This isn't about revenge.

It's about never being helpless again.

For centuries, Africa was conquered because there was a massive imbalance of power. European empires had the military technology, industrial capacity and political organisation to impose their will on African societies. Colonialism didn't just take land and resources; it created a global racial hierarchy that portrayed Africans as incapable of ruling themselves.

We got independence.

But did we get power?

Because sovereignty on paper means very little if a country is economically dependent, technologically dependent and militarily incapable of defending itself.

And this brings me to an uncomfortable question:

What happens if the rules protecting weaker countries stop working?

Imagine a future where radical authoritarian governments take control of some of the world's most powerful Western countries. Governments that reject international institutions, glorify military power, put extreme nationalism above international cooperation and believe their interests justify imposing their will on others.

The political right is already building support in the United States, the United Kingdom, France and Germany. MAGA has reshaped American politics, while parties and movements such as Reform UK, the National Rally and the AfD have built significant followings in Britain, France and Germany. These countries are not only among the world's largest economies; three of them possess nuclear weapons, and Germany is part of a nuclear alliance whose security depends heavily on the United States. Their political direction therefore matters far beyond their borders.

If such parties enter government, they may not begin with their most radical proposals. They may govern through gradual changes: stricter immigration policies, weaker commitments to international institutions, harsher nationalism and greater suspicion of minorities, civil society and political opponents. But once these ideas are given official power, they can become more socially acceptable. The boundaries of mainstream politics may shift, making increasingly right-wing positions seem normal, respectable or necessary. Over time, policies that once appeared extreme may be presented as common sense.

This does not mean every conservative voter supports authoritarianism or foreign aggression. Nor does it mean that every right-wing government will immediately abandon democratic institutions. But it does mean that Africa cannot assume the liberal international order will always remain stable, cooperative or committed to restraining powerful states. We should pay attention to these political shifts and prepare for a world in which governments less interested in international norms may gain greater influence.

There is also a historical irony in the United States. During periods when left-wing ideals and movements gained influence in American politics, debates over civil rights, labour protections, social welfare, racial equality and international cooperation became more prominent. Their rule did not eliminate American power or imperial behaviour, but it often expanded the language of equality and placed greater pressure on the state to recognise the rights of marginalised people. A stronger right-wing turn could reverse some of those gains, or at least make them more vulnerable, while creating greater tolerance for nationalism, militarism and exclusionary politics.

Would Africa be safe simply because colonialism officially ended?

I wouldn't bet on it.

But modern imperialism probably wouldn't look like Europeans arriving with flags and declaring African territory their colony.

It could look like economic pressure, political interference, military bases, resource deals and client governments.

Your country remains "independent."

You still have a president.

You still have a flag.

You still have a seat at the UN.

But when a powerful foreign government tells you what you can and cannot do, how sovereign are you really?

That is how informal empire can work.

And Africa has something the colonial powers desperately wanted then and still desperately want now:

resources.

Oil. Gas. Uranium. Cobalt. Rare earth minerals. Land. Ports. And an enormous young population.

But resources alone don't make you powerful.

The ability to control, develop and protect those resources does.

That's why Africa needs more than political independence. We need strategic independence.

We need industries that process our own resources.

Universities that produce world-class scientists.

Companies that build technology instead of permanently importing it.

Energy and food security.

Strong militaries capable of defending our borders.

And African governments capable of acting together when the security of one African country is threatened.

This is where Pan-Africanism needs to evolve.

Not just:

"We are Africans."

But:

"We have shared strategic interests."

Kenya shouldn't have to face every major power alone.

Nigeria shouldn't.

Ghana shouldn't.

Ethiopia shouldn't.

South Africa shouldn't.

A continent of more than a billion people should not behave like a collection of tiny, powerless islands.

And yes, we should be willing to have uncomfortable conversations about strategic deterrence, including the role that weapons of mass destruction play in the international balance of power.

The point isn't to use them.

The point is to make sure nobody believes they can destroy or subjugate us without facing catastrophic consequences.

We need science, industry, money, technology, political stability, military capability and unity.

Weapons are only one part of the equation.

And this isn't about Black people becoming the next colonisers.

We don't need to conquer Europe.

We don't need to dominate white people.

We don't need another empire.

We need to reach a point where nobody looks at Africa and thinks:

"They're weak. We can do whatever we want."

That should be the dream.

An Africa whose scientists build things the world wants.

An Africa whose companies compete globally.

An Africa that feeds itself.

An Africa that controls its resources.

An Africa that produces its own advanced technology.

An Africa that can defend itself.

An Africa that can sit across a table from the world's most powerful nations without begging for permission to determine its own future.

I am more Malcolm X than Martin Luther King Jr.; I believe in by any means necessary.

Because peace is most meaningful when you have the power to defend it.

The goal isn't for Africa to become powerful enough to dominate others.

The goal is for Africa to become powerful enough that nobody can dominate us.

Never again.

He wears intricate beadwork. His shield carries symbols passed down through generations. The soundtrack isn't an imitation of European orchestral fantasy; it is built around African instruments, voices and rhythms. Behind him, the landscape stretches endlessly.

Then someone tells him that an ancient spirit has returned.

This doesn't have to be Middle-earth. It doesn't have to be Westeros. It doesn't have to be Marvel.

It could be Kenya.

I was inspired after watching Anam’s Wake. They took an African tradition of mourners and built a whole horror movie around it and that was simply incredible. It showed me something important: African art doesn’t need to borrow its imagination from elsewhere. It can begin with what is already here, in our rituals, our sounds, our stories, and our lived experiences.

For decades, Western entertainment has demonstrated something remarkably powerful: old myths can become modern entertainment.

Vampires that originated in centuries-old European folklore became Dracula, The Vampire Diaries, Twilight and countless other stories. Greek mythology has been repeatedly reinvented in films, television, books and video games. Norse mythology became the foundation for Marvel's Thor and countless other fictional worlds. King Arthur, Robin Hood and other medieval legends have been adapted again and again.

The original stories are often ancient.

The audiences are modern.

And yet, somehow, the stories survive.

So I keep wondering: what would happen if Africa did the same thing with its own myths, legends and history?

Africa is not short of stories

One of the biggest misconceptions about African storytelling is that the continent lacks the mythology necessary to create large-scale fantasy.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Kenya alone contains an enormous reservoir of mythology, oral history, legendary figures and supernatural stories.

Take Lwanda Magere, the legendary Luo warrior whose body was said to be made of stone and who possessed extraordinary strength. His story contains everything modern fantasy audiences are accustomed to: an almost invincible hero, a supernatural ability, betrayal, vulnerability and tragedy.

Or consider Gor Mahia (his name already has crazy aura), the legendary Luo figure whose supernatural reputation has survived into modern Kenyan culture. His name is now famously associated with one of Kenya's biggest football clubs, but the legendary figure behind the name could easily inspire a fantasy hero.

Then there is Koitalel arap Samoei, the Nandi leader who resisted British colonial expansion. His story doesn't even require supernatural elements. It already contains the ingredients of a compelling historical drama: resistance, diplomacy, colonial expansion, political tension and betrayal.

Mekatilili wa Menza, the Giriama resistance leader, could similarly become the protagonist of a powerful historical series about colonialism, resistance and feminism.

Waiyaki wa Hinga, Dedan Kimathi, the Mau Mau movement and countless other figures could provide material for historical films and television series.

And this is only Kenya.

Across the continent are the stories of Sundiata Keita, the Mali Empire, the Yoruba orishas, Anansi, Shaka Zulu, the Kingdom of Dahomey, the ancient kingdoms of Ethiopia and countless other traditions.

The raw material is everywhere.

But mythology doesn't become an industry by itself

There is an important distinction between having stories and building an entertainment industry around those stories.

Western mythology became globally influential partly because Western writers, filmmakers and publishers repeatedly adapted it.

They changed it.

They modernized it.

They sometimes completely reinvented it.

Greek gods went from ancient religious figures to superheroes. Dracula went from a terrifying literary vampire to everything from a horror villain to a romantic protagonist. Norse gods became comic-book characters.

The mythology survived because people were willing to reinterpret it rather than simply preserve it.

Africa could do the same.

A film about Lwanda Magere doesn't have to reproduce every detail of the original oral tradition. A modern filmmaker could ask:

What would Lwanda Magere look like as a character in a contemporary fantasy universe?

What are his abilities?

What are his weaknesses?

Who are his enemies?

What other legendary beings exist in his world?

What happens when two different African mythological traditions collide?

These questions transform folklore into world-building.

Imagine the visual possibilities

And then there is something that African cinema has an extraordinary opportunity to exploit: visual identity.

Take the Maasai.(I LOVE Maasai culture! si jokes btw,I think they are so cool.)

Their clothing, beadwork, shields, hairstyles, jewellery and ceremonial aesthetics are immediately recognizable around the world. There is an intensity and visual presence to Maasai cultural design that could inspire extraordinary fantasy costumes.

But the point shouldn't be to simply put Maasai clothing on fictional characters and call it African fantasy.

Imagine instead that costume designers worked with communities to understand the meaning behind different forms of dress, patterns and ornaments and then used that knowledge to create an entirely new fictional culture inspired by them.

The same could be done with the visual traditions of the Samburu, Turkana, Kamba, Kikuyu, Luo, Kalenjin, Pokot, Mijikenda, Swahili and many other communities.

And it wouldn't stop at clothing.

Architecture.

Weapons.

Shields.

Jewellery.

Hairstyles.

Music.

Dance.

Language.

Food.

Ceremonies.

Landscape.

Even the way characters move through their world.

African fantasy doesn't have to look like European fantasy with darker-skinned actors.

It could look like something audiences have never seen before.

Kenya could build its own fantasy worlds

Imagine a Kenyan fantasy series set in an alternate version of precolonial East Africa.

Different kingdoms and communities have developed their own political systems, languages, military traditions and visual identities.

The Rift Valley is inhabited by legendary creatures.

The forests contain spirits.

The lakes are believed to have ancient guardians and water spirits.

Warriors carry weapons inspired by historical East African designs.

The soundtrack incorporates traditional instruments alongside modern production.

The characters speak a mixture of local languages and invented languages inspired by them.

And the mythology isn't simply background decoration.

It drives the plot.

A legendary warrior such as Lwanda Magere could exist within the same fictional universe as entirely new characters inspired by different Kenyan traditions.

You could have political intrigue, warfare, romance, supernatural horror and adventure.

In other words:

Kenya could create fantasy without borrowing its imagination from Europe.

But there is a danger

There is also a wrong way to do this.

African mythology shouldn't become another opportunity for outsiders to flatten hundreds of cultures into one generic idea of "Africa."

Africa is not a culture.

It is a continent containing thousands of cultures.

A Maasai aesthetic is not interchangeable with a Yoruba one. A Luo legend isn't automatically interchangeable with a Zulu legend. Ethiopian mythology isn't the same as Akan mythology.

The richness comes precisely from those differences.

And there would need to be serious conversations about cultural ownership, sacred traditions and what should or shouldn't be adapted for entertainment.

Not every sacred story needs to become a Netflix series.

Some traditions may be better respected by leaving them alone.

But that doesn't mean everything has to remain untouched.

Stories evolve.

They always have.

The bigger opportunity

Perhaps the biggest opportunity isn't simply making a successful African fantasy movie.

It's creating intellectual property.

A legendary character can become a film.

Then a television series.

Then a novel.

Then a comic book.

Then an animation.

Then a video game.

Then merchandise.

This is how modern entertainment franchises grow.

The story becomes larger than the original medium.

Imagine children growing up knowing Lwanda Magere with the same familiarity that many children around the world know Thor.

Imagine someone in Brazil recognizing Anansi.

Someone in Japan knowing the story of Sundiata.

Someone in Europe watching a Kenyan fantasy series and becoming fascinated by Luo or Kalenjin mythology.

That isn't impossible.

It simply requires people to believe that these stories are worth telling.

Africa doesn't need another imitation

The goal shouldn't be to make an African version of Game of Thrones.

It shouldn't be to create an African Marvel simply because Marvel is successful.

The more interesting question is:

What would African fantasy look like if African filmmakers had the freedom, money and creative confidence to build worlds from their own cultural traditions?

Perhaps it would look completely different from anything Hollywood has produced.

Perhaps it would combine ancient mythology with science fiction.

Perhaps Kenyan folklore could become horror.

Perhaps African history could become epic television.

Perhaps traditional costumes could inspire futuristic fashion.

Perhaps oral storytelling traditions could influence entirely new forms of animation and cinema.

We don't know.

And that's precisely what makes the idea exciting.

Africa has spent generations consuming stories produced elsewhere.

There is nothing wrong with enjoying those stories.

But perhaps it's time to recognize that Africa has been sitting on an enormous library of stories of its own.

The myths are already there.

The legends are already there.

The history is already there.

The characters are already there.

What is missing is the willingness to take them seriously as raw material for the future.

Because Hollywood didn't invent the vampire.

It inherited an old story and transformed it.

Africa can do the same.

The next great fantasy universe might not come from Middle-earth, Westeros or Asgard.

It might come from the Rift Valley.

I know this is going to sound cocky but for most of my childhood, I was known as the smart kid.

I usually finished at or near the top of my class. Teachers praised me. Relatives spoke about my future as though it had already been written. Every good grade reinforced the same belief: I was different. I was destined to succeed.

Over time, I spent years believing I was the smartest person in the room.

Without realizing it, I began to feel entitled.

Not entitled in the obvious sense of expecting people to serve me, but entitled in a quieter, more dangerous way. I believed life would naturally reward me because I had always been one of the highest-performing students. I assumed opportunities would appear. I assumed success would come. I assumed intelligence was enough.

Then I joined university.

Suddenly, I wasn't surrounded by average students anymore. I was surrounded by people who had also been the smartest in their schools. Students who had scored just as highly as I had and many who had scored even higher. Most were more disciplined. Many learned faster. Most worked twice as hard.

For the first time, I wasn't automatically exceptional.

In fact, I was average.

That realization hurt my ego.

Psychologists have a name for part of this experience: the Big-Fish-Little-Pond Effect. I had spent years as the "big fish" in a relatively small pond, where my identity was built around being the smart one. University placed me in a much larger pond, surrounded by people who had excelled throughout their education. It wasn't that I had suddenly become less intelligent. My reference point had changed.

I also realized I had developed what psychologist Carol Dweck calls a fixed mindset. Because I had always been praised for being "smart," I unconsciously believed intelligence alone would carry me through life. When I encountered people who were just as intelligent but far more disciplined, I learned that talent without effort has limits.

I discovered that intelligence is common in competitive environments. What separates people isn't simply how quickly they understand a concept it's how consistently they show up when things become difficult.

There were classmates who studied while I relied on "being smart." There were people willing to spend hours mastering concepts I expected to understand immediately. Slowly, I realized that discipline beats talent when talent refuses to work.

I also learned something uncomfortable.

Growing up with constant praise can make intelligence become your identity. Failure no longer feels like something you experience it feels like something you are. Instead of embracing challenges, you avoid situations where you might look average because being "the smart one" has become part of who you think you are.

But university doesn't care who you used to be.

Employers don't care that you topped your class in high school.

The world rewards people who solve problems, keep learning, adapt, show up consistently, and continue working long after the applause disappears.

Today, I don't think of myself as special anymore.

Oddly enough, that's one of the most freeing realizations I've ever had.

Because if I'm not special, then I don't have to rely on talent. I can rely on effort.

If success isn't guaranteed, then every improvement matters.

If intelligence alone isn't enough, then I can build discipline.

The myth that we are exceptional can become a prison. It convinces us that our identity is our greatest asset. In reality, our willingness to improve is far more valuable.

Looking back, I'm grateful university humbled me.

It replaced entitlement with curiosity.

It replaced ego with effort.

And it taught me a lesson I wish I'd learned much earlier:

The world doesn't owe me success because I once believed I was the smartest person in the room.

It rewards the person who keeps working after discovering they aren't.

You've heard it before. Maybe you've even said it.

It's the verbal equivalent of placing a microphone on the table and declaring yourself the evening news anchor. Once those words leave someone's mouth, the expectation is simple: stop questioning and start believing.

The problem?

Confidence is not evidence.

Kenyans are some of the most opinionated people on the internet. Give us politics, football, relationships, religion, football (again), religion (again), tribal stereotypes or whether ugali should be eaten with a spoon, and suddenly everyone becomes an expert. We argue passionately, speak loudly and quote our uncles, and TikTok videos as though they were peer-reviewed journals.

We don't just exchange ideas.

We perform certainty.

Here are ten logical fallacies you'll probably encounter before lunchtime.

1. "Si kila mtu anajua..." (The Bandwagon Fallacy)

"Kila mtu anajua madem wa KMTC wanapenda..."

"Everyone knows private universities are easier..."

"Kila mtu anajua Gen Z hawapendi kazi"

No.

Everyone does not know.

Just because thousands of people believe something doesn't make it true. At one point almost everyone believed the Earth was the center of the universe.

Popularity is not proof.

---

2. "Wewe hata..." (Ad Hominem)

Friend:"I think universities should teach financial literacy."

Reply:"We unaongea nini na hukuenda university"

Notice what happened?

The argument wasn't answered.

The person was attacked instead.

Kenyans have mastered this one. The moment the debate gets difficult, we suddenly become detectives investigating someone's grades, relationship history and family tree.

---

3. "Pastor wetu alisema..." (Appeal to Authority)

"Ule soshi ako na 2 million followers na alisema hii skincare routine ni legit,so lazima inawork..

Okay...

Was he talking as an influencer or as a dermatologist?

And no disrespect to the influencer but their expertise and brilliance is in building a following not skincare.

Experts deserve respect.

Not blind obedience.

Being brilliant in one field doesn't automatically make someone right in every other field.

---

4. "Nilijua tu..." (Confirmation Bias)

Nilijua tu hunipendi,hukunibuyia maua on valentines.."

Conveniently forgetting that:

You send them the last few coins you have even when you are broke.

You pay their bills.

You remembered their birthday.

You listen to their 45-minute voice notes akirant on how bad their day was.

But the one Valentine's they didn't get flowers?

Case closed.

The prosecution rest.

We collect evidence that agrees with us and quietly ignore everything that doesn't.

It's like only remembering Arsenal losses when you're a Manchester United fan.

--

5. "Mkale moja aliniscam..." (Hasty Generalization)

"I dated one luo man. Luo men are toxic."

"One millennial was rude to me.All millennial s are rude"

One example can start an investigation.

It cannot finish it.

--

6. "Ni either..." (False Dilemma)

"If you criticize the government, you hate Kenya."

"If you don't post your girlfriend, you're a cheater"

“Either you're with us or against us."

Life is rarely a choice between only two options.

Sometimes you're simply... undecided.

And that's perfectly legal.

---

7. "Lakini..." (Whataboutism)

"Corruption is increasing."

"Lakini si serikali ya Uhuru pia iliiba?"

That's possible.

It also has absolutely nothing to do with the original point.

Whataboutism changes the subject instead of answering it.

---

8. "After niliachana na yeye..." (False Cause)

"Alinitusi then two days later akavunjika mguu"

"Nilihama bedsitter nikapata dem."

Just because one event happened after another doesn't mean it caused it.

Correlation is not causation.

Otherwise carrying an umbrella would cause rain.

--

9. "So unasema..." (Straw Man)

I think Kenyan high schools should embrace more dialogue with students."

Person B:

"So unataka wanafunzi waambie walimu vile wanafaa kufanya kazi yao?"

Nobody said that.

Instead of arguing against the real point, we invent an easier argument and defeat that one.

---

10. "Hakuna evidence." (Appeal to Ignorance)

"Hakuna mtu ameprove that aliens don't exist,so lazima zinaexist."

"There's no evidence it doesn't work."

A lack of evidence is not evidence.

The burden of proof lies with the person making the claim.

If I make a claim, it's my job to provide evidence for it. It's not everyone else's job to disprove it.

Instead of saying,

"Mimi ndio nakushow!!"

Perhaps we should say,

"I could be wrong, but here's what I found."

It's less dramatic.

It also happens to be how knowledge grows.

Changing your mind isn't weakness.

Asking for evidence isn't disrespect.

Saying "I don't know" isn't ignorance.

The next time someone confidently announces,

"Mimi ndio nakushow!!"

Smile.

Then ask the most dangerous question in any conversation:

"How do you know?"

That's a phrase I commonly tell my friends whenever they tell me they're stressed, overwhelmed or feeling depressed. What I mean is simple; go outside and touch grass.

I know this essay is low hanging fruit because everyone has heard what I'm about to say a million times.

Najua it's something we hear all the time. Every parent has said it."Hio simu ndio shida". Every teacher has said it. Every older relative has probably said it at some point.

But do we actually deep it?

I think the happiest period of my life so far was between the ages of 8 and 14. Before the existential dread caught up with me. Before I knew what Instagram or TikTok were. Before life became a never-ending stream of notifications, deadlines and things to worry about.

Life was simpler back then.

Life felt brighter back then.

Even the colours somehow seemed more vivid.

Nakumbuka tukienda kucheza ball mpaka tushindwe kuona ball ndio tuende home. Tukienda dufo mpararo and then juu hatutaki kuparara tungejipaka wild aloe vera(coincidentally my skin never looked better). Tukienda kutafuta cactus fruits and other wild berries. We spent entire afternoons outside and somehow never got bored.

As kids, our time for playing and socializing was almost built into the day. There was a time to go to school, a time to do homework, and then a time to go outside and just be with other people. As adults, that kind of thing rarely happens by accident. If you want to see your friends, sit in the sun or even just leave the house for a bit, you have to make an active effort. You have to plan it, text people, pick a day and actually follow through. Maybe that's part of why life feels so much smaller now.

On a side note, unakumbuka how good the sun felt during hio halfbreak at 10 tukiwa highschool? It felt like a consolation for waking up at 4AM in the morning and MBR.

It's funny because, as kids, we couldn't wait to grow up. We thought adulthood meant freedom. Looking back, I think what made those years so special wasn't that we had no problems ,we definitely did. It's that we lived in the real world.

Our playground wasn't a screen.

Our group chat was shouting someone's name outside their gate."Edu,Toka na bike!!"

Our algorithm was whichever friend had the best idea that day. Jana tuliendea baluti,leo ni ding dong ditch,kesho tunaenda kuiba mapera ama loquats.Ideas hazikuwai Isha.

We weren't consuming life we were experiencing it.

And maybe I'm romanticizing it a little. Maybe this is nostalgia speaking.Maybe nafanto kama venye nilikuwa nafanto hio lesson just before games.Maybe childhood wasn't as perfect as I'm making it sound. But even if I'm looking at it through rose-tinted glasses, I still think we had something then that a lot of us are missing now.

Today, many of us can spend an entire day without stepping outside. We wake up and the first thing we touch is our phone(kwanza hapa mimi ndio kusema but I'm trying to knock the habit). We scroll while eating(kwanza YouTube), while walking, while waiting, while in the toilet,even while lying in bed trying to sleep. Our minds are constantly occupied, yet we somehow feel emptier than ever.

And before anyone calls me a hypocrite, I know. I spend an unhealthy amount of time on my phone too;siezi onyesha anyone digital wellbeing yangu juu the hours I spent scrolling ni seriously concerning. I disappear into Substack essays, X threads and YouTube videos for hours. I'm writing this as a reminder to myself as much as anyone else.

Maybe our parents were right.

Maybe "toka nje" wasn't just about getting us out of the house because we were making noise.

Maybe they understood something we've forgotten.

Sometimes your mind doesn't need another motivational video, another productivity hack or another hour of scrolling.

Sometimes it just needs sunlight.

Fresh air.

Movement.

A football.

A walk with no destination.

A conversation with a friend.

Maybe touching grass won't solve all your problems.

But it might remind you that there's still a whole world outside your screen.

So the next time life starts feeling unbearably heavy...

Toka nje.

Upige soma.

"TOA! TOA! TOA!"

The first few seconds of a Kenyan song were usually all it took. Before the chorus could begin, one side of the enta dining hall would erupt: "TOA!" Weka kitu ingine.

More often than not, the loudest voices came from the side of the hall occupied by students from the towns. American music was the default. Hollywood films were the standard. Kenyan music and movies were interruptions.

At the time, I thought we were arguing about taste. Years later, I think we were arguing about status.

Our dining hall was never officially divided, but it might as well have been. Students from the towns, many from relatively wealthier families, naturally gravitated towards one another. Students from the villages did the same.

The town kids were immersed in Western culture. Their playlists were American. Their conversations revolved around Hollywood films and YouTube personalities. They wore their familiarity with the West almost like a badge of honour.

On the other side were students whose playlists leaned towards reggae, dancehall, Bongo,Gengetone and Kenyan music. Their references came from a different world.

The divide wasn't perfect. There were exceptions everywhere. But the pattern was difficult to ignore.

The town kids didn't necessarily hate the village kids. They simply seemed to believe they occupied a higher rung on an invisible cultural ladder. Closer to the West meant closer to sophistication.

The uncomfortable truth is that I wasn't just observing this. I was part of it.

I knew American artists better than Kenyan ones. I admired people who spoke polished English. I quietly associated Western culture with intelligence, exposure and refinement.

If someone had asked me then whether I looked down on Kenyan culture, I would have denied it. And I probably would have meant it.

The strange thing about unconscious beliefs is that we rarely recognize them while we're living them.

I still see echoes of that dining hall today. Some of my friends proudly tell people they don't listen to Kenyan music. Others boast that they don't watch Kenyan films.

The statement itself doesn't bother me. People like what they like. I consume an enormous amount of Western media myself. Some of my favourite musicians, writers and filmmakers come from Europe and America. This isn't an argument against Western culture.

My question is different. Why does rejecting Kenyan culture sometimes sound like an achievement? Why do some people say, "I don't listen to Kenyan music," with the same pride someone else might say, "I graduated with first-class honours"? When did cultural distance become social status?

The same instinct appears elsewhere. I've heard parents proudly announce that their children understand only English.

The statement is almost always intended as a compliment, as proof that the child is receiving a good education. But I've always wondered why forgetting one language is celebrated while learning another is considered progress.

English is an extraordinary language. So is Kiswahili. So are our mother tongues. Why must loving one require neglecting the others?

No one ever sat me down and taught me that Western culture was superior. I absorbed the idea from history, from television, from social media, from the internet, and from living in a world where the biggest films, music, brands and technology often came from the same part of the world.

Power has a curious habit of making itself look natural. When one culture dominates the global conversation, we begin to mistake influence for superiority. We stop asking whether something is good. We start assuming it must be, simply because of where it came from.

This isn't a plea for people to stop listening to Drake,Frank Ocean or watching Hollywood films. I'll probably do both this week. Neither is it an attempt to argue that Kenyan culture is somehow purer or morally superior. That's just another hierarchy.

What unsettles me is something much smaller. The moment when preference becomes contempt. The moment when saying, "I don't consume Kenyan media," becomes less about taste and more about identity. As though distance from your own culture were evidence that you've evolved beyond it.

Sometimes I think back to that dining hall. A Kenyan song begins to play. Before anyone has really listened, the shouting starts: "TOA!"

Back then, I thought we were changing the music. Now I wonder if we were revealing something about ourselves. Not that we loved Western culture, but that somewhere along the way, many of us had learned to mistake proximity to it for sophistication.

And perhaps the greatest victory of any cultural hierarchy is not when it forces people to abandon their own culture. It's when they do so proudly.

Posted to your story.
...Deleted from your story.

Published the article.
...Article deleted.

Maybe I should delete my WhatsApp profile picture too.

She's kind of cool. I should go introduce myself.

...No. No. Hapa siwezani.

Hii luku ni kali. But zii.

...Ntastand out sana.

I know the answer.

...Acha tu.

For a long time, I thought I was Batman.

Quiet. Reserved. Mysterious. Comfortable in the shadows.

Or at least, that's what I told myself.

The truth was much less interesting.

I wasn't Batman.

I was afraid of being perceived.

Afraid that if people saw the real me,the guy who has a crazy amount of random facts, the guy who likes cats instead of dogs, the guy who secretly posts on his secret TikTok account, the guy who secretly wants to lead,they'd judge me. That they'd think I was weird,nakuwa performative,trying too hard, not smart enough, not funny enough, not cool enough.

So I shrank myself.

I deleted the post.

I unsent the message.

I stayed quiet.

I convinced myself that hiding was the same thing as being private.

It wasn't.

It was fear wearing a cape.

I don't think people talk about the fear of being perceived enough.

Not social anxiety.

Not stage fright.

Not shyness.

The fear of existing out loud.

The fear of becoming a thought in someone else's mind.

Because the moment you're perceived, you lose control.

Someone might think you're intelligent.

Someone else might think you're an idiot.

Someone might think you're attractive.

Someone else won't even notice you.

Someone will think you're authentic.

Someone else will think you're trying too hard.

And somehow, our brains convince us that if we stay small enough, quiet enough and invisible enough, we can escape all of that.

We can't.

All we end up escaping is our own lives.

I used to tell myself I was just a private person.

"I don't really post."

"Sipendi attention."

"I'm just observing."

"I'm waiting for the right time."

Maybe sometimes that was true.

But other times?

That was fear with better PR.

Fear pretending to be humility.

Fear pretending to be perfectionism.

Fear pretending to be maturity.

Fear pretending to be "I'm just not that kind of person."

The older I get(skia venye najifanya na niko 21😂), the more I realize how many opportunities fear has stolen from me.

Friendships that never started because I didn't say hello.

Ideas that never existed because I kept them saved on my WhatsApp.

Photos that never got posted.

Articles that stayed as drafts.

Questions I knew the answer to but never answered.

Outfits that stayed in the wardrobe because ntastand out sana.

Versions of myself that never got the chance to exist because I kept asking one question:

"What will people think?"

The funny thing is...

People are going to perceive you anyway.

If you stay quiet, they'll perceive you.

If you speak, they'll perceive you.

If you post every day, they'll have an opinion.

If you never post, they'll have an opinion.

You cannot control the story people tell themselves about you.

You can only control whether you're the main character in your own life.

And here's the part I'm still learning.

Every article I publish feels like I'm handing strangers a page from my journal.

Five minutes after pressing publish, I want to delete it.

I wonder if people think I'm trying too hard.

I wonder if they think I'm pretending to be deep.

I wonder if they roll their eyes when they see my name pop up again.

Maybe some of them do.

But if I keep deleting every part of myself before the world gets to see it, then fear wins.

Publishing this article is my way of fighting back.

Not because I'm fearless.

Because I'm tired.

Tired of living according to imaginary conversations I've had with imaginary people in my head.

Maybe you know that feeling too.

The text you never sent.

The person you never introduced yourself to.

The business you never started.

The TikTok you recorded but never uploaded.

The outfit you folded back into the cupboard.

The answer you whispered instead of saying out loud.

The life you postponed because you were waiting to become someone who wasn't afraid.

Maybe that person never comes.

Maybe courage isn't waking up one morning and suddenly not caring what people think.

Maybe courage is pressing "Post" while your hands are shaking.

Maybe courage is saying hello before your brain talks you out of it.

Maybe courage is taking up space before you feel like you've earned it.

So...

Post the photo.

Wear the outfit.

Text that person.

Write that article.

Answer the question.

Start the business.

Upload the TikTok.

Take up space.

Someone will misunderstand you.

Someone won't like you.

Someone will think you're weird.

That's okay.

The people who are meant to find you never will if you're constantly hiding from being seen.

I'm not Batman.

Or at least, I don't want to be anymore.

That debate would literally divide the class into two warring factions, with each group fully convinced and with evidence kwa kalatas that their GOAT was THE GOAT. Sichachisi, majamaa walikuwa ready kurusha mavidevu and get into fights to defend the "honour" of their GOAT and they did on many occasions.

So why does the Messi vs Ronaldo debate get so heated and emotional?

I think psychology has part of the answer.

This debate is no longer just about football. For many fans, supporting Messi or Ronaldo imekuwa a part of their identity. After following them for 10–15+ years, celebrating their wins, defending them, and identifying as "Team Messi" or "Team Ronaldo," their favourite player becomes more than just a footballer.

Psychologists call this Social Identity Theory. The idea is that people derive part of their identity and self-esteem from the groups they belong to. In this case, the "group" can be supporters of a particular player.

That's why criticism of their GOAT can feel personal. Instead of hearing, "I disagree with your opinion about football," it can feel like, "nakuita fala, I'm attacking your judgement, your loyalty, nasema hujui ball, nasema I'm better than you because I think my GOAT is better than your GOAT," or even attacking part of who you are.

Other psychological concepts reinforce this.

Firstly, confirmation bias. Once someone believes their player is the greatest, they tend to notice evidence that supports that belief and discount evidence that contradicts it.

Secondly, cognitive dissonance. When facts challenge a strongly held belief (for example, a rival player achieving something significant), people may experience psychological discomfort and respond by rationalizing or dismissing the evidence.

Thirdly, research in sports psychology also shows that highly identified fans often experience their team's or favourite athlete's successes and failures almost as if they were their own. So Roro ama Messi akishinda ama ashindwe inafeel personal. That's why criticism pia feel personal.

This doesn't mean every Messi or Ronaldo fan behaves this way. Many people enjoy the debate purely as football.

But for those who strongly identify with one side, the discussion becomes less about goals, assists, Ballon d'Ors, or trophies, and more about identity.

Maybe that's why the Messi vs Ronaldo debate has lasted for so long. It's no longer just a football debate.