It has been 35 days since I last sat at my desk for this noble course. A lot has happened in those 35 days.

I have since gone to Siaya twice. Shaved my beard. Had a successful hate watch of Argentina. Drove at 3am through cold Limuru and Tigoni. Broke no contact with a toxic relationship, made up, broke up, and made up again. Watched awesome movies like The Drama and The Odyssey, and Spider-Man: Brand New Day comes out on Friday. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you I’m doing all this to watch Doomsday with a clear conscience in December.

I want to walk into that cinema on December 18, on Doomsday, knowing that no matter what happens in there—whether Doom obliterates all my heroes with a single wave of his arm, whether Thor’s daughter is taken from him, whether we realize that Cap going back in time created all this mess, or whether Scott Lang never sees his daughter again—I’ll be fine.

I want to experience Doomsday with the comfort that I lived my year well. That I travelled to places I had never been before. That I never turned down a sunny adventure for a few scrolls on social media from my bed. That I studied for and passed my CPA exams. That I did and redid my university exams because this degree is definitely more than a piece of paper. Maybe then Doomsday will hurt a little less, because I know it must hurt.

That pursuit of a clear conscience took me to Siaya, twice.

Siaya is nothing more than a roundabout and Orengo’s living ghost haunting its dusty streets. There’s nothing much to write about. On one trip back to Nairobi, my friend, who had driven us there, let us switch roles every once in a while. Driving at 2am means the road belongs mostly to trucks, long-distance coaches, and people who have made peace with losing sleep. It feels special driving when the world is asleep, when the tarmac is at its coldest, when everyone else has surrendered to the night except those forced onto the road by circumstance.

The biggest challenge was the cold. Around Limuru and Tigoni it was so bitter I could swear the steering wheel froze shut. My fingers felt like they would snap every time I reached for the indicator. My eyelids, heavy from sleep, would remain closed for long periods, from both cold and fatigue. We stopped at the Total Energies station in Tigoni for coffee, only to watch it lose its heat in under a minute. We carried the cups inside because drinking them outside defeated the whole point.

I had never experienced cold like that. It made me miss the heat of Siaya. It made me miss the sun, something I never imagined saying considering how much I love the cold.

Speaking of traveling, I recently acknowledged that I have wide shoulders, long legs, and an even bigger head. I accepted those facts years ago when I started noticing them in Class 7, when I became literally head and shoulders above my classmates. Back then it meant nothing. Now I’m far more self-conscious. Everything about me feels noticeable and becomes a talking point for curious people or those who never learned to mind their own business.

One advantage of having a big head though, is that it is always full of thoughts. Positive thoughts. Negative thoughts. Ruto-inflicted thoughts.

One of those thoughts came during another trip when I sat behind an artist-y girl. You know how you recognise creatives in your own way. To me they always seem slightly removed from everyone around them. They almost always have dreads, or they're bald. Hair is always a big part of their testament. Their clothes too: they are always either bold or painfully simple.

She had dreads. Bangles and bracelets stacked into sleeves on both arms. Dark lips that, for some reason, made me think of cold, chocolate ice cream. Baggy jeans. A loose denim shirt. We were squeezed into an old 14-seater matatu headed for warm Kisumu. Because of my shoulders and legs, I looked far more uncomfortable than she did.

Halfway through the journey she pulled out a puzzle book. It looked like Sudoku, but more complicated. I found myself impressed as she scratched her brain to figure the puzzles out. She struck me as the kind of person you don't ask for her favourite colour or food on a first date. She looked like someone who opens conversations with, "What book are you reading this month?"

I liked her. She was bold about herself. Artistic. Her dreads looked deeply African as well, as though they had grown with her since childhood. She made me wish my big head could grow dreads too because of how she made it seem effortless.

Since I can't have the dreads, when I got home I settled for a haircut. Maybe I'd start everything afresh.

The barber I went to has been my family's barber since my father first arrived in Muhoroni from Karachuonyo. He has spent close to 20 years in the trade.

Think about that for a minute.

More than eight hours every day standing on his feet, shaving heads of every shape and size, breathing in methylated spirit and loose hair, for two decades!

He shaved my father back when Madilu's rhumba was the latest rumba in town. He shaved both my sisters when my primary school still clung to archaic rules that girls had to shave their heads. He shaved my brother and I before every event because my mum loved us bald and vulnerable to slaps. Now he shaves my five-year-old sister while we grow her hair out evenly.

Everyone in Muhoroni knows him. Everyone trusts him. He has become so good at his job that people now book appointments because the queues can stretch for literal days. Miss your slot and you'll find a line long enough to convince you to grow your hair instead.

He has tried hiring assistants, but even little children tell them they'll wait for him.

He has raised two children through this kinyozi. His wife runs her own business nearby. He is respected because he has mastered both his craft and the way he treats people.

He reminded me of something I had forgotten.

There is a patch of hair near the front of my head, between my forehead and the crown. It grows differently from the rest. You hardly notice it when my hair is full. My father had it too, he shaved it right off him. It isn't a sign of genius or anything. It's just there. Maybe it's a Karachuonyo thing, because I have seen a friend with it as well.

He is the only barber who knows how to shave around that patch properly. I have tried barbers in Kabete and in town, even barbers in Otaro market in Kanjira. None of them know what to do with it. They shave around it, pretend it isn't there, and hope I won't notice. But these 35 days and beyond have been teaching me not just about travelling, movies, or cold roads.

They have also taught me to speak up for myself.

To have audacity when it matters.

Audacity can be an irritating trait when used badly. Used well, it is like a counter-attacking football team: when it works it is unstoppable. After all, the wahenga have been asking the same question for generations: nani atanichapa?

It's my head after all, and I want it shaved the right way.

Those were my 35 days.

Reagan..✍🏽