The sky forgot its colour

Remember those two birds I told you about? The flirty ones that court and chirp right outside my window? Last Saturday they woke me up earlier than usual, singing a duet fit to wake the dead. Outside, the world was grey. Cold. A few lazy drizzles hung in the air, and the heavy downpour from the previous night had left the ground soaked and muddy. Everything in me was set on staying in bed. I had an online CAT that morning, and nothing in the universe seemed interesting enough to make me leave the warmth of my sheets.

That is, until a long-lost friend called and said he was back in Kenya. He needed to get his car washed, and of course that meant we’d also be eating as the car got cleaned. Who am I to turn down free food?

So that afternoon, as the sun peeked hesitantly through the thick cloud cover, trying to undo the mess the storm had left behind, I pulled up to meet him. And by "pulled up" I mean I got dropped off by an Uber. One day when I finally buy my first car you’ll all know, trust me.

The day still felt heavy, like someone had wrung the joy out of it. Like the rain had washed up all the joy from the trees. The sky brooded, threatening rain. But I didn’t care much. Seeing this guy again was a rare thing, worth braving the weather for. I usually avoid social outings. Call it social anxiety or chronic awkwardness. But this was no ordinary meet-up. This was my guy. One of those childhood friends who was always at our place growing up, and we used to play grassroot football with. He was older, so back then we weren’t particularly close. I was more the annoying kid tagging along. But now we were grown. Now he runs businesses in Nairobi and Kisumu, has a wife and three kids—two boys and a girl. He also drives an all-black 2023 Mercedes GLE 4MATIC SUV.

That car? Let me tell you. I’ve always had a thing for SUVs. Something about their sturdy build, the way they command space. Like McGarrett’s blue Chevy Silverado in Hawaii Five-O, or the dark SUVs FBI agents drive in every American thriller. They say something without speaking. Like, “I made it. And I want you to see that I did.”

When we met, the years melted away in an embrace. He was bigger now—muscular. His right arm bore a long dragon tattoo, and his left sleeve was inked with the silhouettes of his children and wife. He wore a large blue vest, expensive-looking shorts, and even more expensive slippers. Not slippers exactly, but I couldn’t name them. Just know they looked like the kind of footwear worn by rich men who eat brunch in places like Lavington.

He laughed when he saw me in jeans. “You mean you wear trousers nowadays? Jeans even?”

We both laughed. Back then, I was known for my loyalty to shorts; thanks to the high school we both remember too well. He’d even hoped I’d show up in shorts again, just like him. But the jeans were a quiet symbol. Some things do change, slowly. 

He had a beard now. A full, neat, and bold beard. Not the scruffy one I last saw him with. It sat confidently on his jawline and fenced his dark lips like a border wall. I want one of those someday. Not the beard alone, the whole aesthetic: thick beard, bald head, shorts, and an all black SUV.

“How are you, man? Nairobi teri nade?” he asked as we sat down at a table near the open kitchen of the car wash’s restaurant. The waitress brought us menus with a smile. I thought the setup of the restaurant was genius—eating while watching your car get washed. Men love watching their cars being cleaned. There’s something oddly satisfying about it. It’s like a reminder that this machine is a symbol of your sweat, your hustle, your success. If someone opened a barbershop, a shooting range, or a gaming spot next to that car wash, they’d be rich in a year. Feed all a man's egos at once.

I almost ordered the usual chips and chicken combo, but my friend raised a brow. “You can’t be eating the same thing you eat at home when you’re out. Try something you’ve never had.”

However, the last time I tried something new, it was a plate of spicy wings that nearly ended my taste buds. I coughed for half an hour straight. I’d learned my lesson to Google the items you aren’t familiar with on a menu. I settled for a thick beef burger with golden, light-brown fries and a Mango Mania smoothie. He went for an iced mocha. “Tea doesn’t do it for me anymore,” he grinned. “I’ve been to Milan. Kericho can’t compete.”

We sat outside, him strategically placed to watch his car get washed. A man watching his toy. A man savoring the fruits of his labor. He had spent over five years working in Vienna, only to return and find nabii Ruto as president, Baba still in government, and Atwoli still putting on a show of defending workers’ rights.

“So, nothing has changed in Kenya, huh?” he asked, sipping his mocha slowly.

“Nothing,” I said, the weight of the truth settling in my chest.

I asked him about Vienna. He told me how life as an architectural engineer there was a blend of precision, creativity and smart survival moves. How every project demanded both artistic vision and ruthless efficiency, or else they’d discard him as fast as he came. He described the city as cold and structured, with a quiet kind of charm that seeps into your bones over time. The other engineers, he said, were brilliant but often distant—obsessed with sustainability, glass facades, and energy modeling.

He spoke of weekend getaways, how he'd escaped to Zürich’s clean elegance, Milan’s chaotic beauty, Rome’s faded glory, and London’s grey ambition. Budapest, he said, felt like a museum that never sleeps. Then he chuckled, remembering his brief trip to Mexico, which he called a “furnace of hostility”. Immediately he said that I instantly imaged how I would quote him in this newsletter. The heat was relentless, he added, and the locals viewed government projects with naked suspicion.

“The movies don’t lie! Mexico really did feel like a political thriller.” 

He mentioned how government construction crews faced resistance, not just protests but deep resentment. People didn’t want the government's roads or clinics—they wanted nothing at all. He said it was surreal, being there as a black man with a beard and tattooed arms; he looked like a government enforcer, and that didn’t help his case at all. Children stared. Old women whispered. One man muttered something about “agents.” The air itself, he recalled, seemed heavy with mistrust and sweat.

“And football? Did you ever watch any in the stands?” I asked out of childish curiosity.

He smiled. “Chelsea vs Southampton, 2022. Cheapest ticket I could get. But worth every penny.”

I felt so inspired I almost took out a notebook and started scribbling like form ones when a motivational speaker comes in. He was pouring out newsletter content like a seasoned storyteller.

In between his stories, he kept glancing at his car. That proud dad energy. He told me life back in Austria can be tough, but he has his family—his wife and kids are in springtime bliss—and a community of fellow Kenyans to keep him grounded.

“That’s what a man does,” he said. “He gives his family a life worth living for.”

I nodded in approval, visualizing myself doing the same one day—taking my younger sister on a random steak run in Florence, Italy, and later sipping mochas in my shorts and slippers with her in the cobbled streets of Prague.

“Does this gloomy weather remind you of Vienna?” I ask.

“Yeah, it does. Feels like the sky forgot its colour today.”

“Yeah.” I smile, collecting the fragments of poetry spilling from his mouth.

“Mmh.” He exhales softly, turning back toward his car just as a red Mazda CX-5 pulls into the wash bay. A woman stepped out—late twenties, probably. She had that kind of presence you don’t teach in school. Confident, radiant, dressed in a blend of Ankara and denim. Urban meets heritage. Like culture met streetwear and said "let’s vibe." And from the other side, her grandmother (I think)—upright, regal, wrapped in a navy blue kitenge with gold embroidery. The kind of woman whose hands had shaped generations. She seemed like the kind of older woman whose back is still straight, yet whose eyes have likely seen the final years of colonial Kenya and still wakes up early without an alarm. They were both elegant and unbothered by the drizzle.

Every car wash guy lit up at her arrival. You could see the respect. She spoke warmly to them, asked about their day, smiled with her whole face. The drizzle still clung to the air, but her energy was sunshine. Even we, suddenly quieter and seated under the orange glow of the restaurant canopy, felt it.

“Maybe she brought her grandma out to treat her,” I broke the silence.

“Mother’s Day, huh?” he replied, eyes softening.

They sat together a few tables away from us. Maybe that moment was the young woman’s gift to her: time, presence, laughter, and modern food.

Eventually, we looped back to our own stories.

“By the way, what brought you back to Kenya?”

“I’m here just for a few days. There’s a project our company is running in Kisumu and Vihiga, so I’m overseeing that for a bit. After that, I’ll be off to Addis Ababa before heading back.”

“Oh, that sounds pretty cool.” He glanced at me.

“Like the weather, you seem a little gloomy too. Not quite the bright-eyed kid I left back then. You alright?”

I smiled—my usual mask for heavy days.

“I’m alright. It’s just… life keeps finding new ways to knock you down, you know? No one really prepared me for campus life, or young adulthood for that matter. Too many responsibilities, too many expectations, never enough time.”

“School’s that bad, huh?” he asked.

“Hard,” I admitted. “Campus without a foundation is wild. And those connections people always yap about? I realized they’re not just tales. Without them, it’s like running running with weights on. Between juggling my CPAs, school, and trying to have a social life? I've learned to treat time like gold.”

“Life does that,” he said, exhaling. “It shows you new ways of breaking you. Even I wasn’t prepared for adulthood or for living in a foreign country. That’s the tough part—it’s unpredictable and ruthless. But the real joy, the real satisfaction, comes when you rise above all that. You take the hits and stand back up. That’s how winning is done. That’s how you get that SUV you dream about, or whatever car you want.”

At this point, he was sounding like Rocky Balboa, and I’ll just leave it at that. Some advice, honestly, you need to hear straight from the horse’s mouth.

He leaned back and sipped the last of his mocha. “But we rise, right?”

“Always.”

✍🏽Reagan.