Oops! My Thirties.

It is five minutes past eight on a humid summer evening. The sky outside still holds its stubborn light, unwilling to surrender the day. Inside, the air is thick and still. I’ve just washed the day from my face, letting the water carry off what it would. Now I sit in front of my computer. The room is dim, save for the winter-berry-scented candle flickering close by. Its soft glow does not chase away the light outside, but inside, the room feels like refuge.

Tears rise again, familiar now, almost part of the routine. I blink them away because big girls don’t cry. It’s brighter out than it is in, this time of year. My landlord is a plant-lover. His muses line the outside walls in full bloom, reaching for the sun. I’ve never quite understood the obsession with plants around the house. Do people not fear crawlies?

Bien’s Safari plays on repeat. It feels fitting. I, too, am on a journey. Tumefika, he sings, but I’m not sure I have. My path is twisted, half-lit, with no clear end in sight. Like any binadamu, nilipanga shetani akapangua. You make a plan. Life laughs. God laughs loudest.

So here I am, on a three-inch-thick mattress laid directly on the wooden floor. The mattress is against the wall, as if anchoring me to something. My future seems no brighter than the candle three feet away. I’ll have to get up to put it out eventually, but I dare not have it any closer. There’s a plush rug there, and I love that rug. They say uliza kiatu, but I beg to differ. Shoes haven’t seen me on my knees, whispering my grief to God. If only rugs could speak.

From the corner of my right eye, I spot the black jacket and shuka slumped over the green luggage. I haven’t decided if they’re coming with me. The shuka holds meaning. The jacket, not so much. I make a mental note to fold them later. I can’t have my space as chaotic as my brain. Nonetheless, both are in motion, both undone.

Next to the luggage, a stack of books slouches against the wall. It bothers me. But throwing out books has never been in my nature. Still, I wonder, why don’t I know anyone who reads here? Actually, do I know anyone in this area at all?

To the right, there is a sorry mess of shoes. They sit beneath the wall-mounted heater that did little to battle the cold this past winter. I remember overestimating my need for them, for anything, not too long ago. Should I give them to the Salvation Army or Talize? One’s for profit, the other’s ethics feel murky. Either way, I am not walking out of this chapter in them.

At the far end of the wall, a box leans awkwardly against the white door frame. It now sits where the ladder shelf once stood. Through the glass doors, the outside light is finally fading.

That door, solid white with narrow side windows, is the same one I’ll walk through in three days. The striped blind lets the light in gently. It casts quiet shadows across the mat. The shadows extend onto the edge of the grayish but mostly white rug. There’s something about that light, the way it filters in without asking, that feels both forgiving and final. It does not warm the room, but it does not abandon it either. I wonder if that’s what leaving will feel like. Quiet and certain, just like light through glass.

Just yesterday, I scrubbed my address off that and other boxes. These boxes once arrived bearing hope in cardboard form. Now that one sits beside a growing pile of garbage. Failure, in physical form. It’s stuffed with junk mail, old resumes, expired coupons, scrawled notes I once called “plans.”

The big blue recycle bin squats across from it, on the other side of the door. I still sort my waste even in the midst of chaos. I am down, but I am not untidy. The bin sits beside the tiny closet that came with the apartment. The folding doors hide everything that won’t make it to my next chapter. Their ending, like mine, is still unfolding.

My computer screen dims. I stretch to grab the charger from my backpack and knock over the can of pop beside me. The heater remote stops it from spilling completely. One earbud falls out, and I hear the faint fizzing sound. The candle still flickers, low and stubborn. Like me, my father would say.

It is now ten minutes to ten. The room darkens with each passing moment. I sit in the stillness, the winter-berry-scented candle at my feet the only source of light. Its flame dances nervously, casting long shadows on the ceiling like ghosts of memory still too alive to rest. The scent lingers: tart berries and warm air, floating like something sacred, soft, and slightly overripe.

The candle is fading. But in its final moments, it gifts the room a last performance. It gives the darkness shape. And tonight, the darkness feels like permission. A soft reminder: I do not owe the world a second shower.

What’s left of my things are scattered across the rug beside me. A Bluetooth speaker, water bottle, keys, notebooks, laptop case, and additional luggage. I have a packing system. It involves the floor. It has never failed me.

I am at eye level with all my worldly possessions, you see. This is what happens when you are a few days shy of leaving a country. When you give your landlord notice, book a flight, sell your furniture, and attempt to start over. Again.

It’s not graceful.
It’s not curated, but it’s movement.
It is survival.
It is messy but it is mine.