The exercise of force is contrary to the principles of God’s government; He desires only the service of love, and love cannot be commanded; it cannot be won by force or authority. Only by love is love awakened. To know God is to love Him — DA 22.1
Kenya, Nairobi, Kayole
I was born in probably one of the most chaotic places in Nairobi. The hub of matatu. And its culture. If you don’t have an idea of the depth of that phrase: Buses. But on steroids. A ton of graffiti.
I like to think that’s where the genesis of the name matatu came from. A bus with tattoos. Tatus. But in Swahili, we prefer the plural form ma-tatu. Forget the s.
Soon came the body kits. Spoilers that made them look like they could fly (we believed). Flashy LED lights. Hooters that didn’t just honk. They sang. Roared. They barked. Speakers that turned your chest into a subwoofer if you stood too close. Imagine getting in!
And the speed? Unreasonable? Irresponsible? Maybe. Incredible? Why drive when you can glide on adrenaline?
Guys would hang off the doors. Hot girls, even in the 2010s, got free rides, and acted like they were in a music video. They had names. UNDECIDED, DESTROYER. As if the matatu had an alter ego. And a SoundCloud account.
Inside? One massive screen, because why watch the road when you could watch a Hiphop, Gospel, or Dancehall mixtape, depending on the day! These days? We don’t count screens. On the ceiling. Outside. Behind each seat. And where the driver sits? That’s a futuristic cockpit! I bet they don’t have that on an Airbus!
That’s where I was born. Kayole. Where mom decided to start something serious. With dad. Bet I didn’t stand a chance. Tuned to chaos!
It Seemed Things Quickly Got Better
We moved a couple of times before I reached 7. Dad also got a car. That was huge. I remember my cousin (basically my sister by default), waiting with me for Dad to come home with the new whip.
She kept going on about the “new car smell.” My nose hadn’t earned that privilege yet. Kenya, no one’s really buying a brand-new car. We’re buying new-to-us cars. With character. Smells included. Still, that moment mattered. Dad was leveling up.
Juggling fatherhood. Accountancy. Maybe by then he already started his farming business idea. But I’m sure he started working on rentals. Lucrative. Man was building.
Forget the Toyota Corolla KAN 469A. The point was I’ve been a city boy. Schooled there. Minus high school. Grew up seeing the world through a Nairobi lens. To me, the chaos wasn’t chaos. It was home.
That’s probably why I still find comfort in watching strangers walk past each other in awkward, shoulder-dodging silence. The scent of diesel mixed with charcoal-smoke from a bus stage.
Nightlife equation = (Traffic + Tension + Roasted meat) Mutura
Yes, I put Mutura to the nth power.
I developed a soft spot for city lights. Dim ones that barely work, and the occasional blinding ones that remind you you’re still alive. Like the time I got lost in Ngara. Just me, my OPPO, and Google Maps. Clutching that thing like it was my last-born child. Following the little blue arrow. It was my pillar of fire followed by the Israelites at night.
Until, my eyes stood fixed on that big LED Billboard at Archives. The whole area lit. People and buildings shimmered. I didn’t know it was that bright at night. Put it in the news or something!
That’s The Best Image You Can Get
I am trying to recollect what series of events led to my fascination with the tranquility of nature. Just staring at moving branches and quickly settling in my nothing box, savoring the crisp leafy air spiced up with essential oils.
I remember my parents often taking me to Grandma. Mom’s place was better. Kids my age to play with, and Grandpa—bless the man—was always hauling random car parts around. He worked as a delivery guy for some company, I think. Not that I cared what company.
All I knew was the granary was a goldmine for spark plugs, rusty steering wheels, and mysterious engine parts that fueled our role-playing adventures.With Elvis. Uncle Tony’s firstborn son, that I know of.
Roasting potatoes with grandma at night. Big back b/w TV. Mom was a rich girl, wasn’t she?
The smell of the countryside, old furniture, and old, well-spread-out couch sheets. It was a trend. A serious one. We had to stop mom some years ago. A part of her died. Some things are too difficult to grow out of. Like how I had to outgrow washing and hanging my boxers in the bathroom. UV and fresh air my people!
Mom’s place, sitting on a hill, made it remarkable for one thing. The backyard, where grandma kept her one cow, faced a breathtaking view of the green downhill that cut to Murang’a seasonal river. Like a secret.
I’m sure that’s where my mom would make trips in her childhood to fetch water and find food for the cow.
That cow, that yoinked Josephine (grandma’s name to make it an absolute cinema) years back, off the ground. I wonder how she pulled through. This woman prays eiiyy🙌
I Loved Going Down That Hill
It was risky. I’ve had a thing for risky. If I had a good photo, you’d see how a single misstep could sentence you to a twisted ankle, a bleeding shin, or a long scrape that stung for days. The kind of hill that laughs at hesitation.
But those battle scars never stopped me.
Picking up food for the rabbits. Elvis once told me they adored marurû (Kikuyu, my mother tongue). Mexican marigold, if you must. Ye cultured folks! But they make insecticides Elvis! Did he fool this soft city boy?
I fell for the wild orchestra of scent rising from the undergrowth: sweet, sour, earthy, and sharp all at once. Each breath was like inhaling the color green. Surrounded by a mosaic of leaf shapes. Most deep emerald. Some yellowing with time. Tiny flowers, shy and bold, peeked out in pinks and sun-baked golds.
And the fear of stepping on a hideous bug. Or a pissed off slithering kind!
Trees. Tall and solemn. With their whispering crowns, dripping last night’s rain onto the already damp, rust-colored Murang’a soil.
It spoke fertility. And memory. The kind that seeped cold in between the toes of my size 4 feet.
The Sky Blazed Clear
Blue. The kind that makes you sweat and feel alive all at once. I don’t think I noticed the heat as it clung to my back as I trudged downward, but I didn’t care.
As long as it didn’t rain.
Somewhere between the sun, the scent, the soil, thorns, and that ridiculous marurû, something stirred inside me. Something clicked. As if my neurons were shaking hands for the first time.
Foundations were being laid. Circuits built. Synapses wrapped. I was alive. And I was learning to love it.
Mom and Dad, thank you. For dragging me out of the city often, whatever mysteriously urgent “errand” took you there. Even though I was just tagging along…
Trying out a new post format a lot of you asked for—sharing bits from my journal so we can reflect together. It’s personal, sometimes a little all over the place, but honest. Hope it feels relatable. Let me know if you’d want more like this—we’re building as we go.