When survival is the priority, there is no time to be soft

There I was again, arriving at my most frequented mental destination at the time: neither here nor there.

I was a new returnee to Kenya where finally, after over a decade of being in Australia, I had landed back where I looked like everyone else and my hair had the same kinks and coils as the next person’s.

I was back where the colour of my skin would never be a topic of discussion, because it was the colour of the nation.

I was back where my knowledge of the English language was assumed and not mystifying, where I could hear my mother tongue spoken daily.

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There were many moments when I would mute everything to eavesdrop on my parents speaking, because hearing Kikuyu on a regular basis made my insides feel at home, and I generally find Kikuyu to be a very entertaining language.

I was home, but my motherland now felt like an ill-fitting shoe pinching the edges of my toes. I didn’t quite fit in. Life had moved on, and the memories I had of old friends, family and places were all different to the reality I was experiencing.

I was feeling more rattled in comparison to the times I came to Kenya on holiday during those 13 years in Australia.

This was a big move, and I spent most of my time in my head without adult supervision, owing to joblessness and the onset of the global Coronavirus pandemic.

I had done all the Covid things: the rice water hair thing, the baking banana bread thing, the haircare tutorial thing. I was doing everything I could to stay sane in a society I felt so alien from.

I wasn’t quite Kenyan enough anymore! Now I had an accent, I kept strict time, I had forgotten that classism is a thing; I was here on Kenyan soil, but with Australian values, mannerisms and ways of thinking.

It was horrific to me that tragedies like road fatalities, excessive drinking, speeding and medical negligence were a regular occurrence. And, for the first time in many years, I realized I would need to be hyper vigilant in relation to matters to do with my personal safety.

It was a rude awakening that I was to now be conscious of my dressing for the sake of my safety as a woman, or that I could only take a solo walk at night in my dreams. 

That people have to struggle for the most basic needs still leaves me dumbfounded. It now made sense why most people wore a scowl on their face.

When survival is the priority, there is no time to be soft.

My habit of exchanging brief smiles with strangers now had to end abruptly lest it be interpreted differently than intended. Once again,

I was desperate to fit in, but stuck out like a sore thumb, this time because of my internal identity rather than the colour of my skin.

I was neither here nor there, and I was so tired of existing in that space again that I spent most of my days terribly missing Australia and contemplating returning to my cocoon of comfort.

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