At the barber shop, the barber asks where I come from.
I say “Kenya.”
He nods politely and drapes a shawl around my shoulders.
I want him to ask another question. Which part of Kenya? What was it like? Why did you leave?

Instead, he focuses on my hair while my mind travels thousands of kilometers away. I see the road leading to our village after the rains. I see children chasing worn footballs across open fields. I see matatus painted in bright colors, drivers calling passengers with voices loud enough to wake entire neighborhoods. I smell roasted maize by the roadside. I hear distant music drifting from tiny shops as dusk gathers.

The barber trims carefully around my ears. I want to tell him about the mango tree that stood behind our house. I want to tell him about my mother’s voice calling me back to the house before darkness arrived. I want to tell him about long holidays when cousins filled every room and every meal felt like a celebration.

But he brushes loose hair from my neck and wishes me a good day.
Outside, the sun shines over Berlin. Cars pass. Strangers hurry along the pavements.
I walk slowly. A nostalgic realization follows me home.
Kenya has become a suitcase of memories I carry on my trembling lips…

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by YearOne on Unsplash