Life Between Two world

Three years ago, I left Kenya — a peaceful, warm place that shaped my childhood — and moved to Somalia, a land full of contradictions. Beauty and hardship. Strength and struggle. Hope and fear. Two worlds, both real. Two worlds I now live between.

I didn’t come here by choice. Life pushed me, and I had to adapt. That is the first rule of survival: wherever you are thrown, you must learn how to live there.

In Kenya, daily life felt simple. You could walk outside without thinking twice. You could trust the food you bought. You could hear laughter more often than sirens.

Here, life moves differently.

In Somalia, checkpoints are part of the rhythm of the streets. Every few minutes, someone stops you, opens your door, looks at your face, asks where you’re going and why. You learn to keep your voice soft. You learn to move quietly. You learn to cover yourself, not just out of modesty, but for safety.

And then there are the other things — the things nobody warns you about.

People selling expired medicine, brought in because it’s cheap and people are desperate. Food past its date sold openly. Drivers speeding without number plates. Rules that exist, but only sometimes matter. The sun hotter than I ever imagined, and barely any trees to protect you from it.

Women sit outside in that heat, selling black tea in reused plastic water bottles. The tea is light, spiced, and sweet enough to calm your heart for a moment. Many of them also sell khat — bitter green leaves chewed to stay awake, to forget troubles, or to survive the long hours. These women sit there from morning until night, hoping to earn just enough to go home with dignity.

It’s a hard life. But it’s also full of resilience.

Sometimes the air shakes with the sound of gunfire. Sometimes a distant blast sends smoke curling into the sky. The first time I heard it, my heart froze. But I had children looking at me, waiting for my reaction.

“Mama, what is that?” they asked.

So I smiled gently and said,

“It sounds like someone is cooking popcorn.”

Not because it's true.

But because children deserve softness in a world that is not soft.

Even now, I wonder what effect this life will have on them.

What memories they will carry.

What kind of courage they will grow.

But I also know this: difficult places raise strong people.

Living here has taught me to value peace in a way I never did before.

To appreciate honesty.

To cherish the simple comfort of walking outside without fear.

To be grateful for clean food, safe streets, and shade from a tree.

Somalia has shown me pain, yes — but also the strength of people who refuse to give up, even when life gives them every reason to.

And somewhere between these two worlds — the one I came from and the one I stand in now — I am learning more about myself than I ever expected.