On the third turn of the key the lock caught. I flung the door open to walk into the house. I kicked off my muddy oversized second hand Hoka running shoes. They felt impossibly heavy on my light body after the run.
On the wall to my right a large 1.5 metre Year at a Glance calendar stared back at me. Today was Tuesday the third of March. My 26th birthday will be on Sunday. Of course I knew this. I had written it on a notepad. Then on my phone reminders. Then on the calendar. As if I were bound to forget my own birth date. It will alsobe International Women’s Day. Those reminders should be enough. The calendar also told me I should run on Saturday with a group of Women. Enough reminders. Yet my first thought was that I should add more runs.
I was dirty, stinky, exhausted and hungry. I could feel the strain in my left glute and the tightness in my hamstrings that had failed to resolve for a month. But this was the plan. It is always the plan. Shoes out. Tea in the microwave. I showered while it heated so that when I came out dressed it would be the right temperature to drink with a large serving of leftover pasta and chicken from the night before. After that, I would be too tired to work.
I did exactly that.
I stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Dried salty traces of sweat clung to my face. I looked terribly old and at the same time helplessly young. I stared at a face I had memorised across mornings and nights. It had hardened before me. My eyes looked older than I felt. The question of my life unsettled me more than I cared to admit.
My own state of health is certainly precarious enough.
I stepped into the shower. I washed the same way I always do. I tied my curly twists into a low ponytail. I almost always wore the oversized trousers and a T shirt. When I came out, the tea was perfect. Warm. I heated the leftovers. I read a few pages of Tell Me How Long the Train’s Been Gone and replied to a handful of emails. That was all I had to do for the day.
I went to the bedroom to lie down. I curled into a foetal position, my back aching. I thought I should text my entire family to let them know I had eaten. This message should immediately reach my mother, who I was sure would be so proud that her 26 year old baby had eaten that day. There was nobody to get back to, so I scrolled Instagram. I checked Substack. Then the lights went off.
I supposed the lights would come back within minutes. The generator usually picked up within minutes. But it did not. The darkness stayed. The stillness of the house settled. Without the usual noise of technology, without the small violences of constant distraction, I was forced to sit with myself.
The burden of my own salvation felt as though it rested entirely on me and I could not endure it. I usually cover it with distraction. Doom scrolling. Too much work. Accumulating mileage as a side quest. But that night I needed something to tell me where I was and where I should be. I felt far from home, Iten. And each time I ran for home, it felt less and less like home when I returned.
Life has been good to me, I thought.
I eat three meals a day now. I clean my house every Friday. I walk or run every Tuesday. I mostly sleep on time. I rarely go to bed with a heavy heart.
This same week in 2023 ,everything was falling apart simultaneously. A late TB diagnosis that nearly took me early. My mother, with her deep dislike of the big city, rushing in alarm to see the state I was in. Extreme pain and fatigue. Followed by six months of treatment with medication that settled into my joints. A 5-meal emergency nutrition plan. Missing the Bar Exam with my cohort. No pupillage.
I had felt aimless. I began to think I had missed my flight. To Australia. To Finland. To wherever everyone else seemed to be leaving for. To chase someone else’s dream instead of my own. To fit into a collective idea of success that was never built for me. I began to think this profession was meant for other people. The clever ones. The confident speakers. Not me.
I was in terrible confusion. Sometimes I thought this is my life. Stop fighting it. Stop fighting.
Time has only taught me so much.
There are overwhelming possibilities now. The freedom to choose a healthier path. A happier one. A more attentive one. I get to decide what to do. Perhaps I should join a Catholic church choir. Buy tickets to the Nairobi Orchestra. Learn how to swim or drive. Paint. Gather my friends for a trivia night at the millennial bar downtown.
There is so much time. And so little.
I do not wish to reflect on love. I find it difficult to understand. The more I try to silence it, the louder it becomes. There is no clean way to place it outside myself,I always end up retreating into that inescapable thought loops of the person I cannot be with, perhaps the only thing that truly belongs to me, in thought.
I am not the emancipated girl I tried to be. It would be nice to come home to someone. And yet it strikes me that needing a man can feel like a humiliating necessity.
But here, in this house, I am protected. By the quiet. By the sound of my own voice. I have improved my emotional hygiene. I am happier now. I am safe.
I must believe. I must believe that the heavy grace of God, and the prayers of my mother, have brought me to this point and will carry me through whatever follows. After 26.
I do not know what will happen after 26. But if I asked my most trusted life adviser, my mother, I know exactly what she would do. She would reach for the Bible she always keeps close to her. She would open to 2nd Chronicles 20 and remind me of the battle King Jehoshaphat had to face.
She would read; Do not be afraid because of this great multitude, for the battle is not yours but God’s. You will not have to fight this battle. Position yourself, stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord who is with you. Do not fear or be dismayed. Tomorrow go out against them, for the Lord is with you.
Then she would close the Book and tell me what she has told me my whole life. Let the Lord settle it. Let the Lord do the work. Everything will happen in its own time. God is the problem solver.
Tomorrow, when I wake, there will be no one to smile at. The morning will be the same. Only I will be stiller.
Some Interesting reads.
2. How Not to Prepare for the Bar Exam.
3. Home is Iten