I hate it when people know I am going to or coming from the toilet. Why? I also don’t know. I mean, excretion and egestion are normal processes that every living organism in Kingdom Animalia has to experience, right? Yeah, but that has done little, if anything to change that learnt shame that came from God-Knows-Where. You can trust me to take a detour if I was headed for the washroom then I meet my crush(es) around the door to the ‘geography’.
On the Streets of the internet, I’ve seen womenfolk complain about how pads are packaged in ‘noisy’ papers and when they go to a washroom to change their pads, everyone knows they are. Well, menstruation should be a normal thing that no one should feel shy about. I mean, nature decided to ‘punish’ the human female every so often for not being pregnant and that is not on her. So, it shouldn’t be something to feel ashamed of, right? Especially when in the presence of other women. But is that so? So, you probably get me for not wanting my whereabouts to be known. Especially not by my crushes! 😂😂
That I have those fears doesn’t mean I’m always insulated from it. And one of my other dreaded experiences is when I disappear in the comfort of the loo and someone starts looking for me.
What’s the relevance of toilets in a story speaking about change? This morning I recalled this one time we were moving to a large house. One of my elder siblings, facing the experience of being searched for while in the washroom would simply shout and inform whoever is looking for them that they’re unavailable. For me, silence did it. Unlike the previous house, that house was so expansive, you wouldn’t be heard unless you were talented in shouting – something I certainly wasn’t. So, I’d just be quiet and then the sound of the water cistern would finally announce my resurgence. And I did it until they got the hang of it.
When we were making that move, I was secretly praying it doesn’t happen. Well, maybe not because of the washrooms. I hate change. The only change I think I’d ever welcome gladly is Kenyan voters choosing not to elect thieves. My prayers were among those that find God having a sunset bask na Jonah ndio amepewa shift. And we know how that goes.
My prayers were inspired by a crush. I had this crush I liked so much, and moving would mean we would be separated. I couldn’t imagine what life would be like in her absence.
Eventually we did move. I still got some chances to see her but everything felt awkward, and eventually, the crush faded. And I’d wonder, “Why was I even scared of the move?” Because in the end, it turned out just fine.
Leaving uni must have been my most recent date with the daunting thought of change. From the time it was about six or so weeks to complete school, I’d just have this nostalgia of leaving that school environment. Coming to the outside world of unemployment, rent and bills was just something I never felt ready for. Well, I may still be experiencing some facets of unsettledness but I’m keeping up quite well. I am surviving. Perhaps, much better than I thought I would.
I think many people reading this are going through those phases where many changes are happening. We are getting into adulating in one of the worst times: with inflation, high taxation, global recession, it just sucks. I often wish we became adults when life was much less expensive, and a bit fair. Nowadays, everything is expensive and it tends to seem like only the crooked make it. But, oh well, sio kupenda kwetu. None of us asked to be born, and none of us had the choice to choose where, when and to whom. Tulijipata tu. So, just do your best and be happy with that. I guess leave the rest to whatever higher power you believe in.
In conclusion, change is the only constant. So, just pray for the grace, I guess, to embrace it. Oh, and don’t be shy about experiencing normal, natural, biological processes. None of those are things you chose, so, just move with it.
(Sidenote: If you have any stories or know anyone with interesting stories they wish to share feel free to reach out. Appreciations: 0728392727. Tuma hata kakiru leo. Umesoma tu hizo siku zote bila kutuma hata pound, shuwally?)
There once was a young man who got into thievery. Pleas to desist from the habit fell on deaf ears. Eventually, his fortieth day dawned and he was lynched. Contrary to what many expected, his eulogy read exactly that.
This year has seen the Eastern Africa region lose two former Presidents: Kenya’s Daniel Arap Moi and Burundi’s Pierre Nkurunziza. Every human has some good and bad to them. But these are two leaders who many felt their bad side overrode their good and probably bordered towards inhumane. Whether or not they were good or bad, is a question I leave to you.
Here in Kenya, Moi’s death saw a faction of citizens praise him for the strides he made during his twenty-four-year reign. Others felt it was good riddance, with the hashtag #GoToHellMoi trending. What was interesting, though, was how some truths were turned around.
“I’m wondering how Moi’s death is being commemorated in Kenya. Hero? Seems like when a famous man dies, history is revised.” A non-Kenyan friend posed. “He was a true statesman,” we said. A statesman who tortured an environmentalist (albeit indirectly) for saving our parks and forests. To an extent that her hair was ripped off her skull, and officers broke into her house to arrest her. Did we mention the part where he termed her a mad woman who was a threat to order and security of the country? I guess you can see who of the two was a true statesperson.
Can we forget the delphic ‘accident’ of Anglican Bishop Alexander Muge or the emotive ‘suicide’ at Got Alila. As Kenyans would ask, did Ouko break his leg first, then set himself ablaze then shoot himself? Or which of the three did he begin with? Good students of KANU continue to perpetrate those atrocities.
“He was a freedom fighter. He allowed multi-party politics in 1991.” Freedom involves the right to speak as one wants and associate with whom they want. A charade during the infamous Nyayo error. How else would you explain the torture the likes of Matiba went through? And who took away multipartism in the first place?
Let’s move further South West to Burundi. “…In his message, President Kenyatta termed the outgoing Burundi leader as an outstanding regional counterpart who worked tirelessly for the peace and stability of his country…” read part of a tweet by State House Kenya. Indeed, he was. Which explains why in 2015, he manipulated the apex court to let him change the Constitution to allow himself a third term. A move that saw the country fledge into civil war, with thousands being killed and several others being left homeless. Women were exposed to sexual violence from police forces, the men tortured during interrogation. Such an icon of peace! The health system in the country is definitely whack, so much so that his wife had to be brought to Kenya for treatment after she contracted Covid-19. State House has a point though. Such a legacy is outstanding- just from the other extreme of the spectrum. Outstandingly outrageous. And now someone is picking lessons and working to change the Constitution to remain in power. They were cut out of the same cloth.
De mortius nihil nisi bonum. Loosely translated, this legal maxim means, “Of the dead, say nothing but good.” Quite often, upon one’s death, we choose to turn a blind eye on the evil deeds they committed during their lifetime. But at least don’t flip truths. It comes off as insensitive, ignorant sometimes even barbaric. Death should not be a detergent to sanitise one’s inequities. If you want us to say symphonic things about you when you depart, live a good life so that we don’t have to lie at your funeral.
“Above all else, Guard Your Heart, for everything you do flows from it.” Prov. 4:23
This is a continuation of life recently, from the last story.
I came back to Swim City in time to attend Shin City. (See what I did there?) Well, it’s no longer called Shin City – it’s now the Showman Experience.
Nyashinski is a perfectionist so you can expect the best only from him. But the Showman experience was him outdoing himself. A blend of a choir, dancers and acrobats. One minute someone is doing some lit moves, the next a backflip, the next Shin is being carried, the next someone is eating fire, the next the choir is blessing our ears, the next an acrobat is dangling from the ceiling with a rope, the next we’re having a wedding. Mind blowing is an understatement.
The work ethic was equally remarkable. The show was slated for 8 p.m. and at exactly 8 p.m. the welcoming note was being delivered. Everyone had a seat. Over 2000 of us. No security breaches or stampedes. (Iykyk). I saw comments on social media that the ladies had free sanitary pads for anyone who needed that. And there was no lip syncing – 3 hours of all our favourite songs.
I left that event feeling such a profound sense of love. Like I was a renewed person. Like I didn’t have the energy to get sucked up in unnecessary conflicts and drama. Like I just wanted to be this human who carried a light, and everywhere I went, I radiated rays of joy. One week later, I’m still smitten by the Showman Experience.
In the midst of my smite, I recalled a story a friend wrote on a WhatsApp status some years back. Something about the duality of life – how very diverse situations can co-exist.
The story was about an incident where she got into a bus, and the only seat available was at the back bench so she walked towards it. The seat was occupied by some mean-spirited passengers who did not want to make space for her. They gave her some mean looks then one whispered something nasty and they burst into laughter.
She isn’t one to give fire for fire. Probably a keen learner who learnt early in life that toxic people thrive on feeding from your energy so the best way to fight them is to starve them of your energy. To withdraw yourself from confrontation. They eventually created space, albeit begrudgingly, then the conductor slapped the vehicle twice in a row and they left.
When they covered a few kms, people began alighting and she moved to a seat closer to the front. Here, she sat next to an animated passenger and they had such a wonderful chat. About the weather and the economy and the government etc.
My rabbit hole of thoughts drew me to the numerous times people make mean comments – maybe in response to our posts or things we do. But conversely, we also get positive comments from others. Who do we pay heedance to? And who deserves that attention?
When Michelle Obama wrote “Becoming” I was high-key obsessed with that whole frenzy around her memoir. How much better was it to receive a copy of the book that Christmas? For whatever reason it wasn’t the same for her following memoir. So, this isn’t about the memoir.
***
Today was a difficult day. I left the village and had a strong sense of grief hammering me. My grandparents died three years ago and there are days the universe reminds you of what life was like when they were here and that sucks.
When I got to the booking office, I left my luggage and went to a nearby shop. A shop owned by a very close family friend. One of those who my grandma would call to deliver things from the market when moving by became challenging. You know the level of trust you need to have with someone to send them to run errands for you? The relationship was that significant.
I wanted to go to her shop because I felt like speaking to someone, but that had to be someone who’d understand what I felt. And I felt the need to have a proper meltdown. So I secretly hoped I’d get an opportunity to hide there for a few minutes.
Before I even got there, I could feel the lachrymal ducts do their thing as I passed by the market. Today being a market day, the place was crowded so it was impossible to move through at the speed of light. Some trader might have been seeing what was happening from the side of my dark shades but that didn’t matter.
I got to the shop. There was a customer making a major purchase so I had to stay back for a minute. After he left, we spoke briefly then I went back to the booking office and my cousins who were trailing me had arrived. Seeing them there offered a profound sense of comfort.
The last trimester of 2025 saw me caught up in some feuds for choosing principles over conformity. If you read my last piece of the year, it alluded to that. Of course those matters were bound to spill over into the new year because their peak was in December. And ever since, there’s a certain heaviness that leaving the motherland has, over and above the extant grief from death.
In the midst of that chaos, in those silent moments, I discovered something that’s a great source of joy. The light we carry.
That Children’s home you buy foodstuff and toiletries for. The shosho whose grandchildren you got books for school. The senior citizens to whom you give a lens of what a Gen Z’s world looks like. The nephews and nieces who look forward to your visits because you’re a parent to them but like a cool one. The people who consume your art and that makes life worthwhile for them. Etc etc.
At times the light you radiate to others is what makes life worth living. Shine some rays of light.
As a man, it’s important that you invest your money in you. Everyone wants your money. Your landlord wants it, your children’s school wants it, your parents probably depend on it. Your pastor wants it, your location chief wants it, the local thief also wants it, and oftentimes there’s always a woman somewhere who feels entitled to it. A woman who wants you to give her 30% of your salary na saa hio hata Mungu mwenye alikupea hio kazi anataka 10% pekee. (This is only for humour, I am not a stickler of this tithe thing with how Churches have become businesses).
In the spirit of spending on me, I recently decided to take a tour to Diani. I’ve had a bit of a chaotic start to the year dealing with dramas of adults whose mental age might be like that of a minor. So I got this random idea that a change of environment would heal me. The sea perhaps? And maybe a flight to the sea would even heal me better.
I asked myself, “Kwani ndege ni shi’ngali?” Went online, searched, and discovered that it could’ve been money I gave a pastor as tithe aende ku fuel nayo range. So, I thought, let me also spend my money on my self care. Drew up a quick itinerary then made a booking and packed.
You’ll be reading this on a Friday afternoon, but I’m writing it on a tranquil Monday somewhere in Kwale eating my hard-earned money. Before I got to writing this, I was listening to a podcast; and that was when I got the final stir needed to write this. The episode was about money in relationships and whether women can or should date men earning less than them.
“I know this is unfair because the men we expect this from were the same men we were in class with, but fuck it, I like what I like. I want a man who’ll do more than me and especially paying those ‘masculine’ bills, because that’s what I grew up seeing.” One of the hosts posited.
I’ve heard that argument before. “I want a man who provides because that’s what I’ve seen in my family.” But they conveniently ignore two things: the fact that their parents may have had unbalanced economic prospects; and the part where their mums also did all the care work. If you saw your mum do all the care work, are you also going to do that and say, “That’s what I saw in my family growing up?” Thought so too.
The only man in the episode asked them about whether they are also agitating for “Equal Pay for Equal Work Done.” They said “Abujubuju” then reverted to “Fuck it, that’s what I want.”
I’ve experienced that one too. Someone in a similar pay-grade with you telling you, “The 50-50 dynamic makes us feel like roommates. At times I want to pay more, other times less.” But when you cook meat and she makes rice; when she cleans the house and you wash dishes, she conveniently ignores the gender roles, and sharing house chores 50-50 doesn’t make her feel like it’s a roommate dynamic.
The “Sassy Kings” jokes which have been trending were also a good way to put everything into perspective and show how ridiculous some of those expectations posted on social media are. (Few are attached here).
***
This is one of the boldest, most controversial things I’ll say, but I think the dating pool is full of selfish, greedy women who come into relationships like it’s a commercial transaction between a shareholder and a company and both are trying to maximise the value they earn from it. Money does indeed enhance the quality of life in a relationship but what we’re seeing now appears to be more like prostitution than wanting a decent life.
I have worked in a work place where those “Sassy Girls” were plentiful, and god knows how it sucked to listen to their conversations over lunch hour talking about how they want men who can randomly send them 15k to ‘go look good’ and how ‘small boys’ can’t do that. (Cries in salaries za Pupils). One even said, if she dates/marries someone and she earns more than him, he will also have to upgrade or they break up. Ni mbayaaa.
To me, it appears that, unless you’re lucky to find one of the few good women who dropped from Capernaum, who values more than your pockets, don’t bother getting into a relationship. That obsession with money is rife and if you don’t have largesse to splurge on her, chances are she’ll leave you for the next bidder.
It would be selfish for me to write this article and not recognise that we also have an infidelity pandemic also among men. You love someone for who he is, yeye anaamua kazi yake ni kama ile ya grease, ile kitu amekuja kufanya kwa hii dunia ni kuondolea wasichana kutu. So, you wonder, if this guy is not financially afloat, hii pesa ya uasherati inatoka wapi?
Basically, dating in this era seems like a form of self-harm. Happy are we who are so traumatised, we have no strength to send that “Hi” and have let our hearts remain as pumping organs. The soko is so messed up and uninspiring. Unajua ile matope inakaanga uji? Now picture that in a market. I think that’s what it feels like now kuwa soko.
Last but pia not least, let’s be kind to each other. We all have preferences. We don’t need to go highlighting to people in the most contemptuous ways how they are not ‘our type’. That’s the whole essence of choice. You go find what you like. But don’t start making me feel bad for not matching up to your expectations of me.
Trigger Warning:This writing contains mild descriptions of accident scenes.
I’ve written here before about safety on roads and how Kenyan drivers are usually in a hurry to go nowhere. If you’d like you could read it as a precursor to this story here.
***
It’s been a nice epoch not to have to go to work daily. Just sleep in and listen to the rain and smell the petrichor. Not to get rained on, or have a stupid motorist splash water on you. Dare I say, the experience is better if you’re held and not in contempt?
A few weeks ago, I spent a couple of days at home. Sleeping in, spending time writing, catching up with friends. It wasn’t possible to go far because of the muddy puddles and sporadic drizzles so I’d be just around the homestead. As I did these midday walks, I would see a certain man walking around with the aid of a walking frame. I couldn’t see him from afar so I’d just think of how life can at times be tough. Until one time when he passed by our gate as I was leaving and I saw him. Then joined the dots.
***
It’s unbelievable that Covid happened 6 years ago. (Mutahi Kagwe made that announcement on a day like this). But around that time, people in our city residence decided to pour murram on the road. They had suffered enough leaving cars at home when it rained or waking up at wee hours to take cars to the main road so as not to be stranded.
Kenyans are very keen about accountability with money they contribute to projects – how I wish the same extended to taxes. I cannot speak about whether those who led the project had unquestionable integrity; because now that I know what I know of some of them, some had (still have) a propensity for dishonesty. So, there were undertones of money being misused and not fully utilised in the protect. And those who were accused were feeling indignant that their accusers didn’t understand the costs of the project, and that led to division. Later, this faction that thought they were being swindled pooled resources to finish their section of the road. This faction was led by someone we’ll call Verstappen, for reasons you can guess. That was the last I heard of him in a long while.
Some time around 2022, I was on holiday, and took a journey to CBD. Our home area has grown significantly over the past decade so transport has improved over time – but then it wasn’t all that efficient. Needless to say, getting a lift from someone with a car was of great benefit. What I haven’t told you is that when the squabbles over road construction occurred, my family was on the side of those doing the initial construction. So between us and Verstappen, we weren’t exactly enemies but not favourites also.
Anyway, that day I got a lift from Verstappen. I knew his wife better because she run a shop where I popped by often. So, she’s the one who asked him to stop. The ride started off well but God knows how many times I stepped on my imaginary brakes. Instances of dangerous overtaking, hooting at pedestrians at a zebra crossing, never giving other drivers allowance to join the road as if he owned it, etc. But we reached well.
Fast-forward to October last year, there’s a day several vehicles were parked by the roadside – on that stretch of the road Verstappen and team were constructing. In these areas that are still village-like, there’s a level of what you can term as communism or people never minding their business. So, the sight of several vehicles attracts attention. Everyone wants to know who those are and what they’re doing. Then attention morphs into word of mouth. And through this word of mouth, I heard that the entourage was there to visit someone who’d been involved in an accident.
Months later, we heard (through that same communism or people not minding their business) that the person who’d been involved in an accident was Verstappen. He was involved in a head-on collusion that was so bad, his car was written off. He went into the ICU for a while but made it.
He’s been away from work for 5 months now. But thankfully, he has his life and is slowly regaining his ability to walk. Hopefully, he resolved to being a better person overall because he did receive the proverbial second lease of life.
Today is Friday. A beautiful Friday in the city under the sun. Not too sunny, and not gloomy either. And how best to spend such a day than be en-route to a music studio to drop bars?
Late last year, I was actively seeking a job – a 9-5. There’s a certain fear that comes with not knowing how you’re going to handle expenses. I applied for several roles but never got feedback for most of them. Reached out to a couple of acquaintances but got those responses uncles give. My plan was to retire for holidays with a plan for the new year but when I had no offers by December, I decided to take a break and rest then resume in mid Jan.
Late in the previous year, an acquaintance offered me an opportunity to help with some work but not on a full-time basis. I decided to explore this but she advised that I can still apply for other roles. I got an interview for one such role but the pay didn’t match the effort they needed so I “regretted informing them” and settled for the part-time role.
I had a chat with the team in this part-time role but the team lead was making plans to take a break for a while so it was held in abeyance. That new development caused some anxiety but I thought, it will pay off long-term. Because, yes, there’s pressure from people wondering wossgoingon and missing the routine of waking up to wear a suit; but do I really want that 9-5 life?
I also got another colleague willing to offer tasks on a need-to-need basis and I figured, this arrangement would possibly even pay more than some jobs such as the one I rejected.
The universe sends us reassurance in many different ways. Mine came from a studio session earlier this week when the producer I worked with spoke about how he saw his father toil for years, going through the rat-race. Then he retired at 60 and that’s when he finally had his life. At a time when his energy is waning and he cannot even see further than 100 metres.
It made me think about the hype around getting a ‘serious’ job. In January I had an unnecessarily draining encounter where someone asked me if I’ve considered working for those ‘big companies’ and I said I haven’t because it’s not my most ideal kind of workplace, but I was open to it. The person said that that was very painful to hear.😂😂😂 Society society. Why should it be painful that I don’t want a career path you think is ideal? Then I was reported to relatives for ‘refusing’ to work with the Big 5s.🤡🤡
In the totality of my circumstances, I decided to stay in my funemployment state. Of course there are more reasons I may not disclose why this works for me. And there’s privilege. I may have the benefit of not having to do a 9-5 and still live comfortably but not everyone has that so, jijue.
I feel the need to also say, if you have the benefit of privilege, use it to the uttermost without feeling guilty for it. Privilege is there to be utilised, and there’s no shame in it. Just because someone else never had the privilege to do something doesn’t mean if you have that privilege you shouldn’t do it because they couldn’t. There’s no award for suffering.
I’ll end this by attaching a link to a video on the Gram about how the world is so beautiful to spend time in 9-5s all your life and miss out on exploring places, especially when you’re young and energetic. Whether or not you take a 9-5, ensure you get to explore that. If it pleases you, of course.
Trigger Warning ⚠️: Graphic Descriptions, Sexual and Gender Based Violence, Childhood Trauma
Some parents’ idea of sex education is taking their children to Sunday School and forwarding ex-rated scenes in movies (or changing the channel if it’s on Telemundo). Her parents were that kind of parents. Boomer parents are quite conservative and shy, so naturally it’d be her mum who’d be expected to give her ‘the talk’ because African dads don’t address taboo topics with their daughters. That didn’t happen.
Her mother’s way of giving her ‘the talk’ was being overly protective and not allowing boys around her. But as I’ve said many times before, strict parenting is counterproductive and yields the very outcomes the parent seeks to avoid, if not worse ones.
Her first period came when she was in form two; thankfully on a day they were breaking for mid term. She considered that grace unbowed 😂 because she went to her grandma’s place and spoke to her about it. She and her mother were like water and oil – so she felt fortunate not to have to engage in such talk with her mum. Her grandmother taught her all she needed to know, and her mum’s role was relegated to buying her sanitary items.
***
Relationships can make you hate a certain car or place or profession because of the memories they elicit. (Mostly a car or place because there are places I go to and I can feel the memories they carry. Thankfully none of my exes had a car!😂) That’s her relationship with Architecture. Of course you wonder which dark arcs did the architect draw in her life; and I’m here to tell you all about it.
At this point I should tell you she’s like a flame. She burns with passion for the things she loves; she can light up your world; and she can also burn you down. So, we’ll call her Ignacia.
I learnt from someone I look up to that describing your characters isn’t always a good idea, unless it is very necessary. That notwithstanding, Ignacia told me it would be an injustice if I don’t tell you that she has curves in all the right places, it’s not a surprise she attracted someone whose career was built on drawing curves. I’ll leave it at that for now.
When Ignacia was in form 3, one of her close cousins had a love interest who would come near their homestead for dates. Watoto wa 2001, in those days, dates the village comprised people meeting somewhere at a hidden kichochoro somewhere in a shamba or in the middle of the road. This cousin’s date would be accompanied by Mr. Architect. So, Ignacia and Mr. Architect would end up third wheeling.
Yeah I know that you’re single; Baby so am I; so we can throw our single straight through the window ~ Alaine
Naturally because of their third-wheeling, they found solace spending time with each other. And then the solace grew into familiarity, and the familiarity into liking. Mr. Architect also had a couple of projects at their homestead so they met frequently.
African parents are an interesting lot – they can spot hickeys but can never spot depression. Ignacia’s mother noticed that her daughter had started being drawn towards Mr. Architect so Ignacia was taken into exile at a relative’s home in Magadi. And that went so well! Remember what I said about strict parenting? That it is counterproductive?
When her mother thought the exile had served its purpose, it was time for Ignacia to go back home. On the material day, she went to CBD and got a ticket and just as she was entering the matatu, guess who she saw? You guessed right! Mr. Architect. The universe has a dark sense of humour. You send a child to exile then she meets the very person you wanted her to grow distant with on her way back. Ignacia probably thought, “This is heaven-sent” not knowing god knew nothing about this person. By this time Ignacia had a phone so obviously the next step was exchanging contacts.
She reverted to that routine of her meeting this Architect guy. This time with much more vigour. Obviously, her mother wasn’t happy so this second time she was sent to her grandparents’ home.
Love ina power hata army hai-stop ~ Nyashinski
Her grandparents’ home wasn’t too far from her parents’ home, so that did little to solve the problem they sought to solve. She had a date slated for one fine Sunday afternoon.
While the rest of the family went to Church, she spent the day cleaning the humongous house so that no one would have any squabbles over her leaving the house.
She completed those chores at the proverbial lightning speed then went on to dress up for the date. As she was getting ready, Mr. Architect called. One of her uncles took the phone, received it and put it on loudspeaker. And of all days, that’s the day he chose to refer to Ignacia as “Babe.” Of course it created a spectacle – “Umeharibika” na hadithi nyinginezo.
***
There’s always that moment which is the turning point in any major event in history. That one step after which everything comes tumbling and the downward spiral is unstoppable. In the Roman War of 49 BC it was crossing the Rubicon River; in World War 1 it was the assassination of Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophie at Sarajevo. In her love life, that moment of her uncle putting her phone on speaker in the presence of the entire family would lead to a decade of tumultuous events.
She crode and crode so bad. Then went for the date crying. Their village is hilly, and it was an onerous journey to the stage; one that involved climbing one of those hills that you climb and your heart tells you, “If you don’t stop I will.” That same uncle who had just humiliated her followed her in his car, incessantly offering her a lift to the stage – perhaps feeling guilty for his actions. She wouldn’t have any of it. She trudged all the way, his pleas sounding like background music to distract her from the exhausting journey.
Her date was so lit, she showed up with a kerosene jerrycan. Well, it was empty; she was to have it refilled on her way back home. When it’s campaign season, men always have all sorts of paraphernalia and never lack money. Mr. Architect was in that phase. Thankfully, he had a car where they placed the kerosene jerrycan and went for the date. If you’ve had the privilege of spending time with people who are a vibe, I’m sure you know how easy it is to lose track of time. That happened. And the next thing that happened was Ignacia receiving ceaseless calls from family members who were concerned about her whereabouts. Then her mum threw in another Sarajevo moment.
You see that thing African parents do of saying: “Kuna vitu viwili havifai kuingia kwa hii nyumba pamoja; were na giza. Wa kwanza akiingia, wa pili abaki nje.” That was their regime. So her mum told her that since giza ilikuwa imeingia ya kwanza, abaki nje. “Enda na usirudi!” her mother yelled. She’s a millennial, but a millennial born in the anterior age of the millennial era so she has some Gen Z traits like not giving Fs. Hivyo vile aliambiwa aende na asirudi, she went to Mr. Architect’s home and that’s the last she was home as a spinster.
***
While the wicked were feeling the intensity of the cold according to their sins, she was being held and not in contempt. And the results came in handy. So introductions had to be done because there was a ‘goat’ with a broken leg.😂 At first Mr. Architect came with his friends then later with his parents. Ignacia’s dad is a pretty chill and cool guy so Mr. Architect wasn’t in deep shit. It was a calm conversation that went well. The opposite was true of Ignacia’s intro to her in-laws.
I never give descriptions of parties’ identities or appearances unless it’s relevant to the plot; as is the case here. Ignacia is from the mountain and Mr. Architect is from Ingo. Her first culture shock was being in a bus for 7 hours.
Then she got to his village and when she expected a warm welcome, she was greeted by a “please don’t kill my son.” (She jokes that the son was in fact the murderer). She somehow navigated the landmines and they went back to their home together.
Her pregnancy was uneventful for most part. She only had morning sickness for a week. But there was a catch. You see that thing they say nowadays when breaking news: “Hey babe, we are pregnant!” It seemed true for them in the literal sense because the mister was the one having spells of nausea and mood swings while she was the one carrying the pregnancy.😂
The delivery wasn’t all that smooth. She had to undergo several surgeries and to breastfeed a baby while still healing is no mean feat. She couldn’t hold the baby in a nursing position as this would cause wound dehiscence so Mr. Architect would hold the baby near her while she fed her.
Life moved into what it moves to: new dawns, diaper changes, clinics, a fever, family outings, a new president, etc. And Mr. Architect’s head was still standing strong above his neck; it wasn’t hacked. They moved to Nairobi as Mr. Architect had projects there; then he got a long-term project in Kericho and they got a second home there so they’d perambulate between the two homes until when the baby was ready to start school. They agreed that it was best for the child to go to school in Nairobi so Ignacia relocated to Nairobi with her while Mr. Architect stayed in Kericho.
If absence makes the heart grow fonder, Mr. Architect’s heart was growing fainter. He’d be away for several weeks on end, and Ignacia would keep asking him to visit them and that became a case of the proverbial kupigia mbuzi gitaa. Condoms are said to be the only method of contraception that also prevents sexually transmitted diseases and infections (I wonder where the publishers of that study left abstinence 🧐); but they can also be a catalyst to hasten a visit.
Despite Mr. Architect working in Kericho, he’d carry dirty clothes to Nairobi for his wife to wash. One fine afternoon when she was cleaning, she decided to remove the inner sole of his sneakers. Voila! She found used condoms there. She took a picture and sent it to him. He made it to their Nairobi home that night to explain that ‘misunderstanding’. Whatever they say about manipulators wanting to speak to you in person because the lies won’t work over the phone. “I promise they were not mine, my friends want to destroy our beautiful marriage because they’re jealous.” The friends went on ‘being jealous’ for a long long while.
“Ulimfanyia Nini?”
Mr. Architect finished his work in Kericho and relocated to Dimples City so they were now back to living together. This was supposed to have been a wonderful reunion but it ushered a new phase into their marriage.
There’s a quote (which hopefully you won’t find offensive🤞) that says, “Ku date msichana mrembo ni kama kukaa kwa kiti ya mlango ya matatu. Utashinda ukisumbuana na people seeking entry.” She is pretty – the kind of girl you’d notice from across the room. And as alluded to earlier, she is also voluptuous. There’s a book by Ken Walibora where he describes a character then says something whose paraphrase is, “Alikuwa na urembo uliowafanya marijali wapinduke kumtazama mara ya pili, kila alipopita.” She had that. And that became recipe for chaos.
Mr. Architect would get grumpy whenever they went out and men would stare at Ignacia – perhaps scared that they would do the very things he had been doing. She jokes that he used to sulk for 3 days as if that 3 was a magic number. Not 2, not 5, not a week; 3 days. There was also a tinge of insecurity in it. The “Sasa unanidharau juu sina gari” kind of talk. At this point campaign season was over so Ignacia discovered that the car he had belonged to the company he worked for and it was eventually taken away.
Somewhere along those mood swings, arguments ensued and he began swinging his arms and slapping her – her ‘inequity’ being that she ‘talked back to him’. Then after the third day when Jesus rose again, she received a pair of shoes she had been manifesting for ages.
When it rains it pours. One morning, Mr. Architect’s mother showed up with some two kids.
“Hi, welcome. Who are our visitors?” Ignacia asked her.
“They are not visitors, this is their home.”
Mr. Architect had been previously married and had two children but never did he at any point think this was information to disclose. This new change was akin to placing a drop of potassium permanganate in clear water. It changed everything.
For one, Mr. Architect’s family kept coming into their house and would camp there for days. Ignacia and their daughter were like strangers in the house. She also couldn’t correct mistakes these two kids did as that would cause chaos.
Her in-laws would stay there for days on end. And they’d never eat a single thing she made nor take a single cup of tea. Then when her husband would come, they’d say they weren’t given food. It was also ironic that, while her in-laws reigned in her matrimonial home, her own mother was never welcomed there. One time one of her relatives was unwell and her mother had to leave the village for Dimples City to see him. She couldn’t make it back and requested to stay the night there. While she did stay, there was quite some friction about that. And in the aftermath there were issues from Mr. Architect’s mother about Ignacia and her mum ‘gossiping’ about her in their mother tongue.
The episodes of Mr. Architect’s mood swings would recur during these periods when his family was around. Episodes of silent treatment, picking fights, etc. He’d stay in the guest room with his mother and siblings. Then he’d move around her, sniffing her to sense any glimmer of discontent; waiting for her to say something that’d make hell break loose but she never fell for the rage-baiting.
Welcome to My House ~ Flo Rida
The nurture instinct in females is said to be a major reason why they ignore red flags. They see it as a need to be parented rather than a sign to run. Despite their dwindling marriage, the contempt and beatings which were now becoming normative, Ignacia moved the marriage a step ahead and began planning on building her dream house with Mr. Architect.
He bought the land, and did the design – kinyozi alijinyoa, wahenga hawakuamini. For her part, she contributed towards the purchase of materials. What she loved most about the house was that as an eccentric reader she’d have a reading space and a mini-library. But in the midst of this beautiful dream, the red flags continued flickering.
One time they went for a site visit to see how the construction was progressing. On their way back she accidentally brushed hands with someone – a phenomenon that’s not geni jijini, labda tu kwa wageni wa jiji.
It felt ridiculous when he later asked her why she was holding hands with strangers; and she couldn’t hold back how absurd that question was. The response was a thorough pummeling, allegedly because she was ‘rude’ to him. Then on the third day when Lazarus was risen, she got another gift and they made up.
***
If there’s a hill I’m willing to die on, it is that you can’t change a grown up. The house was eventually completed and they moved in; but her dream house was becoming more of a slaughter house than a home. Mr. Architect’s relatives would visit and they scaled their contemptuous acts. They now moved from refusing to eat Ignacia’s food to decorating the house in mud and at times even her white duvets.
Remember the ‘jealous friends’ who’d put used condoms in his items? Their ‘jealousy’ went on. Then he started getting these regular headaches every evening at around 7 p.m. and he’d have to make trips to a shop nearby. The paracetamol was probably being imported because it’d take him a couple of hours to return. If Ignacia made the cardinal mistake of asking what took him so long, she’d be told she was ‘controlling’ and that he had a social life. Then one day she decided to play disiyai and that ended how it always does.
She asked him about it and he denied knowing who that was – the “wrong number” thing. What was unknown to him was that she had run the number through her phone and figured it was a neighbour who had a shop. The shopkeeper from whom he’d go buying this paracetamol that was being imported and which would take him 2 hours to purchase. Then the tune shifted to, “She’s jealous about our beautiful marriage.”🤡 Everyone was jealous about their beautiful marriage.
The battering also became extreme – it now advanced from slaps to something that resembled boxing matches with Floyd Mayweather. She moved from having black eyes to broken jaws. In typical abusive fashion, in the aftermath of these beatings he’d turn into a superdad and would show out for their daughter to blinden her from his atrocities, and buy Ignacia gifts. During such times, she’d skip work until she recovered. Make up became her friend too; and having been introduced to make up in order to cover up the physical signs of what she experienced behind closed doors, she doesn’t fancy it.
It feels like you’re a million miles away, as you’re lying here with me tonight ~ Rihanna
If you’ve been in this relationship business long enough, you know the signs that show when it’s about to end. You know that feeling you get that rises up your gut.
For them, the relationship was disintegrating from many facets all at once. She’s an excellent cook, she loves cooking for people she loves. Needless to say, it hit a nerve when Mr. Architect stopped eating the food she’d make. Then there was the mistrust and secrets. One night she was at a meeting when she received a call from a neighbour informing her that some unknown men had been spotted leaving their house. She made a million calls to her hubby but none was picked. She’d later learn that the house help would bring men into their house to entertain them, and Mr. Architect knew about it and never said a thing.
It is said that the brain is a woman’s largest sex organ. With broken jaws and untouched food and ‘jealous friends’ putting condoms in his inner sole, it was a long shot expecting her to be desirous of him inspecting her curves after a day of drawing and inspecting curves on buildings. Yet he still tried his chances at the long shots; and surprisingly or expectedly, the attempts had a 100% success rate. She was a dutiful wife and dutiful wives never have ‘headaches’. And if they don’t perform roles that are reserved to them, who will?
Their tenth year of marriage was supposed to be exciting and a major milestone; a double digit and, you know, the excitement of commemorating a decade since that date she went on crying with a kerosene jerrycan in hand. But that was the year when everything was screaming: “It’s better to admit that you walked through the wrong door than stay in the wrong room.” That was the year showing her that how she was excited for that first date but went for it crying would be exactly how the marriage would turn out.
In July that year, Mr. Architect made his last attempt at those long shots of initiating intimacy because the ‘log-like’ behaviour was so clear he could no longer ignore it. And that was another significant hit that the relationship took.
Usini-push Niko too close to the edge.” ~Nyashinski
Early on, I mentioned that every major life event usually has that last action that triggers it. Here was another one.
One fine evening, Ignacia got home. She was a dutiful wife, remember? And like every Proverbs 31 woman, she was like the merchant ships bringing food from afar. She prepared dinner for Mr. Architect. She had a long morning the next day, so, before she turned in, she asked him if he was ready to eat. He was in his workshop cracking up numbers and figures and he didn’t want to lose his zeal. She offered to warm the food and bring it to him so that he could eat as he worked but he refused that too.
Seeing that he was in that grumpy state where he’d make everything difficult, she decided to go rest because can you fix an adult? And because she wasn’t in the mood to argue, she went to sleep in their daughter’s room.
She had this strange dream of someone dragging her out of bed. She was rudely awoken from the dream by a slap; then she received an unprecedented walloping. Last we were at punches like they were in a boxing match with Mayweather? Now we moved to Usman Kamaru – slaps, blows and kicks. He’d been looking for her all over the house when he found her missing in their matrimonial bed; and when he found her, he unleashed all the rage he’d been harbouring.
The commotion caused by her husband beating her caused their daughter to wake up. When the little girl witnessed the atrocious acts playing off in her sight, she went to her father crying, pleading with him to stop beating her mother but he’d hear none of it. He instead dragged Ignacia back into their room then threw her in quite literally. She landed on a portrait which broke and cut her.
He panicked when he noticed she was bleeding profusely. She crawled onto bed, hoping she’d live to see another day because the room was locked.
She survived the ordeal. But that, night it dawned on her what many people in abusive marriages never comprehend. That once your partner becomes abusive you will leave; the question is whether you’ll leave when dead or alive.
She prepared her exit plan; and when she left for Christmas she knew she’d only return for her belongings. Her parents were concerned as to why she had stayed home for long. She explained what had been happening and they supported her decision. She returned to what was now her former matrimonial home to pick her items and felt so relieved feeling nothing for someone she once deeply loved that she could take so much shit from. He was in denial and kept promising her that she’d go back but that promise was akin to a UDA promise.
She never wanted any drama: no court proceedings, no property, no money, just peace. So, she simply walked away. The transition wasn’t easy: getting a new place of residence, job, school for mini-her, and then her grandfather died around that time. But through her hard work and immune grace, she has weathered through. It’s been a good 2 years, she hasn’t gone back.
I ask her why she stayed in that situation for so long. She attributes it to the fear of “What will people say?” We conclude that people will say “R.I.P” when you’re gone and that will be it. And that abusive spouse can hasten the process.
Children’s emotional blinders eventually clear and they see who the aggressor is. Her daughter adapted to the new normal quite seamlessly. She found reassurance when the daughter once had an emergency and instead of calling Mr. Architect (which she ordinarily did), she asked a good Samaritan to call her mum.
Huko kwa kina ndoa, amesema hata na madawa, harudi; na akirudi tumfunge kwa statue ya Tom Mboya kila mtu akipita ampee 2 of the best.
***
This question of, “Ulimfanyia Nini?” – there’s nothing that justifies acts of gender-based violence. If you feel disrespected, talk about it or go find someone who respects you. Do abusive partners change? They do! Only they in fact get more audacious and abrasive. Don’t fall for those nice lovey dovey moments that come after the melancholy.
I also can’t help but think of how many people live in homes with various forms of violence. For some it’s constant shouting, constant arguments, emotional manipulation, etc. It’s draining and you don’t have to deal with it.
Many women stay in abusive relationships owing to lack of means to support themselves. She is a jack of all trades – she humorously remarks that she only doesn’t sell people. Some of her specialties include selling perfumes, clothes, shoes.
If you feel inspired and hope to support her, you can reach out at wakiliakili2@gmail.com and we’ll link you up.
I’d have told you Happy New Year, but I’m not like those Boomers who “Happy New Year” their way through the entirety of the first quarter. And I’m also one of those who think time is an abstract concept. Like who decided that years begin in January and not September?
I’ve been seeing incidents this past few weeks which made me think a lot about humility. ‘Strict bosses’ who tell their domestic workers mean shit like, “Wacha kuvaa nguo inakaa duster”. Siblings whose tables turn: one had a car and house when the other had none then he lost the car and the one whose fortune delayed got a bigger house and a car. And just how cute it is to treat the less fortunate with dignity and shine a light on those whose pathways you can.
So, I hope you get inspired to adopt a mantra of humility in the new year.
I also feel compelled to say, I am concerned at how popular alcohol abuse is becoming. The romanticisation of blacking out, the normalisation of drunk driving, etc. I think if you need someone to take care of you every time you have a couple of or several drinks, you need to do some introspection. Do better.🫠🫣
Happy to share lots of amazing stories. Hope it’s a good adulting manual. Also, in the likelihood you discover how to bar someone from accessing your wordpress blog, let me know.😂
There was a time it was fashionable to text people with short forms. Khoikhoi was also fashionable. “Xaxa, xema, fyn, l8r,” etc. During that era, someone once wrote me a note when I was going back to boarding school and it ended in “T-kea.”😂 That line stuck with me.
***
If you’re new here, you probably know by now that we always close the year with one major masterpiece. Something award-winning or deeply poignant. It started as a coincidence when I posted a piece that attracted overwhelming feedback now we do it deliberately.
***
A few weeks ago, I was at the barber shop. Idk (today we’re using short forms😂) why we were talking about parenting; but he said something about how [many] parents would find it difficult to buy themselves something worth x amount but will very easily spend that money on their children. (Deadbeats wanafikiria ni AI💀).
It took me back to the numerous times when we deny ourselves things we desire so as to sacrifice for others. Foregoing that favourite drink, vacation, massage, trip, etc to do something special for someone.
This year taught me something though – that at the end of the day, you can only truly count on yourself. So as you show up for people, and make sacrifices for them, build your relationship with you. Make it a point to treat yourself also, to sacrifice for yourself.
I’ve been disappointed by love interests, which is never much of a shocker for someone who says, “Kupenda Mtu ni kazi unawachia mama yake.”😂 I’ve been disappointed by colleagues which also isn’t a shocker for someone who says, “Your colleagues are hardly your friends. Get your money and go home.” But when the woes are closer, that hits differently. And that taught me: at the end of the day, you only have you. Take care of you.
Everyone is a therapist nowadays. Everyone is giving psychological diagnoses. Someone thinks you’re too orderly for their standards, they say you have OCD. They think you are hyperactive, it’s ADHD. You were smiling and now you’ve done a 180° turn – bipolar! And the mother of them all: narcissistic personality disorder.😂
One of these self-proclaimed therapists gave me a diagnosis. Something they call being passively suicidal. Like you’re not likely to do it but you randomly think, “What if I threw myself in front of that bus. Who would they stress the fuck out?” But then you cross the road and see the bus approaching fast and you run so that it doesn’t smash you and you know for sure you’re not suicidal.
A professional therapist told me, there’s never anything that has no end. And sure enough there isn’t anything that cannot end. Some times you also look at the people driving you nuts and really they aren’t worth unaliving yourself.
Last but pia not least: never find yourself advising people about their marriages.😂 My dhikis started when I did that thing Kamba employees do of saying, “Mdosi kuna tabia inaendelea kwa kampuni na sifurahii.” I forgot that that wasn’t a Mhindi’s company. No matter how bad you think it is, if that person is tired they’ll go.
I feel the need to say, overall this has been a great year. It just had some not so interesting days which were quite something; and ended in those. But that’s the price you pay for integrity.🫣🫠 And this time, we keep keeping on relentlessly.
Was great having you around..
See you in the next.
Always remember to take care of you; you only got you!
Trigger Warning ⚠️- Graphic Descriptions; Sexual and Gender Based Violence
When I’m in the last stretch of the journey home, I often (if not always) do this thing where I play “Country Roads” by John Denver. When hitting those few last kilometres before the homestead. That’s a familiar experience for most people; but what if there’s no love at home?
***
I was last home several years ago. I tend to think I am not my parents’ child because I do not understand how one could treat their child in the manner they have treated me. I’ve never been loved by them so I doubt if they are mine.
For starters, I have been circumcised. Wouldn’t have been a big deal if I were a male child, but I am female so you know what that’s like.
My mom was abusive. She found comfort in beating me. She tried to kill me in 2020 during COVID season one by strangling me na kamata ya sufuria. Why? You ask.
She told me to count her money. There’s something tension and anxiety does to you – it makes you panic. See that feeling you’d get when evening dawns and you know your parents are about to come back home and you broke a thermos? That’s what it always felt like being around her.
Owing to this, I mistook a 500-shilling note for a 1,000-shilling note. So instead of giving her a figure of 4500, I told her the money was 5k. Then hell broke loose.
I was beaten, bitten, and shown a show I had never witnessed. She alleged that I had stolen 500 shillings.
My dad assaulted me sexually when I was in class two. I had transferred to a primary school nearby where he lived. My mom had gone to Nairobi, where my big brother and sister lived. So in her wisdom (or lack thereof) she left me at that tender age with a man she knew was HIV-infected.
The acts were not penetrative – at least not with his, you know? But he’d frequently do this thing with his phalanges which would cause haemorrhaging.
I left home never to return. Occasionally my mum has tried reaching out to me through my brother but I’m not boaardiing! There’s no love at home.
I accepted that that happened. Shit happens. It just happened to be me who was the victim. I’ve done lots of work on myself to find healing and that’s why I’m even able to share this. It’s my responsibility to heal, else I’ll be seeing and hearing stuff with my triggers instead of my ears.
***
I think about that story and can’t help but wonder how homes can be unloving. How many people are happier in the outside world than in places they should call home.
So, to all who’ve experienced boundary disputes, fighting over hate (real or perceived), over cheating scandals, over conmanship, witchcraft allegations, etc. To those whom it’s debatable whether there’s love at home. Feel free to make your own holiday plans away without feeling guilty for it. Choose you.
We sat under what I’d term a gloomy sky. A gloomy Nairobi sky. Does Nairobi ever have happy skies?
It was one of those evenings I felt I needed to do something out of the ordinary. So, I decided to show up at this five-star hotel that’s one of those considered out of reach. (Which thankfully, to the best of my knowledge, wasn’t built from corruption money). My inspo to go there that particular evening being to support a friend who had a gig. And maybe also the fact that I realised either I’m getting wealthier or the hotel was not as expensive as it is perceived to be.
Right there at that gig is where I met “her” through this friend who had the gig. She prefers not to go by her real name so we’ll call her Halima because that’s a common Coasterian name?
Here’s Halima.
***
“The greatest myth about marriage is that you cannot be happy alone.”
I’m not your ordinary 33-year old. I am unmarried and child-free. I should be devastated by my situation; msichana wa sura nzuri kama mimi, kitu gani kimefanya nisiolewe? Elimu ninayo ya kutosha, hata ng’ambo nilienda nikarudi. (It’s not made better by the fact that in my village girls become mothers when as young as 11).
I grew up in a relatively free family. I am not one of those who’d be beaten black and blue for having a boyfriend. Interestingly, I never cared to have one for most of my life as a minor. My theory is that militant parenting is counterproductive because the children I grew up with who had militant parents did the most venereal stuff ever seen under the universe.
As for me, I’d only have fleeting crushes. Crushes are only mind-blowing when you don’t know them too well. Once you get familiar with them you’re often disappointed. So, within months, maybe weeks, the crushes ended and I experienced post-crush clarity.
I continued with my fleeting crushes through high school. I thought dating in high school was setting one self up for disaster because one way or another it’d end in tears. I was more serious about it in campusb though – then I saw dust. That proper dust that has done press-ups.
Being led on then dropped like a hot potato; someone coming to you as a woman at 2 a.m. because this son of Adam had a whole family he never disclosed; noticing violent patterns and making a cold-turkey exit; meeting the chronic philanderers; or going for first-dates that go south and you know you’ll never meet again. Then lady luck smiled upon me.
I met this person who in every way felt like a poem the universe wrote to keep me alive. Nothing about him was imperfect. Nothing at all. But as I said, sooner rather than later, crushes disappoint you.
He had a serious drinking problem which I couldn’t handle. The kind that would have me receiving calls severally to go pick him at dingy bars in the wee hours of the morning. I’m a first born daughter and I have two younger siblings to whom I am a Deputy Parent. I couldn’t afford to take in another baby. When this drinking spree shenanigans happened a fifth time, I took him to his parents’ home and that was the last any of them heard from me.
Several years later when I thought I had healed enough to want to test the waters again, I gave love another chance. Or did I? Maybe I met someone who made me think they were worth risking it all for. When we were young, we’d play this game where you let yourself do a free fall and your friends hold you just when you’re about to fall. It needed a very high level of trust to take that risk. I felt that safety with him. Things were looking up and we were to do the intros and all; then he got a Damascus moment.
Most relationships that end in tears usually come to a grinding halt. You see the signs from afar. This one didn’t. One morning he just changed; and a few days later he called it quits. Maybe he found a girl with bigger nyash, lol.
That relationship was monumental. It had been so perfect that the ending was unbelievable. For days I thought it was a bad dream I’d wake up from. But as hearing his voice became a distant memory, the reality sank. That reality pierced me too. I grieved it for years. How could he have done that? Just left for no reason? We never fought, not once. We always spoke candidly to each other, so what was this that made him think I wasn’t good enough for him?
But apart from the hurt, that relationship changed my mindset. It changed my perception about relationships. The idea that society creates that marriage is this big thing that’s a must-do. I began to question it. Is it really? Is there even anything like your ‘special person’? Because to me, what it seemed like was that you’re always going to experience dust one way or another; and it’s upon you to pick your preferred flavour of dust.
It also changed how I feel about those stereotypes around marriage. How society makes women think that their marriageability (I made up the term, flow with it) is a price. That if they’re not married [by a certain age] something is wrong with them which is why no man considers them worthy of having their ring. That if they’re not married, none of the things they’ve accomplished in life means anything – that’s why Kabaka Daudi sat down to compose and record a song to ridicule an accomplished woman simply because she hadn’t had any nuptials.
I dislike the term ‘divorcee’ or ‘divorced woman’. I prefer the term ‘woman who has gone through divorce’. I realised that at times, that woman who has gone through divorce isn’t the problem, she just knows her worth. So she refused to tolerate being battered, or got tired of going to other women ‘as a woman’ and has chosen peace over partner.
I discovered that that woman who has chosen to remain unmarried probably refuses to listen to stories like ‘all men cheat’ and would rather be alone than keep going to buy candid-b, blaming it on ‘the toilet’ when the toilet shares sheets with her.
I’m turning 34 in a few weeks’ time and I am happy with where I am in life. People think I should have a ring on my fourth finger; but I’m content with the four rings I have on my bonnet and trunk.
Occasionally I get asked about it, mostly by some distant relative. Mostly by a relative who is a single parent or who has a marriage I wouldn’t even admire an eighth of.
“When will you get married?” they ask.
“When your husband stops cheating!” I reply. Mentally. Thank God my frontal cortex is functional and allows me to control some of those intrusive thoughts. But who knows, one day I might let it flow.
Misery loves company. The ones with horrible marriages are the ones who push you into marriage the most. I think the freedom single women have reminds them of their miserable lives and they want to see everyone miserable so that they feel like their endurance was worth it. I read my parents the riot act so they don’t ask.
When I get the question, I either digress humorously or ignore it altogether. At times I’m also told if I can’t get a husband, I should at least get a child – a theory I find selfish because why traumatise a child with all those daddy issues? And, those who ask such questions, why don’t they get married themselves? Or be content with their marriage? Or bear the children themselves? They have their own genitals, no?
I also find it interesting why they never keep asking married people why they married. Or who pressures them to die just because their age mates are dying?☠️
Do I think about marriage myself? At times I do. Those random moments when I ask myself, “Will I ever get married?” My mother got married at 25. When she was my age, she was raising 3 children. But when I look at my life from 25 to date, I don’t see anyone I’d have had a future with.
Am I scared that I’m not married? Definitely not. I’m more scared of poverty or being under someone’s mercy than I am of being unmarried. I look at some of the things my married friends go through: chronic cheating tops the list, looking for someone’s socks, having to think of what to feed him every damn day, losing your social life because he doesn’t want you going for parties, or being unable to visit your parents as often and for as long as you’d wish, and there’s the sporadic black eye. I’m not sure that’s a life I’d want for myself.
I am optimistic that happy marriages exist but they seem few and far between. I’m happy for everyone who’s chosen that part though. I hope it’s everything they hoped for, and if it isn’t, I hope they weather through. As for me, I will marry if and when I want.
Wakili Akili 
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