Tropical. Bondo.
Leaving Bondo was a dream long nurtured under the wide, star-studded skies and silent nights engulfed by the overwhelming chorus of cricket sounds—a dream propelled by stories of distant lands and the promise of new beginnings. It was a dream that carried me to Nairobi, the bustling heart of Kenya, where I first tasted the sweet, intoxicating brew of independence and ambition. But Nairobi was merely the gateway, a launchpad for the leap across continents.
Nairobi was the pinnacle of ambition for me, the ultimate destination of success and recognition. To my eyes, everyone from Nairobi embodied perfection; they were untouched by the blemishes of poverty—no scabies, no cracked feet. Fluent in both English and Swahili, they carried themselves with a grace that seemed to come from another world. Their scent was pleasant, their skin a uniform shade of brown, always adorned in socks and polished shoes, a vivid divergence from my barefoot vulnerability. They carried backpacks, donned Bata Toughees, and sported water bottles moulded into the forms of exotic animals that dangled from their necks. Meanwhile, I contended with my family over a single reused bottle, coveted for carrying paraffin or cooking oil. They were in tune with the latest RnB and Bongo songs, effortlessly aligning with a world I could only dream of. To me, they were the epitome of desirability, effortlessly drawing people towards them—including the boys from my village, who deserted us village girls without a second thought. For them, I was just a girl who knew local Luo songs such as Ohangla and Ajawa, deemed backward and primitive, my presence barely tolerated.
My only dream, simple yet seemingly out of reach, was to go to Nairobi. To undergo a transformation, to be perceived as beautiful, to attract the affection of boys. That was the dream I clung to, harbouring a yearning so profound it defined my every waking moment.
I always say that Bondo was more than just a town—it was a living, breathing thing, pulsating with the vibrant energy of its people and the rich fabric of its traditions. In those days, when the sun rose over the horizon, casting its golden hues upon the bustling dusty streets, it felt like the whole world was waking up with us. Bondo was not just a place on the map; it was a community, a family. Everyone knew everyone else’s business, not out of nosiness, but out of genuine care and concern. We shared our joys and sorrows, our triumphs, and tribulations, as if they were all pieces of a collective story woven together by the threads of our lives.
I remember the sounds of the bells at six in the morning, a harmonious prelude that heralded the start of a new day. It was the fishmongers making their way from Alego to Wichlum Beach, their voices mingling with the chirping of birds and the laughter of children rushing to school barefoot and with patched shorts. Women to the market. My father to his Jua kali shop. We were all bound for different corners of the dawn. And the smell of the fish in this town—that unmistakable aroma permeated the air, filling our nostrils with the essence of home.
In Bondo, we had our own way of doing things. We were not exposed in the way that city folks were, but that did not mean we lacked ambition. On the contrary, we were dreamers, each of us chasing our own version of success, whether it was through education, entrepreneurship, or simply just hoping.
Then there was me, with dreams of beauty, affection, and desirability. When the darkness of night descended and dad could not afford paraffin for the lamps, I sought solace in the pages of books under the soft glow of the moonlight. I travelled to distant lands, exploring faraway cities and exotic landscapes in the company of beloved authors. Those books became my windows to the world, fuelling my imagination and igniting a thirst for knowledge that would shape the course of my life.
But perhaps what I loved most about Bondo was that it knew no tribe. Here, we were all just people, bound together by our shared humanity and our shared hopes for a brighter future. We had no room for division or prejudice—we were all in this together, striving to build a better tomorrow for ourselves and for generations to come.
Spring. Frankfurt.
In the vibrant chaos of Nairobi, where the air buzzes with dreams and the relentless pursuit of tomorrow, I took flight. Spring, a season of rebirth, was supposed to usher in my grand adventure to this land. I was chasing a dream, one that had grown from the seeds of stories I read as a child in Bondo—a dream of distant lands, of skies painted in unfamiliar hues, and of streets echoing with languages yet to kiss my tongue.
Landing in Frankfurt, the dream collided with reality. Quarantine. The city greeted me with a cold embrace, a pronounced difference to the warmth of Bondo and familiar chaos of Nairobi. Quarantine, a concept as foreign to me as the land I had arrived in, became my first home—a place of isolation in a city bustling with life just beyond my reach. The food, an array of shapes and tastes foreign to my palate, sat uneaten, a harsh reminder of the distance between here and home. In this new spring, isolation bloomed alongside the flowers outside my window, flowers I could see but not touch, scents I could imagine but not breathe. Words I could hear but not understand or pronounce would occasionally escape into my room, carried by the presence of a staff moving about.
Looking back, I see you, my past self, a figure lost in a vast, silent expanse. You were alone, truly alone, in a way neither of us could have anticipated. The excitement of departure wilted under the weight of solitude. But even as the dream seemed to dim, the roots of resilience began to take hold in this foreign soil. In those early days, the challenge was not just the physical barriers—the quarantine, the unfamiliar food, the silent streets—but the internal voyage through the landscapes of our own resilience. It was a spring unlike any other, where the seeds of growth were sown not in soil, but in solitude.
Spring. Bonn.
The news of Dad’s passing reached me like a delayed echo, a ripple across continents that took its time to touch my shores. In Bonn, grief was a language I spoke fluently, yet it found no listeners. Surrounded by strangers who quickly turned into makeshift family, I learned the universal dialect of empathy and loss. Their attempts to bridge the gap, to offer comfort, became the unexpected blooms in this season of bereavement. Amid this, the shadow of depression loomed large, enveloping me in a solitude so profound it nearly led me down a path from which there is no return. I stood at the precipice of despair, grappling with thoughts that whispered seductively of a final escape. Yet, it was in this darkest hour that the kindness of those around me shone like a beacon, guiding me back from the brink.
Returning to Kisumu for the funeral, I carried back more than just memories; I brought back a piece of home, a resolve to continue, to honour Dad’s memory by embracing this journey, no matter how arduous. It was a testament to the strength we find in moments of vulnerability, a strength that weaves itself into the fabric of our being, reminding us that even in our deepest isolation, we are never truly alone.
Summer. Darmstadt.
Darmstadt welcomed me with open arms and closed doors. Summer arrived with a promise of warmth, yet the heat of isolation lingered. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, painting shadows of a freedom just beyond grasp. In this season of abundance, I found myself grappling with the paradox of visibility and invisibility—seen by all yet acknowledged by few. The disparity between the open, sunlit skies of Germany and the close, familiar streets of Nairobi became a daily reminder of the distance I had traversed, not just in miles but in experiences.
In this small city, the summer was a mosaic of colours, languages, and faces. The vibrancy of this new world was both exhilarating and overwhelming. As I ventured beyond the confines of my earlier isolation, I encountered the multifaceted nature of belonging. In public spaces, the empty seats next to me spoke volumes, a silent testament to the barriers of race and prejudice that summer’s light could not dissipate. The language, both spoken and unspoken, erected walls I struggled to climb. Shopping trips turned into lonely queues. Yet, it was also in this season that I began to paint a new canvas of connections. Strangers became acquaintances and then friends, and the world started to open up in ways I had not anticipated. The warmth of shared meals, the laughter echoing in spaces that once seemed unwelcoming, the tentative steps towards building a community—all these became the undercurrents of my summer.
In the midst of navigating these social mazes, there was also the struggle with bureaucracy—the Ausländerbehörde with its cold, impersonal corridors and the daunting language barrier that often felt like an insurmountable wall. It became a battlefield where I fought for a place in this new world. For the first time, I was black, a pronounced contrast to my small town where everyone called me Okwaro, meaning the brown one. Yet, each visit, each form filled, each hurdle crossed, was a victory in itself, a step towards establishing a place in this new land. In this world, it seems you can be anything but black.
The journeys across Europe, brief escapes into landscapes where history whispered from ancient stones and modern streets alike, were breaths of fresh air. They were reminders of the world’s vastness and its myriad cultures, a balm to the soul that yearned for connection and understanding. These travels, filled with moments of wonder and discovery, were the highlights of a summer spent learning to navigate the complexities of a life in transition.
As I look back on that summer, I see it as a crucial chapter in my story. It was a time of confronting realities, of battling the shadows of prejudice, and of finding light in unexpected places.
Autumn. Darmstadt.
As the leaves turned, painting the cityscape of this small city in shades of amber and gold, autumn whispered of change. This season, often a prelude to renewal, brought with it a reflection on the myriad of transformations I had undergone. The cool breeze carried memories from Bondo to Nairobi, across continents to Germany, each gust a reminder of the distances traversed, both physically and emotionally.
The initial isolation that marked my arrival in Frankfurt, followed by the warmth of summer’s tentative connections, now melded into a quiet contemplation. Autumn in Germany is a spectacle, a vivid testament to nature’s resilience. Yet, beneath its beauty, it echoed my own journey of adaptation—a constant cycle of shedding and rebirth.
The loss of my father loomed large, a shadow amid the changing leaves. Grief, which had once felt sharp and immediate, now settled into a softer, more reflective sorrow. It was here, in the midst of autumn’s transformation, that I began to truly understand the process of healing—slow, often imperceptible, but relentless in its progression.
Looking back, I see how autumn became a turning point. The challenges of racism and the struggle for acceptance that marked the summer months began to take on a different hue. The empty seats next to me, once painful reminders of exclusion, became spaces where I learned the value of self-reliance and the strength in standing alone.
The bureaucracy of immigration, a labyrinth that seemed designed to dishearten, taught me patience and perseverance. Each encounter with the Ausländerbehörde, each form filled out, each approval gained, was a leaf added to the pile of experiences that shaped my autumn in Germany. It was a season of gaining resilience, of understanding that belonging is not just about being accepted by others, but about accepting oneself.
The travels that had dotted my summer with sparks of joy became fewer as the days shortened. Yet, the memories of those journeys, like the collected leaves after a long walk, formed an assembly of insights and reflections. They reminded me that exploration is not just about crossing borders or discovering new places, but about the internal voyages that challenge our perceptions and foster growth.
This season of reflection brought clarity. The longing for home, for Bondo and Kisumu, remained, but it was no longer a sharp ache. Instead, it had transformed into a warm ember, fuelling my determination to build a life here, to weave together the strands of my past with the vibrant threads of my present.
Autumn taught me that change, though often accompanied by loss, is also the precursor to growth. It showed me that resilience is not just about withstanding the storms, but about learning to dance in the rain, to find beauty in the decay, and promise in the barren branches.
As the leaves fell, preparing the ground for winter’s rest, I too learned to let go of what was, to make room for what will be. The journey, marked by seasons of change, was not just a migration of distance, but a migration of self—a journey of shedding old skins and embracing the new with hope and courage.
Winter. Darmstadt.
Winter draped Darmstadt in a blanket of snow, transforming familiar streets into uncharted terrain, a landscape as foreign as my initial days in Germany. This was my first winter away from the warmth of Kenya, a voracious, biting cold that seeped into the bones, a chilling echo of the isolation that had greeted my arrival in Frankfurt. Yet, this cold was different. It was not just the absence of warmth, but the presence of grief, a companion that walked silently beside me through the short days and long nights.
In the heart of this winter, I confronted more than the physical cold. The loss, a wound still raw, turned into a dark echo in the winter’s chill, a hollow that the festivities, the Christmas markets around me, could not soothe. Not even Santa could. The starkness of the season, with its stripped trees and frozen landscapes, mirrored my internal world—a world grappling with loss, navigating through the dense fog of grief.
As the winter deepened, so too did the struggle within. Depression, a word I had known but never fully understood, became my reality. It was a battle fought in silence, against an enemy that distorted every thought, every memory. The vibrancy of my dreams, once as vivid as the Kenyan sun, faded into the monochrome of winter’s grip. The isolation, once a physical circumstance imposed by quarantine, now became a state of mind, a barrier between me and the world that buzzed indifferently outside my window.
The challenges of adapting to a new country—navigating being conspicuously different, the language barrier, the relentless bureaucracy of immigration—were compounded by this internal struggle. Each day was a battle, not just to belong in this new world, but to find a reason to wake, to step out into the cold, to continue the journey I had so eagerly begun. And to be beautiful.
As winter’s grasp tightened around Darmstadt, another frost set in, one not marked by the falling snow or the chilling winds, but by the thawing of a warmth I had once known. During the struggles with grief, depression, and the relentless cold, heartbreak found its way to me, delivered by a human whose love I had thought would be a beacon through my darkest times.
Our connection, sparked in the vibrant heart of Nairobi, had promised warmth in the German cold. It was a love born from shared dreams, from the laughter that danced through our conversations, from the comfort of finding a piece of home in another’s heart. But as the seasons changed, so too did the nature of our bond. The distance that had once seemed a mere inconvenience grew into a chasm, filled with unspoken words and unmet expectations.
The realisation that love, no matter how fervent, could not always withstand the test of distance and change, was a bitter pill to swallow. It was a heartbreak that did not come as a sudden shock but rather as a slow, painful wilting of hopes and dreams we had woven together. In the solitude of my winter in Darmstadt, his absence became a silent scream against the backdrop of my other battles.
This heartbreak, layered atop the grief of losing my father and the personal battles with depression, could have been what finally pushed me over the edge. Yet, it became a crucible, forcing me to confront my vulnerabilities, to question my notions of love, belonging, and resilience. It taught me that heartbreak, like the winter’s cold, was a season to endure, to learn from, and ultimately, to grow beyond.
As the season slowly yielded to the promise of spring, I carried with me the lessons learned in the heart of winter—the understanding that grief, heartbreak, though they may dim the light of joy, cannot extinguish it, and that depression, while a formidable foe, is not insurmountable. The resilience forged in the cold, the determination to face each new day, became the foundation upon which I would build my future in this new land.
Spring. Berlin.
As I stand now in Berlin, the city that has become a canvas for my dreams, a place where the past and present converge, I realise that this journey has been less about finding a physical home and more about discovering the home within myself. In Berlin, in its historical depth and vibrant diversity, I found not just a city but a reflection of my own journey. This city, teeming with life and stories, became the backdrop against which I discovered the true essence of beauty—not in the superficial sense that I had once yearned for, but in the resilience, growth, and connections that had been woven into the fabric of my being through each city, each challenge, and each triumph.
From the silent nights in Bondo, filled with the chorus of crickets, to the bustling streets of Nairobi that first teased my ambitions, and across continents to the solitude and rebirth in Germany, my journey had been a galaxy of experiences, each celestial body a lesson in strength, understanding, and self-discovery. The hardships faced, from the depths of depression to the pangs of isolation and the bitter sweetness of love and loss, had sculpted me, not into the image of beauty I had once envisioned, but into a form far more profound.
As I navigated the complexities of a new culture, battled the shadows of grief, and embraced the kaleidoscope of new relationships, I realised that beauty was never about the admiration of others or fitting into a mold. It was about the courage to embrace life’s seasons, the strength to stand alone, and the vulnerability to connect deeply with others.
In Berlin, with each step on its cobblestone streets, each breath of its crisp air, I finally understood that I had become beautiful. Not because I had reached a destination or transformed into someone else, but because I had journeyed through the depths of my own soul, faced my darkest moments, and emerged with a light that was uniquely mine. This realisation was my ultimate transformation, a beauty that stemmed from resilience, learning, and the sheer will to keep moving forward.
All I had wanted was to be beautiful, and as I looked back on the winding path from Bondo to Berlin, I saw clearly that beauty had been the journey itself—the struggles, the connections, the growth. It was in the acceptance of my journey, with all its imperfections and triumphs, that I found the beauty I had longed for. Not in the gaze of others, but in the depths of my own spirit, resilient and radiant in life’s ever-changing seasons.
So, standing in Berlin, I embrace this new dawn, not just as a place on the map, but as a state of being. The dream that had started under the vast skies of Bondo had carried me far beyond what I had imagined, teaching me that true beauty lies in the courage to embark on the journey, to evolve, and to find the places and spaces where we truly belong. In the end, I realised that all I wanted was to be beautiful, and in the most unexpected way, that dream had come true.
Beauty found me.
Awuor Ouma is a global health consultant with an MSc in Health Economics and Policy and a BSc in Population Health. Outside her professional role, she engages in writing and capturing the essence of everyday life through her exploration of the beauty and depth of ordinary things, people, and conversations. Blending the rigour of science with the art of storytelling, she pens the unseen symphony of everyday life.