#driveresponsibly

For weeks, I dreamed about this trip. Driving from Nairobi to Tanzania in a BMW 320i felt like the ultimate adventure. I pictured the thrill, the speed, the open road stretching endlessly ahead. Freedom, I thought. Pure, intoxicating freedom.

At first, that’s exactly how it felt. The engine roared to life, and soon we were cruising at 170 km/h, sometimes pushing to 200 km/h. The world blurred around me. My chest swelled with adrenaline. This was the rush I had been craving.

But it didn’t last.

We flew over bumps so hard I thought the car would lift off the ground. My stomach lurched. My hands clenched tight. Then came the screech of sudden brakes, once, twice, six times, each one louder than the last. And then the near misses. Twice, I watched death stare us down and let us go at the very last second.

My body froze. My prayers turned frantic. Every corner felt like a gamble, every overtake a coin toss with fate. My heart pounded so loudly I could hear it above the engine. Somewhere between Mlolongo and Westlands, when we tore through the expressway in just twelve minutes, I realized I wasn’t living the dream. I was running from a nightmare.

On the way back, I saw them, two accidents. Twisted metal, broken glass, the eerie silence that follows chaos. And I thought: Were they like us? Were they once laughing, rushing, thinking they were invincible, only to discover how fragile life really is?

When we finally stopped, I stepped out of the car on legs that were numb and trembling from fear. My hands were shaking. My heart still racing. I had once thought boarding a superbike was the most terrifying thing I could ever do, but that flying BMW was a nightmare I would never wish to relive again.

And the fear hasn’t left me. Over the weekend, I drove to my parents’ place. A journey that usually takes me twenty minutes stretched into a whole hour. Every bump made my chest tighten, every car too close sent a shiver through me. The experience has left me anxious on the road, reminding me that trauma doesn’t always end when the ride does. Sometimes, it lingers long after the engine goes quiet.

That journey changed me. It taught me that sometimes what we call adventure is just danger dressed up in shiny paint and horsepower. And the real thrill, the real freedom, is in surviving, in choosing to live, and in never again confusing recklessness with living.