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Armored Heart on the Threshold of Roses

It is past midnight and February 14th is already here, whether I invited it or not. Nairobi is doing its quiet thing. A matatu somewhere far off. A dog. I am at my desk, technically still working. I asked for some clarifications from a client around midnight and I sent them. Now I am just sitting in the space between a task that is done and sleep I have not committed to yet. So, I do what I…

Armored Heart on the Threshold of Roses

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A Small Gift From the Internet

I was scrolling through social media without thinking. The feed offered the usual mixture of noise, arguments, and headlines that only left me restless. I was anxious but I kept going as if the next post might finally give me what I was looking for. That is when a video stopped me. Faith Kipyegon was on the track, running with the calm strength she is known for. Just behind her was Dorcas…

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If Grief Could Think Aloud: Makena’s Story

They keep touching my shoulder. Soft pats that land like questions I cannot answer. Mrs. Njeri whispers something about God’s plan. The pastor’s wife holds my hand and quotes Ecclesiastes about seasons. I nod. I thank them. I let them think their words are medicine. But they do not know what they are trying to heal. Yes, we were lovers. The kind that made people roll their eyes and older women…

If Grief Could Think Aloud: Makena’s Story

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The Birth of a Moment

Campus has a way of teaching you things you didn’t sign up for. See, back then I was coasting on platonic friendships with girls because I had no real game. Desire was there, but my confidence was still finding its shoes. So I clung to the safety of being the “friend.” It gave me praise, attention, a seat at the table. It was enough. Or at least I convinced myself it was. That is how I found…

The Birth of a Moment

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Outnumbered: Winter’s Son

Every man carries a season inside him. For some, it is the recklessness and consuming nature of summer and its sun. For others, it is the gentle cycle of beginnings found in the ease of spring. But for him, it is winter, the closest companion. Winter comes often, stripping him bare, and each time he is forced to gather himself again from the ash of his own undoings. He has loved before, loved…

Outnumbered: Winter’s Son

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The Last Time I Talk About My Grandmother’s Fire (Probably)

At this point, you might be tired of hearing about my grandmother’s kitchen fire. This will be the last time. Probably. In this post, I want to talk about the matchboxes. They are small, cheap, and often completely unreliable. You can buy three and still not find one when you need it. When you do find one, half the sticks snap or refuse to light. Yet, despite this history of disappointment,…

The Last Time I Talk About My Grandmother’s Fire (Probably)

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Yours Untenable

Dear You, I see you walking through the same ending we shared, yet you stand like a building that has not even lost a window. Your days seem to hold their shape. You laugh in the right places. You sleep without turning over until morning. You wake with the same steady rhythm you always had. Meanwhile, my body has turned against me. My chest feels heavy in the morning, as if my lungs have…

Yours Untenable

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When the Rain Comes From Above and Below

In my previous post, I told a story where my grandmother kept a kitchen fire alive for more than forty years. She did it through care, habit, and the only interruption came during the El Niño rains. El Niño brought heavy rainfall in sheets from the sky while moisture rose invisibly from the ground. The weather attacked from above and below until what seemed safe and sealed began to soften, sink,…

When the Rain Comes From Above and Below

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Could My Grandmother’s Kitchen Fire Outlast Your New Year’s Resolution?

I might tell this story as a lesson in discipline. I might tell it as a study in patience. I might tell it as an example of how small and repeated actions often last longer than grand efforts. I might even tell it as proof that tradition is a way of carrying memory. However, in the end, this is the story of my grandmother and her kitchen fire, which she has kept burning for decades. So, to begin…

Could My Grandmother’s Kitchen Fire Outlast Your New Year’s Resolution?

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HopeCity

HopeCity is a name we use among friends as a quiet agreement we formed when we moved into that quiet corner on the edge of Nairobi. The name came from a rough translation of the area’s Kikuyu name, “Mwihoko”, and while others kept the original, HopeCity became part of our shared language. It marked a beginning for many of us. I arrived there shortly after leaving campus. At the time, I had…

HopeCity

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Sina (Sinner) Man

In Swahili, “Sina” simply means “I don’t have.” But around here, it grows heavier in the mouth. It starts with lack of money but over time, it becomes something deeper. It becomes a softer way of saying “Siwezi.” I cannot. I cannot show up. I cannot contribute. I cannot hold it together today. It becomes our way of saying we’re stretched thin. What begins as language becomes something heavier.…

Sina (Sinner) Man

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When Did You Learn to Smile Like That?

I have been staring at old photos. Versions of myself too small for memory but large enough to haunt. In almost all of them, before I grew into my teens, I do not smile. My face carries a darkness that does not beg for pity. It is heat without flame. Rage without aim. That was me. Just built from something smoldering. One of my cousins picked up on it early. He turned my silence into a stage. He…

When Did You Learn to Smile Like That?

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I Beg You to Stop!

Laughter at its peak feels like a glitch. It is as if your body cannot handle the truth of the moment. It is too raw, too precise, too perfectly timed for logic to process. So, it shuts down every other system and lets you collapse in a storm of laughter. The other day, I was playing pool with a friend. We are evenly matched, which means our games are usually a mix of strategy, lucky shots, and…

I Beg You to Stop!

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We End Where We Begin

The End That Honors the Beginning (The End is The Beginning) He runs his fingers through her hair slowly, like he’s flipping through pages of something they’ve written together.  She is curled between his legs now, her head resting against his chest, her fingers absently tracing his. Her body was here. Her mind, somewhere just behind her eyes. The night still. Familiar. Soft. He let the silence…

We End Where We Begin

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The Fire in Your Eyes

You feel wronged. I get it.You think people are out to get you. Talking behind your back. Doing things, you wouldn’t do to them. And maybe they are. But let me ask you something. Right now, while you’re sitting here angry at them… what if someone, somewhere, is angry at you? What if, in this very moment, you’re the villain in someone else’s story. We’ve all hurt people without meaning to. We’ve…

The Fire in Your Eyes

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Our Tower of Babel

I am not one to preach from the Bible. In fact, I often find myself pushing back against its moral rigidity, its contradictions, and the way people weaponize its words. But every now and then, I stumble upon a story in that old book that is so poetically spot-on, it stops me in my tracks. The Tower of Babel is one of those stories. And lately, I cannot help but see social media as its modern-day…

Our Tower of Babel

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Déjà You

I was skipping steps. Three at a time. My body moved with confidence I hadn’t earned that day. It felt like I’d done it before. I caught my reflection at the hallway mirror and for a second, I didn’t recognize myself. Not in a sad, existential way. More like bumping into an old version of me I didn’t realize I missed. I looked calm. Steady. For a moment, everything feels practiced. A Déjà You…

Déjà You