Step One: Sort Them Out

Locally harvested groundnuts come with stones, chaff, sticks and other things that must be removed before anything else can happen to them.

I met Gio on a Friday morning on the dusty roads of my home area, on my way to get myself breakfast. I am not a morning person. Mornings for me begin after 10 a.m., once I have spent two hours in bed, past waking, negotiating with the day. During that particular season, waking up carried its own weight, one I did not yet have the language for. But that Friday, I dragged myself out anyway, looking like a dishevelled bird making her way to the nearest shop for whatever protein she could grab.

When I met Gio, I looked like my problems: baggy sweatpants, an odd T-shirt scored at a Think Twice shop in Githurai, hair left to find its own qi and a tired expression across my entire being.

I could tell from the first glance that he was an academic. You know the type: a struggling afro, a beard that refused to realise its potential, square glasses patched onto the nose, a jaw hardened by too much brooding and, of course, a cardigan. Something about academia and cardigans—they are single-handedly preventing that piece of fashion from going extinct.

He made a brave effort to greet me, mouthing his words as though they were heavy and I, the recipient, would have to bat them gently back in his direction. He was polite. I like polite people. He called me Miss. I like people who call me Miss. They went to school, and I respect that.

You may not know this about me yet, but there is lore behind almost every skill I have. It is almost as though whenever I lack some small piece of knowledge, the universe calls its human resources department and assigns me a customer service attendant. That Friday, apparently, the lesson was how to roast groundnuts. But first, I had to sort out the man who had appeared to teach it.

You sort the good from the chaff quickly, standing over a pan. I did the same with Gio, standing on the road.

Stones out. Sticks out. Keep the ones that are actually nuts.

Step Two: Wash Them, Add A Little Salt

Place a little water in your pan, pima na macho, add salt and stir until it dissolves. Wet the groundnuts lightly, then drain the excess.

Gio asked how my morning was. I smiled at him faintly, just enough to tell him he had done enough to be allowed to hold my morning if I dared tell him how it truly was. He smiled back nervously and asked whether he could walk beside me, since I appeared to be in a hurry. I agreed, then asked how he was, what his name was, and whether he made a habit of accompanying women he had just met on their errands. He walked quietly beside me, shuffling. I wondered aloud if something was bothering him. He said yes, he had a heavy question on his mind. He asked what I would do if I were given $100,000.

Awkward. Just like academia guys. We all claim to abhor small talk, but this? What was his angle? Was this a filtering technique? Still, I was in a generous mood that morning, so I figured; why stop at letting a stranger walk with me? I might as well let him into my financial world too. So, trekking along the dusty roads of my home area and through supermarket aisles, we discussed investment options with enough moxie to excite your local investment broker.

I figured that since I had freely handed out financial advice, the least he could do was pay for my groceries. Lucky me, I didn’t even have to ask. Gio paid for my shopping and, like a good businessman, negotiated to walk me all the way home if I answered two more of his questions.

A little salt to help the nuts along. A little back-and-forth to help the morning along.

Step Three: Moderate Heat, and Karanga Gently

On moderate heat, begin stirring your groundnuts so they receive heat equally. The word “stir” does not quite capture it. Karanga sounds more like it. Or in French we say “rudo.” You rudo very gently, as the nuts absorb heat slowly.

I am a sucker for good conversation. I am. I am an even bigger sucker for a brilliant mind, and in the few minutes I had known Gio, he had revealed himself to be one. By the time we reached my apartment, neither of us appeared ready to end the conversation. Gio had a bag of fresh groundnuts from his grocer that he wanted roasted, and I did not know how to roast groundnuts. One plus one equals two. We decided to let the two problems solve each other.

My friend John says I am easy to kidnap, because why else would I invite a cardigan-wearing possible academic into my house minutes after meeting him? John also says I only do risky things with people I know I can beat. So, if you’re wearing a cardigan, know that I can tai-chi-kung-fu-karate your pullover threads into next week. But that’s according to John.

By that time, our conversation had wandered from investment portfolios to Kant, Nietzche, and Camus; what they might have made of modern dating, whether to be born is to be harmed, and whether marriage as an institution holds up ethically. It just kept going, moving easily between the absurd, the philosophical and the deeply personal. We karanga’d gently, the nuts absorbing heat slowly the same way you absorb a new person slowly. Gio told me why people from Alego never seem to return and invest in their home areas. He was from Nyakach, he said, and some of them did go back. We spent a good while dissecting why Alego’s midnight goings-on are a barrier to development, and why men from Nyakach have such soft voices.

The kitchen was too small for two people who had only just met. Each time one of us reached for the cooker, the other had to shift slightly, our shoulders almost touching. The pan scraped against the cooker as we stirred, and the warm, nutty smell began settling into the curtains.

Somewhere between discussions about Alego and Nyakach, Gio told me about his uncle’s marriage - the one he measured all others against. What he admired was not the usual performance of marriage roles correctly played, and responsibilities neatly divided. He wanted what his uncle and the wife had; a marriage that behaved like a friendship first, with everything else built on top of that. He said it quietly, almost embarrassed to say it out aloud, the way a man says something he has only ever written in a journal and never spoken. It was vulnerable, and sweet, and of course wrapped in a cardigan. I liked it.

For the first time that day, the conversation rested.

Step Four: The Nuts Are Done

You know groundnuts are ready by smell before you know it by sight. That warm, nutty, almost-there smell that tells you the heat has done its slow work.

Gio picked one groundnut from the pan and rolled it between his fingers before cracking it open. He blew on it, then placed it in my palm.

“Taste,” he said.

I did. It was warm, lightly salted and perfectly roasted. He watched my face carefully, as though the verdict mattered. When I nodded, he smiled.

“You have learned,” he said.

It was such a simple thing, but something about it softened the room. A few hours earlier, he had been a stranger on a dusty road. Now he was standing in my kitchen, teaching me something his people had probably taught him, while the evening gathered quietly outside. For a moment, the day felt less like an encounter and more like a memory we had somehow entered before it was finished.

Time, though, is the one thing we are always sure to run short of. So is my social battery.

Soon, it was dusk, the sky doing that soft Nairobi thing where the light turns the colour of chai ya saa kumi before disappearing altogether. I had a ghost writing shift waiting for me that night, so I saw Gio off and sent him on his way, a small paper twist of roasted groundnuts pressed into his hand for the road.

What I had not told Gio, during that whole warm, meandering day, was that I had been in a low place for weeks before that Friday; the kind of low that makes even a 10 a.m. start feel like an achievement. I do not know what I expected from that morning’s walk to buy breakfast. Certainly not groundnuts, and certainly not Kant. But something about that day, the walking, the karanga, the soft-voiced philosophy, a stranger telling me earnestly about the kind of marriage he wanted, gave me enough air to get through the next day.

And then the week after that.

Years later, I still pull that Friday out and sit with it for a while. I have come to believe that some things happen to us for exactly that reason, and nothing more. Gio tried to reach me in the days that followed. I did not answer.

I could say that I was afraid of good things. John would certainly say so. But the less flattering truth is that I preferred the completeness of that Friday to the uncertainty of whatever might have followed it. Writers sometimes do that. We choose the clean shape of the story over the untidy possibilities of living it. Perhaps a less golden Tuesday would have changed the memory. Perhaps it would have made it richer. I will never know.

Some of my Alego people would probably say Gio’s timing was cursed. Quietly, I think it was the opposite: dosed exactly right, and no more. I still think of that Friday with a warm, uncomplicated kind of fondness.

I have now lived long enough at my current place to trash talk my old place without someone interrupting with, “Na umetoka Wendani tu juzi.” Wendani was a strange but happy place.

We came to Nairobi at seventeen, eighteen, called by the promise of an education and the whisper of a life we had not yet lived. University life far from home. Our first time away from the watchful eye of our parents. The first real whiff of freedom as we understood it. And there is no better place in the world to drown in that freedom than Nairobi. My adulthood as I have known it started in Wendani.

Revellers thrive there and its economy is held together by scores of academic writers toiling through the night, trying to keep the community afloat. And wash wash guys. They are the true MVPs. They keep the community running. And then destroy it every weekend when they drown in drinks and merriment; the living, breathing embodiment of “let me answer that question on Monday.”

Wendani was the place where you met your friend in a matatu at six in the morning on your way to work, yet they lived in Rongai.

Miss, unafanya nini huku?

You’d wonder. Then you’d notice the suspicious-looking fella beside them and everything made sense. Because Wendani was the place where, despite the great distance, Thika road traffic and Lang’ata road jams, paramours still found their way to each other, proving the urban proverb: if they wanted to, they would. From Rongai in Kajiado, through Nairobi CBD, all the way to Kiambu. A former victim of my passion used to call Wendani The City of Angels. The Rongai people can confirm.

And the love in Wendani was considerate. Lovers walked together. They held hands. One pushed the supermarket trolley at Magunas while the other filled it. Then, at the counter, they locked hands. Our money. Lovers fought loudly on the road after one too many drinks. One would storm off dramatically while the other stood there calling out, “Sasa unaniacha pekee yangu?” And somehow, every single time, they came back, took each other’s hand and staggered home.

In Wendani, I loved a man who deliberately scheduled naps into our dates because I was permanently exhausted from work. One who picked me up from my workplace so I wouldn’t walk home alone at night. I had lovers who came to my rescue when my sleepy roommate — who slept like the dead, bless her — did not hear me knocking late at night. Love that showed up. Love that carried things.

Rent was affordable in Wendani, which is the good news. The bad news is that affordable rent in Nairobi is a package deal. You pay less, and in return, your building is managed by a caretaker who is running his own priorities first and your building second. Sometimes third. One of them once came to my house one evening to borrow water, explaining calmly that he had forgotten to pump water for the whole building. Sir. The whole building does not have water because you are slacking on the job, but somehow you think there is enough water in my house to share around? He then mentioned that his girlfriend from Rongai had visited and she needed to bathe. Star-crossed lovers, these ones. Madem hamuwezi kosa maji kwa storage, he explained. Apparently, among the many things women are expected to have at all times - patience, peace, cooking oil, emotional intelligence - water is also on the list.

There was always something for everyone. For the late-night reveller, a food joint open at 2am. For the churchgoer, a church every 300 metres. We walked to Kenyatta University because iko tu hapo mbele. What people call walking distance in this country should be criminalised. Githurai was our one-stop shop and we were theirs. Hehe. We were our own ecosystem.

Wendani was the place of my first adult love and my first proper heartbreak. The place where I dated a man who played hard guy in the streets but listened to Bahati Bukuku songs whenever life defeated him — and still made us dinner [that story is here]. I got heartbroken and broke hearts in equal measure. I took our building caretaker to the local chief for keeping a troublesome cockerel that refused to respect sleep near my house, learned how bargain for lower rent prices and get groceries on credit. Somewhere between all that, I became someone.

Because that is what Wendani was. The place where we made money, made merry, and made friends. Rent was affordable, water was available when the caretaker remembered to pump it, and lovers were considerate. What more could one want in Nairobi?

But there comes a time when the roaming spirits of our ancestors wake up and whisper that it is time to leave. So, you pack your belongings and move somewhere else along Thika Road. Because leaving Thika Road is almost unheard of. Even if you got a job in Nakuru you would somehow convince yourself that the commute is manageable. Such is the nature of that place. It has its charms and they take hold.

The last time I was in a romantic relationship, Nairobi did not have an expressway. And like the expressway, that relationship cost way more than it was worth.

I know you are still stuck on that detail. That it has been almost ten years since I was last in a relationship. I must assure you it is not because of a lack of trying. I have tried. In fact, the last date I went on, the guy was not even courteous enough to greet me.

Back then, before Nairobi got an expressway and running clubs became a personality trait, I dated a man with very big arms. We worked in the same strange Thika Road economy of academic writing. An entire industry built by intelligent Kenyan youths writing essays for foreign students before artificial intelligence arrived and swallowed everybody’s rent money. He was 24. I was 21. We were young, overworked, underpaid and constantly surviving. Thika Road was not exactly the natural habitat for softness. Everybody was hustling. Everybody was tired. Everybody was one delayed payment away from emotional collapse. So when love appeared there, in between long commutes, power outages, pending deadlines and smoky bedsitters, it felt almost holy. Like life briefly apologising for being difficult. And honestly, if someone is going to break your heart, the least they can have is the physique of Luanda Magere and a good hairline.

We had a sweet, innocent relationship. There was a lot of hand holding involved. A lot of walking together. Earlier relationships are tender like that. You do not need much. Sometimes just a reassuring text, somebody touching your knee softly, somebody saying umefika? and suddenly life feels manageable again. And my life at the time was not manageable.

I had recently been kicked out of my parents’ place over disagreements about school and life direction. I was juggling work and university at the same time. I had very few friends. At some point I had even experienced a brief season of homelessness after another relationship collapsed spectacularly. No, I am not Calamity Jane. It was simply a season of calamities. As much I desired calm and stability, I was willing to accept anything that looked like it. Even big arms.

Let us call him Siaka.

For the current Nairobi dating stories series which i am working on, every male character of note will be called Siaka

I will say this about Siaka. The man had taste. His bedsitter was cozy, in the way only a young man with slightly improved income from online writing can manage. White walls. A yellow and purple spiked ceiling which I can only describe as Ruiru gothic architecture, an aesthetic Nairobi landlords have perfected and inflicted upon many of us innocent tenants for decades. A comfortable bed. A fancy clothes stand. A study desk and revolving chair. Enough floor space for Siaka to do push ups with me balanced on his back. And one stray cockroach that ran around like it paid rent. It was good room and I loved visiting.

One evening, I was cozy in that good room when Alikiba entered our relationship. Yes, the Tanzanian artist. Brilliant fashion sense. Suspiciously good jawline. It’s your birthday tonight, Agizia dorime. That one.

I had just bought my first proper smartphone with my own money and reluctantly joined Instagram. At the time I genuinely believed serious girls working three jobs to survive did not need social media. But eventually curiosity defeated me. Twitter had already been introduced to me by an old friend who practically curated my timeline himself before handing me the account like custody papers.

This is how some people have loved me in life. With small acts of arrangement. With someone deciding that you deserve a place in the world and quietly building you one. I have been loved well outside of romantic limitations.

So there I was, new to Instagram, still naïve enough to leave notifications loudly displaying on my screen.

My phone was charging next to Siaka’s laptop while he worked when a notification flashed across the screen boldly and shamelessly:

Alikiba (blue check mark) followed you.

Siaka saw it before I did. He stared at the phone. Leaned back slowly in his chair. Exhaled like a man who had just discovered corruption in government. Then stood up quietly and started washing dishes.

I, meanwhile, remained foolish and cheerful reading a book.

A few minutes later my friend Bilal called to announce excitedly that he had returned to Kenya from Dubai. Naturally I became equally excited because I enjoy my friends and because people returning from abroad always behave like conquering heroes. I kept chattering away happily, completely unaware that the atmosphere in that bedsitter had changed dramatically.

Then Siaka started playing Bahati Bukuku songs. And singing along. Groggily.

Now, if you grew up in a Kenyan household, you know Bahati Bukuku music is never played casually. Nobody has ever put on Bahati Bukuku because they are having a good day. That music means spiritual warfare has entered the chat. Bahati’s songs are basically her reading scripture and wailing while at it.

At first I ignored it.

Then the landlady came by collecting garbage fees. After arguing with her briefly about why he should pay for garbage bags he barely used, Siaka suddenly snapped, his voice, a glacier wrapped volcano:

“Woman, tafadhali, achana na mimi.”

Woman. That is how I knew we were in trouble. Because when he was upset, people became ‘woman’ and ‘man’. No names. Just gender and disappointment. The landlady left muttering insults under her breath and Siaka slammed the door shut dramatically. I asked him if everything was okay, to which he turned to me.

“Muulize Alikiba.”

I blinked.

“What does Alikiba have to do with us?”

“One minute Alikiba is following you. The next minute men from Dubai are calling you. Do you think mimi ni fala?”

‘Following me where?’ I was confused.

Reader, I want you to understand something important. While this man was busy fighting Alikiba, I personally considered the Dubai returnee the more realistic threat. He too had big arms. And we had history. But fine. Kenyans have always preferred discussing distant problems while the real danger sits quietly nearby. Meanwhile Bahati Bukuku continued wailing in the background like somebody’s aunt during deliverance.

I checked my phone and indeed Alikiba had followed me on IG and even liked one photo. Siaka had already opened my notifications and conducted preliminary investigations. Then came the interrogation.

“How do you know him?”

“I do not know him.”

“Do not lie to me.”

“But sasa nitamjua by force?”

Now, I am a lakeside babe. If you back us into a corner, just know it will probably be a fair fight. Not many men are used to that. Lakeside babes will match your energy and may teach you a thing or two while at it. You may have words for us, but we will have essays for you with Venn diagrams to match. Fortunately for Siaka, I liked him too much. Also, he had very big arms. So instead of fighting, I allowed him ample room to perform his jealousy. Which somehow annoyed him even more because he knew I was going easy on him.

Eventually, after enough huffing and puffing, he sat beside me gently and asked:

“Babe, si uniambie tu ukweli.”

And that is how I found myself explaining social media management strategy to a suspicious man in a bedsitter at 9pm. I explained that celebrity accounts are often handled by social media managers who randomly follow people hoping for follow-backs and engagement. That the follow meant nothing. This was back then, before the expressway, before social media management became a full-time profession with analytics and strategy decks. That if anything, I was the victim here, being baited for engagement.

Slowly, his shoulders relaxed.

Then I pulled his head onto my chest and reassured him gently that siwezi cheat. I was faithful. Also, Alikiba did not even have bigger arms than him. Also he shaved his head while Siaka had a full head of hair. That seemed to heal him. He kissed my hands softly and apologised for doubting me. We ate dinner peacefully. The Bahati Bukuku music stopped.

Bilal, for the record, had returned from Dubai with nothing but a new accent and opinions about Nairobi traffic. He was never a threat.

But I did not tell Siaka that.

Siaka and I did not last the year. These things rarely survive their own turning points. The jealousy never left. It just learned to sit quietly in corners, waiting. It was like Alikiba had walked into that bedsitter one evening and simply decided to stay. Like Wenger at Arsenal. Technically gone. Still somehow present in every argument.

Till date, one of my first date questions is whether someone listens to Bahati Bukuku. Because that is grounds!

At least once a year, I go out on a bad date.

In this city of innumerable wrongs, the fates decided that my dating life will be a circus. Dating in your late 20s in Nairobi is not so glamorous. You pay the price for having a fully developed frontal lobe. The dating pool is a sparse crop of vapid bumbling idiots…and married men. Like many people, dating apps were my last resort. No one dreams of entering a marketplace where strangers pretend to have interesting lives. But then again, we live in interesting times.

After a few swipes on that buzzing empowerment app which encourages women to make the first move, I agreed to meet with a man. Let’s call him Siaka. Suspiciously well-curated profile. Nairobi confidence. The kind that comes from never being told: you are actually not that impressive. We were to meet on a Sunday afternoon. I had nothing else to do, so I said sawa.

Siaka is nonchalant. He cancels the date once because he does not feel like disrupting his other plans. He replies to messages after 48 hours like he is busy curing cancer somewhere, and my bids for connection are a mild inconvenience. Regardless, I am bored and have never said no to free food. Also, I need material. And you people need to know what is out here.

I do not dress up for this date. Dressing up is for people you like. It involves wilful suffering; good underwear, beautiful dresses, well-arranged hair, controlled breathing, small bites of food, and channelling Beyoncé’s I woke up like this. For Siaka: jeans, a bra under my top, earrings. These will do.

We meet at a café in Westlands. Not because it is special. Because it is there, and it is Sunday, and that is exactly the kind of afternoon this is shaping up to be…unremarkable, with free parking.

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I arrive on time. I am a lady. Ladies keep time. He arrives ten minutes late and tries to make a joke about it. I see him before he sees me. Walking in slowly, scanning the room like he owns equity in the establishment. I wave gently. Like a lady. I even stand up to meet him. And because I believe in consent, I ask, “Can I get a hug?” He gives me a side hug, like the ones you give your old auntie in the village when she reminds you that she carried you as a child and insists that you greet her.

He leans back on the café chair. You know the ones that are small, deliberately uncomfortable, designed for people who order and leave. He has arranged himself across it like a man who owns a ranch. His face is expressionless. Eye contact that is less I see you and more I am deciding something about you. He is as plain as day, and dull too. The sunglasses he wore did the heavy lifting.

He sits and proceeds to fiddle with his phone for about three minutes. No “sorry.” No “just a second.” No acknowledgement that someone is sat across from him. I watch him patiently, waiting for him to complete whatever ritual this is. Then he looks up and asks, “Did you order?” And the voices in my head wake up immediately.

Nisalimie mbwa wewe. Sijatoka kwako. I say to myself, with the disgust of a traditional African parent meeting a to-be-in-law who has tattoo sleeves and nose rings. But I smile. It is only five minutes into the date and I think I have some semblance of courtesy. My home training was well done.

“Hi. How are you?” I ask

“Good. Good,” he mumbles, still half inside his phone.

Somewhere in my mind, my best friend’s voice asks comically: Where did you find this one?

I ask about his Saturday. He had mentioned he was attempting a swimming feat, a few kilometres in water. This man talks. For fifteen minutes. Nonstop. About swimming. About discipline. About pushing limits. About the human spirit. I nod. I sip my drink. I make the appropriate mmhms and wows, that’s crazy at the right intervals. At some point, he comments on my glass of water.

“It’s tiny. Looks unfortunate.”

I pause. Because now I am curious. Not about him, but about his upbringing. The decisions. The moments where someone should have said, let’s try again.

The sun comes out slowly, pushing through the cold afternoon. It lands perfectly where I am seated, warm against my skin. So I shift my attention. If the conversation cannot be enjoyed, at least the weather can.

Siaka is a data analytics guy. A numbers and systems guy. You know the type, a bit pompous, a bit knowy, got some lip to him, and a bad gait from sitting too long staring at computers. He is still at that stage of self-discovery where he erroneously wears hobbies as personality traits and confuses a new job title with a success marker. He makes superfluous declarations, like how he would not consider someone who is not into sports, since himself, he does many sports.

You can tell a lot from someone on a first date. A bad listener is bad in bed. One who wears sunglasses indoors is either a thief who cleans up nicely or deeply in debt. If they sit like they own the restaurant stool, they probably did not have many toys growing up. Okay, I am exaggerating. I offer him a faint grin like he is telling me about dinosaurs.

Thirty minutes in, he says, “If you see a waiter, call them.”

I almost laugh. Not because it is funny. But because it is now becoming art. Bad art. I am watching a perfect pas de deux: someone full of themselves and someone who thinks they are interesting. The date is as riveting as an NTV special on soil erosion.

At some point between his fourth unsolicited opinion and my third sip of water, I reckon that I could be at home right now, watching tiktoks in my house clothes. Unbothered. No mmhms and aaahs at boring tirades of self adoration. No managing the airspace of a man who has not once asked me a question about myself. How far I have fallen. But even then, even a fallen angel has principles. So I ended the date at my earliest convenience. It took the classic move, looking at my watch and immediately wearing a concerned expression while stating that I had to be somewhere else. The trick is not to give too much detail. That way, it is believable.

I all too eagerly leave the establishment. And on my way out, I cannot help but think to myself: if he had asked me what I bring to the table, Nyasachiel, I would have stabbed someone in the buttocks.

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Red Right Hand (Peaky Blinders Theme)

Thomas Shelby is a sad man.

His brothers are dead. So is his wife, and daughter Ruby, and beloved Aunty Polly. Now, Ada is dead. Charlie is out fighting a world war. The only ones left are a son who is a maverick trying so hard to fit in his father’s footsteps and making a bad job of it…Uncle Charlie…Curly…Johnny Dogs…and Peggy, who hands Tommy guns in the middle of Birmingham streets like it’s casual.

Tommy is haunted. First by ghosts, then by memory, and finally, by the realisation that neither is leaving him soon. The perfect recipe for writing a book. Oh yes, Thomas Shelby O.B.E. is writing a book. Like all poets, and people sad at 3 am, of which Tommy is both, he is now a writer. Tommy writes to confront his demons, but he is stuck somewhere. The story will not move forward until he does. And just like many authors, the people around Tommy do not understand why The Gypsy King is writing a book. As if they have not known him all his life…as if he has ever done anything conventional. He is a gangster boss who became parliamentarian and now he is writing a book.

Peaky Blinders: The Immortal Man does not have punchy dialogue like the rest of the Peaky Blinders series. It is just Tommy talking to us throughout the film in his sad monotone, with a cigarette and sadness. Here we see a vulnerable man wishing for his end. The cast and directors say that the film was a gift to fans. Everyone around Tommy is dead or on their way. Some gift they gave us. Yet, the only person who wants to be dead is not. The fates had already ruled that only Thomas Shelby can kill Thomas Shelby.

And so it came to be that his blood, his maverick of a son pulls the trigger that launches the bullet that has Tommy’s name curved on it…curved by a woman who Tommy slept with while reminiscing his first love…the woman, the blackbird who Aunt Polly said would bring death. Tommy wants to die so bad. He welcomes the blackbird home. Feeds her. Beds her.

Time is still a big factor in Tommy’s life. There is a shadow of a clock right from the beginning. Tommy is still shooting and killing things…pheasants this time. The last person he killed was his brother Arthur. When a dog is bad, you take it out. That’s Arthur, Tommy’s dog. He still smokes…everywhere, anywhere. You realise that Tommy never left the battlefield. He has been dead for a while, but the gods cursed him with life. The chosen one, he was.

Kaulo says what we are all thinking; we have not seen Tommy smile in a long time. In fact, we forgot that he could smile. In Peaky Blinders, all the main characters are sad. We are only told about their happiness in past tense … in history. The great sad Birmingham. And to commiserate and drown their sorrows, they all find their way to The Garrison pub.

Tommy still makes promises. Perhaps the most consequential being to Ada in her death…that from this bad will come so good.

The new Peaky blinders are children…messy children. ‘By order of the Peaky blinders’ is missing the ring Arthur gave to it. Negotiations at The Garrison no longer have the same dramatic flair. It’s simply a warmongering Beckett being the snake he is around clueless children. Remember when a man came into the pub asking to speak to a man named Shelby and got met with three Shelbys. Three cigarette-smoking Shelbys. Man! The badassery was off the charts.

We have a new Aunt Polly. The aunt of a wayward son. Polly without principles. She profits from the sadness of widows and families… and sends her nephew to kill the king. Having Duke shoot Tommy was diabolical. When they said only Tommy can kill Tommy, they meant it. Man hands misery to man. Duke will forever be known as the man who killed Tomas Shelby.

In the bleak midwinter, the king dies. His final words are from a poem that has echoed through the series, stemming from a promise made years ago on a battlefield, honouring the loss and resilience experienced by the Shelby family.

The king donned his Peaky Blinders uniform one last time. Rom Baro rode through the streets of Brimingham for the last time. He had his last dance, fighting in the mud with pigs, climbing out a tunnel alive, one last trick up his sleeve, one final stand. And we hear the eerie chimes of the Red Right Hand one last time. The king died in the hands of his son. Power is only given to those who are prepared to lower themselves to pick it up. There is a new king. A new Rom Baro. But there will never ever be another like Thomas Shelby.

And from now on, when we hear the eerie tunes of the Red Right Hand we will forever picture a man in a well-tailored suit, a flat hat, a pocket watch and a consequential gait. The man whose suits are on the house or the house burns down. The man who thought music in pubs is a bad idea. The son of a fortune teller who stole horses for a fortune. Who sparred intellectually with Churchill, dined with kings, fought in the mud with gangsters and danced with ghosts. Birmingham’s mob king who wrote a book. Thomas Shelby OBE. The immortal man.

I am sat in a matatu beside a young bloke who is smiling at his phone while his fingers fastidiously type away. On the screen, I catch a glimpse of many emojis, mostly red hearts and laughing emojis. Yes, I look at people’s phones in public transport. He types fast, presses send, then holds his phone to his chest and smiles at the air. That must have been a risky text. His phone starts ringing. Whatever he sent has caught. Imenasa.

‘Hey babe’ the words run out of his mouth and his chest rises and falls rapidly. And I think to myself, Damn, No one has called me babe in a long time. Not even by mistake. My smile fades as I turn away to look outside the window muttering, mtaachana tu.

It is a Friday evening, and I am on my way home after a long, painful slog at the plantation. My employer has used me like a borrowed pen… to the ever end. Right now, I would very much like to get home, lie down, and take a breather from paying taxes and other horrors of adulting life. Adulting has to be the shukisha of all shukisha moments. The rain that has been gathering since I fled the office finally begins to fall giving Mr. Babe here the perfect backdrop for his romance with Ms. Babe on the other end of the line, and me, the perfect soundtrack for memories I have been trying to bury.

The day I met him, it rained. A quick unserious Nairobi rain. The kind that comes, drenches you, and disappears like it was never there. I had refused to seek shelter with other people crowding on verandas and store fronts. I have aura, and aura cannot be seen running towards verandas with crowds. Aura walks in the rain. So, when I walked into a Carrefour outlet – wet, slightly annoyed, but still committed to steeze – rummaging through my tote bag for money for my groceries, I bumped into him. Towering. Solid. Smiling like he already knew something I did not.

Neurons fired, lightning struck. Cupid’s arrow struck me right on my left shoulder blade.

This tower of a man looked at me, then at the blouse clinging to my skin, then back at me with a quizzical smile. I was finished. A goner.

He spoke well. That was the problem. Not just well…but, dangerously well. I measure a man by the way he herds a conversation; how he turns it into an orchestra; like a conductor. One minute we are talking about my wet blouse, the next about government, then books, then nonsense, then everything. Before I knew it, we were talking like people who had already undressed each other. And eventually, we did. For a man who loved dressing to the nines, we spent a great deal of time naked. He had a way with words and wielding these like a conductor at the orchestra, he could make it rain. I called him Rainmaker.

He was beautiful in the way that makes you forgive things before they happen. His laughter melted my heart. Still does. Passion dripped from him; from the way he spoke to the way he touched me. He had the body of a Greek god, and the emotional range of a stone.

Logic, he said. Everything must make sense.

So I borrowed this logic and bent myself around it to make sense of the places his shallow self could not reach. The places that did not fit him. Maybe it was his way with words or how I shone bright when we were together. Maybe it was our rain dances. It felt like something that should not end.

We never actually went out in the way people go out. With reservations and the careful negotiation of where and when, the performance of being seen together somewhere that is not a bedroom or couch or the inside of a life kept deliberately small. There were no dinners. No dates. Just us existing in pockets between his house, my house, between sheets and conversations, and the particular silence that forms between people who have learned each other’s breathing.

One evening we are sat on the floor of his living room, backs against a couch, a scrabble board spread between us. I watched him for a long minute as he rearranged the tiles on his rack taking too long to play. Then, leaning back, voice loose and casual, too casual, the way people get when a thing matters, I asked;

“Let’s go out.”

He doesn’t look up. “Out where?”

“Dinner. Somewhere nice.”

He chuckles, warm, effortless, the laugh of a man who has never once felt cornered. “You want to leave all this,” he gestures, vague and generous, at the house, the game, us, “to go sit somewhere and pay for food we can eat here?” I laugh. Of course I laugh. He is funny. He has always been funny. Funny enough that sometimes you laugh before you realise what you’re not saying. I am silent for a while.

“We’re good here,” he says. “Why complicate things?”

Complicate.

Such a small word to carry so much. He goes back to the game like nothing happened.

The beginning of our end started with a small itch. A question. What are we? This question was that little scratch on the roof of my mouth that would heal if only I stopped tonguing it, but I wouldn’t. I danced around it in conversation, circling around it like an Etruscan wolf surrounding its prey. Then I dropped it. He rolled his eyes and looked at me as if was condemned. Quietly, almost lazily, he made it clear sex and dating are mutually exclusive in his books – very different. And he did not mix the two. And the conversation ended in a don’t-call-us, we-will-call-you type of way. Just like that, I was out. Put out like a wet mop left outside to dry.

I tried calling him once. Just once. Trying to sound normal, like I was not unravelling. He did not pick up the phone. I texted him too. A simple message asking how he was doing. He read it. Blue ticks. Silence. Then I sent another one. Double-texting is a big taboo in our generation, almost like cursing in church. But feelings will turn you into a heretic. So, I listened to a few songs by Wakadinali and got emboldened to show shame the middle finger, and I wrote a paragraph. The kind that is honest in the worst says. Lengthy epistles reminding the person on the other end that they are your sun, moon, and everything in between. The long message begging for things to go back to what they were and accusing oneself of madness. Messaging that is very detrimental to the brand. Then I waited for my dignity and pride to assert themselves. To remind me that I was not supposed to be affected by a man who had since forgotten my existence. Thirty minutes later, I was still waiting. So, I pressed send. Two minutes later, he reacted with a thumbs up. Damn! Being left on read is one thing. Double-texting is another. But thumbs up-ing a whole love confession? That is violence. Another text and I would become a poet.

I learned quickly. That Nairobi is for business. Should you find love, focus on the business. That sometimes you must develop amnesia to survive. Wear an iron heart when going outside; even when inside it is glass. Just in case you meet people who like breaking things.

The conductor yells Shukisha and I realise that I have gotten to my stop. Mr. Babe is still smiling into his phone. The rain is heavier now. And I still have my aura so I will walk in the rain. As I ease past Mr. Babe on his phone I whisper quietly into the air, mtaachana tu.

To an old friend,

I missed you today. Not because it was another day of my life. But because it was a day I would have loved to have you next to me.

I thought about you today. About the many nights that we fought wars with feelings. Nights when we sat in silence and those that we talked into the morning. Nights when we took long walks and stray dogs stared at us as if they knew our troubled hearts. Dogs can smell pain, you know.

You were a light in my life during the darkest period of my life. You saw me bludgeoned by circumstance. Lost, injured and hurt by chance. I screamed to the heavens, loudly screamed. And the universe gave me you. You tried to turn my nightmares to dreams. You taught me that love lies in the smiles of the broken. I could talk to you and everything would be okay. The world would slow down when I hugged you. Noises quietened. The stars shone brighter and we would go shopping for ice scream in the middle of the night. Dealer’s choice, you would say.

I learnt to taste and love. Be vulnerable with you. Tell you things I would never tell anyone. I learnt to hold you, keep you close, while you were still mine. Mine to hold.

When you left, I had to learn, learn that you would not be there anymore. Teach myself to bid you goodbye. Treasure the memories because you were gone. I think I have accepted that you are gone, but not fully enough to stop the occasional thought of you and honestly, I do not think I want to. I lost you and I do not think I want to lose your memory too.

I am grateful for the times we shared. These memories I hold dear.

I am sorry for the times I did not appreciate you enough. I will regret these moments for a long time.

When we first became friends, I never thought I would be writing this letter. But no one ever walks into a friendship expecting it to end. There are times when I feel your presence at my side. There are times when I hear you say it will be alright. There are times when I see your face in the crowd. And I turn around. There are times when I miss you and my heart begins to ache. And times when I feel strong and I know I can finally move on.

I like to think that you are okay there where you are. That you are happy. I like to believe that someday we will find each other again. When we do, hug me like you lost me. Let me feel your weight. Don’t be mean.

No matter how much time there is in this life, I think of you from time to time. And remember you with a smile.

Yours,

Loch.

I try to be funny when I’m writing. Often, I ask myself, ‘How do I balance this sadness with some gangsta lines that will make readers laugh?’ Because I don’t want you leaving my blog feeling sad; I want you reflective, maybe even smiling, thinking she’s funny. So, am I hitting the mark? Let me know in the comments. I love hearing from you – real people with real feelings, who love avocados and are mad at their current prices. I hope it’s not just AI bots reading this!

Today, I’ve decided to take a different approach. I’m daring myself to be vulnerable. Eish! That word is a big word for us. Vulnerability often feels like letting someone see your sock drawer without first removing the ones with holes. So here I am, without my usual book of gangsta lines, talking about big feelings.

I’m happy that I’m here, writing to you after a year-long hiatus. Inspiration has been tough to come by. The demands of earning a living have weighed heavy on me. In the endless slog of battling Thika road traffic and exchanging ‘kind regards’ throughout the day, inspiration has been scarce. Life has felt... monotonous. These days, Nairobi’s charm has dimmed, especially when your life is just a cycle of office-home-office. The monotony eats away at your soul. Your imagination dims. It’s a bit like taking photos with an itel phone camera — everything looks so 2012.

Now, I look for joy in the little things. Like the babies who wave ‘hi’ on the matatu or stray dogs that walk me home, their silent company keeping me safe as they hope for a snack. I watch sunrises, at least for five minutes, before I rush off to Thika road traffic. I hum to myself when I am cooking and dance when I am cleaning. Twitter witches say you need to invite joy into your home through dancing … I think they might be onto something. I hug my friends frequently and we go for comedy nights together. We laugh a lot and there is enough joy to go around. Gratitude to my friends who make Nairobi worth living in. Thank you for air.

I am also sad. I was one of those delulu girlies who ate grapes and ran around with a suitcase on New Year’s Eve, hoping to manifest something special. But it seems like my wishes got abducted by the DCI or couldn’t pay KRA taxes at the airport. I blame Ruto really…because si everything is his fault, no? I even bought a year planner for 2024… but now, I think I’ll buy something else next year. My therapist (yes, I’m one of those people now) keeps asking me to introspect: how long have I been sad? What am I sad about?

Honestly, I’m not sure I’m sad; I’m just tired. Tired and in desperate need of a win. Life’s burdens are coming at me fast, one after another, sometimes multiple curveballs at a go, and I’m just looking for some respite. You probably want to hear more about these burdens, don’t you? I am not at that level of vulnerability yet. Maybe in the next post.

Fearful — that’s another feeling I’ve been sitting with. In my body lives this condition doctors call PCOS, and it has been relentless. I’ve had to quit my 8-year relationship with the gym, a space I loved. This year, I was determined to see some results, but PCOS had other plans. Again, I blame Ruto really, because si everything is his fault? PCOS hit me with a 30+ day period, my body laughing at the meds meant to stop it. But here I am, better now, thanks to a friendly doctor. Still, the malady has drained both my accounts and my medical insurance, leaving me with hope and prayers as my medical cover. Guys, nataka muniombee.

But I’m hopeful. I’m hopeful that I’ll write more in the coming weeks. Do any of you have vacation money to send me? I promise, inspiration can be found on a beach in Diani. Test me with your money and watch the magic happen! If not, send me one of those Nairobi lawyers — we all know heartbreaks are goldmines for creatives. I’m hopeful that the friendships I’m nurturing will endure and last through the hazards to come. I am hopeful that deals zitaivana. I am manifesting good governance for this country (God knows we need it). I’m also manifesting a wine-red Toyota Auris and someone to read poetry to me as the sun rises on a Sunday morning. I am hopeful that life gets better.

Flannery O’Connor once wrote, “Fiction is about everything human, and we are made out of dust. If you scorn getting yourself dusty, you shouldn’t try to write fiction.” Sometimes I look at the dusty life we’re living in Nairobi and think, maybe that’s the point. We’re all a little dusty, a little messy and maybe that’s what makes life worth writing about.

So, here I am, a little dusty, a little tired, but still hopeful. Because at the end of the day, we all need a bit of hope, a bit of laughter, and a bit of dust. And maybe, that’s what makes this story ours. And hey, if you have any spare vacation money lying around, I am ready to find inspiration on a beach in Diani. Just saying.

Many are the letters that I have written to my father, some in my head and some on paper. Letters that he will never receive. Letters that I will never send. Letters that he will never know exist.

I do not want to torture you with the details about me and my father’s relationship. All I can say is that ours is a sad, pathetic, painfully numbing tale, one that would make my therapist call her therapist. Not that I can afford a therapist. For now, my therapy plan includes cat videos on Instagram, the ever-chaotic KOT and occasional strolls at Karura forest. This combination works as erratically as KPLC.

I digress. I was talking about the letters I write to my father, these letters that he will never read. Today, I wanted to write another letter to him and have you read it on his behalf. I wanted to ask him many questions; questions from a child to a father.

I want to write a letter to my father to ask him why he stopped singing. You see I like sleep and ever since I was little, I always woke up to the sound of my father’s voice. At first cock crow, every day and without fail, my father’s voice would travel across the thin walls of our home’s many rooms. Booming, he would sing and worship in baritone. And we would all cover our heads and go deeper in our duvets to block his voice out, in vain attempts to enjoy the last minutes of that sweet morning sleep. The bravado of his morning devotions were akin to the Nigerian Joyous Celebration concerts on YouTube. In those days, we did not have YouTube, we had my father. To top it off he would pray, loudly too.

‘Si aombe kimoyomoyo!’ My brother, Brown, would whine.

Our choir master would then arise and go about his duties in the home. He would be outside trimming the hedge and you would hear all about Joshua and the walls of Jericho in song. He would be carrying jerry cans of water into the house from the storage tank and you would hear all about the 12 disciples in song and whistling, hitting all the right notes. These songs are still loud in my head. Now that I remember, the only times I ever saw a calm or merry expression on my father’s face are the times he sang in the morning. Somewhere along the line, he just stopped singing. And we did not notice. We also did not care. We got to sleep better in the mornings. We did not notice that he had stopped singing. And now, I want to know why he stopped singing.

I want to write a letter to my father to ask him about the church, his church. You see, my father had his own church. He built it himself, from five members (himself, myself, my mother, my brother, and his best friend) to a large congregation. I cannot remember much of how he preached. I was too young and church services always seemed too long, dull and boring. They still do. Now that I think of it, I never attended any of them despite being in the church compound for most of them. The only reason I went to church was because every Sunday, my mother would dress us up and take us to church. Brown would disappear immediately after the 30 minutes Sunday school session. I would have to wait until past 3 pm, long after the service was done and father remained to counsel and talk to members of the congregation who wished to call upon his spiritual guidance. I would wait long after my mother and the rest of the congregation had gone off to their homes. I would wait for my father. When he was done fulfilling his pastoral responsibilities, he would carry me on his shoulders and we would go home. He would buy me soda on the way. My father was my hero and first friend as a child. In my eyes, he could do no wrong. But that was before I got to understand who he really was.

Then the church began to crumble. Slowly and slowly, the congregation waned. Soon, he had only a dozen believers in his congregation. Shortly after, the church closed down and our home’s choir master lost his first love—the church. He had lost his faith in people long before that. This was at the same time that I was discovering that our home was quite the jungle and living there was like walking on a forest full of landmines. Many of these landmines exploded. There were many casualties, multiple times. It was at the same time that as children we learned that avoiding the master of this jungle was key to our survival, at least some of the time. We did a little dance every time he left home for he travelled a lot. We did not want to hear him. And surely, we did not want to see him.

I want to ask him how it felt losing his first love. I want to know if it hurt. Did he cry? I want to ask him what it felt like walking every day past the building he had called church for so many years on his way to the town center. Did he look at the building every time he passed or looked on straight ahead as though that building did not exist? Did he take another route instead? I want to know what it felt like having to look at what used to be church benches now being rained on and rotting away in the compound of our home. It would be some time before he ordered us to use the wood from these benches as firewood. Maybe it was at that point that he quit holding on. Maybe that is when he stopped singing for his heavenly father.

There are many questions that the child in me wants to ask my father. There is a bluebird in me that wants to forget the past and come out and sing, merrily like my father used to. But I cannot let her. There is a little girl in me that wants to be carried again on my father’s shoulders on walks home. A part of me wants to go back to a simpler time, a time when my father sang in the morning. But too much time has passed. The trauma has taken root and we have learned to live with it. We have embraced the silence and grown attached to it. And so I write these letters to my father. Letters he will never read. Letters I will never send. Letters he will never know exist.

Lately, my relationship with God has been on the rocks. Estranged, just like the relationship I have with he whose last name I take. I am constantly questioning and unlearning. I am torn and I feel lost. I cannot pray because heaven seems closed. God seems so far away. Worse, he is becoming unreal. Plagued by all these Christian girl troubles, I want to write another letter to my father. I have questions.

There it is—the fuckening.

Nice to see you too.

Hmmm.

Can we talk?

Damn. I was having so much fun.

I want you back. I miss you. Do you miss me?

I don’t know. I miss the bond, I guess. But then I remember the disrespect, and I don’t miss you as much.

Killing me softly.

Hmmm.

See, you and I belong together. You are in my heart.

I do not like crowded spaces.

What then do you like?

For starters, not crowded spaces.

Sigh…

Sigh.

I am writing this on a Sunday afternoon because it seems fitting. On my way home from the gym this morning, the man walking in front of me fished out his ringing phone from his pocket. Slamming it to his ear, he bubbled, “Hey, beautiful.” He then proceeded to laugh silently, smile repeatedly following an animated conversation with ‘Beautiful’ on the other end of the line. And I thought to myself, damn! Nobody is beautiful-ing me. No one has, in a long time.

It’s a warm Sunday afternoon. Supermarkets and malls are full of children and their parents, clad in their Sunday best, shopping. Almost every home in the estate where I live is streaming music, loudly or softly, depending on whoever is handling the aux. Some are gaslighting themselves with Christian worship songs to compensate for not going to church. Others are listening to old R&B, reminiscing about the good old days. Millennials are curled up with their lovers, watching movies, savoring their last moments together before the week begins. Before the madness of deadlines, responding to emails, circling back, touching base, putting a pin on it, putting ducks in a row, and meeting KPIs.

And then, there’s me.

I am home alone, a laptop nestled on my lap, writing this.

I think Sunday afternoons are for lovers. There’s a beauty in sleeping in on Sunday mornings. The sun streaming through thin bedroom curtains, caressing your back as you lay on your lover’s chest, savoring the last moments of sweet morning sleep. Sunday mornings are for pancakes. Your lover is humming in the kitchen, flipping pancakes, while you’re curled up in bed like a lazy cat. Eventually, the smell of fresh coffee will pull you from bed, and you’ll hug your lover from behind as he tries to rescue a pancake from burning. The two of you will sit on the floor, plates in hand, speaking softly, breaking bread (or pancakes in this case).

Sundays are for softness.

Dawn is for lovers and bakers, they say. But Sunday afternoons? These are when love is best seen. When there are no highlights, no grand gestures, just people existing in each other’s presence. People just being. Sunday afternoons feel like a time when spirits go to bed and, for a moment, only human beings are left in the universe. No chaos. No events. Just being.

I want someone for Sunday afternoons. Someone with whom we’ll just sit and exist in each other’s presence. I can read my book while he reads his, but my free hand will rest somewhere, on his back or thigh, even if I am seated at a small distance. Like, I want to exist in my space but still remain connected to you, even in this small way. I can hum to myself while scrolling through my phone, and he can type away on his laptop. I can simply stare at the ceiling, listening to Etta James’ A Sunday Kind of Love, while he stares at me, wondering what is going on in my head. Or we can be like ordinary lovers, curled up under a fleece blanket, watching a romantic comedy, sharing quiet laughter.

You see, Sunday afternoons are where intimacy is seen best. Not the loud kind, not the movie-type kind. But the one hidden in shared silences, in physical closeness, in thoughts exchanged through glances and gentle sighs. There is a magic that comes with Sunday afternoons.

A few weeks ago, on a Sunday afternoon, I found myself sitting opposite this handsome man from Meru County. We were eating plantains and chatting about politics from his county, about how Governor Mwangaza may just yet survive another attempt to oust her from her gubernatorial seat. We had just come from the swimming pool, our skins still smelling of water and chlorine. At some point, convinced that he could not win an argument against me on women’s issues, he sighed, hung his head, and listened to the music streaming into the hall where we were sat. Then he smiled to himself, turned to me, and asked, “Do you know why I like this place?”

I shook my head.

“The first time I came here, there was a live rock band. And they played a song from one of my favorite bands—The Cranberries.”

He smiled in nostalgia. He has a beautiful smile. When he smiles, the corners of his eyes thin, and there’s a lightness in his face. It’s sweet to look at. And I thought to myself, Wouldn’t it be beautiful to spend Sunday afternoons with him?

We could listen to The Cranberries, eat plantain, and talk about any one of the 47 counties in this country. I could wonder why his favorite band is named after food. Or we could simply exist in each other’s space. I thought that driving toward the sunset, with him, on a Sunday afternoon wouldn’t be so bad compared to the many Sundays we’ve both spent in our separate lives, lounging on our couches, binging Netflix, thinking of someone to spend the afternoon with. I thought about many things in that silent moment. I thought about it all, but I did not say a word.

Some things are better left as thoughts.

But at that moment, I wanted so badly for him to be my Sunday afternoon love.

Fast forward to now. It’s a Sunday afternoon, and I am writing to you. If I stretch my hand, there’s no lover to touch. Things didn’t work out with Cranberries. Sigh. Nairobi lawyers. It’s always a quick one with these wakilis. I will probably finish this piece and then step out for a walk. Because, see, life has to continue with the same beauty and cadence—whether one is by themselves or with a paramour.

Cheers to Sunday afternoons.

As the sun dips lower, casting long shadows that dance with the fading light, I contemplate the essence of these afternoons. They hold magic, a promise of intimacy, a shared existence that speaks volumes in its silence. With each passing moment, the desire for someone to fill these afternoons grows—a yearning for a presence that would transform the mundane into the extraordinary.

But I realize now, Sunday afternoons are not just a backdrop for lovers. They are a canvas, waiting to be painted with the hues of companionship, love, and shared moments of simple joy.

Perhaps, one day, I’ll find that someone. Someone with whom to share the sweet, tart essence of cranberries and Sundays. Someone to paint a masterpiece of shared silences and soft laughter.

Dearest Reader,

Sorry I have not written to you in a long while. The old world is dying and a new one struggles to be born. And now, now is the time of monsters.

It has been many moons since the world was struck by a virus which shook the core of our society and gave us a new normal. We wore masks and washed our hands alot. We saw our government officials on the telly a lot more than we would like. They always had some bad news to share; like the increasing numbers of patients who had caught the virus. Scientists and doctors became our first line of defence, not the military. The police became a bigger threat than the virus, hurting the people in the name of enforcing preventative measures for the virus. We were arrested and asked to pay expensively for not being able to afford masks and for being outside at night finding food and drugs for our loved ones. Our resilience and fortitude, like our immune systems were put on trial. Zoom was born. People started working from home and our pets couldn’t be happier. We worked from home for protection, the government said so. We knew it too. Inequality grew. While the common people could not afford new masks or hospital bills for their loved ones, billionaires and millionaires grew their wealth. Yet we soldiered on, making banana bread, dancing on the internet, working from home, wearing masks and washing our hands a lot.

In these dark moments, we turned to artists. They held our hands and hearts; told us that we were not alone and that a light would soon appear at the end of the tunnel. Their art hugged us since we could not hug our loved ones. Scientists had said to keep a physical distance. In true Kenyan spirits pun intended, we wrote and sang songs about alcohol. And everyone wished that nightclubs would open so that we could enjoy these bangers better. We read books and learnt about atomic habits and how to not give a f*ck. Why were we reading books when the world around us was burning? Because we weren’t made to binge the world’s destruction and there’s good in pursuing joy where you can find it. Fiction armed us with precisely the tools we needed to overcome the crisis into which our world had fallen. Yet, we soldiered on, making banana bread, dancing on the internet, working from home, wearing masks and washing our hands a lot.

I thought I would write to you to ask you how you are doing. Are you still wearing masks and washing your hands a lot? Are you working from home? Or have you been pushed back to the office because someone cannot fathom loosing their investment in real estate and now you are forced to hold meetings on Zoom but from the office? Many people have stopped making banana bread but they are still dancing on the internet... and taking a lot of pictures and videos in the gym. They call it content creation and it is a whole industry, and they are making money from it. You should try it. Can you hug your loved ones now or are you still keeping physical distances? If yes, hug them a little tighter and more often. Let them know you love them. And when you miss them, send them your love. If the recent past has given any lessons, it is that good health and our loved ones are our most prized possessions. I am really sorry I haven’t written to you in a long while. The old world is dying and a new one struggles to be born. And now, now is the time of monsters.

Yours still here,

Loch.

Dearest ,

You are easily one of my favorite humans. I have a sweatshirt with the saying, “Peace is the ultimate expression of wisdom,” and I can’t help but think that you are the embodiment of this saying. Every time I wear it, I feel like it’s your name stitched across my chest. You’re turning a year older, and it feels like the world is crashing in. Let it. That’s how new things are born. It might seem like you’re chasing your dreams and desires, and the harder you chase, the further they move away. Don’t stop. Don’t you ever stop. Did you know that sharks die if they stop moving? Well, you’re not a shark, but still—keep moving forward.

I want to remind you of something you already know: You are beautiful. You are worth it. You command every room you walk into, and you give the best K-drama recommendations (seriously, send another recommendation my way). Hold on to that. Don’t lose yourself in the noise.

A few years ago, stuck in a funk similar to the one you’re finding yourself in, I stumbled upon a post on Quora that really stuck with me. It said everything you’re doing in your early twenties is building momentum. You know the physics laws about momentum, that Newton’s first law. Just like Newton’s First Law of Motion—once you build momentum, you’re unstoppable. Keep moving forward, even when it feels like the world is pushing back. Things are always in motion, and so are you. Quora can be full of questionable advice, but sometimes you find a solid gem. All the jobs, internships, gigs, and books you’re interacting with right now are building your momentum for something. There will be moments when you look back and realize how all these pieces have moved you forward. Keep at it. Keep moving. Stay encouraged.

One of my favorite poems by Charles Bukowski, The Laughing Heart, says:
“Your life is your life, don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch. There are ways out….”

I come back to it every time when I need to go all the way. And even when it feels like things are falling apart, find joy in the little things. Keep a little part of the magic for yourself. You have such a big heart, and you share it so freely with the world—don’t forget to keep a little bit of that love for yourself. When the world gets too much, retreat to your safe space and witness your own magic.

Beyond your magic, keep more for yourself: your love, your kindness, your charity, your hard work. You should be the first beneficiary. Let yourself be the one who benefits most from your own efforts.

As you grow older, remember this: you will need your friends. Those women who started as strangers but became your sisters. Keep them close, and build your community with intention. It could be dinner once a month, a Tuesday video call, or a special greeting. On most days, that bond will be your sanity. Keep it special. It’ll be your lifeline.

And above all, fight to keep hope with you. It will be the hardest battle you fight. But hope will be your anchor. Don’t ever let it go. Hope is the hardest love we carry.

Say yes. Say it a lot. There will be years when you look back and realize that you were the only obstacle standing in your own way. Life feels long when you’re sad. So, say yes to adventure. Say yes to risky texts. Say yes to friends who randomly ask you to go to Zanzibar on New Year’s Eve. Movies tell us that better times are ahead, but truthfully, awesome times are right here with us. We keep postponing awesome, waiting for better. Don’t do that to yourself.

Your body will keep changing. You’ve yet to meet the full version of yourself. Go with the flow. Lean into it. You’ll learn a lot about your body through experience. Take the time to understand it. And always remember—your body is fighting for you, not against you. She’s been your companion since day one. Work with her. Love her.

Speak kindly to yourself. As we get older, we often become our harshest critics. But you have to speak to yourself with the same kindness you would offer your dearest friend. Start every day reminding yourself of the truth—that you are beautiful. You are awesome. You are purposeful and right on your timeline. You are positively aligned. You are divine. Those truths will carry you, especially on days when you can’t find the words to pray. Lean on the prayers of those of us who love you.

And lastly, I’ll leave you with a poem I recite to myself all the time: Invictus by William Ernest Henley. It ends with, “I am the captain of my fate. I am the master of my soul.”

Remember—you are loved. You are awesome. Now go into the world and be the main character.

With all my love,
Loch.

They will ask, “When did you first fall in love with him?” and my mind will drift back to that Saturday morning when I found myself crawling out of his bed, wanting to make my way back to my house. He pulled me by my hand back into bed, held me, and asked me to stay.

This hangout had started simply as a plan to hike Ngong Hills. We did not climb any hills. Lol. We sat by the side of the first hill under the tree near the cell tower. It was our second meeting. I barely knew him beyond his name. So he told me about himself. He told me about his sisters, whom he deeply missed but couldn’t see how much he loved them due to trauma and time passed. He told me about his parents and the many things he deeply regretted about them. He told me about his therapist, whom he regarded more as a father than a therapist. He told me about his best friends from school. He opened his soul and, like a book, showed me every page, read the writings therein for me to hear, traced the drawings therein with the tips of his fingers. There were pages he was hesitant to open, but as the evening came close, he opened these pages with careless abandon.

I listened to him. I laughed with him. I ate with him the few snacks we had remembered to buy after I mentioned that I often faint when my sugar levels are low. He did not want a case on his hands.

It was about 6 pm when we came down from the side of the hill and made our way into Ngong town. I did not want to leave his company. He did not want to leave mine. So we stopped by the mall and shared ice cream.

At 8 pm, I insisted that I had to begin making my way back to my house, on the other side of the county. So he saw me to the bus stop, made sure I was comfortable in a noisy Super Metro bus. He stayed outside the bus, at the bus stop, said he’d keep me company until the bus left. So he sat there on a concrete bench while I sat inside the bus. And we continued the conversations on our phones, typing our fingers away.

He said that he did not want me to leave. I told him that I was wont to do crazy things and I just might get off the bus and go home with him. At this point, the driver revved up the engine, preparing to depart from Ngong bus stop towards the central business district in Nairobi. He asked me if I was serious. The bus started moving. I could not leave. So I hurriedly alighted off the bus, but not before the tout hustled 100 shillings from me for the inconvenience of leaving one seat empty.

I remember his shocked face when he saw me get off the bus. I remember he ran and hugged me and said, “Let’s go home.”

That first evening, we slow-danced to Gregory Porter. He kissed me, softly, dearly. Like he wanted to intricately trace his lips on my skin. We talked about our dreams, those born out of hurt and those born out of longing. We talked about love and pain. He told me he liked cuddles and I obliged. We talked well into the morning and found comfort in each other’s presence.

When it was time to part ways three days later because we both had to resume work, I remember we parted ways at the exact same spot I had got off the bus. The bus was long gone. I stayed and waited for another bus. He stayed with me.

And that would be our story. We would plan to meet for an evening and the evening would always turn into three days. Unplanned sleepovers became our thing. And we took evening walks with no clear destination. Once in a while, we had late-night phone calls where we talked about everything and anything under the sun. Often he called when he was anxious and I would provide comfort. And when he was lonely, I was there. I held him. Holding him was like being held back by a painting. And in those moments, when I held him, I got to temporarily escape my world and be in his, where he existed in softness, wearing his emotions on his sleeve and painting the world velvet with the intensity of his passions.

One time, during our unplanned sleepovers, we went deep into the forested areas of Ngong looking for panties, because all shops were closed and someone had hinted that some lady who sells them lived in that area. Another time, we walked along the highway in the night, hand in hand, simply because my legs ached and I needed to stretch them. We were worried about our safety but we walked nonetheless. Another time, we forgot the door to his house and walked into the neighbor’s house. And during these adventures, he’d joke and say that these are stories we’d tell our children. We laughed. Loved. Cuddled. Shared dreams and danced to Gregory Porter. We watched F1 and he taught me all about it...too bad, we DNF.

That was then. Now, he is preparing to walk down the aisle in a few weeks and commit his life and love to another woman, in front of friends and family. The woman he is committing himself to was my best friend for close to a decade. I will not be among the friends invited because I am no longer a friend to either of them. I will probably be at home listening to Etta James’ “All I Could Do Was Cry” or I will be out with my new friends because they will be trying to distract me from the events of the day.

He will look into his new wife’s eyes and promise to love her with all his heart and she will promise the same back. He will put a ring on her finger and the priest will declare them husband and wife. They will have each other, and I will be left with an album full of Gregory Porter’s songs and a bucket list of betrayal and trust issues to unpack with my therapist. The bus left the bus stop. I got off the bus for him, but he got onto it and with it, he took my best friend. So I am sat here waiting for another bus, listening to Gregory Porter.

“What’s the story with this?” I blurt out, brushing my fingers over an old scar arching over my sweetheart’s left brow.

He grins, his eyes lighting up with mischief, “You wouldn’t believe it, but a big sufuria fell on me when I was a kid.” We burst out laughing. It’s our thing, finding joy in each other’s company. Laughing together. Running our fingers on each other’s bodies, touching, tracing, looking for scars and marks and the stories behind them. He draws me in, burying his face in my neck, making a sound halfway between a purr and a moan. Cuddles are big for this man. He pulls the sheets over our naked bodies. It feels warm and nice. He then holds me tight, like he is trying to glue me to his skin. Men cuddle like they’re heading off to battle at dawn. And frankly, leaving your lover’s house in the morning should feel like leaving for war. Hold on tight, soldier.

“What were you up to when that pot attacked you?” I tease him, my fingers dancing through his beard and a mischievous glint in my eyes matching his, — just the way I like it. I’m searching his skin for anything to inquire about or play with.

He starts, “Well, there’s this aunt of mine...” His words flow freely in these cuddle sessions. We talk about everything — childhood memories, office gossip (Udaku is a must!), and even national affairs like climate change, the price of avocadoes or contentious bills in Parliament. That’s my sapiosexual side kicking in.

Aftercare is my jam, and he’s tuned into that. He keeps water by the bed, because let’s face it, moaning will leave you parched. After our last steamy session, he surprised me with a towel warmer. I had shown him this trick I saw online, and boy, did he love it! Plus, warm towels? Perfect cleaning options after sex. We’re big on reassurance too. It is almost like giving each other little ‘thank you’ speeches, if you will. He whispers sweet nothings, making me giggle and blush. Man’s got a way with words. I ask how he’s feeling, and he says, “fantastic,” before diving back into my neck, giving my ear a playful nibble. My heart dances. I like the feeling it gives. After dissecting the latest on taxes and parliamentary bills, we hit the shower together. We talk and laugh together under the shower, our voices echoing off the tiles. It is an extension of our connection, a continuation of our intimacy. Then, we will share a meal. Feed your loved ones – that is the law. Whether it’s a simple snack or a full meal, it’s about nourishing each other. We sit across from each other, eating and chatting, the easiness of our conversation a testament to the depth of our bond.

Aftercare, for us, isn’t just a series of actions. It’s a testament to our understanding of each other’s needs, a language of love that we speak fluently. It’s in these moments, wrapped in each other’s presence, that I feel most connected to him. Aftercare is where our bodies rest, but our souls converse, where physical intimacy transitions into emotional closeness. It’s the art of lingering in the afterglow, basking in the warmth of shared pleasure and mutual care. Aftercare’s not just an act, it’s a whole love language. Aftercare is pleasure.

You graduated at the same time. It was a beautiful moment when you all threw your graduation caps in the air as the vice-chancellor announced that you now have the power to go out there and read. You took a picture to commemorate the day: that picture now stands tall like an altar in your living room. You look at it every day because somehow you cannot miss it. At first, the picture would elicit feelings of nostalgia and achievement. Now, those feelings have faded and been replaced by a heavy emptiness.

For some of the peers you graduated with: A immediately left the country to live with her distant aunt and start a life in another continent. You do not know what she does but her WhatsApp status speaks to the fact that her life is colourful and full of bliss. B got a job immediately. C took up a managerial position at his father’s company, yaani that degree was the only thing keeping him. D started a business. She struggled at first and along the way, all forces in the universe conspired to make her business flourish. Now, she is opening another branch in Kitengela.

E took up a Master’s course immediately and should be graduating soon. F applied for some jobs, did some interviews and got a job after one of the candidates opted to go for another high paying job. G was your close friend with whom you spent many days and nights applying for jobs, internships and sending out those expressions of interest emails. Like unrequited love, none of your calls was answered. Almost always, the organizations whose doors you knocked on were radio silent. You and G gave up and then, tried again. Because this is the nature of the game. You went knocking on doors once more. Along the way, G’s uncle heard of his friend looking for an intern and G was snatched from your shared sea of stagnation onto a lifeboat and whisked away. Now, G is the programs officer there. And you, you are here. You graduated at the same time but you got left behind.

You have tried everything. You see, everyone you meet always has some advice for you. They are always seeking to fulfil their obligation of enlightening you. They say that getting a degree is nothing. That entrepreneurship is where it is at. They quote Elon Musk and shower you with Donald Trump’s tweets. As if that is not enough, they tell you about this book that they have been reading by Robert Kiyosaki and they recommend that you read it. That the book will change your life.

Along the way you had a business, you were hopeful, put all your brains and your heart into it and called on the gods to watch over it. Things looked promising, but somewhere along the way, everything went downhill. You tried again because they said to not give up. But business had given up on you. It failed, so miserably that you were almost forced to relocate to the village. They said not to stop applying for jobs. That volunteering is very important. They told you about their youthhood and how they volunteered for two years before they got their first jobs. You are a volunteer in two organizations (double measures it is!), running around being the perfect mtu wa mkono.

This job once called you for an interview but they cancelled at the last meeting, something about not having funds for recruitment. The little you get from your side hustles is saved up for a Masters-degree because they also said that education does not end at the undergraduate level. Whatever they have said needs doing, you have done. Whatever book they have recommended reading, you have read. Whichever doors they sent you to knock on, you have done so repeatedly. Still, nothing! Now they tell you to be patient. To put on your game face, and wait. You see, Rome was not built in a day, they say. You young people, you want quick things, you want ready-made. Life is not like that.

But patience does not pay rent for the little bedsitter which houses your countable possessions. Patience does not put food in your belly neither does it soothe you when you sleep hungry. Even worse, patience does not step in and defend the gap in your CV which everyone seems interested in. Every day when you return to your humble abode, when G calls to find out how you are doing and complain about Jane from finance or John from HR, when you chance upon A’s Instagram page or when you wave at D while bypassing her shop, you cannot help but feel left behind.

You graduated at the same time. They have gone forward. You are here, miles behind. Words of advice come in swarms yet these advisors never have opportunities for you. You want to feel happy for all the progress your friends have made and clap for them as you await your turn. But you feel lost, hopeless, angry, confused and somewhat frustrated. What is it that you are not doing right? Why you? When will it be your turn? They say comparison is a thief of joy but you are beyond both joy and comparison. You know you’ve been left behind and there’s no joy in that. You don’t want to relocate to the village because then, you will have given up. You have considered changing careers, maybe try entrepreneurship. You have considered further education. Because post-graduation depression is a real thing and you suffer from it, you have considered suicide too. You have given up, lost hope and picked yourself up and tried again. One too many times. Now you are just there, merely staying afloat.

Sigh!

I don’t have a grand solution or words of advice. I just want to let you know that I see you. I hear you. I acknowledge that your journey is a difficult one and there are days when it feels like you cannot fight anymore, you cannot press on. Your struggle is valid; and if you want to rant about it, email me. I will listen to your rant and if you need to scream about it, I know just the right place for it. I will show you. Only then we shall hop back onto this treadmill of life.

In almost every household I have visited, there’s always a quote hanging on the wall proclaiming, “A family that prays together, stays together.” As though blood is not strong enough a bond, we now have to pray together to maintain family unity. But then again, I understand that nowadays we have given families and chosen families. I guess, for the family you choose, you have to try hard to stick together and that includes praying together.

For the family I come from, I cannot say that prayer is what makes us stay together. I can remember the last time we tried to pray together, and it was a long time ago.

If you have been around my blog long enough, you’ll know my parents are people of the cloth. So, Christian prayers were the norm in our home, almost like daily bread. Until the day our mother banned our father from calling her children for family prayers, and that marked the end of collective prayer time. Now, we don’t pray together. Let me explain.

You see, family prayer was my father’s time to shine. Not that he did not have other moments to shine. This man lives to shine...but family prayers were special shinning moments. These were moments when he could address important (according to him) family matters with a captive audience, and he truly enjoyed that role. Whenever he felt that there was a matter he wanted to address and he needed a good audience, he would call for family prayers. And then, he would shine.

On this day, it seemed that the head of our home had accumulated a long list of matters to address, and unwittingly, we had contributed to this list throughout the day. By end of day, his to-do list was overflowing. So, we were summoned to family prayers. We did not suspect anything being a foot and innocently, we assembled in our dimly lit living room after the 9pm news broadcast and sat silently in readiness for the shinning. Per tradition, the head of the home requested for someone to lead us in worship. His insistence on using the word “pambio” in reference to ‘song’ is still beyond me. While this request was always made as an open request, it was always directed to me. I was the songbird and layleader of the home. When he said someone to give us a pambio, he meant for me to lead the family in worship.

However, on this day, my brother who cannot remember when last he was in a church, unexpectedly jumped on the request belting out “Niko chini ya mwaba, mwamba juu yangu…” in his melancholic alto and smiling cheekily at the head of our home. That’s when my father’s cup tipped over and he cut short the singing. The shining moment sprung forth and could not wait any longer. This man read us for filth. All of us. Suddenly, it was judgement day, and he was reading the scroll of all our sins from his high and mighty throne. Our mother watched in silence. We, whose sins were being broadcast in the dimly lit room, watched her in silence.

Our father may have been the priest of the home but she, our mother was the keeper of the fold. Her word was law. It did not shout, it whispered and stayed. What she did, we did. So when she stayed silent and watched, we did the same. Once the priest of the home was done shinning, the keeper of the fold delivered the closing prayer. The last family prayer we would ever hear in that home. In this prayer, she asked for strength and then later, in the privacy of their room, proceeded to ban our father from ever calling us for prayers if his intention was to scold us. The man was told to find other moments to shine, not family prayers.

Three cheers for the keeper of the fold. Hip!Hip!Hooray!

Over time, we have found new ways to fellowship and stay together beyond those ‘shining’ moments. We have found ways to bring each other back to the center however far we stray. We pray for each other in our own ways and capacities. Those who still follow the faith, send out prayers to us who found God in different paths and different places. I dare say that a family that prays for each other stays together.

I find it difficult to talk about the weather or how that door sometimes looks like it’s going to fall. In my mind, there will be all manner of alarm bells going off. “Where is this conversation headed?” my too-serious self will wonder, questioning what the end goal is. And when my brain finally determines that the conversation is not going anywhere, and has no logical conclusion, I find myself plotting an exit. A physical exit. A space exit. Just exit. You see, small talk huwa job. It is a lot of work. And as Nyashinski said, huwa hailipi.

But here’s the thing – small talk is important. It is how we break the ice, how we connect. When I say hii jua ni ya mvua, I’m not just giving you my unverified meteorological opinion. What I really mean is “it would really be a pleasure to talk to you.” Small talk is how we reach for each other. When I ask you kama unaenda nje when you’re opening the front door, what I really mean is “Stay. Let’s linger in this moment, just a little bit longer. Awkward as it may be.” Sometimes, my words betray me, but better to sit in this awkwardness with you than to wonder if you’re stepping outside to get away from me.

And here’s the other thing - your introverted or neurodivergent self can learn small talk. I promise. It’s hard, but it’s learnable. This is not to mean that you must talk to people when you don’t want to. It just means this: it is in our nature to connect. Denying ourselves that connection is denying our essence. It’s denying God, or whatever higher power makes us, us. Okay, I just made that up. It sounded poetic in my head. Yeesh! I’m good with words.

Small talk opens doors. The other day, my colleague walked into the kitchen and told our office assistant, “If I don’t see you in paradise, I’ll know I’m not in heaven.” My too-serious self immediately thought, “Where is this conversation headed?” But then the part of my brain that understands social cues kicked in and said, “He’s just telling her she’s an awesome human being.” And she is. I would have said that too, but not in such a poetic way. And it wouldn’t have made her day the same way it did when he said it. She burst into laughter and launched into a story about how her pastor used to tell her the same thing, week after week, before he passed away in November. For a moment, I believed it; if you get to heaven and find our office assistant there, you’re in the right place.

Part of small talk is learning how to transition it to meaningful conversations. It’s a delicate balance; keeping it hearty, ensuring it doesn’t go too far, and moving towards something deeper. Like my deskie in high school. One day, she said I laugh like the children in her home village. Another classmate walked into the room, heard my laughter, and declared I laugh like a witch. And then a friend, desperate to join the conversation, turned to my deskie and asked, “Do the children in your village laugh like witches?”

All I wanted to say really is this: Small talk is work. But it’s also magic. It’s how we move from hii jua ni ya mvua to hii maisha si mchezo. But si ni life?

At the heart of every women’s reproductive health scandal, you’ll find pineapples. Always pineapples, never bananas. That sweet staple from Thika town has somehow found its way into the most bizarre myths about women’s bodies. If I had a penny for every time someone asked me if pineapples were good for the vagina, I’d be driving a wine-red Toyota Auris by December. But with the Kenyan government hell-bent on taxing everything, even the pennies for my thoughts, that dream remains far-fetched.

Let me clarify: I’m a communications officer by day and a sex educator by night (well, weekends, but that doesn’t sound as dramatic). It may sound like an odd combo, but both jobs involve the same thing: fighting misinformation. I get paid to tell people, si ni mimi nakushow. You might be wondering; how did I end up here? What flap of the butterfly’s wings sent me down this path?

Some people’s career paths seem obvious in hindsight. The kid who always nursed stray cats, now a vet. The one who fixed their parents’ Great Wall TV aerial and now contends with AI as an engineer. Some lose loved ones to disease and become surgeons. Others read Ben Carson’s Gifted Hands as kids and now rock white dust coats. Then there’s that one guy who was asked to draw a ball on the blackboard in nursery school and now teaches full-time.

Me? I grew up listening. I listened to my mother, who worked for gender-based violence (GBV) survivors and came home with stories like the time a woman refused to let officers arrest her abusive husband because, in her words, “my bed will be cold at night.” My mother was accused of breaking up their marriage, even though the woman had called the police herself. I listened during the many workshops I was dragged to—because we could not afford a babysitter—where women learned how to use female condoms. In uni, I listened to my friends rant about unsatisfactory sexual experiences. And now, I listen to women’s stories on my podcast, All Protocols Observed, where pineapples come up more than you’d expect.

I’ve learned one simple truth: sex is a fact of life, and sexual health is crucial for wellbeing. But for every serious conversation, there’s a lighter side. Because sex education isn’t just about sex. It’s about gender dynamics, relationships, and the bizarre myths people share on Elon Musk’s bird app. The very same people who tweet like they’re hardened warriors but, in reality, are raiding their girlfriends’ skincare products and wearing bonnets indoors. But this story isn’t about them. It’s about pineapples. The fruit that’s been wrongly accused of doing more than providing vitamins and nourishment to the body.

Flashback to my high school days in Western Kenya, I went to an all-girls institution where discipline meant denied autonomy and punishment, and the only thing more rigid than the rules of the school was the English we spoke. I’m not exaggerating when I say that if you wanted to speak to us, you’d better come armed with Oxford’s latest dictionary. Except, if you came from Nairobi. In that case, you need only declare so and the girls in my school would fold and become patty in your hands.

But inside that school, beneath all the flowery reputations, madness roamed freely. My class, notorious even by our standards, was often compared to a riot of testosterone over at Maseno Boys. Actually, Maseno School. That is the name they preferred. No. They insisted on it. We defied every rule, fought other classes, led school riots, and left a trail of suspended and expelled students in our wake. Yet somehow, six brave teachers were tasked with managing us, including our class teacher, who couldn’t have cared less if we burned the place down.

One of our guardians was a tall, skinny fellow with a disproportionately large head, earning him the nickname ‘Lollipop.’ Poor guy. He had just graduated from university and was assigned to teach us Physics. He looked like one of those lollipops he was always suckling on. Picture a man who looks like he should be starring in a podcast, giving advice about how “real men” should be rough, but in reality, he had the softest hands. And the man could not pronounce the word ‘cubic’—it was always ‘chubic,’ and that never failed to crack us up. Lollipop had the unenviable job of teaching girls who had convinced themselves that studying Physics was a waste of time. “What would our husbands be doing if we understood Physics?” we asked, half-joking, half-serious. Looking back, it’s sad how ingrained societal roles were, even at such a young age. Yet, we pressed on with our folly, making suggestive comments, roasting him whenever he ignored them, and, on particularly wicked days, asking if it was his time of the ‘man-th’, or if he was ‘mens-trating.’

He found refuge in his office, tucked deep inside the Physics laboratory, which doubled as storage for chemicals and specimens from the other science labs. While the office afforded him much needed quiet and peace from our rowdy lot, there was always a funky smell in the air that even open windows could not get rid off. Ever the resourceful one, Lollipop bought himself a Tropical pineapple-scented air freshener. He always showed up to class smelling like pineapples. Visiting his office was less about Physics and more about inhaling that sweet scent of pineapples instead of whatever toxic fumes wafted in from the chemicals.

Now, imagine a compound with over 1,000 teenage girls, hormones raging, creativity on overdrive—chaos. Our school banned anything beyond body lotion and simple hair oil, so people got creative. Hand sanitizer, for instance, became a go-to perfume. Long before the pandemic made sanitizers popular, girls at a local institution in Western were drenching themselves in it and pheromones, making male teachers’ lives more difficult.

One day, Lollipop left his pineapple-scented air freshener out in the open, and my classmates descended on it like locusts. They sprayed themselves head-to-toe and went out to cause chaos wherever they could. That was the last we saw of the pineapple-scented air freshener. Soon after, his office was moved closer to the staffroom, and three weeks later, Lollipop packed his bags and left, his will to teach drained to the last drop. We broke his spirit, and to this day, I wonder if he ever touched another can of pineapple air freshener again.

You’d think that was the end of pineapples in my life. But here I am, years later, now having to educate people that while diet can affect body fluids, there’s no scientific evidence that pineapples change how your body smells or tastes. That you can have a unique experience with pineapples, but do not invent your own facts. For those with vaginas, it’s natural to have a unique scent that changes based on things like your menstrual cycle, sweat, or even the food you eat. Bodies aren’t meant to smell like flowers or fruit, and vaginas are naturally acidic, not tropical. Pineapple-scented products are not more than marketing gimmicks preying on insecurities and the general lack of sex education.

But hey, if you still don’t believe me, at least support a local farmer. Eat pineapples. They’re good for your health.

The year is 2014. I have just completed some national examinations (I will not say which, at the risk of y’all placing my age) and I am on a binge-watching spree to pass time over the long holidays. I just got back from the movie shop owned by one Edu, who I have a mad crush on. That boy is handsome in at least three major towns. You see, you can be handsome in your hometown but not so much in another town. But Edu? Edu is handsome in more than three towns. Bet! I am armed with my movie for the day. Listen youngins; before Netflix was an app on people’s phones, we went to the movie store and got pirated films on CDs. A whole experience. There’s a bunch of geezers who got theirs on VCR tapes. Lol! Those ones, they fought in the MauMau. Si ni mimi nakushow.

Anyway, back to the story. I do have a wandering mind.

The film of choice for the evening is Beyond the Lights. That’s where I meet Noni Jean, a singer who performs Nina Simone’s Blackbird, and I fall in love with the song. I am an old soul, and Nina speaks to my heart like no other singer can. At some point in the film, Noni attempts to take her life by jumping off a hotel balcony, until a dashing police officer catches her. He reassures her before pulling her off the ledge. He tells her, “I see you.” Boom. A cultural moment is born.

And for the first time, I feel seen and heard.

Some scriptwriter, miles and miles away, envisioned this pain that I felt, penned it down, passed it to a film director, who brought it to life and many miles later, there I was, hearing the words I so desperately needed to hear. There was comfort in knowing that my struggles were not alien.

Fast forward to last year, 2024. During a therapy session, I confessed to my therapist—a playful slay-grandma who smiles like the sun in Teletubbies—that I was struggling with loneliness. You see, I have a thriving community. I am surrounded by love most days. And yet, it was not enough. The loneliness was eating me alive. After some back-and-forth, Ms. Therapist informed me that I was not lonely.

I was unhappy.

In that moment, I wondered, is this woman smoking? Girl! I just walked you through my thought process and how I came to this conclusion! She looked at me knowingly, smiled, and waited.

“Teresa,” she said, “you have been unhappy for a long time. I don’t think you even realize it.”

Then she asked me to go back in time and find where I was stuck. And unstick myself. I deserved happiness, she said. Then she referred me to a psychiatrist. So I took a break from therapy. One year later, my therapist’s words still haunt me. And I am only now realizing that she was right. Hehehe. She was not smoking.

I don’t know when the realization hit me. Maybe it was when a friend casually mentioned that he was “seriously judging” the people I am attracted to. Maybe it was one of those random shower thoughts that make you sit on the floor like you’re in an R&B music video. Maybe it was during those moments when I take time to brood and stare into the distance, lost in thought. But the epiphany was profound. It came like a shock wave, shook me to my core, and left me rooted to my seat. For a moment, my mind went blank. A chill washed over me. Energy slipped away from my body like a slow puncture. Funny enough, this always happens when I have an emotional breakthrough.

And then, it hit me:

I have measured out my life in coffee cups.

Lately, my musings have been reduced to a stream of sentimental drivel. Because of all the ‘reflecting’ I have been doing. But you see, that’s a good thing. Because something new has to be born. You all should try it too. Keep a journal, stare into the distance, start a cult, dethrone a sitting president #MustGo, pack everything you own and retreat into a deep forest for a year, meditate, breathe slowly. Stuff like that is good for the soul.

For the longest time, I have lived my life with the boring cadence of a military routine. My house is like a bunker; a place where I keep my things, my supplies. Sometimes, I decorate it with flowers I pick from the field. This place I call my “safe space” has been a prison. A self-imposed exile. In trying to shield myself from the world, I have hurt myself more than the world ever could. I have watched my life pass me by while I pretended to live it. Given out my affection in teaspoons, in drops. Seldom allowed joy to come in but religiously did my gratitude meditations. Seldom let loose but never missed my Sunday yoga at the park. Preached a lot about solitude but spent most of my time by myself, not with myself. You see, these mental health self-care activities we so eagerly take on to “heal” ourselves? Sometimes, not all the time, they are just crutches we use to avoid doing the real work. Until one day, you look up and realize that life has passed you by while you were out there chasing monsters.

Until recently, I hadn’t even been using my own words to describe myself. The way I spoke about my body, my identity, my essence; those were words handed to me by others. Or borrowed from someone else’s perception of me. One of my favorite pieces of writing, Black Liturgies, reminded me: Find the words for yourself. Find prayers for your body. And so now, I am experiencing me. I am looking in the mirror and naming what I see in my own words. I am taking more pictures. I am writing more openly. No more gangsta lines. My best friend John says I gotta find my voice and use it. I am doing just that. I am speaking up more. I am letting my friends know when my social battery is dead and I just want to sit quietly in the corner or go home. I am telling the barista that is not my correct order, and I would not like the muffin they are trying to upsell. I am telling my friend, who has not been putting in the work in our friendship, that the depth of our bond is moot. I am telling my mother that I love her, but it will take us time to have a healthy relationship. I am patient with myself. I am not running away when the conversations get emotional. I am saying yes to outings. So y’all better be calling me outside, the fun bus just picked me up!

Leaving the comfort of my bunker has not been easy. On most days, it feels like Brashear walking those 12 steps in Men of Honor. If you don’t remember the film—siwezi kukusaidia btw. But every day, I do it. Every day, I show up.

Every day looks different. I am tearing down the walls I have built. For my sake. My well-being. Back in the day, I sang Blackbird for an awfully long time, much to my mother’s chagrin. Every morning, I woke up with that song on my lips. The lyrics were my life.

But right now?

Right now, my life is Nina Simone’s Feeling Good.

That is something.