Life. Seasoned with perspective.
“Sometimes the best gifts are not wrapped; they are found in moments of peace, in old friendships, and in the quiet reminder that life is softer when shared.”
There’s something about being away from the city that makes you hear your own thoughts more clearly.
This past weekend, I spent time at the foothills of Mt. Kasigau in Taita Taveta, a place so still you could almost hear time breathe. I was there with a friend visiting his in-laws. It was a beautiful occasion in an equally beautiful place, the kind of environment that calms you before you even realize how much peace you’ve been missing.
That morning, I was up before everyone else. Blame what I call the “alarm effect”, that strange habit of waking early even when you plan to sleep in. I stepped into the crisp morning air, and there it was: Mt. Kasigau. Tall, still, and quietly majestic watching over the valley like an old soul that has seen too much, yet still chooses silence over noise. I had never heard of it before that trip, but in that moment, it felt like an old acquaintance.
I took a slow walk around the compound, soaking it all in the freshness of the air, the distant bleating of goats, the laughter of early risers. I wandered beyond the gate to greet locals already up, sweeping their compounds and preparing for the day. By the time everyone else woke up, I had inhaled the morning and exhaled weeks of Nairobi stress.
And stress, lately, has been my shadow. Nairobi has felt heavier than usual, the noise, the pace, the endless rush. Out there, none of that followed me. The message keeps getting clearer with every tick of the clock: sometimes you need to step away to see straight.
It’s my birthday today, and I have a lot to thank God for. I am truly blessed.
Birthdays have a way of slowing you down, not just to count the years, but to take stock of the people who have walked beside you. Maybe birthdays aren’t about being celebrated. Maybe they’re grateful for pausing long enough to recognise the ones who make the journey worthwhile.
This trip reminded me of that. I rarely celebrate my birthday. My kids, though, are obsessed with it. They start planning early. It doesn’t help that I’ve never liked cake.
A couple of weeks ago, my second-born, Naini, knocked on my bedroom door with the seriousness of a little general. “Daddy,” she said, “I’ve checked the calendar, and your birthday is on Monday. What will we do?” Before I could answer, she smiled and added, “Don’t worry, we’ll celebrate the weekend after.” Then she left mission accomplished.
That’s the thing about children. They remind you what pure love looks like how to find joy in small things, how to celebrate people even when they don’t ask for it.
There’s something special about this birthday too. I was born on a Monday, and this is the seventh time it has fallen on the same day. Seven — the number of completion, they say. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Or perhaps it’s a quiet reminder to pause and count the blessings that don’t make noise.
Like friendship.
This trip was about friendship in every sense. My friend and I go way back, more than two decades now. We’ve shared desks, heartbreaks, dreams, and the kind of laughter that heals things you can’t talk about. The real test of friendship isn’t who claps the loudest when you win, but who shows up when you’re not okay. Watching him stand tall among his new family, calm and proud, I couldn’t help but think how lucky I am to still have people I call friends.
Friendship is a gift, not the wrapped kind, but the lived kind. It’s found in shared jokes that never get old, in silent car rides that say more than words, in the people who remember your story even when you forget parts of it.
Maybe that’s what this birthday is really about, not the candles, but the light we get and give through others.
As the sun sank behind Mt. Kasigau that evening, I couldn’t help but smile. Life may not always be smooth, but it’s softer when shared. The city will still be there loud, restless, demanding, but for now, I’m learning to be grateful for the calm. For the people who make life worth the noise.
So here’s to friendship. To laughter that heals. To birthdays that remind us to say thank you.
And to the quiet moments, the ones that whisper, you’re doing just fine.
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
