It was August, past midnight, and the air at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport had that familiar chill. I watched the travelers huddled in jackets, tugging at their suitcases, glancing at their phones. Terminal 1C stood as a marker of my past trips here, but tonight, it held a different significance. This was the third time I’d found myself here, at this very terminal, and yet, I felt a quiet certainty that this moment would leave an imprint on my life in ways I couldn’t predict.
My wife stood beside me, excitement lighting her eyes. I’d seen that spark in her before. The same look that said she had big plans; dreams as wide as the world she’d soon be flying across. She wore it with pride, with the kind of strength that reminded me why I fell in love with her. This time, though, I was sending her off alone. She was embarking on a journey for her education, a path we both knew she had to take. I took a steady breath, feeling the mixture of pride and fear mingling inside me.
As she stood in line holding her suitcases, I felt something unusual; a hesitation, a feeling that went against everything I’d been taught about what it means to be a man. To be an African man. I remembered my grandmother’s words, said to me years ago: “Men don't cry, and men certainly don’t stay at home. It’s up to them to hold up the household.” I’d carried those words, honoring them like the shield of a warrior, carrying them through work, through the challenges of providing, and now through this moment of unexpected change.
But here I was, about to shed those layers. I knew that once she crossed into that departure lounge, I’d have to step into a new role, that is, a work-from-home father, balancing work and the kids. I’d never imagined myself in such a role, nor had I wanted it. And yet, as I watched her smile over her shoulder, waving one last time before vanishing through the gate, I knew that her dreams were worth the sacrifice. Supporting her, enabling her to chase her ambitions, was something I accepted wholeheartedly.
My mind whirled as I left the departure terminal, heading back toward the car. Each step felt heavy, as though I was walking into a future I hadn’t prepared for. I wasn’t sure what challenges lay ahead, but there was one thing I held onto: the joy of letting her soar. I was proud of her, proud to be the one who could help her spread her wings, even if that meant changing my own life completely.
As we drove home in the silence of the Nairobi night, the city lights blinked in the distance, hazy yet promising. I felt a peace settle in me, a silent commitment that I would navigate this new role, learning to hold both my work and the children, learning to redefine what it meant to be a father and a husband, learning to embrace change. And in that moment, I realized that the heart of being an African man wasn’t only in holding up the household. It was in adapting, in loving, in supporting the dreams of those we love no matter where that path may take us.
My wife stood beside me, excitement lighting her eyes. I’d seen that spark in her before. The same look that said she had big plans; dreams as wide as the world she’d soon be flying across. She wore it with pride, with the kind of strength that reminded me why I fell in love with her. This time, though, I was sending her off alone. She was embarking on a journey for her education, a path we both knew she had to take. I took a steady breath, feeling the mixture of pride and fear mingling inside me.
As she stood in line holding her suitcases, I felt something unusual; a hesitation, a feeling that went against everything I’d been taught about what it means to be a man. To be an African man. I remembered my grandmother’s words, said to me years ago: “Men don't cry, and men certainly don’t stay at home. It’s up to them to hold up the household.” I’d carried those words, honoring them like the shield of a warrior, carrying them through work, through the challenges of providing, and now through this moment of unexpected change.
But here I was, about to shed those layers. I knew that once she crossed into that departure lounge, I’d have to step into a new role, that is, a work-from-home father, balancing work and the kids. I’d never imagined myself in such a role, nor had I wanted it. And yet, as I watched her smile over her shoulder, waving one last time before vanishing through the gate, I knew that her dreams were worth the sacrifice. Supporting her, enabling her to chase her ambitions, was something I accepted wholeheartedly.
My mind whirled as I left the departure terminal, heading back toward the car. Each step felt heavy, as though I was walking into a future I hadn’t prepared for. I wasn’t sure what challenges lay ahead, but there was one thing I held onto: the joy of letting her soar. I was proud of her, proud to be the one who could help her spread her wings, even if that meant changing my own life completely.
As we drove home in the silence of the Nairobi night, the city lights blinked in the distance, hazy yet promising. I felt a peace settle in me, a silent commitment that I would navigate this new role, learning to hold both my work and the children, learning to redefine what it meant to be a father and a husband, learning to embrace change. And in that moment, I realized that the heart of being an African man wasn’t only in holding up the household. It was in adapting, in loving, in supporting the dreams of those we love no matter where that path may take us.
