As the year began, I signed onto this project “almost” by accident so I could have a quiet agreement with myself to see something through from blank page to delivery. At first it felt like a seed idea scribbled in the margin of a busy notebook. I kept it to myself because I wasn’t sure how it would take shape aaaaaand….. because some projects demand a private beginning before they’re ready for other eyes.

Month one was all sketches and suspense. I spent mornings checking for signals that the plan was actually gaining momentum. There was a huge disparity in my previous routine and my new one… there's this particular morning I felt oddly off for an appetite for details I’d usually never spare. I would tell myself it was nerves or excitement for other things and then tuck the project back into my folder marked private. The secrecy felt protective nikama tumeifunika na bubblewrap coz of how fragile it was.

By the second month the project required adjustments. I found myself reorganizing schedules and shifting priorities to create space for the unknown. This is where my inner circle noticed my inconsistency…..I used to jump into late nights but now I was forced to start keeping calmer hours.

The middle months were when the project grew heavy with intention. My body of work changed noticeably proportions, balance, structure. I started planning in longer arcs, mapping milestones on a mental timeline. There were secret check-ins with a trusted few, mostly my family, but it was merely a one-eyed sketch shown only to my journal. What's crazy was that I was almost certain that when my friends would visit, they would inquire and from observation know how demanding my project was. Albeit I learnt the language of patience, it wasn't as easy. Naps became not a luxury but a scheduled maintenance window.

Around month five the project began to move in rhythms. There were evenings when I could feel progress from within, like the low hum of a machine finally finding its cadence. Overtime I learned that people will have opinions about what I have been working on. I knew a heavy task on my project was to protect it from opinions and unsolicited instructions, because every blueprint is personal and every build has its own pace.

The later months demanded logistics and contingency plans. I arranged the home workspace for accessibility, created a go-bag of essentials labeled “for immediate deployment,” and rehearsed exit routes and contact lists in case the project needed to be moved earlier than scheduled. I stopped taking calls that drained energy and practiced saying no with a quiet firmness. Friends noticed the changes and sometimes prodded, but I deflected with vague references to “big life things” and “a lot going on at home.” The deadline for my submission nears, anticipation and trepidation mingles. Sleep grows scarce. I count down dates with the kind of precision a good project manager uses when the launch window is critical. Nights are a collage of planning, breathing exercises, and lists of what must happen when the moment arrives. I am patiently awaiting the crescendo when I will declare my project closed, exhaustion and exhilaration will definitely arrive hand in hand.

Now, when I think back to that timeline, what stands out isn’t the secrecy itself but the interior choreography involving the small daily choices, the adaptations, the private rites that nourished one long, impossible undertaking until it reached completion. If a project deserves care, sometimes the best thing you can do is keep it safe until it’s ready to be shared.

Steer clear!

Have an ivaniffic day ahead!

Then there's Fredah. She knows when to stay quiet. She can read the room like it's written in 3D or neon lights. She understands why her friend canceled plans for the third time and knows it's not about thembut rather about what they're going through. That's a high level EQ right there. Emotional intelligence is basically our ability to navigate the invisible currents that run between human beings. Think of it like this....IQ is knowing that pineapples are technically a fruit. EQ is knowing not to put them in pizzas!

IQ can get you through medical school with perfect grades. EQ makes you the doctor that patients actually want to talk to, the one they trust with their fears at three in the morning. IQ builds the bridge. EQ understands why people are afraid to cross it. You can have a genius level IQ and still destroy every relationship you touch. You can ace every test, win every debate, solve every puzzle, win the blitz chess after coming over 5 minutes late to the tournament and still, later on, sit alone wondering why nobody calls anymore. Guys, being right doesn't make you easy to love. Being smart doesn't mean you know how to make someone feel seen.

I learnt this the hard way. I called this season in my journal, when smart wasn't smart enough.

Olivia knew how to pave her way through the world. She felt things deeply. Wore her heart on the outside. I thought I had everything figured out. I was the problem-solver. The logical one. The one who sought to be understood rather than to understand. The guy who could debate any topic, who always had the answer, who prided myself on being rational while everyone else was "too emotional." When she'd come to me upset about something at school, I'd immediately jump into solution mode. "Well, here's what you should do.... " Problem solved....or so I thought ....Why wasn't she smiling? "I don't need you to fix it," she'd say quietly. "I just need you to listen." I'd think, Woman! I am listening. I just gave you three viable solutions. I didn't understand that listening and solving were two different languages.

When she'd tell me she was anxious about something, I'd pull out statistics. "Actually, the probability of that happening is extremely low. Statistically speaking, you're worrying about nothing." As if facts could dismantle feelings. As if fear operated on logic....I'd win arguments on technicalities and watch her walk away even though I'd proven my point. I was right gadaaamit!!!!! I was ALWAYS right...but somehow I was losing her. The breaking point came on a Thursday. She'd had a terrible day. Her grandmother was sick. School was overwhelming. She felt stretched too thin, like she was failing at everything. She came to me looking for....... I don't even know what. Comfort, maybe. Understanding. Someone to just be with her in it.

"You're catastrophizing. Your grandmother has been sick before and recovered. Your school stress is temporary. You're letting your emotions cloud your judgment." I watched her face close. Like a door swinging shut as I uttered those words. "You don't get it," she said. And her voice wasn't angry, it was tired. Resigned. "You never get it! I don't need clear. I need you to care. I need you to feel something with me instead of analyzing me like I'm a problem to solve." She didn't leave because I wasn't smart enough. She left because my IQ couldn't feel what she was feeling. Couldn't sit in the discomfort with her. Couldn't validate her experience before trying to optimize it away.

I have come to learn that IQ might get you in the door, but EQ keeps you in the room.

EQ is the person who remembers you like boiled meat soup as an appetizer. Who notices you've gone quiet and asks if you're okay. Who apologizes not because they lost the argument, but because they recognize they hurt you regardless of who was "right."

EQ is the partner who knows that sometimes "I'm fine" means "please ask me again." You can teach someone calculus. You can teach them data structures and algorithms, and market analysis and legal theory. But teaching someone to care? To listen? To recognize that their impact matters more than their intent? That's harder. That requires humility. Self-awareness. Immense level of self awareness .The ability to step outside your own perspective and into someone else's reality.

The world doesn't need more people who are just smart. It needs people who are smart and kind. Who lead with empathy. Who understand that being brilliant means nothing if you make everyone around you feel small.

IQ tells you what to say. EQ tells you when to say nothing at all.

If I could go back and tell my younger self anything, it would be this: Olivia definitely didn't't need you to be smarter. Olivia needed you to be softer. She needed you to put down the armor of always being right and just......feel with her.

At the end of the day, nobody's going to remember how well you scored in your studies or how many arguments you won. They're going to remember how you made them feel.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, that's the only intelligence that really matters.

Have an ivaniffic day!

I thought she was the perfect embodiment of what true love is. Trust me, she wasn't. In hindsight at the recap of how my 2025 was, I realized I didn't understand what true love is up until 22nd of April. Before that, lemme wrap up on how the events unfolded on Olivia's case. This love wasn't the kind of thing where I'm just excited or caught up in something new. This was the kind  that made me understand why couples in movies used to look at each other the way they did and they don't even notice #StormOverParadise

I'm (arguably) a funny individual who makes the worst jokes and meets the wrong audience..Haha!! But lemme ask, what is love if it isn't depicted by her laughs at my worst jokes. I am not talking about the polite kind of laugh, I mean the one that starts in her chest and lights up her whole face. When she laughs like that, it's like every stupid decision I've ever made was just practice for figuring out how to make that sound happen, you know what I mean? I have always been taught to be practical, to think things through qnd to measure twice and cut once. She made me want to be better. Not in that way where someone's always pointing out what's wrong with you, but in the way where I look at how she treats people, how she sees the world and I think, "I want to show up like that. I want to be worthy of someone who shows up like that." That's exactly how I felt with Olivia. In iShowSpeed's voice "Hey Chat, Anyone who can object what love is, if this wasn't it, hit me up!" Now, here's the thing, in April, I was to meet up with the lady that is now literally my whole life. She failed to turn up on the day we had set the date. I knew that it was gonna be her first time within my vicinity ; new town, new city and she didn't know a single thing about the area and I totally understand that. She rescheduled to 22nd April which was actually a good day, convenient for the both of us. When we met, I won't say she was the most beautiful lady I've ever seen (shout out to my first love, Hey mum!) but she evoked a feeling I've never experienced in my life. From her touch, her scent..everything in her was just perfect. What I envied about her was that she didn't know about bills or heartbreak or disappointment....She had never experienced any of that. For the record, till date, she doesn't know that people can be cruel or that dreams don't always work out the way you plan them. Overtime , I've realized I have a thing for eyes. Her’s light up like someone just turned on every star in the sky at once. You might think it's a hyperbolic expression, wait till you meet her….It's pure recognition, pure joy. No hesitation, no judgment, no walls. Just this complete, unfiltered happiness that exists. Self awareness perhaps that I'm hers and she's mine! Tooting my horn a bit too much perhaps?

She laughs at peek-a-boo like it's the greatest magic trick ever performed. Every single time. Like the world is full of wonder and surprise and everything is happening for the very first time. Because for her, it is. Everything is new. Everything is possible. Everything is safe because the people around her make it safe. My niece made me realize what true love is.

I have imagined of a greater love to someone who barely understands the meaning of life and what her purpose is but her presence simply lights up my life. I never knew I'd enjoy watching Badanamu, Ms. Rachael and all those whales that throw parties on the ocean floor but watching it with her, it makes my days worthwhile. Often at times, I look at her, this perfect, innocent little person, and I feel this weight. This beautiful, terrifying weight of wanting to protect that innocence for as long as I possibly can. Of wanting to be the kind of uncle who makes her feel like the world is exactly as good as she thinks it is right now. She doesn't know about fear yet. She hasn't learned it. When I hold her, she just melts into me with this complete trust that I've got her. That I won't let her fall. That she's safe. I watch her discover her own feet like they're the most fascinating things that ever existed. I watch her taste something for the first time and see her little face scrunch up or break into that gummy smile. I watch her fight sleep even though her eyes are heavy, like she doesn't want to miss a single second of being alive. That's what innocence looks like. It looks like her. When those eyes light up because I walked into the room? When she sees me and decides, without knowing anything else about this complicated world, that I'm one of her people? That's the purest form of love I've ever known. That's my niece. That's who she is. Eight months of pure light

Have an ivaniffic day and let the systems you've set for your goals, work!

Let me talk about success in survival . About the kind of warrior you had to become. When the sun hasn't risen yet but you're already awake, with coffee going cold in your hands because you are trying to be awake despite being sluggis, moody and drowsy and your eyes burning from screens that glow like false promises in the 3, 4 or 5 am darkness, trying to study or beat the deadline for the submission of a lab report, assignment or preparing for a CAT or an exam. You know that exhaustion, don't you? That bone-deep, kind of tired where you can't remember what rest feels like, and where sleep becomes this luxury you schedule. “Cheki bro, si uni-signie attendance” becomes the leverage you seek when your swamped with unfinished school work, Don't even get me started with projects….

Those deadlines….they don't care that you're human. They don't care that your brain feels static and that your fingers cramped up three pages ago. The deadlines don't care that you've rewritten the same paragraph mara kama seventeen because nothing sounds right and everything matters to that professor, that doctor, that lecturer….Hey Ms. Sarah! And those classes, those make up classes where three hours felt like seven, back-to-back until you forget which building you're in, which day it is, whether you've eaten anything.

The lab sessions that run over, where only a few individuals would potentially do everything and you'll need their results for you to write a sensible report. Where precision is everything and your hands won't stop shaking when you actually participate in the lab session because accuracy matters. Oooh God! The reports that multiply from unit to unit, each one demanding references you have to hunt down, citations that need formatting, discussions and conclusions that need building from the ground up brick by intellectual brick.

You did that. You survived the all-nighters that many at times turned into all-dayers, the panic that sets in when you realize you've got an exam in six hours and three chapters left to memorize, cram or understand.

You survived doubt, that voice that whispered you weren't smart enough, weren't strong enough, wouldn't make it. But here you stand.

Degree in hand or nearly there, is enough proof that you're tougher than you knew, that resilience isn't about never falling but rather it's about getting up every single morning even when your body begged you not to. The degree you now behold isn't just a piece of paper but evidence of the late night battles won, of deadlines beaten, of knowledge earned through blood, sweat, and highlighted exercise books.

This is proof that you climbed the mountain even when the summit was hidden in clouds, even when every muscle screamed to stop.

So celebrate this, compadres! Not just the ending, but the whole journey every brutal, beautiful, impossible moment of it. You didn't just finish university or institution of higher learning for that matter. You freaking conquered it!

And that, everyone…that is everything!

Congratulations:)

Oooh Shit!

Here we go again!

I'm just trying to get home but you're here....as always. Look at how perched you are on that motorbike like this corner belongs to you. Am I your sole  entertainer scheduled for your days.

That whistle of his  cuts through the air before I even round the corner. XSSXSSS!!

I hear it. That sharp, piercing sound that makes my shoulders tense, makes me walk faster, eyes forward.

"Oyaa! Mamaaa...niaje?"

"Smile for me, baby."

"Why so serious?"...someone would think he has affiliations in Gotham with the joker...that sheepish ear to ear grin. As if my face owes you something.As if I exist in this public space for your approval, your commentary, your consumption.

You don't see me flinch, do you? ACTUALLY maybe you do, you freaking dumbass... and that's the point.

Every catcall is a small robbery, stealing my peace, my safety, my right to just “be” without being evaluated, rated, pursued.

Most of the days, I change my route ...but today hapaaana! I need to stand for my self, I must call you out juu saa hizi gani!!!

More often than not, I take the long way. The safer way that adds ten minutes or so to my walk because those ten minutes are worth not hearing your voice calling after me like I'm a dog that should come when summoned.

This isn't flattery and neither is it a compliment.

It’s societal- vested, chauvinistic power of you reminding me that my body is always on display, always subject to your gaze, your words and your entitlement.

And when I don't respond? When I keep walking?

The tone shifts.

Unajifanya na huezi ji-kula? Enda ujidishi na huko!! Hata hujaiva vile unadhani....mtoto mjinga kama baba yake

So which is it? Am I beautiful or am I not?

Or is this not about me at all....is it fun when you make your compadres burst out in laughter?

Is it about you needing to feel like you have control, like you can still make a woman uncomfortable, make her remember she's not safe, not even in broad daylight, not even on her own street?

I'm tired.

Tired of the mental calculations....Do I smile politely and risk encouraging? Do I ignore and risk anger? Do I confront and risk escalation?

I am tired of  texting my friend "I'm walking past the motorbike stand now," of pretending to be on the phone so maybe you'll leave me alone.

My body, my attention, my energy, NONE of it...Belongs To You!!!!

Keep your whistles. Keep those comments of yours. Keep your entitlement.

I'm still going to walk past,and I'm still going home.

But know this:

every woman who walks past you carries your words with her, adds them to the weight she already carries, remembers that even the simple act of existing in public comes with a tax she never agreed to pay.

One day, I hope you understand:

I'm not here for you.

I'm just trying to get home.

There are things I haven't told you about the anatomy of my throat on how it closes when it should open….babyy,, there's how more often than not , my throat swallows words that could have been walls between you and wale wamevalia ngozi ya kondoo.

You asked me once why I laugh at jokes that aren't funny, most often sensitive and yet I'll be cracking my ribs…..I gave a lame ass excuse….I didn't know how to say:

Because I'm afraid of what it costs to stand alone……because every silence is a brick I place in a house I don't want to live in….🎵🎶hivi bado nakumbuka, nikiwa kijana, ile bangi nilivuta pombe nilipewa kwa sana🎶🎵….and now, I learned that loyalty to them meant betraying you….oooh my boys(sigh)…they speak in codes I pretend not to understand.

"Uko sure?", they ask about you, like you're a rumor to be confirmed. "Alikubali aje?….Ama alikuhurumia" like your yes was a negotiation they need to study.

And most at times, I become laughter that sounds like approval. I become the friend who says nothing, which is another way of saying *everything.*

There's a word we use: “ku-suka” and no mamaa….it has nothing to do with hair…. it's literally to coax. To convince. To sweet-talk until no becomes maybe becomes yes. We say it like it's charm. Like it's game. Like it's not a blueprint for breaking.

I've heard it a thousand times. I've used it tens of thousands of times and I've said nothing against it a thousand and one times.

Do you know what silence does?

It ferments and becomes permission. It becomes the hand that didn't stop another hand. It becomes the reason you walk with your phone like a weapon, the reason you lie about where you're going, the reason you've memorized exit routes from every room you enter.

I think about the nights you come home and check every lock twice and the way you tense when a stranger stands too close. The way you've learned to make yourself small, invisible and forgettable.

I wonder how many times my silence taught someone that this was okay.

They say “ni jokes tu”

They say, “ si unajua vile wanaume huwa” , as if cruelty becomes acceptable when it's predictable…..As if the freaking tradition is an excuse for terror.

As if "that's just how it is" isn't the same as choosing how it stays.

There's blood in my silence, my love.

Not my own…yours babyy!

And theirs…….Tiana!, Khadisha!, Linsey!, Carol!…her! her! her! her!and her!

Boddies! Boddies! Boddies!

And the girl who never made it home because someone thought "no" was negotiable, because someone else laughed, because someone else,someone like me, said nothing.

You deserve more than my quiet complicity wrapped in "I love you." You deserve a man who speaks even when his voice shakes….Who breaks rank when rank becomes rottenness. A man who understands that loving you means burning down every bridge that leads to your harm even if my friends are standing on it….🎵🎶I need a man who's patient and kind, who gets out of the car and holds the door, I wanna slow dance in the living room like we are 16, at senior prom and grow! Old with someone who makes me feel young, I need a man who loves me like….🎶🎵

Here's the thing, every joke I didn't challenge was a door left unlocked and every time I said "that's just how he is," I handed him a key to someone's fear.

Every single (bleeping) time I chose comfort over courage, I chose their violence over your peace.

I don't know how to unmake the damage of all that silence but I genuinely know I can start by letting it die in my mouth. I want to be the man who speaks your name like a prayer and your safety like a promise.

I want to constantly teach the boys who come after me that manhood is not a pack neither is it about packing but it's all about the practice of protection, provision, disruption and of fervent choices, always.

Forgive me for the times I laughed when I should have roared, for the times my silence had a body count I couldn't see…. You were never meant to be the price I paid for belonging.

With love

Your man, Who's learning to speak

Hey Pookie,

I have received your text that you’re held up and you’ll call back as soon as you’ll be free but I really need to talk to you...vent out.... perhaps....

I was hoping to come see you. Troy and I are not in good terms but it’s nothing out of the norm...at least I don’t have a black eye like the last time but my side kinda hurts a bit. But you know how hard I’ve tried to be woman he wants me to be. You’ve watched me trying my level best to be the best version for him but I don’t know what more I am supposed to do because I’ve literally bent backwards for me to ensure everything works out as he wants it to but it seems it’s not enough. Speaking of “bending”, he came over with a couple of his friends for dinner yesterday and as I was serving he called me to the kitchen. He strangled the shit out of me with claims that I was seducing his friends by the fact that I was slightly bending while serving them. He went to the extent of saying that I was swaying my waist as I brought food from the kitchen to the dinner table.

Today in the morning ,he took me out to get latte and do some shopping. He asked me to get anything I want and it was an extremely romantic date with flowers and some chocolates and needless to say, I’ve spared some for you.

He apologised for hurting me and he said it won’t happen again despite having said that uncountable times before I think this time he really means it. I really love Troy and I love how he makes me feel and to be honest there’s more to whom he is as a person than what meets your eye.

Yes, you’ve warned me against him; we have talked about this misogynistic nature, his toxicity and how he often beats me up but trust me you don’t know him like I do. I believe that he’ll definitely change for the better sooner rather than later. I just thought of giving him a break today after he drunk called me and said that I am a “dead woman walking”

Maybe he’s saying this because he is angry but I know he’ll be okay. We’ll talk soonest, Pookie. I will pass by your place tomorrow morning(Pancakes for breakfast?? I brought the maple syrup you’ve constantly be requesting me to...) See yah!!... I love you.

The sun rises the same way it did yesterday. The matatu still honks outside your window at 6 AM. Your phone still has the same crack across the screen. But today, today is different because you decided it is. Because the calendar says so. Because somewhere, somehow, years ago, you arrived on this planet and people agreed that's worth remembering.

I used to think birthdays lost their magic as you got older. That they became just another day with maybe some obligatory cake and half-hearted "happy birthday" messages from people who only remember because WhatsApp statuses and Instagram stories told them so. And sure, there's some truth to that. The elaborate parties of childhood, the jumping castles, the treasure hunts, the way your parent would spend weeks planning like she was organizing a state function, those slowly fade away as we grow older.

Here's the thing, birthdays don't lose their magic. They just change what kind of magic they hold.

At five years old, a birthday means you're basically a different person. The gap between four and five feels infinite. You can do things now that were impossible last year. Tie your shoes, maybe. Write your name. Reach the light switch without standing on your toes. Each birthday is a quantum leap into capability.

At fifteen, birthdays are about becoming. You're not celebrating who you are, you're celebrating who you're about to be. Each year brings you closer to that mythical destination called adulthood, where presumably everything makes sense and you have unlimited freedom and nobody tells you when to sleep.

At twenty three, birthdays become mirrors. You look back at fifteen-year-old you and laugh at how much you didn't know. You thought you'd have it all figured out by now. You thought adulthood was a destination you'd arrive at, not a series of increasingly complicated improvisations.

But at thirty-five? Forty-five? Fifty-five? That's when birthdays reveal their secret magic.

The real magic of birthdays isn't about getting older. It's about getting to get older.

Think about it. Every birthday is a defiance. A middle finger to entropy, to chaos, to all the things that could have gone wrong but didn't. Every candle on that cake represents a year you survived. A year you navigated through heartbreak and triumph, through mistakes and redemptions, through days you thought would break you but didn't.

That's the magic right there. The shift from "I have to get older" to "I get to get older."

When you're young, you want everyone at your party. The whole class. Every kid in the neighborhood. The more people, the better the party, right? Quantity over quality.

But as you age, birthdays become about the people who've earned the right to celebrate with you. The ones who've seen you at your worst and chose to stick around anyway. The friend who remembers not just your birthday but the year you spent it crying over someone who wasn't worth what you offered. The sibling who texts you at midnight because they know you love being the first to wish them. The partner who knows exactly what kind of cake you want without asking, the flavour of your ice cream from observation.

These are your witnesses. The people who've watched you grow, stumble, get back up, and keep going. Their presence at your birthday isn't obligation, it's a testimony. They're saying: "I've seen your journey, and I'm glad you're still here."

No Instagram stories. No elaborate decorations. No performance of happiness can be perfect. It is perfect! Because those two, three, ten people know you. They REALLY know you. Not the curated version, but the full messy reality. And they choose to spend their time celebrating that you exist! That's magic you can't manufacture.

Every culture has some version of birthday wishes. Blow out the candles and make a wish. Throw coins in a fountain. Write your hopes on sky lanterns. The specifics change, but the essence is the same birthdays are permission to hope again.

Maybe last year didn't go how you planned. Maybe you're further from your goals than you wanted to be. Maybe you made mistakes, burned bridges, lost time you can't get back.

But today? Today you get to start over. Today you get to be a day old in this new year of your life. Today the scoreboard resets and you get another shot at becoming whoever you want to be.

I love that about birthdays. They don't care about your past. They don't judge you for not being where you "should" be. They just show up, reliably, every year, and say: "Here's another chance. What are you going to do with it?"

And the older you get, the more you realize that every birthday is actually multiple celebrations.

You're celebrating your mother, who did the actual work of bringing you into the world. You're celebrating everyone who kept you alive when you were too small to do it yourself. You're celebrating the doctors who fixed you when you broke, the friends who caught you when you fell, the strangers whose small kindnesses kept you going on hard days.

You're celebrating every decision that led you here. Every choice, good and bad, that made you who you are. Every scar, every laugh line, every gray hair earned through experience.

You're celebrating the future, too. All the birthdays still to come. All the people you'll meet, places you'll go, versions of yourself you haven't imagined yet.

So here's to birthdays. To the awkward public singing. To cake that's too sweet and candles that you'll light…literally and figuratively. To growing older when we used to think that was a curse. To the privilege of accumulating years when so many don't get to.

Here's to becoming more yourself with each passing year. To caring less what people think and more about what makes you happy. To the wisdom that comes from mistakes. To the peace that comes from accepting yourself to the people who remember. Who show up. Who celebrate not just that you were born, but that you continue to exist in their lives.

And to you, reading this, whether your birthday was last month , last week, is today, tomorrow , next week, or six months away. Here's to the fact that you're here. That you made it through every hard day that tried to break you. That you're still standing, still hoping, still willing to blow out candles and make wishes like a child who believes in magic. The truth is, the magic is real. It's not in the wishes coming true, it's in the fact that you're still here to make them.

Happy birthday. Whenever it is. However old you're turning. However you choose to celebrate, that's worth it, that's everything!

The sun hangs heavy and orange over the escarpment, casting long shadows that turn every mabati roof into a mirror of fire. The air smells of gravellier  and dry earth and that particular sweetness that only comes when maize is growing somewhere nearby and rain threatened earlier but never came.

We lived in the kind of neighborhood where everyone knew everyone else's business three days before it happened. Where mothers communicated in a sophisticated network of shouts across fences and children belonged to the entire street, not just their parents. It was the kind of place where you could leave home at 9 AM with nothing but "naenda kucheza kwa kina Chela" and return at sunset with scraped knees, stories, and someone else's chapati grease on your shirt on a Sunday evening.

My friend, let's call him Kiplagat, lived four houses down. We were the kind of friends that only childhood can produce: complete, unquestioning, with that telepathic understanding that comes from spending every available moment together. We'd been inseparable since I set foot therein 2008, bound by shared secrets, jointly-planned mischief, and an identical conviction that our parents simply didn't understand how the world really worked.

That fateful afternoon, we'd decided to explore the abandoned “murram” quarry. You have to understand something about abandoned places in small Kenyan upcountry villages: they hold an irresistible magnetism for children. They're the spaces where adult rules dissolve, where the ordinary world gives way to possibility. That quarry had been sitting there for years, a wound in the earth that the town had grown around and learned to ignore.

Our parents had, of course, forbidden us from going there. Which is precisely why we went  with the kind of casual lie that children tell themselves when they know they're about to do exactly what they've been warned against.( Mum,if you’re reading this, is it too late now to say soooorrryyy?)

The quarry was deeper than it looked from the road. Steep walls of red earth and exposed rock, slick in places where underground water seeped through. At the bottom, water had collected into a murky pool that reflected the sky like a piece of fallen heaven.

We stood at the edge, and I remember thinking how the evening light made everything look softer, safer than it probably was. The way memory does the same thing, later.

 "I bet I could climb down," Kiplagat said.

There's a particular tone boys use when they're not really talking to you, but to some invisible audience of future glory. That's the voice he used.

"Usikue fala!," I said, which in the language of ten-year-old boys means...I dare you!!!

He started climbing down and he literally chose kukuwa fala!. Not carefully coz Kiplagat never did anything carefully other than colouring inside the borderline of Uncle Tom’s dotted sketch papers but with that supreme confidence of someone who has never actually been hurt by the world. I watched from above, my heart beginning that familiar acceleration that comes when you know something is going wrong but haven't yet admitted it to yourself. Murphy’s Law you say!

About fifteen feet down, the earth betrayed him.

I don't remember hearing a sound. That's the strange thing about traumatic moment. Sometimes they arrive in absolute silence, wrapped in a quietness so complete it feels like the world has been turned off. One moment he was there, pressed against the quarry wall, his fingers digging into red soil. The next moment he was falling, and I was screaming his name into air that seemed too thick to carry sound. I was screaming with Coco’s famous words, “Wooooii Anendee!!” I’m sure I’ve butchered it in writing the same way you’ve read it incorrectly without a Kalee accent.

 He hit an outcropping of rock about halfway down. His body made a sound I'd never heard before and hope never to hear again. It was something between a crack and a breath knocked out. Then he tumbled the rest of the way, disappearing into the pool at the bottom with a splash that seemed impossibly small for something so catastrophic.

Time stopped.....I mean that literally. There's no metaphor adequate to describe that moment when your entire world narrows to a single point of horror. When your brain simply refuses to process what your eyes have just shown it. When you're ten years old and your best friend has just fallen over 25 feet and you're standing at the top of a quarry trying to remember how breathing works.

The water where he'd disappeared was still. Completely still.

 By this time, I wasn’t religious in the conventional sense. Coco( Yes!  pronounced kind of like Koko not Cûcû) took us to church, I knew the songs, I could recite the Lord's Prayer in both English, Kiswahili and Latin( My Grandma was taught Catechism by an Italian Missionary priest, what would you expect). But at that time it was performance, cultural muscle memory, not faith.

Now get this...In that moment, standing at the edge of that quarry with my heart trying to break out of my chest, I prayed. Not the memorized prayers of Catechist Paul or Charles, but something raw and desperate and entirely my own.

I don't know who I was talking to. God, maybe. The universe. The arbitrary physics that govern whether ten-year-old boys live or die when they fall into quarries in Kapsabet

The water remained still.

Five seconds...... Ten....... Fifteen.

 I was preparing to run, to where ,you ask?  I don't know...to do what?  I had no idea

 (In the SpongeBob dude’s voice, “One eternity later”) Kiplagat's head emerged, and he gasped. Not a regular breath, but the kind of desperate, drowning gasp of someone being born. Or reborn.

 He was alive!

"I'm okay!" he shouted up at me, treading water, his voice echoing off the quarry walls. "I'm okay!"

 But he wasn't okay. I could see blood on his face from where I stood. His left arm hung at an angle that arms aren't supposed to hang. And he was in a quarry with walls too steep to climb, in water too deep to stand in, getting colder by the minute. The panic that had frozen me shattered into action.

 "Usisonge!" I shouted, as if he had a choice. " Wacha niite Tanui"( for context, he was the “I know a guy” typa person so definitely he’d know what to do or who to run to for help coz ain’t no way we are on the receiving end of the question “mlikuwa mnafanya nini huko”)

 I ran. I've never run faster in my life….I ran like I was trying to outpace death itself, my lungs burning, my mind a blank scream of terror and hope.

I don't remember the exact sequence of events that followed. Memory does this thing where trauma compresses time and stretches it simultaneously. I remember Tanui assembling a crew after numerous knocks that seemed more of pounding doors.

 They pulled him up like they were hauling treasure from a shipwreck. Slowly, carefully, the rope swaying. At the top, wrapped in someone's jacket, shivering and bleeding and very much alive, he looked at me and grinned.

I wanted to punch him coz I knew I’d be punished alongside him since news would definitely get to our folks. I wanted to hug him. I wanted to cry. I did none of these things. Instead, I stood there, my hands shaking, watching the local “ambulance”(TukTuk ya Sammy) arrive, feeling the adrenaline begin to drain from my system and leave behind something heavier.

Goes without saying, Kiplagat had a broken arm, three cracked ribs, a concussion, and enough bruises to map a constellation. The doctors said he was incredibly lucky since the water had broken his fall just enough, and he'd missed the rocks at the bottom by inches.

 Luck. That's what they called it.

 How do you integrate the fact that your best friend almost died right in front of you? That the universe could have casually erased him and continued on, indifferent?

For weeks afterward, I had nightmares. Not of him falling(I didn’t love you like that you flipping weirdo) Also  my brain seemed to have locked away that part....The nightmare were more of the stillness. That terrible, infinite moment when the water was calm and I didn't know if he was coming back up.

 We were both punished, of course. Severely. The kind of punishment that runs across most African homes (corporal punishment of course) and having to sit through multiple lectures about obedience and why rules exist and how we could have died. (Though only one of us had actually come close.)

 But here's what our parents didn't understand or even better, couldn't understand: the punishment was redundant. We had already been punished by reality itself, given a glimpse behind the curtain at how fragile everything is. How the distance between alive and not-alive is sometimes just forty feet of air and bad luck.

Near-death experiences are supposed to be transformative. That's what they say in movies and inspirational Instagram posts. You're supposed to emerge changed, grateful, living every day like it's your last, seized by the preciousness of existence.

The truth is messier.

Yes, I was grateful. Grateful in that bone-deep way that doesn't need words. Every time I saw Kiplagat after that, his arm in a cast, plastered , walking gingerly because of the ribs, I felt a wave of something I didn't have language for. Relief, maybe. Or wonder at the arbitrary nature of survival.

 But I was also scared. Scared in a way I'd never been before. The world had revealed itself to be fundamentally unsafe, held together by luck and physics that could fail at any moment. (Is that the reason as to why I’m scared of ever having Kids of my own? Is it because adults couldn't actually protect us always? I mean, they could only arrive after the fact)

 We never talked about it, Kiplagat and I. Not really. There was one conversation, maybe a week after the quarry, where he said, "Walahi Ivan Karibu Nikufe,,,,," and I said, "Waaaaah!! Walaahii!" That is all my mouth could say but doesn’t disregard the unfathomable thoughts in my head of the aftermath in the worst case scenario...And that was it. Ten-year-old boys don't have the emotional vocabulary for processing trauma. We just carried it, this shared knowledge of mortality, and moved on to the next game, the next adventure, the next moment of childhood that might or might not kill us.

I went back to Kapsabet a couple of weeks back, thirte years after the  incident. The neighborhood has changed, the way all neighborhoods do. New houses, new families, the old landmarks wearing away under time and weather.

 The quarry is still there. No fence. No warning sign. But one thing that was there, was the memory it carried.

I stood at the exact point where I was on that day. Looking down at the water that's no longer as deep as I remember. Nothing ever is, when you return with adult eyes. The walls don't seem as steep. The distance to the bottom doesn't look like 15 feet anymore.

 But I remembered that afternoon with perfect clarity. The orange light. The smell of gravellier and rain that never came. The silence after the fall. The prayer I'd spoken to a God I wasn't sure existed.

Sometimes I think about how close I came to spending the rest of my life carrying a different story. One where my best friend didn't come back up from that water. Where I had to live with the knowledge that the last thing I'd said to him was a dare disguised as concern.

 There's a peculiar guilt that comes with being the one who didn't fall. Survivor's guilt, maybe, though that seems too dramatic for something that ended well. But I felt it nonetheless, that nagging sense that I should have stopped him. That my "Usikue Fala!" should have been more forceful. That I should have been the one to climb down first, or suggested literally any other activity for that evening.

 Kiplagat carried his scars visibly; the bend in his arm that never quite straightened, the way he winced when rain was coming, phantom pains in ribs that had healed years ago. My scars were different. An anxiety about heights that hadn't existed before. A tendency to catastrophize, to see the worst possible outcome in any situation. A relationship with risk that calculates and recalculates, always remembering that day when chance didn't break our way until it did.

 There's a Kalenjin proverb my grandmother used to say: "Komaisienik tugun tugul." Not everything that happens can be understood.

 I've thought about that proverb a lot over the years, especially when I remember the quarry. Because I can't fully explain what happened that evening. I can describe it, walk through the sequence of events, recount the facts. But the mystery at the heart of it, why he survived, why the water was deep enough but not too deep, why he missed the rocks, why the universe decided that day wasn't his day to die, that remains beyond explanation.

 Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was God. Maybe there's no difference.

 What I know is this....we were given something that evening in Kapsabet. Not just Kiplagat being given his life back, though that was the headline. But both of us were given a different kind of sight. The ability to see how thin the membrane is between ordinary and catastrophic. How quickly everything can change. How precious and precarious this whole enterprise of being alive really is.

 In the past few weeks, I stopped to live every day like it's my last. That's exhausting and impractical and not actually how human psychology works. But I do live with the knowledge that is bone-deep and unshakeable, that it could be. That any evening can become THE EVENING. That the people I love could disappear as quickly as a body into quarry water.

 And so I try to say the things that matter. To not let dares disguised as concern be the last words. To hold the moments, not desperately, but consciously. To understand that we're all falling, all the time, and mostly we don't hit the ground.

Mostly.

 Sometimes, that's the whole story.

Sometimes, that's everything.

Mungu Anasaidia:)

I wish I could capture this moment forever, the way your whole face lights up the face of your “producers” whenever you print that toothless smile, how your little laugh sounds like pure sunshine, the curious way you look at everything around you as if the whole world is made of wonder. Because to you, it genuinely is. Watching you discover it all reminds me of just how magical life can be.

These past six months, you've taught us so much without saying a single word. You've shown us that love can grow in ways we never imagined, that joy can be found in the smallest moments be it a giggle, a coo, the way you grab onto our fingers in your tiny palm. You've reminded us what really matters to us in this life.

I want you to know that you are so deeply loved, my love. More than you could ever understand right now, but someday you will. You have a family that would move mountains for you, that celebrates every milestone, every smile, every new discovery. We are all here for you, cheering you on through every stage of this beautiful journey.

As you continue to grow, I hope you always keep that sparkle in your eyes. I hope you stay curious and brave. I hope you know that it's okay to fall down because we'll always be here to help you back up. I hope you dream big, love fiercely, and never forget how special you are.

Thank you for being you. Thank you for how you hold on to me as I hug you. Thank you for the smiles, the good and fun times that we've bonded as a family because of you. Watching you grow is one of life's greatest privileges, and I can't wait to see all the amazing things you'll do.

To the six months of pure sweetness, and to all the adventures still to come, I wish you all the best to ever exist. We love you more than you can ever fathom!

Happy 6 months, Msupa!.

All my love, always,

There are singers who perform gospel music, and then there are those who embody it. Joan belongs to both categories. When she opens her mouth to sing, what emerges is more of emotional expression that channels something deep and direct to the spiritual realm that reminds us why music has always been humanity's preferred language for speaking to God.

You can hear the wrestling with doubt that precedes genuine faith. In her melodies, you feel the weight of struggle that makes triumph meaningful. This is not the gospel of easy answers and prosperity promises. This is the gospel that meets people in their darkest valleys and walks with them toward the light.

Jojo's music constantly reminds me that art at its highest calling is always evangelical in the truest sense and that it brings good news. It announces that beauty still exists, that hope still lives, that love still conquers, and that music in its glory and inexplicability can still make us believe in something larger than ourselves.

After a conversation with Joan, she says every song is a testimony, every performance a proclamation and that we are not alone, that we are not forgotten, and that somewhere in the notes and rhythms and sacred silences, God is still speaking, still singing, still inviting us to join the eternal chorus.

Needless to say, she's a force!

Bless up:)

OPERATION NAME: HOW DOES SHE DO IT!?

CLASSIFICATION LEVEL: TOP SECRET

CASE NUMBER: GOLF-FRAUDSTER-2025-G.N.M

DATE OF INVESTIGATION: October 15, 2025

THREAT LEVEL: ORANGE (Elevated - Mostly to Our Intelligence)

SUBJECT PROFILE - INTELLIGENCE ASSESSMENT

CODENAME: WAKILI

REAL NAME: [REDACTED] - For legal purposes, we'll call her the "Mysterious Golf Lady" (MGL)

KNOWN ALIASES: "The Golf Girl," "Ule Wazimu Wangu", "Ile Kitu Yangu"

OCCUPATION: Claims to be an avid golfer / claims to be an advocate of the High Court

THREAT ASSESSMENT: Non-violent but highly deceptive

PSYCH PROFILE: Exhibits narcissistic tendencies, pathological lying, and what our behavioural analysts(Null) call "aspirational delusion syndrome"

IVANIFIED ASSESSMENT: Subject displays tradecraft consistent with amateur cover story development. Poor operational security. Would not survive field deployment.

JAKA-B’s ASSESSMENT: Classic white-collar deception pattern. Subject believes own narrative. High confidence, low competence.

OUR UNCLE’S NOTES: She fits the profile. I've seen it before. The fake smile. The rehearsed stories, the lies. Still intrigued.

IVAN’S POV:

I've learnt to blend in. To appear normal. To ask questions that seem innocent but reveal everything. It's a skill you develop when you spend your life analysing people who pretend to be something they're not.

OCTOBER 11TH 2025

INITIAL CONTACT WITH THE SUBJECT

ME: So I hear you're into golf?

SUBJECT (MGL): Abso-freaking-lutely. I practically live at the club.

ME: Which club?

SUBJECT: The most prestigious one in the country.

Internal monologue: Red flag #1. No specifics. Classic counter-surveillance response when you don't have actual information.

ME: Can't say I do. What's it called?

SUBJECT: Umm...duuuuhh.....THE....Muthaiga... Golf... Country... Club?

ME: What's your handicap?

SUBJECT: I am pretty good and that’s all you need to know. I am a Wakili and I need to so whatever it takes to get high end clients.

BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS.

Subject exhibits classic signs of what we call “Social Prestige Fabrication Disorder”.

VERBAL PATTERNS:

1. Uses vague qualifiers: "you know," "the regular one," "pretty much"

2. Deflects specific questions with complexity claims: "it's complicated"

BODY LANGUAGE ANALYSIS:

1. Increased eye movement when discussing golf (classic deception tell)

2. Defensive posture when asked about equipment

PROFILE CONCLUSION:

Subject is lying. Subject knows she's lying. Subject doesn't care that we know she's lying. This is what we call "advanced delusion."

THE CODE

Dexter Morgan taught me that you need rules. A code. Without it, you're just another person making wild accusations. My code for this investigation:

RULE #1:

Verify everything. Trust no one. Especially people who claim to golf but have never posted a golf photo and have a golf-clean digital footprint.

RULE #2:

Only pursue the guilty. Make sure she's really lying before striking.

RULE #3:

Don't get caught. I mean... don't make false accusations. Do the work. Build the case. Be thorough.

RULE #4:

Keep a souvenir. In this case, a detailed file of every contradictory statement she's made.

FIELD SURVEILLANCE

OCCURRENCE 1:TRAVELLED TO NAKURU

Subject claims that she has an apartment in Parklands but resides in Muthaiga because of work. Subject claims to she frequents to Nakuru on most weekends despite her busy schedule in the high court. Suspect travels to an Air BNB in Naka estate in Nakuru on Friday 3rd October.

On Saturday one of our agent goes to the subjects residence to find answers but her elegance disrupts the operation and our agent loses focus of the operation and embarks on a different mission. Anaamua kuchambua vipengele vya Constitution chapter by chapter. Epic fail!

OCCURRENCE 2: TRAVELLED TO LOCATION X.

Subject travelled to an undisclosed location where three of our agents were present. Subject claimed to have been at the location for a friend’s baby visit and congratulatory occasion.

The story seemed fishy since the vehicle that brought the subject into contact with three of our agents was waiting for us to leave before they went back to the undisclosed location.

As we drove, I asked our subjects a couple of questions that ended up her revealing that she’s a niece to one of the top lawyers in Kenya, that she has a house adjacent to Kipipiri golf club, that she has her own law firm, that she has her own wines and spirits joint.

The Main Agent dropped the rest of us off not to blow our covers as he intended to know who the subject truly is and also the credibility of her narratives.

The subject has booked also booked another air BnB and again our agent failed at his work as the subject got better at her deceptive skills and the agent changed the mission and made it his...AGAIN!

FINAL INTELLIGENCE ASSESSMENT

Subject represents no threat to national security but is a threat to the integrity of casual conversation. While no crimes have been committed, subject has violated trust and credibility of information and the sanctity of sports-related honesty. She fits the profile perfectly. Narcissistic. Deceptive. Leaving a trail of lies in her wake. But she's not dangerous. Not really. She's just someone who wanted to seem sophisticated and chose the wrong hobby to lie about and a wrong lifestyle to fake.

The question is: Who is She? How does she do it? How long can she do it? For how long has she done it?

So we watch. We wait. We let her continue her charade. And when the time is right , when she can't escape the truth anymore, we’ll be there. With evidence. With receipts. With a golf club that she doesn't know how to hold.

Adiós!

What if this breath I'm taking right now.....this one right here, is somewhere in the countdown of my last thousand breaths? What if the ceiling I'm staring at becomes the last ceiling? What if the pillow beneath my head cradles me into a sleep I never wake from? I know we don't like to think about it and we often at times push it down, bury it beneath to-do lists, instagram scrolls, WhatsApp statuses, snapchat streaks and arguments about whether Dexter is a bad serial killer and whether The Rainmaker is an underrated series. But what if tonight, the statistics catch up? What if the improbable becomes the inevitable, and we slip away while the world keeps spinning without us? Would we be ready? Would YOU be ready? And don't get me wrong. I don't mean ready with our affairs in order or our passwords written down and our will in place and our digital footprint scrapped off. No...I mean READYYY. Ready to let go. Ready to say we lived. Really lived. Not in a way to look forward to 5 o'clock when you shut down the office desktop. I mean really READY!

Here's the thing about dying that nobody tells you when you're busy being alive.....it's the GREATEST clarifier. Death doesn't care about your five-year plan. It doesn't care about the dinner you've planned with that person in a months time. It doesn't care about the promotion you were chasing or the argument you were winning or the grudge you were holding. Death is the ultimate perspective shift, and if we're honest, maybe we need that perspective now, while we're still breathing.

So what if we are gone tonight?

Lads and lasses, maybe, just maybe, there's happiness on the other side. Not the kind we've been taught to chase, not the dopamine hits and the external validations, but something deeper. Something like relief. The relief of finally being done with the exhausting performance of being human. Done with the anxiety, the comparison, the constant, grinding pressure to be more,to do more and to become more. What if death is the moment we finally understand that we were always enough? What if there's a peace waiting that we can't even imagine? Talk of land of milk and honey and my brother is lactose intolerant but besides the point....Imagine the level of happiness that exists beyond the need for happiness? Beyond the need for anything at all?

But hey.....hey hey hey!!!...let's not rush there yet. Because if tonight is the night, then let's inventory what we're leaving behind. Not the big stuff....no no no!!!we know about that. We know about the degrees and the jobs, the posh cars l and the houses and the milestones we were supposed to hit. Let's talk about the things we've overlooked. The achievements so small, they didn't even register as achievements. The victories so subtle we thought they were just T. Tuesdays( Terrific Tuesdays...get your mind off the gutter) Like the morning you woke up when you didn't want to. That was a freaking achievement. The day you chose kindness when cruelty would've been easier. That was an achievement.

Every time you said "I'm sorry" for a mistake that you had overlooked to the person who meant a lot to you and you meant it....Every time you said "I love you" and meant it.....every time you showed up when showing up felt impossible....those were achievements. Remember that conversation where you really listened? Not the kind of listening where you're just waiting for your turn to talk, but the kind where you actually heard someone? Where you held space for their pain or their joy or their confusion? When they opened up a section of their life and you were there. That was an achievement. You changed someone's day. Maybe their life. And you didn't even know it.

Remember when you made that stranger smile? That uber driver you tipped after talking about the crazy experiences you've had in uber rides... the person you held the door for and s/he genuinely said thank you? You have no idea what they were going through. Maybe your kind gesture was the only one they got that day. Maybe it was the thing that kept them going. Achievement!

What about all the times you didn't give up? The quiet times when you were in your own space fighting your own demons. The times you dragged yourself out of bed when depression said stay down. The times you tried again when failure said stop trying. The times you chose hope when cynicism was so much easier.

You know what these are??

Say it with me!!!! Achievements! Achievements! Achievements!

We've been conditioned to believe that achievements have to be loud. That they have to come with applause and certificates and instagram posts with inspirational captions. But the real achievements? They're whispers. They're the small choices that compound into the person you became. You learned that Hohos should be cooked seedless and rice should be put after the water has boiled. You figured out how to change a tire, or you asked for help when you couldn't. You read Jackson Biko's books and realized African Literature should be embraced. You tried that thing. You got back up. You said no when you meant no. You said yes when you meant yes. You survived every bad day you've ever had. One hundred percent success rate. That's not small. That's miraculous!!! What if we've been walking past our own greatness this whole time because we were looking for it in the wrong places? What if achievement isn't a destination but a direction? What if it's not about the mountaintop but about the decision to start climbing? You've been climbing.... you've been thriving. Maybe you didn't notice, but you have. Every time you chose growth over comfort, every time you faced a fear, every time you were vulnerable, every time you were brave ,you were climbing.

Every relationship you've nurtured. Every wound you've healed or tried to heal. Every time you extended grace to yourself when perfection wasn't possible you know what you've been doing? Climbing! climbing! climbing!

So what if tonight is the night? Then let the record show that we achieved, we loved, we tried, we fell and got back up and fell again and got back up again. We were flawed and beautiful and human and enough.

What if there's happiness after this? Not in spite of our struggles, but because of them? What if every hard thing we survived was building the capacity for joy we can't yet comprehend?

What if we get there (wherever there is) and someone asks, "How was it? How was being alive?" And we can say, with full hearts and tired smiles, "It was hard. God, it was so hard. But it was also beautiful. And I did my best. And my best was enough."

What if tonight is the night?

Then let's close our eyes knowing we didn't waste it. Not the big moments, not the small ones. We were here. We showed up. We made a difference, even when the difference seemed too small to matter. The sunrise we witnessed, the cup of coffee we savored, the hand we held, the tear we cried, the laugh that shook our shoulders, the quiet moments of contentment, the storms we weathered, the small kindness and every subtle victory, they all counted. They all mattered. They were all achievements.

If tonight is the night, we'll go knowing we lived. Truly lived. Fully lived And maybe, just maybe, that's enough. Maybe it always was.

Adiós:)

Let me tell you about Joan before I tell you about art....or maybe they're the same thing. Maybe Joan is the definition of art!!! Haiya...Haiyaa....lemme cook kidogo....

Goes without saying that her presence, walking, breathing and singing, is proof that beauty isn't just something you look at. It's something you become when you do what you love.

She's got this voice, you see , the voice that defining  it as melodious doesn't even cover it. It's the kind of sound that makes you stop when clouded with thoughts and makes you forget whatever you were worried about  Her singing, makes you remember why humans started singing in the first place, because some feelings are too big for words alone and some truths need melody to carry them home.

And yeah, she's stunning.... But here's the thing about Joan.....When she sings, glamour radiates from her because she's doing what she loves. Sharing the stage with Wazalendo singers and later on with KMK Makuburi, voices will become something larger than themselves and individual beauty becomes collective transcendence. And I'm not telling you to go to all the events where she'll be gracing her presence because I'm biased. I am not telling you to look her up on her socials (TikTok@joanwambura_ )because I'm biased, but because you need to witness what happens when someone fully embraces their art. When they stop apologizing for their gifts and they step into the thing they were made to do.

We live in a world that asks, What's the practical application? What's the return on investment? How does art pay the bills?

Art has been here longer than bills, capitalism, longer than anyone who ever asked that question. Before we had language, we had cave paintings  Before we had currency, we had songs Before we had cities, we had storytelling around fires  Art isn't the luxury that comes after survival  Art IS survival It's how we process pain, how we celebrate joy, how we remember we're human , when everything else makes us feel like machines.

They don't want you to know all art is valid. Sisemi the art in museums with velvet ropes pekee yake. The great songs that don't get to hit 1 million views in 2 days (I haven't said anything about some crappy song by Bahati, or have I?) The books books that don't make it to be a setbook choice in school. The graffiti on the streets...That's art  The way my grandmother arranges flowers, that's art  The dance moves you do that only your bedroom curtains know, that's art  The photographs on your phone that you never post, that's art  The way you plate your food even when eating alone, that's art  The short sketches in your notebook during boring lectures, that's art.

Poetry, painting, sculpture, pottery..hizi zote ni forms of art But also:  Fashion, makeup, tattoos , architecture, landscaping, interior design, cooking, mixology, film, theater, dance, music...oh God!!!!, MUSIC!!!....in all its forms  Gospel, RnB,  jazz, hip-hop, classical, rock, soul  The hymns in churches, the chants in mosques  The rhythms in temples, the melodies in streets.

Every human who ever made something , not because they had to  but because they needed to is a freaking artist!!! It's valid!  It's necessary!

We're told to be practical and to get a real job and pursue something stable and keep art as a hobby or something you do on weekends. Something you'll get to "when you have time"  as if time isn't the only currency that actually matters, as if your deathbed self will thank you  for all those spreadsheets instead of all those songs unsung.

I've watched too many people die with their art still inside them , novels and articles unwritten, albums unrecorded, paintings unpainted, dances un-choreographed and the world is poorer for it  because their specific voice and unique vision died with them and no one else can replicate that...Ever!

Joan knows something the rest of us forget, that when you do what you love something shifts in the atmosphere and you stop performing your life and start living it.  She understands that you stop asking permission and start taking up space.

When she'll be singing with KMK Makuburi on the 23rd of November she'll not just be making music. She'll be making meaning and connecting with something that's been passed down through generations of voices that understood that we sing because we must create as we're created .We make art because art makes us whole.

And you can see it on her face , that specific glow that only comes when someone is fully, completely in their purpose. When the thing she loves is the thing she does, it goes without saying she attains her full throttle.

So here's my challenge....let us all stop treating art like dessert, like something you earn after eating your vegetables. It's okay to make art the main course. Make it the sustenance. Make it non-negotiable.

Pick up that paintbrush you haven't touched in years, write that poem that's been sitting in your chest, Learn that instrument gathering dust in your closet, take that dance class you're "too old" for, start that podcast, that blog, that channel, that club  Join that choir, that theater group, that art collective  Make the thing....whatever the thing is.

And don't wait until you're "good enough" or until you have "more time". Don't wait until someone gives you permission because you'll never feel ready and time will never magically appear and also permission isn't coming. You have to give it to yourself.

Joan did  She chose her voice over her doubts , her passion over her fear and her art over her excuses  And now she's standing in front of people, training, coaching, performing.....doing the thing she loves  Looking stunning while doing it  Sounding like heaven came down to visit earth  And you know what the best part is? She gets to live with herself without the haunting question, "What if I had tried?"

Art shouldn't be optional. It's how we stay sane in an insane world. It's how we find beauty in the mundane and how we connect with each other across time, space, language, culture.

When you embrace all forms of it, stop judging what counts as "real art" and let yourself create without the pressure of perfection you join a lineage, Millions of years long, of humans who understood that we're not here just to survive but to make something and to leave something behind to add our voice to the chorus.

The world doesn't need more people doing things they hate but rather it needs more people like Joan Wambura Nyaga, doing what they love and doing it so fully, so freely that it gives the rest of us permission to do the same.

Brethren, Create  in whatever form calls to you and as often as you can, for as long as you live  because you're alive, and being alive without creating is only half living.

Now go forth, and make something, anything, everything. The world is waiting for your specific genius. Make your idea matter….

Adiós!

Olivia's POV

“Ivan, they say a man is only as strong as his principles, right? But the strength is until love shows up wearing that dress, until money whispers promises in his left ear, until sex clouds his vision like steam on a mirror and until a woman makes him question everything he thought he knew about himself and suddenly those principles, they become negotiable and what they couldn't compromise becomes somewhat negligible. Let me tell you about a man.... This  narrative is kind of ancient as dirt but still as fresh as the smell of pancakes on a Saturday morning.

Marcus grew up with a code handed down, probably from his grandfather who got it from HIS grandfather who probably stole it from some book he never finished but it sounded good. The codes were nothing new from what we learnt from the most "Must read" books from Alchemist to 5AM club.  Work hard, Stay honest, Be Loyal ,Respect yourself, Protect your peace, Don't sell out, Don't simmer down, Don't compromise who you are for anyone.

You've definitely read them, Ivan and the codes seem simple, right?  Clean lines and clear boundaries. A man who knows what he stands for can't be knocked over by what he can't understand. He wore these principles like armor polished them every morning and checked them every night before bed. He always checked what went out of line and how he could get himself back. For a while, it worked because principles are easy when they're not being tested. Get this, when love is theoretical, when money is hypothetical, when sex is just biology and when women are just people you haven't met yet, maintaining principles is as easy as getting a child to suck your thumb.

Money came first and Marcus stayed broke....on whether he was stingy or not, I won't judge. He stayed honest while they bought their way into lives he couldn't afford to imagine. Then, his mother got sick  and principles don't pay hospital bills. Integrity doesn't cover prescriptions and honor doesn't keep the lights on when you're choosing between medicine and rent. So he bent...Kijana wa wenyewe aliinama almost literally The first compromise was easy and the second one was easier, the third was automatic and by the tenth he'd forgotten he was counting because at this point money doesn't just buy things, it buys silence, it buys peace of mind, it buys the ability to stop thinking about money and that, right there, is the most expensive purchase of all. We can call it an expensive trade since principles are at stake here.

Then came sex.  Not love. At least not yet....just sex  Raw, urgent and uncomplicated. It starts with  Marcus eyeing a woman at a bar, a night that made sense in the moment, Her lips, her hips, her hands undoing his belt and his resolve simultaneously.

Before her, before this night,  sex was something Marcus had opinions and principles about. It meant something, it required connection, it came with commitment  and he wasn't that guy who just collected bodies, who treated women like notches, who separated physical from emotional like they were different people. But the way she looked at him  the way she made him feel powerful and wanted and alive, the way she didn't ask for his principle, all this might have made Marcus come out of his senses. His presence, that night was just right.

And after, lying there in sheets that smelled like someone he barely knew, he felt another crack . But this time, wider. This is because if he could separate sex from meaning once , he could do it again....and again ....and again until sex became its own principle and its own truth. It's separate from everything he thought it should be attached to.

For Marcus, the next woman was easier to sleep with, the one after that even easier that even his body was having conversations his heart wasn't invited to. He could literally perform intimacy without feeling intimate and sex became another transaction. It was another thing he did because he could. Because it felt good  Because why not?

But Ivan, notice, sex isn't love, and bodies aren't people, and Marcus learnt that. He learnt that when he met me.

I am definitely not like the others  and you can ascertain that. I am not complicated. I definitely had opinions that contradicted his, I agree. I had dreams that didn't include him mainly because you were in my mind and at the same time I had a man. I had a past that made his stomach turn and a presence that made his chest warm.

I challenged everything, called him on his bullshit, saw through the armor, cracks and all, and I still chose to momentarily stay.

For the first time in years, Marcus felt something shift  not a crack, but a crumbling because love doesn't just test your principles , it  asks you whose principles you're even following are they yours or your grandfather's?  Are they real or just comfortable? Are they protecting you or imprisoning you?

I made him want to be better but also made him question what better even meant...I was messy(I am messy)where his principles demanded clean,  I  was flexible where his code demanded rigid, I was human where he'd been trying to be perfect.

Ivan,  here's where it gets complicated....I needed things from him. I needed emotional things, vulnerable things...I won't say this is almost the same time we had an interaction. But not to digress, I needed things that required him to bend his rules about self-protection.  He had to compromise his boundaries about independence, to admit that maybe, just maybe a man alone with his principles is just , alone.

Love is the final boss, Ivan, the one that doesn't fight fair  because it uses everything against you. You see  your need for connection, your fear of loneliness, your desire to be seen, your willingness to be wrong are all at stake

Marcus loved me  And loving me meant dealing with my debt when his money principles said everyone handles their own. It meant staying up nights talking about feelings when his masculine code said men don't do that. It meant showing me the cracks in his armor and trusting I wouldn't strike there.

Love asked him to choose the principles or the person, the code or the connection. The man he thought he should be was fighting the man I was helping him become.

And you know what? He chose me.Not every time, not perfectly  but more often than not  Aliinama, alisota...he went broke Ivan, but you know what? he rebuilt.

You see when you talked about principles when we were walking, you said they're supposed to serve you, not the other way around . That they're supposed to evolve as you do , that hey're supposed to be tested by love, money, sex, and women  Because untested principles aren't principles  They're just words you memorized, right?

It got into me and I'm sorry to say this Ivan. I'm not sure if you'll judge me for saying this but I feel like Marcus learned that the hard way. That integrity isn't rigidity, that honor isn't isolation  and that being a man doesn't mean being unmovable but rather means knowing what you're moving for.

He shared a lengthy note some months back saying that money taught him that survival sometimes requires compromise. Sex taught him that pleasure without connection leaves you empty. I personly taught him that other people's complexity doesn't diminish his  And love?  According to what he wrote, love taught him that the strongest principle of all  is knowing when to hold firm  and when to let go because a man isn't measured by how unchanged he remains, but he's rather measured by what he's willing to change for. Marcus still has principles  but they're softer now,more worn less like armor, more like skin  scarred but flexible,  protective but permeable, strong enough to hold him together and soft enough to let someone in.

Ivan You have your own principles but on your best days, I hope  you won't ask yourself if you stayed true to your code but rather just ask yourself if you've been true to your growth and do you know what that is.

It's if you loved well 

It's if you earned honestly enough to sleep at night 

It's if you honored the people in your life by seeing them for the value they bring in your life.

That's the real principle Ivan. Not who you were but who you're becoming and whether you're brave enough to let parameters of life teach you the difference.”

Silencia magna….

Have an Oliviarated Day:)

Adiós!

Meanwhile, just in the neighborhood, another family faced their own crisis. A man, let's call him Jeremiah,(no hard feelings to Nita) had lost his job when the tea plantation closed. His wife, let's call her Lilith, had medical bills from her cancer treatment that had drained their savings. With three young children and nowhere else to turn, they'd heard about government programs that could help working families find affordable housing in transitional neighborhoods. The land's authority, overwhelmed by requests and operating under certain mandates to integrate communities, assigned the  Jeremiah's family a section of the land, adjacent to Coco's Family. The Coco Family  watched through their window as major constructions began, feeling a familiar knot of anxiety in their stomachs. At first, both families tried to make it work living next to each other. The children might have been natural bridges between the families, but they attended different schools and their schedules rarely overlapped. Small misunderstandings began to accumulate like dust in corners. When Jeremiah's youngest child had birthday parties that ran late, the music seemed too loud to the Coco Family, who rose early for work.  Neither family meant harm, but they operated from different rhythms, different assumptions about community life. Both families felt their needs were reasonable when it came to living communally. The Coco Family had been there first, had invested their own money in improvements, had treated the building like their ancestral home. Jeremiah's family too, had the same rights , needed space, but as it seemed, they kind of encroached a little bit too much.

The land's ministry, a bit distant but bureaucratic, sent form letters about " land survey procedures" without understanding the emotional investments involved in both families. The ministry,  through various sectors from the chief upwards, wanted problems resolved quickly and cheaply. What began as polite tension gradually hardened into mutual resentment.

Each time there were complaints, it felt reasonable to the family making it and like harassment to the family receiving it. The Coco Family began to feel that their long investment in building a home meant nothing, that  their peace could be disrupted without consequence. These rules that the village Baraza came up with, designed to prevent conflict, actually intensified it by making the area feel institutional rather than like a home for anyone. As word spread through both families' networks, relatives and friends began taking sides. The Coco extended family, spread across the country from city to city, but still close-knit, saw this as another example of their community being displaced by gentrification and changing demographics. They'd seen it happen in other neighborhoods where longtime residents were pushed out by neighbours who didn't understand or respect the culture and community they'd built. Jeremiah's friends from their former neighborhood, mostly white working-class families dealing with their own economic pressures, saw this as confirmation of their fears about integration programs. They'd been told that diversity was good for everyone, but from their perspective, it seemed to create nothing but problems and resentment. Both communities began to harden their narratives. Coco's supporters spoke about cultural erasure, about the right of established communities to maintain their character. Jeremiah's supporters spoke about equal treatment, about not being made to feel unwelcome because of their presence and assumed diversity.

Israel and Palestine have had their wrangles for quite sometime. There have been various mediators who have attempted to settle the conflicts on constraints, democratic rights and religious diversity. Nearly all of Gaza's 2.3 million Palestinian population have been forcibly displaced. Israel's tightened blockade of Gaza has cut off basic necessities, causing a severe hunger crisis with a high risk of famine persisting which has persisted since May . More than 95,000 children aged between six months to five years have been screened for malnutrition across Gaza since March. The international community continues to plead for negotiations and ceasefire especially after recent airstrikes especially on Al- Roya Building and Al-Kawthar tower just the other day.

Do certain things have to happen for others to learn?

Rwanda had the genocide and they learnt from it. We had the post election violence and learnt from it. But is there a resultant good in the evil that happens in the world?

Is there a resultant good after a dark phase?

Is there beauty in black?

And now to Beauty in Black,

Is Body alive after being hit? Is she planning a revenge plot against Jules?

Are Kimmie's bosses involved in a larger scheme?

Remember, Darkness can't drive out darkness and only light can.

Have a Ivaniffic week!

Adiós.

You know that person ,that one person who makes you understand why writing journals, blogs, articles is therapeutic and her explanation makes you have the childish mesmerism of butterflies in stomachs? Her explanation and how she expresses herself makes you understand why musicians compose songs about stolen glances and why artists paint portraits of smilesthey can't get out of their heads. That was Olivia for me. We spent most afternoons that followed our initial meet up more often than not. Our occurences was like forex, trading seconds for laughter.....was that a little bit out of context?....makosa ni yangu:( We would talk for hours and our conversations that started about movies, ended up somewhere deep in the territory of dreams and fears and all the things you don't usually tell people until you realize you're telling them everything.

She had this laugh, oh God! The kind of laugh that usually starts out as a giggle and in a crescendo it turns into something that could light up Gachororo in Juja in an attempt to reduce the insecurities. I saw how bright my days felt after seeing her and she by the fact that her physical aesthetics made strangers turn around promoted me to take her on multiple walks just to take pride in her presence. Man's gotta do what man's gotta do. We spent Saturdays at Kobbi's ice cream and cake shop where we always ordered the same thing which was pistachio and blue berry ice cream combo or red velvet cake when it was too cold for ice cream. Yes! I had memorized her order but not because I was trying to be smooth, but because I loved how her face lit up when Richie, the dude at our service got it right! We'd sit there for hours, her notebook spread between us as she wrote whatever crossed her mind and made rough sketches of the most  random things. One thing that I reminisce about definitely has to be the way we made up elaborate backstories at everything and everyone our eyes came across "Cheki! Cheki! Ebu look at that guy at the corner? Na usiangalie saa hii!!" "Look at that Shawrie with the laptop? Isn't she peng' ?" Almost always, the last statement seemed like a trick question to me and I always ignored it and left it unanswered. Kwenye ujanja yake inaishia ndio yangu inaanzia.

There was this one Tuesday don't ask me why I remember it was on a Tuesday. Let's just say I was not only blessed but my gallery on that day was equally blessed. We had a class but being the public uni that it was, class ilibounce. We ended up at cedar park, enjoying the calm state as we talked about the plans we had for the weekend. The movement of people in and out of the students centre in pairs on that day was quite an observation I made. Don't even get me started on the black crop tops that seemed to reign supreme on that day, adorned by majority of the people.

As we had a chat with her we decided to go to my place and hangout or as most of y'all like to put it, Netflix and chill. Here's the thing about Olivia, she makes my anxious overthinking feel like careful attention to detail. She made my rambling stories and everything that I had planned to do in our "chill session" feel like a script in a movie. I so very much , wanted to see if there was a plot twist to my story. Once again, she made my terrible jokes feel like comedy gold. But genuinely how do you laugh at a joke I make about Ben. I just said his life is not a walk in the park! Why's that even funny?

We got to my place and we lay there, side by side frustrated about the class that never was and I know by now it goes without saying that tension built up. The room started feeling smaller. My hyperhidrosis started kicking in I could literally feel my heart throbbing harder and after after every second. Fellow men, let's have a word please. Just a sec. You guys have experienced performance anxiety before, right? You know that odds might(heavy on MIGHT) play in your favour but because you REALLY want to have an impressive performance, execution becomes a problem. I mean she's here. In my room. In my space. On my bed!

Guys, everything felt different. The air slowly became thicker and my voice became heavy with all the words that we're not said. She was lying next to me,close enough that I can hear her breathing, feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

Six inches. Maybe five. That's all the space between us. I could  smell her perfume which was something soft, something sweet, something that makes me want to turn towards her and feed into my fantasy but I'm frozen and too afraid to move. I couldn't break whatever this moment was. Picture this everyone, Her hand is right there on my duvet. Fingers relaxed, palm up like an invitation but I am too scared to accept.

My heart is beating so loud and I'm convinced she can hear it and she could feel it. I was trying to engage her in multiple conversations just to shake off the anxiety but my voice kept giving me away. Every thought I'm thinking and every want I'm wanting was taking over the control of my whole existence. I couldn't hold in much longer. She shifts slightly just a small movement but now her shoulder brushes against mine. I had a certain feeling running straight through every nerve I have. I can't explain what that was to be honest.

I turned my head just barely and she's looking at me and the awkward silence I had avoided was now too loud in the room.

Those eyes of hers looked at me like she knew exactly what I'm thinking and as it seems she was thinking it too. The space between us started shrinking or maybe we're both moving toward each other,drawn by something bigger than any decision and trust when I say it  felt like gravity.

Her lips parted slightly just barely and I could feel her breath mixing with mine. This was it guys,  This was the moment when everything was to change, when the tension that's been building between us for weeks now, was finally coming to a halt. None of us was thinking about anything and by how her eyes craved for the moment to last a bit longer and how she wet her lips as the space drew narrower was evident that she wanted time to pause a little longer, not thinking of her guy, not caring about anything. We both wanted it and we wanted it ASAP!

She whispers my name…..Just my name and in my ears it definitely sounds like a soft  prayer a soft promise of an experience I wouldn't fathom In that infinite space of what I keep on calling , "almost" everything was now making sense. Sometimes the most powerful moments aren't about what happens they are about what's about to happen. The tension that lives in the space between what we want and what we can have.

And right there at that moment with Olivia lying next to me, closer than my sould ever was with my body, I understand that the anticipation can be just as beautiful as anything that comes after........

"I've never felt this comfortable with another person before. Like, ever." These words escaped from her mouth and the adrenaline rush that I had at that point was similar to.....nothing...it was incomparable

On that day, she made me feel like the main character in my own life instead of someone waiting for the interesting parts to begin.

Every moment with Olivia felt like the universe had finally gotten its act together.  From her, I learnt that quality time (Q.T) isn't measured in grand gestures or expensive dates.  It's measured in how someone makes you feel like yourself but the best version of yourself, the version you always hoped you could be if you just had the right person to be that version with.

Well, Olivia was that person at that very moment!!

She IS undoubtedly a cutie!!

But is it better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all? Was I simply a scapegoat since she was going through a certain phase in her life? Was her love worth all the sacrifices I made? Would I have believed in the concept of the one if not for her existence?

Stay tuned lads and lasses!!

Have an Ivanified day!

Remember,  you are closer than you think. Just one more step! 

Adiós!

Forgive me father for I have sinned. I made my last confessions  before morning mass today but please just hear me out. I need to tell you about the night I became someone I didn't recognize. I can't take it any more. I want to tell you everything about the moment love turned into a loaded gun in my hands,and I pulled the trigger. You see, there was this person. A role model to many, complicated and infuriating person who used to make me learn, smile, think and laugh until my sides split. She knew exactly how I liked my coffee in the morning, dark like my humour. She could quote entire movies line by line, the ones that I like, talk of Tobey Maguire in Spiderman and Meghan in Suits. All this just to see me smile. But somewhere between the pillow talk and the political talk, between the "I love yous" and the "I can't believe you think that," love became a battlefield and I became a soldier who forgot we were supposed to be on the same side.

Padre, You want to know what real cowardice looks like? It looks like taking everything you know about someone their fears, their insecurities, their soft spots and turning that knowledge into ammunition. It looks like loving someone enough to know exactly where to aim to make it hurt the most.I memorized the map of her vulnerabilities like a cartographer of cruelty, and when I got angry enough when her words felt like betrayal enough,I used that map. I told myself multiple times that it was justified and  she needed to understand not knowing she needed to be understood. I told myself that sometimes people need to be shaken awake not knowing she needed to be shaken out of what seemed like torment. I told myself she needed to feel the consequences for hurting me not knowing she was already feeling it. I needed to hurt her a little for her to learn a lot. But that's just what we tell ourselves when we want to be cruel and still sleep at night. The truth is messier than my anger wanted it to be. The truth is that you can love someone and still fundamentally disagree with who they're becoming. You can share a bed with someone whose worldview makes your skin crawl. You can kiss the mouth that speaks words you find reprehensible.

Padre, Love isn't clean. But does that mean it should be compared to washing a dirty linen in public. I know padre, I know.....I know It doesn't come with moral clarity. It neither gives you the right answers nor make the hard choices easier.

Sometimes love means loving someone who believes things that scare you, who votes for people who make you sick, who sees the world through a lens that is so different from yours in a way that makes you feel like you're living with a stranger.

Should I start all over again? (Proceeds to wipe off the tears that was welling up in my eyes)

Please bear with me father. Padre, do you know what I learnt too late? I learnt that disagreement is not permission for destruction. Disappointment is never a license for devastation. Even righteous anger doesn't justify turning love into a weapon. I became the kind of person who says, "I'm only telling you this because I care about you," right before saying something designed to tear you apart. I became the kind of person who uses intimacy as Intel, who weaponizes pillow talk, who turns "I know you better than anyone" into "I know exactly how to hurt you." (At this point, my voice is shaky and in DJ Shiti's voice under my breath I say "RISWA!")

The absolute worst part is that more often than not, it worked. I watched trust turn to caution and love turn to fear The openness she had towards me turned to guardedness.  Didn't I deserve all this Padre? I watched someone I claimed to care about learn to protect herself from me. (my face became a faucet that I could barely turn off. I covered my eyes with the palm of my hands then rubbed the temples at the side of my head with the tip of my fingers as I breathed calmly to control my sobs)

I'm so sorry father. I am so (bleeping) sorry. Sorry for the cuss word. You know what haunts me most? It's not the big explosive fight. It's not the door slamming or the tears or the silence......It's the small moments after, when she would start to tell me something and then stop, remembering that I might use it against her later. It's watching someone you love learn not to be vulnerable with you. It's seeing them calculating the risk of honesty against the probability of retaliation. Unadiglo? (Yes, I said it! And almost immediately, I had a feeling that on judgement day I'll crack up a joke while awaiting my turn)

That's the moment you realize you've become the person others need protecting from. I envy you, father. You don't get to experience such, no? So let me just be clear with you padre, This isn't about politics. This isn't about who's right or wrong about the world. This isn't about ideology or values or moral high ground. This is about the moment I decided that hurting someone I loved was an acceptable way to express my disappointment. This is about the moment I chose to be cruel instead of kind, vindictive instead of vulnerable, destructive instead of honest. This is about the moment I forgot that love is not a tool for teaching lessons and that knowing someone's heart doesn't give you the right to break it. I can't take back what I did. I can't unspeak the words or unfeel the satisfaction I felt watching her face crumble. I can't pretend I didn't know exactly what I was doing when I chose to be deliberately cruel. But I can admit it. I can own it. I can stand here and say that I hurt someone I loved, and there is no excuse for that. Not her politics, not her choices, not her words not my anger, not my disappointment, not my fear. I hurt someone I loved because I chose to, and that choice lives in me now like a scar on my conscience, a reminder of who I never want to be again. I have already written my application to join the seminary padre. Not because of my confession. Not because I now hate love. Not because I don't understand what love is but because love is not ownership and care is not control. Disagreement should not result to war. And if you love someone, really love them. Protect their heart from everyone including yourself. Especially yourself.

I wish I learnt earlier how to do that. But at least from my mistakes I now know how to love. without conditions,without expectations, without the need to fix or change or teach.

I'm still learning that sometimes the most loving thing you can do is admit you've been unloving. So this is my admission. This is my confession. This is my promise, not just to you in persona Christi, but also to myself. Not because she'll ever hear it. Not because it will change anything between us. But because the person I want to be doesn't use love as a weapon.

The person I want to be remembers that everyone deserves to be loved without fear. I don't know if one day I'll be sat on the other side of this confessional box but I know that the Master of Providence will marvel at His work in progress. For this and the many sins that trouble my heart, I ask for pardon, compassion and strength.

Did I follow the priest's penance and advice to the latter?

Was Olivia with me as I went for the confession?

Did she console me when I broke down after being overwhelmed by my past?

Under which capacity did she console me?

What was the secret she told me about her past?

We have 95 well curated episodes that will ensure your questions get answered! Hang in there:)  Meanwhile, listen to What is Love by Anne-Marie..

Have an Ivaniffic week ahead and remember the mind is a far better warrior than the fist.

Adiós!

"I'm spiritual, but not religious." This statement reflects a high number of individuals seeking meaning and transcendence while distancing themselves from organized religion. Without a doubt, the desire for spiritual connection is admirable, this distinction often reveals a fundamental misunderstanding of what religion truly offers and why belief in a supreme being remains profoundly important for human flourishing.

Every smartphone contains millions of precisely arranged components working in perfect harmony. No one would claim that an iPhone assembled itself through random chance over millions of years. The intricate design demands an intelligent designer.

Similarly, a single human cell contains more information than the entire Encyclopedia Britannica and operates with complexity that makes our most advanced computers look primitive. The DNA in your body contains enough coded information to fill a library. Random chance cannot account for such sophisticated design—it points to an intelligent Creator.

Just as every piece of technology requires a designer, the far more complex "technology" of life requires a Divine Designer. This is one of the many most common and simple analogy of God's existence that I could give today.

Much of the resistance to religion stems from conflating authentic faith with empty ritualism or institutional failures. True religion, however, is not merely a collection of rules or ceremonies. Religion represents humanity's response to self-revelation of a supreme being ,living relationship with the divine that encompasses both personal devotion and communal worship.

Religion can also be the virtue by which we render to God the worship and reverence due to Him as the source and end of all things. This understanding goes far beyond mere personal spirituality; it recognizes our fundamental dependence on and orientation toward the Supreme Being.

The human heart naturally seeks something greater than itself. This innate longing, called "God-shaped hole" in every soul, cannot be satisfied by self-directed spirituality alone. Belief in a supreme being provides several essential elements that isolated spiritual practices alone without religion cannot offer:

While personal spirituality often relies on subjective experience, belief in God anchors our understanding of reality in objective truth. Most religions teache that God is the source of all truth, beauty, and goodness, providing a stable foundation for meaning that transcends cultural trends and personal feelings.

A supreme being provides the ultimate ground for moral law. Without God, ethics become merely human conventions, subject to change based on popular opinion or personal preference. Religious teachings from Sikh to Islam, adventists to catholics, hold that natural law, inscribed on every human heart, reflects the eternal law of God and provides universal moral principles.

Belief in God offers answers to humanity's deepest questions: Why do we exist? What is our ultimate purpose?

The teachings provide insights such as the fact that we are created by God, for God, and find our ultimate fulfillment in union with the divine which is a destiny that gives profound meaning to every moment of earthly existence.

Without the corrective influence of revealed truth and ecclesial wisdom, personal spirituality can easily drift into self-deception.

Religion offers a comprehensive understanding of religion that addresses both the personal and communal dimensions of faith.

In the course of life,through religion, I have learnt that intellectual assent reveals truths about God and His relationship with humanity and the confident hope in God's promises and providence.

Wholehearted devotion to God expressed through worship, service, and moral living is definitely something to live for to be honest.

Rather than abandoning religion for vague spirituality, attempting to seek authentic meaning might be a plausible consideration towards rediscovering what religion truly offers.

This doesn't mean suppressing questions or critical thinking because faith calls for reasoning .

Have a blessed Sunday:)

Ad Maiorem Dei Glorium

First times come with a lot.

A lot of clarity on the expectations set.

A lot of naivety.

A lot of uncertainty.

The first time we made those complete steps from point A to point B as toddlers , our parents , guardians and all those playing various roles at the time must’ve been elated and immensely happy. They saw you going through the process from gaining enough strength on the neck to turn, to getting enough spinal energy to sit by yourself.

They didn’t complain when it seemed like the time taken was a bit far stretched. They mastered the patience to observe each and every day as you went through the process.

The whole process is interesting to watch and interesting to be part of.

The first time when coos turn to babbles before becoming actual words is an experience of it’s own. Watching my niece responding to the attention that I give as I hold her with mere coos at the moment is filled with so many promises even though the sounds make no sense. I am patiently waiting for the time when her tongue will be dancing with the newfound freedom as she will be tasting the vocal seas and making meaning out of the words she proclaims.

We all have various first time experiences in various aspects of our lives.

Took me a lot of courage to write mine but it’s a safe zone to talk about it, no?

It was just the two of us in a room and I was scared as hell. Being  a 5 year old, this had to be the most traumatising occurrence and actually the earliest memory I have. I get goosebumps  every time I remember it. Crazy part is that he got consent from my mum to do what he did. How would you wish such atrocities  to a fruit of your own womb?

My heart throbbed in utmost fear  threatening to break out of my ribcage as he inserted his 6 inch wood, which was kind of curved at the tip. His wood laid on my tongue and I can swear it kind of went a bit deep to the point of making me gag.

That wasn’t even the scary part for me. Knowing the kind of man that he was, I knew he was going to make me pull down my pants. He had a certain charm. He would promise to give kids some bar of chocolates, some lollipops only after compliances to his will in which more often than not, it worked. Question, Was the pain worth it?

The main question that  lingered in my head was, why would he deliberately choose to hurt me ?

He was present when my mother was giving birth to me. He was there. Why would he choose to hurt me?

I can't say that I was immune to physical pain but bearing in mind that this was my first time to go through what most people termed as excruciating pain scared me.

In the tender geography of my childhood, where scraped knees held the weight of catastrophe and fever dreams danced he was there. Believe me when I say he was always there! Why is it that now when the darkness of illness crept too close, he chose to hurt me in ways that I couldn’t understand at my tender age?

I tried to compose myself as he drew more and more closer to me. His smile seemed to hide his intentions and he seemed not to be moved by my teary eyes which l sort of created bags dark pulpy bags underneath.

He held my hand and held me in a position that had me facing towards the direction of the door.

He slowly pulled down my pants because there’s no way I was going to do that willingly. I clenched my fist, sweat slowly dripping in my temples, veins bulging out in my forehead and as tension raised, my heart palpitations increased rapidly.

Remember all this time he had worn his protective gear. I guess one should always be careful. In no time, I could feel something running through my glutes. I could feel some fluid flowing through and this was almost immediately after penetration. I cried. I screamed. I was helpless. Faint kicks and resistances bore no fruit.

“Baaaaasss! There There Ivan. It’s gonna be okay.”

There is no way this was going to soothe me. My mum walked in and she dared to say, “Thanks for the service and for your time.”

Why the heck would she do that?

The crazy part is that to me, he was still simply the man who could chase away the monsters that lived in my chest when I couldn't breathe, in my throat when I couldn’t swallow, who could silence the thunder in my ears when infection raged like storm clouds behind my drums of hearing. His hands, I remember, were cool rivers against my burning forehead, and his voice carried the composure my mother had forgotten how to sing when I was unwell. Dr. Mungai was the best at what he did.

 He would kneel to meet my eyes, and he held healing in his fingertips, and in that moment of connection, I understood what it meant to be seen, truly seen, by someone who cared whether I would wake up tomorrow with clearer lungs and a lighter heart.

Despite the fact that he laid his 6 inch wooden tongue depressor on my tongue to the point of me gagging a bit, despite his injection slightly above my butt cheek as he wore his gloves, despite the unforgettable pain he caused me that day, I knew that it was all for a greater good and he had my best interests at heart.

I was four when tonsillitis tried to claim me, when my small body became a battlefield and each breath, each swallow was a victory hard-won. He sat beside my hospital bed through that endless night, his presence a vigil against the fear that threatened to swallow me whole. I remember his me stories, not fairy tales of princes and castles, but real stories of other children who had fought this same fight and won, who had grown up to become teachers and artists and dreamers.

"Your body knows how to heal," he would say, those words becoming my mantra in the darkest hours. "Trust it. Trust yourself. Trust me." And I did trust him, with the absolute faith that only children possess, the kind of trust that moves mountains and parts seas and turns medicine into miracles.

He joined my mum in  teaching me that healing was not just about pills and procedures,( I know Muraffa would be happy to hear this) but about hope measured in teaspoons, about the power of gentle touch when the world felt sharp and hostile.

Now, decades later, when I feel the first whisper of illness or the weight of worry pressing against my ribs, I still hear his voice. He was my first. My first human healer. The person that touched me first as I escaped my 9 month humble abode. I still remember the feeling of his cool hand on my forehead, still carrying  the echo of his presence . He gave me more than medical care. He gave me the foundation of faith in my own resilience, the understanding that healing is as much about the spirit as the body, and the knowledge that sometimes the most powerful medicine is simply knowing that someone cares whether you get better.

He was  my first teacher in the sacred art of recovery, and for that gift which is quite immeasurable, irreplaceable, eternal trust me when I say my heart holds gratitude too deep for words, a thanksgiving that grows stronger each and every single day.

Your legacy will never be forgotten and may you continue resting in eternal peace.

Don’t ever forget your first:)

Adios!