One of my resolutions this year was to learn to stand on my two feet.

It was a vague goal, but I knew what it meant.

I wanted to step away from the over-reliance of being defined in a group. I have always done that, defined myself through other people, either by proximity or by relation.

I don’t know when exactly I learnt to do this. Maybe I never learnt to define myself at all. Maybe I just grew up understanding myself through the people around me.

If I am someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone’s girlfriend then I know who I am.

If I am someone’s friend, someone’s colleague, someone’s partner, I know where I fit.

But who am I when nobody is standing next to me?

This sense of identity, built by defining myself through other people, has made me feel like a leech for most of my life. I don’t mean that literally, obviously. But sometimes I have wondered whether I know how to exist without attaching myself to something or someone.

I don’t have a very coherent sense of who I am because I have always needed to be in relation to someone else to define myself.

You know what that made me?

It made me jump into relationships too fast. It made me scared of losing friends because, somewhere in me, losing the friendship also felt like losing a part of myself.

I think when you don’t have a very strong sense of yourself, you become very protective of the relationships that help you know who you are.

You tolerate things.

You overthink things.

You take things personally.

You hold on for longer than you should.

Not necessarily because the relationship is good, but because the idea of who you are without it feels frightening.

I am a firstborn in a family of four, and my parents were kind enough to make sure none of us was ever alone for too long. From the period I became conscious of myself, I have always had my sisters. We went to the same schools all through. We lived together all through. We knew each other’s lives. There was always someone.

And this is one of the biggest gifts of my life. My sisters are probably one of the most important parts of who I am. But I have also been thinking about the other side of it.

When do you learn to be alone when there is always someone around? When do you learn what you like when there are always other people’s preferences in the room? When do you learn to make decisions purely because you want something and not because it makes sense to everyone else?

I don’t think I ever really had that period, and then I grew up and continued doing the same thing. I have always been in a friendship group. Everywhere I go, I am always in a group.

And I know this is a fundamentally human thing. We desire kinship. We want to belong. We want people who know us, people who are ours.

There is nothing wrong with that.

There is something beautiful about being known. But I started noticing how this was affecting my sense of self. It was too fragile or maybe it barely existed at all.

Because of this interconnectedness and too much proximity with others, boundaries have always been too blurry. I fault no one. I know how my boundaries and walls have been too weak and, in most cases, non-existent. I have allowed people into places in me that perhaps needed a door.

So, what should have felt like closeness sometimes felt suffocating and the strange thing is that sometimes the other person wasn’t even doing anything wrong. The suffocation was coming from how much meaning I had attached to the relationship.

I found myself carrying the weight of other people too heavily. Taking their choices personally. Taking their embarrassment as my embarrassment. Taking their problems as my problems . Always thinking in a group mentality. If we were friends and someone did something embarrassing, somehow, I was embarrassed too.

If someone made a decision I disagreed with, I felt the need to understand it, defend it, explain it. If someone was unhappy with me, I could spend hours trying to figure out what I had done wrong.

My choices started being filtered through the group, at least for me, and eventually this became an expectation I placed on other people too. I wanted other people’s reflections to reflect the group. It sounds ridiculous when I say it like that. But I think this is how blurry boundaries work. You stop knowing where you end and another person begins. Their feelings become your responsibility. Their choices become a reflection of you. Their perception of you becomes something you have to manage. And before you know it, you are no longer just living your life. You are managing a small society.

I know I am describing a very human experience, and you are probably reading this wondering where the issue is. There isn’t necessarily an issue with loving people deeply.

There isn’t an issue with belonging.

The issue, at least for me, was that I didn’t know where dependence ended and identity began. When all you have ever done is stand with the help of other people, when all you have ever done is be part of something, standing on your own two feet has a way of revealing a lot about you.

So I moved out. And perhaps the most impactful thing was changing jobs.

I had defined myself by where I worked for so long. Five years under one person, taking their opinion as the truth, taking the opinions of those around me as truth. There is something very comforting about being somewhere for five years. And then suddenly you leave and you have a clean slate. A new place where people don’t already have an idea of who you are. Nobody has watched you become the person you currently are. Nobody knows the old version of you. And strangely, that has been freeing.

I could define myself differently. I could discover what I was actually capable of without constantly comparing myself to the person I had been in that old environment.

I could make mistakes without them being attached to five years of history. I could ask myself, who am I here? And perhaps more importantly, who do I want to be here?

That has really helped me stand on my own. The most noticeable thing is that I have stopped being so scared of drawing boundaries. Not because I suddenly became very brave. I think I just became less afraid of the consequences. If a relationship doesn’t work, I will survive. If someone doesn’t like a decision I make, I will survive. If someone misunderstands me, I will survive. If I disappoint someone, I will survive.

I can stand on my two feet. This is probably why I keep coming back to Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet. In your life I would recommend picking the book, reading it slowly and reading it more than 3 times.

I have read it more than once now, and I think I needed it at this stage of my life because Rilke takes loneliness seriously. Not the sad kind. Rilke talks about the importance of being alone in becoming a whole person. And I think I am finally beginning to understand what he means.

There is a version of loneliness that is an invitation. An invitation to stop performing. To stop explaining. To stop asking whether you are being perceived correctly. To stop constantly looking outward for confirmation that you are okay. And just sit with yourself.

Being a being is strange, you know.

To understand a thing, to know it intellectually, and then have your behaviour contradict it.

The struggle to just be.

My heart is full of worry. Worry about my mortality and the mortality of the people I love. Worry about the triviality of things. About perceptions, about people.

I catch myself performing all the time. Maybe because I lack a deep sense of who I am.

At work, I worry more about how I’m being perceived than I do about simply being. I want to be picked. I want to be seen a certain way. I want people to arrive at the “right” conclusion about me.

I hardly do what I want because every decision becomes a negotiation in my head.

If I choose myself, how will this affect someone else? How will it make them feel? Or is the real worry that how they feel will change how I see myself?

Is my empathy entirely about the other person, or partly about protecting my own self-image.

Can I hold myself together when someone is hurting because of me?

Or am I projecting because I spiral like I do?

Maybe I imagine my actions have the same impact on other people because that’s how theirs have on me. Because i carry thingd too heavily.

Maybe they don’t.

Maybe they’re not thinking about me nearly as much as I think they are.

And if that’s true, then who have I been performing for all this time?

There is a call we all dread. The kind that comes at odd hours when your phone ringing suddenly feels unnatural. Someone asks if you have spoken to a certain person, and before they even finish the sentence, your body already knows. Then they tell you the person has passed on, and from that moment life quietly divides itself into before and after.

Death does not make sense immediately. Your mind keeps rejecting it. You find yourself going through old photos, rereading messages, almost expecting them to post something or call back. They were just here yesterday. Then slowly the house fills with relatives, neighbors, noise, cooking, phone calls, funeral plans. In most homes, grief rarely arrives alone. It comes with people, responsibility, and logistics. And sometimes all that movement delays the moment the loss finally sinks in.

And when you stand at the mortuary and they call his name, it finally becomes real in a way your mind can no longer escape. You are not even sure what exactly breaks inside you, only that something does. Then you gather quietly in the chapel, and the moment they bring in the casket, your body betrays you completely. Your chest tightens, your legs weaken, your breathing becomes uneven. It is the kind of pain that does not stay emotional. It enters the body.

And the pastor will sing that one hymn you hear at almost every burial, the one that somehow sounds heavier with a casket infront of you. At first it will just feel like background noise to grief, but weeks later you will catch yourself humming it absentmindedly in a matatu or while washing dishes, and it will hit you that your mind has tied that song to loss forever. Strangely, it will begin to comfort you.

Then the burial ends. People travel back to Nairobi. WhatsApp statuses slowly return to normal. Work emails pile up again. And somehow, painfully, life continues.

Slowly you will find yourself smiling again. Talking about them less. But thinking about them every single day. Sometimes you will catch yourself wondering what it means to simply stop existing. You will stare at your own skin and feel disturbed by the realization that one day this too will end. That one day people will stand around your grave trying to make sense of your absence too.

Grief will ambush you in ordinary places. On your way to work. In traffic or when Listening to music. You will hear a good song and immediately think about how much they would have loved it. You will eat something delicious and wish they were there to taste it too.

And when friends gather quietly and someone mentions their name, you will feel something close to FOMO for the dead. A strange sadness that life is continuing without them.

You realize you had not spoken properly in years. You start wondering when exactly the distance began. How someone once so present slowly became a memory while they were still alive.

Grief has a cruel way of opening emotional doors you spent years learning how to lock. Suddenly you cannot suppress anything anymore. Sadness,Fear, Regret ,Loneliness. Everything rises to the surface at once.

And then the existential thoughts begin. You think about how ordinary their last day probably was. They woke up. Folded clothes. Charged their phone. Said they would reply later. Went to sleep and simply did not wake up again.

And slowly it dawns on you that one day it will happen to you too. One day you will leave utensils in the sink because you planned to wash them later. A conversation will remain unanswered. My mama mboga will wonder why I did not pass by for my usual vegetables that evening. It will not feel like a dramatic day. Just an ordinary Tuesday filled with ordinary routines and ordinary people. Then suddenly, without warning, everything will end in the middle of living.

I wish death gave us time to finish packing. Time to fold our clothes back into the closet properly. To pick up our last delivery. To sign one final signature knowing it would be the last. I wish death arrived with the kind of closure movies promise people.

After loss, your mind begins wandering into strange places. You start wondering what death itself feels like. And secretly, quietly, you hope it feels gentle. Like relief after carrying something heavy for too long. Like exhaling after holding your breath underwater.

Sometimes I become painfully aware of how trapped existence can feel inside a body. How every feeling, every fear, every desire is limited by flesh and time. And so I hope death feels like release. Like a river finally reaching the ocean it was always moving toward.

Rest in peace, my dear friend Jasper Musyimi.

It is hard to find the right words because nothing about this feels like it should have happened so soon. You will be deeply missed by your family and friends, but even that sentence feels too small for what your absence means.

You were a kind soul, yes, but also something more alive than that. Free-spirited in the way you moved through life, in the things you loved, in the music and film.You lived with a softness that made people feel at ease around you.

I hope you experienced life fully in the ways that mattered to you. I hope you felt friendship in its truest form , the kind that stays with people long after they leave a room. And I hope that wherever you are now, there is peace that is deeper than anything you struggled with here.

To your family, I pray for strength that does not feel forced, and comfort that only God can give in moments like this. There are no words that can fill this space, only grace to carry them through it.

And for those of us left behind, may your life remind us to hold people more closely while they are still here. May this grief soften us, not harden us.

Rest well jasper.

See, I am the mayor of the delulu square….because i believed in everything that you said although the evidence was so clear…

Enyewe mimi ni fala sikudhani ningepatikana, nilithania mimi ni mjanja lakini jatelo amenipata……

Serro 2025…

If i have butchered the lyrics i am sorry.

When I got pregnant, I knew I had only one option, leave home.

I was the 24th child. The last born of Mr. Onyach.

He was the village elder, and you know how power has a scent that draws women in. Women were never far from him. They threw themselves at him, and he caught them all in his wide net.

I cannot remember ever having a father-daughter relationship with him. What we had felt more like a chief and one of his subjects. So when I got pregnant at 18, I knew I had to run. I was not going to stay long enough to discover what the other option looked like.

I left with nothing.

My brothers and father were frightening enough that the fear of the unknown felt smaller than the fear of what they might do to me.

I was supposed to preserve myself. Keep myself pure for whichever man my father and brothers would one day approve of.

Now that I was pregnant, I had ruined the goods.

There would be nothing left to offer the future husband.

That was the tragedy as they saw it. Not that I was scared. Not that I was only eighteen. Not that I was carrying a child and did not know what tomorrow looked like.

No

There concern was that ,I had become damaged goods in a market I never registered for.

A man I had never met already mattered more than me.They were saving me for him like people save the good sofa for visitors or the nice cups.And when he finally came, they would smile, shake hands, and count cows.

After i left ,i wandered for a while, carrying my clothes in a paper bag, until I met him.

I knew he was trouble the moment our eyes met.He was already drunk. I could smell it before he spoke. But I could also tell he had just come into money. Men walk differently when their pockets are full. Louder and Looser. Like the world has briefly forgiven them.

He did not seem bothered that everything I owned was folded inside a bag. He invited me to sit.

I asked for water.

I had never tasted alcohol, and my mother’s warnings were ringing too loudly in my ears to ignore.

“Jaber, where are you from?” he asked, his words heavy and slow.

Before I could answer, he whistled at the waiter and ordered two Tusker Baridis. Then I watched his eyes travel from the waiter to the bartender and back again.

Restless eyes.

Hungry eyes.

The kind that did not settle on people, only bodies.

There was something animal in the way he looked at women,as if wanting was a sickness and every skirt in the room was medicine.

Then he turned those same eyes on me.

And I understood that it was not me he had noticed.

It was the skirt.

And so I stayed.

Mostly in silence.

He finished the two Tusker and the more he drank, the more comfortable he became around me. Alcohol has a way of turning some men into the version of themselves they were already hiding.

His hand found my waist.

At first it rested there like it belonged.

Then, from time to time, it would slide lower to my ass and grab me roughly, and he would grin, making small signals with his face.

I said nothing.

I sat there suspended between two feelings I did not yet know how to separate, discomfort and getting turned on. Fear and curiosity. The body can betray the mind like that, especially when you are young and no one has taught you the language of boundaries.

Outside, the evening had grown dark.

Inside, the music had grown louder.

Then he slammed his keys onto the table, rose suddenly, and leaned his heavy body against my smaller one.

“Tuende kwangu,” he shouted over the music.

Then he pointed toward the door.

“Otis ako hapo nje. Mwambie atupeleke kwangu.”

And just like that, it was no longer a conversation.

It was a direction.

I had to half-carry him out with the help of the bouncer.

The bouncer looked at me, and for a brief second I saw concern in his eyes. Real concern. The kind people quickly hide when survival depends on minding their own business.

He wiped it away just as fast.

A good bouncer, I suppose, was not paid to judge situations. He was paid to keep drinks flowing and men feeling important.

At the entrance, the man shoved two hundred shillings into his hand.

The bouncer thanked him too eagerly, then called out to Otis to take us home.

And that is how, at eighteen, I found myself married to a thirty-four-year-old drunkard reckless with both money and women.

Not through vows.

Not through love.

Through exhaustion, circumstance, and one bad night.

Months passed.

Then years.

And like many disasters, it did not arrive all at once. It worsened slowly, then suddenly.

Some nights I was dragging him home from bar fights, blood on his shirt and vomit all over his shoes.

Other nights he locked me outside our tiny one-room house while he entertained women inside, women as lost and broken as the rest of us.

He never asked about my child.

Never asked who the father was.

He ignored the child the same way he ignored me.

At one point, another woman moved in with us.

She stayed three months.

By then I was sleeping hungry because every coin he touched dissolved into Tusker and strangers.

That was when I knew I had to leave.

So one day, while he was away, I packed my clothes, took his sufurias and meko, sold them for what little I could get, and boarded a matatu back home.

By then my father was dead.

And my brothers, softened by age, had cooled into ordinary men.

When I returned home, I was not welcomed.

I was tolerated.And they made sure I knew the difference.

No one said much directly. They did not need to. It was in the sighs, the silences, the way plates were served last, the way my mistakes were remembered longer than everyone else’s.

I was not a daughter who had come back.

I was a problem that had returned.

Then a soldier came home on holiday looking for a house help.

I knew opportunity does not always arrive dressed with dignity. Sometimes it comes wearing dusty boots and speaking casually at the gate.

So I spoke to him.

I told him I could work.

He agreed.

So in 1999, I left again.

This time not running from something, but moving toward something.

I worked in his house for a while. Later, I found a job with a Mhindi, and I worked there too. Life did not transform overnight. It rarely does. But for the first time, the road beneath me felt like mine.

Then I met my current mzee

We did not date.

He simply said he wanted a wife.

And I, a woman who had spent years being chosen by circumstance, quickly said yes.

We are together to this day

Anyway msichana, make sure in this life you have your own, little as it may be.

Your own money.
Your own options.
Your own name in the world.
Your own small corner no one can threaten to take from you.

Never surrender your agency as a human being.

Mwanamke ni kujitegemea.

Because when you have nothing of your own, you are forced to worship what should only be observed.

You start centering men, excusing men, fearing men, shrinking for men, not because they are gods, but because dependence can make ordinary people look divine.

If you must centre anything, centre God.

Centre your family.

Centre your friends.

Centre your peace.

But men?

Never.

And I mean never.

The day you begin making even your small money, something shifts inside you. You start seeing clearly. You realise these men are just men. They eat, lie, panic, age, fail, and bluff like everyone else.

Pesa si ya wanaume.

Pesa haipendi wanaume.

Money belongs to whoever can earn it, keep it, and grow it.

Find your own, msichana.

Because the script has always been the same. Many men have loved power more than partnership. They call control protection. They call dependency romance. They call your silence respect.

Do not be fooled.

This fantasy that a woman must be “taken care of” can become a beautiful cage. Comfortable, decorated, and still a cage.

Yes, there are good men.

Yes, partnership can be real.

But no adult should build their life on another adult’s mercy.

Hii maisha, be your own person.

Carry your own weight as much as you can.

Earn what you can.

Learn what you can.

Stand where you can.

Even small independence teaches big lessons.

And one more thing, human beings are rarely purely generous.

Most exchanges come with expectations, spoken or hidden.

If someone keeps giving while reminding you they are giving, start calculating the price.

Altruism is rare.

Leave sainthood to God.

As for the rest of us, understand the world as it is, not as songs and captions describe it.

Get your own.

Even little.

Especially little.

Because little money can become big dignity.

What’s the bane of your existence?

That one thing you suspect you will be fighting for the rest of your life. The thing that keeps showing up, in different forms, in different seasons, but somehow always feels the same.

That one thing you quietly believe that if you could just fix it, everything else would fall into place. That life would finally make sense. That you would finally become… whatever it is you think you’re supposed to be.

I’ve asked myself that question many times.

Mine is self-love.

Or the lack of it.

It’s the one thing I keep running into, no matter how much I grow, no matter what I achieve. Everything seems to circle back to it , how I see myself, how I accept myself, how easily I turn against myself.

Everything I struggle with seems to circle back to this , my inability to love myself.

And I’m not saying that in a self-pity kind of way. At least, I don’t think I am. I am surrounded by love. My family loves me. My friends love me. I am not lacking in that department.

Which is what makes it confusing.

Because when I am by myself, when it’s just me and my thoughts, I struggle to look at myself and feel anything close to love.

And the strange thing is, there is nothing obviously wrong.

There’s nothing about me that feels objectively shameful. I am… average. I am 5’4. I am of average intelligence and beauty. Nothing dramatic. Nothing extreme.

If anything, i am quite normal.

So I don’t even understand why I find it so hard to accept myself.

When I try to trace it back, I think I have always felt slightly… unaccepted. Not in a loud, obvious way. Just quietly and subtly.

I have always been very self-conscious. Even as a child.

And I have always had this habit of questioning everything.

Like, what is the point of all this? Why am I even here?

It’s a bit dramatic for a child, I know.

But I remember feeling it , this awareness that existence itself doesn’t fully make sense. That we are here, and then we are gone, and somehow we are expected to build an identity in between.

And I think somewhere in all that questioning, I lost the ability to just… be.

To exist without constantly evaluating myself.

I walk around with this quiet awareness that nothing in life is really stable.

There is nothing I can point to and say, this is mine, this is certain, this will always be here. Everything feels temporary and fragile.

Anything can happen.

I could lose a limb. I could get sick. I could die tomorrow. And it wouldn’t even be shocking ,just unfortunate.

So even the fundamentals don’t feel solid to me.

And I know that sounds a bit extreme. I’m aware of that. Most people don’t walk around thinking like this on a random Tuesday.

But I do.

And when you think like that for long enough, it becomes hard to build anything stable inside yourself , including love.

Because what exactly are you loving?

Something temporary? Something fragile? Something that could disappear at any moment?

Sometimes I try to make sense of it.

You turn to religion, and some of the answers don’t fully land.
You turn to science, and somehow the answers become even more unsettling.

And then you drift into nihilism , and that’s where things get quiet.

Because if nothing has inherent meaning, if everything just… is, then it becomes very hard to justify loving yourself in any deep, permanent way.

It’s also hard to love myself because I am very aware of what I am capable of.

Not in a dramatic way. Just… honestly.

I know how selfish I can be. I know how easily I can contradict myself , how I can believe one thing today and act completely differently tomorrow.

I know how I have hurt people.Sometimes intentionally, because I was hurt. Sometimes unintentionally, which somehow feels worse.

And I remember those moments.

I remember saying things I shouldn’t have said.I remember reacting from anger instead of understanding.I remember moments where I chose myself in ways that cost other people.

And it’s hard to unsee that version of yourself.

It’s hard to sit with the fact that under the right circumstances, you are not always kind. You are not always good. You are not always who you think you are.

I have seen what I become when I am angry. And it’s not pretty.Not violent in the way movies make it look. But sharp, careless, Capable of saying things that stay with someone long after the moment has passed.

And once you see that in yourself, you can’t unknow it.

So I sit with that question sometimes.

What exactly am I loving?

If I am this inconsistent…
If I am capable of hurting people…
If I am not inherently better than anyone else…

Then what is there to love, really?

And I think that’s why, for a long time, I’ve leaned towards the idea of being child-free.

Because this whole thing , existence, doesn’t fully make sense to me.

We are born, we struggle, we try to make something of ourselves, and then… we die. Quietly. Eventually forgotten. Like we were never really here.

So sometimes I ask myself, what’s the point of bringing someone else into that?

And the strange thing is, I don’t think it comes from a lack of love.
If anything, it feels like the opposite.

It feels like loving them too much to expose them to something I don’t fully understand myself.

Because life, as I have experienced it, is chaotic. Beautiful sometimes, yes. But also confusing. Painful and Uncertain.

And I’m not sure I have made peace with that.

So the best I have managed so far is not self-love.

It’s acceptance.

There are thoughts I have that surprise me. Sometimes it even disturbs me a little. And instead of trying to force myself to be better, or different, I am learning , slowly ,to just notice them.

To accept that this is also me.

Not the version I would present. Not the version I am proud of. But still… me.

And I wonder sometimes if that’s enough.

Or if this is just another way my ego is trying to make peace with something it doesn’t fully understand.

Because maybe this is all there is.

To exist.
To make choices.
To affect people , sometimes well, sometimes badly.
And eventually… to be forgotten.

And I think that’s why I come across the way I do sometimes.

A bit detached. A bit difficult.

I am that friend who doesn’t fully understand achievements the way other people do.
I struggle to see things as “good” or “bad” , most of the time, I just see choices and consequences.

“So he cheated?”
Yeah… that’s human nature.

“So he lied?”
Also human.

Not excusable. Just… explainable.

Which, I’m starting to realise, doesn’t always make me easy to deal with.

In fact, it probably makes me a bit of a pain.

But I think all of this , the questioning, the doubt, the contradictions is me trying, in my own way,

to understand what it means to live with myself.

At times I wonder how I will react when something big happens to me.

Like getting engaged. Or achieving something life-changing.

Because if I’m honest, I don’t feel entitled to anything in life. Not in a sad way. Just… neutrally.

I take things as they come.

And I’m starting to realise that sometimes it makes me come off like an asshole.

I have been cheated on before. More than once.
And instead of being angry or bitter, my first instinct is usually, well… it’s free will, isn’t it?

People make choices.

People have done me dirty.
And if I’m being honest, I have also done people dirty.

So somewhere in my head, it cancels out.
People are flawed. I am flawed. Life continues.

And I think that’s why I don’t take things personally.

If I don’t make money, it’s not an attack on me.
If something bad happens, I file it under unfortunate, not unfair.
If someone is rude to me, I notice it, but it doesn’t stay.

I just move on.

Which sounds healthy… until you realise it might not be.

Because maybe it’s not peace.
Maybe it’s detachment.

Maybe not loving myself has made everything feel… less significant.

If I don’t see myself as important, then nothing that happens to me feels important either.

And there’s a strange comfort in that.

It makes life easier to carry. Lighter.

But I also wonder what it costs.

What do you lose when nothing really touches you?

When everything just… passes through?

Sometimes I catch myself thinking , maybe we’ve overdone this self-love thing.

Maybe what we actually need is less attachment to ourselves.

And every time I think that, I pause a bit.

Because I can’t tell if I’m onto something…

or if I’ve just gotten very good at explaining my own detachment.

I know age is catching up with us, but do I look like a parent? The other day I was walking past the stage. Some boys were playing football and one of them said, “Shika mpira, mzazi apite.”

What do you mean, mzazi?

I’m still children, bana.

I digress.

I’ve always liked Mwangi. We kids grew up in fairly different neighborhoods. He grew up in a low-income household, ours was fairly okay. We did struggle sometimes, but I always hung out na Mwangi.

But looking back now, I realize how much a neighborhood can get into your head. For Mwangi, the streets were more than just home they were a teacher. They taught him to be loud so he’d be heard, to move fast so he wouldn’t be left behind, to claim space because no one was saving him a seat. He learned to read a person in seconds who could pay, who would cause trouble, who needed patience.

That’s what made him a natural kamagera. But that same sharpness came with a kind of armor. You don’t show softness where he’s from unless you’re ready to be stepped on. Sometimes I wonder if behind all that “Kamum!” and “Mzazi!” calling, there’s a part of him that still sees the world as a stage you either conquer or get conquered by. The neighborhood didn’t just shape his hustle it wired his mind to always be on guard, always be claiming, always be surviving. Even when he’s smiling.

I asked him, “Mzito, what happened to you guys since the last time we linked at the kalocal?”

He was silent for a long moment. Not the silence of someone searching for words, but the silence of a man closing a heavy door inside himself. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, stripped of all its usual stage-fire. It was the voice of a man speaking from a quiet room deep within.

“Life happened, bro,” he said. “It’s a long story. I’ll look for you.”

It wasn’t an answer. It was a perimeter. A wall built with quiet dignity. I could see it then, the weight he carried. Not the weight of sacks or passengers, but the heavier, invisible burden of a story that had broken its teller. Jackie… she had seemed weighed down by the relationship, by how it ended. But watching Mwangi now, I understood the other side of that weight. Hers was the weight of memory, of details re-lived. His was the weight of silence, of a story deliberately buried so it wouldn’t poison the present.

His strength wasn’t in moving on, it was in holding still. In bearing the full, unspoken truth without letting it crack his composure. The philosopher-emperor Marcus Aurelius wrote in his solitude, “You have power over your mind not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” Mwangi was that principle, lived. He could not control what had transpired, what had been lost or broken. But he exercised absolute, stoic control over what he allowed to escape from behind his eyes, what shape he allowed his pain to take in the world. His hurt was a private citadel, and he was its lone, unwavering guard.

He turned back to the stage, his posture straightening, the conductor’s mask settling back into place. “Nairobi! Ngong! Forty bob!” The boom was back, but now I heard the cost of it. In that brief, measured silence, he hadn’t just deferred a conversation. He had shown me the deepest kind of fortitude the strength to carry a shipwreck within you while still faithfully signaling to other ships.

As I was leaving, Mwas as I fondly call him tapped my shoulder.

“Let me tell you something,” he said, his tone like a weathered book closing. “Love and life come with two sides to every story. I loved Jackie, even on her hardest days, when it felt like a second job. She cheated on me more times than I can count. After all those years, I have to admit, she didn’t just break my heart. She left my understanding of women and, honestly, the whole concept of sexuality since I was young looking like a map to a country I’ve never visited.”

He paused, then added dryly, “Let’s just say her contributions to my personal education were… highly unaccredited.”

I laughed. Mwas has always been quick to defuse the heavy with a joke. “Well,” I said, “that kind of revelation calls for immediate medicinal intervention. Let me buy you a cup.”

“A cup?” He raised an eyebrow. “For a wound this existential? I was thinking more along the lines of a keg. We can talk about everything and anything. Or, preferably, nothing at all.”

He had a point. Nobody with a soul passes up a free, cold beer when the alternative is sitting alone with your thoughts. He agreed to meet me on Saturday.

So here I am, writing this down. Consider it a cliffhanger, my avid reader. A “To Be Continued” hovering over two barstools. I’m eagerly waiting to see what wisdom, chaos, or sheer nonsense pours out once the tap does. Stay tuned the update will be worth the round.

January in Nairobi is… different. It’s not like other months. It has a smell. A tension. A quiet desperation.

For us salaried babes, December salary usually dies by mid-month. You try to be responsible, you really do, but December has a way of convincing you that you can survive January with about 4k, one thousand per week. So by the 15th, the salary is already limping. By the 20th, it’s on life support

The rest of the month is Survival mode. Safaricom Fuliza becomes a lifestyle. If you’ve been faithful to your limit, paying it back, behaving, not embarrassing yourself ,Safaricom might be generous enough to give you a reasonable amount. Not enough to live comfortably, but enough to suffer with dignity.

So when January salary finally comes in, it doesn’t feel like relief. It feels like reconciliation. Because before you even touch it, Fuliza has already taken their cut. There is already a dent. A reminder. If you “dirty Decembered” properly trips, drinks, vibes, soft life and inshallah, your finances don’t really recover until March, sometimes April. That’s when you finally start breathing normally again and pretending, you’re good with money.

My nduthi guy today was Opiyo.

I was requesting an Uber ride and the app suggested 230 bob. Opiyo suggested 200. And my January-broke brain immediately decided that this was a sign. A whole thirty shillings saved. That is lunch money in January. That is transport for tomorrow. That is victory.

So I went with Opiyo.

Before we left, I did the usual safety briefing. I always do it, like a ritual, like maybe the universe is listening.

“usikimbie mbio,” I told him. Drive me safely. I always ask my nduthi guys to go at a reasonable speed , a speed where, if anything happens, I can jump off easily. That’s what I tell myself anyway. I don’t know how realistic that plan is, but in my head, it counts as risk management. Safety first.

As we pulled out, I tried to sound relaxed.

“Leo hakuna traffic sana,” I said casually.

“Ni January,” he replied and laughed.

“Watu itabidi wanaacha gari kwa nyumba, sahii.”

January has a way of humbling people. Cars stay at home. Egos take a break. The roads belong to nduthis and pedestrians.

“Watu wakona madeni, lazima walipe.”

I don’t know who I should believe , the economist on TV who said the GDP grew by five percent, or Opiyo. Right now, Opiyo feels more trustworthy. His data is lived experience. The way I have been suffering since January started, he has to be right. No spreadsheet can convince me otherwise.

“Kwanza hii economy ya Ruto,” he continued, shaking his head slightly

“Lakini ni vizuri watu wakona discipline. Ata beer siku hizi nakunywa moja na naenda nyumbani.”

I nodded in agreement, because January has made economists out of all of us. Everyone has a theory. Everyone has adjusted their lifestyle. One beer. One Uber less. One risky nduthi ride because thirty shillings is thirty shillings.

Also, there is something deeply Nairobi about men announcing their discipline like a badge of honour. As if self-control was a new invention. As if moderation itself deserves applause. But I let him have his moment. This economy humbles even the loudest.

As we rode past unusually empty roads, I thought about how January exposes the truth. The truth on the ground. The truth of people leaving cars at home. The truth of Fuliza balances. The truth of beer being reduced to one, not because of health, but because of survival.

If GDP really grew, it must have grown somewhere very far from where Opiyo and I were riding.

That’s the thing with Kenyans, especially Nairobians, if you want to know how people’s pockets are really doing, there are two very reliable indicators. One, men are drinking one beer. Two, marriages are suddenly working, because men are going home early.

There is nothing that heals a marriage faster than an empty wallet.

We get to Nyayo. I pay him and for a brief moment I consider taking his number so he can be my official nduthi guy from work. The convenience is tempting. A reliable rider in this city is a small miracle.

But then I picture it , a random “uko aje mrembo” text at 12 p.m. on a Tuesday, completely unprovoked, and suddenly the convenience feels expensive. Nairobi teaches you that nothing comes without an added cost.

So I let it slide. I thank him, adjust my bag, and walk away. Until the next time we meet , which in this city probably means never.

I am the type of person who believes “siezi park gari kwa ploti”. So realistically, plans of owning a car are not on the horizon.

But sometimes this city frustrates you so thoroughly that you start daydreaming irresponsibly. I imagine a version of myself who just wakes up one morning, walks into a car yard without consulting anyone, buys a car , and casually texts my bank for a top-up because my credit rating is that good.

January Nairobi teaches you many things. Painful things. Important things.

It teaches you that going home on a Friday is actually okay. That the house has furniture for a reason. It teaches you that carrying food to work is not that hard, that your handbag has enough space. That suddenly, miraculously, you can get to work in twenty minutes because half the city has parked their cars at home to reflect.

January teaches you that you don’t need to meet your friends outside. You can meet them in your house. Or not meet them at all. You can just talk on the phone and promise to plan something “next month.”

If January Laura existed the whole year, I think my life would be very different. I think I would pay off my Fuliza. I think I would pay my tithe in January , even churches are struggling, let’s be honest.

January in Nairobi is not a month, it’s character development. A compulsory unit.

Everyone has a hack. Mine is cooking once and eating the same thing for breakfast and lunch. I also discovered that vegetable rice can be eaten without stew. This is important information. For less than 100 bob , assuming you stocked rice properly in December , you can survive on vegetable rice and still look like a functioning adult.You just need to buy a glass of Minji, some brocolli and french beans.

It is a broke meal without looking broke. Like a Luo man. All flash, no substance.

It has been keeping me alive, but by the time January ends I don’t think I’ll ever eat vegetable rice again.

I have also completely abandoned heels. Comfort has become my entire personality. I walk everywhere, mostly to save money, partly because walking is free, and partly because Nairobi has forced me into fitness. I feel healthier, but my legs are suffering. I have decided I will not pay for a pedicure until March. These feet must learn humility.

In moments like this, the idea of being child-free feels like the only sane option. In January, babies don’t even smell nice. Baby fever for who? For what budget?

That’s what he said. Unprovoked. Casually. Like he was commenting on the weather or the traffic.

I was shocked. Not in a dramatic, but in that quiet, internal way where your brain stalls for a second, trying to catch up with what your ears just heard. My first response was, “What did you just say?”

I don’t think that was the reaction he expected. I think he expected laughter, or embarrassment, or maybe that polite smile women learn early, the one that smooths things over. I wasn’t trying to confront him. I genuinely needed confirmation. I needed to know that I had heard him correctly, because in my mind, this wasn’t something you said to someone you had just met. Not to a stranger. Not in a job setting. Not in any setting where professionalism was even pretending to exist.

There’s a moment like that, after a sentence lands, where you realize something important has shifted. Not loudly. Just subtly. A line has been crossed, and now you’re standing on the other side.

My insides were raging. The kind of rage that has nowhere to go because the situation doesn’t allow it. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. For a moment, I was just confused, not about what he meant, but about how casually he felt entitled to say it.

He kept going.

He started talking about my piercings and tattoos, and how I should remove them because I was already pretty. Already. As if my body was waiting for his edits. As if his approval mattered.

And the thing is, I didn’t ask. No one asked.

My anger slowly drained into disappointment. That heavy, sinking kind. Disappointed that this is genuinely how he thinks. Disappointed that this is how he moves through the world.

Disappointed that he gets to use space and time in this world.

I was disappointed that the universe, in all its randomness, allowed him to exist.

I contained myself and continued with the conversation that had brought me there. I nodded where nodding was required. I responded where responses were expected. I played my part well. And when we were done, I gathered myself, walked out, and stepped back into the world like nothing had happened.

On the way out, I made two resolutions.

I would not let this sit quietly inside me and rot.

The second felt almost like a policy update. In my future interactions, especially with men, I would leave no room for ambiguity. None. I would say things plainly. I would explicitly tell men when something was inappropriate, when I was uncomfortable, when a line had been crossed. I had a strong feeling this script would be useful. Often.

But this is not what made me write.

It’s What stayed with me afterward. Internally.

I felt ashamed. A deep, nauseating shame that didn’t quite make sense but felt very real. I was disgusted with myself. Disgusted that I didn’t tell him off.

Disgusted that I didn’t shut it down immediately, loudly, decisively. Disgusted that somewhere in his mind, he might now believe that I was okay with it. That my silence could be mistaken for consent, or worse, encouragement.

And I hated that possibility.

I hated that I was now carrying responsibility for his interpretation. That I was replaying the moment, rewriting it in my head, imagining all the versions of myself that responded better, stronger, braver. The version that said exactly the right thing at exactly the right time.

But that wasn’t the version that showed up.

And somehow, instead of directing my anger where it belonged, it curved inward. Toward me.

And I kept wondering why I didn’t say anything.

Was it low self-esteem? So low that I could tolerate being spoken to like that, smile through it, because I was afraid of what might happen if I spoke up? Why didn’t I shut it down immediately? Why did I continue to engage him normally after all that, as if nothing had happened?

Is that what we call professionalism? Or is it cowardice?

Maybe it’s my desire to keep the peace. That need to not ruffle feathers, to remain agreeable, to be the “easy” person. I like thinking of myself as kind, as nice, as easy to deal with. And maybe I’ve clung to those traits so tightly that I force myself to perform them even when the situation demands something else. Maybe I’ve defined myself so rigidly as likable and pleasant that I no longer know how to act in ways that are honest to the moment.

So what was the right response? Should I have called him out, right there and then? Was I really that afraid of the consequences?

Because fear did cross my mind. We read these stories all the time , how men react to rejection, to being confronted, to being embarrassed. I was alone in a room with him. It was his office, a space he knew well. If I screamed, would anyone hear me? If he became violent, would I make it to the door in time? Could I run fast enough up the stairs? I’ve gained weight lately, I know he would catch up with me easily.

Am I overthinking this, or am I justifying my silence?

Is this the reality of being a woman? Is this what I’ll have to keep negotiating in my professional life, weighing my safety against my dignity, my comfort against my career? How do you even learn to maneuver something like this?

And if objectification is inevitable, would I be bad to manipulate it and get what I want from these men? I will always be objectified, I might as well benefit from it.

This feels pragmatic, but I wonder, am I handing over my urgency in the process? Is being sexualized inevitable, or is it something I can shape?

If I dress more conservatively, will the outcome change? If I wear a wedding ring, will these men suddenly remember respect? If I become louder about my boundaries, will they stop objectifying me? Should I just wear a sack of clothes and call it a day? I am a damn feminist, I thought that was male-repellent enough.

I know people often take cues from how we define an interaction, and that thought has been haunting me. Was I too open? Did I, unconsciously, signal that sleeping with me was possible, that such comments were welcome, or at least permissible? Was I too friendly? I know, intellectually, that I am not responsible for other people’s behavior, and yet I still find myself asking, am I too nice? Has my niceness been misread as availability?

And then the questions deepen, and they get uncomfortable.

Is this patriarchy at work inside me? Have I internalized the idea that most positions of power are held by men, and that I need to maintain a certain likability to access opportunity? Am I, without intending to, reinforcing the very system I claim to resist? Have I absorbed the belief that to move forward in my career I must build networks carefully, tolerate discomfort quietly, swallow things I shouldn’t, because what if I don’t benefit otherwise?

Patriarchy loves and rewards specific kind of women. Meek. Agreeable. Silent. A woman who erases herself politely, who puts everyone and everything before herself. Or a woman who entertains male desire without making it inconvenient. And I wonder painfully how much of that woman I have become without realizing it.

Do I soothe male egos in hopes of safety? Of opportunity? Of acceptance? Am I seeking validation from a system that was never designed to recognize me fairly in the first place?

And if so what does resistance even look like anymore?

Am I being lazy in my interactions?

Sometimes I realize how it is easy to get away with mediocrity when dealing with men, especially men who sexualize you. Sometimes all it takes is softening, a gentle rub of the ego, a quiet performance of desirability, letting them believe they might have access to you and suddenly doors open. Things move faster. You get what you want from them with less resistance. And I have to ask myself, uncomfortably, is this what I’ve been doing all along?

Do I sexualize myself as leverage? Do I lean into being palatable, desirable, easy, because it’s simpler than pushing back? Because confrontation costs energy, safety, opportunity and sometimes dignity too? Is this strategy or surrender? Is it agency, or is it me choosing the path of least resistance and calling it pragmatism?

Maybe the harder, slower work is elsewhere. In building female mentors. In investing in women-led networks. Those relationships take time. They don’t offer instant leverage. They demand consistency, vulnerability, patience. But they feel cleaner. More honest. More coherent with who I say I am.

Because the truth is, I hate being objectified, like everyone does. I hate low-quality attention, especially from men who reduce me to a possibility instead of a person. I believe deeply in my own agency as a woman, and because of that, I reject ideologies and systems that strip it away quietly, under the guise of advantage or survival.

I believe in my freedom, fully, deliberately and I accept the responsibility that comes with it. Even when that freedom is inconvenient. Even when it costs me. Even when it means choosing the longer, harder ,lonelier road over the easier one.

I saw him yesterday. I was drunk. I took a glimpse of him walking in and my heart skipped. I first caught his silhouette, that’s how much I know him, I am familiar with his physic, I can even identify his shadow.

I haven’t seen him in a while. I won’t front and lie that I think about him all the time. At times I catch his scent from someone else and I remember him, at times his favorite song plays in the matatu and I am hit by the memory of him. In some instances, I can even see him in other people’s faces.

When he walked in, I looked away fast. Even when drunk, I know it’s better if I don’t see him, I know what happens next, I am way too familiar with this unending cycle.

He still knows what to say to me, still looks at me the same way. Once upon a time, I loved how he used to look at me, now I avoid that look with everything in me. He knows he still makes me feel that way, and he makes sure I know that he knows what he does to me.

I often find myself asking who broke who, we had a good thing going on to be honest. It was not perfect, it was practical. He was the type that never made promises he can’t keep so he never promised me heaven. He only made promises that he could keep. Maybe that was the problem, I wanted unicorns, but he was practical, unicorns don’t exist.

I tapped my friend and I told her that he was there, she immediately asked if I wanted us to leave. I did not want to leave, despite everything in me knowing how this was a bad idea. We should never be in the same building together, or anywhere at the same time together. I shrugged it off nonchalantly and told her it was okay. There were more than one hundred people there, I could avoid him the whole night.

I lost him for a moment, he meshed in the crowd and I continued sipping. After a while I caught him again. This time, he walked by and I knew where he was headed. He used to do it all the time, then when we were together, I would join him. This used to be our spot , this particular club.

I would always get there before him. Part of me thinks he liked big entrances, he knew how much attention he received. I always found myself smitten with his black sweatpants and hoodies. I would always be drunk before he got there, occasionally too drunk.

He mostly came with his boys, which would lead to him asking me to hook up one of his mates with one of mine. We were never perfect in any of the matches, we were just bad at it.

During those nights, he would ask for my phone to keep it safe because I am a little jumpy when drunk. He would get me a Smirnoff black ice every single time, I never knew why, but I like sweet drinks. I have always had a displeasure towards the taste of alcohol but I drink it anyway.

We would not spend all the time in the club together, I am way too antsy when drunk and so I would be everywhere dancing, I don’t dance though, I just jump. When a song we love would come on I would run to find him all the while he too was always trying to find me as well. It was always our song. Damn. Those nights were perfect, those nights made us forget how imperfect we were, we forgot everything and got carried away.

Alternatively, now I am here, without him. When those songs come up I don’t try to find him, I sit down and let it play out. I'd like to believe am not sad that we are not together anymore. At times we think that when people break up or divorce, they never loved each other. Contrary to that, we were good together, we tried to save it, maybe I gave up early, I was the one that broke it off with him. He was ready and always tried to make me see how we could still make it work but man, I was tired of always trying to save us, so I gave up and broke it off with him.

When I saw him leave the club, I tapped my friend and told her that I was coming back and elusively followed him. He walked to the back of the club through the alternative opening, it all felt so familiar.

I walked towards him and tapped him. I felt weak in my knees. To be honest, I was not quite sure if it was the alcohol or him. He turned to look at me and there it was… That fucking look, that look that always made me drop everything whilst still knowing how bad we are for each other. I instantly and maybe subconsciously drop everything I have built all through. Time to time I rationalize my actions and think to myself I would rather have a 20 percent of him than a nothing at all.

“Hi” I said faintly trying to catch my breath.

“Hi, Lau” he responded back. He almost always shortened my name. I hated it when we were together. It’s lazy to shorten my name, it just has three syllables you know? It’s crazy to think i used to think it’s lazy of him to shorten my name but now it stirred a different emotion in me, a happy and familiar emotion.

“You still come out here huh” I asked him not sure what to say.

“Yes I still do, lighting up for a minute before I go back in there “he replied looking at whatever he was smoking. I don’t smoke a lot of weed, when we were together it was his thing, at times I would smoke as well, but my mind is too chaotic, weed heightens my anxiety so I stay away from it.

“It’s been a minute, since I saw you, how are you, how is she? “He laughed as his eyes met mine.

“When we meet you always want to know how she is, so you can know how far to go with this. “He replied pensively.

His eyes were becoming red shot from the smoking.

“You also ask me how he is, too” I replied defensively.

“She is fine I guess” he replied too causally.

“So this time you have a her huh “I asked him.

“Something like that “he replied like he wanted me to stop with the inquisition.

“That’s nice, where is she?” I said looking around. To be honest, I always want to know what his current preference is, is she darker than me, shorter, with a bigger ass than I do, he always was an ass guy or maybe his preference changed. Bite me, I was just curious!

I was not mad at her, it almost always was a different her when we meet though.

Did I mention, we once met in a house party, he did not mention he had a her, and in my drunk stupor I made a move on him. Let it be known though, he did not resist my advances… things did not go so well and so these days I am careful to try and ask if there is a her in the picture, I seem to always have an intuition of when its serious or not.

“She is in there, “he replied pointing back to the club.

“She did not come with you?” I asked with a little bit of glee.

“Not really, she met her friend and now she is all over him” he replied almost choking on the blunt.

I could not help but start laughing. So this was no ordinary blunt session, this was a “I am trying not to cause any drama with anyone “session.

“It’s that serious with her huh, “I asked lowly.

“Something like that, I like her, she makes me happy, but you know there is…” he stopped mid-sentence and looked at me. My heart started beating fast. It always did when I was around him, it never stopped, even after all this years.

“There is?” I encouraged him to finish his sentence. It was silly, I was looking for trouble, I knew he was fire but I still went too close near him, unafraid to be burnt, I always came too close, by this time you would think I would have learnt enough from the past, but with him, I lose my senses, my brain takes a sabbatical.

“You know what it is, what are you doing here anyway?” He shrugged it off as he changed the subject fast.

“I am with my friends, you remember them?”

“Yes, I still do. They never forgave me for what I did to you, even afterwards when I came around I instinctively could feel them killing me in their brains” he said calmly. Sometimes I have this theory that he thinks he is a really bad person, and he long ago accepted that he is irredeemable. So he goes on with life expecting the worst. He believes he doesn’t deserve to be happy.

“Do you want to talk?” He asked me trying to put off the blunt that was now half way smoked. The music was too loud. So he asked me to take a night stroll with him. When I used to live along Thika road, we would take night strolls, at times we would talk for so long and forget how far we have gone and had to take a Matatu back. Oh how simple were those times then…

“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if you did not leave?” He asked me.

“Even if I stayed behind, we would have broken up one way or another, “I replied almost sure. The last three months before we ended things, it was ugly. We were trying to salvage something that was already on its death bed, I frankly wish we ended it earlier, I don’t think things would have escalated as they inevitably did.

“We had a good thing Laura. It was not perfect, but you come out here and you realize just how good we really were “he said

“I know, remember during your birthday I lost my phone and by chance we found ourselves in the same party, I saw you come in and I just cursed under my breath, the universe was rooting for us” the memory courses through me so effortlessly.

….

We have different stories of how we met, I met him first. He was so drunk when we met during a mutual friend’s party. As always he was the last to show up. He was really wasted and my friend suggested we go say hi to him. When I got there he lifted me up and joked about dropping me in the pool, I remember how hard I laughed. I did not give it so much thought as I found him too rowdy.

He texted me afterwards and for one year we were just friends, texting from time to time. He says he does not remember anything that transpired that day.

The next time we met was during my birthday, everyone forgot it was my birthday. He asked me to meet him in town and went ahead to buy me a card and a necklace. After this warming gesture we talked and took long strolls within town until the night crawled in. I went home smiling hard and I knew I was fucked up.

We would then hang out from time to time. During his birthday we were supposed to link up but I unfortunately lost my phone and could not get to him. It was also one of my friends birthday as well. I got there and I had a gut feeling he would show up, Nairobi parties always have almost the same people with the same crowds. He showed up with his friends and I was too shy to even say hi, I ran and hid in the restroom, I was not used to him so much then.

“yeeeh I remember when I saw you, during my birthday. You remember Arsenal was playing that night and we won, then I walked into the party. I was mad that I could not reach you and there you were , I knew it meant something, you had that blue dress on ,God, Lau , that’s like 2017, time has flown so much ,a lot has happened” he said reaching to hold my hand. I withdrew my hand almost immediately.

“ you used to like me holding your hand , every time in town when I don’t hold your hand you would ask me if there is anything wrong with us, I can’t even hold your damn hand right now, at times I forget things are different ” he asked me hurt and defensive, almost stopping in his tracks.

“You know why I can’t, we can’t pretend that it’s 2 years ago, everything is different now “I answered back, tucking my hands away. We had stopped walking and he was standing in front of me.

“ Then why did you come after me, I saw you in there, I wanted to come say hi, but I was not sure you wanted me to, second there is your friends, I am so sure they still don’t like me. I was hoping you would follow me out here” Damn. He always knew what to say, he said what I wanted him to say, even when it was wrong.

“I don’t know why I followed you, I just needed to talk to you” I said trying so hard not to lose it and throw myself at him.

“What do we keep doing, every-time this happens, we meet, we have a good time, then you block me then unblock me when you want, I have feelings as well Lau ,” he said seriously. I did not envision us getting here so fast. We always start with reminiscing our good times then this ugly truth comes later before saying good bye. It was always the same sequence of events.

“I just…” I could not find a reason why I did this all the time. That was my futile attempt at getting my sanity back. I knew there was nothing good that would come out of us getting back together or even letting ourselves get too close.

“You just what Laura?” He asked me getting frustrated.

“I don’t know, we both know nothing can come out of this “I replied, we both knew how these words held so much truth.

“You decided that long time ago, Laura, I can’t keep going on in circles “he said turning to go back to the club.

“I fucked up I know that, you fucked up too, you only told everyone half the story, made me the villain in this story. You told everyone how I destroyed you, like you did not destroy me as well, you broke me as well” he said raising his voice, maybe it was the alcohol that was making everything escalate so fast.

“That’s why we are not good together, I should never have come to find you today” I apologized trying not to cry.

“It’s a bit too late for that, you are already here, I am going to ask you one last time Laura, what do u want from me? I can’t keep playing these games with you” he said harshly. I knew that whatever I said would determine what happened going forward. I took a minute to think what I wanted, the alcohol was making my thinking a little blurry and I could not for the life of me think straight.

“I don’t know what I want, “I replied.

“Okay, I’ll help you make a decision. I knew I lost you a long time ago, a part of me always wished I could find a way for us to get back together. You can’t blame me for having such a wishful thought, but I can’t wait for you forever. I can’t sit around waiting for you to figure out what you want” he said and left immediately after.

I should have gone after him, I should have tried to make him understand that I was still trying to be okay. My heart sunk, like it did those many years ago, when my world crashed and he was not there to tell me I was going to be okay. He chose to hide behind his fears and selfishness.

No matter how much I loved him or still love him, some things you can’t forget. Some things create a permanent denture and no matter how much you convince yourself that you can see past them, they remain to be and feel unforgivable.

So I let him go, I let him slip away. Every time the goodbyes are always complicated, he breaks my heart every-time we meet, it honestly never gets better, it always hurts like every previous encounter . It was never easy to walk away, it will never be easy to walk away from him. I think we were meant to be but we did it wrongly.

In your late twenties, you will ask yourself what love is, and it’s very important you try and answer that question.

I was in a car with my friend, she had just gotten it, and I was clenching my ass, praying she’d make the right turn at the roundabout at Haile selassie Avenue.We were rushing to a meeting, traffic was thick, and getting caught because of traffic rules was high on the list of things I hoped would not go wrong. I was anxious, of course. I’m always anxious on the road. Every driver here is mad.

“Have you ever been in love?” I asked her, mostly to distract myself, even though I was half hyperventilating.

“I think I’ve been in love. I loved someone once, a guy I dated in university. Just the thought of loving him sent me into a panic attack. It felt like too much, like something I couldn’t control, so I broke up with him. I couldn’t sit with that intensity.”

I was confused.

My friend says things like, “If he leaves me, I’m sure I’ll die,” or “I don’t know what I’d do if he leaves me.” Sometimes she laughs it off and says, “You’ll be coming to see me in Mathare because nitachizi.” She says it like a joke, but there’s something serious underneath it, something heavy that doesn’t quite laugh with her.

When my friends talk about how they feel about their partners, I always pause and ask myself, “kwani mimi nikona shida gani?” Most times, I don’t relate. I don’t relate to that overwhelming intensity they describe. My life does not stop because I am in love or someone has left me. I have never lost my appetite because I am in love, the stomach should never pay the price for the stupidity of the heart. I don’t know if I am willing to cross an ocean for love or lose myself in the process.

I concluded that I am not a passionate lover. Sucks to be me or loved by me. Now I understand why some people left. I have been accused of being nonchalant while in love, of not reacting the “right” way. I once dated someone who would constantly give me hypothetical scenarios, testing how far I would go, how much I would sacrifice, how loudly I would choose them.

Scenario A:

“If we’re at an event and this babe comes up to me and dances with me, what would you do?”

“I’d tell you I’m uncomfortable.”

“Come on. Where are your cat nails? Why can’t you just fight for me?”

He was serious. I had never realized love meant fighting for someone. Which syllabus am I using for my love life? Because clearly, I missed this class.

Scenario B:

“Okay, maybe that’s not serious for you. What if you go through my phone and find something incriminating. I don’t know… what if I’m sexting another woman?”

“Why would I go through your phone? I ask, genuinely confused.

“Because I don’t know. Because you should. Most people do.”

And in that moment, I thought, maybe I’m naïve. Maybe I am too soft. So I updated my syllabus, go through people’s phones because apparently love requires surveillance.

So over and over again, I have been left because I am not a passionate lover.

Understandably so.

Sometimes I wonder if there is something wrong with my mind, if there is a part of me that didn’t get updated when everyone else was getting their emotional software upgraded. Maybe I have a big ego. Maybe I over-intellectualize love. Maybe I have too many maybes and not a single clean answer.

And maybe you will read this, and you know me, and you’ll say, but you’re not like that. People always do. They insist I’m warmer, deeper, more loving than I give myself credit for. I always find that interesting. I’m curious to know who they are seeing, because it doesn’t feel like the version of me, I experience from the inside.

I don’t know how I know I love someone. Most times, I think I am not the originator of love. I think I reciprocate love. I am the object of love, and my lovers are the subject. People love me, and then I respond to it. I will mirror it back.

And I think that’s why loving myself has always felt like an uphill task. Because loving yourself requires you to be everything at once, the source, the subject, and the object of love. You have to generate it, receive it, and hold it. I don’t know how to do that.

With other people, it’s easier. They show me how to love them. They set the tone, the rhythm, the volume. With myself, there’s no script, no example, no cue to follow. Just silence. And I don’t know what to do with silence.

I think in every relationship, there’s always the loved and the beloved. i feel that i am always the loved. I let other people mold me in their minds, project their idea of what it means to love me and then hand it to me. And I take it. I curve myself to fit into their version of love, even if it doesn’t quite match who I am.

It’s like they create the jerrican of love, and I’m just water, flowing, adjusting, filling every corner to fit, like water, I adapt. But there’s a sadness in it too, isn’t there? A quiet sense of losing yourself in the shape someone else has made for you.

And so, I worry about having children. I worry that I might not be able to love them the way they deserve, because it’s not something I know how to do. I know how to reciprocate love, to reflect it back, but I don’t know how to originate it, how to give it freely without a template.

I know motherhood is one of those things you can never fully understand until you go through it, like grief. You can read, watch, listen, prepare all you want, but until you’re in it, it exists only as theory. And I worry about that. I worry that my inexperience with giving love might create gaps they feel. I worry that the way I navigate love now cautiously, reflectively, sometimes fearfully might spill over in ways I can’t control.

I think the Bible is objectively well-written literature, and as a Christian, I often turn to it for guidance. I went looking, and I stumbled upon one of the most famous ideas of love, what it is, and what it is not.

1^st Corinthians 13 4-7.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. ⁵ It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. ⁶ Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. ⁷ It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.⁸ Love never fails.

So this has been my idea of love, my practice , with myself, with the people around me, and with my partner. I used to think love was something natural, something so intense you can’t breath, something that just happened. I used to think that when I said I love you, or when I was in love, everything else , patience, understanding, trust, kindness , would come naturally.

And when it didn’t come naturally, I thought maybe it wasn’t love at all. That was my mistake. I now see that love isn’t always instinct. Sometimes, love is a choice, a discipline, a practice you show up for every day , even when it doesn’t feel effortless.

And this idea has also shaped how I love myself. I stopped fantasizing about love, stopped romanticizing it, and started looking at it more pragmatically. It won’t make good poetry. There’s no sweeping orchestral music when I walk into a room. Nobody writes sonnets about the reality of love, washing dishes, sleeping in, paying bills, raising kids.

Love in my case is not dramatic. It’s mundane, almost mechanical. Some might call it boring. I call it everyday life. Love is in the little things, not the fireworks, but the cleaning dishes, the snacks, the small victories of surviving life together.

To love is to labor. And so, I try to labor for love.

I cook for my partner when he’s tired. I show up, even when I don’t want to. I walk with him to help clear his mind, even when I am exhausted.

For my friends, I show up every time, even when it inconveniences me. I carry their weight with grace, without complaining.

For my family, I hold space for them. I let them experience life without trying to control it. I don’t forcefully blend their stories with mine.

And for myself, I’ve had to learn to be kind, to do what needs to be done to make my life better. That looks like working out so I am healthy, taking responsibility for my choices, and showing up for my own growth.

I think the biggest hurdle of love is the ego. I’ve had a deep realization that this is true not just for me, but for many people. Love is a privilege, a chance to experience another person fully, and because of that, I give people the choice to stay or leave when they want to.

My principle is simple, if one day you wake up and all your sadness begins and ends with me, please leave. It will hurt, but I will be fine.

And so, every time someone leaves, I am able to collect myself and move on without spiralling. I always ask myself , when someone leaves, is it the loss of love and this person that truly hurts? Or is it my ego, bruised and wounded? Most often, it is the ego. The ego wants ownership, wants permanence, wants to feel needed. Love, at its truest, does not.

Nairobi tested my focus today. After hours of walking through the CBD for work, my tired mind began to wander and in a city this full of beauty, distraction is inevitable. Every other face seemed to tell a story, every passing glance a question. You see someone and think, maybe? But before the thought settles, another unforgettable image walks by. It’s less about romance and more about awe. Nairobi doesn’t let you look away.

You know that song “Jamaica Farewell” by Harry Belafonte? In Kenya, it took on a whole new layer of meaning after we lost the Rt. Honourable Raila Odinga. It’s one of those songs that’s both catchy and slow the kind you can hum along to while getting lost in your thoughts.

And there’s that line, and the rum is fine this time of year. It’s such a specific, comforting detail. Makes you think of good things coming at the right time. But now when I hear it, I also think of how songs can outlive moments, outlive people, and still hold something tender for those who remember.

As I sat down on the matatu to commute from Nairobi, I was thinking of how exhausting the day was , the only thing I wanted was a cold beer , just to easen the day.

Plan was simple when I get home , take a shower and a walk to my local for one beer , you know one for the road. The kalocal I go to , is very home-ish, in terms of we know each other , the bar tender a nice kamba babe , always smiling. Its a kalocal that you would find in 90’s sitcoms , like central perk ( Lol, I know you know the place I’m talking about)

Sometimes life gives you a little jolt in the middle of an ordinary day. Today, it came in the form of two faces I hadn’t seen in years old friends, both of them. We’d grown up together since our teens, about fifteen years now. Age mates, through and through.

But here’s what I didn’t know, they were together. A couple. Seeing them side by side, smiling in that familiar-but-new way, hit me with a quiet truth that life moves fast. And sometimes it moves without telling you.

Across from where I sat, my boys were at one table. At another table nearby sat a group of acquaintances people whose names I don’t know, but whose faces I could never mistake. Every time I come here, we greet each other. I’ll give the nod, the casual “Niaje, bro? Siku mingi? Life iko fiti?” And they’ll shoot back, “Kujikaza tu, bro.”

It’s just small talk, back and forth. But it’s more than that. It’s an acknowledgment. I see you here. You see me. We’re part of the same space, the same evening.

In the corner, at the back table, was Mwas. You’ve seen his type at every bus stage the kamegera, the guy who guides you into a matatu with a practiced hand. Truth is, you don’t really need him to find a seat. But you also know this is his hustle, his daily grind. So you let him guide you, because everyone’s just trying to eat.

I’ve always had a soft spot for Mwas. He’s respectful, quick with a joke, the kind of person who makes the local feel like home.

And life, being the small world it is, had threaded him into today’s surprise: Mwas used to date her. The woman from the couple I’d just stumbled upon. The one who made me feel like life was moving fast

So the story today isn’t really mine it’s theirs. Mwas and her. The past and the present, sharing a space in our kalocal.

I got to talk to them both, separately and together, in that way life sometimes allows.

And I think you’ll see what I saw: this isn’t just a catch-up between exes. It’s a mirror. A reflection of who we were as teenagers, and who we’re still becoming now awkwardly, hopefully, trying to figure out adulthood as we go

Let’s give this ex a name. I’d call her Jackie.

Jackie was a fine woman. She was in Form Four when I was in Form One. We grew up in the same orbit she knows my siblings, I know her cousins. We all grew up together. She used to be stunning the kind of thick, curvy woman that turned heads. I’ll admit, I’ve always been a sucker for nyash. And she was smart, too. Always spoke in this refined, clear English. She still does.

The signs are on her skin. Bruises, faint but there. A gap in her smile where teeth used to be. When she finally spoke to me, her voice was low, like sharing a secret the whole room shouldn’t hear. Her last man, three months back, beat her. Regularly.

And her body has shrunk. The curves I remember have thinned into something sharper, lighter. She’s lost a concerning amount of weight like life itself is wearing her down from the inside.

This story sits heavy on me. Heartbreaking isn’t even the word it’s a deep, unsettling sadness.

I think about my own upbringing, a father who showed his love through consistency, not control, through respect, not fear. I never witnessed violence at home, so the idea of a man hitting a woman has always felt alien. Wrong in a fundamental way.

And that’s what makes Jackie’s reality so hard to sit with. It’s a reminder that decency isn’t universal. That cruelty exists, often close to home.

Mwas pulls up a chair. He’s my age; Jackie has three years on us both. We fall into shaky small talk. All the while, her new man is at the pool table, chalking his cue, absorbed in his game. The click of the balls is the only steady sound in the room.

Then Jackie turns. Looks right at Mwas. The air goes still around our table.

“You know you ruined my life?” Her words are slurry but sharp. “You ruined me. For any man after you.”

Silence. I feel my own breath catch. That came from the shadows of her, from a place the drinks unlocked. But the raw hurt in it is real. My curiosity overrides my caution. I lean in, and the question leaves my lips before I can rethink it.

What do you mean ?

The air between them seemed to tighten. Jackie’s accusation still hung there, ugly and raw. Mwas didn’t look away.

Jackie: (Her voice wavering, but sharp) You took it. My first time. And then you were just… gone. You left me broken.

Mwas: (Calm, too calm) We were children, Jackie. Literally. You were in Form Four, I was a form one boy. We were stupid kids who didn’t know anything.

Jackie: Stupid kids? I loved you! And you used me and left. After you, nothing ever… fit right. Every man after was just a comparison. A disappointment. You set a standard of leaving.

I’m third wheeling a fight.

Mwas: (Shakes his head slowly) That’s not a standard. That’s a choice you kept making. I didn’t tell you to find the next man, or the next. I didn’t tell you to have a child with anyone.

Jackie: (Leaning forward, her eyes glistening) You destroyed my confidence! I felt used. I felt cheap. So, yes, I went where I felt wanted. Even if it was wrong. Even if it was just for a night. That started with you.

Mwas: (His composure cracks, just a flicker of frustration) So I’m responsible for your drinking, too? For the bangi? For letting a man three months ago beat you? Am I the one who held the bottle? Held your hands down?

Jackie flinched as if he’d struck her. The pool table went quiet for a second. Her current boyfriend was looking over now, cue stick idle in his hands.

Jackie: (A whisper now, defeated) You don’t understand. You were my first. You were supposed to be… careful with me.

Mwas: (Sighs, the fight leaving him, replaced by something like pity) Jackie, I was a boy. A scared, stupid boy who didn’t know how to be careful with himself, let alone you. I’m sorry it hurt you. I am. But you cannot give me the keys to your whole life and blame me for every crash. You have to take the wheel back.

She stares into her glass, broken by the words , she lifts her head slightly, balancing some tears and tells Mwas to leave.

Me to me: That escalated quickly.

He looked at me, a silent communication passing between us, a mix of exhaustion, sadness, and the understanding that some wounds never close, they just get covered with different scars.

He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the concrete floor. He nodded once, to no one in particular, and walked out. After Mwas left, I sat there, the silence ringing in my ears. I was left wondering, whose fault is it, really?

Mwas was literally fifteen back then. Just a boy. I remember him from kitambo, a huge champ, broad-shouldered, full of loud laughter. Now, he’s thinner. Beaten down. He lost his father a few years back, then a sibling. He’s been left to care for an ailing mother, working the stage day in, day out. He’s lost his share of weight, too. Not from drugs, but from worry. From carrying burdens he never asked for.

After a minute or so ,

The bar slowly filled with the evening’s regulars. The pool balls cracked again, laughter rose and fell, and the kalocal returned to its familiar rhythm a living thing that absorbed heartbreak into its warm, noisy bloodstream.

Jackie sat for a while longer, staring at the door Mwas had walked through. Then, without a word to me or to the man at the pool table, she stood, smoothed her shirt, and walked out into the gathering night. She didn’t look back.

I finished my beer. The cold had gone out of it.On my way home, I passed the matatu stage. Mwas was still there, under the dim glow of a streetlamp, guiding a final passenger into a departing van. His movements were tired but precise. He didn’t see me. I didn’t call out.

Some stories don’t end.

They just settle into silence, into memory, into the daily grind of moving forward. That night, I understood something I hadn’t before, we are all just trying to heal from versions of the past that the other person doesn’t even remember the same way.

And sometimes, healing doesn’t look like forgiveness. Sometimes it just looks like walking home alone under the same sky, carrying your own weight, letting the city hold you both without asking for answers.

I’ve been writing really serious stuff lately. So I decided to just write something with no rigid structure. This might feel a bit all over the place, and that’s the point. I want it to be everywhere. So no matter which paragraph you read, there won’t be a clear connection.

I am a creature of habit, to my own detriment, I’ll admit. My mind has this weird compulsion to create order where there shouldn’t be any. Whenever I do something and, for some reason, enjoy it or it comes easily, my mind immediately drafts a rulebook for cause and effect. This happened because of this and that, and so we always have to do this thing the same way if we want the same outcome.

One day, I was writing in a matatu on my way home, and the words just flowed. Ever since, my mind has decided that good writing is directly linked to matatu rides, and especially the ones going to Machakos with everyone asleep. So now, whenever I’m on a long trip, I feel this urge to write.

Another time, I was a bit tipsy on KC pineapple, and the writing was good. Just like that, my mind associated KC pineapple with creative genius. So now, every time I pick up my ka-quarter, I lie to myself that my creativity juices have been given a boost. Anyway when did Kc pineapple become so expensive, I used to get it for 250! That’s why it’s ka-quarter. The babe at my local told me it’s 400 and I almost choked. Ruto must go, by the way.

You know, when I first thought of writing this, I had a whole vibe in mind. I pictured doing it on a Friday afternoon, maybe with a drink in hand. You know the principle, write drunk, edit sober. But as luck would have it, it’s a Tuesday. I got home , no lights, my phone is at 2 percent, and the only thing with any power left is my laptop and i can’t sleep before 8pm.

So, I will have to rawdoggy this all the way through, hoping and praying I make it past two pages before the lights come back on. And now, of course, Il be distracted watching big bang theory for the 40th time.

Anyway, what are you guys watching?

I have this weird habit around this time of year. It starts to rain, the holidays feel close, and I find myself picking up old series I used to watch when I was in high school. Shit, I’m almost 30.

I rewatch them, and I’m right back there. I remember that feeling of being that young, you know? When everything was drenched in novelty. The first time you’re in love, the first time you kiss someone and your whole world tilts. I feel too old for those kinds of butterflies now, so I do everything I can to conjure the ghosts of them.

And that’s the thing, yeeeh... I miss the novelty. Experiencing things for the first time and thinking nothing in life will ever top this. You’re 17 or 18, your boobs are perky and feel fresh, you’re binge-watching Vampire Diaries and Keeping Up with the Kardashians on school break. Sex is this giant, mysterious thing you’re just on the cusp of figuring out.

I miss the novelty of everything. As you get older, that feeling fades, and you get stuck in routines that can just drain your soul. So during this time, I try to get it back. I watch my favorite movies from that era, listen to the old music, remember chanel O or MTV base if you don’t relate you are too young, eat the old snacks, crisps with tomatoe sauce , biscuits with peanut butter or mix drinking chocolate with blue band, all just chasing that nostalgic feeling.

I get lost in thought a lot. I’m hardly ever in the present, which is something I’m seriously trying to work on , to be here, in the moment. I don’t think much about my past, I have a bad memory. My memory only works up to a certain point, like it decided it has a storage limit.

Sometimes people remind me of things I apparently did, and I’m just there like, “Me? That doesn’t sound like something I’d do… but also, yeah, probably.” My brain treats memories like spam emails , deletes them to save space.

I think I spend most of my time lost in ideals ,the ideal life, the ideal version of myself, the ideal way things should be In my society. Sometimes I notice I’m caught in a loop, just turning the same thought over and over. That’s usually when I know it’s time to read more.

I think a lot about phenomena , about death, about war, about life and all the things that don’t really have answers. It’s just a loop until I stumble upon a new idea in a book, something that stretches my thinking a little further. That’s why I try to read a lot. Because I know myself , I know I’ll get stuck in one loop for too long, and after a while, my thoughts start to feel small and tired.

Sometimes I think about Fyodor Dostoevsky. I’ll admit, I haven’t taken much time to properly read his works. I’ve skimmed a few, read some commentaries here and there. He’s the most famous Russian person i know, after putin and rasputin, and our boy stalin okay maybe i know afew more. Dostoevsky is famous enough that you can’t miss him , the name alone sounds like he’s seen too much of life. I know his characters are complicated, layered in ways that feel both messy and human.

I try to write in other peoples perspective as well, not in anyway comparable to him. When I write in other people’s perspectives, I’ve realized it’s never really other people’s , it’s just me, wearing a different face. I think we all do that. We’re divergent, all of us, trying in our own ways to build a coherent sense of who we are. I try too and fail miserably ,to piece together this idea of “me,” this version that makes sense. But maybe it’s not supposed to make sense. Maybe trying to define who we are ruins the beauty of just being.

This is the thing with my characters , I don’t have many. I always go back to the same two. Most of the time, it’s when I want to write something I’d feel uncomfortable admitting about myself, but deep down I know that perspective exists in me. I think creating characters is just my way of hiding in plain sight, a safe disguise for truths I’m not ready to say out loud but know live somewhere in me.

When I want to cuss, talk about sex in a perverted way, or write about greed, selfishness, or drugs, exaggerated and messy , or just being a complete ass hole, I pick a male persona. I don’t know why, but it’s always easier to write as a man when I want to be vulgar or rough. It has nothing to do with how I view men (yeah, I’m a feminist and all that), but somehow it feels acceptable to write that way from a male perspective.

Maybe it’s because, through that voice, I can write my filth out ,let out the things that would otherwise sit heavy in me. Writing from a male perspective feels distant enough that it doesn’t feel personal, and in that distance, I can reach the darkest parts of myself and still breathe.

My female characters represent the parts of me that are gentle, hurt, and vulnerable. It’s easier to write from a female perspective ,i experience life as a woman. Female characters in my head are gentle yet free, is this internalised sexism? Damn.

I really need to sit with myself and understand why that is. I also think this blog is so deeply connected to me that people can see through the words and recognize me, my mother discovered social media, and she talks to her husband alot, which makes me regulate myself a lot. Sometimes I wish I had gone with an alias, maybe I’d feel freer to write without restraint. I think I’d write alot of filth , write about really complex emotions like shame, curse alot I would betray my morals for the plot….. I would live out my unlived gangster life through my writting.

But then again, I think I like that connection , that people can trace my words back to me, that they know it’s me behind the thoughts.

Sometimes I wish I were a musician. I’d hide behind good beats and dancing , you can lose yourself there, you know? Writing doesn’t give you that luxury. It’s too naked, too intimate. It strips you down to the soul of who you are. Even though you don’t know me, you’ll read this in a voice you create in your head, and somehow, you’ll start to imagine the kind of person I am.

You’ll probably picture the color of my room, wonder if I’m short or tall, maybe a little thick. You’ll start to build me in your mind , a version stitched together from words and imagination. And maybe that’s the beauty of it. You don’t really know me, but you meet parts of me that I’ve left on the page. writing is my way of saying, here, this is what it feels like to be me , today. It might change tomorrow, but for now, this is what’s true.

Now listen, listen ,I swear I am not a problematic person. Most times, I’m not. I sometimes pay my taxes and recycle when i remember, but I hate sambazas. Hate them. They’re right there at the top of my list of unnecessary annoyances , like hanging cuticles or when someone chews loudly next to you and people who walk slowly in town. The world wouldn’t end if sambazas disappeared, but it would definitely be a better place. Cleaner. Quieter. Less... squashed.

"Madam, kama hupendi kukaa na watu, nunua gari yako.”

That’s his comeback. Earlier, this same man was humble , almost begging me to board because the car had been at the stage for an hour. But now? Now he’s cocky. I don’t even know what to make of it. Part of me wants to laugh, but today, I’ve decided I’m winning this war. I already lost one with my boyfriend earlier because, apparently, he was right and I was wrong. So this one , this one I’m taking home.

If you ask me why I’m taking on this fight, I’ll say it’s the principle. I paid for a seat , the least I expect is a bit of comfort, not to be packed like bananas on a stalk. And honestly, the other part is simple, I just hate sambazas. They represent greed in its purest, wooden form. This is my small contribution to society , ensuring we all sit comfortably, one stubborn matatu ride at a time.

Comfort is a right not a rumour.

There’s really nothing deep here. I’m just in a terrible mood and this man has managed to piss me off at the wrong time. I should have made him swear , on something sacred , that he wouldn’t dare add a sambaza before I took the seat. I should have made him raise his right hand and promise before witnesses. He seemed like a good guy, though. From his accent, I can tell he’s a kamau, and you know how it is with them, money ranks right up there with oxygen. I’m honestly tempted to let it slide. To just concede and live to rant another day. But then again, where’s the fun in that?

By now he’d already told me to step out of the matatu and I was standing next to him. I measured how far I was willing to take this standoff. Worst case, he makes me miss the matatu , they’re taking so damn long , and then I become marked. From here on, every ride could be an uphill negotiation with a driver who remembers my face.

“You are pretty, but you have a foul mouth,” he said in a harsh Swahili, the words clipped like they’d been sharpened for effect. He looked at me with something like bitterness. I was certain he wanted to curse. I stared back and roled my eyes. In my head I snapped the perfect comeback: “For a short man, you have such an attitude.” I smiled none of it. I chose to swallow it down. His cards were still stronger and, frankly, I had more to lose.

He shamelessly makes a nice gentleman lose his seat at the front, and just like that, I’m escorted there like royalty , or maybe a troublemaker being relocated. I sit next to a lady with headphones on, blissfully detached from this chaos.

I feel sorry for the man who lost his seat, truly, but a small part of me thinks he should have fought like I did. If it were me, hell would have broken loose. I start to protest , because I genuinely believe you shouldn’t win at someone else’s expense , but then again, today, I’ll take my victory however it comes.

“Madam, acha mdomo mingi. Si umepata kiti?” he snaps, sharp and final. That’s my cue to shut up and take my win in peace.

I wish matatus had a rating system. I’d give him one star , too snappy for his height, customer service non-existent, too petty but Still, I’d recommend him for the experience, solid drama short king.

I thank him and take my seat. Moral of the story? Always fight against sambazas , and remember, short men's anger is pre-installed.

I sit on that seat, and I can’t stop crying. I had dreaded this moment, dreaded hearing him put into words what I had always suspected deep down. Knowing it myself was one thing; having someone else name it made it feel unbearably real, like a mountain I could never climb. And all I could manage to ask, through the lump in my throat, was, “Will I ever be okay?”

Hi, I’m a cup A, and I have hip dips. The psychiatrist says I have low self-esteem. He figured it out in minutes from a questionnaire , something I had spent years hiding from myself. I hated hearing it, but deep down I already knew. For so long I’d hoped there was some other explanation for my unhappiness, a chemical imbalance, anxiety, ADHD, something with a name that wasn’t my fault. But instead, it was me. I was the reason for my own unhappiness, and that realization burned.

I felt embarrassed, sitting with this, Low self-esteem. I think being told you have it is accompanied by a deep sense of shame, also because you know there are no drugs to be prescribed for a quick fix. Not like anxiety or bipolar. With this one, you know you have to build yourself up from scratch. There is no framework. You have to do it bleeding. You have to do it alone. You have to dig at the deepest sense of self.

what he said gave a name to my prison. It meant I didn’t hold myself with any real regard. It meant I kept sabotaging my own life because I believed I didn’t deserve good things. It meant I leaned too heavily on people’s approval, chasing validation to feel even a little worthy. My world was shaped by other people’s opinions, never my own.

Have you ever been in a social situation where a wave of laughter hits, and instead of joining in, you freeze? Your mind screams, ‘They’re laughing at you.’ Logically, you know it’s not true. But the feeling is heavy on your gut, so convincing, that your face flushes with a hot, prickling shame. Not shame for anything you’ve done, but shame for what you are: someone who would even think that.

This mindset bled into everything. Whenever someone treated me poorly, my first thought was, I must have caused it. If they were rude, I convinced myself I had triggered them. I became a master of self-editing, and I called it maturity, called it being considerate, but it was really just me shrinking myself to fit into places I didn’t belong.

I look at him in his lab coat, and I feel the anger building in me. It’s like he has shaken something I’ve been holding onto for so long. And my mind does what it does best , it gets defensive, because I am hurt.

“I don’t think it’s low self-esteem. I call it being considerate. These days everyone is obsessed with feeling special, my generation especially, walking around entitled. What happened to just giving yourself up for others?”

I defend myself. I watch this thought pattern, this is how I justify myself to myself. When I hold back because I feel unworthy, I raise my moral ground. I martyr myself. I tell myself I’m better because I don’t talk back, that I’m turning the other cheek, that there is strength and courage in being quiet. But really, it was all low self-esteem. I was scared of not being liked. I’ve always felt my emotions aren’t justifiable and I have a trembling fear of being perceived.

I walk with this weight, and when I react, it almost always comes from fear, from a mind clouded by distorted perceptions, self-loathing, self-doubt, and a victim mentality. And here’s the strange part ,sometimes being the victim even feels moral. Like there’s a strange purity in sitting with my hurt, dissecting how I’ve been wronged, replaying the scene over and over. I peel my offender’s apart layer by layer, labeling them narcissistic, inconsiderate, selfish, my favorite adjectives for people. It’s as if blaming them gives me a sense of power, even righteousness. But beneath that, I know it’s just another disguise for my low self-esteem. Because if I am always the victim, I never have to face the harder truth, that maybe the real battle is not with them, but with myself

To walk around feeling hopeless, feeling like life is something that just happens to me , that’s how I’ve lived. I’ve undermined my own agency, wrapped it up in a distorted perception that I twist into intellectual or moral superiority. Being meek has always felt virtuous to me. I think I chose that philosophy because it was easy, because of my low self-esteem. It was always simpler to “turn the other cheek,” always simpler to say yes and be agreeable. I even took pride in it, in being easy to deal with, in being considerate, in always trying to see the best in people. Sometimes even when there was no good left to see, I still told myself to try harder, that I was the problem, that I wasn’t seeing them clearly enough. Even when they’d already shown me, over and over, exactly who they were.

I made others comfortable at the expense of liking myself. I know what it feels like to bend, to edit yourself so much that you start to feel unauthentic. I know the frustration of walking away wishing you had said something, anything only to replay it over and over in your head. You analyze the scene from every angle, reminding yourself how unfair it was, building the case for why you should have spoken up. But no matter how far you go in that mental loop, you always end up in the same place: it must have been my fault. It must have been my problem.

I’ve realized how much I take things personally. When people speak, my mind immediately starts to nitpick their words, searching for hidden meanings. I convince myself their comment reveals what they really think of me, and that’s why they said it. I end up carrying other people’s lack of consideration, even their lack of awareness, as if it’s my responsibility. I forget that most of us are just projecting our own realities, and that what people say is rarely a direct reflection of me. But somehow, I twist it into proof that it must be about me. Which is kind of funny when you think about it, how grandiose of me, to believe people spend that much energy thinking about me. Ha! Maybe that’s what high self-esteem looks like.

In my effort to wear other people’s shoes, to understand their point of view, I neglected my own. And now I’m not even sure which shoe fits me anymore. All I ended up with was low self-esteem and a quiet, steady self-loathing.

“I’m not suicidal, though. I would never hurt myself. I’m ambitious , does that count as wishing well for myself?”

I continue to defend myself and he writes something on that book. I feel naked infront of him, in a sense that makes me feel vulnerable and uncomfortable.

I find existence overbearing. I battle with my own consciousness, and maybe that explains my pull toward anything that numbs me. That’s why my drugs of choice are anything that will drown my consciousness, not heighten it.

In social situations, I feel too self-conscious. And again, doesn’t that count as high self-esteem, to think others are paying that much attention to me? But I notice how self-conscious I get: fidgety, in my head, awkward. My first instinct is to drink quickly, fast enough to drown that awareness. But I always miss the mark. I always overshoot. And the result is overindulgence, acting out of character, and away from the script I’ve created for myself. Kazi ni kuchoma tu.

I think the reason I beat myself up after acting out of character when I’m drunk is because I’m terrified of what I might say or do. I self-edit so much, suppress my emotions so deeply, that I know when I’m drunk my guard drops. And then I’ll act outside the script I’ve so carefully created for myself. I’m scared that what slips out will be unforgivable. Oooooh. Now I see it. This is what low self-esteem really looks like.

“Okay, let’s say I do have low self-esteem. Then the question becomes: how did I get here? “

I prompt him.

Maybe it started the moment I began bending myself to fit into spaces that weren’t mine. Maybe it grew in the silences where I swallowed my voice to keep the peace. Maybe it’s in the habit of making everyone else comfortable while I quietly disappeared. All those small edits of myself… they added up. And now I find myself staring at the pattern, wondering what part of me I traded away just to belong.

I also think I’ve also always been painfully conscious of myself, of what I lacked compared to others. I just thought, this is who I am; this is how life is. I didn’t know another way to exist. For the longest time, I wore it like a badge of dignity, convincing myself it was my way of being, until I realized, man, I was miserable as hell. Most of the time I was self-managing instead of living; never really in the moment because inside I was freaking out, managing my reactions, talking myself through every interaction, analyzing everything, and taking responsibility for other people’s emotions. No wonder I end every day feeling like I’m dying inside.

At this point, he’s just looking at me. I hope he’s not feeling sorry for me. I hate when people do that.

I think I have a distorted perception of myself. There’s an ideal version of who I should be , how I look, how I act, how I show up ,and then there’s me, the real messy me. The gap between the two is so wide it feels impossible to love myself as I am.

I tell myself I’m a work in progress. I promise that when I get to a certain place , when I dress better, when I land that job, when I finally beat this one vice , then it will be easy to love myself. Loving myself will be the reward. But that place keeps shifting. The bar keeps moving. Every time I think I’m close, it slides further away.

Am I doomed to feel like this for the rest of my life?

I choose you for the peace you bring, for how my thoughts settle when I’m with you. You don’t fill the silence with noise; you make silence feel comfortable. I chose you for your steady arms: the way you hold mine as we cross Nairobi’s chaotic streets, and the way you steady my world when it tilts. I choose you for my soul because you feel less like a choice and more like the place where I finally, completely belong.

I chose you because you let me be. people try to own others, to reshape them into a version that’s easier to like, according to them. You don’t place unfair boundaries around me, you don’t force your definition of me; you don’t tuck my edges, so they look neater for your comfort. You just give me enough room to breathe, to make mistakes, to surprise you. Because you don’t tie your love to how well I conform, I feel brave enough to change. I try things I would have hidden before; I say difficult things out loud.

You are curious about me, you don't assume who I am, what I like or what I am like, you ask and observe, when I say I don't like something, you don't ask why, and when I change what I like, you don't ask why, you just let me enjoy whatever I like until I change my mind.

You pay attention. You notice when I’m anxious in front of people; you hold my hand and let me fidget with your ring, a quiet anchor. When I can’t take it anymore, you make up an excuse for us to leave. You never let me get too uncomfortable. You watch the room for me, carry on conversations when I can’t, and always turn to ask, “Are you okay?”

You hold my quirks with a kind and quiet grace. When I drink with no reservations and can’t hold my liquor, when I leave my makeup scattered on the sink because I was in a hurry, or when I burn the food because I was too distracted on my phone, I know I frustrate you. But you never make it seem like I am damaged. Instead, you sigh, make a joke to ease the moment, and offer that soft look you always have when you say, “It’s fine, we’ll try again next time.” You don’t prune me into someone simpler; you make space for the messy parts and, when I can’t, you carry the weight with patience.

You remind me of hope. On the days when the world crushes my soul, meeting you lifts me again. You never let me sink too deep into complaints before reminding me, “Aaah, life… we take it one day at a time.” Even when the world has broken you, you still show up with a smile and a quiet confidence that everything will be okay. And somehow, you pass that confidence to me, giving me the courage to face each day

I chose you for my soul because you touch it as if by alchemy. You breathe life into my days and bring sanity to my mind. You calm the storms not with grand gestures, but with the most subtle, steady acts.

I look over and see Paul. He’s crying uncontrollably. In this moment, none of us can be there for anyone else, we’re all too cracked open. I remember Paul. Perfect Paul. She used to compare me to him, always reminding me I should be more like him. I hated that guy. Still do. But watching him now, my heart breaks for him, and I hate that too.

Then to the other side and i spot Mutua. I’m honestly surprised he showed up. And here’s the stupid part: I know every man she was with after me. I made it my business. Not because she was my first love or anything noble like that. No, it was guilt. I broke her for other men. And whenever life decided to kick me in the teeth, I’d reach out to her like some tragic hobby. She always knew what to say, always patched me up just enough. And I, being the selfish asshole I am, kept her around for that.

I am heartbroken. I didn’t even tell my wife where I was going. How could I? How do you tell your wife you are going to say goodbye to the love of your life? I didn’t even try. Didn’t feel the need to. Didn’t even accord her that respect. I’ve been bitter. I told her work had crazy deadlines, but I’m sure she knew I was lying. She has that annoying sixth sense about me, knows me too well for my own liking. Not because I ever really let her know me, but because she pries. She spooks me. I have to change my phone password every six months just to keep my sanity.

She’s a nice person, don’t get me wrong. But there’s something missing. God knows I’ve tried loving her, but something about her just repels me. I tell myself I married her because she’s a “good partner.” She cooks, she cleans, she kneels well, for me and for God. She’s smart enough that I can bring her around other people. She’s attractive too, more attractive than her, if I’m being objective. She’s got that big nyash that looks like a trolley loaded at the end of the month. And yet… and yet, I can’t commit.

I’m holding a rose, unsure what to do with it. I try to make it feel symbolic, but really, it’s just a rose. After everything she accomplished, after the years, the struggles, the dreams she chased, this is all we hand her in the end. Flowers. Fragile, temporary things that wither by tomorrow.

She bought a Mercedes the afew years back, her dream car, the one she used to talk about like it was the finish line of her life. I was happy for her when she finally got it. And yet here I stand, with nothing but a flower in my hand, realizing how little the things we worship matter when we’re lowered into the ground.

I remember was making a decision on what to buy. She’d texted me, asking about the specs, because apparently, I am a car guy, and she respected my opinion. I joked about riding her to test it out, and she snubbed me. I gave her my opinion. She thanked me and moved on, barely recognizing me. But she bought the car I had suggested.

In my silly way, I was happy. She still valued my opinion. I felt important. That night, I fucked my wife because, in that moment, I felt like a man. I was the man. She had a way of messing with my self-perception.

I remember when she told me I was as useless as nipples on a man, because I didn’t fold clothes the way she wanted, because I said something she deemed stupid or not intellectual enough, because I pronounced words wrong. That condescending look she gave me when I failed her expectations could shrink my balls faster than anything else. And her endless money talks when I was broke, fuck that woman. But more than that, what really broke me was how small I felt in her presence, how every word, every glance, every sigh made me question if I was even enough to exist in her world. That’s the part no one tells you about: it’s not the insults, it’s the quiet erosion of your self-worth, the slow bleed of confidence until you’re desperate for any scrap of approval, even from the one person who’s already tearing you down.

And yet, I always looked at her for approval. That was all that mattered. I was a man because she said I was, and not a man because she said so. I hated how much control she had over me. She was the rider who hopped on me, figuratively and literally and never stepped down. No woman had ever held that much sway over me; usually, I find it repulsive. But with her, I was a thirsty man, always craving more, figuratively, actually, all of it.

I’m sure that’s why she left. I was too needy, too nagging. And in that, there’s the bitterest part of all: I loved it, I needed it, and maybe that’s what broke us both.

When we met, she was shy, innocent in a way that made you want to handle her carefully, though I didn’t. I remember the first time I kissed her, how her lips tasted, how her body flinched against mine, untouched by anyone before me. I had to convince her for weeks to let me kiss her, and when she finally did, I devoured that kiss like my life depended on it. I was too young, too reckless, but even then I knew what it meant. And, of course, being me, I couldn’t stay faithful. I fucked other girls, and she found out. I broke her. I remember that look on her face, like I had done something illegal, like I had stolen the first and purest piece of her innocence, and maybe I had.

I don’t think she was really hurt, she was too naive for that. She was shocked that I had betrayed her, and that look on her face haunted me well into adulthood. She didn’t understand how I could say I loved her and still have the guts to sleep with other people. I wish she knew, it’s not guts that fuck around, it’s the dick. And I had one. A proper one. That’s what they all said.

She met Paul right afterward. He became the shoulder she cried on, and I can’t stop imagining how they must have spoken about me, probably painting me as some monstrous, pathetic fool. He was everything I wasn’t: honest, patient, kind, worshiping the ground she walked on. Of course, I convinced myself he must have had a small dick; there was no way anyone could be that committed to one woman at that age for nothing.

He picked her up when she was crying, held her, told her what good men looked like, patched her together when she started questioning her worth. And I can’t help picturing him doing it all while still fucking her, because he could.

I don’t know what happened, but one day she called me out of the blue, crying, and asked me to go pick her up. I dropped everything like this was the call I’d been waiting for my whole life. When I showed up, she had her bag on her back, and I didn’t want to know what had happened to her. I took her to my place. She went straight to the bathroom, and when she came out wearing my T-shirt, everything in me came alive, some parts more alive than others. That night, we had sex and cuddled until morning, and in the height of my emotions, I asked her to be my girlfriend. I promised her I had changed.

A few months later, a skirt passed me , tiny waist, big ass and I can’t remember exactly what happened, but I remember blood rushing to my groin and ending up in bed with her. Buda, niache nyash ipite, kwani mimi ni nugu. That was the start of my many affairs.

When she finally left me, she was done. I saw it in her eyes, heard it in her spiteful words. When she broke my laptop and cups, I knew it for certain: she was done with me. I felt her change, knew she would never trust any man again. And I realized, without intending to, that I had ruined her.

In my mind, I always thought there would be a third time, a final time. I hoped that by the third time, I would have changed, that I would finally have the discipline to keep it in my pants. But here I am, standing with no home to return to, i found solace on another woman’s breasts for the past two days. And now that she is gone, there’s no point in trying. The one person I was, maybe foolishly, trying to be better for is gone. And with her, my will to change, my pretense of restraint, my hope for redemption, they all left too. I see it now: I wasn’t failing her; I was failing myself. I wanted to be better, but I wasn’t built for it. I was just a man chasing lust, nyash, approval, and scraps of ego, pretending it was love. And that is my truth.

He’s not there when I open my eyes in the morning, but once it’s dark outside and the curtains are dropped, he gets into bed with me unheard.

Sleep is a man who comes lusting once he sees how naked I am under these sheets and how dark the nights become. But his presence has nothing to do with my nudity; he comes nonetheless, but it takes him a while to go if every bit of clothing is not off of me.

And if on those days I stay up talking to another man, he comes late at night like a drunkard, stumbling, and makes me fall. And on days when I’m wretched and cried for long, he comes running as soon as my head hits the pillow. I think it’s his way of despising my sadness saying “Not on my watch” making me think that at the end of the day, I have someone who cares.

He takes me to this quiet place that no one knows about. It’s so peaceful that I sometimes long to spend my days with him too. But that can’t be, he says he can’t commit, unlike his cousin death, who has too many wives that spend their eternity locked up in a coffin 6 feet under with him, sleep can’t commit like that, he says he likes his one-night stands. He likes it when he visits during the dark and leave when morning comes. And I’m not prepared yet to promise his cousin death an eternal life, for all I know he’s a pretentious man with a mysterious background that no one really knows about and I like my men as simple

as sleep.

It’s not that I don’t care. It’s just that I’ve fully embraced the chaos. Bills? Money comes, money goes. Career crisis? The path reveals itself when you stop looking. Existential dread? Have you tried breathing… but, like, slower.

Meanwhile, she’s over there with color-coded planners, therapy journals, and a five-year plan that’s currently being rewritten in panic-cursive because WHAT IF I DIE BEFORE I FINISH MY VISION BOARD? I get it. My calmness is infuriating. My ability to shrug and say It’ll work out in the face of minor disasters (like forgetting our anniversary or accidentally leaving a tap open, only for the house to turn into a mini-Venice) is, according to her, not normal human behavior. But here’s the thing: someone has to be the rock in this relationship. And by "rock, "I mean "guy who occasionally hums while the world burns.”

So yes, I’m zen. And yes, it drives her insane. But balance is important, and if she ever actually achieves inner peace, I’ll be out of a job.

But here's the cosmic joke, as always: I don't have any answers. I'm just really good at pretending the questions don't scare me, you know why? There's a quiet desperation in the need to know - like that time I spent 47 minutes staring at the toothpaste aisle trying to choose between "Colgate herbal" and "Cool Fresh" like it was some kind of spiritual test.

The questions loom like unread emails: Am I where I should be? Why does my WiFi work perfectly until I need to send an important email? Will I ever feel like I've truly "arrived," or am I doomed to eternally feel like I left the oven on?

What if the questions themselves are the way? What if carrying them is like carrying one of those tiny umbrellas in your drink - mostly useless but kind of charming eh? I think of Rilke's (Letters to a Young Poet) words about loving the questions, which sounds beautiful until you're doing it, and it feels less like poetry and more like being stuck in an elevator with a motivational poster.

I try to sit with the unease. The mind rebels, of course - it wants answers like my dogs want breakfast at 4:30 AM. But life doesn't come with an instruction manual. It's more like assembling furniture while slightly drunk - you might end up with something functional, but there will be extra screws.

There's freedom in releasing the need for answers. To walk through the world without certainty is to walk lightly, noticing how the morning light hits your partner's face as she glares at you for being "too chill about everything." The questions don't disappear - they just become less like final exams and more like those "how many triangles do you see?" puzzles.

And so I practice living the questions. I breathe into the space between knowing and not knowing, like when someone asks "What do you do?" and I have to decide between the truth ("I stare at walls and think about mortality") and the acceptable answer (I'm in between projects). The answers, if they come, will come not because I demanded them, but because I lived my way into them - probably while forgetting to water her plants.

Perhaps this is the secret: to stop searching and start being. To let the unanswered things linger like that weird smell in the kitchen that no one can identify. The questions will remain. But so will the sunset, the taste of cold water, and the way my partner rolls her eyes when I say "everything happens for a reason" during her work crisis.

So yes, I’m Zen. Or at least, I’ve mastered the ancient art of looking Zen while internally debating whether I left the stove on or if my dog is secretly judging me. And if that’s not enlightenment, well… it’s close enough for government work, which, let’s be honest, is the official motto of adulthood.

The wise man (probably a sleep-deprived barista) once said, Life is what happens while you’re trying to figure out what to do with your life. Truer words have never been mumbled into a lukewarm cup of coffee.

Speaking of life happening, why is it that every time I finally do achieve inner peace, my brain decides to remind me of that one embarrassing thing I did in 2017? Like, hey, remember when you waved back at someone who was waving at the person behind you? Let’s replay that, but in slow motion for the next 45 minutes. The Buddha never had to deal with this nonsense. Then again, he also didn’t have to navigate group texts, so maybe we’re even.

And then there’s the toothpaste. The real meaning of life, hidden in the mundane. Remember to buy more toothpaste, the wise man also (definitely) said, because nothing screams, I have my act together like not having to scrape the last molecule of minty paste from the tube at 6 a.m. Toothpaste is the silent guardian of adulthood, the unsung hero of responsible living. Forget meditation, true peace is knowing you’ll never have to brush your teeth with baking soda in a moment of desperation.

So, here’s my final nugget of wisdom: Fake the Zen. Embrace the chaos. Buy the toothpaste. And if all else fails, just nod sagely and say, It’s all part of the journey. Then immediately go panic-eat a snack like the rest of us. Namaste, or whatever.

written by steve kyalo

edited by laura mutua.

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Let’s talk about growth that thing we’re all supposedly doing, like plants but with more existential dread. You wake up one day and realize you’re an adult, or at least you’re dressed like one, paying bills like one, and occasionally eating a vegetable without being threatened. And yet, somewhere between scrolling through LinkedIn profiles of people who seem to have their lives together and staring at a half-dead succulent you forgot to water (again), you wonder: Am I growing, or am I just accumulating laundry?

Nature doesn’t overthink it. A tree doesn’t sit in therapy asking, But why do I crave sunlight? A squirrel doesn’t question its life choices while hoarding acorns. Meanwhile, here we are, creatures of higher intelligence, paralyzed by the sheer number of proteins options at the grocery store. We’re told to “hold fast to what is difficult,” which sounds noble until you realize the most difficult thing in your life right now is deciding whether to text your ex at 2 a.m. or reorganize your sock drawer.

Solitude, that fickle friend, is where the magic (and the madness) happens. It’s easy to be alone when you’re binge-watching a show you’ve seen seven times. It’s harder when you’re forced to sit with the silence and the sudden, uninvited thought: What am I even doing? But here’s the secret everyone feels this way. The guy posting gym selfies? Secretly wondering if he’s compensating for something. The girl with the perfect skincare routine? Probably cried into her moisturizer last night. We’re all out here pretending, and that’s okay.

The universe doesn’t care about your five-year plan. It’s too busy making stars explode and creating bizarre deep-sea creatures. Meanwhile, you’re stressing because your career doesn’t look like the Pinterest vision board you made in 2019. But growth isn’t linear it’s more like a drunk person trying to walk home: a lot of stumbling, occasional epiphanies, and maybe some regrettable decisions that make for good stories later.

Defending yourself isn’t just about blocking your weird uncle on Facebook (hidding your WhatsApp status from your parents ) . It’s about protecting your soft, weird little heart from the pressure to be anything other than what you are. Society will hand you a checklist: job, partner, savings account, personality. But what if you’re more of a “nap enthusiast with a questionable sleep schedule and a deep love for microwave noodles” kind of person? Defend that. Be that. The world needs more people who refuse to fold themselves into neat little boxes.

And yes, everything worth doing is difficult. Love is difficult. Adulthood is difficult. Trying to assemble your DYI furniture without screaming into the void is profoundly difficult. But the alternative is stagnation, and nothing smells worse than a life left unattended, like forgotten leftovers in the back of the fridge. The mess is part of it. The uncertainty is part of it. The days when you feel like a sentient pile of laundry? Also part of it.

So here’s to the struggle, the beautiful, ridiculous, unglamorous act of becoming. You’re not a finished product. You’re a draft with coffee stains and crossed-out lines, and that’s where the magic is. Maybe growth isn’t about arriving somewhere, but about learning to enjoy the chaos of the journey. Or at least laughing when you trip over your own feet.

But hey, what do I know? I’m just a writer with a caffeine addiction that could power a small village, a love for weed so deep it borders on spiritual, and a life so gloriously disorganized that my Google Calendar is just a graveyard of abandoned to-do lists. My idea of self-care is aggressively whispering "I am one with the universe" while eating cold githeri over the sink at 3 a.m. I have no business giving you advice unless that advice is about which strain pairs best with existential dread (indica, obviously) or how to justify buying a seventh coffee mug when you live alone.

I’m the kind of person who will passionately argue about the meaning of life one minute and then spend 20 minutes trying to remember why I walked into the kitchen ( points at my partner) . My therapist nods a lot, but I can tell she’s fighting a smile. My bank account is a cautionary tale. Our plants are hostages. And yet, here I am, waxing poetic about growth like I’m not currently wearing mismatched socks and avoiding my relatives messages on WhatsApp.

So take my words with a grain of salt or, better yet, a shot of espresso and a hit of something fun. Because if there’s one thing I do know, it’s that wisdom doesn’t always come from people who have their shit together. Sometimes it comes from the ones who are just out here, vibing in the chaos, making it up as they go. And honestly? That’s kind of beautiful.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with my couch, a pint of ice cream, and some deep thoughts that will probably be interrupted by a TikTok rabbit hole ( gives my partner a bombastic side eye) . Priorities. Cheers.

You’re not beautiful enough for pretty privilege. If anything, you’re just... average. Nothing about you stands out. You’re a bit short. You’ve gained some weight lately. And every time you sit on your bed, you become painfully aware of the folds on your stomach. You make another promise to work out tomorrow, to start fresh ,again. You think maybe a new health plan will work, since OMAD didn’t… not after the fifth try. Because when you finally break your fast, you’re too hungry. And then you eat more than you should , again.

You’re not the funny one. Not the life of the party. People don’t associate you with fun , and you’ve known that for a while. It’s in the way you're forgotten after first meetings, the silence that follows when numbers are exchanged but never used. It's in how the group hangs out again... but you’re not part of the “again.” After university, everyone moved on , without you. They still catch up, still have their little reunions, just without your name in the group chat. Even at that job where you thought you’d built real friendships, no one reached out after you left. Not once. Sometimes you wonder ,not morbidly, just matter-of-factly , if your funeral would even be full. You picture empty seats and wonder if your absence would echo or just pass quietly, like background noise fading out.

You’re not the smartest in the room , far from it. You struggle with things that seem effortless to others. You’ve seen the sigh your boss lets out when you ask for clarity. You’ve heard the subtle comments that are wrapped in politeness but heavy with disappointment. You once worked so hard on a project , poured yourself into it ,and when you finally presented it, all you got was a nod and a half-hearted “good job.” You noticed the looks too, the way people’s faces shift when you speak about something you care about. Like they’re being polite, waiting for you to finish, but not really listening. Not really seeing you.

You’ve always known you were different. Not in a way that made you stand out ,more in the way that made you invisible. Maybe it started with being the firstborn. Before you could even make sense of your parents' love, they already had two more children to care for. So you learned early how to step back. You went looking for love elsewhere, hoping someone , anyone , would see you. But you learned fast: love doesn’t come easy to you. You realized young that you had to earn it. That being good, helpful, impressive , that was your ticket to being wanted. And somewhere along the way, that became your definition of love: something you work for, something you prove yourself worthy of.

You worked so hard in school, not for yourself, really, but just to be seen by your parents and the other adults around you. Their love felt tied to your achievements, like the only way to earn their attention was through your output. You had to be good at everything, always the responsible one, the adult in every situation. You had to be kind, give endlessly, and show up perfectly to the world, because anything less meant you wouldn’t be loved. You feared that if you faltered, no one would notice you at all, or worse, no one would care.

You build your entire identity around being competent, reliable, and morally right, because that’s what you believe makes you worthy. This armor of perfection becomes who you are, the shield that protects you from feeling invisible or unlovable. When everything seems to be going well, you feel safe, like you finally belong. But the moment your competence is questioned, or when you stumble, it feels like the foundation beneath you cracks. Your sense of self shakes because, deep down, you’ve tied your value to being flawless. Any mistake isn’t just a slip-up; it’s a threat to your very existence.

And with every mistake, the spiral begins. The anxiety, the self-doubt, the endless replaying of that moment in your mind, it’s exhausting. You wonder if people see through the cracks, if they’ve suddenly stopped liking you. The fear isn’t just about failure; it’s about losing love. Because the only love you’ve ever truly known is conditional, earned through perfection, obedience, and being “enough.” So when you disappoint, you don’t just fear judgment, you fear abandonment. You fear becoming invisible again, this time by your own choice or theirs.

This is exactly how you think about God, like His love is something conditional, something you have to earn by being a certain way. You carry this heavy belief that if you mess up, if life spirals out of control, or if you fail to live up to your own standards, then God’s love must somehow be slipping away too. So every prayer becomes less about gratitude or connection and more about pleading for acceptance, begging Him to find you worthy despite your brokenness. It’s like walking through life with the constant fear that even the Creator of the universe doesn’t truly see your value or love you.

At one point, it was easier to believe. You thought God’s love was unconditional when you were innocent, when you hadn’t yet made mistakes you couldn’t undo, when sin hadn’t darkened your story. But life happens, and those moments come, sometimes out of your control, sometimes from choices you wish you could take back. And suddenly, you’re negotiating with God as if His forgiveness is a bargain to be struck, a debt to be paid. You hold your breath, hoping you’re not too far gone, hoping you’re not beyond His reach. The weight of this uncertainty presses on your heart every single day.

It’s exhausting to live in that tension, where you want to believe in grace but feel trapped by your own sense of unworthiness. You wonder if God sees all your flaws, your mistakes, your hidden regrets, and quietly judges you for them. And yet, deep inside, there’s a part of you that longs to trust differently, to believe that His love isn’t something to be earned or lost but is something that holds you even in your messiest, darkest moments. That maybe, just maybe, you are enough exactly as you are, even when you don’t feel worthy of it.

And so, lately, you have made a quiet but powerful decision, to love yourself despite all the cracks and shadows that life has cast on you. You are slowly learning to believe in a different story, one where your worth isn’t tied to perfection or approval but rooted in simply being you. When the spiral starts, you catch yourself a little earlier, reminding your breath to slow down, to anchor you in the present moment. You tell yourself that it’s okay not to have all the answers, that you don’t have to carry the weight of the world alone, and that sometimes just showing up, even when you don’t feel whole, is enough.

Maybe this new way of showing up looks like kindness in small, unexpected moments, a gentle word to yourself in the mirror, a pause before judgment, a reach for connection instead of isolation. Maybe it means allowing someone to see your vulnerability without running away or hiding. Or perhaps it’s about being patient with the messy, imperfect process of healing, knowing it won’t be a straight line. You might not have all the tools yet, but you’re learning to give yourself space to grow, to falter, and to rise again. And in that quiet bravery, you’re already beginning to rewrite the way you experience love, starting from within.