Sikiliza

26 January, 03:54 The date always sneaks up on me, bringing with it that familiar January range of emotions. It is a tough month. Between the being the birthday month of you and Swes, my heart often feels a little heavier, filled with a handful of mimories of the gift of having you both in my world—and then not. Today, Babs would have been turning 85. As I sit here trying to conjure up the right way to pay tribute to his life, his attention to detail, and his unending kindness, my mind keeps drifting back to something surprisingly simple: text messages. Specifically, two exchanges that I treasure as the final traces of his voice. The most recent one happened just days before he left us. He had asked me to run an errand for him in Nairobi, which I did happily. I didn't think twice about it, but two days later, my phone lit up. He sent me 500/- via M-Pesa. Accompanying it was a message thanking me for, as he put it, "ua trouble." I smiled then, and I smile now remembering i...

Dear Swes, I woke up last night calling out your name. Sweeeeeeeeees… The world knew you as Binya, but for me, you will always be my beloved big brother whom we nicknamed Sweswe—though to this day, I am not sure who started it or why. My childish voice traveled noisily everywhere seeking you. It was just the way we used to do it when we were kids—shouting to the rafters, like I was trying to reach you somewhere far off in that huge, expansive setup that was home in Naks growing up. I wanted my voice to meet you, to embrace you, and to shove you—in that specific way in which siblings love and irritate each other in one sweeping movement. Last evening, I spoke to an acquaintance who lost her brother in December 2022. She told me that she only managed to breathe calmly again in December 2025, when her friends and loved ones marked her birthday by spoiling her with love and gifts. I quietly told her: I can relate. There is nothing as horrible as losing a sibling. You miss them, you fiercel...

This past year, I realized that for most of my career, I was a master at building houses for everyone else while my own foundation was cracking. Stepping into independent consulting and jewelry making wasn't just a business decision; it was a desperate, beautiful act of self-preservation. I’ve spent 365 days unlearning the ‘hustle’ and relearning the rhythm of my own breath. I have had to confront the uncomfortable truth that I was often the first person to advocate for someone else’s rights and the last person to advocate for my own rest and wellbeing .      The rituals have been my anchors. When I smudge my laptop and phone, I am not just clearing ‘energy’;I am setting a boundary against the noise of the world. I am saying that my peace is not for sale.  Whether it’s the discipline of a gym session that honors my body’s strength or the simple joy of trying something new on a menu, I am finally learning to be present.  I am no longer running away from my past; ...

'I am a community leader. My phone is always ringing—it is always one crisis after another. My community expects me to have the answers, to be the solution. But when I have been depleted for far too long and running on empty... who can I call? My comrades are just as busy, and the community I serve cannot help me back. So I ask, who can help me?' This candid question, shared by a courageous activist during a recent session I was leading, hit the virtual room with profound silence. It is the unspoken reality for so many of us in social justice, advocacy, and community work. We are the healers, the fighters, the supporters. We give, and give, and give... until we have nothing left. One leader described it as 'giving out, out, out' until you are drowning. For decades, we have been told that burnout is a personal failure. That if we were just stronger, more organised, more passionate, more determined, more more more..then maybe we would not break. But a recent gathering of ...

  Some nights, the sky feels utterly starless, doesn't it? A heavy blanket of darkness where you lose the felt memory of the warmth of the sun or the gentle light of the moon. I have been walking through one of those starless nights lately, a season when my own heart is learning the clumsy dance of holding grief while composting old wounds that have scarred over and healed. It was in this quiet darkness that a gift arrived, not with a loud announcement, but like a steady, gentle flame. That gift is Faith Njahĩra Wangarĩ’s newly published ebook,  Love, Grief and Healing: Your companion through loss and discovery .  It is a bright torch, and its light is guiding the way home to myself. I am honoured and touched to know Faith, my fellow feminist sibling, and so it is a profound experience to receive the gift of her words and reflections. Her book is a generous, raw, honest, and profoundly moving account of her healing journey, which validates the path I am on to be more pres...