I woke up with a start.
Not because of an alarm. Not because someone was knocking on the door. Not
because Nairobi had finally decided to become a quiet city. Just one of those
strange awakenings when your body seems to know something before your brain
gets the memo.
Outside, the wind howled. The cold had teeth. The blanket
and I had reached that stage in our relationship where separation felt
unnecessary and perhaps even cruel.
A sensible man would have stayed in bed. A wise man would have stayed in bed. Unfortunately, I have spent years systematically training myself to ignore sensible and wise men whenever they appear.
---
Somewhere in my mind, a number floated up.
Fifty.
I knew immediately what it meant. For months, I had pinned an ultramarathon
WhatsApp group at the top of my phone. Every day, someone posted distances that
looked less like exercise and more like migration patterns.
Fifty
kilometers. An ultramarathon. Anything beyond 42 kilometers qualifies. Fifty is
where people start speaking in reverent tones and posting pictures that make
ordinary runners question their life choices.
The
funny thing about habits is that people think change happens when motivation
arrives. It doesn't. Change happens when exposure quietly rewires what feels
normal. I had seen "50km" so many times that my brain no longer
treated it as impossible.
Dangerous.
But not impossible.
And that is how impossible things begin. Not with confidence. With
familiarity.
---
I rolled out of bed. My running clothes sat exactly where they always do —
visible, reachable, ready.
People
often ask me how to become disciplined. They expect a profound answer. The
truth is usually disappointing. Sometimes discipline is simply reducing the
number of decisions you need to make at 5am. My shoes were waiting. My shorts
were waiting. My running top was waiting. My future self had left gifts for my
present self.
I got dressed. Drank water. Made several nervous trips to the bathroom. For me, fear has always had a close relationship with plumbing.
Then I stepped outside. The city was asleep. The road was mine — at least temporarily.
---
Deep inside, I knew I intended to cover fifty kilometers. But I refused to
think too much about it. Every time I did, my body immediately grew weaker.
I
would think: "Fifty kilometers." My legs would respond: "Let's
not."
The
longest distance I had covered before adulthood was during the President's
Award in high school. Back then, we walked distances that felt biblical. I
remember our school uniform — good Lord, the colors looked like somebody had
lost an argument with a paint factory. It was impossible to miss.
Which
reminds me of Arnold Schwarzenegger. When he arrived in America, people told
him to change his name. Too difficult. Too foreign. Too strange. Nobody would
remember it. He refused. Now the same people who couldn't pronounce it have
spent decades trying. There is a lesson there. You do not always need to fit in
to be remembered. Some things earn their place through persistence, much like
running.
---
The route toward Karen was familiar. Cold air filled my lungs. Birds announced
the morning. Drivers occasionally reminded me they had recently watched Formula
One and felt called to honor the sport.
Some stretches of Karen have beautiful walkways. Others seem designed by people who believe pedestrians are a rumor. Yet there is something beautiful about running in the cold — eventually, thoughts begin to disappear.
At first, there are many. Emails. Business ideas. Conversations. Regrets. Future plans. That thing you should have said in 2017. Then your breathing settles, your stride settles, and the noise fades. The body becomes the conversation.
---
When I reached Karen Town, something happened that startled me. Not physically,
but emotionally. I was completely unimpressed.
Now,
that sounds terrible. Karen is lovely. But a few years ago, reaching Karen felt
like an Olympic achievement. I would sit at a kibanda, order bananas, water,
and mandazi — possibly enough food to sustain a small village — then stare into
the distance as if I had conquered Kilimanjaro.
This
time, Karen was simply... there. Part of the scenery. A checkpoint. Not a
destination. And that hit me harder than any kilometer marker. Because growth
is strange. Most of us expect transformation to arrive with fireworks. Instead,
it arrives quietly. One day, you realize the thing that used to terrify you now
barely requires attention. The mountain has not changed. You have.
---
As I moved toward Ngong Road, another observation took shape. Nairobi is
changing. Rapidly. Almost violently.
I
am a child of the 90s. I remember Adam's Arcade as a major landmark. Now
apartment blocks rise like ambitious younger siblings, trying to outgrow
everyone around them. Buildings that once looked prestigious now look confused
— like retired athletes wondering where all these new champions came from.
The
roads have changed too. I say this as someone who has punished his knees on
many of them. There was a time when some walkways resembled obstacle courses —
you were simultaneously exercising while trying not to sprain your ankle. Now
there are stretches from Southern Bypass toward the city that are genuinely
impressive. Long, continuous paths. Cabro. Space. Order. Progress.
And
then, because this is Nairobi, progress immediately plunges you into chaos. A
beautiful walkway abruptly ends. A construction site appears. A fence vanishes.
Logic takes a tea break. And you continue.
The
section around Uhuru Park fascinated me — good change and bad change,
construction and destruction, improvement and theft, all existing within meters
of each other. The park has improved. Parts of the fence have disappeared, and
metal sheets have appeared. People seem determined to steal whatever remains.
It is almost poetic. A city trying to improve itself while simultaneously
wrestling with itself.
---
At one point, I found myself navigating the underpass near Haile Selassie
Avenue. Recently, it had looked more like a river than a road. Now it was
passable. Barely. I squeezed between the Railway Club, the Expressway above,
construction equipment beside me, and what remained of the road beneath. It
felt less like running and more like surviving an action movie on a budget.
Eventually,
I reached South C, and South C confused me. How can roads be this small and
buildings this large? The apartment blocks seemed determined to touch heaven.
The roads seemed determined to remain in the 1980s. Garbage sat in corners.
Construction everywhere. Questions about sewage entered my mind and refused to
leave.
Around
the police station, entire sections felt unfamiliar — the buildings had completely
reshaped the landscape. Then I saw Akiba Bellevue Estate. Growing up, Akiba
Bellevue looked enormous, prestigious, and important. Now it looked like a
younger brother surrounded by giant cousins who had just returned from the gym.
Things
really are changing.
---
Then came the final ten kilometers. And with them, honesty.
The
body stopped negotiating. It started complaining. The feet hurt. The calves
hurt. The hips hurt. Muscles I had never formally met began introducing
themselves.
I eventually found myself near Uhuru Gardens. Four kilometers short. Four.
After all that. Four.
And then it struck me. Madaraka Day.
Truthfully, it had not motivated the run. The run had started because I wanted
to test myself. Because growth demands voluntary discomfort. Because freedom is
impossible without self-mastery. But suddenly, the symbolism felt perfect.
Freedom.
Not political freedom. Personal freedom. Freedom from old limitations. Freedom
from old identities. Freedom from the voice that whispers, "This is
enough," without ceasing.
So
I started looping at Uhuru Gardens. Three loops, one after another.
---
By then, strange things were happening in my head. I noticed groups of women
sitting on lesos, relaxing. Families laughing. People enjoying the afternoon.
And there I was — running in circles, sweating, questioning my decisions,
trying to appear dignified while clearly looking like a man who had been chased
by life for six straight hours.
At
one point, I imagined what they were thinking. "There goes another
one." "Midlife crisis." "Lost a bet." "Looking
for his car."
I
wanted to explain: "No, no. This is character development." But no
one asked, so I kept running.
---
By the final loop, my internal dialogue had grown ridiculous.
"You
can stop."
"No."
"You have already proven the point."
"No."
"Nobody cares."
"I care."
"Why?"
That is the question. Why? Why do difficult things? Why suffer voluntarily? Why
wake before sunrise? Why keep growing? Why keep stretching? Why keep becoming?
Somewhere between who we are and who we could become lies a distance that must
be traveled on foot. One uncomfortable step at a time.
---
Eventually, my watch vibrated. Fifty kilometers. Done. I stopped. Looked
around. Took a breath. And smiled.
Not because I had completed an ultramarathon. Because Karen had become scenery.
Because the impossible had become normal. Because growth had happened quietly.
And because on the eve of Madaraka Day, I was reminded that freedom is not
something given.
It is something earned. One choice. One habit. One uncomfortable kilometer at a
time.
Then
I climbed into a matatu and headed home. Which may be the most Kenyan ending
possible after an ultramarathon.
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