Insight of a Kenyan Girl

The closer I got, the more real he became.

Not just the guy from text threads and stolen moments in hospital rooms.
Not just the easy laugh, the quick jokes.
Real — in the way that scared me a little.

He didn’t move, didn’t fidget, just watched me approach like he had all the time in the world.

When I finally stopped in front of him, I felt absurdly small. Like a string wound tight inside me would snap if either of us spoke first.

He beat me to it.

“You look better,” he said, voice low and warm. “Still kind of terrifying, but better.”

I laughed — an actual, full laugh — and the tightness in my chest cracked open a little.

“Thanks,” I said. “I think.”

He held out the helmet.
“Ready to get some real food? Hospital jello doesn’t count.”

I hesitated. The old me — the guarded one — would have made an excuse. Said I needed to rest more, needed space, needed time.

But this version of me — the one standing here in borrowed clothes and a bruised but beating heart — she wanted to say yes.

She wanted to try.

I took the helmet.

He grinned like I’d handed him a gift.

“Where are we going?” I asked, sliding it over my hair.

He shrugged, slinging one leg over the motorbike.
“Wherever you want. World’s pretty big.”

“And if I don’t know where I want to go?”

He glanced back at me, eyes crinkling at the edges.
“Then we’ll just ride until we figure it out.”

Simple as that.

I climbed on behind him, awkward at first, my hands hovering before finally resting lightly against his sides.

The engine sputtered, then roared to life beneath us.

And just like that, we were off — two strangers with fake names and paper cranes tucked in their pockets, riding toward something unnamed and unfinished.

The road stretched wide ahead of us, endless.

And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t afraid of it.

I was ready.