Life. Seasoned with perspective.
A reflection on the quiet power of slowing down, observing life, and finding meaning in ordinary moments. It reminds us that sometimes the simplest experiences offer the clarity, healing, and perspective we need most.
Nothing quite beats the power of a walk.
Especially one in nature. Fresh air filling your lungs, your body in motion, and your mind free to drift wherever it pleases. There is something deeply therapeutic about it.
I love going for walks, most times with my children. Those are usually our bonding sessions. That is when I am told every story under the sun, from school gossip to dramatic friendship fallouts to impossible requests disguised as innocent conversation. Of course, they also know the walk often ends with rewards that would ordinarily be frowned upon in the house. Soda. Ice cream. Crisps. The holy trinity of childhood happiness.
This past week I took a break from work. A much needed pause to exhale and attend to some personal matters. Ironically, the moment I stepped away, the country erupted into two straight days of demonstrations over rising fuel prices. That meant being largely confined indoors, which immediately disrupted some of my plans. By the time calm returned, I found myself racing against time trying to squeeze everything into the few remaining days. By the end of it all, I was utterly exhausted.
So yesterday I decided to do something simple.
I took a walk.
A solo walk, for that matter, which made it even more appealing. The children had a salon appointment, so I dropped them off and slipped away into what I hoped would be a restorative little adventure.
Let me digress briefly.
Recently, our big brother was representing the family at a gathering and sent us photos from the event. I quickly noticed he had on a rather impressive shirt and complimented him. His response was instant. “Lakini nyinyi media mnakuanga aje? Mnakagua kila detail?” Roughly translated, “You media people, what is it with you? You notice every little detail.”
I laughed and reminded him that my career has always depended on observation.
And true to form, I was highly observant on this walk.
Being a Sunday morning, the roads were full of people either heading to church or coming from it. Everyone looked especially polished in what we fondly call Sunday Best. Men in sharp suits or beautifully tailored African wear. Women elegantly dressed in colourful kitenge outfits, walking with a certain grace and purpose.
Meanwhile, there I was in sportswear, occasionally glancing at my watch to check my step count.
I could almost hear some of their thoughts.
Who is this one? Why is he running around on a Sunday morning instead of being in church?
I simply kept smiling. A broad, harmless smile. Being neighbourly.
Then came the houses.
Goodness me.
I do not know what happens to men at a certain age, but something shifts. Suddenly you find yourself deeply fascinated by cars and construction projects, “mjengo,” as we call it.
This neighborhood, my adopted one, has some truly beautiful homes coming up. One in particular completely captured my imagination. It sat strategically positioned with a large upper verandah facing the lake.
Now tell me, what could possibly beat sitting on such a verandah in the evening, cup in hand, watching the movement of the water and letting life happen at a distance?
That must be peace.
As I turned toward a steeper rocky section leading toward the lake, I noticed an elderly woman ahead of me. She was clearly struggling.
The path was uneven and tricky, even for someone with steady footing. Her choice of footwear was not helping matters either. Wedge soles on loose rocks are a disaster waiting to happen.
I immediately picked up pace.
I greeted her and gently asked whether she would allow me to help her get down safely.
She smiled and agreed.
So there we were, strangers linked by circumstance, slowly navigating the rocky descent while chatting. She had just come from church and had chosen this route because it was a shortcut to her house. She admitted she was too tired to take the longer winding path.
We laughed a little. Shared some banter.
I got her safely down, she thanked me warmly, and I continued on my way feeling unexpectedly fulfilled.
Sometimes it really is the smallest acts.
About a kilometre later, I passed a group of young boys and girls, likely high school students, deep in animated conversation.
As I approached, one word caught my attention.
Arsenal.
Clearly there had been some football related joy in their lives.
Then came the part that made me pause.
They were discussing how to get a “mzinga,” a bottle of whisky, to celebrate.
Now look, I was not exactly a saint at that age. Let me not pretend otherwise.
But something about how young they looked unsettled me.
Perhaps that is adulthood. Suddenly seeing your younger self from the outside and realizing just how vulnerable that age really is.
By the time I got back home, exactly one hour, twelve minutes, and twenty-four seconds later, I was sweating, slightly breathless, and completely refreshed.
And that got me thinking.
Life often tricks us into believing that healing must be expensive, dramatic, or complicated.
Sometimes it is none of those things.
Sometimes healing is simply a walk.
A kind conversation with a stranger.
A beautiful view.
Fresh air.
Movement.
Silence.
Observation.
Perspective.
In a world constantly demanding more from us, perhaps the answer is occasionally to do less.
To slow down.
To look around.
To breathe.
Because sometimes, the small things are not small at all.
Sometimes, they are exactly what keeps us going.
About the author:
Kibisu Mulanda is a media executive and strategic communicator with over 20 years of experience in television, NGO storytelling, and youth focused content. He is the Acting Head of Switch Media Ltd and teaches media at the Kenya Institute of Mass Communication (KIMC). A Certified SIYB Trainer, he blends storytelling with strategy to drive social impact.
About the Author
