If I were a girl, I am sure I would be alone. I would not mind it. I would have friends, and perhaps a boyfriend or a husband, but I would still be alone. I would prefer to be lonely but with people around. That way, I would be like a linesman on a soccer … Continue reading If I were a Girl
I have done this Moments series for five years now. There was moments 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017 and now 2018. Some of them I think I was a teenager not even sure what I was doing here. I borrowed the idea from bikozulu, scratch that, I snatched it away from him like an armed robber … Continue reading Moments 2018
The message came late on Friday night. It was extreme in brevity, inconsistent and rushed, like a shopping list mother would write down before dashing to the market. The message read… I relate to your stories but I do not know in what way. I saved this on a notepad. Ask me for a … Continue reading Zero to a Hundred
It is a huge table under a gazebo behind a tall building. A silent, calm and serene atmosphere. We are having lunch and everything is so peaceful apart from occasional bursts from Kamotho about discipline. “When I ask a question, I expect an answer. I like responses just like you do because we are … Continue reading Who is your Family?
For the first time, last week on Monday, I felt a thrill similar to that of my first kiss. He could argue that it was the second but well, that one was on my eighteenth birthday and it is a story I am told. My first kiss was a sober one. I remember feeling so … Continue reading Coffee Shops by Mukiri Gitiri
It has now been two weeks since I hang my coat and quit my job to become a full-time writer. I will not lie, some nights I lay awake staring at the ceiling wondering whether I made the right decision. Some mornings, I have had a difficult time affording a smile but I have pushed … Continue reading Coffee Runs Out
Living in Nairobi is not an easy task. Surviving is not difficult, but then, surviving is not the same as living. The other day I was just minding my own business, reporting to work, my first job, for the first day, then all over sudden, I found myself in a police cell. Mind you, it … Continue reading Cuffs of Stupidity.
I am sure you have previously heard stories from grown-up women like me speaking about rape. Mostly we lie. Make it sound like we fell on our backs and our knees trembled in fear the second it happened. Nobody ever speaks about the fight we put up before these marauders let themselves unceremoniously into our thighs. Truth is I remember being scared stiff barely able to hear my voice above the sound of my heartbeat. Mostly I remember the aftermath of the whole unpleasant ordeal, my heart contracting with indefinable fear, and I lay there motionless, looking at everything but nothing. I remember hiding in my bed with my head deep under the sheets, and it was then that I heard her speak in an interview on the television. That voice, assertive and sure taking my fear, unit at a time and turning it into a fighting spirit. She was a rape victim and had survived the worst. She was a prominent American figure, and she spoke so fiercely, and for the first time, I shed tears, not in weakness or in memory of his spiteful breath panting on and on at the nape of my neck. They were tears of jubilation, tears of conviction that made the memories fade, tears of strength. I now knew that I did not have to hide, I now knew that a rape victim could speak out and have people listen to her.