Finding Home Again

Escaping from urban chaos and finding tranquility in rurals

Photo by Dilara Albamya on Pexel

As we trudged towards Christmas late last year—and now taking a breather at the foothill of a new year, it was obvious—going by the happenings of the year—not everyone would merry. Some were lucky to eat once in a day. Friends lost their loved ones—and are yet to heal. Others clinged into their bloodied hope to survive. In the midst of all these, a little kindness was a pretty much-needed turn-on to cool off from a transactional world.

I love the simplicity of rural. And Christmas—thanks to Jesus whose poetic teachings we still turn a blind eye—made it possible again. Apart from my little well-manicured lawns, I don't own a fancy house. Only until recently did it get a face-lift with the real cement on the floor and timbered wall (cowdung and clay soil were the only aged-old plastering materials we had known). No CCTVs. No siri. No drop-in sink. No house-bound septic tank. I have, nevertheless, dug a small hole not far away from my thingira and stitch it up like a bird in the wood. All I needed (not now) was a tree branch to hold and a bunch of leaves to tidy up.

When you're in the city, something as basic as like this is a luxury. Unscheduled call to dumb can send you scampering away like a headless chicken. Loos are hardly noticeable; the distance?—the earth and moon apart. Even with the urgency it deserves, lots of time is spent sprinting hoping for a much-welcomed relief. The free ones are rarely hygienic; they stink too much. Speaking of the dirt and the smelly, if they don't kill you, they suck the pleasure out of you. I never knew I had a sense of smell until, well, I stumbled on the dogshit and a cocktail of stinks.

Two days into the Christmas eve and I felt urban hangovers bulldozing me. I, however, love urban life for the good side of it. I am not near Nairobi but I am surrounded by and live in a midcity. Given a chance to make vows countless times, I would still profess love for the urban for what it is, only upto a certain extent. But God, it's hard.

I don't hate people but there are too many people cramming up for every little air space. Everyone is on your face, all the times and alongside the disorderliness, jostling for everything, from your money to your own space. Even one stranger, in the middle of an empty street, asking you to fill a proforma, is enough to cut off your prayers. A slight eye contact with a hawker is an almost closed deal ( I can't remember how many times I have bought stuffs that I didn't later use).

Whenever you turn left, right, you see people stuffed with chocolate, chips, crisps on their faces. In the lawless urban, rarely do you see beaming smiles. Everyone is sprinting, unconcerned, across this or that lane. Away in the wild, the locals are friendly. Strangers, friends flash their smiles from a far. And in these soulful moments, I feel at home, squarely at home with myself.

There is nothing magical to gaze at in the city except the aging heaven-touching sky scrappers, streets lights, artificial plants, billboards, parks. And when the night falls? Headlamps, street lights, and house lights. In the countryside, there is majesty in gazing over mountains, forests, glorious sunsets, stirring sunrises, wildlife, star-studded sky. Much of which I got during Christmas.

And when it comes to strolling around the city, it's harder than you thought even in the presence of paved street ways. Away from escaping from the notorious matatus wanting to chop a slice of you, a swamp of boda bodas poke you from behind. They stop at almost every sight of space just to infuriate you. For the time I have been a domesticated urban animal, it seems town planners see pedestrians as unwelcomes guests. There is no breathing room. Too narrow are the pavements you can't turn behind your shoulder.

In urban, you never see weather elements fall on you like it does in rural. You don't know whether it's raining or shining. So sheltered are you from your house to the workplace. You order and get stuff without seeing the sun. A walking journey finds me babysitting myself on the back of a boda boda. This laziness is what I detest.

Speaking of which that feeling of drowning in a sea of pointless activities sometimes was like a grab on my throat. In urban, life surges ahead uncontrollably; a series of appointments is made a week or a fortnight in advance; lunch, cocktail party, evening party, dinner. You have to order everything in advance. Already, as of writing, someone somewhere has bought midyear tickets now. Absurd as it is, you have to book your friend as early as possible, otherwise they will go out with someone else.

Away from the urban madness, I attended social events; harambees, weddings, Christmas. I loosened myself, though am not as loose as other party mongers because I sober up easily. Every moment looks more like a last supper. I bubbled. I expended my every last coin, not matter how thin my pockets, just to savor the profound experiences of the time I won't go back. I know the happy people I met there, I may never see them for good; but the memories, untamed experiences will always remain wet in my heart.

It was a moment you didn't need to fix anything, take pain away or push away your old ruins. You just wanted to sit there still, steadying your inner storms. The clamor for a simple human connection—a quiet presence, a simple touch, family love there—was a much needed injection in high dosage. Birds tweeting your early mornings. Sunrays peeping into the windows. Leaves rustling. Rivers flowing. All this—earthly turned fresh, nature, and humanity—was a kind of intimacy I missed.

As for me, the aging memories—buried deep in the yesterlayers of my childhood years—still pop up in my mind. I snake through the same old murky road my legs had been trained on, trekking back and forth during my early years of schooling. Walking barefooted was the norm—and it's still to some. Coming back, things have changed, am now a bearded grown up, I can't stride an inch barefooted except when my legs are laminated.

The old year is gone—swept I believe by the storms you survived too—but you are trailed with a shell of memories, nice or nasty ones (that doesn't matter). This year, nevertheless, try to commit yourself to something bigger than yourself. For stronger reasons, I personally might not need new goals this year; I want to get obsessed with what I do currently. Write more, read more, travel more, perceive more, meet more people, be more rural. I want to live raw. Life wasn't fashioned to be saved. Life was meant to be expended.

Happy New Year

What do you plan to do this year?