Insight of a Kenyan Girl

The next morning, I woke up with sore legs and the kind of muscle aches that could only come from dancing like my life depended on it. Not the kind of pain I’d been used to—the heavy, emotional kind—but the satisfying, “I really did that” kind. Small win.

Sunlight poured into my little apartment. Not a hotel room. Not my old place. Just this temporary space in a new part of the country where I didn’t know a soul—and maybe that was the best part. No one here looked at me like I was fragile. Or heartbroken. Or that girl who’d been through a lot.

I checked my phone. One new message.

Patty.

Still saved under that ridiculous name.

Patty: “Minnie, are you alive or did you get recruited by the bhangra dance team permanently?”

I smirked.

Me: “Alive. Just sore. I may have tried to copy a woman twice my age who was absolutely slaying the dance floor.”

Patty: “I saw her! In the blue salwar? I think she leads an underground dance cult.”

I laughed. It was genuine, effortless.

The woman he was talking about? I remembered her. I didn’t know her name, or who she came with, but she had moves that could end wars. While most people politely bopped to the beat, she was clapping, turning, and gliding with so much energy, the entire club practically made space around her. That was the vibe I wanted in life.

Still smiling, I got up and padded barefoot into the kitchen. I stared at the shelves for a second, then reached for the tea.

It used to be coffee. Now… tea.
Something softer. Something slower.
There was something comforting about the way it brewed—ginger, cardamom, a splash of milk.
Not instant. Not rushed. A small act of care.
It didn’t change the world, but it changed my morning.

I took a slow sip and let it warm me from the inside out. It felt like a pause. A breath. A yes to starting again, in small and gentle ways.

My stomach growled, loud enough to startle me out of my thoughts. I hadn’t eaten properly in a while. Time to fix that.

I ordered a ride and asked the driver where to get something comforting and warm. He grinned like I’d asked the one question he lived for and promptly drove me to a small roadside food joint tucked between two buildings. No signboard. No Instagram page. Just the smell of spices and people gathered like they were in on a secret.

I sat on a plastic chair, ordered something fried and unpronounceable, and took a sip of chai that felt like it could bring me back to life.

Ping.

Another text.

Patty: “Serious question. Sweet lassi or salty?”

Me: “Sweet. I’m not built for salty chaos.”

Patty: “Sweet lassi is the vanilla ice cream of drinks. Boring but safe. Typical Minnie.”

Me: “And your taste buds are questionable.”

I smiled to myself as I wiped oil off my fingers. There was something so strangely perfect about this connection—no pressure, no real names, just playful texts and inside jokes. It was like talking to someone who saw the world through the same offbeat lens as I did.

I didn’t ask about his real name, and he didn’t offer it. Somehow, “Patty” suited him perfectly for now.

Later that evening, just as I was rewatching a comfort show for the umpteenth time, another text came in.

Patty: “There’s a food festival happening this weekend. Loud music. Too many people. Lots of dancing. Wanna join?”

I hesitated for a moment. Not because I didn’t want to go—but because I actually did.

That was new.

Me: “Only if they have pani puri. And you don’t show up as Shamsher again.”

Patty: “No promises. Shamsher has a reputation to uphold.”

I rolled my eyes.

Still no real name. Still no pressure.
But a small piece of me—somewhere deep in the soft parts of my heart—was beginning to hope.

Not for love, not yet. Just… for more days like this.

Laughter. Food. Random dance moves I’d observed but never mastered.
And maybe, eventually, a version of me who remembered how to feel alive again.