I fell out of love with writing.
Completely out of love.
I even stopped writing words in full in text messages. Mentally ofcourse. I couldn’t quite let myself go to the point that I message incomplete words or sentences. It would haunt me. That’s too rock bottom for me.
Mental suicide.
I wasn’t a jilted lover. Somewhat a resentful one but not all the way dead and gone from the scene.
Beyonce’s song “If I lose myself then I lose it all” held me by the seams.
That’s the song that kept me up all night. Tossing and turning. Blinking and scratching. Yawning and Stretching.
I thought it was the discomfort of a new bed or the environs.
Or perhaps the idea that I couldn’t go back home in a jiffy even if I wanted to. The idea that I’m completely out of my depths.
Completely forsaken my life as I know it.
Scary. Satisfying. Thrilling. Shuddering.
So I lay awake checking my Upwork profile for the umpteenth time wondering where my solid client ran off to.
He’s a good client. Frank (not his real name of course) Reliable. Prompt. Always pays more(how I’m affording this odyssey around the country). No response. It’s been two weeks and that’s way too long for him. Our tango dance doesn’t allow that much time to fly.
It’s 20 minutes past 11pm. I know I should’ve put my phone down at exactly 10pm. One of those detox rules that I’ve been trying every 28 days. Sometimes I do great. Sometimes my anxiety gets the better part of me. Other times I just don’t care and I end up awake till 4am.
Sigh.
This is Day One. Or Night One? I barely know the difference these days. Nobody ever talks about that period between 25 and 30 years when your social batteries are always low.
Everything is pointless. You don’t want to go out. You’re too tired to hangout with friends, but you try occasionally. Your dreams seem out of reach. You no longer care for the nitty gritties. There is no fuss. No turmoil. No prospects.
Life is bland.
So you pick up a new project to inject the excitement back into your lifeline. Get that oomph back in your step.
It helps but not for long. Because you don’t have enough money. Or you don’t have the energy. So you get back to the same cycle of being MEH. Lying on the bed seeking for some sort of meaning to this wild cycle called life.
And before you know it, it’s 6am in 006(Taita Taveta).
You’ve bugged out your eyes.
You can almost taste your morning breath.
Your phone is at 3 percent But it’s an iPhone (check out my photography skills) so you aren’t so jumpy about it. (Thank God it’s not the new model, so no explosions precautions)
The morning of an insomniac pretty works the same each time.
Step One: A cup of coffee before any interaction.
Step Two: A sermon from a favorite preacher( Sarah Jakes does it for me). And a set of affirmations (do these really help though) I just say them to see what happens. My mood remains unhinged.
Step Three: Check emails and notifications from clients.
The thought of any human interaction in the morning makes me pre-annoyed. But there is something about this location.
Something divine.
Elusive.
Pristine.
Fulfilling.
It makes you want to shout glory glory glory….
Taita Taveta is not your average destination. There is something magical about the lands, the people, the food, and the culture.
Whatever it is….
It’s remarkable and intangible. It fills the entire atmosphere. It’s in the food you eat, the water you drink. It’s even in the cows.
You always want to keep it in your pocket in case you leave this prime location.
It makes you want to wake up. Wake up happy. Wake up fulfilled. Live satisfied. At peace. In congruence with mother nature.
The frequency of the small village of Mbale just whisks you away. You vibrate differently when you are in these beautiful lands.
It feels like home, and nothing ever really feels like home for a digital nomad. We are always seeking the next destination, adventure, people, and memory.
It’s never enough to sit in one place and watch the world unfold. We want in on the action. We want to live. We want to breathe. We want to thrive. Dance. Feel. Escape. Relive.
And the county of Taita Taveta gives me just that.
Over 1240m above sea level and I’ve never been higher. The pain points of the occasional honk, yell, and shriek completely muffled away in my thoughts. Replaced with cheer, happiness, peace, tranquility, and bugs. Yes, bugs. Lots of them. Crickets especially. But also bush babies, agamaagama and dogs. Ninja( story for another day)
But at last I’m happy. Digital Nomads always find(rediscover) themselves on the road. Our place is on the road. On the road less travelled for me, personally. The road only the locals have traversed. The dusty, dangerous, tabooed one.
That’s where I like being.
I love being here in this small village called Mbale. With people I probably would’ve never known, doing things I’ve never thought of, and conversing in languages I would’ve never learned.
So Manatoo to all my Taitans!
I’ve found my second home. My respite. My love for writing again. My long lost passion of staying up late conversing with my keyboard. My zeal for life. My will to live again. My forever. My oh my!
I’m spinning the block!
Frank hasn’t responded yet on Upwork. But I’m not worried. Not this time. I have a few coins left to get by in a few weeks. So yes I’m the rich broke auntie. The one who spends on immersive experiences instead of buying a lot of expensive shoes and bags. Chuckles, yeap I buy a few now. Growth.
Of importance is happiness. Peace. Serenity. I love it here! I love the people here. I love myself here.
Mbale Village has been kind. Steep but kind. I’ve lost weight. The inclination here is not to be played with. And so are the women. Everyone is built like Gigi Haddid and Kendall Jenner.
If you want to “unfat” you should bookmark this post. It’s an amazing place to detoxify. Reset. And fall in love with life again.
If you come here make sure you have a plate of Kimanga( beans and pounded cassava/bananas). It’s one of the tastiest dishes I’ve eaten. I digress. I love food😩
My love for sharing my two cents if not one is back. And I was deadass sure I would never be back. Something about writing for money kills me inside. It robs me off my zeal. My freedom. My expression. They say it’s the love of money that is the root of all evil, I say it’s the necessity of it.
Godspeed.
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