I hadn’t shot a gun in years, not since my Army days, and I missed it—a quiet ache for one of the few things that felt both grounding and exhilarating. Shooting was where expectation met reality: your mind blanks, the world narrows to the target, and for a fleeting moment, clarity takes hold, followed by a rush of excitement, respect for the weapon’s power, and a sense of control. I told Kaely about it the day before, over coffee, and she agreed to join me, her curiosity outweighing her nerves. So, we headed to the Kenya Regiment Rifle Club, just outside Nairobi’s bustling heart.
The morning drive was a tug-of-war between conversation and the city’s pulse. Nairobi shimmered in the early light—vendors calling, matatus weaving through traffic, the air thick with diesel and promise. I shared stories of my military days, trying to recall my NSAK training from over a decade ago, time slipping like sand. Kaely listened, her eyes flickering with apprehension, though I hoped my words eased her fears—or maybe she was just braver than she let on.
The range’s neighborhood felt rough, with cracked sidewalks and wary glances from passersby. Our driver insisted on dropping us at the door, and I didn’t argue. Inside, the club was a concrete echo chamber, the air sharp with gunpowder. The pricing was fair—$50 for 50 9mm rounds, no time limit, including a safety briefing. I chose a Walther pistol, its grip familiar yet foreign after so long, and suggested a small-caliber rifle for Kaely. As we started, my focus locked on the target, but my shots were rusty, scattering wide. The indoor range’s echo grated, nothing like the open fields of my Army days—rain-soaked, snow-dusted, or brutally hot, the march to the range as much a ritual as the shooting itself.
My results weren’t impressive, but the thrill was there, raw and alive. What stayed with me, though, was Kaely—her hesitant grip on the rifle, then her grin as she posed with it afterward, fearless in her own way. That moment, her joy, was the reward I’d been chasing all along.
