The Reluctant Return

You know that moment when your ancestors collectively decide to shame you? Mine arrived in a Nairobi nyama choma joint when someone asked me to recommend a good fish place in Kisumu. I stood there, mouth opening and closing like a confused tilapia. Me? A whole Luo man, as authentic as they come, unable to tell Lwang'ni from Dunga Beach? The shame was thicker than the bone soup I was sipping.

Being Luo comes with expectations heavier than a Christmas serving of “kuon and Aliya”. People assume you have a PhD in all things Kisumu—that you can navigate its streets blindfolded and probably learned to swim in Nam Lolwe before you could walk. But there I was, a son of Bugusero (or Muksero, if you're feeling fancy with your Dholuo), more familiar with dodging matatus on Moi Avenue than spotting hippos at Hippo Point.

My trips home had always been predictable—through Narok, where Maasai morans pose by the roadside like they're shooting a National Geographic cover, then past Sotik’s endless tea plantations, a masterpiece of geometric perfection. But lately, something gnawed at me, like the ache of a long-overdue homecoming. I had spent too long as that urban Luo who thought Lake Victoria was just a very big swimming pool.

So, I did it. I booked a flight to Kisumu like a prodigal son craving his mother’s cooking. Post-holiday season—when airfares dip so low you'd think the tourism board was having an existential crisis. My Airbnb was in Milimani, the kind of place where old money speaks in whispers and new money tries too hard to be heard. The owner was connected to me through that intricate web of Kenyan relationships—my father’s cousin’s wife’s brother’s friend’s neighbour. Try putting that on a family tree.

Stepping off the plane, Kisumu’s heat embraced me like an overeager aunt at a family gathering—intense, inescapable, but strangely comforting. The air was thick with promise and lake water, a cocktail that made my Nairobi-acclimatized lungs wonder if they needed hazard pay.

That first morning, I woke up to a symphony that wasn’t the usual Nairobi soundtrack of matatu horns and street preachers promising salvation. Instead, there was the distant lapping of lake water, the rhythmic chaos of market women setting up their stalls, and a rooster that clearly needed a refresher course on timekeeping.

Then there was Kibuye Market—a place that deserves its own reality show. Part chaos, Part Theatre, part family reunion. I walked in looking for directions and walked out with three shirts I didn’t need, a paper bag full of omena that might have winked at me, and unsolicited life advice from a mama mboga who took one look at me and decided I needed both vegetables and therapy. “Young man,” she said, adjusting her wrapper like she was about to deliver a TED Talk, “you walk like someone who has forgotten where he came from.” I wanted to argue, but when a Kisumu mama mboga reads your life like scripture, you listen.

The streets of Kisumu have a way of making you feel both lost and exactly where you need to be. Every corner holds a story, every vendor is a philosopher, and every boda boda rider doubles as a tour guide. One, a young man with dreadlocks peeking from under his helmet, offered to show me around for a fee that covered both transport and what he called “authentic Kisumu commentary.” Worth every shilling—his running narrative was equal parts history lesson, gossip column, and stand-up comedy.

But it was Takawiri Island that truly humbled me. The boat ride there had me questioning my life choices. The captain, an old man with a face lined by years of sun and wind, steered with the ease of someone who had probably navigated these waters before he could walk. Meanwhile, I clung to the boat so tightly I might have left my fingerprints in the metal.

Nam Lolwe—Lake Victoria, as my ancestors would insist I call it—stretched out like a vast mirror reflecting sky and history. Occasionally, something would break the surface. “Oh, that’s just a hippo saying hello,” the captain said, as casually as one might mention a passing neighbor. Just a hippo. Like it was a house cat. I tried to look unimpressed, but my heart was doing acrobatics worthy of an Olympic medal.

Takawiri itself defied photography. White sand stretched like a welcome mat laid out by nature, and the water—oh, the water—shifted colors more often than a politician shifts loyalties. There, I met Mzee Ochieng, or as he insisted, 'Wuon Dero'—father of the granary. His face carried the weight of generations, the kind that makes you want to listen for hours. “You city people,” he chuckled, eyeing my carefully curated ‘casual’ beach outfit, “you come here looking for peace in selfies.” I wanted to protest, but my phone was literally in my hand, camera app open.

The stories he told—of mysterious lights on the water, of fish that only revealed themselves to those who knew their real names, of mermaids (though we’d had some local brew by then, so I took that one with a pinch of salt)—felt like threads tying me back to a history I had neglected.

Sunset over Nam Lolwe is a religious experience. The sky explodes into purples, oranges, and reds, each shade melting into the lake’s surface like nature’s own disco ball. I sat there, feeling something shift inside me—like I was finally understanding something I hadn’t even known I was missing.

Back in Kisumu, the city revealed itself in layers. The museum, which I had assumed would be as dull as watching paint dry, turned out to be a treasure trove of “wait, what?” moments. Did you know our ancestors had better dental hygiene than most of us? Neither did I, until an enthusiastic curator introduced me to ancient teeth-cleaning sticks that probably worked better than my overpriced electric toothbrush.

At Hippo Point, I witnessed what can only be described as a hippo soap opera. “That one,” our guide whispered, pointing to a particularly large one, “we call him Chairman. He thinks he owns the whole lake.” Chairman yawned, baring teeth that could crush a small car, then side-eyed a younger hippo foolish enough to encroach on his territory.

And the food. Good Lord, the food. Every meal was a reminder that what we eat in Nairobi, claiming to be “authentic,” is about as genuine as a politician’s campaign promise. The fish! Fresh from the lake, prepared with a reverence that bordered on sacred. I struggled with the bones until a kindly woman took pity on me. “City boy,” she clucked, hands moving with the precision of a surgeon, “in Kisumu, we learn this before we learn to walk.”

One night, I found myself at a local joint, sipping a cold Tusker as old men debated everything from politics to the best fish spots. “Dunga!” one declared. “Lwang’ni!” another countered. They argued with the fervor of diplomats negotiating world peace. I just sipped my beer, watching, listening, absorbing.

But it was in the quiet moments that Kisumu truly spoke. Sitting by the lake at dawn, watching fishermen cast their nets as kingfishers dived for their breakfast, I finally understood something my father had always said: “To know where you’re going, you must remember where you came from.”

As my plane lifted off, I looked down at Kisumu—a city sprawling along the lakeshore like a story waiting to be told. And for the first time, I wasn’t just looking. I was listening.

And I knew, without a doubt, that I would be back.