Kigali has entered another episode of: “Ariko se, umuntu yambare iki?”

Yesterday, Twitter/X decided to remind us that Rwanda’s most powerful unofficial institution might not be Parliament, the police, or even the umuganda committee.

It might be the Dress Code Committee.

And apparently, the committee is still in session.

The conversation started circulating after posts showed an exchange involving police and girls/women over clothing, particularly uncovered shoulders. Some of the posts claimed officers were saying that certain clothing would not be accepted and that refusing instructions could have consequences. The discussion quickly moved beyond the original interaction and into the much bigger question:

Who gets to decide what is appropriate for someone else to wear?

And Twitter, naturally, had answers.

Many answers.

Too many answers.

Some people were like:

“There are rules. Follow them.”

Others:

“My shoulder is not a national security threat.”

And somewhere in the middle, somebody was probably typing a 47-tweet thread beginning with:

“As a Rwandan, I believe…”

You already know it is about to be serious.

But let’s slow down.

Because this isn’t actually a simple “police bad / girls right” or “girls wrong / police right” situation.

Rwanda has laws concerning public indecency, and authorities have previously taken action in cases involving clothing considered indecent. In 2022, for example, the Rwanda National Police defended enforcement of public-indecency provisions after a highly publicized dress-related arrest.

So yes, dress and public conduct can be subject to rules.

But that immediately raises another question:

What exactly counts as “indecent”?

Because this is where things get interesting.

Is it a short skirt?

A crop top?

A tank top?

Bare shoulders?

Knees?

Thighs?

Cleavage?

Or does it depend on where you are?

Because obviously, context matters.

Nobody is going to walk into a swimming pool wearing a winter coat and announce:

“I am exercising my freedom of expression.”

But if someone walks into a café wearing a sleeveless top, is that automatically a problem?

And if it is a problem, who decided that?

And if there is a rule, where is the rule written?

And if there is a law, what exactly does the law say?

Those are actually much more interesting questions than:

“Why are girls dressing like this?”

And then there is the “igiti” conversation.

This is probably where the internet will become the internet.

Because once clothing enters the conversation, someone will inevitably bring up the argument:

“But people need to control themselves.”

And another person will respond:

“Exactly. Control yourself.”

Then another person:

“But society has standards.”

Then someone else:

“Your standards aren’t everybody’s standards.”

Then suddenly somebody’s uncle is writing:

“In our time, girls respected themselves.”

And now we are 60 comments deep.

But there is a distinction worth making.

You can believe that certain environments should have certain standards of dress without believing that somebody’s outfit excuses disrespectful behaviour toward them.

Those are two separate conversations.

A school can have a uniform.

A workplace can have professional-dress expectations.

A church can have its own expectations.

An event can say “formal wear.”

Those are rules about a particular environment.

But that doesn’t automatically answer the bigger question of how people should behave toward somebody whose clothes they don’t like.

And that’s where I think the conversation gets complicated.

Because Kigali is changing.

The Kigali of today is not exactly the Kigali of twenty years ago.

We have TikTok.

Instagram.

Pinterest.

Fashion influencers.

Kigali Fashion Week.

Thrift culture.

Gen Z.

People travelling.

People studying abroad and coming back.

People mixing Rwandan culture with Nigerian fashion, American streetwear, Korean fashion, East African styles and basically whatever they saw on their For You page at 2 a.m.

Of course our idea of “normal clothing” is changing.

But at the same time, culture doesn’t disappear because fashion changes.

There are still parents who will see a sleeveless top and immediately ask:

“Where are the rest of the sleeves?”

There are grandparents who genuinely believe a properly dressed person should look like they are prepared to attend a wedding at any moment.

And there are young people who are thinking:

“It’s literally just a shirt.”

Both realities exist.

So where do we draw the line?

That’s the question I actually want to ask.

Not:

“Who won Twitter yesterday?”

Not:

“Are women right?”

Not:

“Are the police right?”

But:

What should the dress code in Kigali actually be?

Should Rwanda have clearer rules about what is considered inappropriate in public?

If yes, how specific should those rules be?

Should shoulders really be part of that conversation?

Should the same standards apply to men and women?

Should dress codes depend on the location?

And most importantly:

Should police be involved in enforcing clothing standards, and if so, what should that enforcement actually look like?

Because “dress appropriately” sounds simple until you ask someone:

“Okay. Define appropriately.”

That’s when things get interesting.

One person’s “decent” is another person’s “it’s 2026, please relax.”

One person’s “freedom” is another person’s “have some respect for the setting.”

And somewhere between those two opinions is an entire country trying to figure out how tradition, law, culture and modern life are supposed to coexist.

Maybe the answer isn’t:

“Everyone should wear whatever they want.”

Maybe it isn’t:

“Everyone should dress according to one standard.”

Maybe the real answer is that we need clearer rules, clearer expectations and a little more room for people to disagree without turning every outfit into a national emergency.

Because honestly...

If showing a shoulder can start a nationwide debate, I’m scared to see what happens when someone wears a completely backless dress.

Twitter might need a public holiday.

Now I actually want YOUR opinion.

No “correct” answer.

No “girls are right.”

No “police are right.”

Let’s actually talk.

1. Should uncovered shoulders be considered inappropriate in public spaces in Kigali?

2. Should dress codes be different depending on where you are?

3. Should police enforce clothing standards, or should this be left to individual venues/institutions?

4. Where do you personally draw the line between respecting culture and controlling what people wear?

5. And finally…

TWAMBARE IMISHANANA or TWAMBARE IBIGARAGAZA?🤣🤣

I genuinely want to hear what Kigali thinks.

Because apparently...

The shoulders have entered the chat.

How Close Is Too Close? The Girl Best Friend Question

Okayyy…

I’m back. 🫡

Before anyone asks where I disappeared to — life happened.

There were flights. ✈️

Then more flights.

Then jet lag decided that sleeping at normal human hours was simply not for me. 😭

Then I started going to the gym because apparently self-care now includes voluntarily making your muscles question every decision you’ve ever made. 🏋🏽‍♀️

And honestly?

I just needed some time for me.

A little self-love.

A little disappearing from everything.

A little “let me mind my own business and breathe before I start having opinions about everybody else’s business.” 😂

So yeah…

I took a little break.

But I’m back now.

And naturally, my first contribution to society is…

a relationship question.

Because why not? 😭

Let’s talk about the girl best friend.

Girls, I need you to be honest with me.

How close is TOO close?

Your boyfriend has a girl best friend.

Not a friend.

Not a classmate.

Not “someone I know.”

His BEST FRIEND.

The girl who knew him before you.

The girl who has years of stories about him.

The girl who knows his childhood.

His family.

His embarrassing phases.

His favorite food.

His weird habits.

Probably his password at some point. 😭

Okay, maybe not the password.

But you get the point.

Would you be completely okay with it?

Like genuinely?

No fake “I trust him” answer while secretly thinking:

“Interesting… very interesting.” 👀

Because personally, I think this is where things get complicated.

Having a girl best friend?

Fine.

People can have friends.

Obviously.

We are not living in a society where men and women have to stand six feet apart and avoid eye contact. 😂

But then there’s close.

And then there’s…

WHY DOES SHE KNOW MORE ABOUT HIM THAN I DO?

Because imagine you’re dating someone and he says:

“She understands me better than anyone.”

Anyone?

ANYONE?

Sir.

I thought I was the girlfriend. 😭

Am I currently competing for a position I did not apply for?

And then there’s the classic:

“But she’s been my best friend for years.”

Okay.

Respect.

History matters.

But does history automatically mean she gets unlimited access to your relationship?

That’s where I think the conversation gets interesting.

Because the problem isn’t necessarily the friendship.

It’s the boundaries.

How often are they talking?

What are they talking about?

Does he tell her everything?

Does she respect his relationship?

Does he come to her first whenever something happens?

Does she get jealous when he starts dating someone?

Does he hide their conversations?

Does he make his girlfriend feel secure?

Or does he constantly say:

“You’re overthinking it.”

And somehow you’re always the one overthinking while everyone else is apparently thinking perfectly. 😂

I think there’s a huge difference between:

“That’s my best friend.”

and

“That’s the person I emotionally depend on more than my girlfriend.”

Those are not the same thing.

And that’s the part I want to talk about.

Because sometimes you’re not jealous of the girl.

You’re uncomfortable with the position she has in his life.

And honestly?

That’s a completely different conversation.

So, girls…

Would you be okay with your boyfriend having a girl best friend?

Would you want to meet her?

Would you actually become friends with her?

Or would you politely smile, say:

“Nice to meet you.”

And then go home and begin your investigation? 🕵🏽‍♀️😂

And guys…

Would you understand if your girlfriend felt uncomfortable about your girl best friend?

Or would you immediately hit her with:

“You don’t trust me.”

Because please.

Let’s have a mature conversation before we start throwing that sentence around. 😭

And to everyone who has actually been in this situation:

What happened?

Did the friendship stay completely innocent?

Did everyone respect the boundaries?

Did the girlfriend and the best friend eventually become friends?

Or did things get…

interesting? 👀

Because maybe I’m looking at this completely wrong.

Maybe opposite-gender best friendships are actually the most innocent thing in the world.

Maybe I’m about to get 47 paragraphs explaining why I’m wrong.

And you know what?

I agree.

You’re right.

Absolutely.

Girl best friends are wonderful.

Boundaries are wonderful.

Trust is wonderful.

Communication is wonderful.

Everyone is wonderful.

Happy now? 😭

But also…

Please continue arguing in the comments.

Because apparently we have discovered the perfect recipe for bringing strangers together:

Give them a relationship topic and let them disagree. 😂

So yes…

Let’s make this a hot topic.

I want the girls.

I want the guys.

I want the people who have been the girlfriend.

I want the people who have been the best friend.

I want the people who have watched this entire situation unfold from three seats away.

Tell me.

How close is too close? 👀

And now that I’ve successfully started a debate I may or may not be qualified to host… 😂

I want to hear from you.

Drop your thoughts in the comments.

Tell me your experience.

Tell me your opinion.

Tell me why I’m wrong.

Tell me why I’m right.

Honestly, tell me anything — just be nice to each other. 😂

And if this made you think, laugh, or immediately text your best friend…

subscribe.

If you enjoyed it, like it.

If you know someone who needs to answer this question…

share it with them. 👀

And if this becomes a full-blown comment-section war…

Well…

I warned you. 😭

Until next time,

Ubuliza clock it

There is something very special about being Rwandan.

We are warm. We are community-oriented. We care about each other.

Sometimes…

TOO MUCH. 😭

Because tell me why I can post a picture from a vacation and, instead of “Enjoy your trip ❤️”, the investigation begins.

“Ahaaa, where is she?”

“Who paid for the trip?”
“Ehee, afite sugar daddy.” 😭

Girl, maybe I just wanted to see another country.

Maybe I saved money.

Maybe my parents helped.

Maybe I worked for it.

Maybe I simply… went on vacation. 😭😂

But apparently, posting a beautiful view on Instagram means you have voluntarily opened a parliamentary investigation into your finances.

And it doesn’t stop there.

You buy a car?

“Ehee, amafaranga yayakuye he?”

You get a nice phone?

“Who bought it for her?”

You start dressing differently?

“She has changed.”

You move into a nice house?

“There must be someone behind this.”

You start a business?

“Let’s wait and see how long it lasts.”

You don’t post anything?

“She is hiding something.”

You post too much?

“She wants attention.”

At this point, what exactly do you want from me? 😭

Then comes the wedding. 💍

This one deserves its own chapter.

You finally get married.

Everyone is happy.

The pictures are beautiful.

The dress is beautiful.

The venue is beautiful.

The food was probably beautiful too. 😂

And then, before the wedding pictures have even finished circulating…

“So… when are they having a baby?”

EXCUSE ME??? 😭😭

Can we allow people to enjoy being married first?

Maybe they want children.

Maybe they don’t.

Maybe they are waiting.

Maybe they are planning.

Maybe they simply want to enjoy their marriage.

Maybe it is none of our business.

But somehow, Rwanda has turned someone’s uterus into a national discussion topic.

And if they eventually have a baby?

“Iyo baby second one izaza ryari?”

😭😭😭

Please.

Let people breathe.

Social media has made us feel entitled to people’s lives.

And I think that’s the part we don’t talk about enough.

The moment someone becomes visible online, we start feeling like we know them.

We see their vacation.

We see their birthday.

We see their relationship.

We see their car.

We see their graduation.

We see their wedding.

We see their achievements.

And slowly, we start believing that because we can see someone’s life, we are entitled to explain it.

We aren’t.

A post is a window.

It is not the whole house.

You see someone’s five-second video and think you understand their entire year.

You see the restaurant and don’t see the months they spent saving.

You see the graduation and don’t see the nights they cried over assignments.

You see the car and don’t see the work behind it.

You see the vacation and don’t see the sacrifices that made it possible.

You see the wedding and immediately start planning their children for them. 😭

We have become very good at watching people’s highlights while pretending we know their behind-the-scenes.

And honestly, why do we exaggerate everything? 😭

Someone posts one picture with a guy:

“Ni boyfriend?”

Someone posts flowers:

“She is engaged!”

Someone posts a ring:

“Wedding loading!”

Someone posts a plane ticket:

“Sugar daddy.”

Someone buys a car:

“Who gave her the money?”

Someone doesn’t post their partner:

“They broke up.”

Someone posts their partner:

“They are doing too much.”

Someone gains success:

“She thinks she’s better than everyone.”

Someone struggles:

“We knew she wouldn’t make it.”

😂😂😂

We are not just spectators anymore.

We are commentators, detectives, relationship analysts, financial auditors, fertility consultants and investigative journalists.

All from the comfort of our phones.

But here’s the thing…

Sometimes the person you’re criticizing is simply living.

Not everything needs a conspiracy theory.

Not every achievement needs a suspicious explanation.

Not every relationship needs your approval.

Not every marriage needs your pregnancy timeline.

Not every vacation needs a sponsor.

Not every expensive thing needs a sugar daddy.

And not every person who is doing well is trying to make you feel bad.

Sometimes…

they’re just happy.

Let people have their moments.

Let people celebrate themselves.

Let people grow quietly.

Let people fail without turning it into entertainment.

Let people succeed without trying to find something wrong with it.

And most importantly:

let people live lives that you don’t fully understand.

Because the truth is, you don’t know the full story.

And you don’t need to.

One day, though… 😂

I already know what’s going to happen.

One day, when I finally become a celebrity…

you guys will HUNT ME DOWN. 😭😭😭

Tracking my location.

Analyzing my outfits.

Investigating who I was seen with.

Calculating the price of my car.

Asking where my money came from.

Zooming into the background of my Instagram stories.

Finding out where I went on vacation.

Counting how many times I post my husband.

And after the wedding:

“So… when is the baby coming?”

😭😭😭😭

At that point, please remember that I warned you.

And if you see me posting from an airport, please don’t start:

“Ehee, sugar daddy.”

Maybe I’m simply going somewhere. 😂✈️

If you see me with a car:

“Ehee, who bought it?”

Maybe I bought it.

If you see me married:

“Baby when?”

Please breathe.

If you see me successful:

“She has changed.”

Maybe I’ve just grown.

And if you see me living my life…

please let me live it. ❤️

Because social media should be a place where we share our lives, not a courtroom where everyone is expected to defend theirs.

Until then, Rwandans…

mind your business. 😂❤️

And when I finally become that celebrity you were waiting for…

subscribe to your girl. 💅🏽✨

Because apparently, you’re going to be following anyway. 😂

*There are memories you don’t plan to revisit. They simply find you. Mine came back somewhere between Nyabihu and Gataraga, inside a Twegerane bus.*

## Preface

Every country has that one form of transport that immediately tells you where you are.

In New York, it’s the subway.

In London, it’s the red double-decker bus.

In Kigali, people think it’s the city buses with Tap & Go.

But if you’ve ever lived around Nyabihu, Byangabo, Gataraga, or almost any rural district in Rwanda...

You know the real answer.

The Twegerane bus.

Not because it’s comfortable.

Not because it’s fast.

But because it’s an experience.

An experience no amount of luxury can replace.

## The Ride That Took Me Back to Primary One

A few days ago, I boarded a Twegerane bus.

The moment I stepped inside, something strange happened.

I wasn’t a Senior Five student anymore.

I was a tiny Primary One child again.

Back then, boarding these buses was normal.

I never questioned why there were so many people inside.

I never asked why someone kept opening and closing the door every few seconds.

I never wondered why there was a man walking inside a moving bus collecting money like he owned the place.

To me...

That was simply how buses worked.

Years later...

I realized I wasn’t boarding a bus.

I was boarding a memory.

## The Real Boss Isn’t the Driver

Let’s be honest.

People think the driver is in charge.

Wrong.

The driver only drives.

The real CEO of every Twegerane bus is...

The conveyeur.

😂😂

Look at the bus for one second.

It’s a small minibus.

Passengers already have nowhere to sit.

Some are squeezed together.

Some are holding bags on their laps.

Yet somehow, there is still a fully grown man standing inside, opening the door, collecting money, shouting destinations, spotting passengers from far away, and making sure everyone has paid.

Honestly...

Conveyeurs deserve a national award.

Their job description includes:

- Opening the door.

- Closing the door.

- Collecting money.

- Remembering who paid.

- Remembering who didn’t.

- Telling the driver where passengers are waiting.

- Convincing people the bus is not full.

- Convincing people to squeeze.

- Negotiating transport fares.

- Somehow never falling out of the moving bus.

If this isn’t a superpower, I don’t know what is.

## “Twegerane Gato!”

Every Twegerane ride has one sentence you are guaranteed to hear:

> “Twegerane! Twegerane gato! Hari undi winjira!”

The funniest part is that nobody asks how.

The conveyeur says it.

And everyone moves.

Even when moving is physically impossible.

One seat becomes two people.

Two people become three.

Three people become four.

Physics quietly leaves the chat.

Your shoulder belongs to someone else.

Your backpack belongs to everyone’s knees.

If the driver brakes, the whole row brakes together.

No complaints.

Everyone simply accepts the new arrangement.

## The 100-Franc Story I Can’t Stop Thinking About

This is the moment that stayed with me.

A woman wanted to travel from Byangabo to Gataraga.

The conveyeur confidently announced:

> “Ni 300 Frw.”

She immediately refused.

The driver heard the conversation and simply said:

> “Twara abantu yewe... ni 200!”

😂😂😂

Negotiation finished.

Case closed.

But my mind stayed on that 100 francs.

One coin.

Just one.

And I started wondering what that 100 francs was meant for.

Maybe she wanted to buy a Musana exercise book.

Maybe a pen.

Maybe salt.

Maybe ikibiriti.

Maybe tomatoes.

Maybe that coin already had another assignment waiting for it.

Funny how one person sees 100 francs as nothing, while another has already decided exactly where it will go.

## Some People Still Live in the 200-Franc Era

That ride reminded me of something beautiful.

While many of us spend thousands of francs without thinking, somewhere between Byangabo and Gataraga, people are still traveling home for 200 francs.

And honestly...

I smiled.

Because not everything has to change.

Some things deserve to stay exactly as they are.

## The Beauty of Rural Transport

The Twegerane bus isn’t perfect.

It’s crowded.

It’s noisy.

It’s unpredictable.

But it’s alive.

Nobody stays silent.

Someone starts talking about Irish potatoes.

Someone discusses the weather.

Someone greets every passenger.

An elderly woman boards carrying vegetables.

Someone immediately stands up for her.

No announcement.

No instructions.

Just humanity.

For twenty minutes, everyone becomes neighbors.

## Some Memories Never Leave

I had forgotten these buses.

Or maybe I thought I had.

Until that ride reminded me.

Reminded me of Primary One.

Reminded me of childhood.

Reminded me that growing up sometimes means realizing the ordinary moments were actually extraordinary.

One day, children will hear stories about a man hanging at the door of a bus shouting:

> “Twegerane!”

They’ll laugh.

They’ll think we’re exaggerating.

But we’ll know.

We lived it.

## Final Thoughts

Ndabizi ko bamwe muri mwe mubikumbuye.

The conveyeur shouting from the door.

The impossible seating arrangements.

Being told to:

> “Twegerane gato.”

The negotiations over 100 francs.

The roads of Nyabihu, Byangabo, and Gataraga.

The tiny buses that somehow always found room for one more person.

Maybe that’s why they’re called Twegerane.

Not because there is enough space.

But because life has always taught us that sometimes...

The only way forward...

Is together. ❤️

---

#Twegerane gato , support your girl let us hit 100 subs

#comment , like and subscribe

There is a season in Kigali that no one warns you about.

Not the rainy season.

Not the cold season.

The dust season.

The kind where you leave home looking like yourself and arrive at your destination looking like you’ve been excavated from an archaeological site.

If you walk everywhere, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

The roads don’t just have dust. They manufacture it.

One passing bus, and suddenly you’re part of a live-action sandstorm. You stop breathing for a second—not because you want to, but because your lungs have entered survival mode.

Sometimes I wonder if Kigali’s dust has a personal grudge against pedestrians.

Drivers roll up their windows.

Motorcyclists wear helmets.

The rest of us?

We inhale history.

“Me trying to reach class without inhaling half of Kigali.”

Walking in Kigali is an adventure.

You become a professional route planner.

You know which roads have shade.

Which shortcuts save five minutes.

Which hills deserve a standing ovation after you climb them.

And, of course, which roads should be avoided because one speeding truck equals free exfoliation.

There are days when you arrive somewhere and your shoes have changed color.

Black shoes?

Not anymore.

Congratulations.

They’re beige now.

Let’s also appreciate the strange fitness benefits.

Your daily step count is incredible.

You don’t need a gym membership.

Your calves are built by Kigali’s hills.

Your cardio is sponsored by buses that refuse to wait.

Who needs a treadmill when your destination is uphill... both ways?

“This is fine” meme with the dog sitting calmly while surrounded by dust instead of fire.

And can we talk about crossing the road?

You stand there.

You look left.

You look right.

You pray.

Then you sprint like you’re competing in the Olympics.

One minute later...

Another cloud of dust.

Mission accomplished.

The funniest part is greeting someone after walking for thirty minutes.

“Amakuru?”

“Ni meza.”

Meanwhile your throat sounds like you’ve been eating cement.

Sometimes all you can say is:

“Yewe, uyu muyaga urimo agataka uratwica!”

Or:

“Sha, uyu munsi nasohotse nkiri umuntu, ngezeyo ndi ivumbi.”

Honestly, if dust could earn citizenship, Kigali would have millions of extra residents.

But despite all the coughing, the hills, the long walks, and the dusty shoes, there is something beautiful about walking.

You notice things drivers never see.

The children laughing on their way home.

The old man watering his garden.

The smell of fresh chapati from a roadside stand.

The sunset over the hills.

The conversations between strangers waiting to cross the road.

Walking forces you to slow down.

It lets the city introduce itself.

Sometimes in whispers.

Sometimes in coughs.

Mostly in dust.

“Average pedestrian after walking 500 meters in Kigali during summer.”

Maybe one day every road will be paved.

Maybe the dust will finally lose.

Until then, we’ll keep walking, keep coughing dramatically, keep cleaning our shoes, and keep pretending that the dust isn’t winning.

Because if you’re from Kigali, you’ve probably accepted one simple truth:

The dust always arrives before you do.

Murakoze. And to every fellow pedestrian... ihangane. We are all breathing this together.

There is a strange kind of loneliness that has nothing to do with being alone.

It is waking up surrounded by people and still feeling like you are carrying the world by yourself.

That was my second year.

Ironically, it wasn’t my grades that made it difficult. Academically, I was surviving. It was everything else that was heavy.

Some years don’t break you with failure.

They break you with exhaustion.

With homesickness.

With responsibilities no one sees.

With the silent battles you never mention because you convince yourself everyone else is fighting something too.

I smiled more than I felt like smiling.

I laughed when I wasn’t okay.

I kept telling myself that tomorrow would somehow be lighter.

Sometimes it was.

Most times, it wasn’t.

Then, without any grand entrance, God answered a prayer I never knew I had spoken.

He sent me a friend.

I call her my little sister.

She hates that description because she’s taller than I am, so technically she’s a little sister with extra height.

She walked into my life so naturally that I can’t even remember the exact beginning.

I only remember the difference.

The difficult days didn’t disappear.

But they stopped feeling impossible.

She became the person who checked in without making it feel like an obligation.

The person who could make me laugh after one of those days where I wanted nothing more than to disappear into my blankets.

The person who reminded me that kindness is often quiet.

People think miracles are dramatic.

I don’t.

Sometimes miracles look like someone saving you a seat.

Walking beside you.

Sending a random message.

Sharing food.

Listening without trying to solve everything.

Simply existing consistently.

There were days when I wondered whether God still noticed the tiny details of my life.

Then He reminded me that sometimes His answer isn’t a miracle that changes your circumstances.

Sometimes His answer is a person who helps you carry them.

She probably has no idea how much she helped me.

Most people never do.

The people who save us rarely realize they are doing it.

They think they’re just being themselves.

If she ever reads this, she will probably laugh and tell me I’m being dramatic.

Maybe I am.

But gratitude has a way of sounding dramatic when you’ve experienced enough hardship.

Looking back, Year Two will probably always be remembered as one of the hardest seasons of my life.

Not because it defeated me.

But because it taught me something I’ll never forget.

God has many ways of answering prayers.

Sometimes He opens doors.

Sometimes He changes situations.

And sometimes...

He sends someone who becomes family without sharing your last name.

To the friend who became my taller little sister—

Thank you for reminding me that even in the hardest seasons, God never leaves us to walk alone.

...until they smile.

Now, before someone reports me to the International Association for the Protection of Tiny Humans, hear me out.

I don’t hate them.

I hate the noise.

I hate how they can ask you the same question twelve times after you’ve already answered it thirteen.

I hate how they appear out of nowhere the moment you’re trying to focus.

I hate that they somehow touch everything they’re not supposed to touch.

They’re exhausting.

So whenever someone hands me a baby and says, “Isn’t he adorable?” my first thought is usually, Please don’t give him to me.

And then...

Five minutes later...

I’m making dinosaur noises because the little guy laughed once.

I don’t know how they do it.

My little brother—Young Boss, as I call him—is almost ten years younger than I am. Some days I genuinely wonder if his life mission is to interrupt mine. He’ll walk into my room without knocking, ask questions at the most inconvenient moments, borrow things without permission, and somehow leave every place looking like a tornado passed through.

There are moments when I think,

“Can you please... just disappear for five minutes?”

Then he’ll randomly tell me he drew a picture of me.

Or he’ll fall asleep on the sofa holding the toy he insisted he was “too old” to sleep without.

Or he’ll laugh so hard that he starts laughing at his own laugh.

And just like that...

My annoyance loses the argument.

Kids are unfairly cute.

It’s almost as if they were designed that way so adults wouldn’t lose their minds.

Because if children looked like middle-aged accountants while behaving exactly the same way, I don’t think humanity would survive.

What amazes me most is how innocent they are.

They don’t wake up planning to ruin your day.

They aren’t trying to be annoying.

They’re simply discovering the world the only way they know how—by asking impossible questions, making impossible messes, and somehow believing you’re the smartest person alive.

Maybe that’s why they deserve a little more patience than we naturally give them.

So yes, children still exhaust me.

They still interrupt my peace.

I still don’t volunteer to babysit.

But every time Young Boss grins like he just discovered the greatest joke in history, I’m reminded that sometimes the people who test your patience the most are also the ones who soften your heart the fastest.

I guess I don’t hate kids after all.

I just hate being reminded that they’re better at being human than the rest of us.

Every generation invents words that everyone understands but no one can explain.

Our parents had theirs.

We’re creating ours.

And somewhere along the way, we all collectively agreed that people could be called home girls and home boys.

What fascinates me isn’t even the phrase itself.

It’s the fact that nobody ever stopped to ask the most obvious question.

Which home?

Seriously.

I’ve been thinking about this for days.

Is it the home where you were born?

The home where your parents still call you every five minutes to ask where you are?

The home where you learned to ride a bicycle, burnt your first meal, or broke your first plate?

Or is it the home where your grandmother insists you’re still too skinny no matter how much you eat?

Because that’s the only home I know.

Yet somehow people I’ve never stepped into a house with are introducing each other like,

“That’s my home girl.”

“He’s my home boy.”

Hold on...

Since when?

Did I miss a meeting?

Was there an application form?

Was I supposed to sign somewhere?

Because one day someone is just “my friend,” and the next thing I know, they’re your home boy.

No graduation.

No promotion.

No certificate.

Just vibes.

And everyone accepts it.

The more I think about it, the stranger it becomes.

I’ve heard people call classmates they’ve known for six months their home girls.

I’ve heard people call someone they met online their home boy.

I’ve even heard people who’ve never visited each other’s homes using the title with so much confidence that I start questioning my understanding of the English language.

I mean... if we’re being literal, shouldn’t a home girl at least know where your home is?

Shouldn’t a home boy have borrowed your charger at least once?

Or helped you move furniture?

Or eaten your mother’s cooking?

Apparently not.

Maybe I’ve been taking the word “home” too seriously.

Maybe that’s not what people mean.

Maybe “home” isn’t an address.

Maybe it isn’t a building.

Maybe it isn’t four walls and a roof.

Maybe home is a feeling.

Think about the people you call when life is falling apart.

The ones you don’t have to impress.

The ones who have seen you cry, fail, celebrate, change your mind a hundred times, and still choose to stick around.

The people who don’t need an invitation to laugh at your old photos.

The people who remind you of embarrassing moments at the worst possible time.

The people who know exactly how dramatic you are but still answer your calls.

Those people feel familiar.

Comfortable.

Safe.

Almost like home.

If that’s what the word means, then maybe we’ve all been using it correctly without realizing why.

Still, I have questions.

Who was the first person to wake up and say,

“You know what? Let’s stop saying ‘friend.’ Let’s call them home boys and home girls instead.”

How did everyone else hear that and immediately agree?

No debates.

No dictionary update.

No public announcement.

The phrase just crossed continents, generations, schools, workplaces, and social media until it became completely normal.

Now nobody questions it.

Except me.

So if you’re reading this and you actually know where the phrase came from, or why we say it, please come and educate the rest of us.

Because at this point, I’ve accepted that I have home girls and home boys.

I’m just trying to figure out...

Which home we’ve all been coming from this whole time.

Ehh guys i had forgotten ,comment on what you are thinking💬💬💬

One of the biggest misunderstandings about Christianity is the idea that you must first clean yourself up before coming to Christ.

Many people think:

“Once I stop drinking, then I’ll become a Christian.”

“Once I stop smoking, then I’ll follow Jesus.”

“Once I stop gossiping, watching certain shows, struggling with lust, or failing in the same areas over and over again, then God will accept me.”

But the Gospel tells a completely different story.

The Apostle Paul writes:

“For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast.”

— Ephesians 2:8-9

We are not saved because we become good enough.

We are saved because God is gracious enough.

No amount of good behavior can earn God’s favor. If salvation could be earned, then Christ would not have needed to die for us. Christianity begins with God’s grace, not our performance.

Jesus did not call perfect people.

He called ordinary people. Broken people. Doubters. Sinners. People who needed Him.

His invitation was never, “Fix yourself first.”

His invitation was simply, “Come.”

A Child Doesn’t Earn Their Place in the Family

Think about a child helping their mother around the house.

A daughter washes the dishes. She sweeps the floor. She helps prepare dinner.

But she does not do those things in order to become her mother’s daughter.

She already is her daughter.

Her actions flow from a relationship that already exists.

The same is true for Christians.

We do not pray, obey, serve, or fight sin so that God will adopt us.

We do those things because He already has.

We do not obey to become sons and daughters of God.

We obey because we are sons and daughters of God.

Religion says:

“Obey so God will accept you.”

The Gospel says:

“God has accepted you in Christ. Therefore, learn to obey.”

That difference changes everything.

Grace Is Not Permission to Sin

Whenever Christians talk about grace, a question naturally follows:

“If God’s grace covers my sins, does that mean I can live however I want?”

Paul anticipated that question.

In Romans he writes:

“Shall we continue in sin that grace may abound? By no means!”

— Romans 6:1-2

Grace is not God’s permission slip for sin.

Grace is God’s power to leave sin behind.

The person who has truly encountered Christ does not ask, “How much sin can I get away with?”

Instead, they begin asking, “How can I grow closer to the One who saved me?”

The goal of the Christian life is not merely avoiding punishment.

The goal is growing in love for God.

The Holy Spirit Changes What We Desire

Many people think becoming a Christian means forcing yourself to stop enjoying things.

But often God works much deeper than that.

The Holy Spirit slowly begins changing our desires.

The gossip that once entertained us starts feeling empty.

The habits that once controlled us lose their grip.

The things we thought would satisfy us no longer satisfy us the same way.

Not because someone gave us a list of rules.

But because God is transforming our hearts.

This change is usually gradual.

It is often messy.

There are failures, setbacks, and struggles.

Yet over time, Christ changes us from the inside out.

Growth is often less like a lightning strike and more like a sunrise.

You don’t notice every moment of change.

But one day you look back and realize you are not the same person you used to be.

Freedom in Christ

The Christian life is not slavery to a list of rules.

It is freedom.

Yet Christian freedom is often misunderstood.

Paul writes:

“All things are lawful for me, but not all things are beneficial.”

— 1 Corinthians 10:23

As Christians, many decisions are left to our freedom.

We have free will.

We can choose.

God does not force us into obedience like robots.

Love that is forced is not love at all.

The question is no longer, “Am I allowed to do this?”

The deeper question becomes:

“Will this draw me closer to Christ or further from Him?”

“Will this help me grow or slowly pull me away?”

“Will this strengthen my love for God and others?”

A mature Christian is not constantly looking for the edge of the cliff.

A mature Christian is looking for the path that leads closer to Christ.

Because freedom in Christ is not merely the freedom to do what we want.

It is the freedom to become who we were created to be.

Come As You Are

If you are waiting until you have everything figured out before coming to Jesus, stop waiting.

Bring your struggles.

Bring your doubts.

Bring your addictions.

Bring your failures.

Bring your questions.

Bring everything.

You do not stop sinning to become a Christian.

You come to Christ, and through His grace, He begins the lifelong work of transforming you.

The Christian life is not about earning God’s love.

It is about living in response to a love that has already been freely given.

And as that love takes root, the things of this world slowly lose their shine, while Christ becomes more beautiful than you ever imagined.

Before we leave Year 2 and disappear into exams, can we all agree on one thing?

Next year...

Let’s be people.

Not AI chatbots programmed by society.

Because explain something to me.

A boy says “good morning” to a girl twice.

Immediately half the campus has already named their future children.

Someone borrows your calculator.

“Babonye couple nshya.”

You sit next to someone because every other chair is occupied.

Now there are detectives analyzing your body language like it’s a criminal investigation.

No wonder everyone is scared to exist.

At RCA, feelings are treated like leaked exam papers.

Top secret.

Highly classified.

Men especially...

My brothers.

You can debug code for six hours.

Explain networking.

Argue about football until midnight.

Present a project before lecturers.

But saying,

“You’re actually nice to talk to.”

Suddenly you need a committee meeting.

You consult your roommates.

Your pastor.

Your ancestors.

Your horoscope.

Then decide the safest option is to react with 👍🏾.

Be serious.

And girls aren’t innocent either.

Someone can like a boy for an entire academic year.

Know his schedule.

Know where he studies.

Know his favorite team (afana arsenal), hhhhhh.

Know his favorite meal.

But if he walks past...

You suddenly become fascinated by the ceiling.

What are we doing?

Highschool is not about marks buroo , just enjoy the moment,

It’s also about people.

The friends you’ll remember.

The random conversations after class.

The jokes that make no sense outside campus.

The memories that somehow become your favorite stories five years later.

Not every conversation is a proposal.

Not every smile is flirting.

Not every friendship needs a wedding invitation.

Sometimes two human beings are just...

talking.

Crazy concept, I know.

Some of you have gone two years without speaking to someone you’ve admired simply because you’re afraid your friends will start shouting,

“Ehhhhhh... babeeeeee!”

And then you act like strangers until graduation.

What a waste.

Life becomes so much smaller when embarrassment makes every decision.

You stop asking questions.

Stop introducing yourself.

Stop joining clubs.

Stop complimenting people.

Stop saying thank you.

Stop saying sorry.

Stop saying, “I appreciate you.”

Until one day Year 2 is over.

Year 3 comes.

Then graduation.

Then everyone disappears.

And you’re left wondering how someone could be part of your daily life for years while remaining a stranger.

So before exams steal our sleep and our sanity...

Text your friend.

Thank your group member.

Compliment someone’s presentation.

Laugh loudly.

Take pictures.

Create memories.

Talk to people.

Not because you’re looking for love.

But because you’re alive.

Next academic year, let’s stop acting like society programmed us to fear connection.

Let’s stop measuring our worth by how “nonchalant” we can appear.

Let’s stop pretending caring is embarrassing.

Because at the end of the day, nobody remembers who looked the coolest.

People remember who made them laugh.

Who believed in them.

Who was kind.

Who was real.

So if next year you see me talking to someone...

Please.

Don’t start a relationship committee.

Maybe we’re discussing an assignment.

Maybe we’re becoming friends.

Maybe we’re just two students sharing a conversation.

And honestly?

That should be normal.

Here’s to finishing Year 2 with courage.

Passing our exams.

Making memories.

And choosing to be human in a world that keeps rewarding emotional robots.

See you in Year 3.

Hopefully a little wiser.

A little braver.

And a lot less afraid of saying,

“Hello.”

I know this one was short.

But my people... have mercy on me. 😭

I also have exams.

There are 77 mathematics questions staring at me like they were personally offended by my existence, and right now I’m praying with all my heart that at least a few of them show up in the actual paper.

If you see me online after this, don’t assume I’m productive.

I’m probably opening the PDF, reading one question, closing it, drinking water, staring at the wall, and convincing myself that derivatives are a social construct.

So let me go suffer with dignity.

Good luck to everyone preparing for exams.

May your revision match the questions.

May your calculator battery survive.

May your pen never stop writing.

And may the examiner be guided by the same Spirit that guided whoever leaked confidence into your classmates.

See you after exams.

If I survive the 77 questions... there will definitely be a Part 2. ❤️

So guysss... nyine people think ko you just continue with life and everything goes back to normal. But my dears, it doesn’t mean you really didn’t break up. It means a lot. Even though you try kubyirengagiza and keep moving, some things stay with you for a while.

I had to become the man I am today and continue with life. Ndabizi this wasn’t the plan to tell you about my life after, but anyways... let us spill the tea. ☕️

Live the moment and just continue with life.

After then, ubuzima after started. You know, I had to explain myself to people kubera nta kikubona. Hhhh... kuko ntashakaga kugaragara. Maybe I was just tired. Tired of people asking me, “What happened?” “Why would you?” “You guys looked perfect together.”

Barashukana gusa anyway guys... let us continue.

Do you know what is exhausting? Guhora wisobanura ku bantu.

Let me tell you... during my engagement you were not around. Why are you asking me as if we are close? Dear, we are not close. Not meaning to be harsh, but people should give people a break. Sometimes silence is healing too.

So I continued with my life and joined my fellow girls, my ibisheke that I missed a lot. We laughed, went out, stayed up talking about everything and nothing, and slowly I started feeling like myself again.

You know the feeling of sleeping with no worries? Waking up without checking your phone every second? Falling sick and nobody asking a thousand questions that end up making you feel worse? Not having to explain every little detail of your day? That freedom... ntabwo abantu benshi babivuga, but it feels peaceful.

I started taking myself out more. Buying myself little things. Watching movies alone. Listening to music without someone asking who I was thinking about. I started enjoying my own company, and honestly, I had missed that version of me.

Healing isn’t always crying in your room. Sometimes healing is laughing so hard with your friends that you forget what made you sad in the first place. Sometimes healing is realizing that your peace is worth protecting.

And don’t be shocked that some weeks later I had another hot tea from my ex that ……. never mind. 😂😂 That’s a story for another episode.

But guys, nyine uraruhuka when you finally choose yourself. Ukiyitaho. Ukikunda. You stop chasing explanations, stop forcing conversations, and stop carrying things that were never yours to carry.

One thing I learned is that life doesn’t stop because your plans changed. Sometimes the ending you feared becomes the beginning you never expected.

So if you’re watching this and you’re trying to move on from something or someone, don’t rush yourself. Keep living. Keep laughing. Keep showing up for yourself. One day you’ll wake up and realize that what once broke you no longer controls you.

And to the people who really loved us as a couple... nukuri ndabakunda cyane. ❤️

I’m sorry if things didn’t turn out the way you hoped. I know some of you genuinely supported us, prayed for us, and believed in our story. Your love was real, and I appreciate it more than you know.

But sometimes life writes a different ending than the one everyone expected. And that’s okay.

I hope you’ll continue supporting me on this new journey, not because of who I was with, but because of who I am. This chapter is about growth, healing, and choosing myself.

So thank you for loving us then, and thank you for loving me now. ❤️

Welcome to The Ashes—because after the fire, we don’t stay burned... we rise.

Because after the fire burns everything down, what remains is not weakness... it’s strength, wisdom, and a new beginning.

If you enjoyed this story, don’t forget to LIKE ❤️, SUBSCRIBE 🔔, and COMMENT 💬 below. I love reading your experiences too, and who knows... your story might help someone else heal.

See you in the next episode because trust me... the tea is still hot. ☕️🔥

#TheAshes #AfterTheFire #StoryTime #HealingJourney #GirlTalk #LifeAfterLove #TeaTime #MovingOn #SelfLove #RealTalk #AfricanCreator #KeepGoing

Hi guyss , it’s been a while and we are missing each other , y’all have been asking themselves what happened to me and yes alot has happening but girls we have to survive,nyine hari ukunt wicara ukuvug utii aho “NABEREYE IGISHEKE UBUNDI??!!”” byamariye ikii??? gusa i wanted to share this , and i might be a lesson to a fellow girl or another person like me or another individual like me and learn something , i dont want to make this sound formal but yall guysssssss , i just wanted to share with you my journey from anxiety , maybe you will question this or judge this but ohhh lol ,IT’S TIME WE BECOME WEEE NOT UUU OR THEMMMMMMMM😎😎😎😎?????!!!!!!!11 FUMNNNNNNNNNY AHAAA

Just like any other creature we all ACT NON CHALANT BUT GUYS WHERE ARE THE CHALANT PEOPLE?? Kuki wanteguhaa….. but then sometimes people confuse friendship , care and romantic love guys,kuba nkubajije niba wariyee nago ngukunda , kuba NKUBAJIJE NIBA URWAYE ,nago ngukunda sibyoo, if you think i love youu then i dont waste your time i tell you or if not and you are thinking so then i just back offf and stay away cause dear you are just wasting my time and somebody’s time as well ,so it is like this i had this friend of mine we had been close friend with on and off talking for some times like for a year , then later in my second the so called busy year in my school he approached me yes :HEEEEE most of you are really surprised yes but for one thing am completely confident about is that AM STRAIGHT AND yeah,

SO he was like girl , i really like you and if you dont mind could we go into a relatiionship I SAIDDD WHA—-TTTTTT???, and then i said i need time to think and really know what am putting myself into and then i sat down as a CHRISTIAN i tried out praying and asking the lord about it and IN some way OfCourse my lord seened and said i dont care and not really that but he said nothing , i tried observing and see if he could talk to me in buring fires like “MOSES BUT NOOOOOOOO” MAYBE SENDING ANGEL Gabriel ,and ofcourse nothing ,maybe he said that is so basic for me to answer youu anyways just kidding🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣 and could see nothing but then 👌👌👌👌,after like some time i said why not let me try it out ?!

Lol , MY SHAYLAs was it trying out because not knowing i had dipped myself into something big but could not understand the weight of everything , and something started becoming strange for me , every day how are us ,how was ur night , can we talk? are you fine !!!! REALLY STRANGE THING TO ME, that i was not used to , things started feeling uncomfortable for me , wat seeemed like joy became a burden , and i started comforting myself saying that i was not ready but not knowing that it was a rushed decision i had made.While WHEN I could tell it to others , their hearts could melt well mine was like ohhhhhhh ,SOFTTTTTTTTT, NOT MINE KABISA👁️👁️👁️

I dont have to describe the inbetween but ofcourse i had a really romantic relatiionship with a really romantic person that anybody ELSE could have imagined , it was sweet but heavy, it was calm but then uncertain for me , SOMETIMES i used to ask myself that what if this does not LAST? I Had anxiety of how would feel if the person who cared , or showed me that it mattered LEFT? You KNOW big WORDS LIKE “YOU MATTER TO ME THE MOST, I NEED TO KNOW THAT YOU ARE OKAY FOR ME TO BE FYNE” such things …. i dont have alot to explain at this extent

So it was now time to face the reality , we broke up not in a way that was NOT really good OR EXPECTED but in a way i think and want none of you to do , please just be wise and dont fear being loved , and cherish the present dont try to imagine if you didnt have those things you are having now if you didnt have them because you have them NOW , I THINK IT IS BECAUSE I FEARED BEING LEFT , BUT THEN girls like me shout it all out man , it is NORMAL , TO FEEL UTABIKOZWA AATARII Byawee Mugenzii wawe AM hear for to hear you outt , just have that home boy of yours and sleep without worrying that you didnot say “NIGHTY”,OR ARE you fyne , YOU KNOW AT THIS POINT , I FEEL AT EASE and not overwhelmed but then my ladies in relationships please “I SUPPORT LOVE BUT HAVE A GOOD JOB AND ENJOY YOUR WORK🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣””

LOOLLLLLLLLLLLLL, Y’ALLLLLLLLLLLL,IT IS YOUR GIRL UBULIZAAAAA,

comment💬💬💬 , like🩷,share ⏩⏩⏩and SUBSCRIBEEEEEE🔔🔔🔔🔔🔔

I’ve missed you all—truly. Life has been full, quiet in some ways, overwhelming in others, but through it all I’ve been living… really living. Not perfectly, not with all the answers, but with God. And that has changed everything.

There’s this deep, unexplainable feeling I’ve been carrying lately—that something is being prepared along the way. I can’t prove it. I don’t have evidence I can hold up and show you. But I feel it. In the silence, in the waiting, in the healing. Especially in the healing.

Because somehow, through all the wounds we carry, through everything we’ve faced and survived, there’s a kind of quiet restoration happening. Like the wounds of Jesus Christ remind us that pain is not the end of the story. That survival is not случай—it’s purpose. We are still here, still standing, still moving forward… and that means something.

We walk with the Lord in every part of the journey—not just the victories, but the confusion, the pauses, the in-between seasons where nothing makes sense. And maybe that’s where faith grows the most.

I’ve also been learning this: we live, but we don’t dwell in other people’s lives. There’s freedom in that. You don’t have to carry everyone’s expectations, opinions, or noise. Live your life. Stay grounded. Stay humble. Let people be who they are, and focus on who you are becoming.

And one more thing I’ve come to understand deeply:

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—you don’t get to choose how people react when you offend them.

Growth means accountability. It means understanding that intentions don’t erase impact. It means giving people space to feel, even when it’s uncomfortable for you.

I’m still learning. Still growing. Still trusting.

But I’m here.

And I’m grateful you are too.

There is something I didn’t see before.

Not because it wasn’t there…
but because I was hurting too much to notice it.

I thought I was alone.

I thought everyone had left.
I thought the silence meant abandonment.
I thought the unanswered prayers meant God had turned away.

But I was wrong.

Not completely wrong—because the pain was real.
But I was blind in a way pain makes you blind.

There was this one friend.

She seemed distant.
Like she had gone quiet.
Like she wasn’t there when I needed her the most.

But what I didn’t see was this:

She never left.

She was just… afraid.

Afraid of saying the wrong thing.
Afraid of approaching me when I was already breaking.
Afraid of adding to the weight I was already carrying.

So she stayed back.

Not out of absence…
but out of care.

While I was asking,
“Where is everyone?”

She was asking,
“How do I help without hurting her more?”

While I felt forgotten,
she was praying.

Quietly.
Without announcing it.
Without expecting anything back.

She carried me in ways I didn’t even notice.

And maybe she wasn’t the only one.

Maybe there were others too.

People who:

checked on me in small ways

thought about me without saying it

cared… but didn’t know how to show it loudly

But because I was overwhelmed,
I could only see what was missing…
not what was still there.

There is something dangerous about pain.

It convinces you that:

love has disappeared

support no longer exists

you are completely alone

Even when that is not fully true.

And then there is God.

I thought His silence meant distance.

I thought:
“Maybe He forgot me.”
“Maybe I am doing something wrong.”
“Maybe I am not worthy of being answered.”

But what if His silence was not absence?

What if He was still working… just not in the way I expected?

What if instead of loud miracles,
He sent quiet people?

People who:

stayed when it was uncomfortable

cared without recognition

prayed without being seen

Maybe God didn’t leave.

Maybe He sent help in forms I didn’t recognize.

Maybe He placed people around me who loved me—
not perfectly, not loudly,
but genuinely.

I realize something now.

Sometimes we ask God for strength,
and He sends people.

Sometimes we ask for answers,
and He sends presence.

Sometimes we ask for light,
and He sends someone who sits with us in the dark.

And we miss it.

Because we are looking for something bigger.
Something louder.
Something clearer.

But love is not always loud.

Care is not always obvious.

And God… is not always dramatic.

To that friend who stayed in the background,
who cared quietly,
who prayed when I didn’t even have the strength to pray—

I see you now.

And I am grateful.

Maybe I was not abandoned.

Maybe I was surrounded…
just in a way I didn’t understand at the time.

And maybe this is the lesson:

Even when everything feels empty,
even when silence feels heavy,
even when you think you’ve been left behind—

Look again.

Not everything that is quiet is gone.

Some of it…
is love.

Some of it…
is care.

Some of it…
is God,
working in ways your heart is still learning to recognize.

Notepad, my little diary… ohh, now it is substack what would I do without you? How would I survive? Sometimes I don’t even know. I just feel out of words and feel like maybe I should write something down.

This started a very long time ago. As I begin to recall, I remember I used to get sad,angry ,happy, and then I would sit down and just document my life—maybe write to my late grandma, telling her my daily struggles, how my day was, and what it felt like without her, even though I was no longer with her.

And another funny thing—when she was alive, I would write to my mom and tell her how Granny had scolded me or how she was always sending me to bring things all the time—kuntuma 😫😫😫😫. maybe am very complaining for real,Yeah… that was just aby the way.

So now time has flown, and I am in RCA. I started writing again during a hackathon—I even had a notebook, I remember. The dramatic Paola who felt like not praying but instead just started writing everything down. I was scared to death, yet I knew our team was really good at what we were doing.

And I remember before that hackathon, we had won 3rd place, and the top three were supposed to go to Korea… and boom—we never went. I don’t know what happened. Maybe I thought it was just because it was Paola that it didn’t work out. But no—that mindset is gone now. It was just not the right time.

So I continued with the hackathon. I was scared to death. I remember the version of me who would blush off things now suddenly started crying but laughing also yes that is me i cry but laught at the same time aint that scary, anyways, comparing our project to others. Others seemed like they were bringing life to Mars, doing the impossible—you know what I mean—bridging gaps and building things that felt out of this world.

But we still went. People told me to have faith. I had written “God help me” in my notebook, and I believe God saw it.

This time, it was no longer at the Convention Center. It was at some institution for population counting. We went there, set up everything, and of course, we met our dear alumni—with all the energy and money we expected an RCA graduate to have. Some looked like they were doing well, others not so much, and others just looked the way they looked—and that was it.

Anyway, I think we went off-topic.

We were the 6th group—or something like that—to present. I don’t really remember clearly. But when it was time to present, to tell you the truth, I had no fear. I thought everything would go fine.

Before presenting, we did what I can call an exhibition of finished projects, but now to investors. They would come, ask how it worked, say “uhmm” a lot, look concerned—but not really—and then leave. I don’t know, I started feeling a little scared.

But then I told myself, “Come on, it’s Ghislain, Jorix, Livia, Sylvain… even the Lord approves this. Why not you, little first-year?”

I was running everywhere, even skipping food, thinking maybe it was because this was my first big stage. When we finally presented, we went fast—using the least time ever. They asked me what I had to say, since I had only introduced myself and said nothing else.

And I said, “Ohh… I did testing of the system.”

Then came the results.

They called the 3rd place—not us.
The 2nd—not us.

And I thought, “Maybe we are first.”

But when they called 1st place… it was not us either.

I was like, “God… is RCA biased when it comes to teams? Is that why we became third before?” I started questioning everything—my mind, my effort, myself.

We said goodbye to alumni I knew I might never talk to again. I told Livia, “Come to school—we are going to share the sadness.” Luckily, we find fun in everything, no matter how sad it is.

We were given bottles. I picked two—and a pen. I gave one bottle to Pushai. He doesn’t even know he is getting famous because of me.

But yeah… guess what?

I am writing this during exams. I can’t study—but I can write my stories. I can tell you a glimpse of who I was, who I am, and who I am becoming.

I don’t know… maybe I was a writer and ignored it. Maybe it’s my talent. All I know is:

I am the Lord’s princess. I am loved, and I am cared for.

I kept questioning myself, questioning who I am—but now I have decided to keep moving, with a better version of me.

Once there was a girl who believed she was late.

Everywhere she looked, people around her seemed to be moving faster. Her friends were finding partners, starting journeys, building things together. Watching them made her feel as if life was a race and she had already fallen behind.

So she began running too.

She chose a companion along the road. He was gentle, thoughtful, and sincere. He spoke with kindness, cared deeply, and treated her with a softness that many people search for.

But the more kindness he showed, the more she felt a quiet storm inside her.

Not because he was wrong for her, but because something within her was unsettled. Old thoughts she had never questioned began whispering in her mind, reminding her of walls that history had built long ago.

The walls were invisible, but she could still feel them.

Soon the words “I love you” began to feel heavy in her mouth. Not because he did not deserve them, but because she knew that saying them would mean ignoring the truth inside her heart.

And she could not bear the weight of pretending.

So she stepped away, not out of anger, but out of honesty.

But love was not the only place where the girl felt out of step.

At one time she worked with a group of friends on a project they believed in deeply. They built ideas together, stayed up thinking, imagining what their work could become.

Then one day, they were told they could not continue.

The door closed.

But strangely, the world did not close for everyone. Her friends found other doors, and she watched as the same ideas they once shared began appearing again in different places. Some people were praised for ideas that looked very familiar.

She wondered quietly how something could be rejected in one place and celebrated somewhere else.

Another friend she knew had an idea too. Suddenly that idea was traveling across the country, gaining attention and recognition.

She was happy for them. Truly.

But somewhere inside, she felt the quiet ache of standing still while others seemed to be moving forward.

There was also another dream she had once carried carefully — a project she poured her time and energy into. For a moment, hope appeared in the form of an email inviting her to something promising, something that felt like a doorway.

She waited.

Days passed.

Weeks passed.

The silence grew.

Nothing came.

And yet, when people looked at her, they saw someone who smiled.

She walked through her days with calm on her face, even while her thoughts were full of questions about timing, fairness, and purpose.

Why do some seeds grow quickly while others stay buried in the soil?

Why do some doors open easily while others remain closed no matter how long you knock?

For a long time, she thought these moments were failures.

But slowly, she began to see something different.

Perhaps life was not a race.

Perhaps it was a garden.

Some seeds grow in a week.

Some take years before breaking through the soil.

And some seeds need long winters underground before they are strong enough to bloom.

The girl realized that maybe her story was not about losing, falling behind, or missing opportunities.

Maybe it was simply about learning how to wait.

Not the kind of waiting filled with frustration, but the kind that is patient and quiet — the kind that trusts that what is meant to grow will eventually find its season.

So she stopped running.

She began learning.

She began growing.

And she decided that when her time finally came, she wanted to be ready for it.

Have you ever felt so left out that you start to think even God has left you?

After breaking up with your so-called boyfriend, you don’t seem able to move on, and you see him growing, and you start thinking maybe you were the reason he was stuck. When you pray, it feels like God is not working. When you talk to investors, they don’t seem interested, and you begin to think maybe you are the reason.

Sometimes you think you are the fool. Sometimes you think you are cursed, that nothing is working out. You fall sick in the rain when you were with others, yet none of them fall sick. Your projects are not feasible, your marks are not reliable, and you start regretting why you shared all your problems with that friend who acted close but never truly felt close. Was she ever genuine? Am I the only one who is cursed?

Let me pour all my thoughts out and pray. Those who don’t discourage me tell me to stop. What is this, Lord? Where am I heading? Should I cry, or should I even cry? I have no more tears left.

My friends don’t recognize me anymore not because they dont but because scars are too much to blind the little goodness you can see. I am invisible. The spotlight has become a dim light. I am falling, I am tearing, I am breaking. I can’t move anymore.

What is my purpose? Where do I belong? Am I in the wrong ecosystem, or do I just not appreciate what I have? Maybe I don’t fast anymore, or I no longer pray.

Help me, Father.