The sound of snow beneath my boots startled me. I had expected it to crack like breaking glass, but instead it whispered—a soft crunch, almost like the sand of Samburu shifting underfoot. In that sound, I could feel myself being pulled across time and space. My eyes, fixed on the white horizon of my first winter in America, glazed back to the red plains of Samburu. The snow pulled me home.
Read MoreAs I stood staring at the Golden Gate Bridge, its towers wrapped in mist, a glistening rose in my eye. No, it wasn’t a tear—for Morans, warriors, do not cry. That lesson had been instilled in me since childhood. But in that moment, memories swept over me so vividly I feared I might wake up to the bleating of goats and the rhythmic clatter of cow hooves being driven out to pasture.
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