I’m in the shower, getting ready to travel — but my mind is already miles ahead. The water is hot, yet I barely feel it. My thoughts have packed their bags long before I have. There’s always that strange excitement before a trip — a mix of restlessness, curiosity, and a little anxiety that makes you forget what you were even doing.
By the time I’m done, I’m rushing around the house like a man in a movie montage — checking if I’ve switched off the gas, trying to remember where I kept my earphones, convincing myself that leaving five minutes late is not the end of the world. Traveling has a way of showing you how forgetful you can be.
Outside, Nairobi’s morning air has that bite of cool energy. I can feel the city waking up — matatus honking, someone already arguing with a boda rider, and a few early birds jogging like they have a medal to win. There’s something about this city that makes you feel alive, even when you’re leaving it.
At the train station, people move like a school of fish — everyone in their own direction but somehow in sync. Families, lovers, businesspeople, backpackers — all waiting for that metallic beast that will carry us across the land.
Once I’m seated, I notice something new. The seats! They’ve changed. Gone are the old face-to-face arrangements where you had to pretend to like small talk. Now they’re like airplane seats — forward-facing, quiet, civilized. I silently thank whoever made that decision. Sometimes you just want to stare out the window and reflect — not be forced into a conversation about politics with a stranger who spits sunflower seeds.
As the train hums out of Nairobi, I settle in. A little girl next to me drifts to sleep and ends up with her head on my lap. Her mother, seated behind us, gives me that grateful smile of tired parents. I just nod — what can you do? You can’t wake a child in deep peace.
Somewhere near Athi River, the train fills with laughter. A group of passengers has cracked open a bottle of something strong — their voices growing louder with each toast. Another group is sharing mandazis, someone’s playing rhumba from a Bluetooth speaker. Trains are a moving universe — little pockets of life, joy, and chaos all running on the same track.
At Voi, the lady sitting next to me stands up to alight. We’ve been talking about business — she’s from my community, and where I come from, business is not just work, it’s identity. She’s full of energy, ideas, and that entrepreneurial fire. When she leaves, the train feels a bit quieter, almost too quiet.
The landscape outside turns dry, wide, and beautiful. My mind drifts again — to life, to time, to all the things we chase and forget to enjoy. Traveling alone does that to you; it gives your thoughts space to wander.
We arrive in Kilifi close to midnight. The air hits me like a warm hug — thick, salty, and familiar. My friends are waiting at the station, loud and laughing. The coast has its own rhythm — slower, softer, more forgiving.
The next morning, I wake up early, tie my laces, and head out. I run through the sisal plantation, connect to the beach, stretch in the cold water, and breathe in that coastal calm. Sometimes, that’s all you need — to move, to feel, to exist in the moment.
Now, I’m back in Nairobi again. The city is buzzing, people rushing, and life moving fast — but part of me is still there, in Kilifi, with the ocean breeze and slow mornings.
Funny thing about journeys — they don’t just move you from place to place; they move you from version to version of yourself.
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