I hadn’t woken up that morning expecting to go underground. The plan was simple: visit a friend in Kisumu, eat fresh tilapia by the lake, maybe walk along the shoreline to feel the wind coming off Nam Lolwe. But by late morning, the sun already high and impatient, someone mentioned Abindu Hill “You know, the place with the caves” and something stirred in me. Curiosity. Restlessness. A craving for a story that hadn’t happened yet.

The drive toward Abindu was brief, but the shift in landscape was dramatic. Kisumu’s bustle slowly thinned into quieter roads lined with rocky outcrops and scattered homesteads. The hill rose ahead of us, rugged and solitary, its slopes browned by sun and time. Even from a distance, it looked like a place holding its breath.

A local guide named Oti was waiting at the base, leaning against a boulder with the relaxed confidence of someone who knew the hill better than he knew his own reflection. He wore dusty shoes and carried a small torch, though the sun was blazing overhead.

“You ready?” he asked, pushing off the rock.
“I think so,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely sure.

The climb wasn’t steep, but the stones underfoot felt loose and mischievous. Every few steps I had to catch my balance. Oti walked ahead lightly, as if the ground rearranged itself politely for him. He told us stories as we went whispers of spiritual beliefs tied to the place, of people coming to pray for answers or protection, of strange echoes that didn’t always sound like their sources.

“Some call them spirits,” he said, his machete tapping softly against his leg. “Others say the stones themselves are alive.”

I wasn’t sure what I believed, but the air felt charged, like the hill had an invisible pulse.

We reached the first cave entrance sooner than I expected. It wasn’t grand or gaping like the caves I’d imagined from documentaries. Instead, it looked like a dark mouth half hidden by shrubs, a quiet invitation. Cool air flowed out of it in soft breaths, brushing my skin with a chill that didn’t match the heat outside.

Inside, the transition from daylight to darkness felt sudden, like stepping across a threshold into another world. The smell of damp stone and earth took over, grounding and ancient. Our footsteps echoed, hesitant at first, then steadying as we adjusted.

Oti switched on his torch. The beam sliced through the darkness, exposing rough walls that glimmered as though dusted with tiny crystals. The cave wasn’t silent far from it. Water dripped somewhere deeper in, the sound echoing like slow, deliberate thoughts. I ran my fingers along the wall, feeling grooves made by centuries of weathering or perhaps by human hands marking their presence.

“People used to hide here during conflicts,” Oti said, his voice bouncing against the curved ceiling. “Some caves go deeper than you’d expect. Others… well, they decide how far you go.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant until we reached a section where the passage narrowed to a tight squeeze. The air felt heavier here. I crouched, pressing forward, my backpack scraping the roof of the tunnel. For a moment, panic fluttered inside me. The kind that starts in the chest before your mind has time to catch up.

• What if the cave closed in?
• What if the darkness swallowed me whole?
• What if the air ran out?

Then, just as quickly, the passage opened again into a wider chamber, and I felt myself exhale as if releasing fear I didn’t realize I was holding.

The chamber was unexpectedly tall, like stepping into a natural cathedral hidden beneath the hill. Oti motioned for us to stop.
“Switch off your lights,” he said.

The darkness closed around us immediately thick, complete, almost physical. I could hear my heartbeat louder than anything else.

“Now listen.”

At first, all I heard was the faint drip of water. Then the cave began revealing layers: a soft flutter of bat wings somewhere above us, the far off murmur of wind pushing through narrow cracks, and my own slow breathing. I felt stripped bare, held in a kind of ancient stillness. It was unnerving and comforting at the same time.

Standing there, suspended in dark silence, I realized how loud the world had become outside the constant rush of tasks, the noise of expectations, the clutter of unfinished thoughts. Here, in this carved out pocket of earth, everything unnecessary fell away. Only truth remained.

We turned our torches back on, and the spell broke gently. The walls glowed in the light as if relieved to be visible again. We explored another chamber, this one with faint markings on the stone scraches that might have been symbols or simply the work of time. Oti explained that some people believed the caves had been places of ritual long before modern memory. Others said the rocks were filled with spirits who watched over the land.

“These caves don’t harm anyone,” he added, “unless you walk in with arrogance.”

I wondered briefly what I had walked in with curiosity, yes, but maybe also a longing for grounding, for something older and more certain than the shifting world above.

On the way out, the tunnel that had frightened me earlier felt easier. My body knew the way now.

When sunlight finally reappeared, it looked impossibly bright. I stepped outside blinking, the warmth hitting my skin like a welcome. The world around me the shrubs, the stones, the distant shimmer of Lake Victoria seemed sharper, almost newly made.

We sat on a rock, catching our breath. The wind carried the smell of dust and dry grass, and somewhere a goat bleated lazily. Normal life continued, unaffected by the quiet intensity beneath it.

“First time?” Oti asked, smiling.
“Yes,” I said. “But… I think I understand why people keep coming back.”

He nodded. “The caves show you a part of yourself. Some people don’t realize they were looking for it.”

As we started down the hill, I felt lighter, as though I had left a hidden piece of fear inside the darkness and carried out something steadier. It wasn’t a dramatic transformation not the kind told in hero stories but a subtle shift, like a stone settling into its rightful place.

Sometimes an adventure isn’t about danger or adrenaline. Sometimes it’s about standing still in the dark long enough to hear what the silence has to say.

Abindu had spoken.
And I had listened.