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Kutafuta ni kupata, to seek is to find. With it's origin in East Africa, Kiswahili is set to soon become the language of Africa. It will be rather intriguing to see how this unfolds, as in East Africa, we already speak different variations of the language. I speak fluent Kiswahili in Kenya, and so when I listen to Kiswahili from, say, Tanzania, Uganda, or Rwanda, words become distantly familiar, and the Swahili I once knew is now a foreign dialect. The story goes that Kiswahili was born in Tanzania, grew up in Kenya, fell ill in Uganda, and died in Congo. The truth is simply that the language evolved as it slithered from the coastal towns into mainland Africa, by way of trade routes. I come from Nairobi, 'the green city under the sun', the East African promised land, where the metaphorical milk and honey flow. It is said that Kenya got its name from white settlers, who had difficulty pronouncing the land's original name, Kirinyaga. Oddly enough, white people's tongues still flounder at the pronunciation of Kenya, albeit being the officiators of the naming ceremony; but that's one of those things that is devoid of preposition, that is to say, it's neither here nor there. Being brought up in a cosmopolitan city in Africa, I have lived in two worlds. I have witnessed the fast-paced, technologically advancing, 'modern' world, juxtaposed by the tranquil traditional African backdrop. Born and raised in Nairobi, I came to the realization that home is not a place, rather it is a feeling. Nairobi belongs to the cunning, the street-smart, and the slick. After all, this is the land where they say to wear your crown in your pocket before it comes up missing. As it turns out, I do not happen to have a single cunning, street-smart, or slick bone in my body. I have always felt at home in quests for adventure, a wanderlust of sorts. After having led a life of being homesick for a home I have never known, I intend on making a journey across East Africa, a pilgrimage around Lake Victoria; or as I like to think of it, a merry-go-round-around the Victoria. I make this journey the same way the Kiswahili language did, and as an ode to my ancestors. For my people whose names are underlined by red lines on Microsoft Word. For my people with skin black as gold that absorbs the equatorial sun. For my women who exude a royalty that surpasses that of the Kabaka, I mean, surely Wakanda has nothing on the Baganda. This is for my people who speak with conviction giving orders, proving that Swahili transcends borders. Tell me, does Lake Victoria ever want to be known by her African name? Does Lake Victoria ever want to pause and say she doesn’t want to go into the Nile because that will mean leaving everything she has ever known? Or more importantly, does Mount Kilimanjaro ever want to cross the border and come back home? My pilgrimage begins from Nairobi to Kampala, by way of Malaba. My lover, Kigali will soon be calling us.