On paper, other faiths were technically allowed. In practice, the double standards were absurd.

While the Catholic church occupied a massive space (created from two converted classrooms), Adventists and Muslim students were shoved together into a single former classroom. How did they share it? Simple, Muslims got the room from Sunday through Friday, and Seventh-day Adventists took over starting Friday evening.

During exam season, that shared room was converted into an open study hall where anyone could revise or store their books. The Catholic church, naturally, was a sacred ground, off-limits for study sessions.

Oh and Saturdays were the only days reserved for random check ups. Mostly if there had been reported thefts over the days or if they just had to make sure everyone still had their belongings ( Buckets to be exact). I’ll leave you a few seconds to guess whether the Adventists were allowed to keep praying…. You guessed no? How smart of you. You are gradually getting better at this!

Protestants (anyone else who’s not among the already mentioned christian denominations) services in the dining hall were routinely cut short if they ran a few minutes over or if their music was “too loud” for the Catholics.

Now that you have the background of how everything was, let’s jump straight into today’s actual story.

I was Catholic, but I heard that the Protestant choir was planning to sing one of my absolute favorite songs. I decided to go over to their service. The music was incredible, the sermon was actually engaging, and I had a great time. I thought it was all over but little did I know.

The Dean of Discipline (DOD) caught wind of the unusually high attendance at the Protestant service, mainly because the Catholic church was suspiciously empty that day. Instead of reflecting on why students preferred the other service or just minding her business, she launched an investigation. She caught one girl, forced her to write down a list of everyone who attended, and called one student’s parents to report that their child was “slacking in her beliefs.”

Threats of expulsion were tossed around. In the end, our crime( going to pray in a different church on school grounds) was punished with hard labor. Basically sweeping a massive garden covered in fresh grass clippings under the hot sun.

That obsession with religious control seeped into every single corner of daily life too like The School-Wide Rosary (Rozari). We did the entire set of Mysteries (Joyful, Luminous, Sorrowful, and Glorious). Classes were divided up to recite different decades while marching in different directions all around the campus, eventually meeting back at the starting point before we were allowed to go about our day.

We also had silent meals specifically breakfast. For other meals though you could only speak once grace was finished. If not, prefects stood in every corner, writing down anyone who whispered or wore “unapproved shoes”.

And at night, every infraction like dining hall noise or any duty failures culminated at the evening assembly. Right after praying before bed, the names were called out, and the beatings were handed down.

FAWE is really the kind of peak administrative madness you can only laugh at years later. You really had to be there to appreciate the absolute irony of it all. It turns out that forced silence and all the crazy stuff just made us better at dodging literally anything. And honestly? That might be the most lasting lesson the school ever taught us.

Anyways that’s it for today. Naho UBUTAHA!!

Before I ever stepped foot at FAWE GIRLS’ SCHOOL (Gisozi), I didn’t know much about the place. To me, it was simply “ikigo cya Madame Jeannette Kagame” ( which really wasn’t. I guess it was just that it had officially been opened by his Excellency Paul Kagame in 1999). It was to me, a school run by nuns, run in strict discipline and high expectations. I didn’t hate it, nor did I particularly love it, I just knew it existed. ( This is before I went there. You’ll figure out where I stand at the end of this article)

My first day set the tone for the adventure to come. My dad was swamped with work, which meant I was dropped off at the gates at 8:00 AM sharp!! ( There’s no such thing as African timing in my parents’ household)

When we arrived, the school wasn’t even accepting students yet. We paid the school fees, and I spent the rest of the morning at my dad’s office until we returned around 1:00 PM since it was closer to my school than home and obviously eaiser for dad. After the standard luggage checks, my mom and I headed down to the dorms (she had joined us at school).

Being the ultimate social butterfly back then, I immediately hit it off with another new student. We ended up sitting outside the dorms for over five hours waiting for them to open so we could lay our beds and organize our stuff. As more girls joined us, we sat, laughed, and bonded. Little did I know what was waiting for me in that absolute asylum of a school.

A lot went down in those three years of O-Level, enough to fill volumes, but one particular memory from Senior 3 stands out above the rest.

Our Dean of Discipline (DOD), a nun who apparently “liked” our promotion, decided to roll out a new system. Usually, Senior 5s were table captains. A table consisted of ten students, and the captain was responsible for plating food and managing morning cleaning (emploi). You slept in the same dorms with these people too.

That year, the DOD decided we, the Senior 3s, were going to be table captains.

They placed us in Dorms Zo Hepfo (Dorms 1 through 7, located closer to the O-Level classes). The formula was set as five S1s, four S3s, and one S4 per table. On THEE day, us “table captains” were made to stand out in the scorching sun waiting for our assigned “children.”

The irony of being a 14-year-old standing in the sun waiting to play mother to actual kids, when I wasn’t even sure I ever wanted children of my own, was not lost on me.

Despite standing in the sun from 10:00 AM to 5:00 PM (you weren’t allowed to leave until all five of your “kids” arrived, six in my case since I had not been assigned an S4), I was actually eager to help the newcomers settle in. I would have done it niyo batabinsaba.

Then, I met my final “child.”

There stood a kid who was tall and a bit heavy-set. When I say tall, keep in mind I am 5’1”. This girl was pushing 5’8”. I was looking UP at my new daughter.

Her biological mother pulled me aside and began explaining that despite looking like a fully grown adult, her daughter was actually very young and fragile. Being responsible, I assured her I’d take good care of her. But then her mom dropped a bombshell,

Ngo “ she hasn’t started menstruating yet, so you’ll need to show her what to do when she does.”

My brain froze. Ngo iki?! Talk about avoiding parenting! My mind was already like we did not sign up for this!!! But fine, I wasn’t going to let the girl suffer because of her parents’ negligence.

Her mom mentioned she got sick frequently so naturally, I placed her in my exact chamber, right near my bed, so I could keep an eye on her.

The next morning was pure chaos. We were basically running a parenting boot camp. One of my friends was assigned a tiny kid who vanished during bath time, only to be found hundred minutes later standing shivering in a kitenge because the water was “too cold” for her. To top it off, the DOD herself marched into our dorm, something she never did, and declared that no “mother” was allowed to go to class without walking her child to their classroom hand-in-hand.

So, hand-in-hand, my 5’1” self walked my 5’8” S1 “child” and her “siblings” to class.

As the days went by, it became clear my “kid” struggled with basic hygiene and, notably, suffered from bedwetting.

When the prefects tried to rearrange our beds, they wanted to place her in Chamber One, right next to the main door but I intervened. She was asthmatic, and since our dorms had no indoor bathrooms, people constantly left the main door open at night. Chamber One was freezing. Out of genuine care, I fought to move her to the back chamber near a secondary door that was rarely opened except during general cleanings.

Because she was sick so often, she would randomly go home during class hours. We lived like this for a while, until one fateful Friday.

I was plating dinner for my table when I saw the girl talking with the DOD. A few minutes later, I was summoned.

When I arrived, the DOD asked me how many S1s I had. I listed them off, leaving my sick “child” for last since I assumed that’s what that was about.

Suddenly, the nun unleashed a tirade on me.

She called me heartless for not mentioning the girl’s name first knowing she was really sick and needed special care. She ranted about how her “heart broke” seeing this tall girl being carried by other tiny S1s when she was sick ngo kandi afite “nyina” as if I was was supposed to sling the girl over my shoulder, or somehow possess maternal instinct alerting me when she fell ill during class!

Also, Do you know how many other kids were asthmatic in that school? Countless. And do you know what the school did to help them? Absolutely nothing. Matter of fact, if you were bold enough to have an asthma attack, you earned yourself a beating from the Patron. Oh, you didn't know? Yes, we had a male Patron in an all-girls school, but that’s a story for another day. So really, who was being heartless here?

Then came the grand finale.

The nun accused other students of peeing in the girl’s bed out of malice.

I beg your next available pardon?!

I explicitly told her that the girl wet her own bed, she even slept on the top bunk so who was climbing her bed to wet it? I kid you not I thought I was in a comedy show but guess who spent the whole evening prep in the DOD’s office? The Deputy Head Girl (who had already ordered the girl to air out her mattress that morning) and I spent two and a half hours getting roasted.

We stood there as she questioned my parents and my upbringing, claimed I had no empathy, and threw in a dramatic “Her father is a high-ranking soldier! What image do you think he’s going to get of this school after how you treated his daughter?!”

She even guilt-tripped me ngo because she had never seen me walking the girl to the dispensary at 10:00 AM for her daily “prescribed” milk. So i also had to play out bodyguard roles cause why could she not take herself to the dispensary? The nun was crazy if she thought I was carelessly going to spend my precious 20 minutes of break like that.

The ordeal finally ended with the DOD stripping me of my “maternal rights.” ( Thank God) She reassigned the girl to another mother that was a “better” mother than I was and gave me an S4 instead (who ended up becoming a nice friend of mine).

It was a nightmare of an evening, but logic eventually won out. A few weeks later, the DOD finally realized what we had been telling her all along, that the kid was indeed peeing in her own bed.

It was a wild and unbelievable chapter of my life but looking back, I can only laugh at the whole experience cause Fawe was this and so much more ( worse wise to be exact)

I hope I did not bore you with this one and I have plenty more wild stories if you wanna hear them.

Day comes creeping in, moving around the wards of the sleeping world,

Sneaking quietly through the half-light of dawn,

Ukimura umwijima n’urwamo rw’inzozi,

Ukamurika imisozi, ugaba umucyo n’icyizere kuri rubanda.

humhhh,

How brilliantly it unfolds!

A portrait painted from the rays of morning sun,

Instilling purpose and desire in the minds of those awakened.

It moves with exquisite beauty, gleaming like a promise,

Pouring courage into the hearts of those who dare to dream.

Une même mesure de temps, et pourtant si cruellement inégale,

Pour l’un, c’est une source d’or, d’abondance et de douce paix,

Pour l’autre, une épreuve lente et douloureuse portée dans les larmes.

Il révèle tout ce que l’homme peut accomplir, et toute son impuissance,

Nous rappelant que nous ne sommes que des voyageurs au fil du temps.

Ukarengana ishema nk’iryo waserukanye,

Ukiraza mu nguni z’umugoroba, ugatwikira isi mu ituze ry’agaciro.

Ugasiga abantu mu cyizere cy’ejo,

A tomorrow that may arrive bearing greater blessings,

Or one that might weigh heavier upon our shoulders,

Yet still, we wait for the dawn to break once more.

Happy weekend my loves!!

How are we supposed to move on to lighter topics when the daily baseline of male behavior ranges from unhinged entitlement to outright dangerous?

Case in point: a video of four Ghanaian men casually standing in front of a camera, smiling, discussing who gets to go first if they were to perform “gala” on a woman.

For anyone blessed enough not to know: “gala” is a euphemism for gang rape.

There they were, taking turns debating the order of operations based on the size of their manhood, openly discussing gang rape like they were debating who gets the last slice of pizza.

And then deciding, “Yeah, the world needs to see this,” and hitting upload.

I wish I was making this up.

I even hate that I have to include that detail, but I need you to understand the level of absurdity we’re dealing with.

What’s truly terrifying isn’t just that they had the thought. It’s the absolute, chilling comfort with which they shared it. It tells you everything you need to know.

This wasn’t a new thought, it wasn’t the first time they’d talked about this, and not a single man in their orbit had ever checked them for it. When men feel that safe broadcasting their cruelty to the world, how can we, women, ever expect the world to be a safe space for us?

This isn’t just an internet problem by the way, it’s a lived reality that women are forced to adapt to from the moment we hit adolescence.

When I was around 15, or younger, the age when girls are abruptly forced to learn how to dodge unwanted male attention, a man I had only ever exchanged a basic, polite “mwiriwe” with decided he was owed my existence. I won’t go into much details but he basically sent another guy to get my number which I did not give out. He somehow tracked down the phone number of another lady who lived at home back then. He then started sending long, romantic French “good morning” texts through her phone to which I gave no reply.

When he finally called her to force a conversation and I refused to take the phone, he made sure to communicate that had it been back in the day, he would have beaten the sh!t out of me, disfigured me so no other man would ever want me, and then seen if I’d still have the nerve to refuse him.

I was fifteen. I laughed it off at the time but that moment sits in your bones forever. It was truly not funny but sometimes your mind doesn’t know what else to do with a threat so grotesque.

How do you look at a human being, a stranger, a teenager, anyone, and genuinely believe you own them? Where does that bone-deep belief that you are entitled to a woman’s time, attention, peace, and body even come from?

So, to the gents, I don’t need an explanation, and I certainly don’t need “not all men” disclaimers kuko aho bigeze this “confidence” or whatever it is, is almost supernatural pe. I just have one genuine question:

WHERE CAN I BORROW A MAN’S AUDACITY?

A command,

Live.

Move through the days, wake up, complete tasks, chase deadlines, and wait for tomorrow, another day, to finally begin.

LIVE.

In the deepest meaning of the word. Live with intention. Live with your whole being.

Create, inspire, leave a mark on the world, but you MUST live  first.

BAHO!!!

There is something sacred about being alive. If we believe that we are creations of God, then our existence is not an accident. We were created with a purpose to reflect His glory, to praise His name, to carry a piece of His creativity into the world.

Il faut vivre avant.

You MUST live first!!

To live is to acknowledge the gift of existence.

Because how can we create if we have never truly experienced? How can we inspire others if we have never allowed ourselves to be inspired? How can we give light if we have never opened our eyes to see it?

There’s so much pressure to become something. To achieve something. To be useful. But don’t forget,

TO BE ALIVE.

BAHO,

Avant toute chose.

Live before everything else.

Real living requires presence.

Decide to continue.
Decide to love.
Decide to try.
Decide to become.

Decide to LIVE.

Life is happening NOW.

Before you become the person you dream of becoming, be the person who is alive today. Before you inspire thousands, inspire yourself to appreciate the miracle of being here. Before you create something for the world, allow yourself to experience the world.

And perhaps the greatest way we can honor the gift of life is by living so fully that our existence itself becomes a form of gratitude.

So breathe.

Laugh.

Love.

Create.

Dream.

Fail.

Grow.

Praise.

But above all else,

Vis.

Live.

BAHO!!!

Passez une semaine formidable les amies🫶🏽!!

You'll have finished everything you needed to do. The dishes will be washed. Your phone will have stopped buzzing. The world will seem unusually quiet, as though it's making room for something.

You'll reach for a book without thinking much of it.

By the end of the night, you'll have found something that won't let you leave so easily.

You'll tell yourself you'll stop after one chapter.

Then another.

Then another.

Soon enough, your evenings will belong to it.

You'll find yourself reaching for it before you’re even fully awake. You'll hurry through work because you know it's waiting on your bedside table. You'll catch yourself smiling at words printed years before you ever found them, wondering how something so inanimate could know you so well.

You'll begin speaking every day.

The conversations won't sound like conversations to anyone else, but you'll know better.

They'll begin after long, exhausting days when all you want is to disappear for a while. You'll crawl into bed, open another chapter, and somehow the noise in your head will quiet down.

There will be nights when you'll look at the time and laugh.

2:17 a.m.

You'll promise yourself this is the last chapter. Spoiler alert,

It WON’T be.

The hours won't feel wasted. They'll feel borrowed.

You'll wake up tired the next morning, but somehow happier than if you'd slept.

You’ll begin to see it everywhere. A sentence will find you while you're making coffee. A conversation at work will remind you of something it once said. You'll smile to yourself in the middle of the Simba Supermarket because you've just remembered a line that no one else in the aisle could possibly understand.

Without realizing it, you'll begin measuring your days by how soon you can return home to it.

You'll protect those quiet hours the way people protect the things they love.

You'll start believing some books arrive exactly when they're meant to.

Then on a similar Saturday like the first, reality will knock.

You’ll finally remember that it was never yours to keep.

You'll have to pull yourself out of the daydreams.

You'll have to remind yourself that no matter how much you loved the book, love won’t be enough to keep it on your shelf, it just won’t fit.

You’ll remember that sometimes something can feel like home and still not be somewhere you can live.

And that will be your snap back to a reality without said book.

Not losing it because it will still be there, just not for you to read.

Still, you'll be grateful.

Because some things don't have to belong to you to change you.

Some things are beautiful precisely because they were never promised to stay.

Except this was never just about a book.

And it never will be.

This piece was inspired by my motari’s story. You’re free to interpret it the way you want to. Just let me hear your thoughts on it.

Thank God it’s Friday!! Have a GREAT weekend Les amies❤️

(There might be some occasions though, but for the most part it is as so)

And so I choose music to speak to you, again ( and to be frank i don’t think this is the last time I do so, lol)

If you’ve been here for a while, you’ll know that I have spent a lot of time writing about love and about life itself. And the more I think about those two subjects, the more impossible it becomes to separate them from their source.

Because love does not exist apart from the One who is Love.

And life does not exist apart from the One who gives it.

It only felt right, then, that after writing about both, I eventually wrote about the Creator Himself.

Today’s reflection is dedicated to every person who believes in God, regardless of denomination (the religion part... well, I have thoughts about that, but perhaps that’s a conversation for another day).

The hymn itself is one of the very first songs I remember hearing in church as a child.

Like many things we grow up around, I sang it because everyone else did. I knew the melody before I understood the message and it wasn’t until years later that I stopped simply singing it and actually listened to what it was saying.

And suddenly, it became one of the most beautiful lessons on creation, creativity, and worship I can share.

“Muze dusingize Imana, muze dukuze Umuremyi,
Waduhanganye urukundo,
Natwe turakuririmba,
Wowe Rutare twegamiye.”

The hymn opens with a simple invitation.

Come.Let us praise God.

Because He is THE Creator.

Before the hymn goes on to speak about the heavens, the mountains, the rivers, and everything else He has made, it pauses to call Him “Rutare twegamiye” the Rock on whom we lean.

A rock does not run after us. It does not change depending on the weather or the season.

It remains steady, firm and reliable.

It is TRULY comforting knowing that the same God who created everything beautiful around us is also the One we can lean on when life becomes uncertain. The Creator is not distant from His creation. He sustains it, and in that sense, He sustains us too.

Before reminding us to admire creation, the hymn reminds us who stands behind it.

The Rock before the rivers.

The Creator before creation.

And then, only then, does it invite us to look around and notice everything His hands have made.

The song then calls everyone.

Young men, young women, artists, parents, the elderly and even babies.

No one is left out.

I love that because worship was never intended to belong to one group of people but to humanity. We all have different gifts, different seasons of life, different ways of expressing ourselves, and we are ALL invited to the same Creator.

Then every verse ends with the same quiet reminder.

“Ni We ubwe wabihanze.”

He Himself created it.

The heavens and the earth, the sun, the mountains,.. Down to.Everything that breathes.

At first it sounds repetitive.

Then you realize that the repetition is exactly the point.

The hymn keeps turning our attention somewhere else, almost saying,

“Look again.”

“And again.”

“And don’t miss this either.”

Because creation surrounds us so completely that we often stop noticing it.

I have written before about how much I love nature ( minus the part when the bugs crawl on me though). The sunlight filtering through rows of trees. The changing colours of the sky. The quiet beauty that exists whether or not anyone is paying attention.

This hymn reminds me that none of those things simply happened.They were created. And creation itself becomes evidence AND a constant reminder that behind everything beautiful stands an even greater Creator.

Sometimes we tend to search for God in extraordinary places while overlooking the reminders He has placed in ordinary ones.The sunrise. A child’s laughter.The stars.The sound of flowing water and the gushing wind that it brings with it,..

Every beautiful thing quietly points beyond itself, To the most beautiful CREATOR. And this has me thinking that not every act of worship requires words. Sometimes stopping long enough to genuinely admire what God has made is itself an acknowledgment of His greatness.

Wonder naturally becomes gratitude and gratitude naturally becomes PRAISE.

One verse, however, specifically caught my attention.

“Namwe bahanzi muhugure ubwenge,
Muhimbire Umwami ibisingizo.”

“You artists, use your wisdom. Compose praises for the Lord.”

I love that artists receive their own invitation. Whether you write, sing, paint, draw,..

Whether you create in ways the world has not even named yet.

Create.

After all, we were created in God’s image and our God is, first and foremost, a Creator. And to me, that is one of the greatest gifts He entrusted to humanity: the ability to make something that did not exist before.

Let’s all think about this:

A blank page becomes a story, Silence becomes music, A canvas becomes a painting. Isn’t that amazing?

We create because we were created by the Creator Himself. I love that this hymn reminds artists to look first at the greatest Artist of all. To create not merely for attention, but with intention. To make things that point people toward beauty, truth, and ultimately toward God.

The hymn teaches us that creation is not merely something to observe. It is something that invites us to notice, admire, respond (create) and henceforth, PRAISE.

Every time I listen to it now, I experience this strange warmth that is difficult to describe.

A fuzzy feeling.

Part nostalgia, Part peace, because it reminds me that the same God who created the mountains, the stars, and every living thing is still the Rock we lean on.

It is one of those songs that makes the world feel a little more beautiful, and God feel a little closer.

And that is EXACTLY what good music is supposed to do.

A splendid week ahead to y’all.

Now, before anyone comes for me, I’m not here to argue whether KC was right or wrong ( we can do that on Insta, Snap, or Tiktok. WhatsApp too. In person is way better though). What I want to talk about is why women are rarely given the same grace when it comes to anger.

Throughout the season, Aniya constantly asked for reassurance. To me, it looked like someone trying to make sure the person she liked was as invested as she was. Yet I couldn’t help but wonder if those exact same questions had come from a man, would people have described him as “doing too much”? Or would they have said he cared deeply? That he was affectionate? That he really liked her?

Somehow, when a woman seeks reassurance, she’s insecure, exhausting, complicated, you name it but let a man do it,… he’s emotionally invested.

Then came the re-coupling.

I’ve seen countless comments saying Aniya was doing too much, crying, getting angry and making a scene. I even think back to the moment when KC laughed in the middle of one of their serious conversations (before re-coupling). I genuinely wonder how people would have reacted if the roles had been reversed. If a woman had laughed in a man’s face while he was trying to express how he felt, would we still call it harmless? Or would we say she was disrespectful?

Maybe I’m wrong but I don’t think this is just a Love Island issue.I think of it as something much bigger. I’ve rarely seen a woman’s anger be met with curiosity. We allow women to be disappointed some times, anxious, maybe even shed a tear or two.

But anger?Anger is where we draw the line and begin questioning her character instead of her circumstances. She becomes dramatic and difficult.

And when she’s done “fussing around?” She’s expected to move on gracefully. Smile. Be the bigger person.

The strange thing is that anger is usually treated as information when it comes to men. In this case a man is just described as assertive, dominant.

Now I know men aren’t exactly encouraged to be the emotional gender either. In many ways, they are also taught to suppress vulnerability, softness, and anything that looks like emotional openness. But anger seems to be the one exception, almost a socially approved emotion for them. Sadness or fear might be seen as weakness, but anger is often re-framed as strength. It becomes conviction, leadership, and masculinity.

So it’s not that men are “allowed to feel everything” and women are not. It’s more that different emotions are distributed differently. And anger, in particular, seems to land more comfortably on men than it ever does on women.

With women, anger somehow stops being an emotion and becomes a personality trait.

She’s an angry woman.

As though one moment of anger erases every other part of who she is. I sometimes wonder whether this is where so much people-pleasing begins. How many girls learned early on that being liked depended on being pleasant? That disagreement had to be softened and boundaries had to be wrapped in apologies. If you expressed anger too openly, you’d be labelled “complicated.”

So instead of anger, it becomes slowly overthinking, then anxiety and role-playing conversations that could have been had in your head. It gradually becomes wondering if you were too harsh, too emotional or too sensitive.

And I think that’s why so many women become experts at swallowing perfectly valid emotions before anyone else has the chance to reject them.

I don’t think every woman is right simply because she’s angry just as I don’t think every man is wrong because he is. Anger isn’t evidence of righteousness but neither is it evidence of poor character. It’s SIMPLY an emotion. So maybe the question isn’t whether Aniya was justified in every reaction she had. Maybe the better question is this:

Are certain emotions only reserved for a specific gender?

Long before podcasts, and endless scrolling, there were Tuesday evenings spent listening to stories that made us laugh, and cringe. If you ask me to describe my childhood in sounds, somewhere between karahanyuze, afrobeats on Star music and schoolbells, you’ll find the opening of Ikinamico. Truth be told, I can’t quite remember the specific plays I listened to as a small child, but I do remember that ikinamico was always around. I specifically remember all the aba tantines tuning in every Tuesday without fail.

For me, it became a proper ritual after my Holy Communion party, when my godparents gifted me a small white-and-blue speaker. The speaker was originally supposed to help me tune into Radio Maria for spiritual growth, but I digress. Instead, it quickly became my gateway into the world of ikinamico.

Every Tuesday, I would listen to the plays before sleeping. I used to be genuinely disappointed whenever a football match or some other special program replaced the play. And don’t even get me started on the stories that came in parts. Nothing tested my patience more than listening to Part One on Tuesday, only to discover that instead of airing Part Two on Saturday, they would save it for the following Tuesday and air an entirely different story in between. For a child who desperately needed to know what happened next, those extra days felt like years.

Now, you would think my small ( not so small) obsession ended there. Well, not really.

A little later, my attention shifted slightly to the morning stories on Kiss FM. Every morning seemed to begin with Inkuru ya Mimi by Sandrine Isheja and Arthur Nkusi. The good old days, sha. By now, most people who know me already know that I listened to Kiss FM as though my life depended on it, but that morning show truly carried me through days.

Then came Gashora.

Matter of fact, shout out to my girls: Kalizad, Lica, Aurore, Belise, Patience, Mukundwa, Nessa, Gihana, and Rhoda. Together, we formed what can only be described as an ikinamico community. We rotated responsibilities between finding the play with the best plot, locating speakers, and making sure they were charged in time.

THE GOOD OLD DAYS.

(Nostalgia is absolutely killing me as I write this.)

These are the very same people (plus Queen, who was not going to miss an episode even if she had class with Tr. Rogers first thing in the morning) that I single-handedly recruited into my mandatory morning routine. Every day around 6:45 a.m., we would tune in for the Kiss FM stories, then, by Sandrine Isheja, Rusine Patrick, and Andy Bumuntu.

The plot in those stories was CRAZY.

Those writers possessed a talent I genuinely struggle to describe. They could create suspense, heartbreak, comedy, and life lessons all within a few minutes. You never knew what was coming next.

And that is exactly why ikinamico deserves its flowers.

The beauty of these plays is that they transport us everywhere. One moment they take us into u Rwanda rwa kera, introducing us to traditions, customs, and ways of life that many young people only hear about from their grandparents. The next moment, they place us firmly in the modern world, tackling contemporary relationships, family dynamics, social issues, and everything in between.

Even more impressive is how they manage to be funny, corny, cringe, educational, and deeply moving all at once.

Funny? Bigeragezo immediately comes to mind. I still remember being introduced to it by my parents. On one road trip back home, all five of us; my parents, my siblings, and I were laughing so hard we could barely breathe. If you’ve listened to the scene around 1:11:00, then you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Corny and cringe? Urukundo Nagabiwe na Rurema certainly deserves a mention. But honestly, if I can sit through a corny novel or watch a cheesy romantic series from abroad, then surely I can survive listening to Ibambe describe Eduin’s handkerchief as the most beautiful one she has ever seen ( I know you’re cringing as you read this hehe!)

And while we’re talking about memorable moments, Gihana and I can never keep a straight face whenever someone mentions “Igifransa n’Igispagnol.” If you know, you know.

Beyond the humor, however, these stories often carry important lessons. They teach us about growth, love, forgiveness, resilience, family, friendship, and humanity as a whole. Many of the situations may be fictional, but the emotions and lessons are very real. Through the characters, we see our own strengths, weaknesses, mistakes, and hopes reflected back at us.

And to those who think listening to local plays or enjoying homemade music is somehow uncool, I respectfully disagree ( disrespectfully nako). Appreciating what comes from our own people does not mean rejecting everything else. It only means recognizing value where it exists. Of course, not everyone has to enjoy ikinamico, just as not everyone enjoys the same books, movies, or songs. But there is nothing embarrassing about loving stories told in our own language, shaped by our own experiences, and created by people who understand our realities.

Years later, long after the speakers have changed and the schedules have shifted, those stories still have a way of making me, us, smile at memories we thought we had forgotten..

Music has always been one of the ways I make sense of love.

Sometimes I think songs understand emotions before we do. They hold feelings we struggle to name, and in doing so, they teach us how to recognize love in its many forms.

There are songs that entertain, and then there are songs that linger. Songs that feel less like music and more like memory or a conversation (I’m NOT a poet but i hope you get what I mean) For me, Urungano by Rugamba Cyprien, Rubera by Minani Rwema, and Mama Wambyaye Nzakwitura Iki belong to that second category. They are not simply songs I enjoy listening to, they are reflections on what it means to love and to be loved.

They are three different yet same lessons on LOVE. Friendship. Romantic love. And a mother’s love.

(If you failed to understand me I hope you resonate with what I say in the next parts)

Urungano: The Love of Friendship

“Ngo nkubwira agakuru nkuye iwacu
Usibe none, usibe uw’ejo
Ngo ejobundi hazaza urungano
Harimo abo tuzi neza twareranywe
Barimo benshi dukumbuye
Twibuka ibyiza dusangiye
Nta gisumba umuto
Mwareranywe mu ngobyi”

Everytime I listen to this part especially “Nta gisumba umuto mwareranywe mu ngobyi”

I think of a very close friend, a best friend, Keissa.

And if you are reading this, I LOVE YOUU.

This line takes me back to childhood in a way nothing else really does. It brings back so many memories and mind you, this wasn’t even one of the songs we used to listen to in those days. It reminds me of the silly things we did as kids (like laughing at how “nice” the door to our sisters’ class was for opening itself for us).The conversations that probably made no sense. The laughter that came too easily. Things she might not even remember, but I do.

What I love most is how this song captures something we often underestimate, friendship that grows from shared beginnings. People who didn’t meet us later in life, but who were there while we were becoming ourselves.

There is something grounding about that kind of bond. Even 15+ years later, there’s a strange comfort in knowing that some people have simply been there all along.

Then comes another line,

“Nkuvuge, nkuririmbe n’ejo”

If you have known me for a while, you’ll know I take friendship seriously. This line feels like a personal mantra. It is the idea that love for friends is not something that exists in a single moment. It is ongoing. I speak about my friends today, and tomorrow I will still speak about them. Friendship does not expire after one conversation of appreciation. It keeps unfolding and I am so here for it.

But the song also introduces a more painful truth:

“Nta n’uwacikwa ngo ateshuke
Cyangwa yirenge abirahire
Yuko azibera ukwe
Adataramana n’urungano”

The idea that someone can isolate themselves, convinced they do not need others.

And it makes me think, TWICE.

Because the world is beautiful. I genuinely love nature. The quietness, the vastness, the way it makes everything feel small and meaningful. I appreciate it daily. Like the way the sun radiates through the branches/leaves of the trees that line my way to Nyabugogo and I am always in an awe as I observe it from my window seat. But what would all of that be if I had no one to share it with?

Would I even notice beauty in the same way if it didn’t remind me of people I love?

No man is an island and it is definitely not because we need help to survive, but because connection is what gives meaning to survival itself. Simply knowing that there are people you belong to, and who belong to you, is already a form of richness.

And then the song expands again:

“Urungano mwumva na rwo ruri kwinshi
N’abakambwe b’imvi nyinshi
B’utubando, baba mo rungano
Mu batoya b’indirimbo ni urungano”

What I hear here is continuity.

The thought that friendship does not belong to age. That even elders, even those with white hair and walking sticks, are still part of the same circle of belonging.

It makes me hope for something… that I will grow old with my people. My friends. My sister, My brother,..That we will become those “abakambwe b’imvi nyinshi” one day, still laughing, still remembering, still being each other’s URUNGANO

And then the song gives one of its most beautiful images:

“Urungano rwiza ni nko kota ikome
N’iyo ukonje, uhinda umushyitsi
Iyo urusanze uhita ususuruka
…
Iyo urwinjiyemo umera nk’ishashi”

Good friendship is like warmth. Like fire. There are friendships that revive you. You walk in cold, and you leave warmer. You walk in tired, and you leave lighter.

This whole song always pulls me toward the people with whom I share a love for karahanyuze too. Yvanelle, Doriane, Vanessa, and Queen, who I know especially loves karahanyuze, and Rugamba Cyprien in particular. And my Babizoooo, with whom I talk friendship, love, and everything in between. There is something about listening to these songs with people who understand them the way you do. People who do not just hear the music, but feel the nostalgia, the tenderness, the memories hidden inside the words.

That is what true urungano feels like.

And I am grateful I get to experience that.

Rubera: The Love of Romantic Care

“Ngwino utete Rubera, wisangire uwagukunze”

I have never been in love, but I don’t think I need experience to understand what this song suggests love could or should feel like.

It feels like presence. Like intentional care. Like choosing someone repeatedly.

“Ntukagire irungu, warakunzwe n’intore” don’t be lonely.

That alone already says a lot. Love, in this sense, is companionship. It is making sure someone feels seen, included, and wanted.

“Kuva nkigukunda, ntiwigeze undushya,

Igihe tumaranye wanyeretse ubupfura”

Love, I believe, should not be complicated, calculated,.... Love should be simple, should be easy. It should be soothing, calming, and filling. It should be warm. It should be understanding and relaxing.

Then the song becomes almost like a philosophy of love,

“Jya urwoza buri munsi, nzarusiga amavuta
Nzabagarira urukundo, nawe ujye uruvomera”

Love as a garden.

That metaphor has always stayed with me.

Because gardens do not survive on emotion alone. They require effort. Attention. Consistency. Some days are easy, others are not. But the care must remain.

If love is a garden, then both people are responsible for it. One waters, the other nourishes. One tends, the other protects. It is shared work.

Love should not be one-sided. That is something I deeply believe. It should be mutual effort. I am talking taking turns to listen to one another, understanding each other, learning each other’s interests so one has who to share excitement or disappointment with.

Then comes one of the most honest reminders

“Nunabona ahaga, ntuzigera utura ahaga”

Don’t settle in what is not enough.

Love should feel easy, yes but not empty. It should feel calm but it’s at times chaotic. Not perfect. But SAFE. (There’s emphasis on safe mes chères amies.)

There’s the good and there’s the bad. That’s how life works but, if you face hardships on the way, don’t settle there, fight your way back to safety, to home, to love. Essentially to what feels right.

And when it is right, it becomes something like this,

“Iyo ugize aho ujya, iyo ntakubona
Ururabo wakunze ukarurinda byose
Ndukubita amaso nkarukubonamo
Dushimire iyaduhuje, yahuje iyo mitima”

This circles back to something I mentioned earlier about loving nature and seeing loved ones in God’s beautiful creations.

I think one of the greatest gifts of loving someone is that they begin to exist everywhere. Not physically, of course, but in the way we experience the world. A song reminds you of them. A place becomes special because we visited it with them. A song becomes beautiful because it reminds us of them. This part of the song speaks of a love that is present even in absence. A love that survives distance, survives time, and continues to reveal itself through the beauty of God’s creation. Every flower, every sunset becomes a reminder that we are blessed not only with beautiful things to admire, but with beautiful people to share them with.

And speaking of beautiful people, there is no greater blessing than the people who first taught us what love looks like.

Which brings me to my favorite song of the three.

Mama Wambyaye Nzakwitura Iki: The Love of a Mother

“Bwiza bw’Imana se wiriweho
Nsanze umubyeyi wampaye byinshi
Mama wambyaye nzakwitura iki?”

This song deserved its own entire piece. Maybe one day it will get one.

Because how do you even begin to repay a mother?

You don’t.

You can’t.

What you can do is try to understand.

“Ko wanyikundiye nkiri muto
Ca inkoni izamba Mubyeyi we!
Ko wamenyereje impuhwe nyinshi”

There is something almost incomprehensible about being loved before you can give anything in return.

Before success or even identity.

A mother’s love exists in a space where value is not earned

And as I grow older, I realize how much of what I am is built on things I did not notice at the time. The sacrifices. The patience. The silent exhaustion. The constant care

“Uri umubyeyi uri urukundo”

This line says so much.

Not that a mother has love.

Not that she shows love.

But that she IS love.

she embodies LOVE constantly.

Even when we make mistakes

“Nsanze umubyeyi anyihoreze
Ko nakubereye mfura-mbi
Mbabarira sinzongera”

We grow. We hurt. And somehow, there is still space to return.

That kind of love is not logical and it surely can’t be explained to its core.

And maybe that is why it is the hardest to ever repay.

These three songs are different forms, different expressions but the same truth. That life is made meaningful not by the places we go, the things we own, or the achievements we collect, but by the people we get to love and be loved by.

Love is SURELY not one thing and all of it shapes how I, we, see the world. There are so many reasons why music matters so much to me and one of those might be how it describes emotions and hands me a guide on how to recognize them in real life.

These songs are not just songs.

They are reminders.

Reminders of friends who become family, of the kind of love we all hope to experience one day, and of the woman who taught me, us, what love looked like long before I,we, knew how to define it.

Women’s unpaid labour is often spoken about as simply an extension of womanhood rather than actual work, hard work for that matter. Across many societies, women are expected to cook, clean, nurture children, care for relatives, regulate emotions within the household, and somehow still excel professionally. And while initiatives such as building crèches near workplaces, like some recent projects in Rwanda, are genuinely progressive and important in helping women balance work and motherhood, it is still striking how society sometimes seems more willing to build a crèche every ten steps than to simply teach men how to actively participate in their own families. The burden should not merely be made easier for women; it should also be redistributed more fairly. And this is not about excusing women from care-giving altogether or pretending mothers are unnecessary in their children’s lives but rather questioning why childcare and domestic responsibility are still treated as obligations women must naturally carry almost alone.

Far too often, childcare is still subconsciously viewed as primarily the mother’s responsibility with fathers existing as “helpers” rather than equal parents. But once those children are born, they belong to both parents EQUALLY. Men should know how to soothe a crying child, prepare meals, attend school meetings, and care for their children without being applauded for performing the bare minimum of parenthood. The same applies to the household itself. Most men live independently before marriage, meaning they already know how to clean, cook, organize spaces, and maintain a home. Yet after forming families, some conveniently abandon these responsibilities and hand them over to women.

Now, acknowledging this imbalance does not mean denying that many women are naturally nurturing, warm, emotionally attentive, and empathetic. Those qualities are real and valuable. However, possessing those traits should not confine women exclusively to care-giving roles, nor should it excuse men from developing emotional intelligence themselves. Patriarchal expectations that teach men to suppress affection, avoid vulnerability, and distance themselves emotionally do not strengthen them, they often harm them. Boys are raised hearing phrases like “man up,” “don’t cry,” or “men are not emotional,” and many grow into adults unable to express tenderness even toward the people they love most. In the long run, this emotional repression damages relationships, isolates men emotionally, and places the burden of emotional labour almost entirely on women.

Ultimately, the issue of unpaid labor is not simply about chores or childcare. It is about the way societies distribute care, responsibility, and emotional expectation along gendered lines. Supporting women should not only mean creating systems that help them carry the load more efficiently, but also raising men who genuinely understand that care, affection, domestic responsibility, and parenting are human responsibilities rather than female ones.

He had more of the same.

One about women sleeping with multiple men and “carrying” their genetic material. Another blaming women for sex work and a lot more obsessing over women’s sexuality.

His username says he’s a doctor.

I’d be damned if I ever gave him that title.

Because what he is doing is not medicine. It’s pure ragebait and I shall not be convinced otherwise.

And videos like that are exactly why this needs to be said and i’ll hold you by both of your ears while saying this

Virginity is not a medical condition but a social construct. Now repeat after me, Virginity is not a medical condition but a social construct

Okay let me explain.

There is no test or scan for it. There is no physical marker or anything in the body that proves it.

Yet for centuries, it has been treated like something measurable. Something that defines morality, purity, and worth and most of it was built around the hymen.

We were told the hymen is a seal that breaks during sex. That bleeding proves virginity. That doctors can “tell” if a woman has had sex just by examining her body. Or that a man is able to tell if a woman is a virgin by the supposed “tightness”( which by the way is caused by anxiety or the involuntary contraction of the pelvic muscle)

None of that is medically true. I know some of y’all or rather many of y’all are surprised (and I was too but more because it took me so long to actually look into it cause i was taught differently in class, dare I say all of us were)

The hymen is just tissue. It varies from person to person. Some people are born with very little of it. Some never bleed. In others it stretches or changes through tampons, exercise, hormones, or normal life activities. There is no universal physical “loss” that marks sexual activity.

And no, virginity cannot be medically tested.

The World Health Organization has clearly stated that virginity has no medical or scientific basis and that no examination can determine whether someone has had vaginal intercourse.

A systematic review in Reproductive Health also confirms that hymen exams are unreliable and can cause real harm to the woman’s body.

So the science is simple.

Virginity testing is not science but control.

And that control has a history.

Women’s sexuality was tied to inheritance and lineage. Men needed certainty over paternity. That is where the obsession with female “purity” came from.

That is why the double standard still exists.

A sexually active man is experienced. A sexually active woman is judged.

And when you really sit with it, the logic never adds up. If women are expected to stay “pure,” where is male experience coming from? If sex work is condemned, who is creating the demand?

These are the same systems that keep showing up in different forms, including the kind of content that guy on TikTok posts.

He’ll talk about women not needing empowerment in one video, then jump to biology claims about women’s bodies in another, then to morality arguments about women’s sexuality. But it always circles back to the same ideas; female control, misogyny and PATRIACHY.

Now another one of his claims is that women “carry the DNA” of every man they sleep with.

That comes from a distortion of microchimerism.

Microchimerism is real, but it is not what people online make it sound like. It refers mainly to small numbers of cells transferring between mother and fetus during pregnancy. Those cells can remain in the body for years. That is where the science stops.

It has nothing to do with multiple sexual partners leaving permanent genetic traces in a woman’s body.

That claim has no scientific basis.

It is just another way to turn women’s sexuality into something permanently contaminated if not owned by a single man.

In one of his videos, he also claims that microchimerism is why couples start to look alike over time. That idea doesn’t hold up scientifically. What people usually mistake for “becoming similar” is a mix of shared lifestyle and assortative mating. Couples often choose partners who already resemble them in personality, background, values, or even facial features to some extent, which is what assortative mating explains. On top of that, years of living together means shared routines, diets, sleep patterns, expressions, and habits, which can subtly shape posture and facial expression over time hence the similarity.

Basically, what people do here is take a real concept, distort it, and use it to reinforce control.

The whole sexuality talk is one of the most uncomfortable to have. What makes it so for many people is that it forces society to confront how deeply misogyny has been embedded into ideas we once treated as “natural.” The concept of virginity was presented as timeless truth when, in reality, it reflected social anxieties about female autonomy. Because once women gain full ownership over their sexuality, patriarchal systems lose one of their oldest tools of control.

Now none of this means people cannot personally value abstinence, celibacy, or sexual boundaries and in no way am I encouraging anyone to have multiple sexual partners. People are free to attach emotional, spiritual, or personal meaning to sex. That part has nothing to do with science and everything to do with belief.

As I wrap up my not so short rant, let’s all remember not everything we see online is true just because a guy using a new biological term says it is, cause he might claim he is a Dr but clearly attended school as many times as i have slept 8 hours a night this week (lol) and also,

A woman’s worth has never lived in a membrane.

Hesitantly lets go of y’alls ears

Because the thing is if you approached someone with the intention of dating them maybe even imagining a future with them it’s because you already saw something. No one walks up to a stranger with zero interest and says, “yes, this one, let me pursue this.” There was a reason. Something caught your attention. Something made you curious.

And that curiosity? That’s where the “table” conversation should start and honestly, end.

As you talk to someone, spend time with them, see how they move through their day, how they treat people, how they think, that’s when you find out what they bring. Not through a question that puts them on the spot like they’re pitching themselves for a role they didn’t even apply for.

If what matters to you is whether someone wants children, you’ll find out. You’ll have that conversation. You’ll take the necessary steps, have the tests, figure out compatibility in real, practical ways.

If what drew you to someone was how organized they are, how put-together their life seems, then that’s already something they bring to the table. You saw it. You liked it. Now the natural thing is to explore it further.

I think the question itself is lazy.

It skips the process, the observing, the learning and the paying attention. It asks someone to summarize themselves instead of allowing yourself to discover them. And if you’re genuinely interested in someone, why would you want the shortcut?

Be curious enough to find out.

Be present enough to notice.

Be courageous enough to invest time instead of asking for a bullet-point answer.

Because if you really want to know what someone brings to the table, you won’t need to ask. You’ll already be sitting across from it.

But then again, you should probably not listen to me too seriously, I’m writing this late at night, and I’ve never even been in a relationship.

But still.

If you’re that interested in knowing what I bring to the table, maybe don’t be lazy.

Pull up a chair and find out for yourself.

A few years back I went to a friend’s birthday party. There was this guy and this girl, first time meeting both of them.

We’re sitting there, they start talking. I don’t know if they’ve met before or not so I stay quiet. I’m usually very reserved around people I’m meeting for the first time (still am, just a little bit less now).

Then somehow the conversation shifts, marriage, salaries and power come up and this boy,very loudly and confidently, goes on about how he would NEVER marry a woman that earns more than him (i hope you’re catching the reference).

The moment the words left his mouth I wanted to argue. like immediately. especially since he didn’t just stop there but followed it up with how women become “disrespectful” when they get their own money.

Just.. classic chauvinistic nonsense after nonsense.

but I stopped myself.

17 year old me really thought all girls are girl’s girls. I really sat there thinking “no it’s fine, she’ll handle this, she’ll defend us.”

She didn’t.

Matter of fact, she agreed and I remember trying so hard to distract myself so I don’t keep listening to that conversation, but I had run out of data and couldn’t even fake being busy. so i just sat there.

Fast forward to recently, and I’m in almost the same exact situation again.

Two men, we’re in line waiting to get ID pictures taken. Casual conversation. then boom, same topic.

One of them turns to me and goes “ sibyo rata?” (don’t you agree)

I act like I wasn’t listening, but he keeps going. Tells me how he would never date a girl that earns more than him.

This time though, I speak.

I tell him that’s actually such a funny way to think.

He starts explaining himself, says he worked with this girl, same level, then she got promoted. Suddenly she’s busy, doesn’t have time like before (mind you, same exact storyline as “birthday” boy).

and I’m like… duh?

promotion = more responsibility. more work. less time. I don’t think it’s attitude, that’s life.

Then he adds how she got a car, would offer to pick him up but wouldn’t let him drive, how she even started offering to pay his rent.

and I’m sorry but I laughed.

like actually laughed and was like, the way you’re describing “disrespect” is really just a woman doing better than you. And I’m sorry that happened to you. truly. He keeps on ranting,..

and at some point he goes “don’t even hit me with that ‘you won’t get a girl to marry’ thing”to which i say relax, That’s not what i was about to say.

because the truth is, you will get a girl to marry you.

In fact, if you wanted many, you’d get them.

and that’s exactly the problem.

that there are so many girls willing to put their future on pause, to dim themselves and shrink, just so they don’t bruise a man’s ego.

because let’s be real, a lot of girls grow up imagining a partner who is richer than them, or at least on their level. someone stable. someone they can build with.

but the moment a girl becomes that for herself?

now she’s “too proud.”
now she’s “disrespectful.”
now she’s “hard to deal with.”

so what do you actually want?

because when she looks for money, she’s a gold digger.
and when she has money, she’s a problem.

pick a struggle.

and honestly at this point just say you want a housewife with a curfew and low self-esteem and leave.

stop dressing it up as “respect.”
it’s starting to embarrass everyone.

and the funniest (not funny) part is how this ends.

These same men will go on to marry women who will “submit.” Women who will make themselves smaller and easier.

and everyone will clap. “good wife.” “respectful woman.”

meanwhile…

you didn’t want a partner.

you wanted a maid.

a “well-behaved”, emotionally available, ego-protecting maid.

someone who won’t outgrow you.
someone who won’t challenge you.
someone who won’t make you feel small by simply being…. more.

you’re not looking for love but someone you can outshine with minimal effort.

and unfortunately for you,

women are starting to try.

anyway, good luck finding your dream girl;
may she never get promoted, never get busy, never get ideas,
and most importantly… never realize she deserves better.

Mbese, congratulations.

you don’t want a successful woman, a partner, or even equality.

you want peace of mind.

the kind that comes from being the most accomplished person in the room…
because you made sure she never had the chance to be.

That shock you felt, when you knew someone from long ago and saw them again, completely new and different? It says less about her and more about the way we consciously or subconsciously freeze people in time.

We meet someone at a certain point in their life and, without realizing it, we take a mental snapshot that becomes them. The version of them we understand and that feels familiar and easily goes with who we are. And from then on, we expect consistency as if growth is some kind of betrayal of who they used to be.

So when they change, like really change it unsettles us not always because the change is bad, but because it disrupts the story we had already written about them.

We like to believe we give people room to grow, but in reality, we often hand them invisible scripts:
“You’re the quiet one.”
“You’re the funny one.”
“You’d never do something like that.”

And when they step outside those roles, we don’t always celebrate it. Sometimes we question it. Sometimes we judge it. Sometimes we laugh.

And people feel that.

That’s why growth often happens in private.

It’s why someone can be building a whole new version of themselves in silence, only revealing it when it’s already fully formed. When it’s harder to criticize or to interrupt.

Because the early stages of becoming? They’re fragile.

You don’t want them picked apart by people who only know your past.

I’ve felt that myself. When I started posting on Substack, I didn’t tell everyone. Not because I wasn’t proud of it, but because I already knew the reactions I might get. The subtle judgment. The side comments basically The “since when?” energy.

Same thing when I started vlogging. I didn’t send my first video to some of my friends. I could already hear the laughs, the teasing, the “uriya nawe agendana n’ibigezweho” before it even happened.

And maybe they wouldn’t have all reacted that way. But it only takes a few people holding onto an outdated version of you to make you shrink back into it.

sometimes it’s not fear of failure that holds people back, but fear of being misunderstood by the people who knew them before.

Because being seen as different can feel like being seen as fake.

But it’s not fake but rather growth.

No one is meant to stay the same. Not you, not your friends, not that girl you saw online. People change in ways that are gradual, sudden or confusing

And I truly believe the real growth isn’t just in becoming someone new, but in allowing others to do the same without making them feel like they have to explain themselves.

To let people surprise you without punishing them for it.

To make space for the versions of them you haven’t met yet.

Because one day, you’ll want that same grace too.

Friendship, in its different forms, is something I am never going to shut up about.

There’s a version of friendship I used to chase before I even understood myself. The tight-knit circles, inside jokes, people who just got each other. I wanted that so badly, especially in my early teens, that I mistook proximity for connection. I had friendships, yes, but most of them lived on the surface. And for someone like me, surface-level was never going to be enough.

I’ve always known one thing about myself. I have a lot of love to give, I might have an unconventional way to show it but it’s just…here. And It’s one of my favorite things about me. But for a long time, that love didn’t have a solid place to land. I was pouring from a cup I didn’t understand and into spaces that couldn’t hold it. I envied girls who seemed to have meaningful friendships, wondering what they had figured out that I hadn’t.

Looking back, I don’t think the problem was that deep connection was out of reach. I think I just hadn’t met myself yet.

Because the truth is, you cannot build a secure, nourishing friendship if you don’t know who you are or if you don’t, at the very least, like yourself a little. Just enough to stand on your own identity without constantly shrinking or reshaping to be accepted.

For me, that knowing came in small ways.

It looked like embracing my “random” and ever-changing music taste ranging from global hits to Rwandan songs that weren’t always considered “cool”. It looked like reading the books I loved without embarrassment, even when people tried to box me into what a “real reader” should be. (I still laugh at the idea that loving romance somehow makes you less of a reader.)

It looked like tuning into Kiss FM’s morning stories and genuinely enjoying them, holding onto those little rituals even when they seemed trivial to others. It looked like choosing, over and over again, not to abandon the small details that made me me.

And somewhere in the middle of all that (of standing a little more firmly in myself) I found my girls.

Or maybe, we found each other.

Friendship started to feel different. It wasn’t forced or one-sided anymore. These were girls I could sit with and just be. Girls I could listen to stories with, laugh with, rotate roles with in the smallest things like finding the best Ikinamico to tune into. Girls with whom conversations about life, love, and friendship never seemed to run out.

For the first time, connection didn’t feel like something I had to chase or beg for. It met me where I was.

And if I’m being honest, that kind of love scared me at first. It still does sometimes.

There are moments when I feel myself slipping back into old patterns.Questioning, overthinking, wondering if I’m doing enough, if I’m being enough. There’s a part of me that fears I might let them down.

But they never let me stay in that place for long.

They call. They text. They ask to see me,without me having to reach first, without me having to prove my worth ( My heart still swells at the thought of this). And every time that happens, it rewrites something in me. Because I remember what it felt like to be the one always asking, always hoping for a response, always trying to hold something together on my own.

This is different.

This is mutual. This is intentional. This is real.

And maybe that’s the thing about girl friendships. They are met. Met at the point where you’ve decided, however imperfectly, to show up as yourself.

I love my friends in a way that feels steady. Not desperate or uncertain, but full. The kind of love that doesn’t make you smaller but expands you.

The kind that feels like it’s here to stay.

For life.

Not in the dramatic sense. I was breathing. Functioning. Showing up. Doing what needed to be done. But somewhere between responsibilities and routines, life became something I maintained instead of something I stepped into.

Living, I’m starting to realize, begins in the smallest decisions.

It’s getting out of bed when nothing is forcing you to. No alarm,no obligation but, you just deciding the day deserves your presence. It’s making the meal you don’t feel like making. Washing the dishes you left in the sink the night before and cleaning your house not because someone is coming over, but because you live there.

Caring for your own life like it matters.

But it doesn’t stop there.

These past two days, I’ve been walking with my friends with no grand plan or specific destination, taking streets we don’t usually take. Turning down an alley just to see what’s at the end and letting curiosity interrupt habit.

And the joy I’ve felt is almost confusing.

It wasn’t the nice food afterward (even though we swear by Comida China) or the cold drink against the scorching sun. It was the act itself. The walking. The noticing. The freedom of seeing without having to buy access, which might be one of the quiet heartbreaks of adulthood.

We saw balconies spilling over with plants. Beautiful, unique tiles lining doorsteps and walls, small shops that reminded me of countries I’ve never been to, cities I’ve only seen in photographs. And for a moment, the world felt bigger and closer at the same time.

And somewhere in between all that, I felt it,... that strange ache of creating a memory while already missing it.

Exploring stretches time. An ordinary afternoon becomes layered. A random turn becomes a story and you realize how much of the world exists waiting at the end of the street you never take.

Living, I think, is participation.

It’s choosing to see. Choosing to wander. Choosing to experience your own surroundings like both a local and a visitor. It’s understanding that joy doesn’t always arrive wrapped in weeks of plans but sometimes arrives in the simple miracle of being present and aware.

Maybe that’s what I’m chasing this year.

Not a bigger life.

Just a deeper one.

Vivre, ici, maintenant.

“It feels so good to be alive,” Beyonce once said.

Fast forward to today, and here I am living on my own in a country where I don’t know a single soul who speaks my language. Intriguing? Yes. Exciting? Definitely. But let me tell you… it is NOT easy, and I mean that in the most real way possible. “not easy” are two words you start hearing a lot more as you grow up, aren’t they?

Now, I don’t wanna seem ungrateful, first and foremost to God cause I am living in answered prayers ( I CANNOT STRESS THAT ENOUGH), or second, to the people that made the process smoother for me to be here, BUT not all days are sunny.

I’m not gonna say “I wish I knew” how tough it would be like a lot of people say cause I knew. They told me. But, what I did not know was how intense the struggle would feel. You can brace yourself for the worst, prepare for challenges, but nothing quite prepares you for how hard it hits. The thing is, no one can live your life like you do. So while you might get advice, no one else can fully understand your own unique journey.

There are days when you’re staring at a long grocery list, but you can’t leave the house because you don’t know your way around. There are days when you get lost for what feels like hours, unable to find someone who speaks your language. And even when you do find someone that tries, their directions might as well be in code, because they’re just as lost as you are. Technology’s great for a lot of things, but trust me, there are moments when even Google Maps feels like it’s absolutely useless.

But through all the tough days, one thing (or two) remains: stay grateful. Stay optimistic. Stay grateful again. There’s beauty ahead, even if you can’t always see it in the moment. Life’s sharpening you, preparing you for something greater. So, my advice? Keep pushing, keep growing.

As King James wraps up his masterpiece, I can’t help but feel this rush of nostalgia and gratitude. Life’s been full of fun and surprises, and there are still so many experiences waiting for me. So, to the world, I say, “watch out world, I’m grown now”. Winks.

I didn’t always have a wide appetite. I started with one dish. Just one. The kind of food you grow up with, not fancy, not loud. Just warm, filling, and always there. I had it every day. I didn’t get bored. It was mine. Familiar like that overused mug. I knew exactly how it tasted, how it smelled, and when it would be served. I didn’t need anything else.

I always had it the same way. I’m talking same portion, same sides, same drink on the side. It became a routine I didn’t question. A plate that looked the same every time it hit the table. Predictable. Comforting. Not perfect, but it felt like home.

Then, one day, it was gone. Off the menu.

I was left to try other dishes. Foods that looked good on the outside. Sweet, crunchy, promising. But when I bit into them, they crumbled weirdly. Some were too salty. Some made my stomach ache. Some were just plain confusing. I pretended to like them. I smiled through bites I didn’t want, chewed through strange spices, convinced myself I was full.

But I wasn’t.

Eventually, I stopped expecting satisfaction. I picked at my plate. Ate less. Not because I wasn’t hungry, but because I stopped trusting the menu. I learned to chew with a straight face, even when the flavours turned. I tried bites from every corner of the table, but nothing stuck.

Then one day, I found something new. It wasn’t flashy, but it tasted honest. A dish with soul. Something about the way it was cooked reminded me of that first plate. It was definitely not the same, but comforting in its own way. I started to enjoy meals again, little by little.

But it didn’t last long. The kitchen changed. The dishes rotated out. I barely had time to enjoy the warmth before it disappeared. AGAIN.

So I moved on. A new place. New smells. I wasn’t expecting much, maybe just a snack, a passing bite. But then… I found a table.

And the food? The food was everything.

I tried dishes I never thought I’d like. Bold ones, sweet ones, flavours that made me smile mid-bite. When something burned, I learned how to fix it. When something spilled, I didn’t throw the whole thing away, I cleaned it up, adjusted the heat, and kept cooking.

Every meal started to feel like a little celebration.
Even the simple ones.
Especially the simple ones.

Now, I don’t just like my food.
I crave it.
I savour it.
I give thanks before I taste it.

Every meal I have now reminds me of how long I went without one.
And how worth it the wait was.

I love my food.

But this isn’t really about food.

If you ever went to primary school or even watched a video of primary school kids somewhere, you know that familiar question:
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

It sounds simple, right? But for me, it never was.

For as long as I can remember, I never had a real, heartfelt answer like the other kids. Of course, I always had a perfect answer, courtesy of my sister, who always had ideas about different careers I could try. I’d just pick the catchiest title, something no one else in my class had said before.

So all through primary school, everyone “knew” I wanted to be a pilot. (It did come in handy during our school trip to the airport in Primary 6, I was the main character that day.)

Fast forward to high school. I was still saying I wanted to be a pilot, and at some point, I even started to believe it… until Physics happened. My O’Level subjects; Math, Physics, and Chemistry (oh, Chemistry!), humbled me real quick.

So I switched plans. I was doing well in History and Geography, so naturally, I convinced myself that I’d become a lawyer. When we chose combinations, I proudly wrote HEG on my form. I even swore to my classmates that I would never do a science combination.

Well, God must have been amused because guess who ended up in MCB at Gashora?

Let’s break it down:

• Mathematics: Okay, I could start afresh.
  
  

• Biology: I actually liked it, my brain works well with memorization.
  
  

• Chemistry: Who was I kidding? If my O’Level Chemistry teacher knew about this, he might’ve had a stroke. (He once told me I was the only person in class who didn’t know what they were doing, and that was after I’d aced a test)

Still, I went to my classes. And every Saturday, when the alumni workshops came around, I’d show up a little more enthusiastic than the last time, hoping that maybe, just maybe, someone would say something that would spark something in me. But nothing ever did.. And although people weren’t asking “what do you want to be?” as often anymore, whenever someone did, I’d say I wanted to become an orthopaedic surgeon, another title my sister had suggested.

But if you were close to me, you know I’d tell you the truth: I didn’t know.

Sometimes people saw me as unambitious, as someone with no passion. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. I am passionate, just not in the way people expect.

I love reading (and rereading) books I enjoy. I love reviewing them. I love singing, honestly, if “listening to music for a living” were a job, I’d sign up immediately. I love cooking and trying new recipes. I’m passionate about all these things… I just don’t see myself turning them into a career.

Anyway, back to the story.

As I neared the end of high school, I swore to my friends that I would never study anything involving Chemistry or Medicine. (I even had a mini panic attack the day of the Chemistry national exam.)

My dearest gentle readers, whoever said “Never say never” definitely had some prophetic powers, because guess who ended up in Medicine and Surgery? Yep, that’s me.

You’re probably wondering how I ended up in this situation. (If you’re not chronically online(again, maybe I should take a break), you might not fully get this reference, laughs.)

When I finished high school, my family asked me what I wanted to study. I told them I didn’t know, but I knew one thing for sure: not Medicine.

I applied everywhere, for everything from Public Health to Journalism. (Public Health felt like the closest thing to Medicine I’d ever go for…laughs in memory.)

And just like I mentioned in my first post, there wasn’t a single magical moment when I suddenly decided to study Medicine. Wapi pe. What really happened is that every night, I whispered a simple prayer:

“Lord God, I don’t know where I want to be or what I want to become. Please let me end up where I’m supposed to be.”

I knew I might never make the “right” decision for myself, that I might even regret some of the choices I thought were safe. So I turned to the One who never makes mistakes.

I prayed over every single application, and as hard as it was, I said:

“If that’s not where I belong, let them not even bother admitting me.”

And, well… you already know how that story ends.

Bref, I’ve written too much again. But honestly, I just hope that someday, I make something meaningful out of where I’ve ended up. Something that might inspire a kid who feels lost or unsure about their future.

I’ll leave you with something a friend told me last night:

“You don’t have a major until you have a school.”

Meaning, life changes, and so do our plans. One morning you think you’ve got it all figured out, and the next, you don’t. And sometimes, it’s the other way around.