Radio Africa Group deputy digital editor Nancy Agutu at Guangzhou Baiyun International Airport /NANCY AGUTU
The sun does not ask for permission here. It rises over the traffic already gathering on Mombasa Road, and it announces itself, bold and golden. That Saturday, it poured through my curtains, warm on my face, as if it already knew I was leaving.
I woke up very early for a flight I did not want to miss.
This day had already arrived. I had circled it on my calendar, I had counted down to it, I had spoken about it in that hushed, excited tone people use when they are about to do something that will stretch them. It was a day of joy. A day of venturing to the south of the world. A day that, I felt in my bones, would ensure I would never turn back home quite the same.
I sat on the edge of my bed for a full minute, listening to the city wake up - a distant matatu hooting, the soft hum of my fridge. Then I looked at the open suitcase in the middle of my bedroom floor.
As usual, I had packed my language - I mean, my luggage - extensively.
I am not a light packer. I believe in options. I believe in carrying that extra dress "just in case" and that extra pair of shoes that goes with the dress you might not wear. I folded, I rolled, I used the YouTube method where you roll your clothes like spring rolls. I arranged my trousers like files in a cabinet. I tucked my socks into my shoes. I was methodical. I was serious.
And yet, my clothes had refused to bond.
The turquoise-blue suitcase lay there, its mouth wide open, defiant. I had bought it two years ago in Eastleigh because the color made me happy. It was bright, almost defiant, a color you could spot from a mile away on a baggage carousel. Now it looked at me and said, no.
I pushed. I pressed with my palms. I knelt beside it. Nothing. The zipper was halfway, stuck, its teeth bared.
At one point, I actually climbed on top of it. Yes. I, a grown woman with a flight to catch, sat on top of my turquoise-blue suitcase, my full weight on it, trying to force the zip to meet its partner on the other side. My knees were shaking. Sweat was beginning to bead on my forehead despite the morning chill.
Passengers doing yoga inside a plane /NANCY AGUTU"I think I will have to remove some clothes, I can't seem to close the zip," I told my house manager, who was standing by the door, arms folded, watching this wrestling match.
She was already a bit sad that I was going away. We had lived together long enough for her to know my rhythms - when I travel, when I come back with fridge magnets and stories. She looked at me, perched on top of the suitcase like a jockey.
But having been a witness to my frequent travels, she just shoved her hands into her apron and said, "You've got this."
"You have traveled to many places but you have never complained about your suitcase. Are you carrying a stone today?" she posed, laughing hard at me. Her laugh was loud and honest, the kind that fills a small house.
It was not funny, really, because I was sweating. My t-shirt was sticking to my back. I was trying to ensure my clothes bonded closely, that my underwear did not escape, that my perfumes did not spill, that my life for the next two weeks could fit into this one rectangular box.
After 10 minutes of struggle - 10 minutes of pushing, sitting, standing, pushing again, praying to the zipper gods - I managed to zip it. The sound it made, that final zip, was the most satisfying sound I had heard all week.
I dragged it to the door. It was heavy. Unreasonably heavy. My wrists ached.
At Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, the morning was already a small city of its own.
I met my colleagues who also had suitcases. Neat, obedient, black suitcases that rolled without complaining. Somewhere at the back of my mind, a small voice whispered, yours is going to go past the usual 23kg.
"I am suspecting myself, I really struggled to lift my suitcase at the checkpoint," I told my friend Lizzy, who was ahead of me in the queue for China Southern.
Lizzy is the kind of friend who will always make you feel better, even if she is lying. She broadly smiled at me, bent down, tried to lift my suitcase with one hand, made a small, dramatic face, and said, "Ah, no, this is 23kg. Exactly 23. You are fine."
I believed her. I wanted to believe her. With that assurance, I walked confidently to the counter for check-in, my passport in hand, my boarding confidence restored.
The China Southern airline at the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport /NANCY AGUTU"Your passport, ma'am," the lady at the counter, who wore a dark red suit and pretty, perfectly applied lipstick, extended her hand. She was professional, calm, the kind of woman who has seen a thousand overweight suitcases and a thousand nervous faces.
As she did that, I, with all my strength, carried my suitcase and put it on the weighing scale.
"Weuh!" I exclaimed. The sound escaped me before I could swallow it.
The digital numbers flickered, then settled: 25.3kg.
My suitcase weighed 25kg. I did not know where to hide my face. The confidence Lizzy had given me evaporated instantly, like mist.
"Ma'am, we only allow a bag allowance of 23kg. If it's more, you will have to pay the extra. Or, you can as well remove some clothes then return," the lady spoke kindly. Her kindness made it worse.
My heart by then was racing. Who wants to open their suitcase at the check-in counter? Who wants to unpack their life in public?
Because let's be honest, how we pack says a lot about us. Some people are bad packers. Some just put undergarments everywhere - one here, one there, like Easter eggs. Some have clothes that they would not want the world to know they own. That old faded bra you still love. That leso you use as a nightdress.
That was me, in that moment.
"What's wrong?" Lizzy asked from her own counter, seeing my face. She was already done, her bag accepted.
I felt the chill and the fear. Was it time for my undergarments to be exposed? Was this the day the whole airport would know I pack my socks inside my shoes?
"It's overweight. Let me remove some clothes," I responded, my voice small.
As I moved towards a corner, hoping for a little privacy behind a pillar, a security guard insisted that I go to a public place.
"Where are you going to? Please come this side," Alex, as his name tag read, said pointing at the aisle where people were passing, where children were running, where everyone could see.
It was the shame for me.
I knelt down. My knees hit the cold airport floor. I tried my best to open the bag while shielding the unseen clothes with my own body, like a mother hen. But glaring eyes kept looking and stealing a glance. A man pulling his own suitcase slowed down just to watch.
"Where will you put them? Were you moving out of your house completely?" another colleague asked, laughing, making my already public fear and shame too public. He meant it as a joke, but at that moment, jokes are heavy.
"I have a backpack, I guess I will just remove some clothes and put them inside here," I said, even as I tried to cover up my not-so-neatly packed bag. I was sweating again.
I quickly took the undergarments first of course and stashed them quickly in my hand luggage, shoving them under a book as if hiding contraband. I temporarily shut the bag when I saw another colleague popping up and coming my way.
By the time he was reaching where I was, I had stashed my clothes in my bag and was zipping it with the speed of a thief.
"All good?" He asked as I smiled back, a tight, brave smile, saying I had to remove my handkerchief that I had forgotten in the suitcase. A handkerchief. As if anyone would cause all that drama for a handkerchief.
Finally, I was able to weigh my suitcase again. The numbers flickered. 23.6kg. I had made it. The lady in the dark red suit smiled and tagged it, and just like that, my turquoise monster disappeared on the conveyor belt.
We finally boarded our airline, which was Guangzhou-bound.
I found my Isle seat, squeezed in, put my backpack now heavy with my shameful secrets. I did not need any more drama, but does life give you comfort even if you really need it?
"Lamb and rice or noodles and chicken?" A hostess came by my side, pushing a cart, her hair pulled back in a perfect bun. Of course, my meal was not going to be noodles, not now when I knew it was going to be on the menu almost daily during my visit. I had been warned. Noodles for breakfast, noodles for lunch, noodles for dinner.
"Lamb and rice, please," I said.
As strangers and friends alike munched on their preferred choice of food and sumptuous drinks, others engaged in tete-a-tete as food was served for those who wanted more. The cabin smelled of warm bread, of chicken stew, of that particular airplane food smell that is somehow both unappetizing and comforting.
"It's like we are feasting!" Lizzy whispered from across the aisle, holding up her small tray.
The small portions made one full to the brim, including the banana cake that was carefully served with fruits on the side a perfect little square of cake, a slice of melon, a grape. I ate slowly, savoring the last familiar meal before the world changed.
As the plane gained momentum and became steady, after the trays were cleared, the rounds to the washroom became rampant. It felt like every person who had eaten or drank was queuing for the lavatory. The line stretched, people doing that awkward airplane shuffle, holding the seats for balance.
After like 30 minutes, sounds of sleep and snores could be heard not only from my neighbor but almost everywhere around me. The cabin dimmed. Blankets came out. Eye masks appeared.
"Aaaaaaam!" A neighbor who seemed to be yawning made a loud sound which made me look at him with a different lens. I turned.
At one point the neighbour was talking to his seatmate, then he went quiet.
As I wore my sleep mask, which was making me sleep soundly, another sound woke me up.
"Aaaaaaaaaaam!" This time it was a bit loud and I maybe thought this person was hungry or was in slumber land, calling out in his dream.
Being someone who is constantly curious, I removed my mask and watched where the sound was coming from. Maybe this person was suffering from something. Maybe he had sleep apnea.
But all of us in this plane especially those seated around me were all strangers. We were a temporary village of about 200 people who had agreed to be locked together for 12 hours.
I watched like a security guard tasked to guard the plane. The man was silently sleeping with his hat still on his head, his mouth slightly open, oblivious of any sounds, and it was not a snore. This man constantly yawned in his sleep. Every three minutes.
"Was he even sleeping?" I asked myself. The Bible says do not judge and being a believer of this, I wasn't going to judge anyone. Maybe it was a condition. Maybe he was tired beyond words.
As I watched, he decided not to yawn. The minute I turned my eyes back to my seat and tried to pull my mask back on, another sound.
"Grrrrrrr aaaaaaaaam!" At this point it was not funny but then what would I do? Everyone has a right to their paid fares and we had to coexist.
But coexisting was not a walk in the park. Why couldn't people just sleep quietly? Why did sleep have to be so noisy?
As the hostess took another round whispering "Shui shang" - water - I realised that time had passed even as I tried to grab my sleep from disappearing.
But as I forced the sleep, another sound emanated from behind me. This time it sounded as if someone was rubbing their leg, a soft, rhythmic "shh shh shh' against the fabric of the seat.
Someone would wonder why I was awake and listening to all these sounds. I could not sleep, the 'winter' in the plane , that aggressive air conditioning that makes you shiver under your thin blanket and the man who had stood up massaging his buttocks, a sign that he was already tired of sitting down.
He stood in the galley, in full view, and did this for 10 minutes, hitting his bottom as if he was straightening a bone that had gone south, thumping his own flesh with his fists.
By that time, the sleep that I was actually trying to grab officially exited the WhatsApp group even as others slept peacefully, their heads tilted at impossible angles, their mouths open.
THE PLANE YOGA
Yoga instructor /NANCY AGUTUOur flight, China Southern, was an hour away from landing when we received humble instructions to do yoga while seated on our seats.
"Dear Passengers, as a way to ensure that you remain healthy and relaxed, we would kindly ask you to listen in and try and practice the yoga on the screens," the captain announced, his voice calm, as screens automatically switched to the yoga channel.
As the yoga went live, the cabin lights came on soft and amber. It was 4:40 a.m. Guangzhou time. Outside the small windows, it was still a deep, endless black.
On the screens, women dressed in flowing Chinese regalia , silk sashes tied neatly at the waist, hair pinned up, movements like water, began to demonstrate China Southern's inflight Baduanjin. Eight pieces of brocade, practiced while seated.
The music was gentle, like wind chimes.
"This helps smooth the flow of energy, expand the chest and regulate the liver and lungs. Cross your hands in front of your chest, push your left hand out while pulling your right hand back as if drawing a bowstring," the video on the screens indicated as the passengers did exactly that, as the step was repeated for the yoga class.
Hands went up in the air as the passengers followed the rhythm of the yoga in the plane. This was done for about 10 minutes, leaving many passengers wide awake at 4:40 a.m. on the plane.
It wasn't just the screen that stretched. The entire cabin stretched.
Everyone, half-asleep, half-awake, was now drawing imaginary bows in unison. Left. Right. Inhale. Exhale. At 35,000 feet.
The man who had been yawning? He was now wide awake, arms extended, fully committed to regulating his liver and lungs.
The man who had been hitting his bottom? He was now twisting gently, his hands pushing the sky, his face serene.
For ten surreal minutes, we were no longer strangers trapped in a metal tube with recycled air and snores and shame and overweight suitcases. We were a floating yoga class, a silent, swaying army of the sleepless, trying to find our chi somewhere between Nairobi and Guangzhou.
And just like that, sleep finally returned. Not because the yawning stopped, or the shuffling ended, but because we had all done something ridiculous together.
We landed with our chests expanded, our energy smoothed, and in my case - with my 23 kilograms intact, and my dignity, at least partially, restored.
The stranger sleeping next to me smiled as we stood to disembark.
"You yawned a lot," I wanted to say. Instead, I said, "Good morning."
And he said, "Did you sleep well?"
