Monday, 14 September 2015


 This post has taken me a while to write. Why? Well, I guess it’s because it’s personal. Most writers fear leaving a trail of truth in their words that could be traced back to their real lives. It leaves you exposed, and thus opens a door for criticism. I am listening to Jessie Ware- Say You Love Me. Goodness, this song tears up my emotional tendons- if such a phrase exists. (Random, I know!)

So, let’s begin peeling off my thoughts. It is amazing to fall in love. Not because it makes you feel safe, happy and non-lonely, but because it reminds you of your self-worth. This applies to the ones who get into the right relationships. Fine, so maybe there is nothing like right or wrong relationships. But some people get unlucky when they end up with demons for partners. Sorry if that’s you. Anyway, this post is not about how everyone should be slow dancing to Ed-Sheeran’s Thinking Out Loud song (But it’s such a good song though).

Remember when you had a crush for the first time? How did it feel? I remember having butterflies for days just by seeing the person’s throat jolt while he swallowed. I am weird like that! Moving on…. My mind was paralysed, rationally! I thought that he must have been the first flawless human being to exist, apart from Ryan Gosling.  Confusion got real when the crystallised perfection began disappearing. The ‘spark’ was gone and the rush that came with spotting his silhouette was gone. This is when love seemed hazy. I thought that a crush would result in long term feelings of affection and excitement. Now that I am older, my rationale back then can be deemed as plain STUPID! But one thing I realised after the crush faded was that my confidence seemed to dwindle too. It’s not like we had ever spoken or anything. He would throw a glance my way once a week; maybe not directly at me but at my direction-ish. I didn’t understand how my infatuations could possibly be linked to my confidence. I pondered over this one recent weekend over a large bowl of ice-cream and of course ‘The Mindy Project’ drama!

It hit me. I was linking my happiness to the feelings that came when I thought of myself as someone’s significant other. That is why my past relationships were so hopeless. How could I think that I was a better person when I was with someone else? It took time to love myself. That involved dire intervention from the gym and a revamp of my wardrobe. Happiness is not what you look like but how you perceive yourself. I was not happy with my weight. I did not desire to be skinny but I often ran out of breathe after taking 10-steps uphill. My sense of fashion was poor and I rarely paid much attention to my attitude too. I would exude too much negativity towards myself, unconsciously. I had forgotten that happiness cannot be created by a union of two people. It comes along when you learn to accept yourself and treat yourself right. If you know certain foods are not good for you, then you have to love yourself to prioritise your health rather than cravings. If you wear skimpy clothes just to attract someone else’s attention, remember that you are demeaning your self-worth.  In other words, until you learn to see yourself as enough, you will never be satisfied no matter what relationship you conjure yourself into. You will constantly enquire from others if you look good enough or wait to see how many likes your posts get to rank your face value. Be you, love you and enjoy a bowl of kit-kat-as I am about to do! 

Sunday, 23 August 2015


I read articles written by avid writers and I turn green with envy. How are they able to marry simple words to create captivating stories? When do they get these inspirations? Could it be the many times they plunge themselves in volumes of literature? How do they play around with simplicity to form art through writing? If I was brave enough, I would make an effort to attend one of their book signings and have my curiosity quenched. Maybe if I engage them I will receive the wave of energy that passes through their veins as their hand meets paper.

Some women, sadly, don’t understand the fascination with enthusiastic readers. I used to be one of those. I never could get how someone could turn down a shopping date to curve themselves in their blankets and undress a story, page by page. I was not born with talent, at least not any I know of. Thank goodness for acquisition of skills. I first gained interest in books when I discovered how intelligent women often buried themselves in books, either to add on to their pool of knowledge or for simple entertainment. I did always admire these type of women. They rarely looked at the fashion columns in magazines, but dived straight into the feature stories. They became a bubble of excitement whenever they came across a best-selling novel, whether romantic or fiction. They beamed when a person with similar interest in books approached them. They would get lost in their own world as they discussed characters I had no clue about and analysed writing styles used by authors. When jargon were thrown around, a tint of shame and sadness would always cloud my face as I just sat there most times, nodding my head in unison with the rest to remain relevant as an active participant. Oh, did I mention this was when I joined a book club with no clue whatsoever how much books could emotionally affect readers.

When I met Kate, I finally understood the power a good book had on its readers, especially when it came to self-motivational books. It was the Bible of depressed people who would go through transformational change just by setting eyes on the first chapter. I requested Kate to supply me with books that would charge my interest in literature to see if my fate lay in writing. My Oh My! The first book I was handed was Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi. Of course I was sceptic of the content at first since I was not much of a feminist. In fact, I was ashamed of admitting that I had never heard of Chimamanda until I read her book. My mind sipped into the pages of the book, feeling exposed with each page I turned. I would have been a tint away from turning pink, if I wasn’t of a dark complexion. All I needed was a passionate activist with an objective mind to get me to understand the essence of fighting for opportunities for women in a patriarchal world. On learning the possibilities that would be present if women were embraced as much as men, appreciated, honored and empowered, we would be living in a much sane world. Now I am just digressing, It primarily focuses on racism in America. Well I looked at it from a feminist aspect. 

Kate did not stop here. She would drop off more books at my house over the weekend as she enthusiastically gave me a synopsis of each book. Her eyes with each narrative. Just as she had predicted, my mind was soon lost in the words of the authors, leaving  me hanging onto the promise each character made in the books, or empathising with the victims in the narrations. It all began making sense. You get plunged into the author’s hypothetical world. You thirst to reach their point of enlightenment in a world they have brought to life, knowing very well it will all end as you draw near to the last chapter. You soon begin to see the author’s perspective on life and before you know it, you want to help them write sequels!

Authors have the gift of undressing your thoughts and clothing you with new imagination. They get you hooked and somehow tie you to the pages with words put together in an artistic way. I am yet to get a fancy way to make you understand what I mean. Some endings are great, some you hate and if they get you too emotional, you slam the book into a wall hoping hidden chapters will fall off and satisfy your crave for a happy ending. 

After this, I honestly don’t know what to write. I love books now and I hope to write captivating volumes one day. So, I will keep writing until I turn into a fine writer. Until I get the readers raging or smiling. Join me on my journey.

Wednesday, 12 August 2015


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Yes, as paradoxical as it sounds, it's the truth. Why? The most beautiful people see the most imperfections in themselves. As a result, ugly screams out at them when they stare at the mirror. For as long as someone sees themselves as 'unattractive' they will forever exude low confidence, an ugly trait. That one ripe pimple close to the visible scar that reveals the contours of a face that could be fixed is where the problem begins. 

We may be a product of society, but we are individuals. Distinct features, characteristics and habits distinguish us from each other. Society taught me what beauty is. But i had to redefine it for myself. You want that celebrity's flawless skin? Have you seen her without make up? Oh that long hair makes you cringe when you look at your kinky thick hair? Have you seen her take off the extensions each night as she lays her real body to rest? They all shade off the fake when they are alone. 

Beauty is vanity, but so is life itself. Nothing lasts forever, not even those perfect legs, deprived of any childhood scars from riding those dang bikes down the hill. We all have a life to live. Our lives. Always waiting on society to accept you is like waiting for pigs to fly. It will never happen. Don't you get it? This same society sets goals and legitimate means to attain these goals. Yet, some people are barred from reaching these means because they are parallel to what society would prefer. 

It is ugly to watch a beautiful person subject themselves to someone's definition of beauty. It is ugly to watch a beautiful person immerse themselves in the world of plastic only to reduce their perfect imperfections to pure imperfection. It is ugly to have to make a beautiful person understand how beautiful they are. Create your own pedestal and purpose to attain your own goals. 

Ugly is a label like many other words that we ought to rid this world of- like the word bitches, which I will not get into right now. Ugly is a word used to victimize the beautiful souls that seek to move from mainstream living. The ugly people are the ones who appoint themselves as the judges of looks. The ones who have a comment for every attire that doesn't look appealing to them. The legs that are too thick when they shamelessly flaunt their toothpick-like form. The ones who flip their weaves, which we all know are weaves! The ones who tell you to get that mole on your lower lip, 'fixed' yet they use eye pencil to draw one on their own faces! The irony of life.

Yeah, let us leave it here. you get my drift!

Sunday, 9 August 2015


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We often remember injustice done to the women but at times overlook injustice eluding the men. I always imagined that the women had it rough more than the men,but the men too have experiences they'd wish to forget.

It was one of those long nights when the random talks started dying down and confession session began. Fred decided to jump in with his, 'I have bills running me down,' intro. Suddenly, more confessions were flooding in, as the candles slowly burn out and the light breeze is keeping you glued to the chair as it catalyses anticipation to hear the beans spill. 

It was interesting hearing of marriages that we all knew were on the rocks being confirmed. But when Andrew broke down after whispering the words every man dreads to speak out, 'my wife treats me like a bank account'we all went silent. It wasn't the statement that invited the awkward silence but the realization that marriage keeps losing its value, day by day. Too some, it translates into a wise business investment and others, an easy fix to the piling pressure to commit so as to appear progressing by society.

The men are not appreciated as they ought to be. They are born with the inherent nature of sole provider, but it is also important to appreciate them for working hard to sustain the family, together with their lady of course. Andrew's drained eyes played witness to his exhaustion, rising up early and getting home late. Grinding all day long, only to be greeted with financial demands, diapers that were supposed to be picked up  and an unhappy son who demands gifts. The man of the house cannot believe his daughter just turned two, when the father is fixated on her tiny form when she first left the hospital. He does not get as much time as he would wish to watch his daughter grow.

Andrew represents the dads that would love to come home to a kid that is genuinely happy to see him and not busy compiling a list of demands for the coming week. A warm welcome from his wife would be nice, rather than a cross look that screams out 'you forgot to pick up the diapers'. 

Men are naturally the bread winners in man homes, yet we don't pay two sense to their needs sometimes. Let him wake up to go grind as a happy man. A thank you always would be a start. Pick up that phone and thank your father, husband and friend. Not all men set out to break hurts. Many are building homes, and saving communities, running economies and slashing that grass, to keep their family surviving. Give them credit for their effort. They do try!

Sunday, 2 August 2015


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It is startling to witness incidences on the news reporting fathers opting to get intimate with their daughters. That is beyond retrogressive behaviour. It is unheard of, at least in the era I reign in. The acts have been taking place for quite some time, according to sources, and the culprits, being the legitimate fathers of these young women are not about to quit these habits. 

I grieve for the daughters about to be born into such families. It is not everyday you witness a father copulate with his flesh and blood, more so his daughter. What happened to sex education among marginalised communities? The illiterate members who find no shame nor error in defiling their daughters ought to be served justice, coupled with fines and be forced to attend sex education classes. As harsh as my proposal appears, it is my firm belief that most cases in relation to sexual defilement of children by their family members branches from past customs, yet to be fully shunned by the respective communities. If this fails, then the government's intervention ought to drive the point 
e that are thought o be defending them. 

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It lends the question, where are the mothers while all this is taking place? Can this be attributed to poor marital relations? Even so, to what extent are these marriages being trampled on that daughters turn to become target? There appears to be underlying issues that lead to such atrocities and are to be dealt with accordingly. 
But i fear this could be swept under the pile of other 'non-issues' that impede growth in this country. 

Wednesday, 22 July 2015


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I recently came across an article on the lifestyle section of a mainstream newspaper that encouraged women to spy on their future husbands before declaring their vows. The disturbing bit of all this is the disrespect modernisation has lured in, disguised as evolution. Spy on your fiance? My grandmother would turn in her grave if she ever heard of such a proposal. Yes, trust needs to be bridged on so many levels. Relationships, both professional and romantic are suffering. However, when did prying into another’s life secure any relationship? In fact, I believe it turns you into an all-time loony.

I do not condone any sort of lie, whether a white lie or otherwise. However, it is my belief that relationships are built on trust. Maybe it’s my naivety barring me from getting the bigger picture but why stay with someone you don’t trust? Take a professional relationship for instance. If a customer is sceptic of a certain product or service, they opt for another alternative. So why not do the same? If you are 50/50 about your partner then find another one. I know that it’s easier said than done, but will you be snooping on your ‘babe’ all your life?

Besides, some people go overboard and intentions shift. You might have initially being spying because you suspected they were keeping another ‘honey’ warm, but then it goes too far when you use that as an anchor to feel secure about your relationship or reason to bring up  random fights. There is nothing as unattractive as an insecure partner. They will always be hovering around you and in the end suffocation could terminate the relationship.
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This is why trust seems to be dwindling. No one takes time to build a friendship which would eventually grow into a relationship anymore. Everyone is in a rush to be committed. By nature, humans are needy creatures; no man is an island. But what’s the rush? Take your time, study someone- their good and bad habits-engage in family history to be sure that no random lineage curses linger on. Spying will never secure a happy home. It only keeps your mind grinding on possible affairs that are non-existent costing you a relationship.

I empathize with the broken hearts that have vowed to never trust another. But in all fairness, not everyone is the same. It’s a tale we’ve heard too many times but truth be told, we are bound to meet cruel beings that are out to use and abuse tender hearts. Then comes along the angels sent to bless and heal the scrapped ones. What happens when they meet a hostile situation, a past lover’s mistake? Why does he/she have to be the one to pay?

If you can’t trust them, then you don’t love them. It’s that simple. 

Thursday, 9 July 2015


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When I scroll down social media pages and land on a feature article stipulating struggles of the girl child, I cannot help but pause and scheme through the article. The story I came across in particular presented a unique angle, in that, the young women of Mandera county are not only compelled to deliver while at home, but are shunned by the family when they fail to. it beats logic why we are purposing to evolve yet we ignore such impediments clogging our development graph.

Over the weekend, I made a new friends, Halima (not her real name). On realising that she was  a product of Mandera county, I engaged my interrogative mode. She was quite open about her upbringing, where waking up at 5am to trek in search for water had become a routine. This would prick her, especially because her brothers were beinn educated as the women received informal education from the older women. Truly at times some traditions are retrogressive. The family never saw the essence of empowering the women due to punitive fears of being dictated by them.


Halima proceeded to narrate a sad ordeal of how she witnessed her cousin, Fatma, bleed to death while undergoing delivery. Her father was reluctant to take her to a hospital, despite the stifling fact that it was barely a 20 minute walk from their home. After struggling while in labour, due to excessive pain, Fatma gave up the fight. Halima succumbed to depression as she was quite close to Ftma, often seeing her as her blood sister. Following Fatma's death, Halima found herself loathing the customs she once honored.

Finally, Halima's father gave in and sent her off to her aunt's place in Nairobi, where he hoped that his daughter would recover from the rattling ordeal and get back to her senses. Thank goodness for evolving regions which paved way for Halima's road to education. Her aunt, a primary school teacher, often rescued other girls from harsh customs that often oppressed them, and put them through school. Lady luck found Halima as she was educated until college where she studied law, and is not back to her home town, advocating for abolishment of decaying customs.

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