The scene was spectacular and utterly beautiful. Just another day in paradise. I felt so thoroughly on top of the world that I almost began to be afraid of dying.
My friend James and I were sitting in my old Land Rover, watching a pride of lions feeding on a freshly killed wildebeest. The big males were stretched out no more than a few feet from the road, basking in the early morning sunlight. Each one of them had bellies the size of oil drums.
Now it was the turn of the female hunters and juveniles to claim their share of the prey.
Meanwhile, the red ball of fire had just barely cleared the horizon, chasing the last remnants of the frosty night away. I’ve always been a morning person, and the first warming rays of sunshine are my absolute favourite.
We parked only a few meters away, neither of us wanting to spoil the magic of the moment by speaking or taking photos. We just sat there and watched.
I could almost hear a special drawer in my mental memory cabinet silently slide open, carefully filing away this precious display of nature under the category “Intensely Spectacular.”
James and I could have sat there until the end of time, gazing in admiration, but we actually had a chore to attend to. Reluctantly, we left the feeding lions behind and continued our journey to the airstrip where my trusty little plane was parked in a homemade open hangar.
The day’s errand was to get airborne and embark on a patrol flight over the Naboisho Conservancy. James was to be my cameraman. In the absence of my wife, he had taken over her job of documenting our charity work.
James was one of the rare individuals capable of appreciating the value of other people's belongings, which is why I trusted him with my precious camera equipment. Until now, the only other person to lay hands on it had been my wife.
As an added bonus, James was a natural behind the lens, with a keen eye for photo composition. He seemed to instinctively understand that humans visualize their world in pictures, enabling him to capture rare moments effortlessly.
Even in conversations, humans create visual aids to make sense of words. Like the famous quote: “Don’t think of a pink elephant,” which inevitably conjures a cartoon of that peculiar-looking animal in your mind.
This, in turn, explains why you and I might react so differently to the same information.
For instance, I love to observe my environment, whether it’s animals or humans. The latter are particularly fascinating and complex, so I like to adopt the vantage point of a neutral alien from space, free of preconceived notions about the subjects I’m studying.
I’m blessed—and cursed—with a vivid imagination. Just the other day, while waiting for my wife at a shopping mall, I occupied myself with people-watching instead of scrolling on a smartphone.
So, there I was, resting comfortably in a cluster of lounge chairs conveniently positioned in front of a lingerie boutique. Because of the vastly different mental pictures you and I create when imagining scarcely clad girls, this sounded far better than it actually was
In the past, such a location might have offered a fleeting peek at gorgeous, sound gazelle-like women gracefully floating in and out of the store.
But these days, the experience is... different.
You might think: “Gee, what a lucky bastard, lounging outside a female underwear shop! I wish I was his friend!”
Sorry to disappoint you, mate, but that’s not what I was thinking at the time.
Instead—without intending to sound degrading in any way—my thoughts were more along the lines of:“What sick pervert wants to see a plump, gregarious marine mammal squeezed into a bikini?”
Regrettably, imagination doesn’t submit to will. It automatically sketches what you’re trying not to envision. Nothing counteracts this psychological punch to the gut except perhaps a heart warming mental image of a Labrador puppy.
I know—it’s not a nice thing to think, let alone say. It pains me to be so blunt, but I’m just pointing out the obvious, voicing what many secretly think but dare not admit.
Western society, it seems, has slid into a late-Roman-era decadence. People exist on a diet of junk food and medicine while starving their brains on an egregious blend of Netflix, YouTube, and Instagram.
I am far from being a doomsayer, but there is simply no way to sugarcoat the fact that humanity seems to be on a dangerous slippery slope, teetering toward the precipice of oblivion.
That’s not all.
Overindulgent chubbiness, once an exclusively American domain, has become an international phenomenon.
No more.
The talent for stockpiling immense amounts of calories—and the subsequent obesity—was once a realm indisputably dominated by the Brave. Much like waging wars on lesser-equipped nations, they were in a league of their own when it came to devouring stacks of burgers, washing them down with gallons of Coca-Cola, and capping it all off with buckets of ice cream for dessert.
For breakfast, no less.
Where I might gain five pounds merely glancing at a Denny’s menu, these courageous individuals could effortlessly clear a plate of 20 pancakes swimming in a quart of syrup.
I vividly recall sitting utterly hypnotized at the all-you-can-eat buffet in Circus Circus, Las Vegas, back in the '90s, mesmerised by the sheer excess of it all. Watching people stuff their faces wasn’t just a spectacle; it was an art form. The only challenge was discerning where the face ended and the body began—there was no neck left to speak of.
The aisles between the food counters were so generously spaced you could easily drive an M1 Abrams tank through them. On reflection, that design choice might not have been a coincidence, as many patrons were of such proportions they required electric trolleys the size of semi-trucks to get around.
But alas, those days of America’s unrivalled reign in the kingdom of flabbiness are over. Every empire falls, crumbling eventually at the feet of a superior power.
In this case, I regret to inform you that the European nations appear to have seized the crown. Germany, in particular, seems to have overtaken America, leaving the latter eating their dust—or rather, their burgers.
Fun fact:
James once told me that in Kenya, a skinny husband signals that his wife is an appalling cook. An enlightening cultural perspective, to be sure, but it doesn’t quite explain why German women so frequently outweigh their spouses.
Back in my lounge chair, I couldn’t help but notice how much times had changed. When I was in school, every class seemed to have its archetypes: the smart kid, the class clown, the chubby one, the bully, the kid nobody wanted on their soccer team, and the strong lad nobody dared to mess with..
Then, there was the oddball—often a foreigner, with an unpronounceable name and an eccentric father with an exotic religion who would ruin every Sunday breakfasts with sermons, fasted for a month, and bowed five times a day to collect divine brownie points.
That oddball, regrettably, was me.
This probably explains my deep-seated distaste for overzealous clerics, my tendency to unleash snarky remarks about them whenever the opportunity arises, and why I ultimately decided to skedaddle and move in with my grandparents at the tender age of 13.
But I digress. My point is that Western society seems to be sleepwalking through life, numb to natural beauty, that humans have become excessively decadent and bored. As someone who has spent hundreds of hours behind the camera lens, capturing the beauty of the world outside, I find the direction humanity is heading in, to say the least, deeply alarming.
What value does life hold when you’re oblivious to the crystal-clear air of a mountain peak or the golden glow of a savannah sunrise?
Which brings me back to the Maasai Mara.
Stumbling upon the lion pride that morning was yet another gorgeous song added to my jukebox of memories, ready to be replayed during life’s inevitable darker days.
Such is life, and I’m used to it. Life is nothing without its ups and downs. It moves in mysterious waves. If there’s no amplitude in the way you live, it basically means you’ve flatlined. It means you’re already dead. You haven’t really lived at all; you’ve just existed.
That morning, James and I did far more than merely exist.
We climbed into my little yellow plane, took off, and spent an hour gliding low over acacia trees.
The flight was uneventful, free of crises or emergencies. Yet, it was stunning nonetheless.
It was a glimpse of the world through God’s eyes.
Beautiful things don’t ask for attention. Either you notice them—or you don’t.
Marcel Romdane
🛩️ “The Sky Opened. So Did My Credit Line.”🔥
Welcome to freedom, the invoice will follow shortly.
Some mornings seduce you so thoroughly, you forget you're in a flying tin can held together by paint, pathological delusion, and unpaid fuel bills the size of a small country’s education budget.
This was one of those mornings.
Below us: the Maasai Mara at sunrise, unfolding like God’s personal screensaver—if God freelanced as a bush pilot with untreated ADHD.
A dawn patrol over the Naboisho Conservancy in 5Y-WRB, Kenya’s most duct-taped entry into aviation history, somehow still airborne despite a maintenance schedule best described as “theoretical.”
James sat in the back seat, camera rolling—elephants casting long shadows across the grasslands like ancient punctuation from a forgotten war poem.
It felt like flying through the opening credits of the life I always thought I wanted: cinematic, noble, completely unsustainable.
For one blissfully idiotic moment, I forgot that everything I’d built was hemorrhaging cash, purpose, and structural integrity like a flaming Land Rover full of good intentions.
No one tells you that chasing your dream requires optimism bordering on psychosis, overdrafts high enough to fund a space program, and a pain tolerance for bureaucratic colonoscopies so invasive they make medieval torture look like a spa day with scented candles.
And while Bali-based life coaches were busy harvesting their inner child in matching linen pants, I was 200 feet above the African savannah, sniffing elephant dung and raw destiny through the space where the split doors used to be—now just a gaping hole, because we’d left the doors on the ground for a “better view”—in my self-built coffin with wings.
But for this moment, I wasn’t broke. I was home.
I wasn’t hunted by paperwork.
I wasn’t even worried.
Because this—this absurd, airborne hallucination of liberty—was the dream.
This is what delusional freedom looks like before the paperwork hits.
🔥Pre-Flight Procedures: Tie Down Your Sanity, We’re Going Up. 🔥
This is James—camp manager by title, madman by choice.
Like everyone I dragged into these 200-foot goat-dodging patrols, he got hooked fast. No hot-air balloon or Nairobi charter can match the pure, unfiltered lunacy of skimming the Mara so low your auntie would scream and yank the laundry off the line.
🐘 Technically, we were here to protect them. 🐘
But from up there in 5Y-WRB, Kenya’s most optimistic aircraft, I’m pretty sure the elephants thought we were just another flying demon sent by the gods of noise and confusion.
Every patrol flight was a gamble—on engine reliability, on fuel availability, and on whether or not a matriarch would charge because she mistook our Cub for a flying hyena with boundary issues.
They didn’t know we were watching for poachers.
They just knew something yellow buzzed in, rattled their ears, and vanished like a bureaucrat after budget approval.
The exact moment this giraffe reconsidered all of its life choices.
Caught mid-morning in the psychological blast radius of my low-flying Super Cub, this unsuspecting giraffe entered a full existential freeze.
Not out of fear—but pure, undiluted disbelief.
It probably stood there for the next three hours, traumatised like a vegan at a Wyoming BBQ, wondering if giraffe therapy was covered under whatever cosmic insurance policy handles wildlife PTSD.
Somewhere between the piston slap of a duct-taped engine and the sharp sting of leaking AVGAS, it seemed to realise:
“I am no longer the tallest thing out here.
And that thing shouldn’t be flying.”
🧨 THIS IS YOUR CAPTAIN SCREAMING: Altitude Optional. Therapy Unavailable.
Somewhere over the Mara River, slicing just above the canopy in a Super Cub held together by self-doubt, zip ties, and unresolved trauma, I realised something:
This… this was not a flight.
It was an airborne divorce from common sense, disguised as a conservation mission.
Low-level bush flying at dawn—where one wrong bump turns your elephant-saving crusade into a flaming safari feature on Netflix’s When Conservation Goes Wrong.
The Super Cub rattled like a dying blender full of wasps and righteous purpose.
Below me, the river twisted through the forest like a brown snake of bad decisions, crocodiles lurking in the shadows, waiting to autograph the wreckage if I miscalculated by a metre.
But up here, with the door off, my knee halfway outside the aircraft, and the smell of burning avgas in my nostrils, something dangerous happened:
I felt alive.
Not “write-a-poem-about-gratitude” alive.
No—this was ‘cursed by your ancestors but doing it anyway’ alive.
This was clarity at 50 knots.
This was hope, stupidity, adrenaline, and unpaid bills stitched together with blind optimism and aviation-grade denial, roaring over the treetops like a one-man declaration of war against mediocrity.
This is where dreams take off.
There was no autopilot.
No insurance.
No plan B.
Just a battered yellow aircraft, a dangerously inspired muzungu with delusions of grandeur, and a sky full of unanswered questions.
And still—this was home.
Because even madness has its altitude.
And mine was… tree level.
📘 “If you're enjoying this disaster… wait until you read the whole book.”🔥
