Femininity has become something we reach for, almost instinctively, like a cigarette latched between trembling fingers, a ritual we feel almost obliged to perform, we take in the smoke hoping it will make us worthy of love and life, but instead, it slowly strips us away of our essence, blurring the lines between womanhood and performance

-like a half-hearted prayer said when your eyes open and distant, you never truly immerse yourself in it, but it's all you've known, so you never question it, you simply surrender to the performance and let it consume you.

Beauty is currency, we feel the constant urge to overextend ourselves and perform for the male gaze even as it strips as away of our essence, because, again, it's all we have ever known. But self awareness, asks that you ask yourself the hard questions and free yourself from all you have ever known. It asks of you, to allow yourself to be truly free.

The male gaze is actually very real, and I, like many others have been subconsciously submitting and performing to appease it. It takes a lot of self-awareness and unlearning to admit to myself that at some point in my life I was a slave to the male gaze, no matter how subtle it was.

I didn't grow up as a conventionally attractive girl as per kenyan standards and I got shit on for it(i wrote an article on this), I was skinny, not-lightskinned, and socially awkward, and as years have gone by i have grown into my features and I'm at a point in life where I genuinely feel exhausted by all these standards imposed on us, like imefika a point where genuinely inachosha.

The most radical act of femininity is being yourself, and that means doing things because you want to and not because society expects you to. This basically means that it reaches a point where you have to deconstruct everything you thought you knew about femininity.

I started asking myself the hard questions? Am I being myself or am I putting on an act?

Sana sana in first year and second year, I feel like most people can attest to this, but hio time nikienda outside alafu nikose kukatiwa na kijana….nilikuwa nafeel ni kama it's a personal failing on my part, like maybe I didn't dress in a way that accentuated my body enough, maybe I wasn't approachable enough, maybe I wasn't cool enough…etc. Now I'm like, why is a woman's attractiveness measured by how many men she can pull?

Don't get me wrong,wanting to be approached isn't inherently a bad thing, but it can quickly turn unhealthy if it comes from a place of insecurity and actively seeking validation. I wasn't the type to shit on my female friends just to get the guy I wanted, I realised that this is the form of male-centeredness that has been universally agreed upon. No-one talks about the male-centeredness that comes with subtly abandoning yourself and your essence just to become palatable to the male gaze.

Do I wear the clothes i wear because it genuinely reflects my true style? Or am I trying to fit into a certain narrative?

No-one is above the programme,whether you are conservative or liberal, we have all been in this state of mind. Your first act of compassion is to acknowledge this as you gradually work towards deconstructing it. And I'm not talking about the generic “she's showing so much skin just to attract men” while that holds a bit of truth…it's truth is subjective because there's nothing inherently wrong with showing skin, it's literally just skin…the hard questions need to be asked though, is it an act of performance ?ama is it genuinely an act of self-expression?

Even with modesty, religion tends to emphasise the fact that modest women attract good men, and you may think you are being modest for yourself….but undertones of patriarchy have been embedded in your closet. So are you being modest because it feels comfortable for you? or is it because you hope that it'll attract a good man?

There's this narrative that every woman should do as they please as long as they are happy. There's nothing wrong with this statement but there's also everything wrong with this statement. We are critical when it comes to women who choose to marry rich and become housewives because it appeases the patriarchy (true, stop being housewives with no sources of income, You will traumatise your kids)

We criticise our mothers for being slaves to the system, and actively seeking male validation but sometimes we forget that we aren't necessarily living in our truth and that we aren't above the programme until we actively choose to be above the programme.

I'm speaking like this juu pia mimi sikuwa above the programme nikiresearch which hairstyles will have me pull the most niggas🤣

Instead of living in my self-expression, I had been mindlessly dressing in ways that appeal to other people but myself. I had to start asking myself whether I actually like stuff ama I'm trying to fit into a certain narrative. I think coming to this realisation is what led me to loc my hair,something I had always wanted to do but I was scared to do so because I knew hii starter loc phase si ya wanyonge, na the niggas who liked me in my boho braids phase wangedisappear ju walai genuinely, starter loc phase si ya wanyonge🤣

But ironically, I have loved myself more during this phase that I ever have, something about seeing my hair progress and just wearing it out has healed something within me idk how to explain but if you know, you know.

I used to be a minimalist girl with little to no dainty jewellery juu ati apparently inaattract wealthy ‘high-value’ men (aki tiktok,wewe😭count your days), however, true self-expression came to me when I started being a maximalist and adorning myself with tons of jewellery simply because it scratches an itch that I had previously suppressed. And you know what, I genuinely feel like I'm genuinely growing into myself and embodying myself in the most authentic way possible.

I'm not necessarily the blueprint, because what may be my authentic way of self-expression may not work for someone else. I'm not here to tell you to be like me, I'm here to tell you to honour your authenticity because that's when you truly embody femininity and stop performing.

Femininity is not a one size fits all, true femininity is who you are when you stop performing.

Never let anyone make you feel small even on the days when you walk out of the house without your hair being done and with a bare face, you're equally beautiful as you are on the days when you are all glammed up. You're not unworthy of love simply because you didn't get your nails done, etc etc…if you feel like changing up your hairstyle, loc'ing up, shaving your hair, dyeing your hair and all…do it because it is your ultimate form of self- expression, do it because you are your own avatar and you can customise yourself as you please, don't do it as an act of performance.

You are feminine because you simply are❤️ whether your idea of a night out is gaming, or a dinner out with your girlies, whether you like converse or heels, don't let the media define what femininity is to you. Free yourself from the archetypes and performances, whether your beige room is neatly organised or whether your clothes are scattered on your bed, whether you shave your bush or let it live, none of that defines your femininity…femininity is personal, it's innate and it lives within you because it simply does. If how you choose to live in your femininity makes someone else uncomfortable,then they simply aren't your person.

And until you embody who you truly are, you will never be truly free.

Maybe I'll be a bit more honest when I'm drunk, I've never actually tried drunk writing, I have so much energy right now but I just got home to my parents and now I literally just have to behave. But I dont want to behave, I want to make out with someone, like passionately😭 preferably a girl ,but i digress.

Sahi niko hapa in my room, hoping noone calls my name because I can't walk straight.

Today I really don't want to be sad, I want to be happy, I spend a lot of my time being sad, but tonight I want to go to bed happy asf. Let's talk about mental health, there's something we're all running away from, and it's either edging closer or we just got tired of running. I heard stephen king wrote books while high on coke, I'm too broke to afford coke, so illicit alcohol will do. I'm watching the world cup, polygamist, and love island and this may sound surface level but these are the only things keeping alive. The thrill of waiting for another episode or game is stopping me from killing myself lol. But I digress. I'm still watching the polygamist (sijamaliza) but it made me a bit sad, I really don't want that to be my fate. Entertaining a cheating lying man? Nah. But i couldn't help but think about the older women i know who have spent years tolerating bs, they have given their lives away, or rather their lives revolve around these men, they fight for these men. And when these men cheat, they automatically take it as a sign that they aren't doing something right as wives…

How does a little girl grow from dreaming to begging for crumbs? I weep for the little girls who grew up thinking they were too hard to love. They moulded into marriages believing that they were too much to handle, too hard to love…

That they were only enough when they put on a performance…

Everyone just wants to be loved if you think about it. But most people die believing they were never worthy of love. It's kind of sad, when you actually breathe your last and your last 7minutes consist of all the love you never poured into yourself. And maybe your final though will probably be…”I was beautiful, just as I was, just as I have been”

We are so hypercritical of ourselves,I know i am, but I see the world with a lense coloured with beauty, everyone is beautiful to me.

I don't know what i want in life, all I know is that i want to be happy. Not that fleeting seasonal happiness, I want happiness that lingers, one that stays with me and consumes the sadness I have within me.

Everyone seems to have their lives all figured out, maybe they're faking it…but it still doesn't erase the fact that I don't know what the fuck I'm doing with my life-on all aspects; spiritually, emotionally, careerwise,romantically…. Consider this a 12am cry for clarity.

I recently watched a movie called Arrival, and its core message really stuck with me.

“If you could see your whole life from start to finish,would you change things?”

This is one of those lines that echoes silently in your mind long after the movie has ended, because you inadvertently start to reflect on your own life, the choices you made or failed to make,the mistakes we repeatedly continue to make, the times you genuinely fucked up- we are the knives lodged inside our flesh, constantly turning and inflicting new wounds upon old wounds. In some ways the system fucks up our lives, in other ways, we fuck up our own lives.

In its own twisted way, if I were to see my life from start til where I am currently, I wouldn't change a thing, I'd simply kiss my scars and make the same choices, then kiss my scars again. Not that I'm proud of my choices, but they are mine, I ought to own them. I tend to live my life without regrets, everything I did or failed to do led me to this very moment and that's reality, it exists both in harmony and in cruelty, something I have learnt to embrace. I should be better than I am right now, but I'm not, I am a product of my reality, in its chaos or alignment, it is all me.

Spiritually, I wouldn't consider myself religious, some may say I'm too much a coward to call myself atheist, so I settle for agnostic. But what if God exists? Just not in the way that humanity has always held onto. As humans, we've always held onto a form of control that exerts its power from above us, its less scarier than actually giving into the belief that we are free, and maybe no divine force is coming to save us, we are simply products of this despicable yet painfully beautiful world, ladden with love that exists alongside grief. Maybe God is simply energy, forever flowing, existing everywhere and not centralised in a single being,

I see God in your eyes, in your tears and in the way they trail your cheeks, a product of the complex emotions that elicit an unexplainable tightness in your chest. I see God in how you love, how it consumes you, like wildfire relentlessly burning through forests. I see God in you. I see God in the ocean, and how it knows when to kiss the shore, sustain ecosystems while simultaneously possessing significant power to destroy ecosystems when it pleases so. I see God in how nature reclaims and restores itself.

I don't think God is meant to be understood, I think God is meant to be felt,in all her glory and rage.

Maybe it explains why I can no longer go down on my knees to pray to God, or why manifestation is something I now second- guess, empathy is my greatest tragedy, it would be easier to live in ignorance than to live in the perpetual state of mind that in the same world where suffering runs free, where certain people suffer the wrath of humanity, where families lose homes, livelihoods and dignity…why would God, the universe etc listen to my cry for a new set of clothes but not cries of the hungry, the homeless….they are scared, they tilt their heads up to the sky and murmur a short prayer everyday, wondering why their lord has forsaken them.

The Bible says suffering is human, it is human to suffer when your race is being wiped out and your land stolen, and when you die, you die a matyr, you die for a good cause. Those who took your land hand you the bible, so that you can make sense of your suffering and refrain from fighting.

“The world is cruel…..and also very beautiful “ ~Mikasa from Attack on Titan

I can't fully make sense of all this, I don't know whether i should go down on my knees and pray or trust that everything will unfold as it should be. Then why do other people's lives unfold with more cruelty and pain than others? Why are some stories written with bloodstained ink from start to finish? Why don't some people get their happy ending,but others do? It's hard to hold onto a belief system when you think of others other than yourself, because most belief systems require you to think that you are more special than the person next to you and that guarantees you ultimate prosperity. Can empathy and religion coexist?

I recently attended a funeral and there was something deeply humbling about seeing someone you once knew lie lifeless in a casket, you not only watch the death of their physical body, but also the demise of their aspirations, memories and their fears. And when the casket hits the ground 6ft deep,there's a silence that consumes the air, it carries pain but it also carries the deep realisation of our fate.

‘Where do the dead go after they die?’

The truth is, only the dead know.

Life is inherently confusing, and we basically move through life trying to make sense of everything, we want all this to mean something.

I don't even know if i want kids or marriage, a few years ago, i didn't think much about it because I, like everyone else, was conditioned into wanting all this. It was how I thought life should be, those who seek anything else are labelled outcasts and lonely. Heck, I don't even think I am sexually attracted to men, how would I sustain a marriage?

Marriage is equivalent to control. I wish I came to this conclusion by reading a book but it's unfortunate that I have had to view it through a lens of a child of two married individuals. I have seen how women are simply viewed as a means to an end, and this notion is fueled by patriarchal systems. Your essence will dissipate into thin air, as you take in your spouse's name and lose your maiden name. The system is feeds upon the essence of a woman fading silently into the background. I refuse to surrender to this fate.

Sex with most men is a means to an end, a woman's pleasure reduced to a mere afterthought.

I came to a realisation that the attraction i have towards men is construed as me sourcing for validation, and has never come from a place of genuine desire. This is something I'm still trying to figure out. This is me sitting in my confusion, and trying to make sense of it.

You don't just wake up knowing things, you actually need to be comfortable in your confusion and eventually you will make sense of it.

We are all just a bunch of confused beings trying to make sense of it all.

Thank you for tuning into my 1am thoughts :)

No, my love, you don't need to look like Nicki Minaj, you're literally just 12, and the boys in your class are fighting an early porn addiction, they have no sense, don't listen to their baseless remarks.

I'll say this honestly and bluntly,I was bullied. Both in school, at home, in church….everyone had alot to say about a 13year old's body. Right now when i look at the little girls around me, the last thing that crosses my mind is to comment something vile about their body, whether it's telling them to lose or gain weight. So I find it hard to wrap my mind around the fact that women four times my age were commenting on the fact that I was too thin….Excuse me Susan?you have a wholeass family?? You are 45 and I'm 12?!!

In school, boys my age would pick on me because i didn't look like Kim kardashian, mind you tuko class 6🤣. Everyday was endless torture, I genuinely believe some of those people were handpicked by the devil himself.

Little me didn't deserve to endure all that, I didn't deserve to view my body as some flawed project that didn't fit the perception of what the male gaze appreciated. No one deserves to be shamed for something they have no control over. I remember one time during a science lesson the topic of discussion was HIV/Aids, symptoms, causes, prevention etc…as someone who loved science and was enthusiastic about most lessons, my bubble quickly bursted when some mf turned to me and told me that nakaa nikona HIV. I was good at holding it together but yoh, that comment deeply hurt me, because in a world where you can choose to be anything, why be outrightly mean? Being the girl that no boy looked at twice because of her body size, was humbling, it teaches you how to quietly melt away quietly into the shadows. Maybe the quieter I was, the less attention I'd get, and it would be less likely for someone to pick on me. I thought-

So let's say, that's how I momentarily lost my spark, I went from the outgoing curious girl to the girl who was just trying to make to 4pm, niende home niwatch soap opera, while playing Episode. The so-called mean girls never actually made ill comments about my body, there's a reason why the rest of the class called them mean, maybe it's because they used to talk and walk a certain way, and constantly hangout solely with each other. But in the moments I spent with them,they never once made me feel like my body was a “failed project” they weren't angels, but deep down there was a quiet understanding that we all shared, we knew what it meant to picked on by boys. Boys picked on them because they were “stuck up” yet they weren't “all that” so they decided to live their lives away from all that unnecessary noise.

The nice and sweet girls had a field day with me, it could be a sunny lovely day and we would be walking to the canteen to grab lunch, and in that moment you'd think you had a nice set of friends who valued you, and life was suddenly worth living. Only for one of them to hold out your wrist and point out how thin you are and how you should eat more…like you don't spend most of your nights picking your body apart in the mirror and eventually crying yourself to sleep. And you'd fake a laugh and move on like it didn't sting a little. But it did, it laid emphasis on the fact that you may never be perceived as good enough and that noone would ever find you attractive.

It took a long while to mentally free myself from those comments that still echoed in my mind even after I joined high-school.

“Lightning doesn't strike the same place twice”

In high-school life was a bit lighter, all we cared about was novels, gossip and food. So I can't recall any instance where I experienced any sort of body shaming and that allowed me to slowly heal my wounds, and to just exist in my body without seeking for validation. As much as I hated high-school due to the overall prison-like environment, I'll always appreciate my high-school for giving me the space to heal. Shida ni kukuja home for the holidays and having to stomach remarks about my weight and how it looks like “I'm not growing “….again Susan, why do you care?

Covid happened, and 16 was the sweet spot. I dont know if it was just me, but during covid my appetite doubled, I remember downing 6 chapos in one sitting and I'm not exaggerating. Ilikuwa mkate sita daily for breakfast, lunch mara mbili na a very large portion of supper. And for the first time in my life i had an ass (i gained weight) and when my relatives saw me for the first time since quarantine, they couldn't believe their eyes. “She finally has an ass” an expression printed all over their faces. Waliniambia that the luo genes have finally caught up and now I was a real woman. For some reason that felt comforting at the time, but when I look back at it I can see how deeply problematic it was. The fact that women can't simply exist in their own bodies and every weight gain or weight loss is something that people feel the need to speak on is honestly sad.

So now what, I was thick, I was what ‘men found attractive' I'd go to church and older men would size me up and talk about how much I had grown (they were talking about my ass,shamelessly)

“Naona siku hizi unakula vizuri” ???? Sir????huh??

Anyways, with big gains comes big problems, I had ass, but I had a tummy as well…some girl pointed it out and now I was stuck on YouTube looking for ways on how to reduce it. The price i had to pay lol,….AS WOMEN WE CAN NEVER WIN!!! Because how can I go from being skinny shamed to fat shamed all within less than 5 years??? The game is truly rigged, which is why you shouldn't play by its rules. If you try to find comfort in society's beauty standards and compliments,your peace has a time-limit, because when your body shows any slight form of change, the same people who showered you with compliments will eat you alive. Which is why self acceptance must come from within.

Right now I don't really know where I stand in the standard beauty scale and quite frankly I'm too exhausted to care, because I'm a campus girlie and one semester my ass will be fat and the next semester it's all gone. To some people I am body goals,while others (my mom) think that I should gain more weight. Imenikumbusha ile meme ya “when your family is telling you to gain weight lakini huku nje wewe ni body goals 🤣🤣”

Right now, let's just say I'm comfortable being skinny, I eat enough, I don't aspire to be a model, i don't want to date a white man,I'm just existing comfortably in my body, because it serves me as it should. I accept compliments, I believe them, I look at myself in the mirror and trace my skin with love, I appreciate how my body is developing, I am just as i should be. In some moments I catch myself wishing I'd gain more weight so that I can be the epitome of slim thick, but it's a passing feeling, it doesn't linger much, it knows it's not welcome here so it doesn't overstay its welcome.

I am just as i should be, whether i gain weight on Monday and lose it by Friday, I will love myself just as much.

The world finds pleasure in packaging and commodifying our insecurities and then selling them back to us, don't let the world have that last laugh. Sometimes I get unsolicited comments from “friends” saying unnecessary shit like atleast I can attract a white man???? Btw hio si compliment, get your colonised ass out of my face😭…ama men on twitter talking about how they like slim girls because they can throw them around in bed???😭free us fr😭 once you decenter the desirability of your body, you truly live such a zen life.

I realised that men love to dictate how women's bodies should look, alafu unapata the most mid man ako hapo anadescribe his 4’9 lightskin thick girl with a tiny waist while shitting on women who don't fit that archetype, typing all that nonsense from his bedsitter in rongai. I realised that when I stop seeing myself as desirable to the male gaze and hoping to attract a guy when I step out, I love myself more,I dress more for me, I play with my makeup more and I accessorise more unconventionally, because I am my own avatar. I'm yet to reach flow state because this is a realisation I discovered recently so I am still a work in progress. I want to embody myself in a way that'll make me kiss my own reflection in the mirror.

If I could meet my younger self, I'd tell her that she's just as she should be❤️.

There's something deeply profound about embodying your essence, it defeats glowing up to prove a point to your past bullies, when you truly embody the essence that's meant for you, you glow for yourself, those who once hurt you become an afterthought.

Dear younger me, we are still swag as hell! ;)

So here I am, nimejihami na data, na substack. I am here to thank God for substack, because I genuinely cannot deal with whatever is going on here. Enyewe colonialism was a success,because why is half your paycheck going to the church?? In this economy?? As if that's the only way to give back,anyways I digress.

But hold on, if i were to ask God a question, I'd ask him kama hizo mamilioni watu hutoa church hufika ata kwa the neighbouring children homes😭 ama tunanunulia tu pastor gari yake ya pili?

Maybe I should be a pastor, because that's where the money is at for real. All I have to do, is make you feel bad about yourselves, be a bit witty ndio msilale na mniite tena, then tell you that Jesus loves you.

“Who is blessed enough to give 500,000 shillings for the development of this church?I know the lord has blessed you all, next 300k?

(2 people walk forward, everyone turns their heads, me included, ju nimenyamaza hapo na 100bob yangu yenye nimetenga for fare na viazi karai, but kuna mtu hapa amepledge kutoa 300k za kuweka tiles kwa church. Okay, I can only stan. Because the best thing about deconstructing religion for me is that,pressure ya kutoa pesa za fundraiser za kujenga choo ya kanisa haitawahi nifikia. There's literally so many ways to use our money to bring a change in our society especially if you're financially blessed.

By the end of the session watu wanaeza toa 50k kuenda juu wameambiwa wasimame mbele. Na sisi wenye tulikuja tu na fare plus unpaid okoa debts tumekaa tu. I genuinely couldn't care less about it,because if I had a million shillings I would not waste it by contributing to the church, I would effect change directly and honestly, in spaces where it is needed. Educate a child ffs.

Sahi pastor anatucondemn kuhusu mambo ya kuskiza akina Rihanna. You can say anything pastor, but please leave Rihanna alone.

Ameguza pia fans were diamond platnumz, today no one was spared. Talking about ungodly music…anyways I digress.

I'm thinking about a person who genuinely came all the way to church just to leave feeling shittier about themselves, but you know what,Jesus loves them regardless. The drunk men who get home and beat their wives are being told to open their hearts and allow jesus to come in and change them, and their wives are being told to pray for them, because Jesus saves.

Someone could genuinely be on their last straw, only for them to come to church to be told how their entire Spotify playlist will be the reason why they don't see the gates of heaven. Sasa for example mimi, I listen to both Rihanna and diamond platnumz, nitaona heaven kweli?

I'm not here to police whatever you believe in, but I'm here to shade light on easy ways to make money, for example: being a pastor.

The man next to me, is fighting sleep, pastor ameambia watu wasisucumb to the devil of sleep, maybe alikuwa nighshift and sleep has finally caught up to him. He genuinely wants to listen but the flesh is weak🤣 nimemcheka because I understand. I'd be asleep too if I wasn't writing on substack right now.

Thank God for substack btw.

Sahi I'm waiting for lunch and I'm also waiting to see my crush. I hope he knows he is the reason I'm here (I'm talking about Jesus christ- i think)

Finally,pastor amefikia sisi wenye tunatumia simu church, ametuambia shame on us.

Watu wa kulala wametajwa tena, the mzee next to me ameamka mbio, poor him. Watu wa sherehe wamefikiwa as usual, you pretenders, going to party then coming to church the next day? How dare you!!

This is a typical day in an sda church, but you know what, atleast we are blessed🙏. The gays Leo ni kama pastor amewasahau, but next week he will have a field day with you all. Our pastor is a sharp boy, because the bills have to be paid, flights must be booked, and new cars must be bought 🙏

I consider myself a creative, and no, I do not know a network of nichè cool and rich creatives who would vouche for my work. I am a creative because I simply am. I create for myself and as a way to stay in touch with my inner child, I create as a form of self expression, and as a way to stay rooted in my form of art. Art is art as long as it speaks to you who created it, whether you share it with the rest of the world or not.

Art is art because it simply is,its mere existence is an entire life form because as long as it elicits an emotion then it is art.

Why am I saying this? Because, I've noticed that most people are starting to equate art to knowing the right clique or people, it has been reduced to networking,connections and being ‘cool enough to fit in’

This is paradoxical, and goes against the very essence and nature of art, art seeks not to conform,but to express itself freely. Historically, humans have been conditioned to conform to standards set by society, and to be creative meant to be free, and the system fears minds that aren't scared to express themselves. To be an artist is to be free.

It is completely human to seek the company of other free and creative minds, and it's okay to want to be in creative spaces so as to experience other people's minds and ideas. I think that's the entire point. So like many of you, I sought events, bought tickets to the ones I could afford and attended a couple of them. While networking isn't necessarily bad, what I expected to happen in nairobi's creative scene was for people to authentically network and connect. Sina mengi ya kusema other than the fact that, most of my experiences in these spaces were incredibly underwhelming. At that point In time I couldn't quite pinpoint what exactly the problem was, whether it was the fact that classism was deeply rooted in these spaces, ama maybe i needed to be extroverted enough to position myself strategically in these spaces,or maybe i was just in the wrong spaces…all I knew is that something didn't feel right. Creativity existed, but it wasn't fueled by authenticity. While I met a few interesting creatives(heavy on a few) most people, sorry to say, came off as self absorbed and everything just gave off influencer Olympics😭. I understand influencer culture, I get the appeal that comes with being recognised by people and brands, but the problem comes when it heavily infiltrates the creative scene reducing art to whatever it is that's going on there.

I remember in one creative event I went to, there was a panel discussion and someone in the audience posed a question to one of the panelists addressing the inauthentic nature of some brands that rally behind the afrocentric aesthetic and how most of them are riding on an aesthetic that they only curate but never embody. Guess what, no-one actually gave an answer to her question, they just gave some half-assed answer then moved on swiftly to the next discussion.

But that question stayed with me, like why is your brand ‘rooted in afrocentrism’ but you don't want to speak in kiswahili, and you think using matatus is dirty etc…all you do is simply curate aspects of African culture that are palatable to the west, then call it being in touch with your roots. You hate everything about African culture but still hide behind an “afrocentric” veil.

Well, culture is lived, it's in the everyday chaos of this city and this entire country, culture lives and breathes in the history of this country. To create an honest curation of culture, is to tell stories as they are, and to create from a pov that actually reflects lived culture. Culture, is what was and what is, it lives and flows within us.

I genuinely find it performative when people create brands then give them pretty swahili names and aesthetics, when in real sense,they are completely out of touch with African culture in its entirety.

A friend of mine, who doesn't really consider herself a creative, tagged along for a creative event and afterwards while she recounted her experience, she mentioned how hard it is to appreciate art that isn't honest nor authentic, which basically defeats the entire purpose of art.

Art is honest, authentic…art carries our stories,our pain and our joy, art is us.

Maybe I'm missing out on honest spaces that embody what I'm looking for (please plug me on such events) I am genuinely exhausted when it comes to what most creative scenes im westlands have been reduced to mpaka nikachoka kuenda😭😔.

So yeah the rumours, articles regarding classism in these spaces, are true. We simply cannot make this shit up😭.

The worst thing about the healing process is thinking you’ve healed, writing about it, advising your friends on certain topics that you think you’ve healed from, when in reality, it’s all a façade.

Life has a funny way of humbling you. I can recall a point in my life, around this time last year, I barely left the house, I barely put myself out there, most of my friends, who stayed within close proximity at the time, moved back to their parents’ homes. So my days mostly oscillated between school and running errands. I never made an effort to put myself out there. At the time, I’d stay indoors watching soap operas (yes, in big 2025, nilikuwa nafuatilia soap operas), series, movies and dating shows that barely made any sense.

On my random calls with my Hgs who were still clutching onto toxic relationships, one notable thing was that they were in deep admiration of how I managed to steer clear of men, although I live alone and I have the autonomy to engage in all that…you know, for the plot and other shenanigans. The truth was, it was too much of a hustle, being hyper self-aware and an anxious overthinker means that it’s safer for my nervous system to live in a state of peace instead of being in a constant loop, wondering if a guy really liked me. So I moulded myself into the friend who gives solid and logical advice. ‘Just leave him, he isn’t worth your time, men aren’t worth your time’ The truth is, my moral restraint wasn’t an act of moral superiority; it was something much deeper, it was survival.

One thing about kuadvise watu on mambo ya mapenzi is that, unajiongelesha, they are not listening, stop. The other thing is that it’s so easy to advise people from the outside looking in, but ukijipata kwa hio mix, you’ll realise that maybe you’re not as self-aware and healed as you think you are.

Relationships, situationships, friendships, casual hook-ups, basically, interactions with human beings have the ability to strip you of all the things you thought you knew about yourself. You’ll realise that you were clutching onto a hyper-curated identity devoid of the experiences life has to offer. Lived experiences have a way of teaching you more than any book could ever. It’s easy to have opinions on things, right now everyone and their mother has an opinion, a microphone and a podcast. There’s a kind of superiority that comes with giving advice, especially advice deemed as obvious, but life is never obvious…most people have opinions on experiences they have not lived, and I think that’s where the problem lies. Experiences are not linear, neither is advice- but it’s another thing to judge someone based on something you have never experienced.

Another thing about life and how it humbles us is that it’s so easy to say ‘I could never’, but the funny thing is, when you’re presented with that particular situation, you probably would…maybe in a heartbeat or with a lot of hesitation, but you probably would. Principles exist, and they are valid to some extent, but what are your principles if they’re never put to the test? Are you really nonchalant? Ama, it’s just that you’ve been talking to people you’re not remotely interested in? What happens when you meet someone who awakens the suppressed emotions within you? Most of you have yet to write paragraphs on WhatsApp at 2 am, and it shows. Crashing out over people, whether romantic or platonic, is a real thing. I wouldn’t deem it a flaw- I think it’s inherently human. Kama bado unashangaa, bado wakati wako haujafika, but I’d like to think it’s a canon event. In case it wasn’t obvious, yes, I crashed out over a man mid-last year; he wasn’t good for me, and I knew it. Intellectualising my feelings didn’t seem to work at the time, and I was constantly fighting the urge to reach out, even when I knew this man extended absolutely no part of himself to even meet me halfway- it wasn’t love, it was limerence on my end. I think that’s when I got to realise how emotionally fragile the human experience can be, and how fallible we are, not even your logic can save you, your only saving grace is simply living through that pain and eventually coming back to yourself. You’re supposed to feel every inch of that pain and betrayal until you finally decide to stand up and pick up the pieces of yourself that you lost during the process.

I’m over whatever that was, and I promise, I stopped writing poems about it- that’s when I knew I was done. What I hated about that entire experience was how exposed my emotional wounds were and how not-so-strong I appeared. I hated how human I was.

I’m not trying to encourage those in toxic relationships to stay there; this is simply meant for those on the outside looking in. The human experience is messy; it’s easy to talk about, but experiencing certain things can humble you, exposing childhood wounds you never knew you had. Your friend is not dumb for crashing out over a man; she is simply human, maybe, for a fleeting moment in her life, she felt chosen, like someone finally saw her, even if it was short-lived.

So I stopped overly advising people, because I realised I did it mostly to feed my ego, that was, until I found myself in a similar experience. Mambo ya watu wawili ni ngumu kuingilia. Solely listening to podcasts and reading self-help books won’t do much, because then you’d only be on the outside looking in, laden with prejudice rather than compassion.

True healing comes from experiencing life in its rawest, messiest form. It comes from facing your triggers til they no longer exert the same control they once had in your life. I think that’s just something everyone inevitably has to learn.

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His weight collapsed beside her,

Silence echoed through the room, speaking more words than it needed to,

Her presence, reduced to a mere afterthought,

The passion they shared, simply a fleeting moment lost in time,

But to her, it was carved at the back of her mind, etched beneath her skin,

It wasn’t fleeting,

It lingered, and she tried to hold onto it, like a sailor clutching his raft as it drifts towards the open sea, violently and mercilessly consumed by the waves,

To her, the moment they shared was everything,

It was surrender, vulnerability in its rawest form; she gave herself to him, wholly, freely and entirely.

She undressed, and she let him take her.

Even as he buried himself inside her, not out of passion, but out of haste,

Almost as if he were running away from himself,

Not present in time, but driven by the ecstasy of what it meant to make hay with a new woman by his side,

As his fingers trailed and grazed her skin, laced by an insatiable hunger she knew all too well,

Deep down, she knew what this was, and she knew the repercussions, but somehow the idea of being desired and surrendering to love, even if it was just an illusion, overcame her, and she gave in.

Half-believing, Half-hoping.

That maybe if she let him see her, and that maybe if she gave herself to him,

Maybe he would stay,

She caved into the mirage of love that’s fueled by the facade of almosts and maybes.

The kind of love that sustains itself by feeding off her inability to choose herself,

We can never create homes out of people, nor can we plant ourselves inside them and expect to flourish,

Because if you singleheartedly fight for love, then it is not love, it is an illusion,

She knew this-

She knew never to create homes out of people,

But she did it regardless, and he took what he took and left.

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I long to simply exist in my being, no archetypes, no stereotypes, just me existing wholly in my skin, experiencing life without any shame tied to simply being, to simply existing.

I grew up as your typical ideal church girl, mainly because I didn’t have much of a choice; I just went with the flow, it was easy. Went to church with my parents, sang choruses and recited memory verses I didn’t quite understand, but it felt safe, it didn’t feel like home, but it felt familiar. So I stuck with it until I couldn’t.

It wasn’t sudden; it was gradual, unsettling, even almost daunting. It was the sheer exhaustion that came with having to perform, having to uphold beliefs that I didn’t quite resonate with, having to suppress my innate desires, the ones termed as ‘earthly desires’. I carried the shame, let it flow through my veins like it was my truth, I let it consume me. I buried parts of myself beneath layers of soil that held society’s truth, but never my own.

And it all eventually boils down to the question, “Who was I before the world carved its name into my skin? Who was I before the world silenced the essence of my being? Who was I before I listened to the noise?” Some would call this an identity crisis, but to me, this is a reawakening, a rebirth. This is my way of reclaiming my truth and redefining the narrative of what it means to live for myself.

In reality, rebirth isn’t cute; it’s messy, it’s scary. The process of deconstructing beliefs you once held as your truth isn’t easy; it shifts something within you, it forces you to sit with your thoughts, it is confusing. As humans, our greatest tragedy is that we long to be understood, to be seen and to be loved regardless; but the bitter truth is, most people you hold dear will always latch onto the old version of you, they’ll always remember you for who you were rather than for who you are becoming. However, what is important is that you give love to yourself during all your phases, be kind to yourself and allow yourself to evolve, allow yourself to become, bathe in your being.

Truth is subjective; because the universe is complex, the world brims with chaos, and the unknown scares us. Hope is peace; it gives us something to live for, that maybe all this suffering will amount to something eventually. I understand why people embrace religion, and I respect it. Oblivion is scary, but to others it’s freedom, it’s a reason to live more intensely, more intentionally. The phrase Truth is Subjective radicalised me; it made me see the world through a different lens, it made me appreciate that everyone has a different lived experience that shapes how they view the world and what they live for. At the end of the day, what matters is what brings you peace, what soothes your soul on the days that are not so easy? What do you believe in? That is your truth, and truth is subjective.

What saddens me is how personal beliefs turned into systems, into control, into power. I don’t think people talk about this enough, but doesn’t anyone else find it unsettling that hope and faith are repackaged and sold to us through systems? Just me? Ok. I eventually realised that religion isn’t my truth; it never brought me peace; instead, it raised questions that I never got answers to. Younger me would be so surprised, almost appalled at the fact that I no longer consider myself religious; it wasn’t a conscious decision; it was slow, it was deliberate on most days and on other days I felt conflicted, afraid of what people would say. It’s not edgy; most people tend to think it’s about being rebellious and being different. Most people think it’s a phase and that people like me will eventually come around at some point, but it’s not. I don’t understand why people tend to be so obsessed with what other people believe in. Can’t we just live? In my many encounters with men, such conversations come up, and my answers and opinions leave them with an uncontrollable urge to save me from the shackles of sin, because they can’t fathom how an ‘innocent’ and cute lady like me could not be the religious woman they envisioned me to be. As frustrating as it is, I sometimes find it comical -it’s fun to burst men’s bubbles lol. I hate being boxed, I hate abiding by stereotypes and archetypes; I know it does not stop others from trying to figure out where to place me, but I no longer subscribe to archetypes because it literally kills me inside. I deem myself a complex woman, defined by my thoughts, ideas and my subtle yet intense nature of giving and experiencing love, my empathy and my ability to feel has shaped me; my intuition is my truth; I refused to be reduced to a mere good girl. I’m bold, I’m free, I’m soft. I’m me.

Shame. Shame is ingrained in the lives of women from the moment we are born. We accepted it, we honour it, and we revere it, because it feels safe, it feels like home - but it’s not. Home isn’t running away from yourself… your essence and your innate desires are bottled as shame, what we are taught to run away from are what make us human, are what make us whole. Home is coming back to yourself, embracing yourself and your desires, kissing your scars and allowing yourself to simply be. Home is listening to your body- I think this thought is really profound because I realised that the biggest form of betrayal is failing to listen to yourself, your body is your truth. You are your truth.

Rebirth is slow; it’s steady on some days, and on some days it feels like you’re losing your way. I personally think that I needed to lose parts of myself to get to my present state; it was uncomfortable on most days, but I knew that in order for me to truly live for myself, this was a much-needed step. Maybe my truth lies in my ability to seek it, for it takes so much strength to reclaim something so subtle yet so powerful.

I am wild, I am free, filled with passion, I am love, I am truth, I am becoming; ever changing, ever learning and most importantly, ever me.

What is your truth? What do you live for? Honour it.

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Love is war.

I don’t know what love is entirely, but I think I have a rough idea of what love isn’t.

In the sense that I’ve always had a vague idea of what was lacking in my love life, it’s a constant state of craving something that I’m not sure even exists, something seemingly out of reach while simultaneously holding the belief that it exists and that someday I will get to experience it, that sweet carnage that the poets write about, often reflecting the duality of love, a destruction that whispers, poison that’s sweet like honey…..we can’t get enough of it, it plagues us, we crave it. Yet it destroys us, and we turn it into bittersweet words of poetry to soothe our broken hearts. The complexity of love is what makes it precious; it’s what defines humanity. Societies shaped and built by whispers of love, and the weary bones of the broken-hearted. It’s diving into a raging sea whilst knowing that you will drown, but you do it regardless. That’s what love is. That’s what love has been. One that has left many scattering the ashes of their withered and frail hearts.

A brutality so vicious yet etched in the dreams of many.

So what is it?

What we write about, what we sing about? What is this thing we fight for?

For centuries and centuries, men have gone to war, a faceoff where human anger, greed and power intersect…leaving trails of blood laden with memories and identities frozen in time. Men who gave their lives fiercely protecting their nations so that they can finally go home to their lovers, who in turn spend the entirety of their lives on their knees begging the universe to bring their lovers back to them. That death may not emerge victorious.

So what is love? I don’t think there is a definitive, concrete answer to what love is in its entirety. Most people tend to define love based on what is lacking in their lives, so the definition of love is inherently subjective, reflecting one’s longings.

However, there’s one thing that has always stood the test of time.

Love is war.

Every song, every poem, every midnight declaration of love, every tear, all of it boils down to the mere fact that love is war. Love is the force that forces us to confront our demons; it strips us naked of everything we thought we knew about ourselves, and in turn, we are faced with our biggest fear, our raw and unfiltered selves. In a world where most people curate identities that align with societal expectations, vulnerability is war, to be seen is war, to be understood is war. Love is an act of war with oneself; it's the constant tug between the desire to be embraced and understood, coupled with the fear of being seen, the fear to undress, leaving nothing to the imagination. Because deep down we know that giving yourself wholly, fully and entirely to someone else is akin to giving them the power to wield a sword against your heart. It’s also the uncertainty that plagues many of us, the inability to believe that we are worthy of love simply because we exist, that somebody is capable of giving love to our worn-out souls, even in the days when we are not so easy to love. The world has always presented love as a reward for being pleasant, for abiding by someone else’s desires, that love is the round of applause coupled with a standing ovation and nods of approval for the ecstatic performance that appeals to many but often leaves your cup drained and empty. But what about the days when you are a roaring sea, your waves wild and brimming with chaos, who will love you then? Who will hold your hand and choose to love you regardless? Who will stay?

Why do we long for it?

Despite the carnage, everyone just wants to be loved a little more, to be held close even in their darkest days. Perhaps we all just want someone who sees the beauty in our flaws and chooses to love us regardless. Because love in its rawest form is life’s gift to humanity.

Love is war, and I am at war with myself, for I long to experience a love so loud, a love so unconditional, but I fear what it means to do so. I crave the kind of love that sees me in my chaos and still chooses to stay.

I fear what it means to love and to be loved, but somehow, the thought of surrendering to love still creeps into my dreams. It’s a longing I carry with me, maybe one I’ll one day learn to embrace.

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It’s the first day of May,

I lay alone,

The warmth of his body quickly engulfed by the cold air in the sliver of distance left between us,

Not because of the longing we have for each other,

But simply because the realisation hit us while we still looked into each other’s eyes,

I looked into his eyes, searching for the love I once knew,

The man I once knew,

But, nothing,

I lay next to him, I shoot him a half-smile….just to let him know that I’m still here,

….and that we could try again,

We could start over,

That we could forget all our imperfections and bathe in each other’s love,

But in return, he drifts further and further away,

Our shared moments linger in every breath we take,

Now a distant memory,

I mourn the man I once knew,

The loss of a love that never was,

I mourn the loss of a love that never grew,

Perhaps one that was never meant to be,

And yes,

I tried to mould him into the man I knew would be good for me,

I thought that I had been spared the agony of searching for love and that it had found me instead,

A heavy quiet settles, one that I have learnt to embrace,

Illusions of what could’ve been slipping through my hands, akin to grains of sand as they silently give in to the wind,

Letting it take them,

His smile, a luxury that has exhausted its visit,

Maybe I should go down on my knees and beg him to see me, to love me…

Maybe I should place my lips on his head just to remind him of my presence,

That I’m still here,

That I still believe in us,

Maybe I should close my eyes and let sleep take me,

Perhaps to a better place,

Where I am loved and adored,

My very essence worshipped and appreciated, for my soul aches for love,

To love and to be loved,

I have succumbed to man’s sweetest tragedy,

This inhumane human experience they call love,

Maybe in another life you’re good for me,

and I for you,

But in this life,

You are music to my ears,

poison to my soul.

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Share ~Eskaywrites

She waits for her beloved lover to shower her with all the love and glory,

One that she always dreamed of,

She longs for the day that her lover will look at her with utmost awe and longing,

As he did when he first laid his eyes upon her,

Fervor visible in his eyes,

Yearning evident from his touch,

When her youthful beauty and poise struck him so,

And his gaze would linger at her in utmost admiration,

He was in awe,

She was smitten by his charisma and his charm,

His rather dashing smile awoke something within her,

His sweet words kept her up at night,

As she constantly replayed the moments when his words evoked emotions that she never knew existed within her,

Their endless conversations, shared moments of laughter,

Coupled with moments of silence when the desire they had for each other echoed through the last sliver of distance left between them,

Right before, they leaned in for a kiss as the rest of the world melted away,

Leaving them immersed in a kiss, so fervently passionate,

As they savoured the moment in which their bodies voluntarily intertwined,

Rhythmically moving hastily to the beat of their hearts,

Lost in the heat of their love,

Only pulling away to catch a breath, even so,

Their desire for each other grew stronger and stronger,

She had never felt anything like this before,

Hearts intertwined, souls merged,

This newfound passion reignited the flames within her that reminded her,

That life is indeed worth living,

Now,

She sits alone,

At the edge of their marital bed, in the confines of the room that was supposed to be engulfed with love and laughter,

To hold their fondest most treasured memories, that would be retold over and over again at the dinner table,

Now,

Silence lingers,

Ghosts of the consummation of their love, now buried 6ft under, hover around her,

Constantly twisting the knife he left lodged in her soul, perpetually stabbing the very essence of her existence,

As she tries to decipher where it all went wrong,

When did she become hard to love? Hard to look at?

When did the passion and desire so fierce…

All forces withstanding,

or so she thought,

When did the passion dissipate into the frail silence of the air around her?

When did the colour fade from his eyes?

When did regret begin to seep through the crevices of their imperfect marriage?

When did he begin to loathe everything he once loved about her?

Her very presence, vexing him to the core,

When did their love, akin to the relentless nature of a tide, come shattering against the shore?

The sorrow of its retreat ever so visible,

Ever so daunting,

She wipes off her meticulously applied make up , one applied with intense precision,

She wanted him to see her that night,

To fall in love with her again,

But as minutes turned into hours, and the clock strikes midnight,

The realisation leaving a bitter taste in her mouth,

Fighting back tears that eventually slowly cascade down her cheeks,

She makes an effort to console herself, her inner voice constantly echoing the fact that there must be a reason, an explanation…in a desperate attempt to dilute the frustration already brewing within her,

She takes a gulp of wine in a bid to drown her endless sorrows and to wash away the melancholy that unceasingly always plagues her soul,

She lay in bed half-awake,

Muffled breaths and tear-stricken eyes,

She waited for him,

….But he never came.