I grew up in rural Kenya, where you spoke your mother tongue Kikuyu, for me. It’s what we spoke at home, in the market, everywhere. Swahili? It was something we learned for exams, nothing more. English? Only for when a visitor came around. Life was simple, everyone spoke the same language, lived the same way.

Then I came to Nairobi.

And everything changed. The first time I walked into the city, I felt like I had stepped into another world. People spoke so many different languages. Luo, Luhya, Kisii, Maasai, Somali sometimes I just smiled and nodded because I couldn’t understand a word. Swahili became my only lifeline. It wasn’t always perfect, but it worked. It was what helped me ask for directions, buy food, or even just talk to someone when I didn’t know what else to say.

But beyond the words, what hit me was the different cultures. You could see it in the food, the way people greeted each other, how they named their children. One guy says niaje, another says sasa, and yet you still get by. I ate omena with a Luo friend and had no clue whether I was supposed to chew or swallow it whole. I had mursik with a Kalenjin and pretended like I knew what was going on. I watched a Luhya friend bring home a chicken and realized there’s no one way to cook it. There’s always something new to learn about food, names, beliefs, customs.

It’s like Kenya is made of all these little pieces; different languages, beliefs, traditions but somehow, we find a way to live together. Sometimes it’s rough, sometimes it’s smooth, but we always find a way.

So, when people come to Kenya, I tell them yes, visit the animals, see the beaches. But don’t forget to sit with the people. Ask them what they eat, how they greet, what they believe. That’s where you’ll find the real Kenya. Not in the common things, but in the differences, the stuff that makes us unique. And yet, somehow, it all ties us together. 

 

Agnes Irungu