Insight of a Kenyan Girl

“Sometimes you have to lose yourself in a crowd of strangers to remember who you are.”

I’d been in a mood. Not the cute “I need a glass of wine and a rom-com” kind. No. This was the “crying into cereal, wearing pajamas for three days straight, who even am I” kind of mood. My emotions hovered somewhere between grief, heartbreak, and whatever comes after rock bottom.

Everything was crashing, and I felt lost. So, I did what any logical woman on the verge of a breakdown might do—I booked a flight. Not to another country, no. Just to a different part of the same country. Same land, new air. I needed fresh faces, a new skyline, and the anonymity that comes with being just another person in a crowd.

A few hours, a packed flight, and a whole lot of “what am I even doing with my life?” later, I found myself stepping into a city that felt like it was meant to heal me. At least that was the plan.

What I didn’t expect was to end up in a club bursting with Desi music, flashing lights, and the scent of masala mingling with cologne and gin. I’d heard about it—an Indian music club in a corner of the city, where the beats are loud and the people are unbothered by who you are or where you come from.

I was definitely not Indian. Clearly stood out. But I wasn’t the only one—there were a few of us scattered through the crowd, all equally out of place but too intrigued to leave. And me? I wasn’t just there—I was thriving. Singing along to every Hindi song like I’d grown up on Bollywood classics (because I kinda had), lips syncing to Arijit Singh like he was serenading me personally.

People kept throwing glances my way—not the judgy kind, more like, Who is this girl and how does she know all the words? One girl even nodded at me with an approving smile. The bartender handed me a gin and tonic with a grin, probably impressed I’d survived the last bhangra set.

That moment? Bliss. I was tipsy, free, and letting Desi beats drown out every sad memory.

And then—oh, then—the bhangra started.

The floor lit up. The DJ switched gears and suddenly everyone was on their feet, spinning, stomping, clapping in sync. It was electric. Even I was out there, arms up, twirling like I had backup dancers. I hadn’t moved that much in weeks. I’d been glued to couches, curled up in bed, scrolling sad quotes on Pinterest.

But here I was. Dancing. Alive. Alone, yes—but living.

Eventually, my body tapped out. I needed water before I passed out. I dragged myself to the bar, heaving dramatically like a woman who had just survived war.

“Water, please,” I gasped.

Just as I said that, a guy slid next to me and asked for the same. I didn’t even glance at him. I was on a man detox—strictly no male interaction unless medically necessary.

But then he turned to me and said,
“Shamsher Pathania.”

My body didn’t process it as a name.

My brain? It cracked.

I burst out laughing—genuinely, uncontrollably. Nearly choked on my water.

“I’m Minnie Rathole,” I replied, face already hurting from the grin.

He paused, then his eyes lit up. “Wait—you know?!”

“Of course I know,” I smirked. “That show was everything.”

We both laughed like idiots in the middle of the bar, two strangers sharing a ridiculous TV reference in the least likely setting. No real names. No stress. Just vibes and sarcasm.

We talked for a while—mostly about the show, ridiculous plot twists, and which scenes made us cry. It felt so… easy. Light. Like a break from all the things weighing on me.

Eventually, I checked my phone. Time to head back to my little rental apartment and rehydrate with actual adult responsibilities.

We exchanged numbers, still using our fake names. He’s saved as Patty in my phone, I’m Minnie in his. Classic.

As I was stepping into my Uber, I heard him call out,
“Minnie! Let’s keep in touch!”

I turned, caught a glimpse of his hazel-green eyes under the streetlight, and smiled.

And just like that, I realized… maybe I wasn’t running anymore. Maybe I was just starting again.