The Diplomat’s Daughter
I’ve always loved people-watching at airports. There’s something about the chaos of it all—the hurried businessman looking like he is going to close a deal, the family juggling too many suitcases, the solo traveler with earbuds in, lost in their own world.
Sometimes back I was at Los Angeles airport, sprawled across one of those stiff terminal chairs, watching a guy in flip-flops sprint toward his gate like his life depended on it, while a woman nearby meticulously folded a scarf into her carry-on.
It’s the little things, you know? The stories you imagine behind every face.
Then my phone buzzed. A call from home, Kenya. It was my friend. So we got into Kiswahili and you know how it is—our voices get louder, our hands start moving, like we’re conducting an invisible orchestra. I laughed, throwing in “Kasongo!” and “Baba!” as we talked about the Handshake…
When I hung up, I exhaled and looked around. The woman next to me—early 30s, dark hair neatly pinned back, crisp linen shirt, a leather notebook balanced on her lap—was watching me. She had the air of someone who organized her books by color and never missed a dental appointment.
She set her coffee down and asked, “What language were you speaking?”
“Swahili,” I said, smiling.
Her eyes lit up. “That’s beautiful. I’ve never heard it before.”
And just like that, we started talking.
Maybe it was the shared space of travel, maybe it was something else, but there was an openness between us, a mutual curiosity that made her lean in just a little. She asked me about my life in Kenya, and I painted her a picture—the mud skates in Baricho, the smell of my mom’s chapati frying in the kitchen, the way the whole neighborhood would come alive during Baricho Vs Kings derbies. I even name dropped Sambo, Anyore and Adinesi.
She listened, nodding, as if filing every detail away. Then she ran a finger along the rim of her cup, as though debating something. Finally, she took a breath and said, “I grew up in Colombia.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Cartagena?”
Her lips curled slightly. “Bogota first. Later, we moved to Cartagena. My mom wanted to be near the water.”
She spoke of the thin air of Bogota, the salt-tinged breeze of the Caribbean, the colorful houses stacked like puzzle pieces, and the way her mother could bargain at the market like she was competing in the finals of an Olympic sport. I could almost smell the arepas.
Then, her fingers tightened around her coffee cup.
“My dad was a diplomat,” she said. “We lived well—big houses, dinner parties, all that.”
Something in her voice shifted, and I knew we were moving into different terrain.
“What about now?” I asked.
She hesitated, then asked, “You really want to know?”
“Yeah,” I said, leaning in. “Tell me.”
She exhaled, as if stepping back into a memory she hadn’t visited in a while.
“Okay. So, my dad was a diplomat. Everything was good—until it wasn’t. When I was about seven or eight, he started taking me to a house that wasn’t ours. He’d say it was ‘work-related.’ Mom usually stayed home, cooking or whatever. I never questioned it because there was a girl my age there. We’d play—dolls, tag, whatever kids do—and I liked it. Meanwhile, Dad and her mom would disappear. ‘To work,’ he’d say.”
She took a sip of coffee, steadying herself.
“It went on for years. By the time I was ten, my mom started asking questions. One day, she asked, ‘So, this girl you play with—what’s her mom like?’ I said she was nice. Then Mom asked, ‘When you’re playing, where’s Dad?’ And I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. They just go to work.’”
I could see her replaying it in her head.
“Mom got suspicious. One weekend, Dad took me there again. My friend and I were playing chess—random, right?—and I saw Mom’s car pull up. She looked… off. Like she hadn’t slept. She walked into the house, and… well, that’s how she found them. Dad and that woman. Together.”
She let out a small laugh, the kind that’s more pain than humor. “That was the end of their marriage.”
I sat back. “Damn.”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “But you know what? Life goes on. And here I am, telling some guy at an airport about it.”
We both laughed, letting the moment breathe. The conversation shifted—lighter stuff. She asked me about growing up in Baricho.
She tried to pronounce it, but it came out wrong.
“Bah-ree-cho?”
I chuckled. “Close, but not quite.”
She frowned. “You know ‘Baricho’ in Spanish means ‘drunk,’ right?”
I blinked. “Wait… what?”
She grinned. “Yeah. You just told me you grew up in ‘Drunk.’”
I burst out laughing. “I have never heard that before.”
“It’s true! So, was it really dusty roads and chapati smells, or were you just stumbling around?”
I smirked. “I’ll let you decide.”
Then I asked, “So, do you want to laugh or cry right now?”
She thought for a second. “Laugh.”
“Well…” I started.
And just as I was about to launch into some wild story from my childhood, an announcement crackled over the speakers.
“Attention, passengers on Flight ABC to Bogotá. We are now boarding...”
She sighed. “That’s me.”
I felt a weird pang—like we had barely scratched the surface of something deeper.
She grabbed her bag and hesitated. “You know, I’ve told that story before. But not quite like this.”
“Maybe you needed the right audience,” I said.
She grinned, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Maybe.”
Isitoshe,
Then, as she turned to leave, she stopped and looked at me.
“Hey,” she said, lowering her voice, “one last thing. That house I told you about? The one where my dad used to take me?”
“Yeah?”
She glanced around, then leaned in just slightly.
“My dad wasn’t the only diplomat visiting.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
She held my gaze for a moment, then shrugged. “Let’s just say… it wasn’t just an affair. There were other men. Other girls.”
The weight of her words hit me.
Before I could ask more, she smiled—this strange, knowing smile—and said, “Nice meeting you, Baricho.”
And then she was gone.
I sat there, watching her disappear into the crowd, my mind racing.
People-watching at airports was one thing.
But sometimes, the people watching you back?
They had stories even wilder than you could ever imagine
Yesterday, guess who bought the “Isitoshe” hoodie. She did!!
May the Day Break
