Living with my dad in America, everything had always been routine—school, sports, hanging out with friends. Predictable, nothing too exciting. But when Dad told me we were going to Mombasa to visit my grandmother, I wasn't sure what to think.
I'd heard stories, of course. Stories about the food, the people, the history. But hearing about a place and actually being there? Two completely different things.
Dad always talked about how Mombasa was where our family's roots were, how deep the culture ran. Now, it was my turn to experience it for myself. I wasn't sure if I was ready.
When we landed, the heat hit me first. It was like stepping into a furnace—thick, heavy, and suffocating. The airport was packed—people everywhere, talking, laughing, moving with purpose. The city felt alive in a way I had never seen before.
As we drove to my grandmother's house, I stared out the window. The skyline was a mix of old, weathered buildings and sleek, modern ones that looked almost out of place. The streets buzzed with life—cars honking, vendors calling out to customers, kids weaving through the crowds like it was second nature.
Then we arrived.
Grandma stood at the front door, waiting. Her smile was warm, like she had been waiting her whole life just to see me. The second I stepped out of the car, she pulled me into a tight hug. At first, I felt awkward, but then... I hugged her back.
"Welcome home, Nathan," she said, her voice soft yet firm.
Maybe I did belong here. At least a little.
The first few days were… different. The food was spicier than what I was used to, though delicious. The accents threw me off—people spoke fast, their words weaving in and out of conversations before I could catch up. And the neighborhood? It was like everyone knew each other. Back home, people barely talked to their neighbors, but here? Strangers greeted me like we were old friends.
I wasn't used to it.
Then came my first day of school.
I woke up with a jolt, my phone's light glaring into my eyes.
"Nathan! You're late!" Grandma's voice was frantic as she knocked on my door.
My heart raced. I glanced at the time. 7:30 AM. School started at 8:00.
I scrambled out of bed, yanking on my uniform as I muttered to myself. "I can't believe this... First day, and I'm already screwing up."
No time for breakfast. I grabbed my backpack and rushed out the door. The moment I stepped outside, the heat wrapped around me like a thick blanket. The city was already alive—people moving, shouting, haggling in the markets.
I had to move fast.
As I weaved through the streets, something caught my eye—a group of boys standing in a tight circle. At first, I thought they were just messing around, but then I saw him.
A boy, about my age, on the ground.
He had black hair, his school uniform covered in dust. He wasn't fighting back. He just sat there, head down, as the others surrounded him.
"You think you could get away after what you did?," one of the boys sneered. His face was marked with scars. He looked like trouble—the kind of guy who enjoyed making people suffer.
I hesitated.
Getting involved was stupid. I had just arrived. I didn't know the rules here.
But then the boy on the ground lifted his head.
His eyes weren't filled with fear. No. They were sharp, cold—like someone who had seen far worse than this. It was like he was letting them hit him, like he was choosing not to fight back.
And for some reason, that pissed me off.
"Hey!" I called out before I could stop myself. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
The group turned, surprised.
"Are you one of his friends?" the leader asked.
The boy on the ground blinked at me, as if he hadn't expected someone in the same uniform to step in.
I took a deep breath. "Let him go. We're already late for school. Walk away before things get messy."
The leader smirked. "Messy? What can one person do against five?"
As expected. They thought numbers made them invincible.
"Oh really? Let's see about that," I muttered.
One of them lunged at me, throwing a wild punch. I sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, and twisted. With a sharp kick, I sent him sprawling to the ground.
The others froze.
"This kid?" one muttered.
"Shut up! Take him together!" the leader barked.
They charged.
I moved without thinking—ducking, weaving. A fist came at me—I knocked it aside and countered with a punch to the ribs. Another came from behind—I spun and slammed my elbow into his gut. He doubled over, gasping for air.
A third tried to grab me. I caught his wrist, flipped him over my shoulder, and sent him crashing into the dirt.
One by one, they fell.
I exhaled, my heart pounding as I turned to the last guy standing. The leader. He stared at me, fists clenched, unsure of what to do.
Then, without warning, he lunged at me.
I saw the kick coming from the corner of my eye—but it wasn't aimed at me.
The boy I had saved moved. Fast.
He dodged the kick and grabbed the attacker's collar, yanking him down and slamming his knee into the guy's stomach. The leader collapsed, gasping.
I blinked.
So I wasn't wrong. He could fight—he just chose not to.
The boy dusted himself off, looking at the fallen bodies. Then he turned to me, his expression unreadable.
"Thanks a lot. You saved me?" His voice was calm, but there was something behind it. Confusion? Annoyance?
"You shouldn't let people walk all over you," I said. "You had it in you to fight back."
He frowned. "Yeah… Next time, I will."
I grabbed my backpack. "Well, now you know. Just don't forget it."
The boy stared at me for a long moment, as if he was seeing me for the first time.
Then, to my surprise, he smirked. "My name is Ali. What about you?"
"Nathan."
We exchanged a look.
The kind of look that meant this wasn't the last time we'd cross paths.
And just like that, my first day in Mombasa became a lot more interesting.
End of Chapter.