A long road home: Finding belonging during Tobong'u Lore in Turkana

My journey to Lodwar, in Kenya's far north, began before dawn. One of those mornings when the city is still asleep and your thoughts are louder than the engine of the car taking you to the airport. 

At 3:00 a.m. on Sunday, I left home for Wilson Airport, headed first to Eldoret, 313 kilometers from Nairobi. Direct flights to Lodwar were fully booked. Thousands of people were making the same pilgrimage north, drawn by a place I knew only in fragments: Headlines about drought, images of dust and hunger, and secondhand stories of hardship.

In my mind, Turkana existed as a caricature; remote, harsh, forgotten. A place reduced, unfairly, to a single story.

At Wilson Airport, the air was chilly and faintly damp from an early drizzle. I boarded my flight and took a window seat. As the plane lifted, Kenya unfolded beneath me, roads threading through farmland, water bodies catching the light, clouds drifting like deliberate brushstrokes across a vast canvas. The short flight felt like a museum tour suspended in the sky. 

We landed in Eldoret, famously known as the 'City of Champions', a title earned from the many world-class athletes it has produced, runners whose victories on global tracks have carried Kenya’s name across international arenas. 

From there, the real journey began. Lodwar lies another 362 kilometers away by road. We made a brief stop in town for food, knowing it would be hours before the next meal. I ordered fries and beef stew. The rest of the crew went for ugali, beef stew, and managu, which are traditional greens, hearty and familiar.

The road began gently, smooth and tarmacked, the weather mild. Then the skies darkened. Rain fell hard, blurring the landscape and forcing our driver to slow. Somewhere between the rhythm of the rain and the hum of the engine, exhaustion overtook me. I drifted in and out of sleep, as my two hours of rest from the night before exacted their price.

When I woke up again, the world had changed. The rain was gone. So was the cool air. Heat pressed against the car like a physical force. The green trees had thinned into brown shrubs; leaves gave way to dust; the land hardened into something more austere. The road deteriorated too, potholes replacing tarmac. 

We needed to move fast. We were nearing Kainuk, a conflict-prone area along the Turkana–West Pokot border. Windows stayed firmly shut. Fresh air was a luxury we could not afford. The air conditioner hummed relentlessly until we were safely past.

Along the way, the land spoke in quiet details: children by the roadside, herds of livestock, endless dust, limestone hills rising and folding into one another. There was even a cement factory, drawing industry from the bones of the land itself.

Then, at last, Lodwar.

I knew we had arrived when I saw the streetlights. I instantly realized that my assumptions were wrong. The town was well planned, with clearly tarmacked and orderly roads.

Permanent buildings lined the streets. Water flowed from taps. Electricity hummed through homes and streetlights. This was not the Lodwar of my imagination. This was a living, functional town. I felt the quiet discomfort of realizing how deeply I had underestimated a place and how easily narratives flatten entire communities.

We drove straight to the grounds where the Tobong’u Lore Cultural Festival would be held, Ekaales Cultural Centre, for a recce. The field was vast. What caught my eye first were the people—men, women, children—moving through the space in traditional attire, their colors vivid even in preparation mode. I was transfixed. Near the massive pavilion, officials were already at work: cleaners polishing the podium, small meetings unfolding in corners, logistics being mapped out for the week ahead.

I met with and spoke to an official from the Turkana County tourism department, who became my official connection with the county. The scouting, coordination, and livestream test runs were done later with my crew, but her role as a county contact proved invaluable throughout the week.

Tobong'u Lore is more than a festival. Held annually in Lodwar, it brings together the Ateker communities: The Turkana of Kenya, the Karamojong of Uganda, the Toposa of South Sudan, and the Nyang'atom of Ethiopia. 

They share language and social systems rooted in age sets, elders' authority, and livestock-centered livelihoods. Linguistic and oral histories trace their origins to the Upper Nile, from where their ancestors migrated over centuries, adapting to harsher climates while retaining a shared identity.

The name Tobong'u Lore roughly means "welcome home," and that spirit defines the gathering. It is a celebration of heritage, music, dance, storytelling, attire and also a space for continuity, where younger generations inherit memory through movement and song. It is also deeply political in the most human sense: A platform for peacebuilding in a region shaped by climate stress, competition over resources, and cross-border insecurity. Elders, women, and youth come together to revive indigenous systems of dialogue and coexistence. Over the years, the festival has grown into a major national event, drawing leaders, diplomats, and development partners.

Day two began at Ekaales Cultural Centre around 9:00 a.m. The opening was marked by prayers to sanctify the festival, lending the morning a solemn, spiritual tone. Performances followed, traditional attire paired with religious songs sung in local languages. The pavilion was nearly full. I took photographs, networked, sourced interviewees, and ran another livestream test.

Day three brought heightened anticipation. The Kenyan President was expected, as he attends the festival annually, and security was visibly tightened. We arrived early to take photographs and used the quieter hours to shoot my vlog. Speaking as a first-time attendee, I shared my experience candidly: the sand slipping into my shoes, the relentless sun beating down on my long kitenge dress, the liters of water I drank just to stay upright. Ekaales was enormous; moving across it required long walks under a punishing sky. 

At Ekaales, we filmed everywhere: The exhibitions, the pavilion, performers rehearsing, food tents. I danced. I laughed. I made friends who, in a matter of days, made Turkana feel less like a destination and more like a place of belonging.

When word came that Kenyan President William Ruto had arrived, we rushed to the media area. We waited nearly three hours before he appeared. Apart from taking photographs, I stayed focused on my task of gathering material for my news package, which later aired on Global Business on CGTN. This is an international business bulletin viewed worldwide, reaching audiences far beyond Kenya, including China, London, Washington D.C., and across global platforms.

Day four marked our first official livestream. Inside the pavilion, performers queued behind me, awaiting their turn, while others danced on stage in the distance. Hundreds of groups participated, each carrying a piece of history in their movements. I spoke about the Ateker communities, interviewed the Turkana County Director for Culture and Heritage, and spoke to attendees: A tourist from Germany, another visitor who was hearing-impaired, and Kenyans experiencing the festival for the first time.

On day five, we focused on the exhibition. A massive tent displayed layers of Turkana life: Traditional attire, modern fashion, fish from Lake Turkana, and even hominid skulls presented by the Turkana Basin Institute which is a powerful reminder that this land is not only culturally rich but also central to the story of human origins. That day, I reunited with the friends I had made throughout the week and said my goodbyes, lingering as long as I could.

In the evening, we shared nyama choma at Choma Zone Kanam, a modest but beloved spot outside the grounds. Nothing fancy; just fresh meat, generous portions, and warm service. It felt right.

Day six marked the end of my experience. It was time to leave. By road back to Eldoret, then by air to Nairobi. The cooler the air became, the more I knew I was moving away from Lodwar. I felt an unexpected sadness, the kind that comes when you leave just as a place begins to feel familiar. I arrived in Nairobi at night, already replaying the week in my mind.

Turkana and the Ateker communities welcomed me without hesitation. They explained their customs patiently, dressed me in their traditional attire, shared meals and stories, and kept in touch long after the cameras were packed away. I went to Lodwar chasing a festival. I left carrying something far more lasting...a newfound love, respect and appreciation of my home.

Now, I move on to my next assignment, but part of me remains in the dust and music of Tobong'u Lore, knowing this is a journey I will gladly make again.