It was after 8:00 PM at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, Embakasi, Nairobi, January 2024.
The plane touched down harder than she expected.
Sofia closed her eyes for a moment as the wheels hit the runway. The cabin lights flickered softly. A lone passenger clapped behind her, the sound sharp in the sudden hush, then stopped when no one else joined. The hum of the engines gradually softened, replaced by the murmurs of passengers gathering their belongings.
Her original flight from Rome had been delayed. Then rerouted through Addis Ababa. Then delayed again. What should have been a smooth arrival in the afternoon had turned into an exhausting journey that ended only at eight in the evening. She could feel the exhaustion deep in her bones, the kind that made even standing feel heavy.
It was 8:15 at night.
In a country she had never seen.
On a continent she had only studied in reports, academic papers, and climate charts.
She tightened her fingers around her passport, tracing the embossed letters with her thumb.
This is work, she reminded herself. Research. Nutrition. It is not dangerous.
Her heart did not seem to agree. Her chest felt tight, a quiet insistence of nerves she could not quite soothe. She inhaled deeply, tasting the faint metallic scent of recycled air still lingering in the cabin.
When she stepped out of the aircraft, the air hit her differently. Warm, thick, alive, not the crisp, sterile chill of European evenings. It wrapped around her shoulders and pressed against her skin with a sense of presence she could not ignore.
Inside Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, the lighting was softer than she had expected. Not the glaring, over-bright bulbs she associated with major airports in Europe, but warm, inviting light that seemed to soften the contours of the people moving through the terminal. Some were in crisp business suits, the lines of their shirts sharp against the warm glow. Others wore colorful traditional clothes she did not recognize, fabrics flowing, patterns intricate and vibrant, a quiet celebration of local culture.
Languages floated around her. English, accented and clipped in different ways. Swahili, soft and rhythmic. And something else she could not place, fast and melodic, like a conversation weaving in and out of tones she did not yet understand.
She followed the signs to immigration, her steps uneven with fatigue and caution.
Her heart thumped louder when it was her turn.
The officer looked at her passport.
"Italy?"
"Yes," she answered, her voice steadier than she felt.
"First time in Kenya?"
"Yes."
He studied her face for a second that stretched impossibly long, then stamped the passport.
"Karibu."
She blinked.
"Sorry?"
"Welcome."
"Oh. Thank you."
She walked away slowly, exhaling only after reaching the baggage claim area.
Her suitcase came last, of course.
She lifted it down herself. The handle felt heavier than it had in Rome or maybe she was simply tired, the kind of fatigue that weighs in your bones rather than your muscles. She adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder, feeling the jolt of every small movement reverberate through her frame.
Once outside customs, she stepped into the arrivals hall.
It was smaller than she had imagined. Not chaotic, but alive in a contained, bustling way. Families gathered near pillars, some waving, some laughing. Porters moved smoothly with trolleys stacked high with luggage. The ceiling reflected a soft sheen, polished enough to catch the light in gentle arcs.
She paused near a pillar and opened her phone.
No Kenyan SIM. No network. No way to call anyone.
Her only option: WhatsApp message or call, if she could find Wi-Fi.
Messages she had sent earlier went unanswered. The office staff must have left, assuming she arrived in the afternoon. Anxiety coiled in her stomach.
She sat on a nearby bench, placing her suitcase close to her legs, her mind spinning. What if they don't know I'm here? What if… The questions were endless.
And then she heard it.
A calm male voice, steady and deliberate.
"Yes, I will send the GIS update tomorrow morning. Nabad Hope Initiative…"
Her head lifted sharply.
Nabad Hope.
She scanned the hall. A man stood a few meters away, speaking on his phone. Tall, composed, dressed simply in office attire that suggested competence without pretension. His voice carried a calm authority that contrasted with the hum of the arrivals hall.
Her pulse quickened.
She approached him cautiously.
"Excuse me," she said.
He ended the call and looked at her, neutral, assessing.
"Yes?"
"I… I just arrived from Italy," she began quickly, words tumbling out. "My flight was delayed and rerouted. I don't have a Kenyan SIM, and I can't reach anyone at the office. I just heard you mention the Nabad Hope Initiative."
He listened, silent, his expression unreadable.
"You are new staff?" he asked finally.
"Yes. Sofia Marchetti. Research Nutritionist."
Recognition flickered across his face, subtle but noticeable.
"I heard someone was coming," he said slowly. "But I don't know the schedule exactly."
She nodded. Relief mixed with exhaustion, a tiny spark of hope she did not dare acknowledge aloud.
"Maybe they assumed you would not arrive today," he added calmly.
She swallowed the lump in her throat making her eyes sting.
"Do you… know a safe way to get to a hotel nearby?" she asked, voice tentative.
He paused, considering. Then nodded.
"My name is Jamal Abdi Khadar. I work in Information Management… I was escorting a colleague," he explained honestly, a quiet formality in his tone.
Her shoulders relaxed slightly.
"But you are not alone tonight," he added simply, matter-of-fact.
She felt the tension ease in a way she hadn't realized she needed.
"Thank you," she said softly.
He glanced toward the exit. "Let's move quickly. It's late."
She quietly started moving.
"It's not far," he said. "I can take you there."
"Okay," she whispered, her words almost lost in the hum of the arrivals hall.
She hesitated for only a second before moving quickly.
He lifted her suitcase with ease, placing it in the car. The motion was unceremonious, practical, yet the gesture carried a quiet reassurance she hadn't expected.
Outside, Nairobi's night air pressed against her with a mixture of warmth and humidity. Cars moved in steady lines, streetlights reflecting on wet pavement, and the distant honk of horns punctuated the rhythm of the city. The smell of rain on asphalt mixed with exhaust fumes, something she would come to recognize as uniquely Nairobi.
As they drove, neither spoke much at first. Sofia watched the city through the window, noting the small shops still open, neon signs flickering in the darkness, and the occasional matatu weaving skillfully between vehicles. It was chaotic, yet somehow orderly, a city alive and breathing.
Jamal's hand rested lightly on the steering wheel. His presence beside her, calm and steady, allowed a space of quiet safety she hadn't known she needed. For the first time since landing, she felt a small measure of relief. She was still in a strange country. Still alone in many ways. But she was no longer stranded.
For the first time, she allowed herself to notice the details: the way the streetlights glinted off the slick asphalt, the rhythm of the traffic, the soft hum of the air conditioner in the car. Nairobi was alive around her, full of unfamiliar noises and smells, and yet, in that small car, it felt possible to breathe.
And sometimes, that is how human connections begin, through simple, quiet help.