Time slips past quietly when you’re not paying attention. It’s hard to believe I’ve been here almost ten years. A decade is long enough to raise a child, lose a parent, build and abandon a dream. And yet, here I am still tracing the same roads, still blinking at the same bright sun, still wondering how long one can live in a place without ever fully arriving.

In my mind, I’ve left this place a thousand times. Not with a suitcase or a farewell, but quietly, inwardly. I’ve drifted away during long afternoons where the heat pressed against the windows like a second skin. I’ve walked out in thought during endless queues, disappearing somewhere softer, somewhere more known. Each time, it was not a dramatic escape, but a quiet turning away.

When I first arrived, everything felt like a test. The air was thicker than I’d known elsewhere hot, humid, and unwavering. It settled into my clothes, into my sleep. Even now, there’s a tiredness to the days that has nothing to do with what gets done. The clouds hang low, but the rain never seems to cool things. And the power cuts don’t help. You learn to be patient here, even if you’re not built for it.

I used to think I’d adapt more easily, that time would soften the unfamiliar into comfort. But almost ten years on, this place still feels like a station where I’m waiting for a train that never comes. I’ve built routines, learned how to nod at the right moments, how to keep conversations light. Still, I move through it all with the quiet awareness that I don’t quite fit. I know how to survive here. But that’s not the same as thriving.

I’ve searched for third spaces where you can exist without a script. But in this village, they are almost non-existent. So much so that people gather in the biggest supermarket, the only one of three in the whole city. Not necessarily to buy, but to linger. To stretch time under fluorescent light, to enjoy the cold air, to be surrounded by some version of structure. To walk slowly through aisles just for the cold air, the clean tiles, the illusion of bustle. It has become a kind of public square not designed for connection, yet oddly fulfilling that need. There’s something quietly surreal about watching people treat a supermarket like a lounge or a gallery. It speaks volumes about what this place gives, and what it doesn’t.

It’s details like these that say so much about the rhythm of this place. The days repeat themselves without variation, the social calendar feels stitched together by habit. And yet, in the midst of all this stillness, life keeps pressing forward. People laugh. Music pours from small speakers. Street vendors carve their way through traffic with persistence. Children chase each other barefoot through muddy puddles where roads are meant to be. There is life here. But I’ve never quite been able to dance to its tempo.

Sometimes I envy those who find joy here. The ones who speak of simplicity, of time moving more gently, of space to think. Maybe they’re built differently, or maybe they’ve made peace with the silence that echoes in the gaps. I’ve tried. Some days, I nearly convince myself. But the longing returns quietly, stubbornly. The feeling that my spirit belongs somewhere else, somewhere with more room to stretch, somewhere that doesn’t feel like exile.

And yet, I remain. Maybe because leaving isn’t always an option. Or maybe because part of me still holds onto the idea that there’s something to learn here. That discomfort has its lessons. That staying isn’t failure, but an unfolding. I’ve stopped measuring my time here in years and started measuring it in what I’ve become. I am more introspective now. More observant. More careful with hope.

I no longer expect this place to feel like home. I’ve stopped chasing belonging in buildings and skylines. I’ve begun to carry pieces of home within me songs, memories, words that don’t translate but still hold meaning. I find home in phone calls with old friends, in the taste of something familiar when I cook late at night, in the books that line my shelves. I build belonging where I can.

And I’ve made peace with the fact that not all seasons are meant for bloom. Some are for waiting. For growing inward. For learning how to sit still in discomfort and listen to what it teaches. I no longer look for fireworks. I’ve begun to value small things the quiet of early mornings, the weight of a well-written sentence, the kindness of someone who sees me.

My relationship with this place is complicated. There are days I wake up hopeful, ready to carve out something meaningful. Then there are days when the noise, the heat, and the inertia swallow that energy before noon. On those days, I envy the birds on the power lines able to lift and leave without warning. But I’ve never been a person who leaves quickly. I tend to stay until the last thread unravels.

And so, I do what I can with what I have. I lower the AC so that I can drink tea, even when it makes no sense to drink anything warm. I find humour in the absurd. I try to stay open to the few people who feel like colour in a place that often feels grey. There’s a kind of dignity in not giving up on the idea that something beautiful can still grow, even in a place that feels dry.

In my mind, I have left this place a thousand times. I’ve imagined other cities, other lives, other selves. But every time I left, something called me back with unfinished questions. There are things this place has taught me that I wouldn’t have learned elsewhere. Things about patience, about perspective, about enduring without losing your shape.

I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here. Maybe I’ll leave soon. Maybe I’ll be here a while yet. What I know is that I’m not the same as when I arrived. I’ve become quieter in some ways, more observant in others. I’ve learnt to wait, to listen, to hold steady. These aren’t the kinds of lessons you plan for, but they stay with you.

This place may never feel like mine. But it has taken its place in my story. I have spent an inordinate amount of time inside its slow days and rancid air, learning how to hold space for discomfort, how to endure long stretches of stillness, how to keep going when nothing around me speaks to who I am. I don’t know if that’s belonging. But I do know I have lived here fully, quietly, and without turning away and maybe that’s enough…