I’m at the airport

Half crying, half trying to pull myself together.

Change is temporary, it always is.

Is it cliché for me to look at the people around me and wonder what their trips looked like.

Who did they visit?

Family, friends, lovers, their pets, loneliness?

Are they happy to going back to where they are going? Are they going back at all? Or is it a quick trip to a fun, sunny, beachy destination.

That’s where I imagine people always go. To fun and beachy and sunny places. I mean, that’s what they’ve fed us as the ultimate place to be, right?

There’s someone opposite me reading The Powers of Blood (if that is an entirely made up book, I am sorry, I can’t see short distances or long distances most times – despite my massive glasses.)

Speaking of glasses, one of part of me wants to grab a glass of wine. Another part of me tells me, don’t drink anything because then you will want to smoke and smoking is illegal in this building.

And heaven knows being in trouble by the law isn’t something I plan on doing in 2019. Or ever.

So I got a copy of My Sister The Serial Killer.

I’m in a (for lack of a better word) weird state of mind. I used to be excited to be at airports at one point in my life.

I would dress up. And by dressing up I mean: Get my hair done. Put some make up. And even Instagram a selfie with Gifs and all round-wit from the airport’s washroom’s full mirror.

But now?

I am not particularly excited to be here.

There’s a sense of unsettled strangeness.

I am on the plane now.

I am going back home.

Home is Nairobi. Nairobi is home.

I’ll see you there, readers.