Sikiliza

May we be reminded  We neither relinquished  Nor gave away our power.  We have been powerful all along. Turn toward the looking glass And see reflections stare back  Some memorialised   Our ancestors in the making. In these transitions we witnessed Death and decay cycles  In the dark moon phase. Paving way for new beginnings. Fresh manifestations emerged  Signs that renewal is imminent  We are only now learning  To recognise her new face. She comes full. Wisdom knowledge regenerated, Returned and restored.  Poured generously into our lives. And so when the moment is right,  Energies revitalised, activated, claimed.  To enable you and I wield and harvest at will And contribute harmony to the outer world.

That night - 2.29 - mood inner and outer smile…. There is a tightness in my heart, yet freedom is slowly emerging in the casing of my chest.  It is past the new moon and, for the first time in so long, I am feeling free. Who am I kidding? Those compartments in my heart that come up to haunt me steal my joy, happiness, and inner peace… I cannot keep hosting the kidnapper of my happiness and peace. I cannot keep hiding and slinking in fear, trepidation, and living half-lives.  I will fight for my right to live and be in harmony with myself. I will remember and capture just how this freedom feels like to rid myself of the familiarities of bondage.  I am free of the needless ruminating and chasing of clouds and being at the edge and tense and unable to breathe… I long to experience a moment where I do not worry whether my breathing will come or go…. I look forward to the joy of being.  And no tightness control and force I have to wield endlessly….I ...

On being enough, Sikiliza, 2021. I had a regrettable experience where I politely listened to some warped perspectives of a self-righteous homophobe. I say regrettably because I work exceedingly hard in life to sidestep giving airtime to people who look down on others…be it based on their sexuality, gender expression, ethnic community, religion (or lack of) and whatnot.  From a young age, the idea of ‘othering’ people did not sound ok.  Many years back, I blogged about my time at Nakuru’s Flamingo Nursery school, where my teacher Mrs Raja detained me and a few other 4-year-olds from recess to forcibly convert us to be right-handed.  We had these tiny wooden chairs, and our left hands would be tied and restrained to the back of the chair, crayon and paper in front of us and sharp orders to write.  Mrs Raja stood around the table with her colleagues waiting…and to motivate the process, there was an ominous threat of a hard smack with that famous yellow wooden 12-inch ru...

  I recently visited a bookstore in Nairobi browsing away at their collection. I settled for two books.  One an anthology of African poetry, a blast from my high school literature past. The second, a newish publication of a ever popular genre of new age self-care stuff.  It occurred to me at the time that my past and the familiarity of stories retold were as potent and vivid to me as the novelty of present day narratives. Both co-exist in their entirety, whether in contradiction or in strings of continuation alike.  In my observation however, sitting comfortably with this co-existence is not as widespread as I previously imagined. It turns out some people  reject old as outdated, while others wary of newness. To elaborate my point, I want to symbolise our lives as tapestry. The motions, the ‘ins and outs’ of life much like weaving new threads with old…all touch, complicating, defining and creating an impression of the many facets that we are. This tapestry compr...

In Kenya the postal history can be traced to early years of the 17th century characterised by thw invasion and seizure of Mombasa by the Portuguese who then sent correspondence to the outside world from 1610 onwards, via ship to Arabia, India then overland in Europe. According to the Kenya Posta website , the earliest recorded letters from inland Kenya date around 1848. These were letters written by white missionaries and colonisers who would send native runners to the Coast for onward transmission of their missives bearing regaling tales of their exploitation and conquests back home.  Thankfully we are past those ridiculous times and the Kenyan post has been a lifeline for many wananchi.  I trace back my earliest memories of handwritten letters, postcards when I was 6 or 7 years old in the early 80’s. My mother received far in between handwritten letters from my grandfather in Uganda during the difficult times of civil unrest. Having left for Kenya in the early 60s for ...

  On a bitterly cold morning, I sit here, finding myself having to work unexpectedly on my day off… I feel drained and miserable, but part of me is silently reproaching myself for whining because I should be thankful to have a job to do when facing an economic crisis.   Either way, I am especially miserable today but working none the same.   Since the pandemic, everything has blended into a blur...day and night, weeks, months...time and work mean something different... it's a different flavour of living grabbing onto a sharper and jagged edge for survival.    Today I feel the burn and inflammation from those cuts of survival all over my mind and body as I wonder how long I must hold my breath to consider myself still living.   There is a burial today but not attending because of work. We lost an in-law relative to short-term illness... he turned for the worse really quickly and many are stunned by how things degenerated so fast. But nothing about life and d...

I do not know when and how it happened, but a part of me is standing at the shores of a wide ranging river. The rest of me left behind at the other side. The sense of loss is immense as we stare across into each other.  Trying to make sense of why am I here, and there, split and a mere reflection of myself I feel lost. I look down at the ground I stand on willing it to speak and give me some answers.  The earth’s stony silence back reverberates loudly. My sense of incompleteness is overwhelming. I feel like a hollow and broken version of myself. I lift my hands reading my open palms hoping to uncover some truths on my predicament. Nothing is forthcoming. I ponder for a moment if its answers or, the right questions that I seek. I remain unsure. I look up and back again to the other me and try to call out but no sound comes... I try once more and the words formed remain unspoken piling up at my throat...  Instinctively, I reach out to touch my neck, then face towards my lip...

  When voice found me it released words through my lips, we were both startled at the unfamiliarity..  I formed clear thoughts, ideas and expressions but they spewed out clumsily like baby-talk and banter.. But my thoughts kept at it and my words were not shackled by silence .... In time my thoughts, feelings & words were so devoted they fell into a magical rhythm... Where my living loving and giving were most vividly reflected in how I connected with the world... Sometimes that world is fast, rash & harsh   To protect my  bruised self I withdraw often... Words are the first to dissolve to thin air; then my thoughts feelings held captive in a thick mist... My spirit wanes and I forget my name & the powerful way through love & support I came to be.. Before I truly perish in the tyranny of my silence, a spark within urges me to look up to see the mist clearing... I start to see shapes & forms once again, blinking I try to locate...