The morning air was cold. We alighted from the Probox that had brought us from Migori Town to Bande. The chill lingered on my skin as we quickly climbed onto a motorcycle. My father instructed me to hold onto my little brother, who sat wedged between me and the rider. At the time, I was too young to question anything. I simply followed the order of the day, trusting that this was how things were meant to unfold.

Within minutes, we were on our way to my grandparents’ home. The road narrowed as we rode on, winding through forest and thick undergrowth. The scent of damp earth mixed with the sharp smell of fuel. The steady hum of the engine lulled me into a strange calm. I lost all sense of time.

Midway through the journey, the rider suddenly told me to stay calm and keep quiet. My father signaled the same, his voice firm as he urged me to hold on tightly. Over the roar of the motorcycle, I became aware of other engines—ours and two more. The two appeared abruptly from the bushes, their presence startling and confusing. I did not understand what was happening. I was only told, again, to hold on.

Instinctively, I tightened my grip around my brother. The rider accelerated, swerving through the bushes and thickets with urgency. Branches brushed past us as the road dissolved into rough terrain. Eventually, we reached a river. We crossed swiftly, the water splashing beneath the tires. My parents followed behind us. Once we were safely across, the pursuers stopped. I did not know why, but even then, I felt a quiet sense of relief and gratitude.

After two more hours of riding, we arrived at my grandparents’ home. The air there was warm and familiar, heavy with the smell of firewood and freshly cooked food. It was the scent of safety and arrival. My father offered no explanation for what had happened on the road, and I did not ask.

Years later, while studying maps in high school, I realized that we had crossed into Tanzania that day. That journey remains my first true geography lesson. It was not one marked by borders or lines on paper, but by memory, movement, and family. It taught me that geography can live in the body and the heart. Above all, it taught me the quiet power of arrival.