Nairobi is loud this time of day, this time of year. A motorbike in the distance. Metal doors banging. The hum of construction tools. The non-urgent but persistent barking of dogs. The laughter of playing children.
There’s a welding shop a few metres from my building, but it sounds like it’s right outside my door, even from my tiny 10 by 10 bedroom, six floors up.
Twice a day, the train announces itself. And twice a day Beau lifts his head, cocks his ears, then goes right back to sleep. There are birds too. I don’t know which ones but the chirping’s a welcome distraction from my thoughts. The clouds roll in loudly and the sun begins to fade.
It’s been raining a lot lately. Water gathers outside the compound, and I can hear ducks flapping against it. Last week, Beau went for a defiant swim in it, and I had the unfortunate experience of scrubbing algae off him.
All of it carries on, whether I make sense of my life or not.
It has been eight months since I moved here. I keep thinking there should be a clearer story by now. Something that proves the last eight months meant something concrete. But instead, I am turning a year older with a sharp pain running through my body, three different kinds of painkillers in my system, and no real clarity on what any of this is becoming.
But outside, nothing is asking for that kind of certainty. The noise continues. The rain comes and goes. The train keeps passing, on time, whether I am ready or not.
Everything is moving.
Maybe nothing is missing. Maybe this is just what it feels like to be in the middle of your life.
Oops! My Thirties. 
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