Walking Like I Know Where I’m Going (Even If I Don’t)

Walking Like I Know Where I’m Going (Even If I Don’t)

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Truth is, I don’t know where I’m going

but I walk like I do.

Chin up, feet blistered,

heart whispering psalms to the wind.

Because I know this:

I’m going to win.

Not the kind of win that gets you trophies nah.

I’m talking about the kind of victory

that makes your ancestors nod in approval

and say,

“There he go… walking just like his grandfather when he used to chase lions barefoot!”

See, I don’t wear my scars like shame.

I wear them like fine jewelry royal, ancestral, unbothered.

These marks?

Each one is a story.

A lesson.

A receipt of survival.

And baby, I paid in full.

This life—this hard-knock life—

was designed like a rigged drum:

tight skin, loud noise, and still you gotta dance to it

like it’s your birthday.

It throws depression at your joy,

anxiety at your stillness,

poverty at your plans,

addiction at your healing,

lust at your love,

and ego at your everything.

But we ain't new to this.

We’ve been dodging chains since before the calendar had pages.

Our people didn’t survive sandstorms, slave ships,

and spiritual droughts just so I could fold

because I’m having a "bad week."

No, sir.

And you know what I realized?

It’s better to be broke and bound to the Creator

than rich and spiritually bankrupt

sitting in a mansion

with a soul so quiet

even the ancestors stop calling.

Let me tell you something my grandmother’s bones told me

while I was sleeping one night:

"When you walk with the Creator, you ain’t ever lost you’re just on divine delay.”

And that’s facts.

See, I stopped chasing the world.

Stopped trying to collect things I can’t carry with me

when I leave this skin.

You ever seen a hearse pulling a U-Haul?

Exactly.

When we go,

the house, the car, the clothes,

even that expensive soap you don’t let nobody touch it all stays.

It fades.

It gets boxed up, sold off, or forgotten.

But the soul?

The soul carries the love you gave,

the prayers you whispered when nobody saw,

the forgiveness you gave that broke your own pride.

Now let me take you to the village fire.

Let me tell you the tale of Old Baba Juma from the River Tribe,

who was born with crooked legs but a straight spirit.

They laughed at him when he said he would become a great traveler.

Said,

“Baba Juma? He can barely walk to the next hut without needing to sit down and eat mangoes!”

But Baba Juma—he had vision.

He said,

“I may not move fast, but every step I take is blessed. The tortoise didn’t race to win, he raced to finish.”

One day, a great drought came,

and the river dried up like a gossip's mouth in church.

Everyone panicked.

But Juma? He had been walking slow and storing water in old calabashes,

laughing and talking to the wind the whole time.

People thought he was crazy until they got thirsty.

Moral of the story?

Walk your walk.

Talk to the wind.

Prepare when no one is clapping.

Listen to your Creator

even if your legs wobble and your sandals are made of dreams.

The soul don’t need speed

it needs obedience.

And sometimes obedience looks like

getting up one more time

with swollen knees, dry lips, and a joke in your pocket.

I’m telling you

I’ve wrestled with lust that called itself love,

greed that wore a business suit,

and ego that dressed like confidence.

I’ve sat in the smoky huts of stress and sipped tea with frustration.

But still I rise.

Not polished.

Not perfect.

But protected.

So no, I don’t know where I’m going.

I might be taking left turns when I should’ve prayed first.

I might forget the lesson halfway through the test.

But I’ve got something better than certainty I’ve got connection.

To the Most High.

To the wind that carried my grandmother’s prayers.

To the drums that remember when our names were still sacred.

To the stars that blink in code when I start doubting myself.

So yeah I walk like I know where I’m going.

Because even if I trip,

even if I fall face-first in front of the elders,

the Creator is still saying,

“That one right there he’s mine. Let him keep going.”

And I will.

Wounded but walking.

Scarred but shining.

Lost on the map,

but guided by the soul.