When the Sole Wears Out

Forget Cinderella’s magical glass slippers. High school gave us love letters, dancers at music and drama functions, and the kind of crushes you’d take a bullet for. I will tell you a story about my high school crush later. If you skipped teenage-hood, you missed an emotional rollercoaster powered by hormones and bad decisions.

“How was your trip?” Vicky (Victoria) asked me. I responded with a little smile and a grin,

“Good, but I lost my shoe!” She laughed, probably wondering who loses a shoe.

“You lost your shoe?” she asked, trying to confirm if I was joking.

“Yes! At the airport,” I said, setting down my fork like I was about to narrate a fantasy epic.

“How did you lose your shoe?” she asked, her face snapped with curiosity. It’s my story and she wanted to know about my trip. The shoe was part of the trip. And don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t just any shoe. It wasn’t a Timberland, Jordan or Nike or whatever brand you’d find in fancy outlets. This was the shoe that witnessed my boyhood. It had carried me through life’s highs and lows, and walked with me into the ‘I’m now a man’ world.

It all began on an ordinary night in Kegati, a small village in Kisii County. I was sound asleep, tucked deep into my blanket fortress, when a knock shattered the night’s stillness.

“Fredy! Kwani umekufa? Fungua mlango bwana!” It was my uncle. His voice, as deep as a radio presenter’s was unmistakable. Back then, you didn’t just open doors at night. Granny said witches roamed the darkness and though I had no proof, I wasn’t about to find out. But the knock persistly grew louder. I tiptoed to the door, opened it slightly and there he stood holding a shiny black pair of shoes.

“Vaa hizi! Chukua sweater unifuate!” he said, handing me the shoes with a sense of urgency.

“Tunaenda wapi saa hii uncle?” I asked, my groggy brain struggling to catch up.

“Harakisha! Tutachelewa!” he replied, already walking off. That was all I needed to hear. If we were travelling, it had to be something excitingly far. Perhaps Nairobi for we never went to church or to the market while it was still dark. I quickly put on the shoes, grabbed a jacket and followed him into the cold, crisp Kisii night.

We walked fast listening to birds sing and arrived at Ongeri’s shop near the shopping center. Ongeri was the local grocer who would give us almost everything on credit. Soap, cooking oil, even bread when visitors came from Nairobi. Nairobians always acted like boiled bananas or cassava would suffocate them.

My uncle whispered something to Ongeri and then without a word or warning, disappeared into the dark road. “Ningoje hapa, nitarudi,” he would have at least said. Spoiler alert: he didn’t come back. Not for two weeks.

When I saw him again, everything had changed. In Kisii, circumcision isn’t just a medical procedure. It’s a rite of passage, a community spectacle, and the ultimate test of manhood. You don’t go to some fancy hospital with anesthesia and cartoons to distract you. Oh no! You are dropped somewhere like I was and have to face the blade, surrounded by strange men called ‘foreskin doctors’ and other young men you’ve possibly never met, all waiting for their turn while ensuring you don’t flinch. Because if you do? Let’s just say your mother might have to move to another county because wueh! The shame is…

Through the entire process, the only constant was the pair of shoes my uncle had handed me. Tradition dictated that your clothes changed after circumcision, but not your shoes. The same pair that carried you to the ceremony had to carry you back home. They were like a warrior’s tool of trade. And just like that, my Champions were born.

Months later, my Champions and I embarked on our first big adventure: Nairobi. If you’ve never stepped off a Kisii matatu in the middle of Nairobi’s Nyamakima, let me paint the picture. It’s chaos. Buses honk as if their lives depend on it, hawkers yell in a symphony of sales pitches, and pedestrians dart through traffic like seasoned matatu drivers. My shoes handled it like pros. They gleamed confidently as I navigated the city streets, dodging potholes and persistent hawkers.

“Socks hamsini! Hamsini socks!” one called out, eyeing my shoes as if he knew I had no socks on. I shook my head, smiling. My Champions needed no socks.

My Champions didn’t just conquer city chaos. They became my trusted wingmen. I still remember my first-ever date with Shiru. I had saved just enough for two sodas and fries at Sanford. I scrubbed the Champions until they sparkled, hoping to impress.

“I like your shoes,” Shiru said, smiling as we sat down. I played it cool.

“Thanks. They’re Champion,” I said, as if the name itself carried prestige. I should have told her how they had survived muddy Kisii paths and rainy seasons before meeting her. Or how they had witnessed friends come and go and new kids born. But some things are better left unspoken. We don’t talk about shoes on first dates, right?

My Champions had become my ever-present in all places and functions I went to. They had been to church, to the market, to school drama and music festivals and even to Sabina Joy, polished and radiant.

So when Vicky asked how I lost my shoes at the airport, I listened but didn’t judge her or her question.

“They got torn at the airport, and I had to throw them away,” I said, my voice soft with emotion.

“Sorry for that, Alfred. But you had a different pair, so it’s not a big deal, right?” she asked.

“Who travels with two pairs of shoes?” I asked myself, shaking my head.

“No, I didn’t,” I replied. “I had to buy new ones.”

“At the airport?” she laughed. “You must be loaded!” But what was I supporsed to do really? Women at times asked stupid questions. Okay not stupid.

“Boss,” the security guard at the airport had said, suppressing a grin, “hii kiatu imechoka. Huwezi panda ndege na kiatu haina soul. Weka retirement.”

I had to let go of my Champions who had carried me through mud, rain, and life itself. It felt wrong. But with no choice, I trudged to the airport shop and bought a new pair of sneakers for an eye-watering 7,499 shillings. It felt like betrayal not just to my Champions but especially to my wallet.

As the plane soared into the sky, I clutched my fallen shoes, reflecting on their journey with me. They had walked through every milestone, witnessed every awkward first and never once complained. But their journey had ended and it was time for a new chapter.

“I like your new shoes,” Vicky said, smiling. It reminded me of Shiru complimenting my fallen Champions. “Sorry about the old ones,” she added affectionately.

“Thanks,” I said.

I’m slowly learning to forget them and not think about them, just like I don’t think about some old friends I once had.

Life is like that, isn’t it? We all have Champions. Friends, family, mentors. People who walk with us through thick and thin. But even the strongest companions can’t walk forever, can they?

There comes a time to let go. It’s not about forgetting; it’s about honoring their role in your journey and embracing the next step. Perhaps one day, I’ll tell my kids about those shoes. I’ll tell them how they carried a boy from Kisii to a man in Geneva, through muddy paths, bustling cities, and rainy days.

I’ll tell them that like my shoes, life will give them Champions too. Friends who will brave storms and sunshine. And when the soles wear out, it’s okay to let go. Because sometimes, even the best of friends will leave us at places we least expect. Like at an overpriced place such as the airport. I will remind them that despite that, they have to find courage to move forward.