Maybe you didn’t lose her. Maybe you just found something else

Travel has always been my therapy. I love exploring new cities, meeting strangers, and collecting random stories that I later tell my friends over jollof rice and Coke.

But nothing prepared me for what happened during my trip to Nairobi last summer.

It started like a regular solo travel adventure. I booked a budget flight, packed my backpack, and told myself, “Bro, you’re about to eat nyama choma like a local.”

The airport buzzed with life—families hugging goodbye, couples whispering sweet nothings, and the occasional baby crying in frustration. I had my playlist blasting Afrobeats in my ears as I boarded.

As I dragged my backpack down the aisle, a tall guy in ripped jeans bumped into me.

“Sorry, bro,” he said, giving me that half-smile only strangers on a journey share.

“No worries,” I replied, sliding into my seat by the window.

Little did I know, that small encounter was about to define the whole trip.

Fast forward—Nairobi. I landed, got through immigration, and walked to the luggage carousel with the usual traveler’s prayer: “Please let my bag be here.”

The bags rolled out, one by one. People grabbed theirs, happy. Mine never came.

I stood there, heart pounding.

“Excuse me,” I asked an airport staff. “Is that all?”

She shrugged, “Maybe it’s delayed. Fill this form.”

Bro, my whole life was in that backpack—clothes, camera, even my passport copy.

I sat down, frustrated, when I heard a voice behind me.

“Yo, backpack missing too?”

It was the ripped-jeans guy from the plane. He sat beside me, dropped his cap backward, and sighed.

“Yeah, man. My camera gear gone. What about you?”

“Clothes. Passport copy. Dignity,” I joked, trying to lighten the mood.

He laughed. “Welcome to travel life, bro.”

We ended up leaving the airport together since both of us were stranded. He introduced himself as Tobi, a content creator from Ghana.

“Let’s hit the city. At least, if we’re going to be miserable, let’s do it with vibes,” he said.

We got into a taxi, windows down, Nairobi’s evening breeze brushing against our faces. The streets glowed with lights, and the air smelled of roasted corn and grilled meat.

“Tobi,” I said, “I swear if we find our bags, I’m buying you suya back in Lagos.”

“Deal!” he laughed.

We roamed the city like lost brothers. From downtown markets to rooftop bars, we made jokes, shared travel hacks, and even argued about which country had better jollof. (Nigeria won, obviously.)

Three days later, I got a call from the airline: “Sir, your bag has been located.”

I raced to the airport, excitement buzzing through my veins. When I got there, I noticed Tobi was waiting too.

The staff wheeled out my backpack—and then his camera bag. Relief washed over both of us.

But here’s the twist.

Tobi opened his bag, and inside wasn’t just camera gear. There was also a small velvet box. He froze, then whispered, “Oh no.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

He slowly opened it—inside was an engagement ring.

“I was supposed to propose in Zanzibar after shooting content,” he said, looking crushed. “But now… my girlfriend left me yesterday. She thought I was ghosting her because I couldn’t call without my stuff.”

My chest tightened. “Damn, bro. I’m so sorry.”

He forced a smile. “That’s travel for you. Sometimes you lose bags, sometimes you lose people.”

We sat in silence for a while before I clapped him on the shoulder.

“Maybe you didn’t lose her. Maybe you just found something else—you found a brother.”

He looked at me, laughed, and said, “You know what, you’re right. This trip wasn’t about her. It was about this moment.”

We walked out of the airport like two travelers who started as strangers but ended as brothers.

And that’s the crazy thing about travel—it’s not just about places, it’s about people. Sometimes, the most unexpected journeys happen without a map.