart often arrive in their own time—never too late, always just in time. And so, as the night unfolded, theirs was the kind of love that sparked a twinge of envy in the soul. It was a reminder that while time may be relative, some connections are absolutely timeless. The night unfurled, stretching into hours rich with the tapestry of our collective histories. We navigated the seas of conversations, our words charting courses through the landscapes of dreams we'd chased, those we'd tucked away for another day, and the myriad encounters with victory and defeat that had colored our pasts. The gathering was an ode to the intricate dance of time—not as a relentless march, but as an elaborate weave of interlacing threads, each moment a stitch in the grand design of our lives. As we delved deeper into the night's embrace, we shared lessons wrapped in the cloak of years—wisdom that had arrived on the wings of trials, some digestible, others nearly shattering our resolve. Time had emerged as an artisan, its chisel and hammer shaping our essence with the subtlety of the passing days. Amid the clinking of empty gin glasses, an epiphany took root. Life was akin to the vessel that had held our libation—a container to be filled, tasted, and cherished. Each moment resonated with its unique flavor, an individual note that, when strung together, composed an opus of existence. The realization dawned that the quest for significance was not about arriving at some grand finale but about embracing the journey itself. Our present was a canvas, and the brushstrokes of now were as vital as any masterpiece we aspired to complete. And so, as the remnants of laughter and solemnity mingled in the air, a profound truth settled within me: the relativity of time is not a thief of joy but a liberator of perspective. It gifts us the license to craft our own epics, to find the extraordinary in the everyday. This understanding was not merely the fruit of aging; it was the treasure borne from being broken and remade—a testament to bequeath, not through grand tales but through the quiet strength that whispered of survival and transcendence. As the night whispered its secrets, I sat, a mosaic of the years, poised to pass on not just stories, but the essence of a life lived in full awareness of time's delicate dance. In the hushed whispers of dawn, our band of kin wove a challenge from the threads of nostalgia—conversing in the tongue of our forebears, the Nandi language. This playful endeavor, a bridge to our Tindiret and Cheptiret lineage, seemed to evade our city-tamed tongues. Our laughter echoed in the room as we wrestled with the syllables and sounds that once were second nature, now like echoes from a land we'd left behind. Amidst our linguistic dance, stories of our childhood crept in, painting the room with hues of admiration and reverence. We traded tales of our parents—titans of tenacity whose steadfast spirit weathered the storms of life with unspoken grace. They were the architects of our foundation, their sacrifices the cornerstone of our existence. We then voyaged down memory lane, traversing the rugged terrain of our upbringing. From the nurturing soils of Nandi and Uasin Gishu counties, we had soared on the wings of ambition, each sibling charting an uncharted course. Yet, in our hearts, the legacy of diligence and determination bequeathed by our parents blazed like an eternal flame. Giggles surfaced as we recounted our youthful schemes, innocent ploys to coax an extra shilling from our guardians during our university escapades. These were the same hands that had gently nudged us towards our dreams, the same voices that had taught us to cherish the classroom and the community alike. In this shared space, as the tapestry of our past unfurled, we were reminded of the depth of our lineage. This gathering was more than a marker of three decades of life; it was a tribute to the soil from which we sprang, the kinship that bound us, and the ethos that had been the compass of our journey. As gratitude surged through us like a river breaking its banks, we realized that our convocation was more than mere celebration—it was an affirmation of our identity, a collective homage to the roots that grounded us and the wings they had given us to fly. Our dialogue, rich with the patina of time, veered into the bittersweet memories of our scholastic beginnings. We spoke of our ascension from the quaint corridors of village schools, cradled in the embrace of our tight-knit hamlets, to the grand halls of city institutions—a metamorphosis that chiseled our characters in unexpected ways. In the sanctuaries of our rural classrooms, simplicity wove itself into the very fabric of our days. Here, under the tutelage of educators armed with little more than chalk and determination, we were baptized in the waters of knowledge. They sowed within us seeds of curiosity, watered with wisdom drawn from the well of our heritage. The quantum leap to the urban schools was akin to stepping onto a new planet. Here, the edifices of education soared, and life thrummed to a rhythm so brisk it sent our youthful hearts racing. This was a crucible of academia, where intellectual gladiators clashed in pursuit of excellence. The rigor was relentless, a forge of both mettle and mind. And then there was the chasm of culture—a gap we bridged with tentative steps. The city, with its polyglot populace and mosaic of mores, was a kaleidoscope that dazzled and disoriented. It was in this vibrant vortex that we learned to blend the hues of our rural roots with the spectrum of metropolitan life. As our reflections unfurled like the leaves of an old, familiar book, a collective sense of gratitude enveloped us. Those tribulations, once towering like monoliths, now stood as milestones marking the distance we had traversed. From the clay of our villages to the concrete of the city, we had been sculpted by adversity into beings of resilience and grace—a harmonious fusion of the wisdom of the land and the wits of the cityscape. At the tender break of dawn, with the hands of the clock embracing 5:30 am, our nocturnal symposium drew to a close. Our spirits lingered in the camaraderie, yearning for the night's extension, yet our mortal coils beckoned for rest. The city, ever the chameleon, had shifted shapes once more, now bathed in the nascent glow of daybreak, and the nearby sanctuary commenced its morning chorus. The harmonies of hymns and the fervor of faith soared through the air from a nearby church, infusing the new day with its sanctified beginnings, reminding us that time, indeed, stood as the most tireless of sentinels. As we each retreated into our temporary havens, slumber proved a coy mistress. The ecclesiastical serenades breached the barriers of brick and bone, swirling around me, a celestial dialogue interwoven with the fabric of our human discourse. There, in the silent embrace of night transitioning into day, I found myself adrift in contemplation. The gin's warmth, the resonant peals of our mirth, the tapestries we wove with words, and the silent understanding shared in glances—these had all stitched together a mosaic, a moment outside the relentless march of the minutes. In this nocturnal vigil, I understood that the quest for purpose was not bound by the sun's arc; it was a constant, a companion to our every breath, as present in the whispering darkness as it was under the scrutiny of daylight. We arose to the symphony of sizzling eggs, the aroma of sausages, the rustle of bread, and the comforting clink of tea cups. Steeped in the warmth of the afternoon heat, our collective eyes and minds turned to the screen, where the intricate dance of international politics played out. With the gravitas of seasoned citizens of the world, we absorbed the unfolding narratives of faraway lands, of conflicts and peacemaking, of leaders and nations charting their courses through turbulent times. Yet, amid these global reverberations, we found ourselves anchored in a serene harbor of familiarity and kinship. Our gathering, transcending the mere celebration of milestones, had evolved into a vibrant canvas illustrating the enduring strength of familial bonds and the shared pursuit of a brighter morrow. As we basked in the afterglow of our conclave, our thoughts, once whispers in the twilight, now took shape as a vivid collage of reflection and foresight. This mosaic of the mind and heart charted our odyssey across the seas of time and intellect, unfurling before us the boundless horizons of our collective aspirations. Thus, we not only savored the feast laid before us but also feasted upon the riches of our dialogue—a dialogue that had spanned the spectrum of human experience, interweaving the threads of our past, present, and the promise of all our tomorrows. This journey through the corridors of time and across the landscapes of our dreams was one that promised to endure, unfurling its narrative with each new dawn. Amidst the clamor and hustle of the stage, as buses jostled and touts bellowed their destinations, I stood for a moment in quiet reflection. My thoughts turned to Kim and his beloved, wishing them a voyage through life as vibrant and harmonious as a symphony. That their days be woven with threads of joy, their nights alight with the glow of shared dreams, and each chapter of their story penned with the ink of enduring affection. With a heart brimming with the riches of companionship and the warmth of shared memories, we embarked on the familiar path back to the urban tapestry of South B. Stepping onto the overly loud Thika Road bus, the mixed soundtrack reverberated with a relentless voicing of 'DJ Kalonje' humming in my ears, I couldn't help but muse on the rhythm of my own existence—oscillating between the digital glow and the tranquil solitude of slumber. A wistful smile etched itself upon my face as the bus trundled on, the cityscape unfurling like a scroll of endless narratives. Yes, perhaps it was time to weave new patterns into the fabric of daily life, to seek new horizons beyond the screens that framed my world. It was time to script a new adventure, one that transcended the humdrum of the cycle I knew all too well. It was time, I mused, to truly live. P.S If you're gonna confront me with this final utterance, I'm gonna deny it and block you! Coz this is just our modus operandi @ 30. Cheers! P.P.S Here's to the forthcoming union of two remarkable souls! My heartiest felicitations as you stand on the brink of a shared lifetime. May your journey ahead be replete with joy, understanding, and love that deepens with each day. This note shall serve as a testament to the beautiful threshold you're about to cross together. Cheers to your future! (Penned with warmth as my enduring memento.)