And not in the inviting way to say the least.

Last summer holiday, his parents got him a kitten.

We named her Bambi as she was the prettiest rag doll I’ve ever seen.

Striking blue eyes and the silkiest of fur coats.

“She would fit right in with the royals.” Bobby’s mom used to say.

Everywhere Bambi went, she turned heads and stole hearts.

She was paraded through the park, the grocery stores, and even to church!

Bobby, however, seemed to shrink a little more each time.

Every Sunday afternoon, Bobby’s mom would have us over for an afternoon tea.

I so looked forward to dunking my biscuits and sandwiches into the piping-hot cuppa with close to eight spoonfuls of sugar.

Oh, and the rich red velvety cake! Each mouthful a treat. Bobby’s mom’s speciality.

My mouth waters just at the thought of it.

This day, it struck me as strange not to see Bambi curled up in her favourite spot by the fountain.

“Where’s Bambi?” I asked Bobby’s mom.

“ummmm we decided she was better off with Grandma.”

“What! You adored the cat! It was practically your second kid”. My mom said.

“Hmph!” she sighed.

And for a split second I thought I saw her eyes welling up with tears.

How odd. I thought.

As usual, Bobby and I gobbled up the sandwiches and cakes and rushed to join the neighbourhood kids on a game of tag.

“Hey! Remember to stay off the train tracks!” I heard Mom shout.

One kid, Micky, a very sore loser I must say, was adamant about not playing with us.

Although, to be fair, Bobby can get a tad rough at times.

Okay, tad is an understatement. Aggressively rough.

He once pushed a kid so hard they broke their nose when their head hit the concrete.

Ouch!

I was curious as to why Micky wouldn’t play the game with us.

I waited till after the game to ask him.

And what I found out shook me to my very core.

He said, he saw Bobby creep up behind Bambi while she was asleep and drill one of her paws to the ground!

I was shook! Gobsmacked even. How monstrous!

Poor Bambi, I often think of her. Every now and then I say a little prayer, and hope she’s safe with Grandma.

For the rest of the summer holidays, I stayed wary of him.

I hate to admit this, but I was terribly scared of Bobby.

Later, when schools reopened, my dad, an avian veterinarian, brought home a cockatoo from his travels.

And boy was he stellar. White with splotches of yellow at the back of his tiny head.

The cockatoo’s famous phrase was “Hey, pretty”.

He used to say this every time I walked in the room.

And the coolest part was, he only said it to me!

Safe to say my cockatoo and I were surely meant to be. Like two kindred spirits that recognized each other in every lifetime.

I would spend every evening at the veranda doing homework with it cuddled up on my shoulder.

I was officially a bird dad, and a very proud one at that.

Last Sunday, my dad planned on having a yard sale. We do this on the last weekend of every summer.

I thought myself to be very clever for coming up with the grand idea of bringing my cockatoo with me to the next block for the yard sale.

So off we went. My dad, I, and my little birdie.

Never have I ever felt that rad. A cockatoo casually sat on my shoulder?! Does it get any cooler than this?

And so I hopped, and strutted, and jumped, and sang all the way to the yard sale. I take parenting very seriously, you see.

Ah, just my luck. I recognise that cocky, stupid-looking walk immediately.

It’s Bobby.

He’s here to yuck my yum! I know it.

And there he goes, as if on cue, he fixes his silly, baggy mouth and says, “Ahoy matey..”

Ahoy flipping matey?? Yeah right.

I pretend not to catch the Captain Hook reference. Hold back my laugh, for we mustn’t let him know that we find it funny.

His head is already far too big.

“Please, please, Mr Yar, may I join you guys.

Times like this that I wish I had a secret code of communication with Dad.

Note to self: Practise a few code words and teach Dad later.

I try to squeeze Dad’s hand, hoping he will telepathically understand my signals and say no. Or at best let him down easy.

“Yeah, sure, Bobby, we could use an extra pair of hands.”

There goes my joy. And just like that, my perfectly perfect day was already ruined.

At the yard sale, Bobby would not stop yapping.

A motor mouth, that one.

One of these fine days I will shove a sock so deep down his throat. Have him gasp for air, and take it out just in time before he passes out, as I am no psycho killer.

But I’m yet to grow such balls.

I continued setting up my lemonade stand as Bobby helped Dad clear up space for the furniture.

The hours flew by fast. In no time, it was already dusk, and the crowd was rapidly disappearing.

I thought it would be best to take cockatoo in for the day and come back to wrap up the lemonade stand.

I spent the entire evening gathering up the supplies and loading them up in the truck. I hardly noticed Bobby sneaking off.

I simply had no time to figure out his antics.

It was dark, and we needed to leave. I rushed into the shed to pick up cockatoo.

“Birdie! birdie!” I called out. No response.

How bizarre, he always responds to my voice.

“Birdie! bi..” I stop dead on my tracks.

A trail of blood.

White and yellow feathers on the floor.

And right on the table I see, carefully concealed, wrapped in foil paper, my cockatoo ‘s head , tightly drilled on the hardwood table with a nail piercing right through its eye.

Beside it, is a bloody gardener’s power drill, as if to leave a signature mark of his evil.

I came undone.

I will dye my hair purple and let my mom think I’ve gone rogue.

I will join the ‘crazy’ vegans in march for other sentient beings, for I will no longer want to consume pain and fear.

Eureeka! I know what else I’ll definitely do, I’ll take professional pictures of my vulva and hang them on my living room walls. Cause I will not let art die before it is seen.

I will let my face look mean and stop smiling at strangers. For it is not my fault that I look the way I do.

I’m tired of being palatable.

I will tell the hairdresser to redo the entire line of cornrows, cause this one row makes me look like a mumama.

I’ll call my dad.

I will immediately yaani, expeditiously call out the bigotry. And let us all suffocate from the unbearable tension I just caused.

I will take shrooms so good and have a psychedelic trip in hopes of an ego death, or at best see colours produced by music and voices.

Yes.

And when I grow the biggest of all balls, I will tie a noose around my neck and jump.

Toodles!

There’s a new pastor in town. Pastor Nathaniel.

He hasn’t been in town for long, but he already has a nickname.

The girls call him Passy, it’s a new slang, I guess. Closest you can get to being cool and Christian at the same time. Sanctified slang, I call it.

The men call him Rev, for he is soon to be ordained to become a reverend.

I think Mumbi, the choir leader, might be crashing on Passy. I’ve never seen her so eager to volunteer for Saturday’s church cleaning.

She’s allergic to dust! I know she is because we go to the same school, and she is off cleaning duty for that very reason.

But hey, maybe the Holy Spirit is moving mad this week.

Note to self, tell the holy spirit to save some of that miracle for the Naetu the church shosho who was recently diagnosed with cancer. Mumbi can survive with her on and off allergies.

And while at it, I will need a new pencil case for the new term. The one advertised on ‘Club Kiboko’. I will be a candidate, so I will need all the tools necessary to pass my finals. Yes.

I do not think it is right to think of Passy as handsome. I know the lord is not pleased with Mumbi. Besides, Pastor Nathaniel is very short! In a few years, I think I will be towering over him. Mom says this is not my final form.

I hope puberty will grant me the gift of a good growth spurt. Perhaps even good rounded boobies like my cousin’s Mwende.

She thinks of herself better than me since she wears a bra. Foolish Mwende, she can be so vain at times.

My mom says I need to make a good impression. She says I am a reflection of her. She is the newly elected ministry leader. That means we will also be hosting fellowships quite often at our house. Ushirikas, that’s what we call it.

Sunday Evening 2315 hours October 2xx0

I’m so glad the fellowship is over! Mom made me cook the chapatis! and pluck the managu leaves. Good lord. I can’t wait to tell Mumbi that passy was at our place today for ushirika. I know she will be fuming.

I think pastor Nathaniel is not quite ready to be a reverend. He shook my hand a little bit too long today, so I had to yank it from his grip.

I hate the way he looked at me. He reminds me of Uncle Mato. He too, used to look at me like that and then one day I woke up to him playing with himself next to my bed.

He died last year. Car accident.

Shosho used to say that if I wanted to take revenge, I should find a fig tree, pour my heart out to it, then leave fruits underneath it. There’s a Fig tree in our school compound. I hope Shosho was just joking. Maybe if I had not taken Shosho seriously, Uncle Mato would still be alive.

Before Pastor Nathaniel left, he said I should just call him daddy. For he will be like a father to us. I have a father already! He’s just always out of town.

Monday Afternoon 1500hours January 2xx1

It’s been four weeks since schools reopened. Mumbi did not report to school on opening day. I saw her mom talking to the school principal. She seemed distraught. I hope she’s okay. I didn’t like Mumbi, but I kinda miss her.

The school choir doesn’t sound the same without her.

Mueni has been spreading rumours that Mumbi is pregnant! How dare she spread such slander? But somehow I can’t shake off the feeling that she’s right. Last time I saw Mumbi, she said she had something to tell me. She said she will tell me when school reopens, but she needs to talk to pastor Nathaniel first.

I have one avocado left till the next parents’ visiting day. We are having githeri today. I want to use it in my githeri, but I think I’ll go leave it under the fig tree again. I do not like pastor Nathaniel.

It feels wrong to pray under this tree. Mom says that it is witchcraft. But Shosho would approve. Besides, I was named after Shosho, so it will only be right to be as she was.

I know she would also not like Pastor Nathaniel.

Sneak peek into my journal entries.

July 20xx

I bought my first-ever morning-after pill! Hellooo womanhood!

Monday morning, thirty pounds in hand, I make my way to the nearest Boots Pharmacy.

Is my walk funny? Definitely not because of the railing I took the previous night.

Slow, uneasy, ashamed? angsty maybe?

(Can you tell I learnt a new word? Hihihi angsty. angsty...angsty...sounds really nice, might as well use it here.)

Am I ashamed?

I’m grown!! There is nothing to be ashamed of, get on with it.

Ah, I know! Perhaps if I pretend to look at skin care products, I’ll look like a casual shopper.

Nothing to see here, just a girlie purchasing skincare products.

40 quid for a hydrating cleanser?!

La-Roche Posay, you are on some joke ting, miss me with that.

Ah, just my luck! An African aunty behind the counter.

That’s what I get for going against the good lord.

Oh Gosh, she’s probably conjuring up all the spirits of African aunties to rain judgment on me.

“Good afternoon, miss. Can I help you?”

“Ummm, yeah, I was hoping to get a morning after bshdgrtf_”

“Sorry? I can barely hear you, miss.”

“Morning-after pill, please.”

“We have this option...”

I can’t be bothered to pay attention, just take my money and rid me of this possible child!!!

That was nerve-wracking. I need to be careful next time.

I walk out.

Uuu, a lingerie shop! Better pop in and have a look.

This will look good for tonight.

“How much for this set?”

“That will be 40 quid miss.”

“Great! I’ll take it.”

I have experienced a fair share of terror and abuse at the hands of boarding schools in Kenya, but nothing will ever top my encounter with the culture of night running in Western Kenya.

Clench your asses’ kids, or clutch your pearls if you have some decorum. Story story? Story come.

If you have never heard of night runners, picture this: ordinary people by day, but when darkness falls, they are taken over by an entity that makes them run naked through the night, hell-bent on terrifying their victims to the brink of death.

Some of the things night runners do to torment their victims are running naked with fire in their hands, leaving faecal matter in people’s houses or compounds. Making weird, eerie noises, something straight out of a horror movie. They hang in trees, waiting to suddenly jump when they see their victims. They do all sorts of theatrics to provoke a reaction from their victims. They get high of of people’s screams. It fuels them. Absolute menaces!

Catching a night runner is nearly impossible. Weuh! These people have mastered their art to the T. They know how to camouflage and move stealthily; they are track stars. Usain Bolt who? They will show him dust.

You could be woken up in the middle of the night with a heavy proper slap across your face that will send you right back to sleep. You have to have the heart of steel to deal with these guys. Sio mchezo.

This story goes way back to 2009/2010, when my mom’s friend sold her on the grand idea of enrolling me to a boarding school. “It will tame her. She will focus more on her studies.”

So, the new term rolled around, and with my metal box of supplies, I was on the next matatu to Bungoma County. A place where, to this very day, you can never convince me to go back to. Hata kwa madawa! Siwezi!

At just nine years old, I had no idea what to expect. I was convinced boarding school was just one big, never-ending sleepover with friends.

The school was buried deep in Bungoma’s countryside. Even now, I get heated just thinking about it. Because mbona mni peleke ushago? Kwani, it was that serious? This was the type of school that had us draw water from a well when the municipality cut off the water supply. And the worst bit was that the well sometimes ran dry. That meant we had to haul buckets to some random farm and queue up with the locals for water. Maajabu!

Our dorms were not fully built to completion. It had staircases on both ends of the dorm leading to the roof. This meant that if someone had a ladder, they could easily prop it against the wall, climb to the roof, come down the staircase, and be in just like that. It was also built right next to the fence, which was not even a proper fence, just a scraggly hedge of shrubs and plants.

The school should have known better than to build a hedge fence, as we had so many student runaways. Even the strongest of students couldn’t handle all the mental and physical torment we endured; it was a living nightmare.

Because the fence was only shrubs and plants, we could see right through the neighbour’s homestead. These neighbours had a gravesite a few meters from the dormitory, and, as if that wasn’t spooky enough, the gravestone was wrapped in a red ribbon! Woi! I do not know what that ribbon meant, I never cared to know, and I do not care to know now. Msiniambie.

What I have learnt from night runners is that they soft launch their terrors in bits before doing their big one. At first, it started with being abruptly woken up by someone aggressively yanking your blankets off. And the crazy bit is, you wouldn’t see anyone, not a single soul in sight. It’s almost like they vanished into thin air.

On other nights, you would feel a weight on the edge of your bed very close to your feet. And when you open your eyes, you will find someone sitting very still, almost like a monk in prayer.

The first time this happened to me, I did not move a muscle. I felt the weight on my feet and immediately knew what was happening, as I already heard different versions of this encounter from other students.

I remember it sat on my feet for what felt like five minutes. I laid perfectly still.

One thing that’s very unsettling and I still have no explanation for it, is that when the figure rose up, it was eerily tall. Almost like Slender Man. I’ll insert a picture just to give you the idea. I saw a glimpse of hell that day. I was mortified.

There’s one particular night though, that changed me forever. 9:30 pm, lights out, and the dorm was filled with snores, deep breaths, and the occasional whispers from restless sleepers.

Before we went to sleep, one of the girls, Tracy, was talking to her friend, Salome. I remember Salome giving Tracy a stern warning not hop in her bed later in the night. Tracy was the type of kid who was scared of sleeping alone in the dark, so she depended on her friend. But she used to wet her bed, and Salome was tired of the hassle of taking her bedding out and waking up covered in the stench of pee.

Being a very light sleeper, I was used to being woken up by the slightest noise, so it wasn’t unusual for me to wake up to Salome groaning in her sleep, complaining to supposed Tracy about her hopping into her bed. Only it wasn’t Tracy on her bed this time!

“bro wewe ni nani na unataka?!”

Translation: “bro who are you, and what do you want?!”

My blood ran cold.

Up to this present day, I have never heard such a shrill, blood-curdling scream like the one Salome let out. This was followed by sounds of multiple footsteps running. The footsteps were so heavy you wouldn’t mistake them for a student’s footsteps.

When you hear people say they were paralyzed with fear, you might think it is just a figure of speech to describe the intensity of the fear, but I am not exaggerating when I say I lost all limb motor function. I could not move a muscle.

I was scared shitless. Kidogo nizimie.

Everything went eerily silent soon afterwards. I can’t tell you for a fact if the surroundings actually went silent or if I had dissociated from reality. After what felt like ten minutes of complete derealization, I was forced back to reality by the continuous creaking and shaking of my bed. I was on the top decker. I quickly pieced together that the girls were huddling up at the bottom decker. My adrenaline kicked in, and I found myself on top of the pile.

All I could think of at that moment was that if it came back, it would snatch me first, as I was the closest to the edge of the bed.

I remember just saying, “blood of Jesus, blood of Jesus”, over and over again, for it was the only thing I knew, and besides, at that point, I was convinced we were dealing with an evil entity. Maybe something had crawled out of that graveyard, and it had decided to start with the girlies. Mi sijui. I was in shit either way.

Just like superheroes who show up ever so late when all the action has taken place, our matron busted in with the older kids trailing behind.

We were all so distraught that we could barely form a proper sentence.

I do not remember much of the events that followed afterwards or the next couple of days. My brain decided to block that memory out.

The incident obviously caused a bit of a stir at the school, forcing the principal to address it. Do you know what this bum ass teacher said? He said that when we catch even one night runner, that’s when they will believe us otherwise, it’s all made up, and we are trying to find a reason to go home.

Keep in mind that the youngest students were 9 to 10 years old, and the oldest were 12 and 13! And we were supposed to catch the night runners? Oh okay.

We had to devise a plan to survive. So boom, plan one: every night, bible study, prayer, and a worship session. Two, we piled metal boxes on top of each other to block the night runner’s path. Three, everyone had to sleep with a bible and a torch. Four, I was put in charge of turning on the lights as I was the closest to the light switch. They believed in me, but I knew when push comes to shove, that light would have to turn itself on. I was no hero. Aiii. But I had to pretend like I was for the people and with the people.

Five, if you can, sleep with your bestie, but don’t get caught by the matron, or you will be facing gay allegations, and at that time, you are better off being caught by a night runner than being accused of being a lesbian. You’d get a thorough beating; I’m talking about being beaten black and blue. Then you’d get expelled right after.

Six, empty your bowels dry before you sleep to avoid the urge to pee at night. And if you really had to pee, just pee on your beddings, you’ll take them out to dry the following day.

Rumours had it that the teachers themselves were night runners, and in hindsight, this could have been true, as night runners are actually regular individuals during the day with regular professions. In a BBC documentary on this cultural practice, one man said they had captured a night runner only to find it was their community doctor.

I survived two years at that school before my parents came to their senses and took me out of there.

On the bright side, you can say I learnt a few skills. You will never catch me unawares when I’m asleep. I mastered the skill of sleeping with one eye open and ears ready to capture the slightest sound. You can trust me to be on guard at night.

And in the famous words of Ronoh, “kaa ka chonjo, kaa chonjo cause kuna watu wanataka kukumaliza!”

Anyway, once I get my big girl money, I’ll unpack this in therapy and sue that school, but till then, M***ll academy, count your days.

Massive thanks for 1k subscribers, love you guys. I feel so cool.

“si anakaa kama mimi.” Cloak that tea.

Omg, I’m off Insta. Took days off from work cause everybody is a bit too cheery for me this festive season, rightfully so, I will give it to them. Consider me the Grinch because he and I would probably be sharing a good glass of soda right about now.

Peep, I didn’t say a glass of wine or beer, because last time I went out, eeeyuckk! I’m getting flashbacks. Weuh, Vijana, wacheni mihadharati. Let’s just say, this is my 101 attempt to quit drinking for life. Na walahi guys, this time niko for real. Hihihi.

Because I am off Insta now, I only have TikTok, Sub stack, and Spotify. I am a prisoner of TikTok, and I consent to being in this chokehold, ha! In my endless doom-scrolling spree, I came across a street interview video, and the guy interviewing folks was asking, ‘Who do you consider a “kienyeji”?’

The lady being interviewed boldly said, “si anakaa kama mimi.” Wait what? Then I thought to myself, you know what, hell yeah!

For those who are not Kenyan, I’ll briefly explain the politics of ‘kienyeji’.

Kienyeji- Swahili word meaning, local, traditional, or indigenous. Mostly used to describe free-range chickens, local produce or traditional rural lifestyles. In this case, we will focus on the last definition, which is, to describe someone from a rural, traditional background.

This term has evolved into a derogatory label used to describe those seen as overly rural, ghetto, and unsophisticated. But really, it is classicism disguised. There is a rising wave of Kenyan youth, especially Kenyans in Nairobi, unconsciously or even intentionally striving to be more like the stereotypical American. Just a disclaimer, this is not me calling people Oreos or calling out people who like K-pop or are into other hobbies and interests that are mostly seen as majorly practised by white people.

This is for people who are actively going out of their way not to be seen as too Kenyan or too African.

This manifests in ways like people switching accents to sound American or British, meanwhile ako nyeri khai. Never stepped foot on American soil, but you would swear they are New Yorkers. You would also see it manifest in ways such as certain styles of fashion, clothing, and makeup. Fashion being obviously cyclical, will have you being kienyeji today and tomorrow being applauded for mastering the Y2K look.

Today, Umejipaka fair and lovely tomorrow ni matte makeup. Today it is three-quarters tomorrow ni jorts. Today it’s ‘pumps’. Tomorrow it’s chunky heels. Weuh ebu keep up, or ubaki nyuma.

We laugh at Luyhas for speaking fluent Swahili (me included woi), forgetting that it is our language. I crack up every time someone adds some ‘ndiposa’ or ‘manake’. Omg cracking up right now. Forgive me, my ancestors, ukoloni wa akili utanimaliza.

In some ways, I also understand that this has become a survival skill. Sometimes being palatable to a white audience or even to your peers opens doors for you. You get accepted into social circles, and you suddenly find yourself respected and given first-class treatment. Decolonisation of our minds and ways comes at a cost of accepting being seen as kienyeji.

We also should not vilify people who reject their blackness. We have to remember that some of these things are systemic. I do not know how the Kenyan school system operates today, but I remember during my time, you would be given a smelly bone to wear around your neck if you spoke broken English. To mean English laced with a bit of Swahili.

Wearing this bone meant any teacher who saw you with it would give you a proper ass-whooping. By the time the school day ends, you would have been whopped by at least two teachers. Obviously, you would grow to hate your language because it fostered a lasting sense of shame around speaking it.

Our grandparents were brought up during the colonial era, when they had to assimilate and learn English to stand a chance of getting clerical or administrative jobs or positions in the colonial civil service. This, for the longest time, has made English and Western-like ways the language of power, law and business.

As we approach those who reject their blackness with empathy, we must also bear in mind that our ancestors fought and lost their lives to retain and preserve our language and identity. We owe it to them to embrace our blackness. Being Kenyan is beautiful. Hold that pride in being African. “You look so Kenyan.” Yeah, thank you. “It’s giving Zimbabwe”, it better be.

The journey to decolonise our minds comes with admitting that the majority of us struggle with internalised racism, even if it comes in subtle ways like laughing at accents of people from different tribes or taking compliments like you don’t look Kenyan.

So join me in this journey to embracing our inner ‘kienyeji’ . We will be stacking our libraries with books written in Swahili. Consuming more Kenyan literature. Sauti Sol and Nikita Kering cannot be the only Kenyan artists you listen to. Our Spotify wrapped next year should say something different. Here’s to being Kienyeji and loving it.

I do not feel real. I have never felt real.

Not in the sense of feeling hollow or empty, but in a way that feels like I am watching life unfold rather than actually experiencing it.

It’s like I am asleep.

I do not remember the last time I felt tethered to this reality.

My conversations always feel like I am watching someone take on different characters and personalities, and playing them as their own.

Sometimes I take on the persona of an overly chatty, enthusiastic person.

Other times, I surprise myself with how timid and shy I get.

On other days, one could swear that I am the most confident person they have ever met.

The crazy bit is that whenever I am dreaming, I am always very aware that I am dreaming.

Once I realize I am dreaming, I go around and ask random people in my dream to find my body and wake me up.

I’m more awake when I’m asleep and more asleep when I am awake.

When I was nine, I used to tell myself that I was asleep and one day I would wake up and everything would all make sense. I don’t know if I ever woke up.

Last time I ever felt real was in 2012. Best year of my life.

I sometimes catch glimpses of myself waking up. When I am dancing, writing or when I’m having long deep conversations with my brother.

But it doesn’t last long, I go back to sleep soon afterwards.

I do not write this in a sad way, but rather to present my observations of myself to myself.

So here I am, sending my intentions to the cosmic universe. If you find my body, wake me up. Gently, might I add.

Sit tight because I am about to overshare.

To my silly siblings, please get off my substack, get off my business, and find something else to do. Thank youuu.

I have a secret to tell. Hihihi. I’ve kissed a girl before! Not once, not twice. I promise I’m straight, and before you quote Wendy Williams, please let me explain.

Like most people who grew up religious, I never got the chance to decide for myself whether I believe being gay is wrong or not.

Every time there was a conversation about how gay people would go to hell, my lips were shut tight. This was because deep down I knew I was doomed to face the exact same fate that was awaiting the gays, Ha!

At the ripe age of eight. (We listen and we don’t judge.) My friends and I, who were girls, used to kiss for fun. I can’t claim ignorance because I was very much aware that what we were doing was punishable, but nothing was going to stop this barb from kissing other barbs. Proof that I was always a girl’s girl since birth. Ayyy. What did Katy Perry say? “us girls we are so magical, soft skin, soft lips, so kissable.”

She was absolutely right. Try it for yourself, you’ll see.

Fast forward a couple of years, I turned ten, and my parents decided it was time for me to join a boarding school. I still hold a grudge against my parents for this. Boarding school at ten? c’mon. I still very much believe that is the reason why I am an avoidant, and why ghosting people comes so easily to me. I am as cold as ice. Do not try me, I will leave chap chap!

One thing about me is that I do not thrive in friend groups. I will always find one person I like and cling to them like a tick to a cow. I do not remember how I became friends with this particular girl, but all I remember is that we were inseparable. Two peas in a pod. She became my best friend.

A group of girls in my school thought she and I were awfully close, which raised a few eyebrows. Needless to say, rumours spread like wildfire, and my mom was summoned.

Honestly, guys, I swear on my unborn children that no kissing was happening this time. I was falsely accused! At ten, I knew better than to kiss a girl or anyone, for that matter.

Yes, we used to write letters to each other. But that’s what girls do. Right? Right guys?

There’s one particular teacher who was put in charge of handling my case, and he decided to designate the entire weekend to beat the gay out of us. The gay that was non-existent, mind you. Monday comes, my mom shows up at my school, huffing and puffing, ready to add on to the ass whooping I was already receiving. Safe to say I could not sit straight for an entire week. My ass literally turned blue-ish green.

To this day , my mom and I have never spoken about that incident. For years, it almost felt like a fever dream. Then one day, when I was 24, she was praying for my sister and me, and she suddenly said, “ I rebuke the spirit of lesbianism.” Eh!

The hate crimes I have endured. Barbs! We ride at dawn.

But in all seriousness, I cannot picture my life with a woman. At first I thought it was ‘comphet’, compulsory heterosexuality, but I do not think so anymore . I am as boring as most of you and doomed to deal with these other fools till death do us part.

In the famous words of Nene Leakes, “ gay? Girl, don’t play. If I were gay, I would be like I’m gay whoooo. I hang with the gays. But I ain’t gay.”

Or maybe I should try kissing a girl one more time just to be sure. Okay, I’m kidding. Bye!

The God of the Bible is said to be omnipresent(he’s everywhere), omnipotent (all-powerful) and omniscient (all-knowing). Keep this bit in mind, as it will form the basis of this argument.

The stories we were told in Sunday school were meant to strengthen my faith and devotion to the Most High, but left me internally conflicted. These stories did not align with my core values and my belief system, but how can I claim my values to be morally superior to God’s? How arrogant, blasphemous and self-righteous of me.

But surely any human being with some sense of empathy and critical thinking skills would see that it is deeply inhumane to allow for so much suffering and pain, especially if this deity claims to be all-powerful and loving. Not to sound like a broken record, but this deity is love itself.

Love embodied.

You mean to tell me that the only way to get Pharaoh to release the Israelites from being slaves was to kill all the firstborn sons of the Egyptians?!!!

You can certainly argue that God gave Pharaoh a chance when He sent Moses to ask for their release. Alternatively, one could argue that God sent a series of plagues to demonstrate to Pharaoh the seriousness of the situation. However, the argument does not hold water.

The claim that an all-powerful deity had to kill innocent firstborn sons to convince the Pharaoh contradicts the idea of omnipotence.

An all-powerful being should, in theory, have infinite ways to achieve freedom for the Israelites. How can the last resort be taking the lives of children! And what’s even more bizarre and outright sinister is that he hardened Pharaoh’s heart. Eh! It’s almost like he wanted Pharaoh to stick to a script, so he could prove how big and strong he is.

‘Moses and Aaron did all these wonders before Pharaoh and the lord hardened his heart, and he did not let the people of Israel go.’ Exodus 10:27

Animals that were firstborns had to suffer too. That’s somewhat funny. Animals throughout the Old Testament were catching stray bullets for simply existing. LOL.

Don’t even get me started on the Jericho story. After the Israelites wandered in the desert for 40 years, they were ready to enter the Promised Land. The city of Jericho was the first major city they had to conquer.

Under God’s instructions, they were to kill every living being in that city. Non was to be spared. Hitler? No, babe, that’s just the God of the Bible.

Joshua 6:21 ‘They devoted the city to the Lord and destroyed with the sword every living thing in it, men and women, young and old, cattle, sheep and donkeys.’

Before you justify this by saying God was simply taking care of his people keep in mind, one, God himself says we are all his children, all of us, so either God indeed has favourites and we are not all equal in his eyes or we are not all his and some are just pawns in this sick game of show of might and strength.

Two, you can say no but God spared those who faithfully followed him. So you mean to tell me in that big city of Jericho, not even one human being was keen on helping the poor, feeding people in need, or clothing the homeless?

Every society has people who live their lives led by empathy.

The city had to have doctors who were saving lives on a daily basis. It had to have fathers and mothers whose lives were centred on making sure their kids were well taken care of.

Friends, siblings, neighbours everyday people like you and me. This command to destroy everything in totality did not distinguish between the wicked and the good. It was complete destruction. Genocide!

How can we support this? We are all sick in the head. Ask any conservative Christian about their thoughts on what Israel is currently doing to Palestinians, and watch them say it is God’s will because the Palestinian land was promised to the Israelites.

My take is: either there is no ‘God’ and human beings are inherently evil, and we are unable to come to terms with that, so we have to come up with something outside of us to shift the blame for the atrocities that we commit against one another.

Or God indeed does exist, but it is both one with the devil. It is the same energy. And this energy is within us because we are of God; we are then God. Depending on what you tap into, you can lean more towards the side of evil or good because God is everything all at once. Meaning if you go to heaven, you will indeed meet God, and if you go to hell, you will most certainly meet God. It’s all it at the same time.

Writing this is leaving me with a deep sense of dread, a part of me feels like if the God of the bible is indeed as he is depicted, he will pull out my Substack as one of the reasons I deserve hellfire. Oh lord forgive me. Ha! I’m just a girl.

My earliest memories of being introduced to the world of dance-hall music dates back to the early 2000s, when I would get my hair braided in the salon.

Prominent artists like Sean Paul, Vybz Kartel and Shaggy graced our screens and kept our radios booming with rich, authentic Caribbean music. Songs like It Wasn't Me by Shaggy, Tight Up Skirts by Vybz Kartel, murder she wrote "by Chaka Demus, Shake That Thing by Sean Paul, the list is endless.

Growing up in a Kenyan household in the early 2000s meant that at the end of a long school day, you had only one mission: to get home and listen to the 'beat', a popular show that played all our favourite music.

Shout out to KTN, a popular channel back then, which had us in a severe chokehold from the hours of 4 to 6 in the evening.

All of these were obviously done in secret because God forbid you got caught blasting devilish music in an African, Christian household.

Fast forward to 2016. Pop music has taken over the scenes of popular culture, and it's what all the cool kids are listening to. Sia releases an album with a song titled 'Cheap Thrills.'

She later released a remix version featuring Sean Paul! You can imagine my excitement when I first heard the song, the fusion of pop music and dancehall, a chef's kiss. It beautifully marries Sia’s modern electro-pop with Sean Paul’s energetic dancehall sound. 

2016 was the year I was really deep in religious indoctrination, I'm talking about repenting multiple times if I stepped on grass that had a, 'do not step sign.' This was around the time I ‘good-girled’ my way into becoming the Christian union leader.

I could not let myself utter a single word of the song. “So I say, walk by spirit and do not fall for the pleasures of the flesh.” Galatians 5:16. This was the verse that kept replaying at the back of my mind every time I was tempted to hum to the tune of Cheap Thrills.

I remember being envious of the girls who sang and danced so freely, no pressure whatsoever to be perfect for some divine being.

They just were. ‘Perfect’. I wanted that.

Every part of me yearned to be part of that freedom. To be able to engage with art so freely without the deep-seated feeling that I am potentially falling from grace. Whatever that meant.

So today, if you see me dancing ever so cringingly and singing out loud to some random pop music, just know it's my way of reclaiming part of my teens that I lost to religion.

I am truly delivered. Haha.

As a kid, I remember having this deep, terrifying feeling that the rapture might happen, and I would be left behind to suffer with the rest of the non-believers.

In my early formative years, I attended a Catholic school. The talk at the school playground was that, when Jesus comes, he should find you sinless. That, to me, meant the moment right after repentance. That period between you repenting and not committing any sin. That is the perfect state Jesus should find you in.

Perfectly pure and blameless.

So, I hatched the perfect plan to escape the impending apocalypse. Right before I sleep, I reflect on my day and make sure to come clean to God, repenting of all the sins I committed during the day. Just in case Jesus decided to sneak in in the middle of the night. He did say he would come as a thief anyway.

Why he’s so adamant on catching us off guard beats me, but hey, if I were Jesus, I’d probably want to catch a few people red-handed just for the thrill of it.

Before any meal, after a good Thanksgiving prayer, I will sneak in a repentance sesh. Right after a hot gossip session, I will make sure to end with the phrase, “but who are we to judge?” You know, just to let God know I’m aware of my smallness and He only is the judge.

Suppose you know anything about being a Christian. Especially a Pentecostal Christian, you’d know the call to accept Jesus as your lord and Saviour. This, amongst other things, was made to seem like it would grant you a ticket to heaven.

I just couldn’t shake off the itch that probably God missed my first call to accepting Christ as my personal saviour.

To ensure that I was not in the book of hell. I would whisper the prayer again and again, multiple times a day, retracing every word as though salvation could slip through the cracks if I did not seal it tightly enough.

I remember being overly aware of my surroundings, especially at night. I cannot even begin to count the number of times I woke up in a complete state of panic because I heard a loud sound, and my first thought was, “Oh no! The trumpets are being sounded.”

If you asked my ten-year-old self what she was terrified of the most, she would probably say being burned alive for eternity for something like stealing a cookie.

Suppose I repent this morning and steal a cookie right by afternoon, while on the very same day, a serial rapist decides to repent and accept Jesus when Jesus comes right after all that. Who is going to heaven and who is going to hell?

I bet you a dollar that most Christians will say the serial rapist will go to heaven if he genuinely repents. We have seen this happen with individuals like R. Kelly. And if this is true, yuck! Count me out of this foolery.

For the longest time, I feared admitting out loudly that I have been the happiest since leaving religion.

So I decided to silently celebrate my new found freedom by getting a butterfly tattoo.

I try hard to refrain from engaging in conversations with people who will try to invite me to church.This is laughable, because I use to be a Christian union leader and part of my job was to invite people to church.

Now I detest such people. How the tables have turned.

I think one of my greatest strengths is my open mindedness. I do not think that, I would have even dared to deconstruct my religion if I was not open to listening to people who carried ideologies and beliefs not similar to mine.

A few weeks ago someone tried inviting me to their church and I found myself saying, “ oh no thanks I’m not a Christian.”

I saw the look in their eyes. You’d think I’d committed blasphemy. When I realized this, I started explaining myself. The people pleaser in me kicked in. I wasn’t trying to offend. I said I still believe in God, it just looks different for me.

They then proceeded to say that i should not have said that, because God can actually hear me. Well I want him to hear me!

I think, leaving Christianity has allowed me to find a deeper appreciation of the world around me. I always tell my sister that despite leaving religion, I now more than ever pray. No, not the way you’d think people pray.

If prayer involves praise, gratitude, confession and asking for supplications, then I think I am in a constant state of prayer.

I hug trees and tell them they are beautiful. (Praise for God’s creations)

I never litter! And whenever I can, I pick up litter. ( Reverence and appreciation for Mother Earth)

I dance whenever I eat my favorite meals. ( Gratitude for food)

I tell my friends and family how much I’m grateful for having them. (Gratitude)

I apologize and take accountability when I make mistakes. (Confession).

I trust that all the good things that are meant for me will find me. ( Supplication).

I am always in a constant state of prayer, it just looks different now.