REBUILDING THE WALLS

We are all at capacity and I have seen several posts of people unwinding and leaving 2020 already. We are a few more weeks to go, but everyone seems to have had enough. I almost left too, but I’m back here for the other bunch of sheep that are still taking it a step to the next. Still breathing and silently waiting.

The world today is heavy on mental wellness, toxicity, rape and a whole lot of similar vices. My only worry, rather greatest concern is that millions of women have their lives whirled into Category 5 Hurricane but are left behind in these discussions. Millions of victims who badly need to be part of these stories are absent in their own stories.

“There’s always the beginning Ess” She says handing me a card dated 14h February, 1993. I look at it and marvel at its beauty. There are a few words, neatly written in blue ink. Dear X, Keep my love No matter what.

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‘Can you imagine living like this for the rest of your life? I’m scared. If this is the case, I wish to die first and fast. I’m so scared, yunnow. She continues.

Just a minute. If there’s was anything as clear as the blue skies I wrote in my primary school compositions, I swear upon my blood and muse, it is the fear. Her fear. The fear more than the pain of public insults and punches.

So how do you tell your tell a woman to quit? How do you tell a mother to leave her 5 children’s father after 30 years? Of what? Gagged mouth. Punches and bruises, Scars and wounds, broken ribs and…and things I don’t know.

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‘You’re still a kid, there are some things that you would understand even if I told you.’

There’s a language you can’t speak to people in abusive relationships and marriages. This is the ‘You deserve better’ language. This is a language I’m still learning to be gentle with because of the victims mental/ headspaces.

I have (wo)men that are literally scared of marriage and their respective opposite gender. I remember overhearing a conversation on how hard it is to date people with ‘mummy’ or ‘daddy’ issues. It is easier to call them names, and no matter the pain and traumas we survive nobody really cares to acknowledge the damage.

To digress a bit, I see every day the expectations we put on men and women, fathers and mothers, daughters and sons that I’ve interacted with. After surviving 18/20/25+ years in broken families, abusive marriages etc. We expect them to bounce back and roll. Bounce back and have a normal life.

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Is it ever really about the how long really? Isn’t it more about the things we saw when curtains closed and parties were over? About the many times your mother publicly humiliated your dad and he sobbed silently under a tree. About the many times your father slapped your mother, or hit her with the tea cup when she brought breakfast? The number of times they openly quarreled about that mistress he said was in all ways better than your mother?

We can go through 2020 all over again and tell people how extra and bitter they are becoming, but can your feet fit in those shoes? It might be years later, when we are all grown and independent of toxic and abusive environments but, but certain things you can’t unsee. Certain pains you can’t unfeel. Certain words and phrases you can’t unhear.

Gravity🍃, and Grace✨

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Stories I wanted to tell👂

More than anything, I wanted to have a column in mainstream media or even website. Just anything to get me telling. I wanted to write, and tell stories.
I wanted to be the writer that did magic with words and have your dopamine levels going silly😉.
Several words stitched into beautiful, ugly stories.
Stories about how speaking the truth feels like a crime in my country.
Stories about how and when I began writing, stories about work and boss shenanigans.

On some days, I wanted to tell stories of beautiful girls in make up and beautiful clothes I wish I’d own someday. My eyebrow hair thinning, my network of pimples going 200 strong.💪(I count them sometimes)
I wanted to talk about my men and women, other days my father, and mother. The neighbors and how we woke them on some nights.

Who doesn’t like to hear stories about walking home to empty walls echoing sadness and tears? Who doesn’t like to hear stories of the same walls somehow managing a few good memories of laughter, love and life? Stories of emptiness and a journey to fill the void.
I wanted to talk about goals, couple goals, bff goals, I mean, column goals.
Tell the world about the one, two men writing brought my way. I wish. Hint: All the amazing relationship writers you know are single kwa ground😂

I wanted to tell people how badly the environment needed attention but was ignored. How ‘Rona taught me that families aren’t perfect but we need to try regardless.

The day to day frustrations figuring where to get the energy and finance to start over every time things didn’t go well, or your best friend sold all your favourite hoodies for upkeep.

Uuumh, I still wish I’d give you all a ‘How to Date a Creative and an Entrepreneur’ manual.


Today, I walked home in the rain, hands in my black bomber pockets. (Order here, Order now🤸‍♀️)
I was carrying my laptop in a red FILA bag I was gifted on my 19th birthday.
I was holding my phone, and it’s charger. In my mind I thought, ‘KPLC, why??’
The outages are back.
I still want to tell stories though. But more than anything, I want power. I want electricity back. 😐

Gravity, and Grace🌙💕

FRAILING OVER NOTHING

Other than picking the right outfit to wear on the day you meet his style and culture conscious mum, the other hardest thing for me is beginnings, you know. Like deciding to sit down and type something after several weeks and months of absence. You are not sure what to say, how to say…and other times who to say it to. Admittedly, I haven’t in the recent past written half as passionately as I wrote about love when I was young. I’m not sure what exactly this situation can be attributed to. Could be all the dualities that come to play. Love and death/ pleasure and pain/ losses and gains among others.

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As a kid, I loved art so much to the point I asked my best friend to promise to kill me the day I stop loving/taking art .(Poetry and Drawings) At a young age, we vowed to never stop doing whatever we loved. As a sign of this oath, we both rubbed the backs of our hands dry, and due to friction, a scar formed. I know I’ve been asked a million times what happened to the back of my left hand. But promises could be just words, no?

I have broken that promise once, thrice and a million times, and then if you are wondering why I aint six feet under yet, we moved and because we never had phones back then, my best friend and I haven’t talked in more than a decade.

More often than we are willing to accept, we are not everything we say we are, or we’d be. And that’s totally okay. Because only when this happens, we affirm and accept our human-ness. I remember how we’d see beautiful or ‘accomplished’ people pass by and fight over who claimed to be that person first. A beautiful young woman passes by, and you shout, ‘Huyo ni mimi, na me ni fao’ Fao actually means first, in other words, I was the first to say that was me. The same phenomenon when reading a book/magazine, and kissing the pages with food pictures. At least during the moments, the thin line between fantasy and reality blurs. Cheers to becoming everything we dreamt of when we grow up🥂[I’m turning 55 in a few months and it doesn’t change what I want to be when I grow up 😂😂]

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There are days when the things we love to do seem beside the point and perfectly irrelevant. Going about the human life; in my case it is writing about the shared minutiae of life. All of these things that give us life and purpose as creatives, or even as human suddenly feel like shallow luxury giving shallow pleasure.

Again, the question that arises, what choices are there? Priorities before pleasure?  Wake up in the morning, and do what?

A few minutes away from that cloud, not taking note of the unpleasant energies in control, I finally have gotten the strength to settle and put down these thoughts. Perhaps this is all life demanded on Wednesdays and not Tuesdays, Mondays and not Sundays.

Because all of this just ends in a blinking cursor, [or pen] paper, love-

And GRACE💌🌙🧡

Hey Old Friend…

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