Home vs. Life Abroad: The Simple Things We Miss

Life abroad can sometimes make home feel like a land far away, flowing with milk and honey.

When you no longer have access to the things you grew up with, you start to realise just how much you may have taken them for granted, no matter how simple they seemed.

Here are a few mundane things that once felt so ordinary, but later made me see how special and unique home really is.

I used to change my hairstyle every month. Sometimes I’d walk to a nearby salon, other times call my stylist, and they’d come to do my hair at home.

All I had to do was request a specific style, the stylist quotes the price, and a few hours later, I’d have the look I wanted.

However, now I change my hairstyle every two to three months.

It’s exhausting trying to figure out who will style my hair, the arm I have to break to pay for the service, the effort it takes to schedule an appointment, and whether the results will even be worth it.

Stylists charge a lot, but what are the chances they’ll treat your hair as it should be? One in ten?

At the end, you have to settle for whatever style the stylist is good at anyway. If you try something outside of their expertise, you’ll probably regret it.

Those who can treat your hair better are always living over 100 miles away.

This experience made me realize that, under challenging circumstances, we can all do what we think we can’t do.

I recently braided my own hair, and it took me two full days. Was I happy with the final result? Yes. But the process? Definitely not. It was frustrating, tiring to say the least.

I don’t know how men survive with their barbers, but I’ve heard some funny stories. So I assume we’re all sailing in the same boat.

Whenever I went to the market with my mum, I knew the vendors were in for a tough time.

She’d bargain until the price dropped to half, sometimes even less, and I would just stand there, feeling sorry for the vendor but not saying a word. Because who’s going to tell their African mum that’s too low?

Well, turns out, I eventually became my mother. I got used to bargaining, and it became second nature.

I’d walk into a market, looking all polished, and still negotiate like my rent depended on it.

The thing is, if you don’t bargain, sometimes you might end up paying double.

What’s even interesting is that out of nowhere, you’d find yourself talking about politics or the economy with the vendor, and just like that, you become friends.

Next thing you know, they’re alerting you whenever there’s new stock or slipping you a better deal.

That casual connection slowly builds into trust, and those relationships make everyday errands feel like a community.

Living abroad, I have to take the price as it is. The few times the vendors have lowered the price, it wasn’t because I bargained but out of their own will.

I’ve enjoyed my experience trying out European food so far.

My favourite has to be fondue, basically bread dipped in melted cheese, and raclette, which is boiled potatoes served with melted cheese. Simple, but really good.

However, sometimes all I crave is food cooked with garlic, onions, tomatoes, a bit of coriander, and green pepper.

Now I know the sweetness of eating real chicken from home, raised in the backyard, rather than one frozen and wrapped in plastic from the supermarket.

I find myself longing for milk tea made with rich Kericho tea leaves (Kenyan brand tea leaves), bread spread with Blue Band (a margarine brand), and ugali (a mixture of maize flour) with beef stew served with kales (greens).

At times, I crave chapati (soft, pan-fried flatbread) with bean stew, ndengu (green grams), or lentils.

Yet, everywhere I look, I see only European food, and in those moments, home has never felt so far.

I love Kenyan street food because it isn’t just food; it’s a complete experience.

So far, the street food I’ve come across in France includes mostly pancakes spread with chocolate or sugar, along with other sweet pastries that people here seem to prefer.

Though I have to say that I liked the marketplace in Barcelona. It was filled with a variety of options, making my whole experience there awesome, as I narrated here.

Meanwhile, what I crave are salty things like smokies (beef sausages) with ketchup and kachumbari, roasted maize with lemon juice and chilli salt, or mtura (a type of Kenyan sausage) with a side of kachumbari.

I can’t even talk about this enough. I used to complain about the sun, or feel like the world was ending whenever it rained.

But even then, I didn’t have to worry about wearing a heavy trench coat or piling on thick pullovers because of freezing temperatures.

After moving abroad, I realized I’ll take the Kenyan rain any day (except the roads) or the warm sunny weather.

I never realized how much I would miss the ability to walk around, meet friends, make last-minute plans, talk to people without worrying whether they were online, or just chill in my neighbour’s place, no pressure, no schedule, just vibes.

It was so easy to chat with the shop vendor, the boda guy (motorcycle rider), the conductor in a matatu (minibus), or the apartment’s caretaker.

Those daily, casual interactions felt so normal at the time, but now that they rarely happen, I realize how much they used to brighten my day.

Life abroad is… quiet. You don’t hear vendors shouting at you to come buy something, nor do you hear conductors yelling out the next destination for the matatu (minibus).

I like the order, but I miss the noise sometimes, like music blasting from salon shops or second-hand clothes stalls.

The loud, chaotic vibe of people talking, shouting, and laughing made life feel lighter, warmer more alive.

I even miss the churches playing music on Sundays. It reminded one that there was a community around you.

Here, you only know a building is a church if you spot a cross on it, and sometimes, you wouldn’t even know a service is happening unless you see people leaving.

All in all, trying new things while abroad has been an interesting experience.

I’ve tasted amazing foods, and now I’m a big fan of cheese, French bread, all kinds of pasta, and yeah, the Italian kind of pizza too.

However, the memories of home never fade. I’ve adapted, tried to blend in, but I can neither forget where I come from nor stop comparing home and abroad.