I think the most sincere love comes from people who love being alone.Maybe that sounds strange, but I’ve always found something comforting about my own company.When I’m alone, I don’t have to be anything.

I don’t have to be entertaining. I don’t have to keep a conversation alive. I don’t have to worry about whether I’m being too quiet or whether someone thinks I’m acting differently. I don’t have to constantly adjust myself to fit into someone else’s space.

I can just be.

And I think that’s what I love most about being alone—the freedom.I’m not particularly social. Sometimes I’ll disappear for a while, not because I hate anyone or because something happened, but because I simply enjoy being by myself.

There are days when I’d rather stay in my room, listen to music, think about life, scroll through my phone, stare at the ceiling, or do absolutely nothing than go somewhere and make conversation.And honestly, I don’t think that should always be interpreted as loneliness.

Sometimes solitude is not a cry for help.

Sometimes it’s peace.

I’ve realised that you can love people deeply and still love having distance from them.You can miss someone without wanting them around every second.You can care about someone and still need a room, a day, or even an entire evening where nobody needs anything from you.

I think people often confuse being alone with being lonely because they’re afraid of their own company.

But I’m not.

I’ve learned how to sit with myself.

And maybe that’s why I think love feels different when it comes from someone who genuinely enjoys being alone.Because they aren’t loving you because they’re desperate for company.

They aren’t holding onto you simply because silence scares them.They already know how to spend time with themselves.

They already know how to find comfort without another person.

So when they choose you, it means something.

They could be alone.

They could have their peace.

They could stay inside their own little world where everything feels familiar and comfortable.

But they still make room for you.

And I think that’s beautiful.

There’s a different kind of intimacy in being loved by someone who doesn’t need you to complete them.

Someone who can say:

“I love my solitude. I love my peace. I love my own company. But somehow, I still want you beside me.”

That isn’t dependence.

That’s choice.

And maybe the purest form of love isn’t “I can’t live without you.”

Maybe it’s:

“I know how to be alone. I just happen to love being with you.”

He was a British psychiatrist who was appointed as the senior medical officer in charge of Mathari Mental Hospital. Dr. Cobb, was known for keeping exotic pets including lions on the hospital grounds, was heavily accused of engaging in acts of bestiality with his pets on the facility's lawns.

He was also widely reported to be an alcoholic and an eccentric who would show off “interesting” patients to his drunken friends late at night. Due to his severe alcoholism, questionable behavior, and previous psychiatric hospitalizations in England, he was forced to retire by the Kenya Medical Board in August 1938.

In 1938, he was replaced by Dr John Carothers, who later became highly influential but also a controversial figure in the colonial psychiatry.

CREDIT: TEE SAIGON AFRICA.

There is beauty in how men become safe spaces for each other without even realizing it. A group of male friends can turn an ordinary evening into therapy without calling it therapy. One joke can hide concern. One handshake can say, “You ain't alone.” One random football debate can distract a friend from the battles he is fighting internally.

Male friendships are built differently. They are stitched together through shared struggles, late-night walks, video game sessions, road trips, heartbreak stories, unfinished dreams, and surviving difficult seasons together. Men may not always say “I love you” openly, but they show it in presence, consistency, and loyalty.

The older you grow, the more you realize how valuable genuine brotherhood is. In a world that teaches men to suppress emotions and carry burdens alone, true friendship becomes a place where masks can finally come off. Around real friends, a man can laugh loudly, fail honestly, speak freely, and still feel accepted.

Some of the purest memories in life are hidden inside male friendships: the friend who defended you when you were absent, the one who sat with you when life was falling apart, the one who knew you were not okay without you saying a word, and the one who stayed even when you became difficult to understand.

Beautiful friendships between men are not built on perfection. They are built on understanding. On forgiving each other’s flaws. On growing together. On remembering who each other were before the world became heavy.

As years pass, careers change, relationships come and go, and responsibilities increase, male friendships often become harder to maintain — but when they are real, they never truly disappear. You can go months without speaking and still reconnect like no time passed at all. That is the beauty of brotherhood.

At the end of the day, male friendships remind us that men also need softness, support, laughter, and people they can lean on. Behind every strong man is often a group chat full of terrible jokes, honest conversations, and brothers who never let him carry life alone.

Being a firstborn in a Kenyan family is not just a position—it’s a full-time job you were never interviewed for.

From the moment your younger sibling is born, your childhood quietly starts ending. You’re no longer just a mtoto—you’re now “Second parent.” Suddenly, phrases like “wewe ni mkubwa” become your daily reality. You’re expected to understand things no one has explained to you, and behave like an adult before you’ve even finished being a child.

You don’t get the luxury of making mistakes freely.

When your younger siblings mess up, it’s “he’s just a baby.”

When you mess up?

“Unataka kuwa kama nani? Na wewe ndio mkubwa?”

Your life becomes a reference point. Every action you take is either a good example—or a warning.

Then there’s the responsibility.

In many Kenyan homes, being firstborn means automatically becoming the assistant parent. You’re the one sent to the shop, the one checking homework, the one watching over siblings when parents are busy or away. You don’t even realize when it happens—it just becomes your role.

And the pressure? It’s different.

You are the “hope” of the family. The one who must “make it.” Your parents may not always say it directly, but you feel it in everything:

The way they talk about your future

The sacrifices they remind you of

The expectations placed on your education and choices

You’re not just studying for yourself—you’re studying for everyone.

Meanwhile, as years go by, you start noticing something quietly frustrating.

The rules change.

The same parents who were strict with you suddenly become softer with your younger siblings. Curfews stretch. Punishments reduce. Conversations become more understanding. You sit there thinking, “Si these people could have done this with me?”

But you can’t complain—because you’re the “mature one.”

Emotionally, you learn to hold things in.

Crying too much? You’re told to be strong.

Complaining? You’re told others have it worse.

Struggling? You’re reminded that people are looking up to you.

So you adapt. You become the problem solver. The dependable one. The one who shows up—even when you’re tired.

But the uncomfortable question is:

Who shows up for you?

There’s also a kind of loneliness that comes with being a firstborn. You’re always ahead—experiencing pressure, expectations, and responsibilities before anyone else in your family understands them. Even your parents are learning through you. In many ways, you are their trial run.

And yet… despite everything, firstborns carry something powerful.

Strength.

Not the loud kind. The quiet kind. The kind that comes from figuring things out on your own. The kind that carries families through tough times. The kind that doesn’t always get recognition—but is always there.

Being a firstborn in a Kenyan home is uncomfortable.

It’s pressure. It’s sacrifice. It’s silent expectations.

But it’s also resilience.

And if we’re being honest—

not everyone could handle it.

On the night of Saturday July 13 1991, students at the St. Kizito High School were studying for their final high school exams. The school, located in the Eastern region of Kenya, offered co-ed boarding facilities for its student body and nightly study time was a regular part of their routine. This was cut short on that fateful night by a sudden power outage at 8pm. Power outages were a common occurrence in rural Kenya but on this night, the students knew better than to mistake this for an unassuming blackout.

Rumours of a strike by the male student body had been swirling for weeks. The school’s recently appointed principal James Laiboni, had become the target of outrage from the school’s male students. He received threatening anonymous notes voicing dissatisfaction with the conditions at the school, which eventually evolved into death threats. Unnerved, Laiboni reported this at the local police station, making law enforcement aware of the brewing tensions. Hoping to smooth things over with the unruly students, he gathered the school prefects and informed him that the students’ demands, which included the addition of eggs and dairy into the schools dining options, would be met. Tensions reached their boiling point after a considerable amount of time passed with none of the promised changes being enacted. It was at this point that St Kizito High School’s male students decided to embark on an hours long rampage that would leave 19 of their female classmates dead, and see 71 school girls raped by boys they considered their brothers.

Anticipating chaos, the female students immediately fled the classrooms, seeking refuge in the closest dorm building. They locked the back door and left the front door open for any stranded girls to make their way in. The small building, designed to host 70 girls, now held 200 terrified schoolgirls. Fueled by the horror of what might happen to them if the boys broke down the doors, the girls barricaded both doors with beds and boxes. The boys pelted the building with stones as the horrified girls screamed for help and tried to stay as far away as possible from the doors. Then– silence. The boys retreat into the night, an eerie quiet hovering over the premises. Far from breathing a sigh of relief, the girls remain inside the dorm, distrusting of the sudden calm.

At 1am, the boys return, charged with hate and infused with renewed energy. The second attack ensues. The girls watch in horror as they break through the makeshift barricades and begin to viciously drag girls out one by one into the night. Seeking comfort amongst themselves, many of the girls had piled up on the metal double decker beds, with others hiding under the beds. Not designed to withstand such weight, the beds collapsed. The girls who hid underneath the beds were crushed and some died instantly from the beds’ broken metal rods piercing their bodies.

Screams rang into the night as the ordeal continued. An estimated number of 71 girls were dragged to the school’s sports field and brutally raped by an unknown number of perpetrators. The school’s designated security guards had seemingly fled at the first signs of trouble. The few teachers who stayed the night on campus remained locked in their quarters throughout the night, fearing the boys’ wrath. Despite the fact that the nearest police station was merely minutes away, the police only arrived at the scene at 6am, ten hours after the unrest began. By this time, most of the perpetrators had fled into the wilderness surrounding the school.

Following the incident, the surviving girls were treated for their injuries and transferred to a nearby school to sit for their final exams. They did not receive any counseling or emotional support. After an investigation by Kenya’s Crimimal Investigation Department, 39 boys were arrested and tried for the mass rape and murder. Their identities and individual fates remain unknown to the public. The investigation revealed that this was not an isolated incident, with several rapes having been reported at the school in the past. There were rumours that male teachers at the school had sexual relationships with the female students, allegedly frustrating the boys and motivating them to choose this specific manner to enact their revenge.

Some rumors which spread around the village suggests that the boys who were involved in this their lives have never been the same. Some died, others got mentally unstable no one knows. If you want the raw story you can search it up on YouTube, KTN news documented it.

I'm there saying, “ sa ona nableed fuck” and he's like, “sa iyo ni kitu ya kufanya ujam….kitu kidogo ivo.” I just let it go but hii nayo sikutaka islide. The preps ended and morning came very fast sijairada mbona usiku za high school zilikuwa zinaenda mbio ivo….unafunga macho kufungua ni asubuhi mahn. Sa si niliamka late nikapata nimefungiwa dorm…mi nani….doz bana. The morning prep iliisha…then there was a class before the school parade iyo nikasema siendi. I slept till the school assembly started and I remembered what Jake did nikasema baas wacha nifike class kwanza.

I sneaked in and opened his desk and took all of his books…. everything hadi kalamu…they weren't many though…nikazipeleka dorm….nikaficha kwa one of the people sleeping in cube 2….under his bed kwa corner. Assembly ikaisha…. people were coming to the dorm…sa mi ndio huyo naenda daro…and I went there late coz I didn't want Jake to suspect I did what I did….so when I reached there nampata anauliza watu where are his books…mi Niko hapo nimeisha mahn. “Elwin umeona books zangu?” He asked. “Sai ndio naingia daro….mi sijaiona.” That guy the whole lessons he was stressed wueeh.

Tea break reached and books zake zikapatikana….he never knew who did that but I later told him like when we were in form 4. He wasn't even mad but he told he suspected me but didn't have anything to prove.

So iyo siku ya kuenda home…nilifika home and after 2 days I texted the brother and he told me she took some pills wakampata she's not responding the next day….walimpeleka hosi and the doctors tried to flush away the pills from her stomach but it was too late…she passed away…. I had no words I texted her parents coz we knew each other and they didn't respond. Now I know you wondering why did she do it…mi nikona a few reasons but siko sure.

When we were dating alikuwa ananishow that her parents were somewhat favoring her siblings more than her…they were buying less gifts compared to others ikifika bash mara kuna time hakuna bash…yaani you think of the toxicity that parents can give you and that's her life….and I was like telling her we usijali things will be ok utahama you start your life blah blah blah….and she was the reason I never took alcohol or take Bangi….pombe nimeanza last year tu. During the funeral her parents imagine blamed me for her passing…I wondered sa hii yote inatoka wapi and they were like….oooh she started behaving like that when you came into her life yada yada…we here grieving and you two grown ass people are blaming me na labda ni nyinyi. That thing scarred me for life to this day…mi hupata depression coz of that….they made me blame myself for everything even though I had nothing to do with it at this point I just stare at myself kwa kioo najiambia maybe they are right…only God knows but Abigail knows I was always there for her. Tomorrow will mark 7 yrs since she passed away and as usual will celebrate her life.

I studied at a school in nyeri called Nyeri Baptist. Ilikuwa mixed boarding so you know their were many incidents including mechi but ilikuwa chini ya maji…but I was the silent one, let's say the weird one but not too weird.

So when I was in form 2….tulikuwa na chemistry double…and yk the drill…tunaenda lab and the teacher promised us atatushow potassium at the end of the class. So mi nimekaa huko nyuma akili yangu hata haiko daro just fantasizing the movie tuliona enta the previous weekend…sa si potassium ikaonyeshwa…and the teacher was like, “That's potassium….usiitoe kwa chupa or kuweka maji kwa hiyo chupa coz it's explosive when it comes to contact with water.” The chemical was passed around but it never reached on the teacher's hand….sa mi sikuwa najua coz the group we were sitting with at the back tulipeana huko mbele….and the lesson ended like that.

The next lesson was English…with let's call him Mr Kimani…so this teacher was a tough guy but spoke slowly, teaching us literature and blah blah blah. Kiasi kiasi the door gets knocked and the chemistry teacher wants to talk to Mr Kimani….we didn't think much of it but all of a sudden….wueeh the chemistry was like, “Who was the last person that had the potassium ju haijarudishwa…so if you have it give to me immediately coz it's a serious issue.” Mi Niko hapo nashangaa rada ni gani. Kidogo hivi…the discipline master comes and he was carrying a laptop charger and a Bunsen burner…nilijua tumeisha. Mr Kimani said, “ladies step outside and the men remain behind.” I was wondering why were the gals told to step outside and we were all together in the lab but anyway the desks were pushed backwards creating a space at the front and the discipline master told us to lie on the ground and he said, “ Kama unajua mwenye akona iyo potassium tell me….1 2…”. Wueeh sema kuchapwa…kwanza vile Mr Kimani alikuwa anapiga msee shiet…niliona hapa sitoboi and I fake cried and the discipline master told him it's enough hao wengine wamechapwa…

Then the chemistry teacher came back and said the potassium was under his desk sijui nani aliweka hapo or what was the motive but mi hukumbuka iyo siku najichekelea.