Commentary on life

Sistered

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I am often impatient with people who talk about women not supporting one another. Mostly because that hasn’t been my story. My experience has been one of unwavering support, deep love, and women showing up — over and over again.

I have been encouraged and held. Sometimes with a timely word. Sometimes with a look. Sometimes just by someone sitting beside me long enough for my breath to slow down.

There are women who have saved me without even realizing it.

My girls are my lifeline. Starting with my wombmates — these women know how to speak life into me. The love they have for me is so deep, so true, that I feel it in my bones. I must be the luckiest girl alive, because I also have sisters by choice. Some walked in and stayed. Some were only here for a short while. But I’ve come to learn that time is not a reliable judge of sisterhood.

When I say that sisterhood isn’t just about time or biology, I mean it. Because I’ve gathered great sisters along the way. And somehow, they all speak the same language. They are fluent in love and steadfastness.

They text, “Did you eat?” or “Have you slept?” and it feels like a prayer. They show up where I am, because over the phone I said “I’m fine” — and didn’t sound it. These sisters are the ones you tell to stay away, but who still find a way to be near, without making you regret it. They’re the cheeky ones who don’t need backstory (because they just get it) and insist that you give them a blow-by-blow account of things anyway — just so you can waste time together.

There’s something holy about being known by people who aren’t trying to fix you. Who let you unravel when you need to. Who allow you to sit with whatever elephant that insists on being inside a room when Tsavo is just a few hours away. Who help you tie yourself back together when you’re ready.

This isn’t just sisterhood. This is love.

And I’m so grateful for it.

Sisterhood isn’t always loud or visible. Shucks! Love isn’t always obvious. Sometimes, it’s a quiet protection of your name in rooms you haven’t entered. A shared look across the room when the men are talking nonsense. Sometimes, it’s telling the hard truth — when it’s VERY hard — because you want each other to grow.

I’ve been held by women who remind me who I am when I forget. Who laugh like medicine. Who show up with balm and jokes and “Let’s play that French song you love on repeat while we drink Jaba juice” energy.

As a love writer, I have not talked enough about how radical it is to be loved platonically, fiercely, and without transaction. How healing it is to be rooted in a community where no one’s competing, no one’s performing, and no one needs to shrink you to feel seen.

So, I am celebrating the women who mothered me, sistered me, midwifed my joy. Who have held space when I couldn’t hold myself. Who remind me — again and again — that I don’t have to do any of this alone.

I carry so much gratitude.

My sisters make the becoming bearable… and the journey joyful.

I Didn’t See That Coming

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Sometimes life doesn’t whisper. It yanks the rug.

Other times it just taps you lightly on the shoulder, says, “Oh, by the way…” and then casually changes your entire trajectory.

I used to think I was good at anticipating plot twists. I am the type of person that believes in calculated risk, scenario planning. I overthink. I over-plan. I draft mental scripts for conversations that never happen. But real life? Real life has no respect for the outline.

A job I thought would last had so many things happening that I just had to leave. A person I thought would always be there violated my trust and I had to allow the friendship of years to atrophy. A version of myself I had worked hard to become outgrew me and well, it was taking me a while to adjust. A morning conversation with my Dad on wanting to document his life history didn’t happen because he died that evening. For all of this, the only thing that I knew for sure is that I didn’t see any of it coming.

I know I said I anticipate plot twists, but I don’t necessarily cope well with them. So, when these surprise events occur, I always question if I will make it. Thank God, I come out on the other side. Mostly intact. Sometimes even a little lighter. Definitely wiser.

That’s the strange thing about being surprised by life: the first reaction is often fear. Or grief. Or confusion. Or a big WTF to my ancestors. But sometimes, later, when the dust settles, there’s space to see what opened up. My brother always says to never waste a crisis and to gather data about everything including my reactions to how things unfold.

These observations have taught me that every time something ended, I felt it well, well. But it always gave way to something new. When someone left, I met someone new — even if that someone was a softer version of myself. When a plan fell apart, I finally had room to try something I wouldn’t have otherwise dared. 

I’ve stopped expecting life to follow my drafts. I’ve started hearing the call to trust that I will be okay either way. These days, I’m trying to leave space for the unexpected and I don’t mean that in the Pinterest-quote way. I mean it like, really making room, for the unplanned and the spontaneous. I am even seeing how some of the best moments in my life have happened when I was standing in the debris of my best-laid plans.

So, if you’re like me and the last few years have felt like a prolonged season where everything feels off-script, I hope you know: That’s not failure. That’s movement. Sometimes the plot twist is the beginning of the good part – the best parts of you!

Softness Is Not A Weakness

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There was a time I thought softness made me fragile and that being tender meant I’d be overlooked, talked over, taken advantage of. I thought softness was something you had to outgrow. Or hide. Or iron out with discipline. Or even sharpen with an edge of grit and hardcore “gangista-ness”.

But over the years, as I have mellowed and settled into myself, I’ve come to see it differently.

Softness has evolved to not be about being passive but about being quietly present. Often asking myself to sit with a bit of the discomfort of wanting to move faster. And then about feeling things fully while still choosing to stay open. When I remain soft, I don’t necessarily become blind to my propensity to lean heavily towards hope, or that there are risks in the loving, listening, hoping — and showing up anyway.

Perhaps the greatest gift that softness has given me is how to hold space and how to pause before reacting. I have become more comfortable with sitting with my own and others’ silence without trying to fix anything. I have even become quite good at writing without rushing to the conclusion and allowing my characters to speak… for the volume of the story to swell into something I could never have anticipated in my planning.

By leaning into softness, I find an opening into a fluency of language that is new and refreshing… and over time, I have found so much that is rich.

I have to admit though, that sometimes the Universe sends me little tests here and there. They’ve been times when people have assumed that my softness means that I won’t say no or that I will always give more or worse, that I will shrink to keep the peace. Let’s just say with softness in hand, I have learned to declare sacred space around it and well, for the sake of softness, I have found boundaries. I don’t abandon myself. I am soft but no less firm.

So. These days, I really protect my peace and instead of saying to myself, “toughen up,” I say, “Pause. Wait. Listen.”

I’m learning to trust that my tenderness is a skill and a tool of moving around the world in a way that serves all of me. I have come to appreciate that I feel so richly and so deeply. I love that I cry at well-written commercials. That I can’t read certain books without hugging them at the end. That I say “I love you” a little too easily sometimes. And for that I have been rewarded with many beautiful relationships, meaningful conversations, and an understanding of our human nature that makes me a better writer.

Softness is not a weakness. It’s one of my sharpest tools.

The Worst Advice I ever Took

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There’s something especially frustrating about realizing you followed bad advice—not because it was malicious, but because it was normal. The kind of advice everyone nods at and that you are almost always required to take. Simply because it is such good advice that you can’t possibly have anything against it.  I mean this is the kind of advice that fits in polite conversation and LinkedIn posts.

Some of the most destructive advice for creative people often takes this VERY SENSIBLE form. I mean one of my favorite terrible pieces of advice is: “Be realistic.”

It sounds harmless, right? Grounded. Wise. A call to humility. But what it really did—at least for me—was shrink possibility. It taught me to dream within frameworks other people had already tested. It taught me to ask smaller questions. To choose paths that felt “proven.”

I remember being told not to focus so much on writing.

To “keep it as a hobby.”

To find something more practical to pursue. A 

And for a while, I listened. I let the voice of “realism” override the voice of wonder. I made safe choices. Applied for the sensible jobs. Stopped calling myself a writer unless I had something published to prove it.

I don’t blame anyone. They meant well. They just didn’t see the version of me that lights up when I build a world from scratch, or spend five pages on one conversation between imagined people who feel so, so real.

But still—that advice cost me something. Time. Courage. Maybe a few stories that never made it to the page.

The thing about “realistic” is that it often centers other people’s fears, not your vision. It wants you to be legible. Predictable. A good fit for the systems that already exist.

But I’ve since learned: some of the best things in my life happened because I ignored that advice. Because I bet on something that didn’t make sense to anyone but me.

So now, I keep a little internal filter. When advice comes my way, I ask: Is this protecting me, or limiting me? Is this helping me build something, or just keeping me from falling?

I still don’t have it all figured out. I’m still learning how to trust my own rhythm. But I’m done trying to be realistic.

I’d rather be faithful to the wild, slightly irrational parts of me that still believe the impossible is worth chasing.

Where I’m From

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Lately, I’ve been thinking about where I’m from.

Not in the way people mean when they ask at a networking event, or in the way passport stamps try to explain you. I mean the places that shaped the inside of me. The places that made me laugh a little differently, sit a little quieter, learn the timing of pauses between stories.

I’m from the smell of ironed uniforms on Monday mornings and shoes polished sparkling and shiny black with Kiwi shoe shine.

From porridge that tastes slightly burnt but still feels like home. And bread spread with blueband and then panfried – like French toast but without the eggs.

From relatives who were my first friends and who are so many that every get together is spent answering the same question like 15 times… and it feels like home to echo a response and be received each time with job. And relatives who can tolerate you telling the same stories every year—always louder, always funnier—with details that change depending on who is listening. 

From cousins who know what it is to play in an Ikumbi and come out covered in the white residue of shackled maize that has been stored to cook Githeri later in the year. 

I’m from long silences during car rides.

From knowing how to read moods by how people stirred their tea. Or gave you a side eye. Or held one orange colored Bata slipper. Heck even a mwiko.

I’m from shared worn out shoes, and dresses, and shirts, and hair clips… and the quiet dignity of reuse. From generosity without ceremony. From people who shared and showed up. From afternoons where the electricity went out, and someone started singing in the dark.

There are parts of me that were shaped not by big events, but by small repetitions. The way a plastic chair creaks under your weight during a long story. The rhythm of a name answered three different ways depending on who’s calling it. The softness of my mother’s voice when she prays for us—not performatively, but from somewhere deep inside her chest. And loudly on Saturday morning which was so annoying when you’re trying to sleep!

I’m also from people who often said things that made me cry at night because their honesty was sometimes cruel. From whispered tales shared in phone calls and catchups and today, from WhatsApp messages. From family gatherings that always wanted to ask if I should join the gym and I fought the urge to punch people in the face. From questions about love and marriage – and having no answer to give over and over again. From women who never said I love you but insisted on singing a chorus after a family gathering and saying a prayer of protection and journey mercies. 

I’m still from those things. Even when I live elsewhere. Even when I sound different. Even when I write in a voice that someone might call “neutral.” Even when I silently withdraw from gatherings that seem a bit more hostile than I would like but still strike a chord of longing inside me.

I carry these people, moments, conversations, tears, and everything else in my silences. In the way I pace a paragraph. In the way I don’t always finish a thought.

Where I’m from isn’t just a location. It’s a cadence. A palette. A way of remembering.

Christmas, Writing, and this year

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It’s been so long since I wrote anything. It’s been really difficult to get into the space where I connect with inspiration to write and express and leave my heart on paper.

Writing is mostly cathartic but also an extension of who I am. This year has tried me in the deepest way and pushed me to be so much more than I ever thought I could be.

I am so grateful.

So many people had it way harder than I did. I suppose if finding inspiration to do this thing that I desire so much is my only difficulty then I am so fortunate. So yeah… I am grateful.

Gratitude is such a funny thing. It is defined both by what we say and what we hide… this post hides a lot too… even so, at its simplest, it conveys that there was much that was lost by so many. Inspiration, for me, and perhaps time… time that mostly shifted in a blur… and now it is Christmas.

I suppose I will be bleeding on this here keyboard because I am back. And with so much story.

Emotional hangovers – part deux

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One of the benefits of working from home during these COVID times is that my experience of other humans is highly curated – read: I don’t get out much… and I had forgotten about how anxious I get in social situations ordinarily.

Soooooo… It’s not a debilitating anxiety – just a nagging sense of unease coupled with a feeling like I am talking too much… or saying too much or laughing too loudly… or sharing too much or … and the racing thoughts keep going. I had also forgotten the beginnings of the emotional hangover and how it can just stop me in my tracks. These are feelings I hadn’t felt in a long while…

I suppose one of the perks of working from home and social distancing, for me, has been the limited range of anxiety… limited anxiety has meant more energy… more energy has meant that I accomplish more… accomplishing more has meant that I feel so damn good about myself… feeling so damn good about me has literally kept me happy … and made me less self-conscious.

But today I went out of the house and had a nice early dinner. It was nice to be out and be in a social space. But now I have come back to my space feeling mildly assaulted by the racing thoughts and the feelings of falling short – they seem irrational but already fighting myself of this has exhausted me… I suppose after being alone for so long, it’s not unusual that I came back feeling assaulted by the vulnerability of being close to another human and sharing my thoughts.

It was fine in the moment. I was okay in the moment… it’s the after… the emotional hangover…

“Yes!” in perpetuity

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Ok so I did this crazy thing and went to exhibit at the 2019 Nairobi Book Fair. I got the Judges’ Choice Award which was amazing… I felt embraced by the Universe. And so affirmed. I was so extra with the whole experience as I organized for a photographer to take beautiful pictures of the Booth… and me at the booth… and my many friends who came out to support me at the Booth.

I experienced magic in the many individuals I got to hug and be around. For me, seeing and being open to people I would never have otherwise met without putting on anything, was eve’thing.

I loved sharing and listening and being surrounded by other writers. There were so many different journeys that collided there and to witness it all was amazing.

You know, last year was the year of “Yes!” for me… but it seems to me that I have a year’s lag on this yes thing. I have been saying a lot more yes this year than ever before… Maybe it’s a yes in perpetuity thing… either way, I am loving the magic.

When I read my confessionals

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So a crazy thing happens… I first have to brace myself. I think it’s because I am never quite sure how reading what I wrote is going to make me feel.

Sometimes I shock myself and sometimes I feel shame. Shock – because of how much I reveal. Shame – because of how much I reveal. Most of it is mixed admiration and the early makings of an emotional hangover… probably because I am often surprised at what I am willing to admit when I am writing. How vulnerable I truly am.

I also read in between the intention of wanting to be clever… and perhaps, some trace subtext of relief… and just a tinge of satisfaction at being able to write it all.

I often say, many times like an old grandpa with repetitive jokes, that I think the best version of myself is the writer. I allow myself so many freedoms when I am in this space. I give myself lots of room to just be… and this is a gift I seldom give myself when I consider all the other versions of me that are running around.

I like the idea of re-reading what I have written because I have the courage not to be dishonest with myself. In this confessional, I think I am assured of at least one place where I can reflect my truths back. This is not all a bad thing.

Brave little steps and gold stars

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Okay. So I wrote a book. I published it. And now I am on the journey of selling it. I am committed to doing this author thing well because my dream is to write full time… a privilege I was once told is not common for many African writers. Still, I want it.

But it is a journey of small little brave steps. The vulnerability of writing a book cannot compare to the intensity of asking someone to read your book… let alone buy it. I thought the exposure of being a writer was in the baring of my soul — of granting open access to the thoughts that run around my head. But it turns out, I am more afraid to disappoint my readers than I am to expose them to my imagination.

Like many people, I am so text book in wanting love and affection. I want approval. I love my gold stars. And I can’t tell you how it lights up my insides when someone actually likes a story I wrote. I know that as I grow into my craft, I will have hits and misses… but it’s the hits that I enjoy the most.

So you can imagine that it took me a while to accept that the book won’t sell itself. I had a hard time figuring out that I actually need to ask people to buy the book. It was a little tough to accept that this writer’s journey is incomplete, if the book remains with me (… like literally in my office where some 400 odd copies are boxed waiting to be sold…)

But I think I finally got it.

I took another brave step today. I reached out to my friends and asked them to buy the book, to visit this website where I have been squirreling away my daily writing habit with no viewers, and actually posted the location of my modest social media footprint.

I am so exhausted from it all. And the flu that is haunting me at the moment.

But in a way, I am glad I learned something about myself. I am a simple chic at the end of the day… brave little steps and gold stars… that’s my process.

So. Now I am a published author and about to become a killer book salesman.