Kagwiria Murungi | Dust. Grit. Destiny. | Media.com

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Every ride brings me face-to-face with a rich tapestry of cultures, challenges, and triumphs. From the bustling markets of Nairobi to the serene savannahs of Northern Kenya, and beyond the borders to neighbouring African countries, I document moments of resilience, laughter, and love. But this is more than just storytelling – it’s about making a difference.

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We Inherited Silence — a thought piece
By Kagwiria Murungi — Kenyan Female Motorcycle Adventure Rider
Most Africans can name foreign poets, actors, actresses, and revolutionaries, but we cannot tell our own grandmothers’ middle names.
We quote ancestors from other continents, yet we treat ours like curses. We light candles for saints we have not met, but refuse to shed a light for the mothers who birthed our mothers. We call our villages backward — (I was watching the history of Wangari Maathai on YouTube — I recommend you do too) — we fear the names of our elders. We inherited a story that our people were villains, and we believed it!
As a Kenyan female motorcycle rider who has ridden through 42 counties in Kenya and counting, I have stood in villages with deep roots, and I have listened to stories that the textbooks I read in school had no room for. I ride into the margins, because they hold what we are forgetting.
Our grand folks fought both visible and invisible wars, they built homes with their bare hands. We treat them like shadows, but they were warriors … SURVIVORS. We were not taught their names, their prayers, we were not taught what they had to endure so that we can have a spine today.
Their stories must be told, our stories must be documented, or we risk passing the silence on.
I am part of the new wave of African female motorcycle adventurers rewriting what is possible, archivists of oral legacies. We ride to listen and bring back the truth.
This thought piece serves as a reminder; ask your parents the name of their parents, sit in your village and write what you hear, unlearn what they sold us, and relearn what was stolen.
Soon enough, we are all becoming ancestors. The question is: What story will they tell about us?
Follow me for more:
Substack: <a href="https://substack.com/@kagwiriamurungi" class="editor_link__TEldu" dir="ltr">https://substack.com/@kagwiriamurungi</a>
YouTube: Kagwiria Murungi Rides
Website: <a href="https://www.kagwiriamurungirides.africa" class="editor_link__TEldu" dir="ltr">www.kagwiriamurungirides.africa</a>
<a href="/search?search=%23AfricanHistory" type="hashtag">#AfricanHistory</a> <a href="/search?search=%23MotorcycleStorytelling" type="hashtag">#MotorcycleStorytelling</a> <a href="/search?search=%23KenyanWomenRiders" type="hashtag">#KenyanWomenRiders</a> <a href="/search?search=%23KagwiriaMurungi" type="hashtag">#KagwiriaMurungi</a> <a href="/search?search=%23WomenWhoRide" type="hashtag">#WomenWhoRide</a>

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'Stories from the Kenyan Counties'
Baringo County - Part Last: The Woman at the Equator
Would you believe me if I told you all the drama, the near crisis in Aberdare Forest, the rain, the emotional unraveling… was for a 300km ride? (If you have no idea what I am talking about, I highly recommend you pause and read Parts 1 and 2. They will make this moment hit deeper.)
Now, back to Baringo County.
I rode straight into Mogotio, tired. And there she was, Ms. Ann Keter. Yes, the woman from the equator stop. (You will remember her from Part 1, the one who teaches tourists about the Coriolis effect with such precision.) Ann hugged me and I held onto this ‘stranger’ longer than I should have, partly from exhaustion, partly from disbelief that I had actually made it. She could tell I needed a moment. She asked me to remove my gear, bought me a soda, and let me breathe. For the first time in 24 hours, I truly exhaled. Those soul-level exhales that remind you you’re still alive? That one.

What completely caught me off guard is that Ann is one of the women who run the curio shops at the Mogotio equator line. I had always imagined she was there solely to teach people about hemispheres and gravity. But no, she is one of many women preserving and selling Kenya’s handmade beauty to travelers.

What was meant to be a brief stop turned into a full afternoon and evening of learning, sharing, and listening. Not only did I get schooled (again) on the Coriolis effect - yes, even plant growth changes depending on which side of the hemisphere you are on - but I also found myself in the presence of greatness.

Ms. Ann Keter is also a certified Gender-Based Violence Trainer of Trainers. That’s right! She is an advocate against female genital mutilation, a grassroots mobilizer, and a woman deeply involved in community work through government and NGO partnerships. Her work spans across critical social issues affecting women and girls in her community, and she does it all from her base at the equator line.

Her story floored me. (It’s now featured on my YouTube channel link, Kagwiria Murungi Rides. Please watch it and subscribe while you're there.)
It was in that moment, sitting at the roadside with this remarkable woman, that I was reminded why I ride. I don’t ride to tick off counties. I ride to meet women like Ann. To bring their stories to the world. To shine light on the quiet power tucked in Kenya’s villages and towns.
That night, I stayed in Mogotio, and Ann had arranged everything. As I lay down to sleep, I knew it had all been worth it: the mud, the rain, the nerves, the off-road madness. All of it.
If you ever visit Kenya, make your way to Mogotio. Go meet Ann. Learn about the Coriolis effect. Shop from the women who keep culture alive in beads and carvings. Hear the stories that never make headlines.
Yes, I rode all that way for a lesson on hemispheres. But what I found was a woman reshaping hers.
Ladies and gentlemen, meet Ms. Ann Keter.😍

'Stories from the Kenyan Counties' - Baringo County part 2 - Mud madness
(In this second leg of the ride to Baringo County, I take you deep into the Aberdare Forest at 3 am, soaked, and riding blind. If you missed part one (1), pause here and read it. Trust me, it sets the stage for the madness ahead).

I headed off into the Aberdare Forest at 3 am, and it was raining hard. I am riding my 200kgs (packed weight) Kawasaki KLR 650. Do not ask how I got here. Read part one first. It is well worth it. The road inside the forest was a wet, soggy terrain from hell, and endless stretches of slippery mud. Every adventure rider out there, and I speak for all of us: nothing tests your willpower like navigating a heavy bike on a terrain that is designed to humble you. 3 am, solo, in a forest is pure insanity. Don’t try it!

The silence was eerie. It was pitch dark. My motorcycle’s headlight was on plus I have some decent auxiliary lights, and I was kitted out in my high-vis gear. But here is what they don’t teach you in riding school: mud does not care for visibility, my gear turned brown, my lights were covered in muck, I may as well have been using a candlelight on that road.
My navigator had gone blank, of course, why wouldn’t it? I had made the rookie mistake of not downloading offline maps. I am crawling through the dark when an animal crosses and stops midway to look into my direction, like a deer caught in headlights. Eyes glowing red. Ohhhh Lawwwwd! I forgot to breathe; it’s a miracle I did not go a number two in my riding gear from sheer terror.

To this day, I have no idea what animal it was (unfortunately, my GoPro Hero 12 was also off), and those breathing exercises your therapist recommends? Completely useless in that moment - I should know.

Eventually, I saw lights through my side mirrors - Sweet Salvation - a canter appeared. I flagged it down, and the driver agreed to drive ahead of me for cover. I think he felt sorry for this helmet-muffled woman. We crawled in the dark until a town emerged. The driver motioned to me goodbye. I parked the bike, got off, and cried, like proper tears. Then I exhaled, got back on the saddle, and gunned for Naivasha.

By 7 am, I was in a mall in Naivasha - remember we are still on the 21st of December, 2024. I was cold, dirty, but alive. I dumped my bike at the carwash and requested the attendant to hose me down, in full gear. He obliged. I got into this decent cafe called the Artcaffe and ordered breakfast worthy of an off-road warrior queen. As I waited, I posted a story recap of the ride through the forest. People started commenting: ‘‘You are lucky you did not run into elephants.’’ Wait, what? Nobody warned me about elephants!
Wet riding gear clings to your skin, literally as if you have another layer of skin. But with that and a clean bike, a full belly, my metal mate and I powered on. I rode until my riding gear dried on my body.
Naivasha, Nakuru, then… drum rolls… the Baringo County gateway.

I’d been in touch with Ms. Ann Keter the entire time (remember her from part one?). She was waiting for me in Mogotio. And true to her word, there she was. A woman I’ll never forget. One who deserves her own spotlight.

And this … this is why I ride. To meet women like her, to unearth stories buried, to bring you lives that deserve to be seen, heard, and celebrated. In my world, that is what women’s empowerment is.

Stay with me for Part 3, where we meet the woman who turned geography into magic at the equator. You don’t want to miss it.

With grit,
Kagwiria Murungi
Adventure Rider | African Storyteller | Woman Becoming.

'Stories from the Kenyan Counties'
Baringo County (A Ride that tested everything)

In this series of Stories from the Kenyan Counties, I begin with Baringo, a ride that kicked off with Nairobi’s notorious holiday traffic and took a wild turn into a midnight escape through rain, mud, and Aberdare Forest.
I had wanted to ride to Baringo County for a long time, why? because of a woman named Ms. Ann Keter. I had seen her online, captured teaching tourists at the Mogotio Equator stop. Her grasp of geography, her eloquence, her confidence, she had me hooked. There was something magnetic about the way she explained the Coriolis effect. I remember thinking, ‘‘That’s the kind of woman who inspires nations.’’
I pinned Baringo on the map and told myself: my metal missy and me: we ride
Fast forward to December 2024, I set the date of travel, 20th December. In hindsight, that was a terrible idea. The entire country heads upcountry, especially along the Nairobi-Nakuru highway, which, of course, was my route. But I was excited and a little bit stubborn… maybe a lot more stubborn.
On the 19th, I packed up the Kawasaki KLR 650, she is a warhorse - yes, she is a she. A tent, camping seat, cooking wear, drinking water, extra fuel cans, meds, first aid kit, toolbox. All are adventure riders’ essentials. Underwear? change of clothes? we adventure riders pack like survivalists. If you don’t have brake fluid, it’s the end of the road. And thank God for disposable underwear.
I oiled the chain, double-checked the brakes, lights, tyre pressure, and prayed over the bike. God and I? I don’t move without Him. I went to bed, every rider knows the feeling, the night before a big ride, sleep is elusive. At one point, I slipped out of bed, walked out to the bike, ran my hands through her metallic curves, and whispered:
‘‘Girl, we ride at dawn.’’ She knows. She always knows.
Sometimes I wonder if it is loneliness or freedom.
Dawn came, I slapped on the Kenyan flag on the rear - my signature appearance, and because there are no better colors I would ride for, other than those of my country. I put on my riding gear and warmed the engine, and out I went. I barely made it five (5) kilometres - gridlock. This traffic jam was the kind that deflates a soul; not even lane filtering was possible. The bike began to overheat, as is characteristic of big bikes, especially riding at the pace I was riding at: low revs, low gear. I did the only sane thing to do: I turned around and headed home.
Later on, I saw it all over social media that people had slept on the same road the previous night, some were even playing football to pass the time. Trust Kenyans to make traffic jam festive.
I kept wondering where all those people were going to the bathroom! I digress.
Anyway, I made a new plan. I would leave at midnight on the 21st in order to beat the traffic. Midnight came, I geared up and left. The minute I got out of the gate, rain. Torrential, midnight, test-your-spirit kind of rain. As if that was not enough, I ran into more traffic, AGAIN. I was soaked, no rain gear (don’t ask). Then out of the blue, a kind policeman walked over (you know the traffic is bad if there is a traffic policeman on a Kenyan road at midnight) and said, ‘‘Madam, hii jam inaenda mpaka flyover.’’ Translated to say ‘‘Madam, this jam stretches all the way to Flyover.’’ A spot eighty (80) kilometres ahead.
Back home? Again? No way.
At 2 am, I sat at Total Energies, Sigona, sipping tea to warm up and rethink my life. I made a bold call (you will call it insane, but I will call it bold, lol): to take the longer route through Thika town, Kamwangi, and the Aberdare Forest. Over 200 Kms longer, it was still raining, and I was solo. But if you know me .. once I decide, only wild horses can drag it out of me.
So off I went. Through the puddles, through the fog, through the fog ( I regretted not carrying my hot water bottle inside my gear like I normally do). At Kamwangi, I stopped to stretch and thank God I did.
What followed next was straight out of the movies. 47.2 kilometres of muddy off-road, pitch dark, and it’s still raining.

Aberdare forest at 3 am.
Let’s pick this up in Part 2. You do not want to miss what happened next.

With grit,
Kagwiria Murungi
Female Adventure Rider, African Storyteller, Woman Becoming.
If you’d like to follow this story across platforms and support this mission to elevate African voices from the roadside to the world stage, follow me on;
<a href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/kagwiria-murungi-145635377" class="editor_link__TEldu" dir="ltr">www.linkedin.com/in/kagwiria-murungi-145635377</a>
<a href="https://www.kagwiriamurungirides.africa" class="editor_link__TEldu" dir="ltr">www.kagwiriamurungirides.africa</a>
<a href="https://youtube.com/@kagwiriamurungi?feature=shared" class="editor_link__TEldu" dir="ltr">https://youtube.com/@kagwiriamurungi?feature=shared</a>

The Woman the Road Is Rebuilding
''Before I return to the world, the road must lead me back to myself''

(Originally published on Substack at <a href="https://substack.com/@kagwiriamurungi" class="editor_link__TEldu" dir="ltr">https://substack.com/@kagwiriamurungi</a> )

There are some rebuildings that don’t make a sound. No ribbon-cuttings. No applause.Just a woman… and a road… and a silence that stretches longer than the pain.

That’s where I am now.

I used to ride like the road was my stage. My motorcycle roared across counties, through cheering towns and dusty winds. People waved. I told stories that made people sit up and listen.

And then it all fell apart.

Not in one grand explosion but in the slow undoing of everything I held together with my bare hands.

I dipped mentally.
Courage thinned out.
My house no longer felt like home.
And the loudest applause I heard… was silence.

There’s a kind of breaking that doesn’t come with blood. Just quiet. And dust. And that ache behind your ribs that whispers, “Not again.”

So, I left.

Not to escape but to breathe. To remember who I was before I became everything for everyone else.
I boarded a bus to where I had been previously accepted, with nothing but fear, fatigue, and a stubborn ember of purpose.

In Turkana, the wind didn’t cheer for me. The heat didn’t hug me. But I found stillness. I found people who looked at me and didn’t ask what broke me.
They asked what I wanted to rebuild.
And I began, with shaking hands and a quiet heart.

I wake up now and listen to goats bleating in the distance.
I sit on rocks and watch the land breathe.
I think about my children.
I write in a book with dust on its pages.
And quietly…Without clapping…Without noise…
The road is rebuilding me.

It is not giving me back what I lost. It is giving me something I never had ;
Peace.
Depth.
And a self not tied to noise.

I no longer crave being seen. I crave being whole.
So, if you’re wondering where I went… I didn’t disappear. I just returned to the soil. And in the silence, I’m finding the woman who doesn’t need the spotlight, only the fire inside.
The woman who doesn’t beg to be heard only rides until the story tells itself.

The woman the road is rebuilding.

One sunrise.One dust path.One breath at a time.
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