I was at work today and my neighbor randomly tells the admin, who is younger, that she should continue to pray for marriage. She said she does not want her to end up like her, older and not married. It baffled me.

That moment reminded me of how many of us were raised. From a young age, African daughters were not prepared for healthy relationships. We were prepared to be chosen. We were trained to cook for our man, to look good, to never ask about his whereabouts, to never talk back. If he abused you, the message was that you must have done something to upset him. Everything was always about the man.

We were taught to be submissive rather than to have an identity. To keep the peace rather than to learn how to communicate. To suppress our emotions instead of understanding them. To prioritize everybody else’s needs rather than to ask ourselves what we actually want. Every single “training” was about marriage. “Is this how you will behave in your husband’s house?” was the constant refrain. Never be your own individual, but be prepped for an imaginary future marriage.

The tragedy is that no one taught us about self-worth, emotional regulation, conflict resolution, setting healthy boundaries, or choosing a partner based on compatibility rather than appearances. We walked into adulthood expecting to build relationships with tools we were never given. And then society blamed the woman when everything fell apart.

It is not just the women. Even the men were prepared to “have a wife” instead of “being a husband.” There is a difference. They were taught to expect service, not partnership. And so both sides entered relationships unprepared, carrying scripts that were never meant to build love, respect, or mutual growth.

This is why so many of us struggle. We were not prepared for healthy relationships. We were prepared to be wives. And until we begin to unlearn these patterns, to teach our daughters and sons about identity, communication, and respect, we will keep repeating the same cycles.

Anyway I hope she doesn’t read this, I will be cooked 🤣🤣🤣.

Hey there, lovely mamas and all the wonderful women on this wild journey of motherhood! I just wanted to share a little heart-to-heart. You know, as I watch my little one turn two, it’s hitting me how much we grow right alongside our kids.

That first birthday felt like such a huge milestone, and I remember thinking, “Wow, I really did it!” kept this tiny human happy and healthy for a whole year.

And now here she is, turning two, calling me “sweetheart” like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s those sweet little moments that really remind us how beautiful and hilarious this journey can be.

So here’s the real talk: every one of us is in a different season of motherhood. Some of us are celebrating these toddler milestones, while others might be navigating loss or longing.

Motherhood is not a straight path, it is a winding road filled with laughter, tears, and those little “sweetheart” moments that remind us why we keep going. Let’s keep telling our stories, because they might be the light another woman needs to see her way through.

Here’s to us, to our children, to our dreams, and to the beautiful, messy, miraculous journey we are all on together.

Because I heard something recently that I cannot stop turning over in my mind. Someone was saying that when women support other women, it is often covert sabotage. That we are competitive in ways we have not given ourselves permission to admit, so all of it goes underground. The smiling advice that quietly steers a friend in the wrong direction. The Instagram comment that says “you are perfect” to someone who is clearly not doing well. The encouragement that, if you listen carefully, sounds just a little bit too enthusiastic about the idea of your friend making a questionable decision.

And I sat with that for a while. Because my first instinct was to dismiss it entirely. But then I thought about it more honestly. And I thought about some of the women in my own life. And I had to ask myself a question that made me a little uncomfortable.

Do we always tell our friends the truth? Or do we tell them what feels good to say in the moment, and what also, coincidentally, keeps them exactly where they are?

The Advice That Sounds Like Support But Does Not Feel Like It

Here is a scenario I think a lot of us have either witnessed or been on the receiving end of, even if we did not name it at the time.

Your friend has been dating someone for a while. He is not perfect, but he is decent. He is consistent, he shows up, he is trying. But she has doubts, the way people in real relationships always have doubts. She comes to you and asks what you think.

Now here is where it gets interesting.

Because there is a version of you that takes a breath, asks her the right questions, and helps her sort through what is actually a concern versus what is just fear. And there is another version of you that, without even realising you are doing it, says, “Girl, you can do so much better. You do not need to settle.” Not because you genuinely believe she is settling. But because somewhere beneath your conscious awareness, you are a little bit relieved that she is still single, still in the same place as you, still available on Saturday nights.

I am not saying this to be harsh. I am saying it because I think it happens more than we acknowledge. And the reason it is so hard to catch is because it sounds exactly like encouragement. It has the same words. It has the same warmth. But something in the delivery is slightly off. And if you are paying attention, you can feel it.

The Study That Started The Conversation

The claim that sparked all of this was about a study involving female hairdressers. The idea was that a female hairdresser might subtly encourage a client she perceives as more attractive than herself to cut her hair shorter, in a way that would be less flattering. Essentially, using her position of trust and expertise to quietly diminish someone she felt competitive with.

Now, I want to be careful here because I looked into this and the research behind this specific claim is shaky at best. It gets repeated a lot in these kinds of conversations, but the scientific grounding is not as solid as people present it to be. So I do not want to build a whole theory on a foundation that may not hold.

But here is the thing. We do not actually need the study. Because most of us have a version of this story from our own lives. Not with a hairdresser necessarily, but with a friend, a colleague, a family member. Someone who was supposed to be in our corner and who, looking back, was giving us directions that led us somewhere that worked out better for them than for us.

The question is not whether this happens. The question is why we find it so difficult to talk about honestly.

Why We Cannot Talk About Female Competition

We have been told a story about sisterhood. That women are naturally nurturing, collaborative, and supportive of one another. That when we are unkind to each other, it is because the patriarchy has pitted us against each other and we are simply acting out a script we were handed.

And there is real truth in that. A lot of female competition is absolutely shaped by structures that were not designed by or for women. When there is only one seat at the table for a woman, of course women are going to compete for that one seat. That is not a character flaw. That is a rational response to scarcity.

But I think we have used that very true analysis as a way of avoiding a harder conversation. Because if all female competition is explained by external forces, then we never have to look at our own behaviour up close. We never have to sit with the discomfort of asking, did I give my friend bad advice because some part of me did not want her to outgrow me? Did I post that supportive comment while also hoping she stayed stuck?

That question is uncomfortable. So we skip it. And we wrap ourselves in the language of sisterhood instead, which is a much softer place to live.

So What Does Honest Sisterhood Actually Look Like?

Yes, genuine support exists. I want to be clear about that because I am not here to make women distrust each other more than we already do. I have had women in my life who told me the truth when it was hard, who celebrated things I achieved that were bigger than what they had achieved themselves, and the celebration was real. You could feel it. That kind of friendship is one of the most sustaining things in a woman’s life.

But finding it requires us to stop insisting that women are always supportive and start asking whether we ourselves are always supportive. Not in the posting-encouraging-comments sense. In the harder, quieter sense.

The women who genuinely show up share a few things. They are secure enough that a friend’s success does not feel like a threat. They know the difference between comfort and honesty, and they are brave enough to offer the harder one when that is what the situation actually calls for. They say things the internet never would, like “I think you are making a mistake” or “I love you and I am worried about where this is going.” Those are the conversations that actually change things.

Which brings me to the question I keep coming back to. When you show up for the women in your life, who are you really showing up for? When you leave the encouraging comment, do you mean it, or does it just cost you nothing? When you give the advice, is it the advice she needs, or the one that keeps her where she is? When you say “you are perfect, do not change anything,” are you seeing her clearly, or just saying the thing that feels easy?

I ask myself these questions too. I have not always been the most honest version of a friend. I have given the easier answer instead of the true one, and I have felt the quiet relief of a friend’s choice keeping the scales even between us. I am not proud of those moments. But I think naming them honestly is the beginning of something better.

Real sisterhood is not a comment section. It is the two in the morning conversation where someone finally says the thing they have been avoiding. That is the version worth building. And I think most of us want it. We are just a little afraid of what we might have to admit to get there.

It does not show you its most beautiful parts when you are okay. When you are okay, the sky is just the sky. The song playing is just a song. The light coming through the window is just light doing what light does.

But when you are breaking? Everything becomes unbearably gorgeous. The sky looks painted. The song reaches inside your chest and rearranges things. The light feels personal, like it was sent specifically to mock how much it hurts to be alive right now. Beauty arrives at the exact moment you are least equipped to hold it.

I have been thinking about this alongside something else that I cannot make sense of.

WHY THE PEOPLE WITH THE BIGGEST HEARTS ALWAYS ATTRACT THE MOST DIFFICULT, EMOTIONALLY DRAINING, DISRESPECTFUL, AND DISLOYAL PEOPLE IS SOMETHING I GENUINELY CANNOT EXPLAIN.

Something about warmth draws in people who have never been warm. Something about patience draws in people who have never had to practice it. Something about loving deeply draws in people who will take that love and treat it carelessly, the way someone who has never been hungry wastes food.

And the cruelest part is that the big-hearted person almost never leaves early. They stay. They explain. They give chances. They believe in people longer than those people believe in themselves. They exhaust themselves trying to pour enough love into someone to fill whatever hole that person has been carrying around their whole life.

It does not work. It was never going to work. But they try anyway, because that is what it means to have a heart like that.

I do not have a clean resolution for this. I am sitting with both things: the beauty that shows up precisely when it stings the most, and the loneliness of being someone who loves too honestly in a world that does not always know what to do with that.

If you are that person, I just want you to know that the problem is not your heart.

The problem has never been your heart.

Not the obvious kind. The subtle kind.

Her husband belongs to a group I am somewhat familiar with. Lately, though, the group has started giving… cult-like energy. Not in the dramatic movie sense, but in the quieter way where people slowly stop sounding like themselves.

She told me something that stayed with me.

Every time her husband goes for these meetings, he comes back “reset””

Reset.

Like a machine that has been rebooted.

Imagine you have discussed something as a couple. You have weighed the pros and cons. You have agreed on a direction. Then he attends one of these meetings. The topic somehow comes up. Maybe he shares what the two of you decided.

Then the group criticizes the idea.

Suddenly, the plan no longer works.

Now he comes home with a completely different position.

The reset.

And it made me wonder about something we do not talk about enough: why do so many people believe that marriages should follow the same script?

As if there is a universal template somewhere.

A manual that says, "This is how a marriage should run.”

Because if that were true, people would probably stop getting married altogether. What would be the point of entering a partnership where every decision has already been standardized by someone else?

Marriage, at its core, is supposed to be an agreement between two people. Two individuals are negotiating how they want to live together. Their values, their rhythms, their priorities.

Not a committee project.

But increasingly it feels like committees are involved.

Take something as personal as naming a child.

My friend mentioned that a certain couple had already started suggesting names for her unborn baby. Not casually suggesting, but the kind of suggestion that carries a strange authority behind it.

Imagine someone telling you, almost by force, what you should name your child.

As if they are the ones who will pay the hospital bill.

As if they will carry the pregnancy.

As if they will raise the child.

Sometimes the audacity of influence is almost fascinating.

And it is not only in marriages.

Another friend of mine had been very ill two weeks ago. She could barely move. One of those situations where your body simply refuses to cooperate with you.

Then a certain lady entered the conversation with medical advice.

Now, every social circle has this person. The one who becomes the chief recommender of remedies whenever anyone falls sick.

Her suggestion this time was some herbal tea.

Fair enough.

But because my friend was too weak to move around, she said she would send the details to her husband so that he could buy the right thing on his way home.

A perfectly reasonable plan.

Except the woman reacted dramatically.

She complained loudly that my friend was “burdening the man””

Burdening him.

Now pause there for a moment.

The woman is sick. She cannot move properly. Her husband is going home anyway. He is capable of buying tea.

Yet somehow this simple act became a moral issue.

And it made me start asking a question that has been quietly forming in my mind:

Are some of the behaviors we see in men actually their own?

Or are they echoes of the influences around them?

Because sometimes the reactions do not quite add up.

You see a man who seems reasonable in private conversation. Someone capable of nuance and empathy. Then suddenly, in certain social settings, the language changes. The positions become rigid. The ideas sound rehearsed.

Almost imported.

As if they have been downloaded from somewhere else.

Influence is not always loud. Sometimes it operates through repeated messages. Through group approval and disapproval. Through subtle pressure to conform.

And over time, people begin to internalize the script.

The problem is that life refuses to cooperate with scripts.

Every household has its own realities. Different finances. Different health situations. Different personalities. Different emotional needs.

Two people could be in the same marriage structure and still require completely different arrangements to make their lives work.

But social groups often struggle with that level of complexity.

Uniformity is easier.

If everyone follows the same rules, no one has to think too deeply about individual circumstances.

But real life is stubborn.

It keeps reminding us that human beings are not identical units.

So perhaps the real question is not whether influence exists.

Of course it does.

The question is whether we are paying attention to who is writing the script for our lives.

Because if we are not careful, we may wake up one day and realize that some of our most personal decisions were never really ours to begin with.

The valley was silent the next morning.

Too silent.

Pastor Jonah stood outside the broken house, watching the sun rise over Kampala in the distance. From where he stood, the city looked peaceful. Smoke from cooking fires rose gently. Boda riders began their morning routes. The world had resumed.

As if nothing had happened.

Reverend Samuel leaned heavily on his walking stick. He had not spoken much since the hill collapsed. His face looked older than it had the night before.

Kasule sat on a stone nearby, wrapped in Jonah’s jacket. He had not said a word since the ritual broke. His eyes were open, but distant. His breathing was steady. His skin no longer burned.

But something about him had changed.

Jonah knelt beside him. “Kasule,” he said gently, “can you hear me?”

Kasule nodded slowly.

“Do you know where you are?”

Another slow nod.

Jonah felt relief loosen something inside his chest.

“You are safe,” he whispered.

Kasule looked at him then.

And for a brief second, Jonah felt cold.

Kasule’s eyes were normal.

Then they flickered.

Just for a moment.

A faint red reflection passed through them like a dying ember catching wind.

It disappeared immediately.

Jonah froze.

“Samuel,” he said quietly.

The Reverend turned. “What is it?”

Jonah hesitated.

“Nothing,” he replied.

He did not trust what he saw.

They helped Kasule to his feet and began walking back toward the city. Each step away from the valley felt heavy, as if the ground resisted their leaving.

Halfway up the path, Samuel stopped suddenly.

Jonah turned. “What is wrong?”

Samuel looked back toward the clearing.

Smoke was rising.

Not thick.

Not violent.

Just a thin, steady line of smoke drifting into the morning sky.

Jonah felt dread crawl into his stomach.

The hill had collapsed.

The flames had died.

The ground had settled.

But something was still burning.

They said nothing more.

When they reached the road, life resumed around them. A taxi conductor shouted for passengers. A woman balanced bananas on her head. Children in school uniforms laughed as they passed.

Normal.

Ordinary.

Unaware.

Kasule walked between them quietly.

When they reached Kisenyi, Jonah brought him into his small home. He washed his face. He gave him porridge. He told him he could stay as long as he needed.

Kasule nodded at everything.

He smiled faintly.

But the smile never reached his eyes.

That night, Jonah could not sleep.

Around midnight, he heard movement in the room.

He sat up.

Kasule was standing by the window.

Staring outside.

“Kasule?” Jonah whispered.

The boy did not turn.

“What are you looking at?”

Kasule spoke softly.

“It is still calling.”

Jonah’s heart dropped. “What is calling?”

“The hill.”

Jonah stood slowly. “It collapsed.”

Kasule shook his head gently.

“It does not collapse. It waits.”

Jonah walked closer. “You are free.”

Kasule finally turned around.

His face looked calm.

Too calm.

“You stopped the ritual,” Kasule said. “But you did not remove the mark.”

Jonah’s breath caught.

Kasule lifted his hand.

The bandage had fallen off.

The mark was no longer bright red.

It was faint.

Almost invisible.

But it was still there.

“It is quiet now,” Kasule continued. “However, it speaks in my dreams.”

Jonah felt helpless for the first time since the battle began.

“We will pray again,” he said firmly.

Kasule smiled slightly.

“Yes,” he replied.

That smile lingered.

Too long.

Outside, somewhere beyond the city lights, the earth shifted softly.

Far in the valley, beneath the cracked soil, a small pulse of red light flickered once.

Then again.

Then went still.

For now.

The valley path was darker than Jonah expected.

Tree branches arched overhead like ribs closing around him. The air felt heavy, almost wet, as though the night itself was breathing against his skin. Reverend Samuel had insisted on coming, despite his age. He walked behind Jonah, clutching his Bible tightly, whispering prayers under his breath.

“You feel it, do you not?” Samuel asked quietly.

Jonah nodded. “Yes.”

The deeper they went, the quieter the world became. No insects. No wind. No distant traffic from Kampala. Only their footsteps against stone.

Then they saw it.

At the end of the valley clearing stood the house with the red lantern. Except now, the lantern was burning again.

And it was brighter than before.

A red glow pulsed against the walls like a heartbeat.

Samuel stopped walking. “This is no ordinary gathering place.”

Jonah did not slow down. “Kasule is inside.”

As they stepped into the clearing, the ground beneath them felt warm.

Unnaturally warm.

The door of the house creaked open slowly on its own.

Jonah froze.

Inside, red light spilled across the dirt like liquid fire.

“Jonah,” Samuel whispered, “be careful.”

Jonah stepped forward.

The moment his foot crossed the doorway, the temperature changed sharply. It felt like stepping into an oven. The chalk drawings on the walls were brighter now, glowing faintly as though lit from within.

Kasule stood in the center of the room.

He was not tied.

He was not restrained.

He stood completely still, eyes open but distant, staring at the basin of dark water.

Three figures surrounded him.

The marked leader.

The silent man with the long arms.

The old woman.

Their heads were bowed slightly, chanting in a low rhythmic tone that vibrated through the room.

Samuel began to pray loudly.

The chanting stopped immediately.

All three figures lifted their heads slowly.

The leader smiled.

“I was hoping you would come, Pastor.”

Jonah stepped toward Kasule. “Leave the boy.”

Kasule’s lips moved slightly.

“Pastor,” he whispered faintly, “it is too late.”

Jonah shook his head. “Look at me, Kasule. You are not theirs.”

The old woman spoke calmly. “He crossed the line willingly. The hill has accepted him.”

Jonah looked at Kasule’s hand.

The mark beneath the bandage was glowing red through the cloth.

Samuel’s prayer grew stronger.

The air trembled.

The basin of water began to ripple violently. Images flickered across its surface. Fire. A hill rising from darkness. A circle of kneeling boys. A shadow towering behind them.

The ground shook beneath their feet.

Outside the house, the earth began to rise.

Samuel gasped.

Jonah turned toward the doorway.

The valley floor was changing.

Soil cracked and lifted as if pushed upward by invisible hands. Stone shifted. Roots snapped. The ground formed a slow rising mound in the center of the clearing.

A hill.

Burning faintly from within.

Flames licked through cracks in the soil, glowing but not spreading. The air roared with a sound like distant thunder.

The leader stepped closer to Kasule and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“The Vessel has been called,” he said softly. “He belongs to the Burning Hill.”

Kasule’s body stiffened.

His eyes rolled back.

The red mark on his hand burned brighter.

Jonah lunged forward and grabbed him.

The moment he touched Kasule, a violent force threw Jonah backward against the wall. The impact knocked the air from his lungs.

Samuel cried out and continued praying.

The chalk symbols on the walls began to peel away like ash in the wind. The candles flared high, then bent sideways as if pushed by a storm.

The leader shouted, “Complete it now.”

The old woman dipped her hand into the basin and flung dark water onto Kasule’s face.

Kasule screamed.

Not like a frightened child.

Like something was being torn from him.

Jonah forced himself to stand. His body ached, but he moved forward again.

“Kasule!” he shouted. “You are not a vessel. You are a son. You are not chosen for darkness.”

Kasule’s scream grew louder.

The rising hill outside cracked open further, flames surging upward.

Samuel stepped beside Jonah.

Together, they prayed with everything inside them.

The leader roared in anger.

The basin shattered suddenly, exploding into fragments. The dark water spilled across the floor and began to steam.

Kasule collapsed to his knees.

The mark on his hand flickered.

Then dimmed.

The hill outside trembled violently.

The flames sputtered.

The ground began to sink.

The red glow faded.

Silence crashed into the valley.

Kasule lay on the floor, breathing weakly.

The leader staggered backward as though struck. The old woman screamed in fury. The long armed man fell to his knees, clutching his head.

Jonah crawled to Kasule and pulled him close.

“It is not over,” the old woman hissed. “The hill does not forget.”

Samuel answered firmly, “The hill does not rule.”

The ground fully settled.

The red lantern above the house shattered.

Darkness swallowed the clearing.

Only the sound of Kasule’s breathing remained.

Jonah held him tightly.

For now, he was still alive.

Not the loud kind we perform. Not the rushed kind we settle for.

I mean the kind of love that feels like a deep exhale you did not know you were holding.

The kind that does not announce itself with fireworks but arrives like warmth, slow, steady, unmistakable. The kind that wraps around you, not to cage you, but to remind you that you are safe here. Seen here. Held without being handled.

I think about that story. You know the one. The boy who fell in love in high school. Before life taught him how to armor up. Before love became something to negotiate, dilute, or fear. There is something almost sacred about first loves, not because they are perfect, but because they are honest. They show up without strategy. Without performance. Just two people daring to be soft at the same time.

That is the love I wish for people.

The love that does not require you to shrink or stretch yourself into something more palatable. The love where your laughter sounds like itself. Where your silence is not interrogated. Where your joy is not too much and your sadness is not inconvenient.

Real love feels like being able to rest inside yourself while sitting next to someone else.

It feels like being chosen in the smallest ways. Like someone noticing how you take your tea. Or how you go quiet when you are overwhelmed. Or how your eyes light up when you talk about that one thing you never think anyone cares about, but they do. They really do.

It feels warm. Not hot. Not cold. Warm.

Like a hug that does not rush to let go.

Like a presence that says you do not have to perform here.

And the most beautiful part is that real love allows authenticity to breathe. You do not have to be impressive. You do not have to be switched on. You get to show up as you are, messy, tender, evolving, and be met there. Fully. Gently.

I pray that everyone meets someone who is comfortable being their truest self. Because when someone is brave enough to be authentic with you, it gives you permission to do the same. And in that space, unguarded and unpolished, something holy happens.

You remember yourself.

You soften.

You sigh.

And maybe that is why we long for love so deeply. Not just to be adored, but to be understood. Not just to be wanted, but to be known.

If you have felt it, you know.

If you have not, I hope you do.

Because real love does not just change your heart. It changes the way the world feels.

I saw a video on TikTok recently that stayed with me longer than I expected. Not because of the moment that triggered it, but because of the quiet observation underneath it. The creator was talking about how people relate to the things they have innately versus the things they acquire out of lack.

And once you see it, you cannot unsee it.

People who have always had something tend not to lead with it. They do not announce it. They do not build their identity around it. It sits in the background of their lives like furniture they have grown accustomed to. Useful, present, but not remarkable.

It is often those who did not have that thing growing up who make it the loudest part of themselves. Beauty, money, education, status, even healing. When something arrives late, it feels fragile. You guard it. You display it. You turn it into proof.

This is not vanity. It is fear.

Fear that without this thing, you might not be chosen. Fear that if you stop performing it, you will disappear.

I see this dynamic play out most clearly in relationships. When someone leads with what they have rather than who they are, they subtly ask to be loved for the symbol instead of the substance. They want admiration more than understanding. Validation more than intimacy.

But people who are secure in what they carry tend to relate differently. They are curious. They listen. They value connection over performance. To them, money is a tool, not a measuring stick. Intelligence is a way to communicate, not to dominate. Beauty is incidental, not a bargaining chip.

This difference in orientation is why two people can experience the same person so differently. One person meets their defenses. Another meets their softness. One sees the performance. Another sees the human underneath.

The uncomfortable reflection is this: when we make one thing our entire lens, we are often announcing where we feel most exposed. The louder we are about it, the more we are asking the world to reassure us that we are enough.

The video ended, but the question lingered for me. What would it look like to stop leading with what we have and start leading with what we offer? Not as proof. Not as currency. But as presence.

That kind of quiet confidence does not come from accumulation. It comes from integration. I hope this makes you think about yourself 😪

I understood where she was coming from. I really did. But I also felt the familiar discomfort that comes when survival is dressed up as virtue.

Because before we accuse an entire generation of lacking resilience, we need to be honest about what earlier generations were actually enduring, and why.

What We Call Strength Often Begins as a Lack of Options

Many women before us did not stay because staying was noble. They stayed because leaving was dangerous. Because divorce meant poverty. Because it meant shame. Because it meant losing children, community, and sometimes even physical safety.

Marriage was not always about fulfillment. It was an economic arrangement. A social expectation. A survival strategy.

So when we praise endurance without naming the cost, we confuse survival with strength. Yes, it took grit to stay. But it also took grit to silence your pain, to make peace with betrayal, and to raise daughters who learned early that love meant tolerance of harm.

That kind of resilience was forged in constraint, not choice.

Choice Has Changed the Conversation

I live in a time where I can work, leave, rebuild, and name emotional harm. I have language for boundaries. I have access to therapy. I have options my grandmother did not.

So when women today leave after betrayal, it is not always because they are weak or unwilling to fight. Sometimes it is because they understand something deeply radical: love is not proven by how much pain you can endure, but by how much truth you are willing to require.

Choice shifts the moral question. It is no longer “How much can you tolerate?” but “What kind of life are you consenting to?”

Faith Is Too Often Used to Keep Women Silent

Yes, the Bible condemns adultery. Yes, forgiveness matters. But forgiveness is not permission, and grace is not access.

Scripture does not ask women to disappear inside suffering. Jesus himself restored agency to those society expected to endure quietly. He did not glorify pain for its own sake. He confronted betrayal. He named harm. He held people accountable.

Leaving is not a failure of faith. Sometimes it is an act of faith. An act of self-respect. An act of stewardship over one’s soul.

Are We Normalizing Sin in the Name of Marriage?

There is a question I keep returning to, and it makes many people uncomfortable: are we normalizing sin and giving it glory simply because it happens within marriage?

When betrayal is reframed as “something that happens,” when adultery is minimized as a phase, a weakness, or a cross a woman must carry, we are no longer just asking for forgiveness. We are asking for accommodation. And there is a difference.

Marriage was never meant to be a shelter for sin. It was meant to be a covenant built on truth, faithfulness, and mutual responsibility. When we ask women to stay silent in the face of repeated betrayal for the sake of preserving the institution, we risk turning marriage into a place where sin is protected rather than confronted.

Calling out harm is not rebellion against marriage. It is respect for what marriage is supposed to represent.

If adultery is truly wrong, then it should not become more acceptable simply because it happens under a wedding certificate. Sin does not become holy because it is familiar, and betrayal does not become virtuous because it is endured quietly.

Sometimes leaving is not a rejection of marriage. Sometimes it is a refusal to baptize sin with patience and call it love.

We Are Redefining What It Means to Fight

Older generations often define fighting as staying no matter what. My generation is redefining fighting as refusing to normalize harm.

It takes courage to leave a life you were taught to preserve at all costs. It takes resilience to disappoint family, church, and culture in order to stay honest with yourself. It takes strength to say, “This may be common, but it will not be my normal.”

Staying can be brave. Leaving can also be brave. The difference is agency.

Progress Is Not Disrespect

Honoring our mothers and grandmothers does not mean repeating their wounds. The fact that we have choices now does not erase their sacrifices. It means their suffering was not in vain.

Resilience should not mean inheriting pain unquestioned. Real resilience is learning from the past and choosing better where possible.

My Final Thought

If resilience means enduring betrayal, then maybe we are less resilient. But if resilience means telling the truth about what harms us, refusing cycles that destroy us quietly, and choosing relationships rooted in mutual respect rather than obligation, then maybe we are not weak.

Maybe we are evolving.And maybe the real question is not why women leave so quickly.

Maybe it is why we ever believed staying at any cost was the highest form of love.

Kasule followed the old woman up the narrow path. She walked with surprising speed, her wooden walking stick tapping rhythmically against the stones. The deeper they went into the valley, the darker it became. Night insects cried from the bushes. A distant owl called once, then again.

Kasule kept touching the bandage on his hand, the mark underneath burning faintly, as if something inside it was waking up.

He did not want to go with her. He wanted to run. But his legs kept moving.

The valley opened into a small clearing with only one building. It looked abandoned. The walls were cracked. The roof sagged. But one thing stood out.

A red lantern burned above the doorway.

It glowed like an open wound.

The old woman stopped. “Enter.”

Kasule hesitated. “What is this place?”

“A safe house,” she replied. “This is where those who were marked before you came to hide.”

Kasule’s chest tightened. “Were they children?”

“Some were. Some were older. All were chosen for the same purpose.”

Kasule shook his head. “I do not want their purpose.”

The woman looked at him. Her gaze held no compassion.

“You were chosen before your birth. What you want changes nothing.”

Kasule stepped back, but she gripped his arm with shocking strength.

“You cannot run from what you carry. The spirit will claim you. Whether Jonah is there or not will only decide whether you survive the claiming.”

Kasule felt his heart pounding painfully. “Pastor Jonah will protect me.”

The woman released him.

“If he comes here, he will die.”

Kasule froze. The words landed heavily.

The old woman pushed the door open. A strange smell drifted out. It was a mixture of herbs and something metallic, like old blood.

“Enter,” she said again.

Kasule forced his shaking legs to move.

Inside, the house was dimly lit by three red candles placed in a circle. The walls were covered in faint chalk drawings, most of them symbols he had never seen before. Some looked like distorted human figures. Some looked like animals with too many limbs. Others looked like faces with hollow eyes.

At the center of the room, a small wooden basin was filled with dark water. A faint ripple moved across its surface even though nothing touched it.

Kasule whispered, “What is that?”

The old woman answered, “Memory.”

Kasule stepped closer.

He saw something inside the water.

First, a hill.

Then fire.

Then children kneeling in a circle.

Then a figure standing behind them. The figure’s face was painted. Its eyes glowed. It raised its hands.

Kasule stumbled backwards.

“Stop it,” he cried. “I do not want to see.”

The old woman dipped her fingers into the water. The images vanished immediately.

She looked at him calmly.

“You will see it again, child. The hill calls for its vessel.”

Kasule felt tears sting his eyes. “I am not a vessel. I am a person.”

The woman’s expression softened slightly, but not kindly.

“That is what all of them say at the beginning.”

Kasule backed toward the door. “I am leaving.”

“You cannot,” she replied.

“Watch me.”

He turned sharply.

But the doorway was no longer open.

The red lantern outside had gone dark. The wooden door had shut on its own, sealing him in. The sound of the lock turning echoed like a hammer inside his ears.

Kasule grabbed the handle, pulling hard.

It did not move.

He banged on the wood. “Let me out.”

The candles flickered. The chalk drawings on the walls seemed to shift in the light, as if the figures inside them were stretching, breathing, watching him.

The old woman sat on a low stool and closed her eyes.

“The claiming begins at dawn,” she said.

Kasule shouted, “Jonah will come for me.”

She did not look up.

“If he reaches this valley,” she replied, “he will not leave it.”

Kasule backed into the corner, chest rising and falling in quick, painful breaths. The room felt smaller. The air felt hotter.

He whispered into the darkness.

“Pastor Jonah… please find me.”

Far away, on the main road that led into the valley, Jonah felt a sudden chill crawl up his spine.

He did not know why.

But he began to run.

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His chest still burned from running. His hands trembled as he tried to steady them on the table. The memory of the woman in the dark robe clung to him like smoke. Her calm voice, her certainty, her presence. He felt as if he had spoken to a shadow that had taken human form.

Jonah dropped to his knees beside his bed.

He tried to pray.

But every time he opened his mouth, he saw Kasule’s terrified face. He saw the man twisting on the ground. He saw the woman’s eyes when she said, “They always return.”

Jonah lifted his head.

“No,” he whispered. “Not this one.”

He stood abruptly and picked up his phone. There was only one person he could speak to. One person who might understand, even if he did not want to.

Reverend Samuel.

His old mentor.

A man who had once walked these same streets with fire in his voice and courage holding his spine upright. A man who had warned Jonah long ago that darkness in Kampala sometimes wore familiar faces.

Jonah dialed his number.

Samuel answered with a tired voice. “Jonah? You are calling at four in the morning. What has happened?”

“Reverend,” Jonah said, “I need to see you immediately. It is urgent.”

Samuel sighed. “Come.”

Jonah left his home and walked briskly through the waking city. Vendors were already lighting small charcoal stoves. A boda rider revved his engine at the corner. The smell of morning chapati clung to the air. But Jonah felt none of the usual Kampala comfort.

He felt watched.

He arrived at the old church near Namirembe Hill. The building was cracked with age, but the cross above the door still stood tall. Samuel opened the door for him.

The Reverend looked older than Jonah remembered. His shoulders drooped slightly, and his beard had turned completely grey.

“You look as though you have run through a nightmare,” Reverend Samuel said.

Jonah stepped inside. “I think I did.”

They sat together in the small prayer room beneath the church. It was cooler there, and the only light came from a single bulb that hummed quietly.

Jonah told him everything.

Kasule.

The three men.

The woman at the gate.

The twisting body.

The phrase “Burning Hill.”

Samuel listened without interrupting. His eyes deepened with every detail. He folded his hands slowly as Jonah finished.

“Reverend,” Jonah said, “what is the Burning Hill?”

Samuel closed his eyes for a moment. “I was hoping you would never ask me that.”

Jonah leaned forward. “You know it.”

“I know enough,” Samuel replied.

Silence stretched between them.

Then Samuel spoke.

“The Burning Hill is not a place you will find on any map. It is a spiritual presence that has lived around Kampala for decades. Some people say it hovers near Kasubi. Others place it near Mutungo. It is not a physical hill. It is a spiritual one that reveals itself only during certain rituals.”

Jonah felt his breath slow. “And the cult?”

Samuel nodded slowly. “They have existed since the early nineteen eighties. They target fatherless boys, street boys, boys who feel invisible. They convince them that they are chosen for greatness. They call them Vessels.”

Jonah swallowed. “What is placed in the Vessel?”

Samuel looked at him with sorrowful eyes. “Not what. Who.”

Jonah felt the room tilt slightly. “You mean a spirit.”

“Yes,” Samuel said. “A very old one.”

Jonah pressed his hands together. “Reverend, that woman told me that Kasule survived a ritual. She said he will return to them.”

Samuel shook his head. “If the ritual was incomplete, then Kasule is marked. He will feel a pull. A spiritual tug. A calling to return.”

Jonah felt anger rise inside him. “I will not allow that. I will not let darkness claim him.”

Samuel placed a hand on Jonah’s shoulder. “Be careful. The cult does not fight with knives alone. They fight with spirits. They fight with fear. They fight with deception.”

Jonah met his mentor’s eyes. “Then help me.”

Samuel hesitated. For the first time in years, Jonah saw fear in the old man’s face.

“Jonah,” he said quietly, “if we go after this boy, we will wake something that should not be woken.”

Jonah did not blink. “It is already awake.”

Samuel studied him for several seconds.

Then he stood.

“Come,” he said. “We shall pray.”

They knelt together on the cold cement floor.

As soon as Samuel began his prayer, the lights flickered.

The bulb above them buzzed and dimmed.

Wind pushed against the closed window.

Samuel continued praying, but Jonah felt a heavy pressure rise in the room. The air thickened. The shadows on the wall stretched unnaturally long.

Jonah opened his eyes.

Something was moving in the far corner of the room.

Something dark.

Samuel’s voice grew louder, steadier, more forceful.

The shadow shuddered as if struck.

Jonah joined the prayer, his voice trembling at first, then strengthening.

The shadow recoiled, sank lower, then vanished.

The pressure lifted.

The room became normal again.

Samuel wiped sweat from his forehead. “You see,” he whispered, “they already know we are involved.”

Jonah stood. “Then we cannot stop now.”

Samuel nodded reluctantly.

“Find Kasule,” he said. “Before they do.”

Pastor Jonah ran through the narrow streets, following the faint sound of Kasule’s footsteps. The night wind stung his face as he pushed himself forward, his heart beating painfully. He kept looking over his shoulder, waiting for the marked man with the machete to appear. Every shadow felt alive. Every whisper of wind sounded like danger.

Kampala, usually noisy even in the late hours, seemed to be holding its breath.

Jonah reached the Old Taxi Park entrance, but he could not see Kasule anywhere. The vast empty space stretched before him, filled with rows of silent buses. A plastic bag drifted across the ground, then vanished under a vehicle.

“Kasule!” Jonah called. His voice echoed sharply.

No reply.

He took a step forward.

Then another.

Suddenly, something moved near the far side of the park. Jonah froze, squinting through the darkness. At first, he thought it was an animal. Then he realized it was a man crawling slowly out from between two buses.

It was not Kasule.

It was one of the men who had chased him.

His body jerked violently as though invisible hands were twisting him from the inside. His eyes rolled back. His lips trembled. Strange guttural sounds escaped his throat.

Jonah stepped back in horror.

A distant voice spoke behind him.

“Do not interfere, Pastor.”

Jonah turned sharply.

A woman stood at the gate. She was dressed in a long dark robe, and her head was wrapped tightly in cloth. She did not look angry. She did not even look tense. She looked calm, almost sorrowful.

“You are not supposed to be here,” she said.

Jonah stared at her. “Who are you?”

The woman walked closer. “I am the keeper of the hill they spoke of.”

Jonah felt the ground tilt beneath him. “The Burning Hill?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Jonah’s breath caught in his chest. “Why are they after the boy?”

“Because he survived,” she replied. “The ritual is not meant to leave survivors.”

Jonah felt coldness stick to his skin. “What was the ritual meant to do to him?”

The woman’s eyes lowered. “The ritual was meant to invite a spirit to inhabit him. It is difficult to explain to someone like you.”

Jonah swallowed. “Do you harm children?”

The woman looked up sharply. There was something in her eyes that Jonah could not read.

“We do not harm them,” she said. “We prepare them.”

Jonah shook his head. “For sacrifice?”

“No,” she answered firmly. “For service.”

Jonah stepped forward. “You are lying. That boy is terrified.”

She sighed softly. “Fear is natural when destiny comes too soon.”

Jonah felt anger rise inside him. “I will not let you take him. I will not let any of you harm him or transform him into whatever you think he should become.”

The woman did not raise her voice.

“You do not have that power.”

The crawling man behind Jonah screamed suddenly. The sound tore through the silence like a sharp blade. Jonah spun around.

The man’s body lifted slightly off the ground, although no one touched him. Dust swirled around his limbs in a violent spiral. His mouth opened wide, and Jonah heard a deep, unnatural roar echo out of him.

Jonah stepped backward, horrified.

The woman spoke again with calm certainty.

“He is calling for the Vessel.”

Jonah looked at her. “You will not reach Kasule. He is gone.”

The woman’s expression did not change.

“He will return to us,” she said. “They always return.”

Jonah stared at her, breath trembling in his lungs.

“Not this time,” he said.

The woman turned away.

“We will see.”

She walked into the darkness and disappeared.

Jonah remained alone in the entrance of the taxi park, surrounded by silence.

He whispered only one word.

“God.”

The possessed man stopped screaming suddenly and went still.

Jonah did not wait to see if he would rise again.

He ran into the night.

Kasule had to be found.

Before the hill did.

Kasule ran until his lungs felt as if they were tearing apart. His feet pounded against the cracked pavement of the Old Taxi Park, weaving between silent buses and empty stall frames. The moonlight bounced off metal roofs and glass windscreens, turning the place into a maze of reflections. He could still hear the clanging of metal behind him, but he did not dare look back.

He crouched behind an abandoned bus with shattered windows. His chest rose and fell violently. His legs shook so badly that he had to grip the bumper to stay upright. He tried to pray, but the words would not form. His mind was crowded with the memory of the ritual fire, the chanting voices, and the mask that had covered his face.

He had never felt truly alone in his life until that moment.

A small metallic click sounded behind him.

Kasule spun around.

A man was standing by the rear door of the bus. He was tall, wearing a dark coat, and holding a phone to his ear. His eyes scanned the park with urgency, but when he noticed Kasule, his expression changed. It softened.

“Boy, what are you doing here at this hour?” he asked.

Kasule tried to answer, but only air came out.

The man stepped closer. “Are you in trouble?”

Kasule backed away instinctively. His mind flashed through the faces of the three men. Their expressions. Their walk. Their quiet confidence. The way they moved like predators who did not need to hurry.

For a moment, Kasule could not breathe.

The man raised both hands slightly. “Do not fear. I am only asking.”

Kasule finally found his voice. “They are coming for me.”

The man frowned. “Who is coming?”

Kasule shook his head. “I cannot explain.”

The man glanced behind Kasule. Something in his face shifted. His pupils tightened.

Kasule froze. He felt cold spread across his back, slowly, like water soaking through cloth.

He turned.

Two figures emerged from the entrance of the park.

They were the same men from the alley.

Their machetes gleamed under the dull moonlight. Their footsteps were slow and deliberate. They scanned the park with the certainty of hunters.

Kasule lifted his hands to his mouth but no sound came out.

The stranger whispered, “Run.”

Kasule sprinted again, darting between buses, stumbling and catching himself. The two men separated, splitting directions. They moved with terrifying synchronicity. One approached from the left aisle, one from the right.

They were closing him in.

Kasule slipped between two parked taxis and dropped to the ground. His heart echoed in his skull. His palms were wet with sweat. He could taste fear in the back of his throat.

He peered through the darkness.

The men were walking slowly.

Each step felt measured.

As if time belonged to them.

Kasule pressed his back against the wheel of the taxi and shut his eyes tightly.

“God,” he whispered shakily, “please do not let them find me.”

Footsteps approached.

Slowly.

Firmly.

Then the footsteps stopped.

Kasule opened his eyes hesitantly.

A machete blade slid silently under the taxi, passing inches from his face.

Kasule pressed his hands against his mouth to keep himself silent.

The blade moved left.

Then right.

Searching.

Kasule felt his vision blur. He felt faint. His body trembled violently.

Then something changed.

The wind shifted. A sudden pressure filled the air.

Kasule heard distant shouting. It was Pastor Jonah’s voice, although he could not hear the words clearly. It sounded like a prayer that shook the night air.

The men paused.

Their bodies stiffened.

Kasule crawled backward, very slowly, until he was behind the rear of another taxi. He pulled himself up and ran again, heading toward the upper entrance of the park.

He burst out of the open gate and into the main road.

He did not stop running.

Not even once.

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Kasule’s scream cut through the night like metal tearing. Pastor Jonah pulled him up by the arm and stepped back, but the men kept advancing with slow, terrifying confidence.

The tallest one, whose face carried burnt tribal markings, raised his machete slightly. The metal caught the flicker of the streetlight, and the reflection slid across the shuttered shops like a warning.

Jonah steadied his voice. “What do you want with the boy?”

The leader smiled without warmth. “He owes the Burning Hill his blood. The ritual was interrupted. We have come to finish it.”

“He is a child,” Jonah said.

“To the Hill, he is an offering,” the man replied.

Kasule started trembling violently. “Pastor, they will kill you,” he whispered. “Please leave. They never come alone.”

Jonah tightened his grip. “I will not run.”

The second man stepped forward. He had long arms, a shaved head, and eyes that never blinked. “Pastor, this is not your battle. You preach your sermons and save your souls. Leave the Vessel to us.”

Jonah felt sweat crawl down his back. He had faced thieves before, drunkards, and angry men who felt attacked by his night preaching. However, this was different. The air around the three men felt heavy, almost charged, as if something unseen was breathing through them.

He looked at Kasule. “Did you escape from them today?”

Kasule swallowed painfully. “I escaped from them tonight. The ritual began on the hill. They drugged me. They tied me. However, when the fire went out, something happened. The wind became violent. They panicked. I untied myself and ran.”

“And why are they calling you the Vessel?”

Kasule lowered his gaze. “Because the ritual was meant to put something inside me.”

Before Jonah could speak, the leader slammed the flat side of his machete against a metal shutter. The loud ring echoed through the entire street.

“Enough talk,” he said. “Give us the boy.”

Jonah placed Kasule behind him. “If you want him, you will have to get through me.”

The third man laughed. His voice was sharp and unsettling. “Do you think prayer will save you? The Hill eats men of prayer.”

Jonah did not answer. He had been afraid many times before, but he had never allowed fear to decide for him. His chest rose and fell steadily as he spoke, “I rebuke every plan you have for this child.”

All three men stopped walking.

The leader tilted his head. “You speak boldly, Pastor. However, do you know what you are rebuking?”

Something cracked in the alley. A bottle rolled. A strong wind rushed suddenly, although the night had been still moments before. Dust spiraled around the men. Jonah felt Kasule press himself into his back, desperate and shaking.

“Pastor,” Kasule whispered, “they are calling it. That is how it begins.”

The men raised their machetes to their shoulders. Their lips moved silently as if whispering a chant. A deep, sickening hum vibrated in the air. It felt like the ground itself was listening to them.

Jonah’s heart pounded. “Kasule, listen to me,” he said firmly. “When I say run, you must run exactly where I tell you.”

Kasule clutched Jonah’s shirt. “I cannot outrun them.”

“You will,” Jonah said.

The leader’s eyes glowed in the dim light, not with light, but with a strange darkness.

“We warned you, Pastor,” he said softly. “Now the Hill will collect both of you.”

He lifted his machete higher.

Jonah whispered, “Kasule… run toward the taxi park.”

The men stepped forward.

Jonah pushed Kasule with all his strength. “Run!”

Kasule stumbled, then sprinted toward the empty taxi park. The men lunged after him, but Jonah leaped sideways and grabbed the closest man’s wrist. The machete swung, sparks flying when it struck the metal shutter instead of Jonah’s skull.

The leader roared, “Leave the Pastor. Get the Vessel!”

The other two broke into a chase.

Jonah grabbed the first man by the shirt and shoved him to the ground. The man was strong, unnaturally strong, and he rose faster than Jonah expected. Jonah backed up, breathing hard.

Then something happened that made his blood run cold.

The fallen man twisted his neck slowly, too slowly, as if his bones were turning last. His eyes rolled back, and his body shuddered as if something was crawling into it.

Jonah whispered, “Lord, cover me.”

The man straightened fully and grinned with a mouth that no longer looked like it belonged to him.

Meanwhile, Kasule had reached the taxi park. He stumbled between parked buses, disappeared behind a kiosk, and Jonah prayed he had enough head start.

The leader stepped out of the alley, eyes burning with hatred. “Pastor,” he said, “you have made a mistake.”

Jonah braced himself.

The leader raised his machete.

Something howled in the wind.

And the night of Kampala swallowed the rest.

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CHAPTER ONE — THE BOY ON BEN KIWANUKA STREET

Kampala never sleeps. At least that is what visitors say until they hear how the city screams at night.

Past midnight, the taxi parks were empty, dust hung in the air like an unfinished prayer, and the streetlights flickered with the unreliable faith of someone who had been disappointed too many times. Pastor Jonah had no business being in downtown Kampala at such an hour, but he had followed a sound. It was a sound he knew too well.

A boy crying.

Not crying like a child who is lost in a supermarket. Crying like a soul that is being wrung out.

Jonah slowed his steps as he approached the edge of Ben Kiwanuka Street. Scrap metal, broken crates, and polythene bags rolled lazily in the wind. The smell of exhaust fumes never really left the place. It only rested.

Then he saw him.

A skinny boy, no more than fifteen, crouched beside a locked hardware shop, gripping his ribs as if something inside him was trying to claw its way out. His hoodie was torn at the sleeves and his toes poked out of worn-out canvas shoes. However, it was his eyes that froze Jonah. They were not only fearful. They were hunted.

“Webale, Pastor. Do not come nearer,” the boy gasped when he looked up. His Luganda was heavy with pain.

“You know me?” Jonah asked, startled.

The boy nodded faintly. “Everyone in Kisenyi knows the preaching pastor who walks at night.”

A bitter smile crossed his face. “Even those who do not want to be found.”

Jonah stepped closer anyway. “Are you hurt?”

“Not yet.” The boy pressed a shaking hand to his chest. “But they are coming.”

“Who is coming?”

The boy did not blink. “The Spirits of the Burning Hill.”

Jonah swallowed hard. He had heard rumours. Boys were disappearing from Katwe and Kisenyi, some returning days later in shrines, dazed and wild-eyed. Others never returned at all. The police called them gangs. The streets called them sacrifices.

And now the boy was looking at him with the kind of terror that came from seeing something you were not supposed to survive.

“Listen,” Jonah said quietly as he knelt beside him. “I can help you. Tell me your name.”

“Kasule,” the boy whispered. “However, nobody calls me that anymore.”

“What do they call you?”

“They call me The Vessel.”

Before Jonah could respond, a sudden metallic clang echoed from the alley behind them.

Kasule flinched. Hard.

Jonah turned sharply. Three silhouettes appeared. They were tall, deliberate, and moved with the slow confidence of people who believed the night belonged to them. Even from a distance, Jonah

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What struck me during our conversation was something so simple, yet so unsettling in its truth. We have never experienced ourselves the way the other person has experienced us. I thought I knew how she saw me, and she thought she knew how I saw her, but the picture in each of our minds was completely different.

For years I insisted that she was the warm one, the friendly one, the one who walked into rooms and made people feel seen. In my mind I was the quieter one, the one who stayed folded into herself, guarded, measured, and careful with new people. Yet as we sat there, she looked at me and described she in the exact way I had been describing her. She told me that I was the one who made people feel welcome, that I was the one who held space for others with an ease I did not even realise I possessed.

It was almost confusing, as if we had lived in parallel worlds. I thought I was the closed one and she was the open one. But she believed the same thing about me. Two people, one friendship, two completely different internal narratives about who we each were.

This moment forced me to think deeply about the gap between who we think we are and who we actually are to the people who encounter us. It made me realise that self perception is one of the most unreliable mirrors we own. We look at ourselves through the lens of fear, past experiences, insecurities, and the stories we repeat to ourselves. Other people, especially the ones who love us, look at us through the lens of presence. They see our patterns, our habits, our effect, not our internal doubts.

It made me wonder how many of us are walking around believing stories about ourselves that are outdated or completely untrue. How many of us think we are too quiet, too distant, too difficult, too awkward, too uninvolved, when the people around us are experiencing the opposite. How many of us underestimate the light we carry simply because we are used to seeing ourselves in dimmer ways.

Friendship has a way of holding a mirror to parts of us we refuse to acknowledge. Sometimes it reveals our flaws. But many times, it reveals our goodness, our warmth, our capacity to be more than the version of ourselves we once believed in.

That conversation made me realise that growth is not always about becoming a new person. Sometimes it is about recognising that you have already become someone you have not yet acknowledged. It is about allowing yourself to consider that your self image is incomplete and that the people who have walked with you for years might be offering a more accurate reflection.

I left that meetup with a quiet sense of gratitude. Not just for a friendship that has carried me through so many seasons, but for the reminder that we do not experience ourselves the way others do. And maybe that is the beauty of relationships. They help us update the story we tell ourselves. They help us see the parts we have stopped paying attention to. They help us recognise the growth we have lived but not yet celebrated.

If there is anything I am taking from that conversation, it is this: every human being is a story that is still being interpreted. And sometimes, the people around us are holding chapters we have never read.

My birthday is coming up. Not tomorrow, not next week, but in December. Still, something about November being so near always stirs something in me. It feels like my heart begins to whisper, “We are almost there again.”

Three years ago, I had a little ritual. Every year, I would do a birthday photoshoot. It was never about posting or showing off. It was about remembering. It was my way of saying, “This is who I was this year.” A way to hold on to a moment in time before life changed again.

But it has now been three years since I last did one.

And I have been asking myself why.

Part of me says that life got busy, but if I am honest, that is not true. The truth is, I am afraid. I am afraid to see how broken I have become. I am afraid to look at myself through the lens and meet the woman who has endured so much. The one who kept going even when her heart was tired.

It is not only fear of the mirror. It is also fear of pride. Because to feel proud would mean acknowledging how far I have come. It would mean facing the pain that shaped me, the quiet nights that stretched endlessly, and the mornings that demanded courage I did not know I had.

And yet, there is also gratitude. A deep, unexplainable gratitude that sits quietly in my chest. Gratitude to God for keeping me. For the days He held me together when I was sure I would fall apart. For the slow restoration that is still happening inside me.

Perhaps this year, I will stand before the camera again. Not to prove that I am fine, but to honor that I am still here. To capture not perfection, but progress. To say, “I made it through.”

I do not know what December will bring. But I know that I am grateful for life. For the strength to begin again, and for the peace that sometimes visits in the smallest, simplest ways.

Sometimes gratitude is quiet. Sometimes it is survival. And sometimes, it is simply whispering, “Thank You, God. I am still here.”

You do not recognize yourself outside performative behaviours because you have only ever known yourself through them. Every act of self-care, every declaration of healing, every display of strength becomes a mirror you hold up to convince yourself that you are doing fine. But when the mirror disappears, so does the clarity.

That same confusion follows us into love. Because we are used to performing stability, we often mistake emotional labor for love. We think we are nurturing when in truth we are trying to fix, manage, or hold things together so that nothing breaks.

Many of us misidentify our love language because of this. We say we value quality time, when what we actually crave is consistency. We say we love acts of service, when what we really mean is safety. And sometimes, to avoid being rejected, we choose people who cannot fully show up for us. We date men who are emotionally unavailable, or financially struggling, or both, because it gives us a role to perform. We tell ourselves that we are patient, loyal, understanding, and loving. Deep down, we are just afraid to be the one who is not needed.

Being with someone who cannot meet you halfway feels familiar, because it lets you continue performing love instead of receiving it. You can fill the silences, fix the gaps, explain away the distance. It feels safer to be the one who holds things together than to risk being held and then dropped.

But love is not meant to be another stage for performance. It is meant to be a space where you can exist without proving your worth. The moment you begin to know yourself outside performance, you begin to want different things. You no longer crave validation disguised as effort. You begin to understand that being loved should not require you to overfunction.

When you learn who you are without the performance, you start to attract people who can meet you there. Not because they complete you, but because they are willing to stand still with you, both of you unperformed, both of you real.

Have a lovely night !!!!

You know, the other day I was scrolling through some articles and I read that girls as young as eleven and thirteen can develop endometriosis. Eleven. Thirteen. I sat there for a while just thinking about it. I always thought endometriosis was one of those conditions that mostly affected grown women. You know, the kind of illness that takes years to even get diagnosed because no one takes women’s pain seriously. But it turns out that some girls start feeling that pain before they even fully understand what is happening to their bodies.

Then, as I kept reading, I came across something else. In Somalia, there are still debates about when a girl is considered ready for marriage. In some communities, that age is fifteen. Fifteen years old and already expected to be a wife, to be ready for motherhood, to take care of a home. I thought about myself at fifteen. At that age, I was still trying to figure out who I was, still growing into my body, still learning how to speak up for myself.

And I found myself thinking, what is this life? How can the world be so unbalanced? On one side, there are girls whose bodies are in pain that they cannot even describe, and on the other, there are girls being told they are ready for marriage. It feels like the world is constantly deciding for girls, instead of letting them just be children.

And then there is the reality of maternal health, especially here in Uganda. I do not even know where to start. The maternal health system is just terrible. Hospitals are overcrowded, the lines are long, the nurses are tired, and the resources are so few. There are women giving birth on the floor, women losing babies from complications that could have been prevented, and women dying because no one thought it was important enough to fix the system. It breaks my heart.

What is even more painful is that we hardly talk about it. It is like everyone has quietly accepted that maternal health is just something to survive. We should be shouting about it. We should be asking why.

And while all of this is happening, so many women do not really understand their own bodies. No one ever taught us. We were taught how to behave, how to sit properly, how to cook, how to be respectful. But no one sat us down to say, this is how your body works, this is what this pain might mean, this is what is normal and what is not. No one told us what to look out for when our periods are irregular, or why we might faint from cramps, or what it means if we have painful cycles every month.

We keep walking around thinking that pain is normal, that silence is strength, that asking questions is embarrassing. And the truth is, many of us are just learning things about our bodies through trial and error.

Sometimes I wonder how many of us are carrying confusion that we inherited from generations of silence. We were never given the language to talk about our own bodies. We were never told that it is okay to ask, it is okay to feel, it is okay to demand care.

It is strange how the world always finds a way to decide for women. When to bleed, when to marry, when to give birth, when to stop talking.

And it is awkward to talk about these things, I know. It feels too personal, too raw, too uncomfortable. But maybe that is exactly why we need to talk about them. Because the longer we keep quiet, the more hidden everything stays.

So yes, sometimes I sit back and ask myself again, what is this life? A life where girls are born into pain, where women are neglected in hospitals, where we know so little about our own bodies, and where silence feels safer than honesty.

Maybe that is where we start changing things. By simply asking the question out loud.

What is this life?