Moving on is no joke. Not just in the crying quietly on the sofa while staring at old WhatsApp conversations way, but in the how do I start building a new life with someone who doesn’t even know the plot of my life kind of way. And I mean that literally because half the time, moving on means leaving behind someone who understood why calling a random boda guy "Kamau wa Delivery" sent you into fits of laughter. Now you're supposed to build all those new inside jokes with someone else? Honestly, it feels like trying to explain why mũtura tastes better in the dark: some things just can’t be recreated.
Let’s talk about the most underrated part of moving on, the inside jokes. You know how it is when you’ve been with someone who just got it. You don’t realize how much of your daily humor depends on shared context until someone new asks why you laugh every time you hear the phrase "Si ni ya maharagwe tu?" How do you explain that it’s not just about beans. They don't know that when you randomly say, “No, ni nyama ya kondoo!” you aren’t just losing it, but referencing that one awkward Nyama Choma joint in where the waiter low-key tried to scam you. And now? You’re stuck in a situation where the new person doesn’t even know what muratina is. Do you explain? Do you just laugh alone? Or do you text the ex who’d instantly reply with “Hiyo ilikuwa siagi ya malaika!"? Let’s not even talk about explaining Kikuyu proverbs. “Kĩbũthĩ gĩthondekagwo na thogoto.” How do you even start translating that to someone who doesn’t know it’s the equivalent of "Rome wasn’t built in a day"? You’re out here building bridges, jokes, and maybe even new vocab, all while trying to figure out if this new person even likes ngûja matû.
And what about your Kikuyu humor? The kind where you casually say, “Ûguo nigûo gukihana," to lighten the mood? Try pulling that off with someone who doesn’t even know the emotional weight behind a well-timed mugithi song. They’ll just look at you like you’re offering free advice at an online chama meeting.
And in Nairobi? Forget it. Moving on here is a logistical nightmare. First, you’ll probably bump into your ex at the same roadside stall while buying githeri. Nairobi is small like that. If not the supermarket, it’ll be Java in Westlands, or worse, the matatu stage in town. And let’s not act like a mat ride isn’t already awkward enough without you pretending you didn’t see them. Then there’s the issue of building trust again. How do you casually ask, “By the way, do you also think that Tusker malt tastes like regrets and mistakes, or is it just me?” without sounding insane? These are important questions, but Nairobi dating is just vibes, shared Uber rides, and a dash of chaos. Starting over in Nairobi is an Olympic sport. First, you have to decide whether this person understands the fundamentals of survival, haggling with a matatu conductor, sprinting across a road, and knowing which buses actually shows up on time. You can’t move on with someone who thinks Uber is the only mode of transport. That’s a red flag right there.
Then there’s the food. Your old person knew you didn’t play around with chapo beans. They knew the only acceptable accompaniment to mutura is a cold guarana or some dry jokes about KRA. But now? You’re here explaining why you eat avocado with everything while the new person is out here suggesting things like kale smoothies. Kale smoothies?! Is this the gentrification of relationships?
But here’s where it gets oddly funny,moving on gives you a blank slate. A chance to create new rituals. Maybe the new person will understand why coffee and poetry is a thing (though you’ll definitely have to explain the book memes). Maybe they’ll laugh when you randomly say, “Kama ni hivo, ni hivo!” You’ll have awkward starts, sure. Like when you say, “This song reminds me of…” and stop halfway because the memory involves your ex. Or when you casually mention mûkurugushu and they ask, “What’s that?” and now you’re wondering if they’ve ever really lived. You try to rebuild. You throw out small test jokes.
You: “Can you imagine matatus..."
Them: “Oh, I actually don’t take matatus.”
Cue awkward silence. The streets have spoken. This is not your person.
But then, once in a while, you’ll find someone who laughs when you complain about landlords who call you saa tatu usiku to remind you rent is late. Or someone who understands the art of splitting a plate of chips mwitu. Moving on is messy, confusing, and you might get scammed, but eventually, you figure it out. You’ll create new jokes, learn their quirks, and maybe even convince them to try ûshûru wa mûkio. And if all else fails, you’ll always have your mûkimo, your favorite mugithi playlist, and the comfort of knowing you’re still the funniest person you know. Moving on might be hard, but at least you’ll always have Wanjiru wa Waya to keep you company. Moving on isn’t just about replacing people; it’s about growing your skillset of survival and humor. You’re not just finding someone new—you’re finding someone who understands why calling your neighbor’s goat thenge ngûrû is a joke that never gets old. So yes, moving on is hard, but it’s also a chance to find someone who will sing off-key to Kamaru classics with you.
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