Exactly a year ago, I came to Nairobi for an India -Africa business summit. The summit ended; the return ticket was never used. Somewhere in between, without my quite noticing, my dhow had anchored itself in this beautiful country. I had dropped roots, pole pole.

My girls know I'm a huge fan of Shah Rukh Khan, our ultimate Bollywood romantic hero. From time to time, Haule Haule from Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi plays in my head on auto-repeat. I share this for a reason. Imagine: two languages, two shores, and the same instinct - to say a word twice, to stretch it out, as if the phrase itself refuses to be hurried. In Hindi, haule haule means softly, gently. In Swahili, pole pole means slowly, slowly.

The SRK song lists things that refuse to be rushed - the breeze that touches you, the medicine that takes hold only gradually, a prayer that is answered in its own time. The message is ‘Be patient, my friend. Breathe, take a moment. Shoot your worries down and let them go, because life is only four days long’. And then the promise that carries the whole song : love will happen, my friend but only slowly, slowly. Haule, Haule.

I did not arrive in Kenya knowing how to be slow. I came with an entrepreneur's nervous energy. In my world, speed is a virtue and patience a waste of time. SRK’s song has an important warning for people like me. The guides on Kilimanjaro tell every climber the same two words - pole pole - because the ones rush the mountain are the ones who never see the summit.
 

 

 

 

 

 

.....the pace that gets you up the mountain, one that builds a company, a close friendship, a life of meaning. Haule haule is the slowness of tenderness: the pace at which a veil lifts, a moon fills, how a city grows on you until leaving feels unthinkable. A year in Kenya asked me for both. Pole pole got me through it. Haule haule is why I stayed.

This year also brought me an unexpected new love: Sashiko, the Japanese art of slow stitching. It was born centuries ago as a way of mending cloth - repaired one deliberate stitch at a time, the repair left visible, worn with pride. So there it was again, a third shore telling me the same thing the other two had: what mends us is slow, and there is no shame in showing the stitches.

In my earlier reflection pieces, I called Hakuna Matata Kenya's smile. In my second, Harambee its heartbeat. Mwenyeji, the third, was its embrace, Msanii, the fourth, its voice. A year in, I have found Kenya’s breath: Pole Pole. Inhale, exhale - slowly, slowly.

Here's to year two: no plans, no return ticket, no hurry.

Shukrani. Shukriya, Nairobi.

Even our thank yous, it turns out, are cousins.