“Hizi ndio ngozi zako za kondoo,” said my mum holding one of my miniskirts the morning after a night out .

I do not leave the house in a mini not when I am going with one of my friends to a fictional bible study or group project .The thing with strict parents is that you learn to lie .The kind of lies that politician PR teams would wish to come up with easily rolls off your tongue and it isn't always about doing something wrong.

“Hio nilibebea rafiki yangu alinunua town na hakuwa na bag”

I told a new friend that they have to make plans with me a week before or days because it is a whole process to simply leave the house.I have rejected flowers and gifts because I didn't have an explanation as to where I got them .Imagine being given flowers and your happiness is shortlived because you have to think how you will pass with them through the gate and god forbid your mother is in a bad mood.

It gets exhausting having to account for every little thing you do .Hapa ndio project unstrict your parents begins .It is not easy especially if you are not financially independent .The person who controls your money can also control where you go, what you do, when you come home and even what version of yourself gets to exist outside the house regardless of your age . Just communicate and build trust is the most useless advice you can give someone in this Communication is more lf a verdict and giving your side becomes an umemea pembe conversation .

I got my nose pierced last year .A spontaneous decision at a place I was hoping to run into my then humiliationship wololo.I stood outside the gate for thirty minutes trying to think of any possible explanation to justify the piercing . Then I realised i was standing outside trying to figure out a lie as to why I made an adjustment on MY body .I was old enough to make the decision,old enough to understand that a nose piercing is not exactly a life altering decision but I had been conditioned to anticipate the reaction before I even walked through the door. The anxiety came before the confrontation. I didn't need my mum to say anything yet I already knew .That is the thing about strict parents that people don't always understand. Eventually, they don't have to be in the room for you to feel controlled by them. You carry the rules with you.I had become my own surveillance system.

What is the line between explaining yourself and asking for permission to exist ?For me it felt like I was a child learning how to walk and I was a full grown adult expected t make decisions and have my own thoughts after being raised to just be obedient .As you unstrict your parents ,as you convince yourself that you are allowed to and you are not being the worst child on earth.In the process,you might get kicked out or financially cut off .They might hold mass for you or call your relatives to talk to you.They might yell and say you are ungrateful .Others will tell you that they would rather die than watch you continue down this path (the path being you went out yesterday and want to go today).

It is not easy .You might feel guilty and not want to be a disappointment lakini you cannot live your entire life trying to make them comfortable while shrinking yourself.As my mother would say ,"si wewe ni mtu mkubwa umemea matiti fanya chenye unataka”.You can be grateful ,respect and love your parents and still disagree with them and want more freedom .You can understand that they are afraid for you and still refuse to let their fear become your life.At some point, you have to become the person they raised you to be,an adult capable of making their decisions .

Si wewe ni mtu mzima ama?

Recently I have been learning how to sew and so far I have almost created another hole on me.The current clothing prices and the hectiness in Gikomba should be enough motivation but eii the way its going in future I might prefer just staying home naked .My gap year is about to end and I kind of want the world to blow up before it does .You can't run away forever though lazima usimame ukasusu that is what the wahenga said.I know trust I was there .

In between my pursuit of hobbies and learning my mother tongue,I came across a phrase that perfectly describes the current people in my life including myself .

“Kodi ,chunya odok ekinde” Luo for

With you,my heart returns to itself .

I think if I was cracked open besides the usual biological structures and a slight tar on my lungs they will find anxiety balled up in my waist .Explains the stiffness not because I am unfit or anything.Aki mwili yangu sometimes inafeel kama ngumi .I should start stretching more .Anyway ,the phrase to me is the only words closest to what I feel about my current partner .Sometimes I love you doesn't fully capture it and saying my heart is his sounds like a sort of blasphemy to myself .It js not devotion and it is not completion .With him ,my heart returns to itself.

Toxic relationships are thrilling as much as they are damaging .Your heart rate increases and beats more forcefully as if it will leap out if you don't swallow your partner whole .The anxiety and stress from the unpredictability also lowers your heart rate variability .So when you find someone just right your heart quite literally returns to itself.

“Do not regret growing older. It is a privilege denied to many.”

Last year as they say kwa ground ,”shetani aliniekea multibet”. I got high and the lows got higher .From dealing with grief to having one of the worst heartbreaks wueh then the anxiety during my gap year . Another birthday felt like a reminder that time has passed and all I did was be a sad adult.This year since I made it ,my birthday wish is to stop living in my head .Yes nineteen was the worst but I got my driver's license ,I have travelled a lot and attended manh events and concerts ,made so many new friends and different communities .I can also speak fluent luo and I finally got over that situationship (wapi nduru na vigelegele).

“your life has value apart from what you have done” -Tim and Olive’s blog

This year ,I don't have any elaborate wishes kitu kidogo tu kama land or a new car or maybe financial stability .My other wishes is to live less in my head and live within my body instead .To believe in myself and in all that I do .To love today and not save my feelings for tomorrow that may not come.

So it is my birthday today and I feel excited not just old and dreadful .I am not crying and my old scars have faded almost completely .It is midnight and I feel like living .Even more reason to celebrate.

In love and with love ,

Prudi

I had this auntie in class three ,who would play the same Richie Spice song as she got me ready for school.I vividly remember the soft groovy tune,the cold morning air and warm tea .She would hum the song as we waited for the bus and eventually I learnt the whole song .I heard it again in a matatu ,the volume was turned down for the donda to share the pochi number .The cold air blew from the door and I was back in 2014 with my auntie swaying to Brown Skin by Richie Spice ,one of her locs slipping from her knitted hat .Those mornings were the only time reggae existed in my world. Nobody else around me listened to it and after she was gone, the music quietly disappeared from my life too. It wasn't until the COVID lockdown, when the world slowed down and I had time to wander through genres I had never paid much attention to, that I found my way back to reggae.

In Kenya, music isn't just taste,it is geography. It tells you where people spend their time or grew up .Hip hop lived in my house,in the schoold i went to and conversations my older siblings had with their friends . Lingala filled family gatherings. Reggae lived outside,in matatus with oversized speakers and murals , in downtown CD shops, on Ghetto Radio,in barber shops where conversations about politics lasted longer than the haircuts. My auntie was the bridge between those two worlds .

How did a genre born on the Carribean islands become so deeply woven into Kenyan music?

The genre was born from Jamaica's social and political realities, reggae drew heavily from Rastafarian philosophy, Pan Africanism and the experiences of people navigating poverty, inequality and the lingering wounds of colonialism. Music wasn't just being made, resistance was being doucumented.Notable figures include Bob Marley,Burning spear ,Peter Tosh etc . Their music spoke about freedom, dignity, corruption, survival,youth and faith.When those records crossed the Atlantic, they arrived in a country that recognized many of those conversations.Kenya did not fully share Jamaica’s history but she understood colonial violence,economic inequality and the frustrations of governments that often seemed disconnected from the people they served.

During Moi's era, when criticism of the government was often met with censorship, surveillance and intimidation, reggae's themes of resistance, liberation and speaking truth to power resonated with many young Kenyans. Although the genre was never officially banned outright, it was far from embraced by the state. Reggae also carried a social stigma. For many, it was seen as the music of the underclass (nyimbo za masafara)and of Rastafarians, a community that was often misunderstood. By the late 1990s and early 2000s, public perceptions of Rastafarianism had become further complicated by media coverage that frequently blurred the distinction between Rastafarians and groups such as Mungiki because of superficial similarities like dreadlocks. In many conservative Christian households, reggae was viewed with suspicion. Dreadlocks, marijuana and Rastafarian symbolism were often associated with delinquency or moral decline, leading some parents to discourage their children from listening to the genre altogether.(mine included)

Looking back, I wonder if that is why reggae always felt like it belonged outside my home. It wasn't absent because no one listened to it,it was absent because of what many people believed it represented.As commercial radio grew in the late 1990s and 2000s, it increasingly catered to middleclass audiences by playing American hiphop, RnB and pop, genres that reflected the aspirations of a generation growing up on MTV and global pop culture.Reggae, however, found a different path. Rather than disappearing, it became rooted in everyday Kenyan life.Particularly in Nairobi's Eastlands. There, reggae evolved from imported music into a local cultural identity.Its influence extended beyond Rastafarian expressions filtered into sheng and urban slang while reggae's rhythms eventually gave rise to dancehall in Jamaica, a genre that would go on to shape Kenyan music till this day.Instead of fading into the background, reggae evolved from a Jamaican genre into a distinct Kenyan cultural force.

Reggae reminds me of my auntie and carefree days but it didn't stay in my childhood.Years later,i have songs from a previous relationship,some from a matatu mix on my way home from Molly's .You may not know the history or understand its politics but music always knows how you feel.Whether you are in Kingston or Nairobi ,reggae music will travel into your life through memory ,places and people.

This years resolution was to be outside like Rema’s boxers .My few friends have gone to study abroad or are far and we rarely meet so i was a bit lonely .Then at 4am ,after mashetani finish their shift and the motivational spirit kicks in,I decided to turn my life around .It is not a new decision ,I have announced my reinvention more times than we have had “tumetenga” in this country but this time i was actually going to do it .Going to events alone wasn't a problem for me but socialising? that is where as the wise men say ni ngori.Most of the time i have to practise a bit on how i am going to approach people then i end up leaving the event early with only an overpriced samosa .

To begin my transformation ,I joined a run club .I had my running shoes ,my step up app hadi nikanunua chupa ya maji mpya .Unfortunately, I could barely keep pace with anyone so i was running alone like why was everyone suddenly Kipchoge.My running career didn't last but do things in January ever do? I tried a new approach ,actually talking to people,how revolutionary right?I could attend an event alone, sit through an entire panel discussion and even ask a question during the Q&A yet somehow introducing myself to the person sitting next to me felt like a war frontline .

I also suffered from a particular kind of conversation snobbery. You know those people who want deep talks and are always talking about how much they hate small talk?I was their leader aki then you add how niche I thought I was .To put it simply,I was bad at conversations .I used to think small talk was fake, boring, and a waste of time. What I failed to realise was that small talk is not the destination; it's the bridge. Nobody starts friendship by discussing their deepest fears and conspiracies.Well,some do ,I have had a stranger in the matatu tell me about their business plans to their whore phase . First, you ask where they are from or whether they come to the event often or if they have a lighter .This again , depends on where ,when and the vibes .I don't have the manual on how to socialize as an adult .

I have always wanted community,the kind of friendship you see in sitcoms and in ever coming of age movie.For the longest time, the phrase "you will find your people" used to irritate me. Wapi hapo omera?!Especially in my first year of university ni kama walikuwa wamepotea njia.But the annoying thing is that it's true. You do find your people.They don't fall from trees like avocados during May. You have to put in the work. You have to talk to people, listen to them, ask questions and engage in real life. Not every conversation becomes a friendship and not every friendship becomes a joined at the hip type of friendship.Sometimes you won't even exchange contacts after an event. You will share a meal, a story, a dance and then continue with your separate lives and that is okay.

I think I used to view connection as something that had to be permanent to matter. Being separated from my closest friends ,I wasn't sure i can find anyone to understand even a fraction of me.Some of the best moments I have had this year have been with people I may never see again: conversations between strangers, shared meals, recommendations typed in my notes app and those brief moments where you realise someone understands exactly what you mean.That, to me, is community too.

I remember reading a book in my highschool library instead of the KMF I orginally came foras and coming across a line by the writer Masai,"Connection is everything."I thought community was something I needed to find. Now I think it's something we create .Your mouth may act like it is your first time speaking and the greetings you rehearsed may barely come out ,you may end up oversharing and saying something that turns the conversation into awkward silence or you might hit someone with your hydroflask when going in for a hug .There is always someone who has been hoping to be talked to or has something to say but no one is listening .You can't build a community by acting like an ostrich with its head in the sand ,salimia mtu leo .

PS.If they don't greet you back you can always join my run club wanasalimianga kila mtu kabla tukimbie 😭.

Also ,all love to the ones who talk to me first in any event ,you have no idea how much it means to me .

A salon chair where my head is tilted back and my scalp is open like a map being redrawn. My hand rises on instinct just to check. To feel how much is left because she has been parting my hair for hours now .

“Toa mkono hapo,” she says, irritated ,poking me lightly with the comb .

The phrase returns in another room in Lumumba drive ,legs up in the air and fists clenched .Hot wax then skin pulled taut into silence and a quick release.I lift my hand again,not to interrupt, just to touch what has changed. To feel what my 1300 shs has done .

“Toa mkono hapo,” she says again.More firmly .

A different day ,showing the proof of my 1300 shs in a room full of heat and feeling.A hand meets mine and pushes it away gently.“Toa mkono hapo”

You get what the phrase is doing ,a kind of forced surrender .It is important to tell yourself this ,not just in salons,waxing rooms or moments of release.Toa mkono hapo.Stop reaching to confirm, stop going back to inspect what is already changing and stop trying to hold what is not meant to be held .There is a way the hand betrays you ,how it insists on proof and wants to touch the edges of everything; people, memories and old versions of yourself.When you scroll down to your old chat and are tempted to text back ,toa mkono hapo! When you are holding on to memories of when you were “better,” when life felt cleaner or more certain,ziachilie and evolve.Even you are not meant to be held in your previous form.

I don't always follow instructions so sometimes my hand reaches .It goes before thought wanting to check what is already changing without permission.Eventually you learn where your hand does not belong anymore.The way you sit in a salon chair and realize your checking is only making you more restless or the way you open old messages and feel your fingers hover then remember there is nothing there that can hold you the way it used to.

So toa mkono hapo .

Let it finish without your fear trying to correct it.

Let it leave without your hand trying to bring it back into form.

Let it move without following it every step of the way.

Stop reaching for what is already gone in its own way.Let it go.

There are some characters your friend introduces as their partner and you all silently ,collectively think “Huyu ulimtoa wapi”.It is not because of their looks ,beauty is in the eyes of the beholder ,but their behaviour.Every time Stacy introduced one of her boyfriends you would wonder if she found these men through a government tender process specifically designed to locate Nairobi’s strangest citizens.

The thing about Stacy is that she never met these men online. There was no suspicious podcast clip on their profile,no bio saying “alpha male” or blurry photos standing next to rented cars. She met them the old fashioned way. In matatus ,an engaging conversation on everything and nothing. At cafés when they asked for a seat ,in line at Huduma Centre bonding over delays in public service offices .And in the beginning they were lovely ,they always are .They opened doors,they were consistent and remembered small details about her. They listened carefully when she spoke. One helped carry her shopping bags,another walked her to her stage after dark. “Huyu ulimtoa wapi” she could hear her aunties smiling as they wished their daughters met such kind of men.

Then the switch would happen .The kind of plot twist that has you restarting the movie to now watch with full focus because you can't believe what happened.The sweet guy from the café would suddenly become emotionally unavailable. The gentleman from the matatu would start keeping score of every coin he spent on her. The good listener would slowly become manipulative, then controlling, then strangely mean in ways difficult to explain to other people. Stacy always stayed long enough to witness the full transformation.

There was the hyper spiritual one. This man did not communicate normally. Everything was “discernment”,his third eye .He never apologized because apparently God had “already revealed the truth to him.” Every argument somehow ended with Stacy being told to meditate and heal her chakra. He once ignored her for three days then returned saying he had been “fasting and disconnecting from worldly distractions.” The worldly distraction was apparently her asking where he was at 11 pm.

Then came the alpha male podcast graduate. This one discovered one podcast and suddenly became the Minister of Masculinity. He called dates “investments”,he believed women should be “traditional” while Stacy once watched him borrow fare from three different people in one afternoon. Every conversation sounded like he was preparing for a debate nobody asked for.

Then there was the entrepreneur.Stacy heard “deal inaivana” and”I am working on something big” more often than I love you.Nobody ever knew what the business actually was. His office was Java with his Lenovo laptop .His meetings were vibes. His greatest skill was saying “nikona idea online hapa boss” Stacy dated this man for eight months and to this day we still do not know what he did for a living.

The gym bro almost killed us collectively. Every sentence somehow returned to protein. He spoke about chicken breast the way poets speak about love, passionately almost desperately .Stacy could not eat fries in peace because he would sigh dramatically and ask if she had “considered discipline.” Meanwhile he owned exactly two compression shirts and both were fighting for survival. Lastly was the older man with baby mamas.This one did not come with baggage and self diagnosed OCD. He came with lore. There were children in Nakuru, unresolved situations in Rongai and at least one woman who still had access to his Netflix account. He called Stacy “mature for her age” .

These relationships rarely started off badly .That is the part people do not understand.The manipulation and emotional abuse does not arrive loudly on the first date over milkshakes at Java It starts with kindness, consistency. With someone who seems thoughtful and safe. Then little by little, the behaviour changes and by the time other people are asking, “Huyu ulimtoa wapi?” the person inside the relationship is already confused, emotionally invested or hoping the version they first met will return.

Of course, there are people who stay in situations long after everyone around them has begged them to leave. Sometimes you genuinely cannot help someone who does not want help but there is also something deeply unfair about a person finally leaving, sharing their stories and being mocked as stupid for not spotting every red flag immediately because hindsight is a luxury spectators always have.Everyone claims and acts like emotional manipulation is something only foolish people fall for .We might not all be foolish to the same extent but fala bado ni fala .

Still,in my opinion,bad relationships are not a sign of low intelligence but they are simply proof that human beings want to be loved and want to believe the people they care about are good. Maybe the point is learning to leave the moment love starts feeling like humiliation, fear, exhaustion or constant confusion.Whether you are dating men, women or anybody in between, one thing remains true,the right person will never require you to shrink yourself just to survive loving them.

This is not me discouraging people from loving openly or giving others a chance. Human beings are complicated and sometimes people simply change in ways we could never predict, no matter how careful or healed we are.There is also value in being alone long enough to notice your own patterns. To ask yourself why certain behaviours feel familiar and why being chosen can matter more than being treated well.

No amount of caution can completely protect us from other people changing. That part is beyond our control.What we can control is whether we stay after the change reveals itself .

So kama unaulizwa “Huyu ulimtoa wapi” by friends or family with a concerned look, reflect.

Then you see the hostels.

Most of the time, the only difference between you and someone living in a single room with poor conditions is that one has privacy. Experience is the best teacher and I was in class,front row,at a higher learning institution somewhere in Rongai.First of all, the hostel building didn’t even have a door. It did, however, have a watchman who only remembered his job on Fridays,usually when there was a kitu kidogo to collect from a boy caught past curfew.

When I moved in ,I found the door already open .I was nervous to meet my roommates.Strangers I will have to figure out living with for the whole semester but boarding school prepared me for this or so I thought! .There were seven people when I opened the door ,the curtain was half drawn and a piece of paper was covering a broken part of a window.That was my sign that visa na visanga bado. After they left ,I met one of my roommates ,the host and the other two I would meet later that weekend.We had a group chat ,we had rules and we had arguments.Not one ,not two .At some point, a dustbin was thrown,at another, a boyfriend showed up to reprimand us for stressing his girl . I hated that boyfriend btw .

Silence wasn’t something you experienced there. It was something you imagined with how things the hostel walls were.There was everything bleeding through from late night arguments, stifled moans, loud music from somewhere down the corridor to someone’s very questionable decision to buy a Bluetooth speaker just to blast Bebe Rexha in the middle of the night .I developed noise tolerance.

I had forgotten that the pupu Picasso and sock thieves from boarding school were also students who would eventually join us in university and they reminded me of their presence more often than not.There was a time I woke up to someone shouting in the corridor:

“Aki ya Mungu nisikupate umezivaa!”

My roommate had been on call with that boyfriend of hers almost the entire night, his voice doing that forced deep rumble men reserve for long distance affection, insisting how much he missed her. I couldn’t sleep through it, but I also couldn’t escape it .So ignored the shouts and went back to sleep .Later that day, not even ten minutes after I had hung my clothes, I went to the shop, came back and the whole line was empty.Denial, they say, is a river in Egypt,but no. It is you standing there, walking back and forth, convincing yourself that maybe your eyes just didn’t register properly.

“Yaani hawangengoja zimwage maji at least”

In my room,we had a teargas cannister that we used to prop up our phones when eating .This cannister had woken us up a few weeks ago when it hit our recently repaired window .It was during a student strike. GSU officers had been sent in but we had slept through most of the noise.One moment the room was just heavy, uncomfortable sleep. The next, we were coughing, scrambling in confusion, trying to find the key to the door and the whole time my roommate's phone was just ringing (yes it was that boyfriend).We made it outside, still half asleep, then had to crawl under a fence and run into the forest.Face unwashed and eyes stinging.

It wasn’t just the noise or the arguments or boyfriend appearances like unofficial security personnel. It was the basic things that never quite worked.Water that came when it felt like it. Doors that didn’t close properly. Windows repaired with tape and prayer. Security that depended more on kitu kidogo than actual presence. Privacy that didn’t exist unless you created it in your mind.

“tunashughulikia” “tutatengeneza” “tumewaskia”

Broken things became permanent features. Conditions you slowly stopped questioning and just accepted .So in the end, commuting or living outside starts to make sense,even with the cost, even with the inconveniencebecause at least there, you can sleep without wondering who is in your spaceor what noise will wake you up next or whether your clothes will still be there in the morning.

I have always been the first to confess my feelings ,clumsily in ways that come back to haunt me at 2 am when I’m trying to sleep and instead I’m reliving conversations that should have stayed buried.My first confession was at ten.He wasn’t even mine to notice,the kind of boy your older brother brings around. To me, he was basically prince charming in the flesh.He was a guy called Buvi with actual biceps ,real big ones not the ones I saw when my brother was watching wwe .Buvi, I am telling you, was the first time I understood that boys can look like this. I even started watching Dj Afro because of him, just so I would have something to say and an excuse to stay in the room when he came over . He entered my heart the way Amigo would say “Kimoda akaingia” .

So I did what I always do.I said it

“Aaaw my baby sister loves me”

Eh?

He sister-zoned me.Sister?Me?After I sacrificed my cartoon time so they could watch DJ Afro? I could not believe it .

By class six I had moved on and forgotten all about him .Puberty has started to show it's face properly .Not to me though,it was shy with me .Bodies and voices were changing and so were relations .As an opportunist ,I had a thriving love letter business.I was a trusted ,reliable messenger unless the letters were meant for my crush .Those ones never made it .Instead, I gave him gum every day the way you throw maize at chickens so they always come back to the coop. It felt like it was working when I saw him gazing at me from the corner of my eye(I was short-sighted and delusional).Maybe I just needed it to feel like it was working.Until I saw him share it.With his girlfriend .His girlfriend? Atleast that is what I overheard the girls next to me saying .Soon after my business was busted and I was kneeling during parade after refusing to reveal my customers.I didn’t say anything to him . I think I just stored it somewhere quiet in my mind and moved on like I always did and eventually, I forgot him or at least I told myself I did.Until the next crush arrived.The guy I was kneeling next to during parade .

We were sat next to each other in the next term(Glory be!!!!!) .It was a sign for the universe .This was clearly destiny because how else do you explain the class teacher's decision to arrange us like that .He was different from my usual type.I tended to like them quiet, slightly mysterious but this one,he was funny.I was funny but he was FUNNY. The kind of funny that makes people gather around you at break time without trying. The kind that makes you feel like being seen is effortless for him and for the first time, I didn’t just want to be liked.I wanted to be noticed by someone who was already being noticed by everyone else.

We had even started hanging out .By hanging out I mean we went to the same church ,attended the same catechism classes and walked the same route home .Hio si mpango wa Mungu aki?

And then one day he brought two sweets .One for me and his and not for anyone else .Someone sane might say he bought two sweets and gave me one just because but hio ni mambo yake .At the time,it felt like a clear sign of romance.It wasn’t much, but it felt like validation.Like maybe all my confessing meant something,maybe love was something you could secure if you just said it first.

I think it was in that same season that I learned something I didn’t have language for yet.I remember talking to him and his friend casually said it like it meant nothing.

“You’re the backup.”

Backup?

For what?

I laughed at first because I thought I had misheard him but he kept explaining.There was a girl in our catechism class that he liked and if he didn't like her ,I was also an option.

Oh

I don’t remember what I said after that. I don’t even remember if I stayed or left but I remember the feeling.It was the first time something clicked quietly. Not anger or embarrassment like a realization.That maybe I wasn’t being brave when I was open and honest about my feelings.Maybe I was just making it easy for people to choose me last.

Life didn’t stop after that realization but the feeling I had at the time made it momentarily feel like it did. I still went back to class,still laughed,still had crushes that I gave gum and got excited over eye contact and still noticed people before they noticed me.Something shifted quietly.I started watching myself.All my crushes in between and after didn’t feel as innocent anymore when I looked back. The gum, the letters, the carefully chosen seats, the “hanging out” that was really just proximity I had assigned meaning to.

I used to think I was just someone who felt things loudly.Now I wonder if I was also someone who needed to be chosen quickly, so I wouldn’t have to sit in the discomfort of not being chosen at all.Maybe confessing first wasn’t just bravery but urgency.A way of saying,pick me first, before I convince myself I am not even in the running.If said it first, at least I wasn’t waiting,guessing or sitting in silence trying to decode kindness into love and that changed how I see all the moments that came before it.The “maybe he likes me too” and the small kindnesses I used to inflate into certainty .Not because they were fake but because I needed them to mean more than they actually did.

I still confess first but unlike before, it is not because I think it secures love and not because I think it guarantees anything back.More like a feeling that builds in my chest until it has nowhere else to go. As if nitalipuka if I don’t say it out loud.I don’t like sitting in uncertainty. I don’t like hesitating. I don’t like not knowing.So I say it and then I deal with whatever comes after.

“Mum ambia Stacy abebe hizi bags zake”

“Si umeeka vitu zako hapo ndani na tumeshafika unacomplain nini”

I knew the tone,city tone. Restless like time was always running ahead of them and then the kongkongs.My daughter-in-law has never learned how to walk quietly in the morning. Even here, where the ground is soft and the air asks you to slow down, her shoes strike like she is still somewhere that is rushing her.

I sat up and listened.It had been a long time since the house held that kind of noise.I tied the mosquito net and got out of bed.They were already at the door.

“Dani!!” the younger one said smiling but it was the other one I looked at.The oldest one.Last time she was here I had caught her smoking in the maize farm,the matchbox nestled between the leaves.She stood a little behind them, one hand in her pocket, the other holding her phone like it might be needed at any moment. She did not rush forward. She smiledbut only after she saw me looking.

This one I had never quite understood her.Watoto wa Nairobi I thought to myself.Later, after greetings had softened into silence, after tea had been poured ,I watched her from the doorway.She did not sit the way we sit here.Her ears caught my eye first,more holes than I remembered.Small shining things climbing upward, as if they were trying to reach somewhere higher .When she was younger, she used to follow me to the shamba and ask questions about the soil and the plants up until the day a spider got on her hair .She refused to come and her mother had said something about Araknafobia ang’o .I don't remember it well.

Now, when she spoke, the questions had changed.

“Dani bado unaenda church kesho?”

I laughed a little. Ah! Church.

“Unataka twende na wewe kesho?” I asked her that evening.She did not answer immediately instead she looked at me the way people look at something fragile they are trying not to break.

“Siamini hizo vitu Dani.”

The words sat between us, unfamiliar in my ears.

“I don’t believe in it like that anymore .”

I nodded, though I did not understand what that meant.God had never been something you arranged to your liking.God was where you went when there was nowhere else to go.The house had quieted. Even the insects outside seemed to lower their voices.She spoke carefully, placing her words between us.

“Kanisa sio ya wamama na hao ndio wamejaa "

I did not answer.

“Inawafinya tu ka kibox kadogo ”

Her voice did not rise but they were sharp

“Mara ooh periods ni impure,” she continued,"Be decent ,jifunike like it is your job to manage male thoughts.”

I looked at her then at how sure she was.At how free she sounded inside her own voice.There were days that I felt what she had said in my bones before she said it .Days I sat in church and wondered why God sounded so much like a man.Why the rules bent in one direction and why silence was asked more from me than from others.But I also remember other things like nights when the world pressed so hard against my chest I thought I would stop breathing.Mornings when there was no food and no answer and no one to ask.Moments when speaking out loud would have changed nothingbut speaking upward gave me somewhere to place the weight.God had been the only place I could speak without being interrupted.

I have been thinking about what she said about how women like me are the reason others feel trapped.How we hold onto things that were not built with us in mind.Nyakwar may be right,there are things I accepted without question.Things I carried because I was told they were mine to carry and things I taught, even, because I did not know there was another way.But I wonder if she sees the whole of it .Beesides the rules and silence is the weight those things were holding down.For her, religion is something to step away from but for me, it was something I fell into not because it was soft,it was never soft ,but because the ground beneath me was not.There are women like me who stayed because we had nowhere else to stand.For us ,our faith, even with all its sharp edges, gave us somewhere to rest our lives without falling apart.

So when they speak of freedom, I listen.When they question, I understand more than they think I do.I do not think we are enemies of that freedom.We are what it looked like to survive before it arrived .So the next day at church I prayed:

“Ok aneno kaka piny ma gin gedo, to pod akwayo Nyasaye mondo oter gi gin kuome.”

(“I do not understand the world they are building, but I still ask God to guide them and hold them in it.”)

I love the smell of ugali,toasty,

like the first warmth of a house waking up,

like something calling everyone to the table before names are even spoken.

I love the crunchy edges that cling to the pot like secrets,

golden and stubborn,

the parts nobody fights over ,but I always do.

I watch you eat it.

steam rises between us

softening the space where words should be

Your hands know it already

fingers pressing, folding, shaping it

like it has always belonged to you.

I pretend I am not staring.

But I am, intently

I love ugali when it is still too hot,

when you toss it between your fingers

like you are learning patience from fire

Then you press it into something quiet,

something that knows how to hold stew

without complaining.

And I think

maybe that is what you are like too.

Warm,impossible to rush.

I love ugali when it clears the plate,

when nothing is left to chase

except the feeling of being full

and still wanting more of you in the room.

I love ugali

white, yellow, brown

like it refuses to be one thing only,

like it does not care for stereotypes

just like you don’t.

And I wonder if you know

that watching you eat

makes me want to cook more.

not because you are hungry,

but because I like the idea

of you becoming a habit here

soft, ordinary

and mine in the quiet way

a full plate stays on the table.

I recently saw that Otamatsuri tickets are going for 2,500 Kenyan shillings eii!! I get anime is no longer niche in Kenya especially after COVID, it has become part of everyday conversation, recommendations between friends, and online culture.At some point, you’ve probably tried to convince someone to watch an episode of a show you love lakini when it comes to recommending anime is rarely simple. You might find a series with beautiful animation and a strong plot, only to hesitate when you remember certain scenes or character choices that feel off.Within the anime community those moments are often treated as normal,part of the genre you’re supposed to accept without question.

when does ignoring something become normalizing it?

I say this as someone who genuinely enjoys anime. I’ve been watching it since I was eleven. I love manga, comics, storytelling, and animation as an art form. I also understand fantasy, exaggeration, and even adult themes as part of creative expression. But there is a difference between exploring mature ideas and repeatedly presenting patterns without questioning their impact.A common defense within anime is that “it’s just fiction.” That because something is animated, it is separate from real-world consequences but fiction does not exist in isolation. What we consume repeatedly shapes what we become used to. It influences what we laugh at, what we ignore, and eventually what we stop questioning.One of the terms often used in this context is “fan service.” It is presented as content made “for the audience.”

Nashangaa sana which audience is this???

When certain portrayals include childlike or highly infantilized characters in suggestive framing, what exactly is being justified and why is it normalized as entertainment in the first place? The concern is not about assuming the intent of every viewer but about how repeated exposure can shift what people see as normal within fiction.

This becomes especially complicated when it comes to how childlike characters are portrayed. There are recurring situations where characters are visually designed with childlike features but placed in suggestive or sexualized contexts. These choices are justified through technical explanations,like a character being immortal, non human, or “actually older than they look.” But that explanation does not change how the character is visually presented to the audience.Did the magical elf become immortal at 8 years old ?Why can't they be depicted in their 30s like their usual love interest even if they are 100 years old?

Children are among the most vulnerable people in any society. They are fully dependent on adults for care, protection, and guidance. When that responsibility is violated in real life, we recognize it immediately as harm. In fiction, however, vulnerability is sometimes reshaped into aesthetic or entertainment value without the same level of scrutiny.

Anime is not the only medium where this happens. Film, literature, and online spaces have all struggled with similar issues. However, certain genres in anime,especially Isekai and harem,often intensify these patterns because they are built around escapism and wish fulfillment, they can rely heavily on exaggerated character designs, power imbalances, and dynamics that blur uncomfortable lines.The covers are usually a small child surrounded by several older people and the title is over four words long .

Another recurring trope is the “perverted pedo comic relief” character,someone whose inappropriate behavior is played for laughs instead of being questioned. Over time, these repeated portrayals can become less noticeable. What once felt uncomfortable slowly becomes background noise, something the audience is expected to accept as normal.

One example that often comes up in discussions is Hunter x Hunter. The character Hisoka’s fixation on Gon, a child, has long been debated by viewers because of how unsettling it can feel, even if the story frames it through rivalry or obsession rather than openly defining it. Another widely discussed case is Mushoku Tensei, where a reincarnated adult retains his consciousness in a child’s body, leading to behavior that many viewers find difficult to reconcile with the character’s physical age.

Another recurring pattern is the use of camera framing and visual emphasis in school-based settings, where characters are often sexualized through angles, body exaggeration, or comedic framing. Over time, repeated exposure to these choices can make them feel less noticeable, even when they would initially feel uncomfortable.

The term “fan service” is often used to justify these choices as harmless additions meant to entertain the audience. But if certain patterns are consistently framed as normal entertainment, it is worth asking what boundaries are being softened over time, and why.

None of this means anime as a whole is harmful or that viewers are complicit in anything unethical. That would be an oversimplification. Anime is a diverse medium capable of producing some of the most creative and emotionally powerful storytelling in animation.

(Please hit me up for recommendations)

The issue is not fantasy itself. The issue is what we repeatedly normalize within it.

We should be able to question the media we consume without dismissing those questions as overreactions. We should be able to ask why certain patterns exist, why they persist and what their long-term cultural impact might be.If we can recognize boundaries in real life, we should also be willing to examine how those boundaries are reflected or blurred in fiction.Children should be allowed to remain children,even in fantasy.

I first ran away from home in class one after school.That morning my mum was wrapping her scarf around me .

“Usijaribu kutoka shule bila sweater ,if you don't find it today Prudence usikanyange hii nyumba”

She may have not meant it literally . It was those threats African mothers say instead of saying what they truly mean ,they wrap it in opposite sarcastic comments.I was five and I hadn't updated my brain software to understand sarcasm yet .So when the day ended ,I hadn't found my sweater .I put on my big girl shoes(they were two sizes too big ,shoelaces tightly tied to get me to last me even when I grew a bit)and decided I was going to run away .It was better than staying home and waiting for my mum to come and carry out her threats .I packed all the important stuff .My Monday -Sunday underwear,a few clothes,shoes and a loaf of bread.I didn't know where to go so I hid in the watchman's house and waited for the world to adjust to my disappearance .

As a child, wanting to run away made sense. I was running from something I could name. Fear had a face. It sounded like raised voices . It felt like a belt landing on my skin.Now I am older and I am supposed to have my life together or at least look like I do but in the back of my mind I still think about disappearing.In Japan, they call it Johatsu;people who vanish from their lives without a trace. They leave because of debt, shame or intense societal pressure. They start over somewhere no one knows their name. I think about that sometimes ,I daydream about it too much. Not because I have some great scandal to escape.I don’t. The worst thing I’ve done is maybe some alcohol-induced misbehaviour, the kind people laugh(except me)about the next day. I am not carrying anything dramatic enough to justify disappearance and yet the thought lingers.

I don’t know what I am running from anymore. That is the part that makes it feel childish. I am no longer five.There is no lost items and an angry mother waiting by the door.No one has told me not to step into my own life and still, some part of me wants to pack quietly and leave before I am asked to explain myself.I am restless .The fear didn’t disappear with age. It just became harder to name. It settled into something quieter and turned into this urge to start over, this desire to be unknown.This sounds crazy coming from someone who talks to strangers in matatus and goes to events alone and leaves with ten new mutuals .I am hardly quiet yet there is a part of me that wants a life where no one knows me at all.

As a child, I ran from something I could point to ,as an adult, I want to run from something I cannot.That makes it feel less valid. Like I should have outgrown the instinct by now. Like wanting to disappear is a sign that I have failed at being grown.The future makes me anxious and I want to run away like a scared child.The expectations, the pressure to have direction, to be stable, to be fine. In a city like Nairobi, where everyone is connected by someone, starting over does not feel possible.Everything creeps up on you , there is always a trace, a mutual. A shared history that follows you into every new version of yourself.So I stay and learn how to exist inside a life I sometimes want to step out of. I convince myself that wanting to leave is immature, that it is something you were supposed to outgrow along with oversized shoes .But the instinct remains.

I am no longer five, and yet I still want to run but a bit farther than the watchman's place.

The matatu was full,the only available seat was in the back row and it was the worst one .The middle seat.Ukikaa hapo you feel every bump and reckless turns that the driver takes .If you don't brace yourself ,the road does it for you and throws you forward .The day just seemed to get worse .It was cold in the morning but now it was hot and stuffy.The air was thick with with sweat ,perfume and impatience.My body still ached .Every time the bus jerked forward I flinched .I wanted to remove the jacket but I was wearing a short sleeve.I kept it on, perservering the heat was easier than explaining bruises that hadn't existed yesterday.

The radio crackled to life.Patanisho.A woman’s voice, strained but dramatic. A man interrupting. The host trying to mediate, asking questions that sounded more like accusations.Infidelity,lies,disrespect.The usual.People around me laughed softly. Shook their heads. Chimed in like they were part of the conversation.I listened too.There was something strangely comforting about it.Not the stories themselves,but the proof.That other people were struggling too,that I wasn’t the only one with strained relationships with people who were meant to be the closest.Theirs sounded… lighter,messy, yes,painful, maybe but still soft enough to laugh about.Lover’s quarrels turned into entertainment.Mine didn’t sound like that and it wasn't about lovers .Mine didn’t end in phone calls or apologies or radio hosts telling us to “work it out.”Mine ended in long sleeves.In jackets worn in heat that made my skin itch and concealer pressed carefully over bruises that hadn’t existed the day before.

They say people from burning houses think the whole world is on fire.But that wasn’t entirely true because I had seen rooms that didn’t burn.Fire that didn’t destroy.Fire passed between fingers in shared cigarettes and blunts.Soft laughter curling into the night air.Flames that warmed instead of consumed.No shouting,no fear,no promises of hell and for a moment, I wasn’t burning.I saw it in other places too.Someone calling their mother, and she answered.Not with suspicion,not with anger just… hello.I would sit there, quiet, pretending not to listen.But I always did.The ease of it confused me.The softness and how casual it was.

“How was your day?”

“Have you eaten?”

“I’ll see you soon.”

Someone stood up to alight and shoved me slightly.I flinched ,it had already been a day and the ache wasn't gone .The pain was a result of punishment that came in whatever was closest,hands, words, anything within reach accompanied by words that she repeated so many times like a mantra ,“shame the devil”.To me the devil wasn't ashamed ,the devil hit me harder and called it discipline.

People spoke about going home like it was something to look forward to.They talked about relatives they were excited to see.I tried to remember the last time we all sat in the same room without tension tightening around our throats.I couldn’t.My memories of togetherness felt loud.Not warmth just heat t,he kind that burns. I hated that part of me,the one that watched, compared, measured.The one that felt something sharp twist in my chest when someone said,

“My mum would never”

Jealousy is an embarrassing thing.It makes you feel small, ungrateful,bizarre, even.Because how could someone hate their own family?I couldn’t say I hated mine.So the blame shifted.I was the problem.A difficult child.Too sensitive,too stubborn. The bruises weren’t cruelty.They were correction.At least, that’s what I told myself.Discipline meant to put me back on the right path.So I learned not to say I hated her,I swallowed it before it could form into words and whatever remained I turned it inward.

I moved to a better seat ,near a window .I could be more engulfed in my thoughts .There was a kind of grief that settled on me.Grief for something I never really had, but somehow still missed.It felt like too much to want simple things.No raised voices,no careful silence.I wanted softness in ordinary moments.

Sometimes, without meaning to,I become the fire i try to escape.From my burning house,I reach for warmth in the only way I understand.I try to set the rest of the world on fire and for a moment, it works.It feels like warmth,like connection,like something close to love.But fire doesn’t know how to stop at comfort eventually it burns and I am still learning the difference.

I think you are like black leather boots.The ones I have worn almost the whole of March,the kind that go with everything without trying.You don’t ask to be noticed yet you always make sense.Being around you feels like i have known you for years,like you have always been here.Maybe it is better nikisema you are like cold air when I eat something minty;sharp, sudden, impossible to ignore.A feeling that arrives all at once and leaves me more aware of myself than I was before.That is when I started noticing you,in the way my body reacted before my mind could explain it.

And there is me ,cautious me .There is a part of me that watches too closely.The part that names things too early and then panics at the sound of them .At this point is where I am supposed to pull back.I can feel it,the quiet alarm, the tightening in my chest,the voice that sounds like logic but feels like fear

“This is how it starts.This is where you lose yourself.You are not meant for this kind of softness.”

It tells me to step away while I am still whole.To leave before I become something I cannot gather back together .It tells me to grieve in advance .Maybe it is because you occupy my thoughts but you always seem to call right when these thoughts are prevailing .When I hear your voice,not loud ,not urgent ,just there,something in me that was bracing itself loosens.The noise quiets not completely, but enough.Enough for me to stay.My body listens before I do.It leans in, absorbs, settles like it recognizes something I have been trying not to name.

I think that is what scares me the most,not that I will lose you,but that I will want to stay.I don’t know what this is becoming.I only know that I want to hear your voice again and then again after that.Until the parts of me that are always preparing to be proven wrong and to leave forget how.

One day you are in the kitchen, stirring ugali because Baba cannot sleep on a stomach full of rice. The steam rises, thick and patient and you mutter to yourself .Kama haezi shiba mchele si aongeze hadi ashibe.You don't complain out loud because next week you will need fare. There is Shiro’s birthday dinner. You will need to ask him.Good children understand timing.

The last time I had gotten in trouble with the opposite gender was in primary.When I wrote love letters with enough synonyms and idioms that got me 38/40 in compositions.The letters would be accompanied by two huge mandazis that I had to shove to reach in the school canteen. Slightly stained by oil and poorly calligraphed it was read aloud by the headteacher during parade .It was unnecessary because the receiver had rejected me (I had thrown a grasshopper at him earlier in the school year and was also darkskin wueh)

Love became shameful.Something to hide, something that could humiliate not only you but your entire family .So I adjusted.In front of my parents, I made a performance out of disgust.Love was childish. Boys were distractions and girls who entertained them were unserious, loose, lacking direction. I said these things easily and confidently like I believed them.I learned to roll my eyes at romance.To laugh too loudly at the idea of crushes and to position myself as above it all.It was easier to reject something I was never allowed to experience.But then I would still eavesdrop at the conversations eager to hear how Shiro got her first kiss and Akinyi held hands with Jim last weekend .

In a small town ,with strict parents ,desire is not something you explore. It is something you supress completely and quietly .Desire ,however ,is stubborn .It wants ,it gathers and grows in the silence you create for it . You steal glances at the boy next to you in church and stumble over your words when the girl you have been eyeing finally says hi .No one tells you that when you raise a child to fear being seen, they will learn to feel in secret and secret feelings do not grow normally.They grow wildly.

For me ,when a boy finally looked at me,really looked at me, it did not feel small.It felt like something had been unlocked.Something I was not supposed to have access to and didn't fully understand it. but desperately wanted to. Because I was never allowed to explore it slowly, safely, openly,I rushed.Not outwardly ,never outwardly.I still know how to behave but internally? Nilikuwa nalipuka . Everything got loud .

Nilikuwa na overthink small interactions.Akiniangalia hivi naongea kuihusu sijui mara ngapi.I attached meaning to casual conversations. It was always something about how he said goodmorning that sounded like nishone vitengee .I replayed moments that meant nothing to the other person but everything to me.I was never taught how to experience attraction in its normal form.Only how to deny it.

I didn't fall for people.I fell for their attention .Very high,no parachute and willingly for the thrill of being chosen in a life where I have always had to be careful.For the feeling of being seen outside of your “good child” identity and sometimes, that led me to people who could sense that hunger.People who understood,consciously or not ,that I was not just responding to them but to everything I was denied.

My mother didn't ask about the alleged romancing that had been reported by Mama Kamau.She waited until the ugali was done and served to Baba who had been dozing off with the tv remote on his hand.

“Leo ulienda wapi?”

I had already given her details of my whereabouts but I still answer normally,casually ,the way a good child does.

“Na huyo mvulana alikuwa nani?”

It was not a question,it was an accusation wrapped in politeness. I laughed to soften the damage to emphasize how insignificant the interaction was .The problem wasn't what I did but what it could mean.

After that I became better at pretending,far from the scrutiny of the auntie CCTVs .Dates became school projects that sometimes needed me to sleepover to finish the”work”.I fell first and very fast with no brakes and I held on to them like they were everything.When you have been taught to starve, you do not know how to portion.You do not know how to taste slowly and you take everything.Even the things that are not good for you.

I learned how to hide.I came back with flowers and pretendes they were a gift for my mum,big shirts were new sleeping wear that I thrifted ,the guy who called was a group member confirming the work .

I learned how to exist in halves but the truth is, I was never above love.I was never immune to it.I was just never allowed to learn it out loud.So I learned it in secret and nikama nilikuwa slow learner.I did it messily ,quickly and poorly.

I eventually stopped pretending I didn’t want.You can only perform disgust for so long before desire demands to be felt.

Knee deep in nostalgia,this guy I used to talk to was telling me about his highschool days.

“Siku ingine nimepiga shoga watatu vibaya sana”

He said it with such pride .I asked him what they had done and he said he was correcting them “wasifanye ujinga kama hio tena”.Like when your parent is disciplining you and saying anachapa makosa. It didn't make sense cause what was so right about being casually cruel? How did harm translate to guidance ?I have heard so many stories of how guys would beat up their schoolmates and teachers even approving of the violence.He then went on to explain how lesbians wako at least but gay men is unacceptable.Hadi mahanjam zilishuka aki .

Why is the Kenyan society so repulsed by gays but tolerate lesbians?

Honourable mention to Kweli and The Heteric Unbound

It sounds like double standards but it is not It is the same belief ,expressed in different ways .Both responses come from the same place. A system that takes masculinity seriously and treats femininity as something flexible, something that can be corrected or ignored.In a place like Kenya where masculinity is treated like a rulebook, breaking it comes with consequences and more often than not ,violence.

With lesbians,they are usually met with dismissal instead of anger (not in every case btw )."Hujadinywa vizuri” the usual nonsense .It is not acceptance but the belief that a woman’s desires are incomplete until a man is involved, that her choices are temporary, correctable or simply there for interpretation.They are tolerated because they are trivialized .The difference in reaction does not soften the damage but changes shape.To be constantly told that your desire is incomplete or invalid is to be slowly erased. You are not attacked but you are not believed either. Your identity becomes something other people feel entitled to correct or sexualize.

On the other side, boys learn something else entirely.They learn fear ,not just the fear of being mocked but the fear of being hurt. Of being cornered and beaten or worse, simply for being perceived a certain way and beyond the physical danger, there is ostracization.Masculinity turns into something they have to prove, over and over again. They deepen your voice, adjust their posture, force interest in things that feel foreign to them. Not because they want to, but because being perceived as “normal” feels like protection.

In both cases, the result is the same,suppression.They enter relationships not out of genuine desire, but out of expectation. Out of the need to be seen as “normal.” They date, they commit, sometimes even marry, all while carrying a part of themselves they cannot safely express. Living double lives, not out of malice, but out of fear.Whether gay or lesbian, this kind of internal pressure teaches them to hide parts of themselves, to mistrust their own instincts and even to reject or judge aspects of themselves. It becomes a cycle where society’s hatred is folded into their own thoughts, a quiet but relentless kind of violence. Internal homophobia is not natural. It is learned and it hurts just as much as the outward cruelty.

People are quick to hide behind religion.They speak with certainity as if belief alone justifies the way others are treated .Like the guy frome before ,we were about to fornicate(until aanze kuongea ufala) ,we had tattoos and isn't that also against christian doctrines ama .Yet somehow hurting someone for their sexuality felt morally superior.Faith is supposed to guide how we treat people ,with compassion, with restraint, with humanity. When it is used to humiliate, punish, or control, it stops being about belief and starts being about power.

So if James and John want to kiss or Pam and Stacy are celebrating their one year together why would it bother you? No one is asking you to participate or forcing you to approve .Sio chama ni watu wanapendana na mambo ya watu wawili unaingilia mbona?This isn't about belief or your preference,it's about decency .The demand is to act sensible. Respect someone’s existence even if it challenges your comfort.

If you have ever mocked ,humiliated or taken pride in hurting a boy simply because of who he loves, that is not strength that is cruelty.You are not correcting or providing guidance .Morality is not measured by how much you can erase or control someone else so your milk and honey isn't secured huko juu.

The queer community in Kenya lives at the intersection of fear, judgment, and misunderstanding. As much as society's response is shaped by our ideas on power,gender and hierarchy it does not warrantee any kind of violence towards them.We owe it to each other to act with humanity, to challenge the systems that teach fear and to respect the right of every person to live authentically, safely, and freely.

I am a greedy girl but I soften it by calling it yearning. It sounds prettier,almost poetic .Yearning sounds like I am in a dimly lit bar ,confessing my love but in reality I am tipsy on okoa chapchap shouting at the receiver to come kiss me.

Yearning makes hunger sound beautiful. It dresses impatience in softer language. It turns wanting, you know plain, shameless wanting into something that looks like depth.But sometimes it is just greed.Greed for attention and affection.

I don't long ,crave or ache for people instead get dissatisfied.I chase signals that never mattered. I inflate gestures until they feel like meaning. I replay conversations not because I miss them, but because I cannot stand feeling ordinary, unnoticed, or unchosen. I lose myself in it, thinking it’s depth, but it is only the reflection of my own restlessness.I call it yearning because it sounds romantic but it is just me, restless and greedy, trying to fill something I refuse to name.

My greediness is fueled by a desire that sneaks in ,curls inside and demands more even when I meet someone softer ,kinder .The kind that almost makes you believe the imbalance doesn’t exist but “almost” is still a kind of absence. That almost is why I call myself greedy. I am not greedy for people. I am greedy for a fullness they cannot give, a warmth that makes the hollows inside me disappear.

Greed is a deadly sin, and my personal hell has been an insatiable wanting. I stretch my imagination over his absence, untangling conversations in my head, searching for evidence that I mattered .I choke on all the almosts, the soft words that taste like everything but fill nothing and then I call it yearning .

:)) From the drafts,it collected dust long enough and I don't really have anything to add .

“I wish I had met you earlier.”

Earlier? No. Earlier I was throwing grasshoppers at my classmates and then wondering why they ran away from me. Earlier I told my classmates I was from Europe yet I had features sculpted from the lake. Earlier I was smoking behind a tank in the dorm area with a roll-on perfume in my pocket, listening to some lesbians argue over who isn't showing who enough attention.So when someone says they wish they had met me earlier, I wonder which version they mean because the person they like now didn’t exist back then. She had to be assembled slowly from embarrassing phases, bad decisions, and strange little obsessions.

Maybe I just want someone curious enough to ask about earlier instead of saying they wish they met me during those times.To ask why I would throw dedes at my classmates.I had no reason btw it was just really funny to me .To ask why in highschool I was momentarily in Jamaica instead of cramming avocado’s law or whatever the teacher said the lesson before lunch.To ask why my first year of university was a mix of reckless decisions and quiet anxiety.Because curiosity is softer than admiration. Admiration looks at the version of me that has already survived everything. Curiosity is willing to dig through the wreckage.Curiosity to me is a form of love.

When Frank Ocean sings about someone knowing too much about him, I understand the feeling a little too well.Because that’s the problem with curiosity. It eventually finds things.It finds the strange child who thought throwing dedes was peak comedy. It finds the girl who mentally checked out of physics class and spent entire lessons somewhere far away instead of learning Avogadro’s law. It finds the first-year university student who was making questionable decisions and then lying awake at night replaying them.Once someone sees all that, I panic a little.z

Because curiosity sounds romantic until it actually works. Until someone really listens. Until they start connecting the dots between the jokes I make and the things I don’t say.

Now you have met me from earlier and the question that quietly follows is simple.

Do you still want to stay?