Hedonic Adaptation

It’s a crisp January morning, and the streets are awake—alive with the chaos of routine. Matatu touts are at their loudest, their guttural shouts echoing through the arid air like an alarm clock that refuses to snooze. Annoying. "Who shouts like that in the morning?" I mutter under my breath, dodging a sharply-dressed man with a briefcase in hand, and a woman balancing a thermos on her head—a basket of mandazis on her left hand. I offer to buy a cup of her coffee and a few mandazis, just to start her day off well. Both you and I don’t know what I’m doing this early on the road. So I decide to go that my local Luhya barber to see what he’s up to, coz I am not up to anything. His shop is located on the first floor of a stalls building, so there’s an excellent view of the road below heading to town—almost a panoramic bird’s-eye view.

“Kijana na leo umekuja mapema?” he greets me unenthusiastically.

“Zii, leo ata sinyolewi. Nimeamka tu mapema kuzubaa.” I say, echoing the words of all jobless people out there.

“Ooh, shida ni Winnie hakuji leo, bado ako ushago.” Winnie is that hot assistant I told you about, that massages my head with her angelic hands after every shave.

But what on God’s round earth would make him think I would wake up that early to go see his assistant? I smiled it off coz there was a truth in it, and replied “Ooh”. I let him get on with opening his business for the day. He understands the importance of early morning cuts. Most people, especially in busy towns, prefer their cuts early morning, lunch breaks or late in the afternoon, because people are busy with nothingness, and a haircut is tedious work even though you just sit there for hours and let a grown man grope your head for a time. I felt like leaving immediately coz now what would I be doing there if the beautiful assistant wasn’t coming. But I stayed and watched the bustling of the road below, not looking for anything in particular. In my little time on earth I’ve learned that if you look at people from a detached point of view—as if you’re not human but a flying bird or a god in the sky—you see just how different people are. And just how people live completely different, yet similar, lives.

Everyone is in a rush to get to work, their holiday glow replaced by the dull sheen of obligation. The sharply-dressed man is going for his first day at work—must make a lasting first impression. First impressions make a lasting impression. First impressions are the talk of the end-year party when you’re no longer an intern or entry-level employee and everyone is laughing at how on the first day you almost choked out because your tie was too tight and high. The coffee lady was up at 3am to make locally-brewed coffee hot enough for the 6am to 8am morning rush. Her mandazis also were made while everyone was yet asleep, and now they are hot and soft enough for a quick morning bite. The early mjengo workers love her coffee and mandazis. They get a cheap but filling breakfast, while she earns her honest living. A balanced scale. The matatu touts have their jaba in mouth, ready to make countless to and fro trips to town, and shout their hoarse voices out. The young female graduate is heading to town to open up shop for the first time. An entrepreneurial lady. This year she’s starting out an interior design business she’s been working on since her first-year days. She’s probably from being on her knees, asking her Deity to give her strength to handle the many lows and small highs of business. Another girl walks beside her, this one with a uniform on. She’s heading back to the shithole that is Kenyan public high schools. The circle of life, everyone adds their part. Woe unto you if you’re a lazy Gen Z who just consumes TikTok and Twitter (I’ll never call it X) content and does not add something to the flow of life.

The festive season is officially over, and now, normalcy reigns.

There is a gym beside the barbershop. The gym instructor flies its doors wide open, revealing a sea of determined sweaty faces on treadmills and dumbbells. Who knew January would bring out so many 'new year, new me' enthusiasts? Oh wait, I did. I’ve been there—one of the many hopefuls convinced that this year (or whichever year) will be the one where I transform into a fitness god. Spoiler alert: it never happens. And it is utterly astonishing just how many people are victims of this fallacy of ‘new year, new me’. Somewhere up in the heavens, the gods must be laughing, shaking their heads at humanity’s predictable optimism. We are, after all, a race of hilarious creatures, always promising ourselves change while clinging stubbornly to our comforts.

The streetlights that once twinkled with Christmas cheer are gone now, their warm glow replaced by the harsh fluorescence of shop signs. Resolutions feel heavier now, like bricks in a backpack, as people trudge back to their cluttered desks. December was a high—family gatherings, Sol Fest, movie premiers, Blankets and Wines, endless feasts, and that euphoric sense of freedom. But now, January pulls you out of your dreams and slams you into spreadsheets and deadlines. It’s a rude awakening, a stark reminder that life isn’t always champagne and fireworks. Writing this, I realize I am deeply pessimistic, and that’s why festive seasons don’t break a smile on my face—coz January is always on my mind. Somebody needs to slap me into living in the moment of festivities. But I dare you touch me.

I look at people’s faces as they board the matatu, or drive off to wherever, or as they run on the treadmills, where’s the excitement? New Year’s day was a blast. Smiles radiated the air and fireworks made the nights lively. The reign of normalcy ain’t welcomed with merry and cheer, or at least, smiles. Is it Ruto again? Must be.

Sometimes I can’t help but wonder: why do we associate normalcy with boredom? Isn’t it within these unremarkable moments that life takes shape? Imagine if festivities only came every leap year or if we had no holiday breaks at all—people would revolt, wouldn’t they, even those who claim they don’t care for the seasons. Change disrupts normalcy, and when normalcy is interrupted, we cling to it like a lifeline. So it isn’t as boring as we think, to have a ‘normal’ festive season at the end of every year. Perhaps also, the grind isn’t as dull as we make it to be; maybe it’s an opportunity to create something meaningful, to find joy in the routine.

Take the gym, for instance. Sure, it’s overcrowded now, but it’s also a symbol of hope. People don’t go there because they hate their bodies; they go because they believe in their potential. And yes, many will quit by February, but even in their failure, there’s something beautiful—a willingness to try. The streets, the gyms, the offices—they’re not just scenes of monotony; they’re arenas where life unfolds, messy and imperfect, but undeniably..human!

Amidst all these happening below me, my mind is ever in thought—a terrible habit of mine. A miasmic reflection on the joys of the holidays fill my mind, but just enough to not trap me in nostalgia. I am grateful too—appreciating the present, even if it feels mundane. But most importantly, I remind myself that normalcy is the foundation for the extraordinary. Without it, the fireworks wouldn’t feel as bright.

Luhya man has got his first client of the day, so I head down the stairs. As I round the corner, I see a school child running to catch the matatu, his laughter cutting through the morning haze and blending with the blaring horns of the ng’anyas. In that moment, I feel it—the beauty of the ordinary, the rhythm of life that ripples us forward. January isn’t the end of the joy; it’s the prelude to something new for the year. And while the gods may mock us, I’d like to think they envy us too. After all, what’s more human than finding hope in the grind?

I head back home to write this issue before the scenes get foggy in my head, or before ‘Kasongo must go’ clouds my judgement.

Draw the curtains. Open the windows. 2025 is here.

✍🏽Reagan.