Well how does a radio work, A radio works by converting sound into invisible electromagnetic waves, transmitting them through the air, and turning them back into sound.

Is this article about radios?

Well let's find out

I am vulnerable.

Extremely so.

The kind of vulnerable that sometimes leaves me wondering why I gave so much of myself to someone who seemed incapable of holding it.

I've been warned about it before.

“Don't be so open.”

“Don't give people so much of yourself.”

“People will take advantage of you.”

“Learn to protect yourself.”

And I listened. Or at least, I tried. I tried to change the way I love people. I tried to become a little less expressive, a little less invested, a little less willing to say what I feel. I tried to fit in.

But there is something strange about trying to make yourself smaller just because the world doesn't always know what to do with your fullness.

Lately, I've been thinking about feelings as waves, Dr Stone inspired ofcourse

A feeling exists, but for it to be perceived, something has to meet it at a particular frequency. Maybe human relationships are not so different. Maybe some of the people we meet are simply tuned differently.

And that doesn't necessarily make either person wrong.

Sometimes you are speaking in depth and someone is only capable of conversation at the surface. Sometimes you are offering consistency to someone who has learned to survive through distance. Sometimes you are looking for honesty while the other person is still learning how to be honest with themselves. Sometimes you care loudly in a world where someone else has learned to care quietly. And sometimes, painfully, you can be standing right beside someone and still be worlds apart.

For a long time, I interpreted that distance as rejection.

I thought, Maybe I'm too much.

Maybe I'm too sensitive.

Maybe I care too deeply.

Maybe I expect too much.

Maybe I should become harder.

But I'm beginning to question that.

Perhaps the goal isn't to become less vulnerable. Perhaps the goal is to become more discerning about where vulnerability belongs.

There is a difference between being open and handing everyone the keys to your inner world. There is a difference between loving people and losing yourself trying to be loved by them. There is a difference between being authentic and constantly exposing yourself to people who have shown you that they cannot meet you there.

And perhaps this is where becoming the best version of ourselves matters. Not the polished, perfect version. Not the version that has figured everything out.

The version that knows itself. The version that understands its emotions without being ruled by them. The version that can love without begging to be chosen. The version that can be vulnerable without making another person's response the measure of its worth.

Because maybe the frequency isn't only about finding someone else who matches ours. Maybe we have to ask ourselves what frequency we are actually living at.

Are we communicating honestly?

Are we listening?

Are we capable of receiving the same vulnerability we ask others to give us?

Are we emotionally available?

Do we know how to apologize?

Do we know how to set boundaries?

Do we know how to leave when something is hurting us?

Do we give people the patience and understanding we expect from them?

It is easy to say, I just want someone who understands me.

But perhaps the harder question is:

Have I become someone who understands?

We often speak about wanting to meet people at our frequency. But relationships aren't radio stations where we simply search for the perfect signal.

Sometimes two people have to adjust. Sometimes one person has to learn a new language, na sisemi akufunze their mother tongue and no this is not a sign

Sometimes both people have to grow. And sometimes there is simply no signal. No matter how much you turn the dial.

That doesn't mean either person is defective. It means the connection isn't there. And that realization can be heartbreaking. But it can also be freeing.

Because not every person who disappoints you is a bad person. Not every relationship that ends was a mistake. Not every person who cannot meet you where you are failed you intentionally.

Sometimes people are simply limited by what they currently understand, what they have experienced, and what they are capable of giving.

And you are too.

That's the part I don't want to forget.

It is tempting to make ourselves the victim of every failed connection.

“I cared more.”

“I tried harder.”

“I was genuine.”

Maybe.

But relationships are rarely that simple.

Sometimes we are the person who couldn't meet someone else at their frequency. Sometimes we are the emotionally unavailable one. Sometimes we are the one who misunderstood. Sometimes we are the one who needed to grow.

And maybe that's the uncomfortable beauty of human relationships.

They don't just reveal other people to us.

They reveal US.

They show us where we are insecure. Where we cling. Where we withdraw. Where we overgive. Where we demand. Where we fear abandonment. Where we confuse attention with intimacy. Where we confuse vulnerability with closeness.

And where we still have work to do.

So, to the person reading this who has been told that they are “too much”:

Maybe you aren't too much.

But maybe you haven't yet learned where your much belongs.

And to the person who has spent years building walls: Maybe your walls protected you once.

But ask yourself whether they are still protecting you, or whether they are keeping people out.

To the person who keeps getting disappointed by others:

Look beyond the disappointment.

What is it teaching you?

What patterns keep repeating?

What are you tolerating?

What are you expecting people to give you that you haven't learned to give yourself?

And to the person who believes they have finally found their people: Don't just ask whether they meet your frequency. Ask whether you meet theirs. Can you hold their vulnerability? Can you sit with their difficult days? Can you communicate when things become uncomfortable? Can you give without keeping score? Can you receive without feeling indebted? Can you disagree without destroying? Can you stay human with each other?

Because perhaps the real goal isn't to find people who perfectly match our frequency.

Perhaps it is to become people capable of ‘meeting each other halfway’

Maybe that is where connection actually lives. Not in perfect compatibility. Not in never being disappointed. Not in finding people who understand every part of us instinctively.

But in two imperfect people saying:

“I don't completely understand your frequency yet.”

“But I'm willing to listen.”

“I'm willing to learn.”

“I'm willing to meet you here.”

And maybe, sometimes, that's enough.

So I am still vulnerable.

I don't know if I'll ever completely stop being so. Maybe I don't want to.

I'm only learning to be intentional with it. To stop apologizing for feeling deeply. To stop interpreting every mismatch as proof that something is wrong with me. To stop trying to become someone else just to be easier to love.

And perhaps that is the lesson for all of us:

Learn your frequency. Learn your boundaries. Learn your patterns.

Become the best version of yourself. And then, when you meet someone else on the same wavelength, or someone willing to learn the rhythm, don't take that connection for granted.

Because being understood is beautiful. But learning how to understand another human being might be even more beautiful.

And maybe that's where we finally stop asking,

“Why don't people meet me where I am?”

And start asking,

“Who am I becoming, and who am I capable of meeting along the way?”

sleepless nights staring up at my ceiling.

“The sky is the limit,” they said.

But we didn’t make it past the retrograde.

You know, let’s say, of the year—

some call it the White Rabbit.

Ignorance is bliss.

I wish I had listened to the warnings.

Billions of neurons firing up whenever you were involved.

Could it have been limerence? Who knows?

Looking back, I should have left as soon as possible.

But I didn’t.

Know why?

Cause I’m stupid.

I hold myself accountable.

I still blame you, don’t get it twisted.

You knew I’d stay, no matter what.

You knew my love for you was greater than your shortcomings.

So what did you do?

You capitalized on that.

Took it to the bank.

Took me for granted.

Lost interest in me.

“I wasn’t the toxic guy you met.”

Had I known, I would’ve kept you in my roster.

But I didn’t, because you meant everything to me.

Looking back,I wasn’t the problem.

You were.

But you should know, My heart still aches for you.

A child graduates with first class, summa cum laude, name it , and the parent proudly recounts the sacrifices they made. A young athlete wins a championship, and the family speaks of the discipline, guidance, and values that led to the victory. A son becomes successful, a daughter becomes resilient, and suddenly the narrative is clear: Look what we built.

Yet when those same children carry wounds, crippling self-doubt, emotional scars, chronic anxiety, fear of failure, difficulty trusting others, the explanation changes.

"That's just life."

Somehow, the flowers belong to the gardener, but the withered leaves belong to the weather.

This selective ownership is one of the most common forms of self-deception in human relationships.

To be clear, parents do not control every outcome. Human beings are influenced by genetics, peers, culture, chance, and countless experiences beyond the walls of a home. No parent can claim total responsibility for either the triumphs or the tragedies of a child's life.

But that principle must cut both ways.

If a parent believes they deserve credit for their child's confidence, discipline, kindness, and achievements, then they must also be willing to examine their contribution to the insecurities, fears, and emotional burdens that child carries. Not because they are solely responsible, but because influence does not conveniently disappear when the results become uncomfortable.

Arthur Schopenhauer observed that people are remarkably skilled at taking ownership of favorable outcomes while distancing themselves from unfavorable ones. The ego is an expert editor. It highlights evidence that supports a flattering self-image and quietly removes the rest.

This tendency becomes especially visible in parenting.

A child who succeeds becomes proof that the parent was wise.A child who struggles becomes proof that the world is harsh.

The contradiction often goes unnoticed because it protects something precious: the belief that we are good and competent people.

Yet growth begins where defensiveness ends.

Some of the deepest wounds children carry are not the result of cruelty. They emerge from ordinary moments repeated over years. The parent who never listened because they were busy. The constant comparisons intended to motivate. The affection tied to performance. The criticism disguised as guidance. The emotional absence explained away as providing for the family.

Many parents acted from love and still caused harm.

Those two facts can coexist.

Love is not immunity from responsibility.

In fact, genuine love demands responsibility.

The most mature parents are not those who insist they did everything right. They are the ones capable of saying, "I gave you some of your strengths, and I may have contributed to some of your struggles too."

That sentence requires extraordinary courage.

It asks a person to surrender the comforting myth that their influence produced only good things. It requires them to see themselves not as heroes in a story, but as human beings, capable of nurturing growth and creating wounds, often at the same time.

Children do not need perfect parents.

They need honest ones.

The parent who acknowledges mistakes offers something more valuable than an untarnished reputation. They offer validation. They tell their child, "Your pain is real. It didn't emerge from nowhere. I am willing to look at it with you."

That acknowledgment can heal wounds that years of denial only deepen.

Because the truth is simple:

The soil matters.

The environment matters.

The words spoken repeatedly matter.

The things left unsaid matter.

If you wish to stand beneath the blossoms and receive praise for the garden, you cannot pretend the soil had nothing to do with the roots.

Claiming the flowers while denying the soil is not accountability. It is vanity.

And perhaps one of the greatest acts of parental love is not taking credit for what grew well, but having the humility to examine what did not.

Remember

To bring a child into this world of misery is to gamble on a strangers well being.

There is a specific kind of fear that follows one in our everyday lives. It is not loud.

It does not always announce itself dramatically.

Sometimes it arrives in silence when you are lying awake at 2 a.m., staring at the ceiling in your bedsitter mansionette pale Juja ama Rongai or wherever it is you're reading this from. Sometimes it sits beside you in a matatu while you pretend to scroll through your phone so nobody notices how worried you are. Sometimes it appears during family gatherings when relatives ask you what your plans are after campus.

Sometimes it comes after you post a smiling photo online.

Because the truth is, many of us are afraid, I know I am. Afraid that by the time we reach our late twenties, we will have become nothing. Not “nothing” in the literal sense.

But many of us carry a deep terror that one day we will wake up and realize we have spent years running in place while the world moved ahead without us.

I am in my twenties, and lately I have realized that nobody really prepares you for how psychologically violent this stage of life can become.

People talk about the beauty of youth. They talk about freedom. They talk about “finding yourself.” But almost nobody talks about the panic. Nobody talks enough about what it feels like to be ambitious while M-pesa inacompete na titration values.

Nobody talks enough about how it feels to dream big, one that might seem overambitious and this economy? Wanting to crush that dream.

Nobody talks enough about trying to build meaningful relationships while still trying to become someone yourself.

Nobody talks enough about trying to balance school, family pressure, oir whole being , loneliness, faith, sex, survival, and purpose all at once.

And maybe this article is my attempt to finally say the things many of us whisper privately but rarely confess publicly.

Many of us grew up carrying invisible pressure before we even understand what pressure is. By the time you are young, you already understand struggle.

You overheard your parents conversations about school fees, rent, over that shuka that separated the room to make it a “double” lakini deep down yk imeishi kuwa single, but it's your home, it's everything to you.

You hear people say things like:

“Life is hard.”

“Money is not easy to find.”

“You must work harder than everyone else.”

And slowly, survival becomes your first language. Even when your childhood contains joy, there is usually an awareness that life can collapse financially at any moment. There is this article by (amedelete account:()

Anyway he talks about how being born into poverty, makes you focus on now, like if you don't take advantage of the situation sahii inaeza isha without warning since good things happening you ni a rare occurrence. It creeps into our daily lives like it or not, one of the tendencies ni kukula nyama ikiwa ya mwisho mahn, hurt like a bitch when I heard it for first time lakini kijiko iitwe kijiko

You begin to understand that success is not simply about passion. Success becomes tied to responsibility. You are not just studying for yourself. You are studying for your family. For your future children. For the sacrifices your parents made. For the version of yourself that does not want to suffer forever.

And somewhere along the way, ambition stops feeling inspiring. It starts feeling like an obligation. That pressure becomes heavier in your twenties. Because suddenly people expect visible results.

When you are younger, potential is enough.

People say:

“He is smart.”

“She has a bright future.”

But once you enter your twenties, especially after campus, the world starts demanding proof. Potential is no longer enough. Now they want outcomes.

What are you doing?

Where are you working?

How much are you making?

What business are you starting?

Why are you still struggling?

And if you are not careful, you begin measuring your worth through productivity.

You begin feeling guilty for resting. Guilty for being confused. Guilty for not having everything figured out.

Social media makes it worse.

Every day someone your age is “winning.” Someone is driving a new car. Someone is launching a company. Someone is flying abroad. Someone is posting engagement photos. Someone is becoming a millionaire at 24.

I won't mention names lakini know I was here.

And meanwhile you are wondering whether your bank account can survive the week. It becomes difficult not to compare.

And before uniue na advice mingi, I know

Comparison is the thief of joy

Especially because social media rarely shows the full truth. Nobody posts the anxiety. Nobody posts the overdraft messages. Nobody posts the panic attacks. Nobody posts the loneliness. Nobody posts the days they sat in darkness questioning whether life is moving at all.

We are consuming polished versions of people’s lives while privately drowning in our own uncertainty.

And eventually the comparison poisons you. You begin to feel late. Even though you are still young.

One thing I have learned is that poverty changes your relationship with time.

When you are poor or financially unstable, you do not experience your twenties the same way wealthy people do.

For some people, their twenties are for “self-discovery.” For many of us, our twenties are survival mode.

You cannot leisurely “find yourself” when you are worried about rent, tuition, transport, food, or unemployment.

Poverty compresses life. It makes you feel rushed. You begin to think:

I need to make money quickly.

I need to become successful quickly.

I cannot afford mistakes.

I cannot afford wasted years.

And for the Power show enthusiasts

Legal or illegal baby…

And this fear becomes psychologically exhausting. Because growth is naturally slow. Real growth takes time. Careers take time. Healing takes time. Love takes time. Discipline takes time.

But poverty makes patience feel dangerous.

You start believing that if success does not happen soon, then maybe it will never happen.

That fear can consume your mind.I have felt it before, still do.

The fear that maybe one day I will wake up at 29 or 30 and realize nothing worked out.

The fear that despite all the dreams, effort, and education, I somehow remained stuck.

And I know many of us understand this feeling intimately.

Because unemployment in is not just an economic issue.

It is psychological.

You start questioning your intelligence. Your value. Your future.

Especially when you did “everything right.”

You know as per the metrics of the matrix

You went to school. You studied. You obeyed. You stayed hopeful.

Yet life still feels uncertain. That uncertainty can become suffocating. Sometimes it feels like we are sprinting inside fog.

Many of us grew up believing education was the great escape.

Study hard. Pass exams. Go to university. Get a degree. Get a job. Build a life.

Simple.

At least that is what we were told. But adulthood has a brutal way of revealing that life is rarely linear. Campus itself becomes emotionally complicated.

People imagine university as constant enjoyment, freedom, parties, relationships, and discovery.

And yes, some of that exists.

But there is another side nobody discusses enough. The loneliness. The financial pressure. The identity crisis. The fear of the future.

Sometimes you are sitting in a lecture hall physically present but mentally overwhelmed. You wonder whether the degree will matter.

In a class of almost a hundred heads unapiga hesabu ya how many Uni’s offer that Bachelor course and how many slots are actually available

You wonder whether there is actually a future waiting outside these classrooms. You wonder whether all this sacrifice will eventually mean something.

And then there is the strange emotional conflict of being educated but still broke.

That combination can humble you. You know things intellectually. You discuss theories. You submit assignments. You talk about innovation and progress.

Then you leave class and calculate whether pesa imebaki inatosha transport na supper jioni, and maybe you'll have to sacrifice one for the other

There is something psychologically confusing about that reality. Especially because campus also exposes inequality very clearly. You meet people whose lives are fundamentally different from yours.

Some students are stressed about grades.

Others are stressed about survival.

Some people have safety nets. Others know that failure carries devastating consequences. You start realizing that people are not running the same race, never have been.

And yet society compares all of us equally. That comparison becomes dangerous.

Because sometimes the person you envy began life with advantages you never had.

But in our minds, we still blame ourselves.

We think:

Maybe I am lazy.

Maybe I am behind.

Maybe I am failing.

Meanwhile, many of us are simply exhausted.

I think many of us are lonelier than society realizes, especially men

Not because we are always physically alone.

But because many of us do not know how to speak honestly about what we feel.

We were raised to endure.

To suppress.

To remain composed.

A man must be strong, they said.

A man must provide.

A man must not complain too much.

So many men carry emotional chaos silently. We joke. We post memes. We laugh with friends.

But internally we are terrified. Terrified of failure. Terrified of disappointing our families. Terrified of financial instability. Terrified of being unloved. Terrified of becoming irrelevant.

Sometimes we want comfort but do not know how to ask for it.

And loneliness becomes especially dangerous when combined with economic pressure. Because eventually you begin isolating yourself.

You stop opening up. You stop explaining your struggles. You disappear emotionally.

Then people assume you are fine because you are quiet.

But silence is not always peace.

Sometimes silence is survival.

I think many young people men mentally exhausted.

Not weak.

Exhausted.

There is a difference.

We are trying to become providers before we have even fully become ourselves.

We are trying to build futures while still carrying unresolved fear from childhood.

We are trying to appear confident while secretly panicking.

And unfortunately, many of us only feel valued when we are useful.

That creates a dangerous mentality.

You begin believing your worth depends entirely on achievement.

If you are successful, people respect you.

If you struggle financially, you begin feeling invisible.

That pressure changes how you see yourself.

The cherry on top?

Relationships.

I think one of the most confusing parts of your twenties is trying to balance ambition with emotional connection.

Especially romantic relationships. There is something deeply human about wanting love while also fearing it. You want someone who understands you. Someone who sees beyond your current circumstances. Someone you can laugh with. Someone who brings peace into your chaos.

But at the same time, you are afraid.

Afraid of becoming distracted.

Afraid of emotional dependency.

Afraid of heartbreak.

Afraid of losing yourself.

Afraid that love will consume the little stability you still have.

And when you are financially unstable, relationships can become emotionally complicated.

Especially for men.

Because many of us grew up associating masculinity with provision.

You feel pressure to have money before you can love confidently.

Pressure to become successful before you deserve intimacy.

Pressure to appear stable even when your life feels uncertain.

So you end up conflicted.

Part of you craves companionship.

Another part of you believes you should isolate yourself until you “make it.”

But life is not that simple. Human beings are not machines.

We cannot permanently postpone emotional connection until the perfect moment arrives.

And honestly, many of us are tired of pretending we do not desire love.

I do. I want genuine connection.

I want understanding.

I want intimacy that feels safe.

The problem is that many people are emotionally wounded while simultaneously trying to love each other.

We are carrying anxiety. Trauma. Financial pressure. Identity confusion. Fear of abandonment. Fear of failure.

Then we enter relationships hoping another person will heal everything. That rarely works.

I have realized that one of the hardest balances in your twenties is learning how to care deeply about someone without allowing the relationship to consume your entire identity.

Because love should add meaning to your life. Not erase your sense of self.

And yet that balance is difficult.

Especially when loneliness already exists.

Sometimes attention feels like healing.

Sometimes affection feels like escape.

Sometimes relationships become distractions from deeper issues we do not want to confront.

And when the relationship ends, all the unresolved problems return.

I think healthy love in your twenties requires emotional maturity many of us are still developing.

It requires knowing who you are outside romance.

It requires boundaries.

It requires self-awareness.

It requires honesty.

And perhaps most importantly, it requires accepting that another person cannot save you from yourself.

That realization hurts.

But it is necessary

So what do I do about it?

I refuse to be defined by fear or delay; I will do my best with what I have, where I am, and keep building anyway

Yours truly,

WACHIRA.

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That’s what makes conversations about loyalty so fascinating.

Everybody claims to hate betrayal.

Everybody swears they would never do it.

Everybody says trust matters.

But the second people start explaining their own behavior, definitions suddenly become flexible.

Now cheating depends on context.

Now intentions matter more than actions.

Now emotional attachment becomes “complicated” what about his neighbor, physical intimacy, you heard me right “didn’t mean anything,” how low have we gone?

Normally the bar would be in hell, lakini kuna bar kweli, and if there is who is tending to it???

Everybody wants loopholes for themselves and strict rules for everyone else.

And honestly?

That’s probably why izi relationships zimechoka, no one wants to be in them no more

Kila mtu amechezea the other side( side chick, bestie) you've seen how it is to be an observer and not a player, like Eve after the forbidden fruit which rumours have it is sex ndio maana once you have a taste you rarely go back (rumours zibaki rumours no?)

Because people are no longer arguing about whether cheating is wrong.

They’re arguing about what cheating even is.

Two Sides of the Same Coin

Men and women often approach cheating from completely different emotional angles.

One side :

“Do you love her.”

The other :

“Did you have sex with him?”

And somehow both people believe they’re asking the only important question.

That’s the problem.

People don’t just disagree about actions.

They disagree about meaning.

One person sees emotional attachment as betrayal.

Another sees physical intimacy as the ultimate line.

One side worries about the heart.

The other, about the body.

And because everybody defines loyalty differently, relationships slowly collapse under misunderstandings, technicalities, and emotional loopholes.

Nobody wants to admit it, but a lot of cheating arguments sound less like honest conversations and more like courtroom defenses.

Nobody says:

“Yeah, I betrayed you.”

Instead it becomes:

Ata haikutoshea

It only happened once, it will never happen again

I was drunk

I love you soo much, I won't do it again

Among other things your ex said

People love the word *technically* when they know they crossed a line.

The Female Perspective:

A lot of emotional cheating begins so innocently that people barely notice it happening.

That’s what makes it dangerous.

It doesn’t start with a Bnb pale kilimani or a dramatic affair pale Westmall.

It starts with attention.

A coworker who listens carefully when she rants about you to him wakiwa wameenda team building pale Blue Post

A male friend who replies quicker than how google generates responses after prompts telling her she deserves better ama if her man really loved her he would never do that

Someone who notices details, that cake you said you love, those flowers.

Someone who understands frustrations.

Someone who becomes emotionally available during vulnerable moments.

At first it feels harmless.

Then the conversations become deeper.

Then more personal.

Then more frequent.

Then suddenly one person becomes emotionally important in ways nobody planned for.

And eventually the boyfriend notices something feels different.

The energy shifted.

The attention changed.

The emotional warmth feels redirected.

But when he asks questions,

he often hears the same responses:

“Babe, acha kuoverthink”

“But Brian is just a friend”

“Babe uko insecure.”

“Nothing happened.”

And technically, maybe nothing physical did happen.

No kissing.

No sex.

No physical evidence.

But hearts are strange things.

People don’t wake up emotionally attached overnight.

Attachment grows through consistency.

Through emotional safety.

Through repeated vulnerability.

Through attention.

That’s why emotional cheating hurts so deeply.

Because sometimes somebody gives another person the emotional version of themselves their partner has been begging to receive for months.

The scary part is that many people genuinely believe emotional cheating is harmless because there’s no physical proof attached to it.

No crime scene.

No obvious evidence.

Just emotional intimacy slowly relocating itself outside the relationship.

And honestly?

A relationship can absolutely die before anybody touches anybody.

Sometimes relationships die from emotional displacement long before physical betrayal ever enters the picture.

The Male Perspective:

Men often simplify cheating into one brutal question:

For many men, with bird brains, physical intimacy becomes the defining boundary between loyalty and betrayal.

Everything else exists in a gray area.

That’s why some men can hear about emotional closeness and still focus entirely on whether sex happened.

To them, physical intimacy feels final.

Concrete.

Undeniable.

And ironically, many men treat their own cheating with emotional detachment.

A man cheats and says:

“It didn’t mean anything.”

“It was just physical.”

“I still love you.”

“It was a mistake.”

Which sounds completely insane to the person getting betrayed.

(Idk if I used the right sound😂, that was what was going on in my mind atp)

Because how can something “mean nothing” while simultaneously destroying trust?

But for many men, love and sex exist in separate emotional categories.

Again, that doesn’t excuse betrayal.

It just explains the disconnect.

Many men genuinely believe emotional loyalty matters more than physical exclusivity.

Meanwhile their partner hears none of that nuance.

All she sees is action.

Choice.

Deception.

Betrayal translated into behavior.

And honestly, both sides often minimize the form of cheating they’re most likely to commit.

Women sometimes underestimate emotional betrayal.

Men sometimes underestimate physical betrayal.

Everybody protects themselves using definitions that reduce personal guilt.

That’s human nature.

But pain doesn’t care about your preferred definition.

If trust breaks, damage happens.

How Much Effort It Takes

This is the part people rarely talk about honestly.

Cheating takes effort.

A ridiculous amount of effort sometimes.

People love calling affairs “mistakes” because the word sounds accidental.

But most betrayal is constructed through repeated decisions.

Replying to the text. Flirting back. Deleting messages. Hiding conversations. Sneaking around. Lying about locations. Creating fake explanations. Protecting secrets. Managing emotional double lives.

That’s work.

Intentional work.

Some people invest more effort into maintaining affairs than maintaining the actual relationship.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

Not just the cheating itself.

But realizing somebody consistently chose dishonesty while still looking you in the eyes every day pretending everything was normal.

That level of deception changes people.

Because betrayal is rarely one isolated moment.

It’s usually a pattern.

A collection of choices.

A sustained commitment to secrecy.

Nobody accidentally builds an affair.

No man trips and his dick falls into some coochie somewhere and vice versa

People build it slowly through permission.

One decision at a time.

My conclusion is hakuna mtu mzuri fr.

Ama as tiktok says , make sure in a relationship wewe ndio uko side ya “I love you too”

At some point, the excuses become exhausting.

Everybody wants their version of betrayal to sound less terrible than someone else’s version.

But betrayal is betrayal.

You can intellectualize it.

You can romanticize it.

You can simplify it.

You can rename it.

The damage still exists.

And maybe the harsh truth is this:

Most people don’t cheat because they’re confused.

They cheat because they want the comfort of commitment and the excitement of freedom at the same time.

They want loyalty from others while negotiating exceptions for themselves.

They want emotional safety without emotional discipline.

So yes.

Y’all are bad people.

Not permanently.

Not irredeemably.

But in those moments?

Absolutely.

Because cheating is rarely just about love.

It’s about selfishness wearing clever disguises.

And if you're reading this and you are cheating on your special someone , …

THEY DESERVE BETTER!!

To those reading this

Does a cheating partner deserve a second chance ama they will do it again?

What is your experience or advice?

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With Love,

Wachira.

But that’s not Wachira’s fear.

Wachira is not afraid of responsibility.

That thought didn’t just appear out of nowhere. It was built, slowly, quietly, through what I’ve seen, what I’ve lived, and even what I’ve watched.

Because sometimes, it’s not real life that teaches you first. It’s stories.

I’ve watched fathers in shows and movies unravel in front of their children. Men who started off trying, who maybe even meant well, but still ended up as disappointments. There’s something unsettling about that kind of character, not the obvious villain, but the man who just… fails. Not all at once, not dramatically, but piece by piece.

In the show I'm currently watching, House of Cards, there is this character, Peter Russo.

Peter Russo in House of Cards stays with me. Not because he was a father figure in the traditional sense, but because of what he represented: potential wasted, addiction taking over, a life slipping out of control despite moments where it looked like he might turn things around. Watching that kind of decline forces a question I couldn't easily shake:

That question connects to something more personal.

I haven't called any man Dad for a long period , 8 years now

Eight years of distance, not just from a word, but from what it’s supposed to represent. Guidance. Stability. Presence. Safety.

Now that I'm grown, I find myself asking questions I’ll probably never get answers to.

Did he have the same fear?

Did he ever sit with himself and wonder if he was enough?

Did he try everything he could?

Or is there a point where a man becomes a father and still finds himself completely unprepared, standing in the middle of it, not knowing what to do next?

That uncertainty, that possibility that someone can step into fatherhood and still be lost, is what unsettles me the most.

No one really teaches you how damage travels. It’s not something you learn in school or pick up from casual conversation. It moves quietly, almost invisibly, from one generation to the next, disguising itself as normal behavior, as stress, as “just the way things are.”

You don’t notice it at first.

It starts small. A tone of voice. A reaction that feels slightly too sharp. A moment of withdrawal when connection is needed most. You brush it off. Everyone has bad days, you tell yourself.

But over time, patterns begin to form.

Now let me tell you something little about patterns

Patterns, if left unchecked, have a way of becoming identity.

I’ve seen what alcoholism does, not just to a person, but to everyone around them. It doesn’t always look like chaos. Sometimes it’s quieter than that. Sometimes it’s unpredictability. A promise made in sincerity, broken without explanation. A presence that feels inconsistent, there, but not fully there.

You learn to adjust. To read moods. To anticipate shifts. To brace yourself without even realizing you’re doing it.

And then one day, without warning, you catch something familiar in yourself.

Not fully formed. Not fully realized.

But present enough to make you pause.

And that’s when the question starts to take shape:

Is this how it begins?

Was this how it began for them?

There’s a particular kind of fear that comes from not trusting your own potential.

Unemployment, for example, isn’t just about lacking income. It’s about what it does to your sense of self. It strips away certainty. It makes you question your value. It leaves you standing in a place where even basic confidence feels borrowed.

Now imagine trying to be a father in that state.

How do I leave home one unfortunate morning, get fired , and be expected to put a brave front to my kids. Lying to them would be the last thing I would want lakini nitawaambia aje?

Imagine being looked up to when you don’t feel grounded.

Imagine being someone’s source of direction when you’re unsure of your own.

It’s not just pressure.

It’s exposure.

Because children don’t just need provision. They need presence. And presence requires a level of stability that you’re not always sure you have.

Then there’s the shadow of abuse.

Not always loud. Not always visible.

Sometimes it’s in the way words are used. The way silence is weaponized. The way control is disguised as care. The way love becomes conditional without ever being named as such.

Those experiences don’t just disappear. They shape how you respond, how you communicate, how you handle conflict.

And even when you recognize them as wrong, as things you don’t want to carry forward, there’s still a lingering doubt:

What if they’re still in me?

Because unlearning is not the same as erasing.

You can reject something and still feel its imprint.

You can promise yourself you’ll be different and still catch glimpses of the very behavior you’re trying to avoid.

That’s what scares me.

Not the obvious mistakes, but the subtle ones. The ones that don’t feel like harm in the moment, but settle into memory over time.

Because children don’t just hear what you say.

They absorb who you are.

For a long time, my solution was simple: avoid it altogether.

If I never became a father, I’d never risk becoming a bad one.

It felt logical, nay, still feels like it

But the more I sat with it, the more it started to feel like an escape rather than an answer.

Because the truth is, the things I’m afraid of don’t only show up in fatherhood. They show up in how I live, how I relate to people, how I handle pressure.

So the real question isn’t whether I should have children.

The real question is whether I’m willing to confront the parts of myself that make me afraid in the first place.

I’m starting to realize that fear like this isn’t random.

It’s specific. It’s informed. It’s pointing at something.

Because the men who never ask themselves these questions, the ones who move through life without reflection, are often the ones who cause the most damage without ever realizing it.

They don’t pause.

They don’t question.

They don’t wonder if they’re enough.

And maybe the fact that I do, that I can’t ignore it, that I keep coming back to it, means something.

Maybe it means I’m not as powerless as I think.

I still don’t have clear answers.

I still don’t know if there comes a point in fatherhood where you suddenly understand everything, or if most men are just figuring it out as they go, hoping they’re doing enough, hoping they’re not causing harm, hoping their efforts are landing the way they intend.

Maybe there are moments where even a father feels completely lost.

And maybe what matters is not avoiding those moments, but how you respond to them.

I’m still afraid.

Afraid of falling short.

Afraid of repeating patterns.

Afraid of becoming a disappointment in the eyes of someone who depends on me.

But I’m beginning to see that fear differently.

Not as a reason to stop, but as a reason to prepare.

To understand myself better.

To confront what I’ve inherited.

To build something intentional instead of accidental.

Because maybe being a good father isn’t about certainty.

Maybe it’s about awareness.

Maybe it’s about recognizing your limits, owning your mistakes, and choosing, over and over again, to do better than what came before you.

If I ever become a father, I won’t walk into it blindly.

I’ll carry this fear with me, not as a weakness, but as a reminder.

Of what’s at stake.

Of what I refuse to repeat.

Of the kind of man I’m still trying to become or not to

And maybe that’s where a different story begins.

Not from confidence.

But from honesty.

And the question that keeps lingering, no matter how much I think I’ve unpacked all of this, is a simple one:

Is it that I don’t want to be a father or do I just fear what kind of father I might become?

I can only come to one simple conclusion,

If I am ever to be called dad

I want it to be by a daughter(s) or son(s) maybe both who firmly believe in their whole existence that no matter what, I always will be there for them with a notion that I have superpowers stemming from the ability to solve any issues that might have and maybe when asked

Hearing them say nice things about me will be the best thing in my life making me the richest man in the world , Musk should have nothing on me.

With Love,

Wachira.

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Not every struggle announces itself.

Some people cry out loudly when they are in pain. Others grow quiet. They laugh, show up, meet deadlines, reply to messages, and all the while, something inside them is slowly unraveling. This is the part we often miss. We look for visible signs of distress, assuming that if someone is truly struggling, it will be obvious. But the truth is far more unsettling: many people walking the edge of suicide do not look like they are in danger at all.

This is the essence of the Drag Path

A silent pull that happens beneath the surface, unseen by the people around them.

We are taught, often unintentionally, to associate suffering with visible breakdown. Red eyes, withdrawn behavior, constant sadness. And while these signs can exist, they are not universal. Some individuals become better at hiding their pain the deeper it grows. They learn to mask it with humor, productivity, or even kindness toward others. In fact, some of the most outwardly strong individuals are the ones fighting the hardest internal battles.

That is why assuming someone is “fine” simply because they look fine can be dangerous.

People do not always reach a breaking point in obvious ways. Sometimes, the decision to end one’s life comes after a long period of quiet suffering. Other times, it emerges suddenly after a trigger that outsiders might not even recognize as significant. A loss, a failure, a conversation, a memory, something small on the outside but overwhelming on the inside. And because we cannot see these internal experiences, we often underestimate them.

There is also the reality that many people do not speak up, not because they don’t want help, but because they don’t know how to ask for it. Some fear being judged or misunderstood. Others feel like a burden. Some have tried to open up before and were dismissed or told to “be strong.” Over time, they learn to carry their pain alone.

This is where our responsibility to one another becomes deeply important.

Taking care of each other does not mean constantly trying to fix problems or having perfect words to say. It starts with something much simpler: paying attention. Not in an intrusive way, but in a human way. Noticing changes in tone, energy, or behavior. Checking in, even when there is no obvious reason to. Creating space where people feel safe to be honest, without fear of being minimized.

Sometimes, a simple “How are you really doing?” can open a door that someone has been waiting for.

It also means letting go of assumptions. Just because someone is successful, social, or smiling does not mean they are okay. Just because someone has not expressed distress before does not mean they are not struggling now. Pain does not follow a predictable pattern, and neither does the way people respond to it.

Caring for each other also requires patience. People may not open up immediately. They may deflect, joke, or change the subject. That does not mean the effort is wasted. Consistent presence, being there without pressure, can build trust over time. It tells the other person that they are not alone, even if they are not ready to talk yet.

Equally important is how we respond when someone does open up. Listening without rushing to judgment or solutions can make a significant difference. Sometimes, what a person needs most is to feel heard and understood, not corrected or analyzed. Dismissing their feelings, comparing their struggles to others, or offering quick fixes can unintentionally push them further into silence.

The idea behind my heading is not to create fear, but awareness. It reminds me, you, that we cannot rely solely on appearances to understand what someone is going through. It encourages us to be more intentional in how we show up for the people around us.

Because in a world where so much pain is hidden, kindness and attentiveness are not small things, they are essential.

Looking out for one another does not require grand gestures. It can be as simple as sending a message, sitting with someone, or remembering to check in after a tough day. These moments may seem minor, but they can interrupt the quiet pull of isolation that leads people down dangerous paths.

We may never fully know what another person is carrying. But we can choose to make that load a little lighter, simply by being present, by being willing to notice, and by refusing to assume that silence means everything is okay.

Sometimes, the difference between someone feeling invisible and someone feeling seen is just one person who cared enough to look a little closer.

To those feeling down (Press here)

Not just a passing glance. Not just checking if it might rain. I mean the kind of looking where you pause, where you let your thoughts slow down just enough to realize how vast it is, how indifferent it is, how accepting it is.

Because the sky never asks you to be anything other than what you are.

It holds storms without apology. It stretches wide enough for both darkness and light, never asking one to justify its presence to the other. There is no argument between the clouds and the sun. No shame in the thunder. No guilt in the rain.

And yet, here we are, arguing with ourselves.

We measure our emotions as if some are allowed and others are not. As if sadness is a failure. As if anger is a flaw. As if heartbreak is something to be hidden, rushed, or fixed as quickly as possible.

Let me ask you something, honestly:

Who taught you that?

Who decided that feeling deeply is something you should apologize for?

Maybe it was subtle. Maybe it came in small phrases you’ve heard your whole life:

“Be strong.”

“Unaoverthink.”

“It’s not that serious.”

“You’ll get over it.”

And maybe, over time, you believed them, not as comfort, but as instruction. You learned that pain should be quiet. That emotions should be controlled. That healing should be fast.

But the sky never rushes a storm.

So why do you rush yourself?

There is a quiet violence in the way we treat our own feelings. Not the loud, obvious kind, but the kind that whispers:

You shouldn’t feel this way.

You’re too much.

You’re not handling this well enough.

And just like that, pain becomes heavier, not because of what happened, but because of how we judge ourselves for it.

Imagine carrying a wound, and then blaming yourself for bleeding.

That’s what we do when we turn our emotions into something we must “fix” instead of something we must understand.

What if your sadness is not weakness, but evidence? Evidence that you cared. That something mattered enough to leave a mark.

What if your anger is not something to suppress, but something to listen to? A signal that a boundary was crossed, that something within you refuses to be ignored.

And what if your heartbreak, yes, that heavy, consuming, almost unbearable feeling, is not something to be ashamed of, but something sacred?

Because heartbreak means you loved.

Fully. Openly. Without guarantees.

And that is not something small.

We talk about heartbreak like it’s something to “get over,” as if it’s a phase you should rush through, a chapter you should close quickly so you can return to being “normal.”

But what is normal?

Is it normal to love someone and feel nothing when they’re gone?

Is it normal to lose something meaningful and remain unchanged?

Or is it more human, more honest, to feel the full weight of it?

The sky does not apologize for thunder.

So why should you apologize for feeling?

Negative emotions are not intruders in your life, they are part of the same system that allows joy to exist. You cannot separate them without losing something essential. You cannot numb pain without also dulling love, connection, and meaning.

To feel deeply is not a burden.

It is proof that you are alive in a way that many people spend their lives avoiding.

And yet, when your heart breaks, it feels like isolation.

Like you’ve been cut off from the rest of the world. Like everyone else has figured something out that you haven’t. Like you are the only one carrying this weight.

But look up.

The same sky that stretches above you stretches above millions of people who have felt exactly what you are feeling. People who have loved, lost, regretted, hoped, and tried again. People who have sat in the same silence, asked the same questions, and felt the same ache in their chest.

You are not separate from that experience.

You are part of it.

There is something quietly comforting about that. Not because suffering is good, but because it reminds you that you belong. That you are woven into something larger than your individual story. That your pain is not evidence of failure, but evidence of connection.

We are not alone in our pain.

We are joined by it.

And like clouds, emotions move.

Even the ones that feel endless. Even the ones that make time feel like it has slowed down. They gather, they linger, they darken the sky, but they do not stay forever.

The mistake is believing that they define the sky itself.

That this feeling is permanent. That this version of you, the hurting one, the confused one, the heavy-hearted one, is all you are.

It isn’t.

You are not your worst thought.

You are not your longest night.

You are not the moment that broke you.

You are the sky.

Wide enough to hold everything, grief, love, confusion, healing, without collapsing under the weight of it.

So maybe the goal isn’t to “get rid” of your negative emotions.

Maybe the goal is to stop fighting them.

To sit with them without turning them into an enemy. To feel them without adding shame. To let them exist without rushing them out the door.

Because healing doesn’t come from force.

It comes from understanding.

From patience.

From giving yourself the same permission the sky gives the storm, to exist fully, without explanation.

So the next time your heart feels heavy, when the memories return, when the silence feels too loud, when you start questioning yourself, pause.

Don’t look inward to criticize.

Look upward.

Let the sky remind you of something simple, but easy to forget:

You were never meant to be perfect.

You were never meant to be untouched by pain.

You were never meant to carry your emotions like a burden.

You were meant to experience them.

To move through them.

To grow because of them.

And even on your darkest days, especially on those days, you are still whole.

You are still vast.

You are still becoming.

Just like the sky.

So the next time you feel down

Let this be a polite reminder

I froze, my blood, I, everything, time , the moment. I've never been with a virgin, I told myself I don't want to be the one to deflower anyone, the cost is just too heavy but here you were , beneath me just when just like a client, about to give her a tip, my tip

And for the first time that night, I hesitated. Not because I didn’t want you, but because I suddenly understood what it meant. This wasn’t like other moments, another night to get lost in and forget by morning. This was something that would stay, with you, with me. And I’d always told myself I didn’t do that. I didn’t cross into spaces that meant something deeper than I was ready to carry, I can't give myself , not anymore

But you looked at me, steady, certain, and I made a choice.

Rock hard, I slowly insert myself(inserts himself, inserts himself where), “fuck”,

I curse,

It feels like a crime, you're soo tight, wet and it takes every fibre to compose myself. I'm cautious, your reactions guide me, fast or slow, you’re the conductor, and we, the orchestra

There was no rush, no hunger to get to the end, just a quiet, deliberate unfolding. I moved like time didn’t exist, like the moment itself was enough. Every touch was softer than the last, measured, careful, like I understood what you had trusted me with. You stayed close, your hands finding me not out of urgency, but curiosity,like you were learning me the same way I was learning you. Your nails, deep, in my back, finding rhythm, scars on my back will always tell the tale

There was something different in the way you reacted, not exaggerated, not performative, just real. Every breath, every slight shift, every pause carried weight, and I found myself slowing down even more just to stay in that space with you. It wasn’t about taking, it was about guiding, about making sure you felt every second of it, of this, never overwhelmed, never lost.

And somewhere in that slowness… I slipped.

Because it stopped me being in control. It stopped being about the moment I had planned, the version of myself I thought I was. Instead, I started paying attention to you in a way I hadn’t done before, to the way you looked at me, the way you trusted me, the way you stayed present without holding anything back.

And that was my first mistake.

Because I didn’t just stay the night, I stayed longer than I should have.

You were to never hear from me, I was supposed to be a memory, a memory of a sweet undoing. I was supposed to be that guy, the one you'll always think of when you touch yourself but no, I kept looking for you and we kept at it

Days turned into habits. Habits turned into attachment. You stopped being just the girl from that room anymore; you became part of my routine, my thoughts, the quiet moments in between everything else. I started seeing you not as someone passing through my life, but someone who could stay.

And you

YOU let me believe that.

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You’d call late at night just to hear my voice. You’d remember the smallest things I said, bring them up like they mattered. You made me feel chosen in a way I hadn’t realized I’d been missing. I should have stopped to question, I let it go on, someone saw me, for who I was, behind that profile, I stopped checking for girls I match with, I deleted the app, for you

Until one day… it stopped. The calls, the remembering, seeing me

No warning.

No slow fade.

Just silence where there used to be something constant.

You should have prepared me for that, or rather, I should have been prepared

I found out later, never from you, that there was someone else. Someone who came after me, or maybe even before. Someone you hadn’t told me about, someone you chose without ever giving me the truth I thought we had built. Maybe it was all in my head

And that’s when it hit me.You were never mine to begin with.

What I thought was connection… was just a moment you moved through. But me? I stayed in it too long. I gave it weight it was never meant to carry. I paid the price I knew was too high

They say some things are cannon events, lessons you don’t avoid, only survive.

You were mine.

And if I’m being honest…

I really should have known better, it's always the innocent looking ones, the ones who leave you questioning your very existence as a human

“The heart was made to be broken.”- Oscar Wilde

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I have zero regrets, remember, you want me as much, and this, this is what happens when the world stops watching, when I stop performing, when my carnal desires take over , and tonight, tonight the moon together with the stars will be witnesses of a hot mess when desire takes over

You’re smaller than I imagined, yet somehow you filled the space the moment you stepped in.

Your face, the kind that doesn’t demand attention loudly but keeps it once it has it, soft, balanced, almost effortless. A scattering of faint freckles dusts across your cheeks and the bridge of your nose, like they were placed there on purpose, catching the warm candlelight in a way that makes you look almost unreal

But it’s not just your face,it’s the way everything about you fits together. Your frame is small, yes, but there’s a fullness to your shape that gives you a kind of balance, a softness that contrasts with the confidence in how you carry yourself. The curve of your waist, the natural way you stand, the subtle shifts in your posture, impossible to ignore. That short red skirt only hinted at it; up close, there’s a harmony to you that makes every movement feels deliberate, even when it’s not.

Your eyes are what hold me, bright, curious, with that quiet spark that suggests you know more than you let on. They don’t just look at me; they study, linger, pull me in without asking permission. Your lips curve slightly, not quite a smile, not quite innocence either, something in between, something dangerous in its subtlety.

You're the kind of presence that doesn’t just catch my attention, you hold me, quietly, completely. Up close, every detail comes together in a way that feels almost intentional, like nothing about you is accidental.

Altogether, you’re not just beautiful, your’re felt. Like an atmosphere, like something that wraps around my senses all at once. The kind of presence that makes everything else in the room fade… until it’s just you, and the effect you have on me.

I let the moment stretch after that quiet “not yet,” watching the way it lands on you, the way anticipation settles into your expression. My fingers, trailing lightly along your arm,or should I say mine, tonight, you are mine, you belong to me, slow enough to make you aware of every inch of contact, never quite giving you what you expect. I move closer, then pause again, always stopping just short, like I’m drawing an invisible line only I can see.

You react to everything, the smallest shift, the faintest touch, and I take my time with it, learning your rhythm, letting the tension build until it feels almost tangible between us. The room, the candles, the petals, the music, it all fades into the background. It’s just you now, and the space between us that keeps tightening, second by second.

I don’t rush you, not now, not ever. Every movement is deliberate, measured, like I’m working through something delicate, something that demands focus. My hands find the edge of your skirt first, that same short red piece that’s been pulling my attention since you walked in, and I pause for just a second, letting my fingers rest there, feeling the slight tension in your breath.

Slowly, I draw it away, inch by inch, never breaking eye contact for too long. It’s not just about removing it, it’s about the moment, the awareness, the way you respond to my every subtle motion. You mirror me in your own way, your hands finding my shirt, undoing the space between us piece by piece, careful but curious, like you're learning me just as much as I’m learning you.

You aren't wearing any panties, you wanted this, you're soaking, I can see it,dripping, I'm running mad, you're teasing me, involuntary so, I might as well break this character hell bent on teasing

There’s a quiet rhythm to it, no rush, no chaos, just us unraveling the distance between us with intention. By the time the last layer of hesitation is gone, the air feels different, heavier, charged with something neither of us can ignore anymore.

And just as it all seems ready to tip into something irreversible…

You look at me again, really look this time.

And I know this isn’t just about the moment anymore.

I know what I'm supposed to do, this is my moment, I'm Peter Parker about to save my MJ. The word pleaser wasn't on my bio for show, eating it is my hobby, I would have it tatted if I could and you ,you're about to find that out

I take my time with you, lowering myself slowly as if the moment deserves patience, not haste, my hands steady against you as I let anticipation build rather than break it. Every movement is intentional, guided more by your reactions than my own pace, paying attention to the way your breath shifts, the way tension rises and falls in quiet waves. It’s not rushed or careless, it’s controlled, almost reverent, like I’m learning your language without words, responding to every subtle cue you give. The room fades into the background again, leaving only the rhythm we create together, something unspoken but deeply understood, where every second stretches just enough to make you feel it.

The Hills by The Weeknd is over, you came. I don't need to ask you, it's written all over , literally, the sheets are a witness, a white-mess, my goatee, cream written all over. On those sheets lies a beautiful mess, I'm Picasso, Michael Angelo, scratch that, I'm Wachira, the artist and you, my darling ,are my canvas, my egoistic smirk written all over my face, this is my trophy, I got what I wanted from here on out it's about you mon chéri

Everything is ready, everything in place, but I don’t rush. I meet your eyes again, searching, checking, making sure you are still with me in this quiet, charged dance. Just as I lean in, just as the moment feels like it’s about to tip into something more…

“Wachira…”

Your voice stops me.

I pull back slightly, searching your face. “Yesss?”

There’s a pause, small, but heavy.

“I’m a virgin.”

And just like that, everything changes.

To be continued…

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It all started with an innocent swipe, I'm checking you out, I am single as destined, so here I am. You didn't strike me as my weakness, my radar was so low I must have missed the alert. You're smart, disgustingly so, that turns me on, a lot. I enjoyed talking to you, my brain was always on toes, not to miss anything until that random Wednesday night, past 11PM as is custom, my other head took over and it was never the same again

You never left, you came for more, something about my bio strikes your curiosity and your coming back stroked my ego in return. The word pleaser on my bio screams danger and instead of running away, you drew closer

You are attracted to chaos and I don't even bother to hide my red flags. Our conversations, one step shy from being a porn casting yet the elephant never addressed, we want each other

We agree to meet up, there is only one remedy to thirst and it's being quenched . You told me I look like the shy type little did you know I take such false accusations to heart. I have to pay back, just to prove a point,satisfy me ego, it's all part of the game

Désolée mon chéri (credits to Lavender - Watendawili) things I'll do to you

I get us a bed and breakfast, somewhere near Northland's, peaceful, strategic and perfect just as I expect everything to be

I set the room with intention, every detail carefully chosen to heighten the mood before you even walk in. The lights are low, softened by the warm flicker of scented candles arranged along the shelves and bedside, their glow dancing across the walls and casting shadows that feel alive. The air, rich with a subtle, intoxicating fragrance, something warm and inviting that lingers just enough to draw you closer. Rose petals are scattered across the floor in a deliberate path, leading toward the bed like a quiet promise, their deep red color standing out against the dim light. The sheets are smooth, slightly rumpled in anticipation, and resting at the center are the cuffs, placed there not as a demand, but as an invitation, a hint of something daring. In the background, some fifty shades playlist to set the mood , just right

The door barely has time to settle on its hinges before you are here, stepping into the glow of the room like you already know the effect you're about to have.

Your body, a softness that lingers in all the right places, you move with a kind of quiet confidence, each step unhurried, deliberate.

Fuck, I curse, I remember the skirt you're wearing. I could never forget it, you sent me a tease when I bailed that one time you wanted us to meet. Short enough to tease , shifting with every movement as if it is part of the performance, you know what it does to me, never bothered to hide it

One step inside, you freeze, completely rooted at the entrance , taking it all in, the candles, the petals, the atmosphere I built, and there’s a flicker in your expression, something between curiosity and approval. Your gaze finds mine, it is sharpened, playful, almost daring. You make it clear you did not just step into this sanctuary but also came ready to match it

I take my time with you, letting anticipation do most of the work, drawing it out until every small movement feels magnified. My touch, deliberate, never rushed, hovering just long enough to make you ache for me before I actually give in. I watch your reactions closely, the way your breath catches, the subtle shifts in your body as you try to hold yourself together, and I can’t help but wonder who this is really for. I guide, I tease, I pull you just to the edge of what you can handle and then ease back, a quiet reminder of who’s in control, but there’s something deeper beneath it, something mutual. And as much as you yield, there’s a strange balance to it. I feel it in the way your responses fuel me, the way your vulnerability becomes its own kind of strength. In the end, it’s hard to tell who’s indulging more, because your reactions, every soft sound, whimper, every fleeting loss of composure, becomes the very thing I crave most.

You step closer, close enough now that I can feel the warmth of your presence, your eyes locked on mine like you are daring me to make the first move. My hand lifts, almost instinctively ( you know, I'm not really a new comer tho)-In Cench’s voice) , brushing just lightly against you, enough to make you inhale sharply, enough to remind you exactly where you are… and who you are with.

For a moment, everything slows down. The candles flicker, the silence stretches, and the tension between us tightens like it’s about to snap. I lean in, just enough for you to feel my breath near your ear

…and then I stop.

“Not yet,” I murmur.

You freeze

And that’s when the real game begins.

To be continued…

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Love is a profound, multifaceted emotion and action involving strong affection, deep care, and commitment toward another person, self, or object. It is characterized by selflessness, nurturing the well-being of others, and often involves intimacy, trust, and passion. Love is both a feeling and an active choice to show kindness and devotion.

Every message can be a screenshot. Every moment, posted. Every relationship, compared to a thousand others that *look happier, louder, more perfect." And somewhere between the scrolling and the seeking, love stopped being something we feel and started becoming something we perform.

We don’t fall in love anymore. We announce it, post it, defend it, and compare it until it collapses under the weight of other people’s opinions. What we call love today would not survive in silence, and that should terrify us.

So we never fully invest.

Never fully commit.

Never fully stay.

Love is ambiguous.

I'm next to my girl, we are outside, it's our monthly date. We are in Java, the one in Sarit because she said she loves their Chicken Quesadilla, she's sitting next to me but we are not really together.

I am scrolling and she is waiting

I wonder what she is waiting for, I fulfilled my role, you know, the boyfriend one, but she's still waiting

Waiting for my attention.

Waiting for my reassurance.

Waiting for me to choose her in a world where everyone is "available" and replaceable at the same time

And that is where I am wrong, I know it, but , this is what I can give her right now

My mistake, loving her like tomorrow is promised and today is disposable

I say I love you to mask my wickedness

When I just came, and out of the guilt of not fulfilling your desires, I tell you I love you and suddenly that is enough, she understands, my desires come first, I tell myself

I say I love you in between notifications, when I've wronged and don't want wherever we have to end, remember, I benefit

I measure affection through how fast you reply ,whether you reply to all my messages and how often you are available to me.

I don't just love you, I compete, with timelines, followers and curated perfection, the quesadilla on your plate looks insta-worthy with a background song that says thank you to my man but I'm empty, this isn't love.

Amidst that noise, something begins to suffocate

We blame the media, media this, media that, I think what media did was expose how shallow we are willing to let love become. Social media amplified that

It gave insecurity a mirror.

It gave comparison a stage.

It gave temptation an audience.

The love we know now has witnesses before it even has roots. I haven't fully known her , but I proposed 2 days into knowing her and soft launched, before I knew her last name or what makes her tick

And maybe that’s why I’ve become a cynic about it. Not because it stopped being real, but because we don't protect it anymore, it's no longer what it used to be

We chase attention instead of connection.

We want to be desired by many, rather than known by one.

We leave when things get quiet, because we’ve confused peace with boredom.

So what is love?

It’s definitely not the posts.

Not the captions.

Not the public displays meant to convince strangers that something is real.

Love, to me, is what remains when nobody is watching.

It is choosing someone in silence.

It is loyalty when options are loud.

It is patience when ego demands distance.

And still… we fail

We fail because we want the reward without the weight. We want forever, but we fear discomfort. The moment love asks for maturity, we call it “too much.” The moment it requires sacrifice, we start looking for something easier.

We fall in love fast,but we leave faster.

And yet, when you look at some of our parents, you see something different.Not a perfect love but an enduring one.

Theirs wasn’t built on aesthetics. It wasn’t performed. It was lived. Through struggle, through seasons where they didn’t even like each other, but they stayed. Not because it was easy, but because they understood something we are still learning:

Love is not sustained by feelings alone.

Maybe they didn’t have better love.

Maybe they just didn’t have as many distractions pulling them away from it.

And here’s the irony,

For all my cynicism, I still believe in love.

I believe it is God’s greatest gift to man. Not because it is easy, but because it forces us to become more than we are.

Love, when it is real, changes you.

And maybe that’s why it hurts so much when it fails.

So yes, I question it. I doubt it. I see how fragile it has become in our hands.

But I still want people to experience it.

Not the filtered version. Not the performative version. Definitely not the type we see in our media pages

The real one.

The kind that isn’t posted.

The kind that survives silence.

The kind that chooses you, even when the world offers a thousand other options.

We are treating love like it is replaceable.

Disposable.

Upgradeable.

Temporary.

And maybe that’s the truth we don’t want to face:

Love didn’t fail us.

We failed love.

And if we keep going like this, one day we won’t be heartbroken because love doesn’t last,

we’ll be heartbroken because we’ll realize we were never truly capable of it in the first place.

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Understanding money is the first step to voting responsibly

WANTAM!!

Ni mimi mmegeuza activist walai. I’ve never been this involved in my country’s politics , at least not since that wantam stepped into office.

My inspiration? A guy called The Kikombe. He simplifies numbers so you can really see the value of money. And when you see it, you start connecting the dots…

"And then we come to Ruto, He has borrowed 3.5 T in three years which means he's borrowing 1.2 every year, that's 4 Billion every day, that's more than 100 Million every one hour" - The Kikombe

Stop.

Pause.

Read that again.

Now let me make it more uncomfortable;

"you can squander 1 million, per month, and you will go for 83 years and guess what you'll be left with a few million shillings after squandering a million shillings every single month"-The Kikombe

I've already painted a billion, need to explain a Trillion?

Let's talk numbers, we need to, this is our future we are talking about

Here’s where things get messy. According to Daily Nation and The Standard, audits and reports have flagged some huge chunks of government spending:

Sh11 billion — Social Health Authority (SHA) flagged fraud

"Every 14th day of each month, we pay claims. Those that have not been paid either have a missing document or something was not done correctly, and the system flags it. Hospitals should stop claiming they do not know why their claims have not been paid. The system automatically informs them," Mr Duale said.

(Link to article attached)

Think about that, Sh11 B could fund hundred of thousands of hospital beds or maybe even take the academic route and fund schools but no, its been flagged as questionable

Sh50 billion — SHA irregularities reported

Sh10.4 billion — State House overspending

Sh2.1 billion — Schools bursary irregularities

Sh262 billion — Supplementary budget rise (contextual fiscal concern)

Next time ukiona your friend doing something crazy, as if by instinct, unapata umemuuliza

Unajua SHA haifanyi?

Why isn't SHA working?

Because the system isn’t failing by accident. These numbers are , real, public, and verifiable. And every hour, every second, your money is part of this story.

I'm not a finance student but money is a currency, it HAS to flow.

Every borrowed shilling has a story, whether we like it or not.

When our president, the government, allegedly takes on a debt, it doesn't vanish, it eventually comes into everyone's pockets.

Into Wanjiku’s.

The roads we drive on, the electricity that powered the device you are reading this from,the fuel filling your tank to the airtime we buy once in a millennium, a fraction of all this goes towards paying money we don't know was borrowed when.

Was it Kenyatta?

Moi?

Kibaki?

Uhuru?

Or now, Ruto?

That is debt in action, quietly slithering into our lives with prices hiking, silently and suddenly a loaf of bread that costs 30 shillings is now 70, WHY?

The real cost is in the food we both buy at our local mama mboga's that costs more now because inflation spikes when our abled leaders borrow beyond its means.

It is in our hospitals that are underfunded but clearly Duale knows that, doesn't he.

Our schools that lack supplies, Ogamba surely knows that. Right?

Why? All because resources are being diverted to "pay loans" instead of funding essential services. Every shilling mismanaged or unaccounted for is one that could have been a teacher's salary, a hospital bed, a clean water pipeline or maybe a reliable route to school and other amenities.

Debt is not abstract.

It is the extra cost in your grocery bill, the delayed repairs in your local clinic, the empty classrooms, and the projects that stall mid-construction.

It is a burden that creeps into every decision a family makes, every business calculation, and every plan for the future.

And while we may not feel it immediately, the weight accumulates, shaping the lives of all of us , quietly, persistently, and inescapably.

Understanding debt is the first step to taking control of your future. If you vote blindly, the trillions continue to decide for you , not the other way around.

But the good thing is , we know that, we don't fully understand it, yet, but we see it, written all over our screens, sahii ni our leaders arguing like little kids while handling billions

So we moved.

From the streets…

To the IEBC stations.

#nikokadi

The truth, this isn't just about being a registered voter, it's more.

It's about being present, counted and informed and active participating in the countries decisions. Gone are the days of being passive, we are no longer victims of circumstance, we can't say it's our folks who did the choosing if we have the power to

It's understanding what's at stake, then making a choice that matters.

You can’t complain about mismanagement if you don’t show up and vote wisely.

So, when you think politics is “boring” remember:

Trillions are being borrowed

Billions are being questioned

And every hour, your money is part of the story

Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give but cannot.

— Jamie Anderson

Source: Pinterest

Grief is the intense, unpredictable, and highly individualized emotional response to a significant loss, such as bereavement, divorce, or major life changes. It often comes in waves, producing feelings of sadness, numbness, anger, or guilt, and can affect physical health. Healing involves navigating emotions and adjusting to a new reality.

But no one really tells you what it feels like.

Grief never came the way I expect it to.

It was never loud. It wasn't dramatic. I thought it would begin the moment I heard the news that you were gone, I cried, I won't lie, heavily but now I realize those were just tears of pain, pain that you're no longer here

I wonder what our last conversation was like, did we argue? I hope we didn't. Did I tell you I love you? I didn't, I love you, still love you .

The real grief came later

Quietly

It settled into spaces you used to fill, in routines that suddenly feel incomplete, unfinished, in an awareness that something is missing but everything else looks the same.

At first, I didn't believe it.

There was no way you could ever leave me

Right?

Right?

Surely, you wouldn’t do that to me.

Disbelief took over, like my mind was trying to shield me from fully understanding what had happened. I moved through my days expecting things to return to normal, time heals they said.

So why do I still wait to hear your voice or see you walk back as if you never left. I try to replay our last conversations , our last moments, searching for something and I still search.

My conclusion,

YOU, left me.

Slowly, reality begins creeping in.

And then come the questions, like a storm, persistent, relentless, often unanswerable.

Why did this happen?

Why now?

Why you?

They never offered closure, they just sit there, recurring, in quiet moments when you're the only one who would listen to me, would take my side.

I miss you.

Then the questions turn inward and suddenly I'm looking at myself , scrutinizing, was there more I could have done, said or maybe I should have been more present .

Knowing not everything isn't in my control doesn't make me less angry, the feeling, questions still linger, then something else takes their place.

Silence.

Never a peaceful kind, not the kind you escape to.

This one is loud.

It follows you ,it sits with you, it weighs on you, conspicuous, it refuses to be ignored.

I find myself listening for something that will not return, as if my mind hasn't fully adjusted yet.

The silence reminds me that you are gone, have been gone for years now only my mind refuses to adjust so no, time never healed me, I still need you, I'm an adult now, and I know your presence would have made things better, I never wanted you in some society shaped type of way, your presence was enough for me.

What makes all this invigorating, is that people seem to continue as if you were never here. They carry on with their lives, conversations, plans, and time moves forward like you were never present. I am disconnected whenever you come to mind, everything appears normal but something shifted in me when I saw your cold body in that casket that morning, there I knew that I would have to take care of myself in this world with people who are cold, just like your body that morning. It looks like I'm the only one who carries your memories and it feels isolating.

How do I even explain what I'm going through to them?

Not because the emotions aren't there but how do I explain how I feel when you left years ago, I'm not the sharpest tool when EQ is on the line, it's just too complex to explain it to them so I keep quiet.I’m okay,I lie, because the burden of actually explaining it to them how deep is overwhelming.

With time something changes, not in the sense the loss disappears, but in how I relate to it. There is a common belief that grief is something you "get over" but in reality it's something you learn to live with. The intensity may shift, the pain slightly manageable, but it never goes away. It becomes part of me.

You don't move on from grief

You move with it

The adjustment is slow. Uneven.

Some days feel lighter .Some, heavy, just as the beginning. But over time, I began to understand how to exist alongside the loss compared to being overwhelmed completely by it.

Still, a fear surfaces, like a monster, rearing it's head, a new virus, my system doesn't know how to fight so I watch.

The fear is abit personal.

The fear of forgetting.

I am already a victim, I don't fully remember your face. I'm worried as time passes the memories will become less vivid, details fade, the connection I'm desperately trying to preserve will weaken. This fear makes me hold on more tightly, trying to keep your presence alive in whatever ways I can.

And yet, even in absence, something remains.

Not physically but in the influence you had/have in my life. In the way you still shape my thoughts, perspectives, actions. They aren't replacements and do not replace the loss but act as a form of continuity to your remembrance. Your presence may be gone but your impact lives on in me, after all, I am a photocopy of you, they say.

Living with you being gone, means learning to exist in that balance, between absence and memory, between pain and meaning. It means accepting that grief does not have a clear endpoint. It becomes part of my story, something that changes me, but also something that reflects the depth of the connection I once had with you.

It means that you are gone

But you, in a different way, remain

And learning to live with both, is what makes it the most difficult thing, and the most human thing, I will ever do.

Between law, religion, and lived reality lies a question with no easy answers: should the right to live include the right to choose how life ends?

You heard me right.

How will you know I did CRE back in highschool if I don't mention it

According to research Euthanasia, also known as mercy killing is the act of ending someone's life to relieve extreme and often irreversible suffering intentionally. As the term is widely used I often find it misunderstood.

Euthanasia comes in two forms; active and passive.

Active Euthanasia, as the wise men in the bible would have it (wahenga), kuchukua sheria mkononi, involves taking direct steps or measures to end a person's life in forms such as administration of lethal substances.

On the other hand passive involves withholding a life sustaining treatment thus allowing for a slow natural death to the patient. The distinction matters because many people, legal systems too treat the two differently.

Source: Pinterest

What people fail to understand is that it's not simply giving up on life or a form of suicide. On the contrary, it's far more complex than what meets the eye. It typically arises in cases of terminal illnesses, unbearable pain and as the word mercy would have it, focuses the shift from curing to alleviating and perhaps preserving the little dignity one is left with.

Legally, the position in Kenya is unambiguous.

Under the Kenyan Penal Code, Chapter 63 , specifically regarding homicide offences (Division IV), section 209 states that any intentional act that results in the death of another person is treated as murder, regardless of consent or the motive of mercy. There is no legal allowance for euthanasia, whether active or passive, and consent does not absolve liability. In the eyes of the law, the preservation of life takes absolute priority.

Beyond the legal framework, the church plays a role in shaping public opinions. Kenya, predominantly a Christian nation with a significant Muslim population, has both religions upholding the sanctity of life where it is viewed as a divine gift. Suffering according to the two communities interpretations is not meaningless and may or may not carry a spiritual significance.

At the very base of euthanasia, presents an ethical division, one that competes and never offers answers.

Those against it often begin with the sanctity of life, that it's of inherent value and under no circumstances should it be deliberately ended.

A potential fear of abuse of power. It's clear as day how life has inequalities with phrases like ni mbaya or this life no wahala. With the existence of such, vulnerable people might resort or pressured directly or indirectly into choosing death. I am no different , the only problem being what could begin as a choice, overtime becomes an expectation that whenever the going gets tough, mwendo umeumaliza.

On the other hand, advocates of euthanasia,(myself included) approach it from the standpoint of autonomous living. I do believe that people should have the ultimate say over their own bodies and lives. After all we are the same people who came up with the phrase like maisha ni yangu . From a religious standpoint, if free will actually exists, the ability to make my own decisions on how I live should be accompanied with a voice on how my life comes to an end especially in cases of extreme suffering.

Dignity, a power play is never forgotten. For some, the stripping away if independence one is used to their whole life, constant pain and gradual deterioration of the body can push someone to the edge and in such cases euthanasia wouldn't or shouldn't be seen as a rejection of life but as a way if preserving control of ones life right to it's final moments.When pain becomes unbearable and irreversible, prolonging life can sometimes mean prolonging distress.

Both sides are rooted in care, in concern, and in a desire to protect human dignity. The conflict is not between right and wrong, but between different understandings of what it means to value life.

I believe that people should have the option to decide when enough is enough.

That belief does not come from a place of disregard for life. If anything, it comes from taking it seriously,recognizing that living is more than just existing. It is about awareness, agency, and a sense of self that makes the experience meaningful. When those are irreversibly lost, the question becomes harder to ignore: what exactly are we preserving?

But this is not a simple position. It comes with discomfort, and it should.

Because the line between choice and vulnerability is not always clear. Because suffering can distort judgment. Because in a society like ours, where not everyone has equal access to healthcare, pain management, or psychological support, the idea of “choice” can be complicated by circumstance.

Maybe the real question is not whether people should be allowed to die, but whether we are ready to truly understand what it means to suffer.

At what point does living for everyone else become forgetting how to live for yourself?

I don't know if I am going to send you this. I don't have the strength, believe me, I have tried. In my head, a myriad of scenarios. I never spoke. In that myriad, not even in an alternate universe did you listen to me.

It's supposed to be easy as fuck, but no. I would rather sit down and learn Calculus from scratch; I would get what Isaac and Gottfried tried to put across.

You're next to me, yet I can't see you. A distance was created. I'm reaching out, I'm stretching my arms, can you see? I don't think you can…

Allow me to call you my oppressor. I don't feel free.

There has always been a version of me that seemed to fulfil your very heart.

The quiet one. The respectful one. The one who doesn’t question, doesn’t resist, doesn’t complicate things. The one who understands without being understood.

I didn't even see it until I did. Everything I have been doing, I always thought I was doing it for myself.Yes, this is the path carved out for me. Everything I did, since primary, high school then… how did I not see it? Maybe I was too occupied being your perfect son. The one you could brag about to your siblings. The one who does everything to make you happy, even when it costs him his very own happiness.

It's easier to love someone who never says no.

I learned that lesson well.

I learned to keep quiet, no matter how small nor big. I didn't speak lest I be deemed disrespectful. I didn't want anything then, I think. I do now. Talking about them, suddenly I'm selfish and I'm not thinking about you. I've thought about you all my life, and suddenly I want to put myself first and I'm the selfish one, am I?

I've always tried to be perfect, to carry expectations that were never mine to begin with, and like a cloth, wear them like they were mine.

I was so afraid of failing, to a point everything became monotonous, like a system, a code, no bugs, clean and like a jigsaw, fitting… perfectly.

And you clapped for me. I could see. It was written all over your eyes. See, I was doing everything you wanted me to. I'm grown now. We have the same goals, but our approaches are different and you refuse to listen. How will I know if you'll play it out?

Maybe you're raised not to question a system, but did you ever stop to think about me? About what I want? Or how much it cost me to be that "good"?

Did you ask yourself why I would start murmuring about something then go quiet, choking on my own words because the weight was too heavy and in turn weighed me down?

The number of times I chose my discomfort over my truth, truth is I know a lot, still do. I thought my silence was my way of protecting you, but in the process, I got lost. So it's time I speak up.Maybe you saw. Maybe you noticed. Maybe it didn't matter.

As long as I was your perfect child, I was acceptable. No matter which version came back from the world, beat up, run down, I don't think it mattered to you.

I have a question. Allow me:

When did my life become a project for you and your siblings to manage?

When did my choices start threatening your authority?

When did my voice become something that needed correction because you and your siblings are older, and suddenly I'm younger, naive, stupid and needed correction?

Can I give you a moment,a mirror perhaps ?

Before you judge me take a look at yourself

Not as my mum. Not as my uncle, not as my aunt. Not as someone who "knows better," but as a human, like everyone else.

You silently taught me that love is conditional. I had to be the good son to receive your love. I had to make you happy and do everything you want me to.

That for you to accept me, I had to be obedient to your every request. Failure to do that would guarantee me a session in the high court, “your siblings", where each would take a turn to cook and roast me for existing.

For me to be in your good books, I had to exist as you deemed fit, and peace would prevail.

Look in the mirror and ask yourself:

Did you raise a person… or did you raise compliance?

I see it now.

The subtle guilt I feel each time I do something that I know wouldn't sit right with you, with them. The unspoken pressure.

The way “family” becomes a reason to endure what should never have been normalized.

I write all this with a bitter heart, and at the same time, I wanna say this:

I am not ungrateful for wanting to live a life I know I deserve. One that feels like mine. One I want and have wanted for a time now, only that you never saw it.

Wanting more only makes me honest, and not ungrateful.

Questioning things doesn't make me rebellious; you didn't explain anything to me, so allow me to ask questions.

I am not being disrespectful for choosing to exist beyond the confines you've set for me.

This is my future we are talking about, one where only God knows if you exist. I don't want to regret, a couple of years down the line, a life unfulfilled, unlived.

This version will probably feel different, and it's because it is.

This one speaks, questions things, refuses to disappear just to make you and the council feel secure. I refuse to just sit down and endure, persevere.

If it makes you uncomfortable, maybe, and I repeat, just maybe, my voice is a reflection of yourself, not my failure as a person, as a son, as Wachira.

For the first time in my life, I no longer want or desire to be a captive anymore.

I am a little hard on myself for asking the question I should have asked a long time ago.

What about what I want?

Not in anger. Not in defiance. Not to punish.

I ask it because I deserve to ask it.

I ask it because I am done being invisible in my own life.

I ask it because silence has cost me enough.

Yours Sincerely

WACHIRA KEVIN.

Unacheki mimi, niliacha chuo class 7, I didn't think education was meant for me but I would take it back if I knew it would put me in the streets, ni mbaya, I hear you say and things like izi streets ni kuchafu, that's my home you talking about, the same home you litter, beat your chest juu umelipa tax, "kanjo watasafisha", you say. Kuacha shule haikuchukuliwa vizuri home, by home nasema my relatives, see my parents died nikiwa myoung, I never really got to see them so story za mum na dad sijui vizuri utanisamehea ukiskia nikiitana, mum , dad, siz, bro time nadai kuomba kitu, I never really got to experience family. I took to the streets after being chased away for refusing to continue with my studies.

Streets...hazikunikubali, kuna programs, groups, people you should know and I, sikuwa najua mtu yeyote. I would try to join a group but language barrier would be a problem for me, I was too clean, I didn't take drugs. I didn't have a place to stay, or eat neither did I have clothes to put on so welcome me just the way I am, I know I'm not clean and I might smell I do try to be clean as much as I want so pardon me

I finally found my people, displaced, with nowhere to go, people to call and even if I thought of them I'm sure as hell they wouldn't reach back, you probably have felt the same feeling, that person you know but also know they wouldn't reach out or back and that's okay. See with them I had to indulge in some things to stay sane, I didn't want to but I had to.

Glue, conta, that's my go to. Remember me saying I had to, glue is one of them. You'll find me with your everyday small afia bottle, probably a mango one sijui mnaipendea nini, I collected it in my errands but anyway, I have one too, just filled with glue and may or may not be attached to my nose. Sniffing it is my escape, from life, reality, and myself, till it's time to face all of it which is probably like never but najua one day I'll have to, siplan kuishi uku forever.

You've probably heard me using works like sekiseki or adisia. I tried, nilijaribu just like that one test you read the hell for lakini results didn't show so everyone thought hakuna kitu umefanya. I tried finding a means only to realize niko in the ends so my means didn't matter. This day nimeokolewa and I had to give back, theft. I didn't like that day but as I said, I didn't want to and yes I had a choice. I have a question tho, is it really a choice when it's only one? To the person/people I've stolen from, I am sorry, that's the hand I was dealt with. I respect the struggle you took to achieve it, sina choice , try to understand me

Tumekuwa in the same setting na hukujali vile nakaa lakini you kept some distance, I didn't mind, that was the one time I felt accepted. Maandamano ikiwa you considered my family and at that moment I am not marginalized. You took to the streets, at first sikuelewa what was going on lakini nilitokea, see I had come to do what I always do, you get the drift. Mkaendelea kutokea and I got to realize mbona mnatokea, see thing is, we want the same thing lakini mi sina sauti. No one will listen to me and every time nimejaribu no one will listen.

First ilikuwa finance bill, ya pili remembrance of the fallen heroes. Izi ni vitu zinaniaffect pia ni vile we can't come together juu pia mimi najua the state I'm in so allow me to send you as my messenger.

Champe, kumbuka nikikushow I stopped at seven, nilifika eight lakini sikuchukua ID. Siezi vote coming in the next elections, I have a favour to ask, I need something from you....

See kila kitu mnasema about izi streets si uongo

Ni chafu, it affects us, both you and I. Tumeishi kuongea and only one thing happens inachafuka on a daily and we try, I try. Utanipata nikijaribu kuchukua plastics, carton boxes, my aim ni kupata pesa, kuna watu huzichukua, for recycling probably lakini I play a part in cleaning this place for us.

Don't trust anyone, especially the one who promises you heaven. Mlituchagulia MP, shukran, someone who can govern us, lakini hakuna kitu wanafanya. They keep on promising us street people watatutoa uku, build a place for us, empower us, clothe us, educate us, feed us lakini akikuja rally kumkaribia ni kama that one thing that seemed to keep on escaping, I can't reach MY leader. Sitaki kumuibia, I just want to remind him that alinipromise this and that lakini I never saw it.

Kumbuka ile favour, elections are almost, nimeona posters kwa streets. Tokea, turn up, in numbers, choose people to represent us well. Nichagulie someone you deem fit to represent us and inshallah atanifanyia everything yule mwingine alikuwa amenipromise, and maybe just maybe tukipatana uku nje we'll share a cup of coffee and you won't even realize we once crossed paths before only that my clothes were tattered and my smile, stolen

To a better tomorrow

Zangu zangu,

Champe.

Before anything, this is a rant and I might come off as angry na ni juu nimejam hakuna njia ingine.

See I was thinking about my dreams and chenye nimetaka kukuwa tangu utotoni. Well... It starts with what every boy( no survey,just my presumptions) wanted to be when young, a pilot. I would make kites and fly them ensuring aerodynamics merged with fluid mechanics into play, paper jets too and boom I wanna be a pilot, simple,honest just like your service provider (allegedly). That was still the case upon joining high school till something changed.

In highschool things changed or as my friends from the western side of my country put it best, vindu vichenjanga( I hope nimeieka vizuri) Subjects like Geography zilianza kunikalia, damn! (Nikifika sikuwa naona kitu, nilikuwa naona marudurudu) best describes my situation with the subject. I wasn't really good scratch that I was soo bad in it but nikaambiwa haiko necessary as a subject requirement for aviation, I don't know how placement works so the dream was still valid despite my B minuses every damn time manze just like my blood type. Exposure to the internet made something hit me just like your everyday tiktoker mbavu destroyer saying weka mawe (sigh, tunaenda wapi) , hard, faster than a lightning bolt, I couldn't do aviation, not in my wildest dreams. School of aviation was damn expensive and "singeweza" kuafford even if I wanted to(adi hyo kutaka singeafford).

See there is a point in life you realize hauko as privileged as you'd like/want and either, you get jealous or you start resenting things, me? Mine was jealousy. People couldn't see/realize the hand they are dealt with when they can easily reach where they would like to and it's even worse if the person takes it for granted, well they probably have a safety cushion, even as I say this I realize it comes from an envious standpoint but let a spade be called a spade and not a big spoon. Something to soothe the pain or to absorb all of it thus no pain at all. I had to change what I wanted , my dream was taken away from me by the one thing I didn't choose in life and no, I don't hate my Mum or Dad for bringing me into this world, the cards life dealt them were probably different.

Quantity Survey, that was what I wanted to do,by then I had realized being a QS all it took was a smart student and someone good in math, I was both, I tell myself and abracadabra, QS in the making. Something changes when you're from a place huezi chagua anything you want, afraid to slide, fall, afraid of everything (you'll see how this is relevant). Kuna something called Privilege of Choice ( I just made that up), well it's being able to do something out of choice, out of passion, it's something you love doing and you're not there for the money bora uko happy, for the peace of mind. My remedy to the deficiency of the PoC, it doesn't matter how long it'll take, I'll rack up till I am able to get whatever the fuck I want, no matter how long it takes.

In form 3, I was called for lunch by a family friend, my mom's namesake actually, both names, she's a good lady whose daughter does Aeronautical engineering in TUK, you should hear how she speaks about her, the apple of her eye, the cloud in her sky, hope she knows she's loved. I was happy since place ya food was my forté, as the frenchmen said mwana mwega no nda (to mean a good child is the one who eats) So we meet in this restaurant, I order whatever I want to and no sooner had I taken the first bite when the career talk started. Hakuna cha bure gaddemit!!!

The talk? Well, the talk was about how non-marketable Quantity Survey is and like a good child I listen, to my parents, her friends, teachers, all and sundry. Telling me how I could only establish myself once I'm old or if I have any connections I could venture but alas! Nothing!

Way forward? She tells me about a major I never heard of, knowledge does cover a multitude of ignorance. One look at my grades, and Mechatronics it is or was, she said. Telling me about how good it is, man let me just eat in peace!! You, in the least owe me that. And now it was back to school, talking about a course no one ever heard , kila mtu ananishangaa like I'm this Einstein the world is about to witness. Fast forward to major selection and ofcourse, I took bait and got caught up in the hook, chose it.

Now kuna this fucked up system tunakuanga subjected to and damn they never hold your hand. The course placement service, inaitangwa KUCCPS. Results out and it's time to choose, Kuna hii kitu inaitwa cluster points, that thing can humble you badddd!!! Unaangalia kitu unataka kufanya then your cluster, then yourself, and all you can see is a fuckin clown cause mbona unafikiria unaeza fanya, well you can, mama raised no fool after all,if you are well off, lakini kama ni kuccps we iza!

A peek at Quantity Surveys, miles away, Mechatronics?, I missed out on like point something and I couldn't pick it so I ended up with a sub branch of Mechatronics, the mechanical part.

Fortunately, I got picked, got to study it, still studying. Kuna this rant everyone has wakiwa class, the realization that mmejaa and may be saturated na unaeza kosa kazi at the end of the day despite your degree, cannon lakini that's beside the point.

See the thing about wanting what you want, you need to know what you want or else. By or else, I mean the universe will put you into a role. The role won't be aesthetic nor pleasing in any form, shape or manner. It will bend you in ways you'll never love and you'll be miserable more than you'll ever think and why? Just because you didn't dare to reach for your dreams. Break free, expectations can either make you or break you, be careful and ensure you are at peace with whatever you are doing.

Back to my point,dreams. See I have always known I am meant for more, for greatness, for everything out there. Life is like a mango tree to me, the fruits, free for my picking, everything is out there for me only if I dare. I don't care where I fuckin come from, si mimi nilichagua where I come from so nikiambiwa nikumbuke nilikotoka when I make decisions I'll only think of my name cause hyo ndio roots kwangu because why are you trying to belittle my dreams like they aren't valid. I'll reach, I might fall but at least I know that wasn't for me and I'll rise and try something else. Heri uchungu ya kujua I tried and failed compared to the pain of knowing I was afraid to try juu sina something or someone to cushion my fall if it does happen. I still dream, and I'll go for everything I want bila kuskiza the two cent opinion from others because me, I've always been a dreamer, I refuse to settle so I ...

DREAM

With lots of love,

WACHIRA KEVIN.

It's almost 6PM, the sun looks ethereal and I'm about to leave work. Work? I like it here, well I like the people I work with. They are definitely older with like 10 years but I have been meeting older people of late and damn I love it here, big sibling vibes working here, I'll definitely miss them.

When the long hand strikes 6 and it's time to leave I prep myself for a 30 minutes walk with an allowance of plus or minus 5, in my other life, my name is Barry. Around that time Mwea is active, lively, as if to show how big it is, roads filled to its capacity, high school students coming from school, I, from work.

The sun, well ethereal, something about the sunsets this side is magical. This shows me that heaven is real since this is no man made feat, simply put, divine. It reminds me to always be bright, shine and don't forget to light other candles the way the sun does to the moon.

Here is a photo of a sunset taken after work.

See what I'm saying, the type of sunset that makes you want to get a rocking chair, admire and follow the sun to its horizon till it fades away and once it's gone you remember you have responsibilities. It's time to go home.

There is a river(s) in this place, Thiba and Nyamindi, they sound like something I learnt back in primary, not that I even recall much and I am graced to pass by one on my way to where

I stay. My mind, funny, curious, I'm thinking to myself what if I jump like those divers, only to test how deep, deeper than my thoughts maybe and maybe the river would decide to give me a tour to Neverland, never to be seen again and maybe that's what I need.

This is what my camera captured. River Nyamindi.

After crossing the river there isn't much to see apart from my favorite couple of the year. Tuko 2026 so it's not Patelo na Dee, Kuna these two high schoolers who usually stand at some joint, holding hands and I can't help but smile everytime cause inakaa funny and cute at the same time, hyo ndio definition ya mapenzi kwao(evading accountability cause that might actually be the love I fw, simple,honest). I almost told them they're my favorite couple but ingewapea pressure mob just like how my teachers did every time they called me smart and I had to put my best foot forward eti nisiwaangushe, unfortunately. I'm glad I saw them together post Valentines, I was afraid they didn't make it past the one day where everything is misunderstood. You see, I went to a Catholic high school and I learnt a thing or two about valentines, our teachers would buy the class roses and the school would give each student a whole fish, we used to call it "one man one fish". I realize now it was their way of appreciating us students. Alright back to valentines yes, kuna this Saint , Pope Gelasius I who brought forth Valentines day as an honor to Saint Valentines and as far as I'm concerned it's a day where people who love each other celebrate one another and not the other way round. So kama umekaa apo and expect gifts with nothing to give back, omera focus! I'm about to leave this place, I hope I get to see more of my favorite couple, keeping up with the (whatever they call themselves), they make my day. Now that wako midterm, I hope they see each other often and grow together.

After that it's where I sleep, I love it there, simple. A mud thatched wall, earthen floor with posters za bongo artists, I made a good friend and his dad came to appreciate me, I will definitely miss them. I try to make time nikitoka job to atleast tell each other stories, I'll live for these days. The place has no lights, luckily the sun sets around 7:30 so I have like an hour allowance to get everything in order.

Everything? Well everything includes crossing a river to get to a place where I can fetch water for taking a bath, or even going with my laundry to the river to wash them from there, saying it out loud reminds me I'm polluting the water. I'm different, I tell myself, in this case I prefer the term, victim of circumstance, I'm in Rome, I have to...Place ya kuchota maji is my favorite place. Kuna two mango trees🕺and believe you me if a survey was taken the average amount of mangoes I took/take on a daily is 4-6. The season is almost coming to an end and no mangoes are getting spoiled on my watch, I have a healthy eating habit now so the man-goes to eat everyday, (Ik I'm funny).

There is this lady, I call her shosho, who has a child my age and I wonder why I call her that even (sigh) niliambiwa ni shosho. We sit down everyday and talk about nothing and everything, she'd tell me about other people and I'd be like I wouldn't tell you anything about me , not that there is much but I prefer to keep to me. She's optimistic about life and her husband, a pastor, so ni fair kusema I go to church on a daily basis.

I was exposed to this without any knowledge but I guess everything happens for a reason, a life I never imagined and ended up teaching me a thing or two about simple living, I pray I'll be able to repay the favor. Every January mimi adi Mwea , the mango season is simply amazing.

I hear the clock ticking, time has flown, mind alert and ready, see you on the other side it's time to go to bed.

Yours Sincerely,

WACHIRA KEVIN.

Will it take me to the moment I played rewind by Sauti Sol

You see they have something etched to my soul

Etched like that one ex who refuses to leave my cursed heart

I also refuse to let her go, maybe I'm stubborn like that

If it rewinds, I would honestly fix everything that I know would affect me

I wouldn't switch school in class 2

I wouldn't want to witness a marital conflict

Go to boarding

Get what I got in KCPE

My KCPE, I would switch it all in a heartbeat

My heart? Tender, soft, loving, warm and last but not least, misunderstood

Is there anyone who would decipher it like a morse code and see I didn't mean what I said

I'm sorry, I told you we could never work after joining campus and seeing all the fleshly desires everyone partook in, I crave gentleness but it's proving futile like I'm chasing wind

I might be paying Karma a hefty price

I'm sorry I couldn't understand myself and caused me more harm than I knew

My heart, hardened, just like Pharaoh's only this time I'll let the Israelites go I don't need more problems on my land(myself)

If time could go back, I would listen to my gut

The one that told me not to do this but as fleeting as it was I only came to know the repercussions later on

A year at home, worst time on earth given it wasn't a good cause

The year is coming to an end

There seems to be light at the end of the tunnel

I'm squinting, my future ladies and gents appear to be bright

The suspension is almost over

I can now get to my books, I miss school, and studies, the value of something really sticks once it's taken away from you

No, I am not okay, it killed me

And in return, I killed something in me

Not fair, I know, but rule number one; if it works don't touch it

Do I accept it all? I do, I had to learn (I think)

But if time could go back , I really could change it all

But it doesn't, so I do

I do what I need to do, what must be done

I no longer negotiate my boundary

I'm a bird, reborn, just like an eagle

I'm leaving my nest and soaring high as the sky is never my limit

With lots of love,

WACHIRA KEVIN.