The Inbetweeners

 It's over. Hallelujah, it. is. OVER! I don't know what I'm more impressed by; my own consistency, the ingenuity it took to power this consistency or the lessons I learned throughout the experience.  Chief among them?  Getting out of my own way ; The other way you could put this is learning how to embrace imperfection. I do not like publishing something until I am 100% confident in it. Unfortunately, I am rarely that confident in my work because I recognise that my standards change as I grow into a topic, and become immersed in its complexity. As a result, this makes me hesitant to start something because I know it won't be good enough for me. As I began to write consistently, I adopted a "fuck it" attitude to get me past the hurdle of publication, or the finality of completion. At some point (around Day 17), I learned that it wasn't so much about saying "fuck it" as it was dispensing with the idea of finality. Things are only final when I say th...

I often wonder why we pluck flowers we find beautiful. Or why we take shells that captivate us from the beach. Although, in the moment, we don't think of it like this, upon reflection, I've come to realise that both of these actions remove the beautiful thing from its environment and, in the case of the former, it kills it. And yet, we take them anyway.  We are so enthralled by its' beauty, that we would kill it and prevent it from propagating, rather than leave it alone so that it can continue to live. We would rather take it for ourselves than leave it alone to bring joy to others. The more I interrogate this practice, the more I wonder why?  Why are we drawn to possess beautiful things? Or, at the very least, things that are aesthetically pleasing to us, even if they are not so to others. For its' one thing to be drawn to beauty. All of us, are drawn to gorgeous things, people, concepts and personalities. Is the beauty in the possession? Or is the beauty in the thin...

Over the weekend, I came across this article in The Daily Nation:  Why small families are bad for Kenya’s economy . And to quote Peter Griffin, it really ground my gears.  In the article, Peter Mburu explains that while Kenya's smaller family units and lower fertility rate may be beneficial for individual families and their needs, it does not serve the needs of the wider economy in the long run. An economy survives on a dynamic and young labour force to drive production and consumption. Without this force, economies, and the societies that power them, begin to struggle. As a result, a number of economists in Kenya are raising alarm bells at Kenya's declining fertility rates. In the last 33 years, the number of children women borne by Kenya has fallen by half; from around 7 to 3. Now, here's the thing. I don't necessarily disagree with Mburu . I merely disagree with the details.  First, small families can be bad for our economy if people are having less than our replacem...

As a kid, I loved Sundays. Sundays were a day of special food; specifically junk food. 6 out of 7 days of the week, if we (my brother and I) asked for junk food, my mum responded " rehe mbeca ?" or "do you have the money?"  Except for Sundays. On Sundays, she'd respond "I'll think about it."  Now this isn't a yes. It's barely even a maybe. What it is, is not no . And because she didn't say no, Sunday became the day we'd fixate on junk food. On this one day, we'd be able to make our food dreams come true. From pizzas and burgers in my younger years to a creamy alfredo or shawarma as I grew older.  I miss being that excited about food, or a meal. I miss truly revelling in the taste of delicious food. I miss not worrying about where that food "went" or not chiding myself for wanting this food in the first place. I miss, just, being able to enjoy a meal and not worrying about the consequences. But the more I think about it...

Before we get into the topic of the day, I can't believe I'm going to make it. It was touch and go there for a while. But holy shit, I can't believe I made it. 

There's something incredibly ironic about my quest to embrace more parts of myself. As I become more comfortable with my mind, accepting the many ways I have limited my potential and forgiving myself for this gross lack of faith, I have not extended this same level of acceptance to my body.  I will not, and so far have not, allowed my body to change – as bodies are wont to do. My actions affirm that I'd rather be hungry, and anxious but thin, than healthy and happy but slightly bigger. My actions affirm my deeply ingrained fatphobia and hatred of fatness more than my words could ever condemn them. They show me that while I am closer to understanding myself, I am no closer to loving who I am today than I was several years ago. They expose my fears and my willingness to succumb to the suffocating familiarity of those fears, rather than risk the possibility of more rejection.   What's funny is that this – the level of control I exercise over my body – is new. Upon reflection...

Although I am not a wrestling fan, there is one element of wrestling I appreciate. Kayfabe.   Kayfabe "is the accepted substitution of reality and willing suspension of disbelief that allows fans to buy into often fictionalized storylines, larger-than-life personalities and match results." Kayfabe turned wrestling from a sport, into entertainment and, as a result, maintaining the illusion is integral to the survival and operation of modern wrestling. But sustaining the artifice does not mean obscuring its' existence. Nor should we confuse a dogged commitment to the stories told (kayfabe) with a stringent belief in those stories. Instead, kayfabe is the act of storytelling; an act of co-creation led by wrestling professionals and powered by the wrestling fans who spread, respond to and, ultimately, sustain these stories. It is the storytelling that fans and professionals are dedicated to . The narratives of good vs evil and David v Goliath. Tales of succession and famil...

I spent an hour doing nothing yesterday, and it was weird. Except, I wasn't really doing "nothing." I suppose it is a bit unfair of me to characterise my activities as "nothing" simply because they were not economically or personally productive. But that's what it felt like. The time I, unintentionally, took for myself yesterday, I spent observing the world around me. I basked in the sun. I played with dogs. I looked for shapes in the cloud. I mean, at one point, I was, literally, smelling the roses. And this is weird . It's been years since I took the time to simply be in my environment. And even longer since I allowed myself to respond to and appreciate that environment.  This permission came because I know I have the time. But also because I've been conscious about rethinking my patterns and my life. I'm trying to be more deliberate about identifying and communicating my needs. As well as more intentional about my leisure time. The result is...

As I reflected on my yesterday, I became aware of my work habits. Now, each of my tasks yesterday demanded similar amounts of intellectual energy and attention. Therefore, I could not decide what to prioritise based on a sliding scale of easy to hard. Instead, I began with the tasks I liked. I figured, completing these items would whet my appetite enough to continue with my tasks.  It wasn't until the end of the day that I realised that, while the tasks I liked and the tasks I didn't were all basically the same things, I chose to begin the day with the work that didn't pay me. I chose  to start the day with work for which there is no deadline because it is my work. I chose to start the day by working for me.  I've NEVER DONE THIS BEFORE! First, for a person as money anxious as I am, I should have done the work that paid first. I should have given it my attention yesterday. I should feel guilty, and yet, I don't . I feel oddly at peace with the choices I made. Perhap...

Over the weekend, I attend a high school graduation. As I watched my, now, former students walk across the stage and receive their certificates, I was immediately shot back to my turn on that stage. Yet I could not empathise with the sense of satisfaction on their faces. Each time I graduated, I felt nothing . I was not satisfied. I was not overwhelmed with emotions or a sense of completion. Nor was I numb to the significance of the day nor the magnitude of this milestone. Still, the sense of accomplishment that ought  to follow these events was absent. And this absence was blinding on a day dedicated to celebrating my achievements.  Nearly 10 years on, when I look at my high school graduation, this is all I remember. That feeling of anticipation; waiting for the excitement and satisfaction to kick on. Only for it to never emerge. I went to bed the same person I was when I woke up. Not changed by my new status as an alumnus. Nor was I freed from the shackles of an institution ...

"Find happiness in the unique insanity of being here. Now. " -- Eleanor Shellstrop, The Good Place – Season 4

Honestly, some things are overrated and some things are perfectly evaluated. One of those things? Coca Cola.  Honestly, they perfected something incredible. Not so incredible that it overwrites or justifies the harm they have wrought producing it. But incredible still .  That's it.  That's all I've got.  It's been a bit of a long day, and I'm a tad drained so this is all my sleep-deprived brain could conjure up lol. We're doing our best 👉👈 See you tomorrow <3

As I reflect on my never-ending to-do list, it occurs to me that the reason I want to be wealthy is so that I can have someone else do it for me, while I reap the rewards. I know. I know. It's very off-brand  for me as a person who has, frequently, decried the expropriation of profit from the working class.  But my point of contention was never of this flow of resources. Because I recognise that I will always benefit from the labour of others. There are things I, simply, cannot do. I cannot grow my own food, or fetch my own water. I cannot make the phone I use to connect with the world, or the laptop I use to access this platform. I cannot sew the clothes that express who I am and who I wish to be. Nor can others do the things I am particularly good at. The problem is not that I benefit from the labour of others, and that others benefit from my labour. The problem is that, sometimes, neither of us are adequately compensated for our efforts. And because I cannot afford to adequ...

I am a Disney kid. I grew up on the Disney Renaissance (Hercules, Beauty and the Beast, The Little Mermaid), suffered through the lost years (Emperor's New Groove), and marvelled at the Disney Revival (Frozen, Inside Out, Wreck-It Ralph). It's not a stretch to say that if a Disney movie exists, I've watched it, memorised it, and carved its' music into the very strands of my DNA. And out of all my favourite Disney songs, nothing hits the feels quite like Frozen's In Summer. This song. THIS SONG! This is my happy song.  For the uninitiated into the Let it Go Movement (aka Frozen fans), In Summer is a song where a snowman (Olaf) expresses his desire to experience summer; having never experienced it before. Except, Olaf is utterly unaware that snow melts in the sun. He sings that he'd like to "find out what happens to solid water when it gets warm." In fact, there's a shot wherein Olaf sings "Winter's a good time to stay in and cuddle; But pu...

I never thought I'd say this. But here goes...  I think I like country music. *cue the gasp* I suppose I should explain why I never thought I'd like country music. Country music is inaccessible to me for two, diametrically opposed, reasons. First, because country is for white people, and second because country music is so Kikuyu it hurts.  Let me address the former, first. In my mind, country music is for white people. In fact, it is perhaps the whitest of all the genres because of its propensity to learn and borrow from traditionally black (African-American) mediums , while refusing to credit African Americans for this ingenuity. In this sense, it is Americana put to rhythm. Compare what happened to Lil Nas X and Old Town Road and songs by  Sam Hunt  or Florida Georgia Line . When Lil Nas X fused Hip Hop and Country, he was rejected by the entire country community. Despite the fact that his song hit many of the hallmarks of country music; from his use of the banj...

I rarely reflect on World War I. But, when I do, I am struck by how much of a clusterfuck it is. And I do not use this word lightly.  The start of WWI is a lesson in bad governance and the failure of foresight. Perhaps the ultimate manifestation of edging gone wrong. And I fear I may have taken the wrong lesson from it.  As I studied the systems of alliances, rapid militarisation, nationalism and imperial collapse that inspired the First World War, I remember being surprised. Not at how massive amounts of unearned confidence can fuck over entire nations. Nor was I surprised at witnessing the limits of a white man's ability to fail upwards (looking at you Imperial Russia). Instead, I remember being surprised at the military and political leaders who did not expect the hell their incompetence had spawned. While many of these men expected to fight a war, they were unprepared for the meatgrinders of Verdun, the Sommes and France.  Rather ironically, for men who had dedicated...

I often wonder what goes on in the minds of the people who have to set fuel prices.  What factors do they consider?  Are they all weighed equally, or is it rather Orwellian (in that some are more equal than others)? If so, which factors are given greater significance? Perhaps the political promises made by the incoming administration? Or the economic consequences of rising fuel prices? What about the interests of Oil Marketing Companies? Are they weighed equally against the concerns of the citizens? Those for whom fuel is absolutely necessary for living and, are, therefore, left to stomach a Ksh 40/L increase in the last 6 months. Without this information, it is easy to envision EPRA - Kenya's regulatory body tasked with setting fuel prices - as a villain in our story. The enemy of our collective progress, and one of the reasons why life has gotten harder and harder. In fact, EPRA has become the guarantor of life's future difficulties.  It doesn't help that EPRA, in an a...

To be, or not to be. That is the eternal question. Should I become a mother?  When I look at the world around me, the answer is no. No matter how much I yearn to be privileged with the care of another human being, I do not want to raise them in an environment that consistently limits their capacity for success. I do not want to raise them in a world that is dying and burden them with the responsibility of saving it – of being better. I do not want to raise them in a world that does not care about who they are, but what they can do.  Yes, there are a lot of 'I's in that paragraph. And yes , I recognise that parenting is not an, exclusively, maternal responsibility. Yet we live in a world where I will be held to greater account for my child's successes and failures than my partners. When this is coupled with my inability to indulge in the possibility of, truly, having a partner, I struggle to envision motherhood as something accessible for me . This is, even, before I conside...

I've often struggled with the idea that the world doesn't revolve around me.  I mean, I'm not a narcissist, but that idea has never made sense to me. If you are rich or famous, then the world does revolve around you. If you are a baby or a child, then the world revolves around you. But these states of being are hardly accessible to the majority of us. Instead, we get the world to revolve around us in a different way. Just by being ourselves.  Our lives – our experiences – limit our understanding of the world. In order to expand this understanding, we must be conscious about seeking new stories, histories and experiences that challenge, deconstruct or affirm our own. Without this external knowledge, then the world will feel like it exists for us; to service our every whim and exercise our every flaw.  This may explain why, in the absence of such knowledge, a particular group of people struggle to accept or acknowledge other peoples' worlds. They struggle to accept that...

What is music?  Can speech be music? How about silence? What about a single note? Not a melody; but a single note played for years. Is this music? These are the questions that permeate John Cage's compositions; specifically, Organ, As Slow As Possible (ASLSP). Played in the St Burchardi Church in Halberstadt Germany, Organ ASLSP will take 639 years to play. And it’s not because there’s so much going on, that it takes time and effort to realise it all. It’s because everything – every note, every key shift, every pause, takes years to play. YEARS !  The last time a note change occurred was in 2022. The time before that was in 2020. And the time before that was in 2013. When the next note is played, it isn’t just played for a brief count, and everyone moves on; the note keeps playing. Playing for every second, of every minute of every day, of every month, of every year until the next note is played. Right now, the note is a somewhat uplifting  G♯3 . In 9 months' time, ...

 Initially, I thought I'd explain my post yesterday.  "Embrace the Pandemonium"  But, instead, I thought I'd show you what that means by moving on to something entirely.  Pentecostal Churches. As a former Pentecostal, turned Baptist turned Agnostic, I have mixed feelings about Pentecostal churches.  On the one hand, a Pentecostal church deepened my relationship with God . The church's emphasis on engaging with God constantly, intentionally and dynamically helped me build a relationship with God that continues to this day; albeit in a different form. The idea that it is my responsibility to establish a personal relationship with God forced me to engage with her on my terms. It forced me to reevaluate how my relationships reinforce or distract from my faith and be intentional about the relationships I pursue. Also, Pentecostal churches were entertaining. It didn't feel like going to church. It felt like brunch with you and your 700 closest friends. On the othe...

 Embrace the Pandemonium

We have a rooster, that has evaded death more times than I can count. How, you may ask? It is not the most cunning of birds, nor is it the most brave. Instead, this rooster is ...  Gorgeous.   This is how the bird has evaded death, many, many, many  times. Seriously, this rooster is, literally, too pretty to eat . Any time, my family broached the topic of eating the poor bird, it stops as quickly as it began. We take one look at the thing, and we are struck by its beauty. This is weird because, after all, we are talking about a chicken. Not a puppy, or a kitten or even a cow. But a beautiful, oddly photogenic chicken.  Just. LOOK. AT. HIM .  We tried to eat him over Christmas, but his beauty confused us. We tried again in the New Year, but his brilliance astounded us.  We pretended to try over Easter, but instead, we brought him some friends (hens).  THIS ROOSTER IS SO CUTE! So cute that he has triggered my cuteness aggression response. So cute, that...

Across my platforms, I often struggle with releasing content consistently. I worry that if I am not consistent – if I am not constantly in your face – then I will be forgotten. Worse still, I will be replaced by someone who is consistent. And it is that fear of being replaced – of being irrelevant – that keeps me posting. Even when the work does not meet my standards. But I'm self-aware enough to know that something far deeper than my fear motivates me. Or rather something other than this particular  fear is to blame. I am motivated to release content consistently because it feels good . It feels good to labour over a podcast episode, an essay, or a column and see the finished piece come into being. I rarely experience satisfaction, and yet the moment I cross my last 't' and position the last period, I feel complete.  I feel ... whole .  For a brief moment, I am proud of myself and what I have been able to accomplish. As quickly as that feeling comes, does it vanish; and ...

As a friend and I waited for Guardians of the Galaxy Vol 3 to start, we had a discussion about representation in cinema. In particular, we discussed Disney's Live-Action remake of The Little Mermaid. While we both applaud Disney for doing the bare minimum, we think that they are going about it the wrong way. Rather than recasting black, or non-white, actors in roles previously filled by white actors, why not tell our stories instead? Therefore, instead of The Little Mermaid, perhaps Disney could draw inspiration from the Anansi of West Africa. Or the story of Wekatilili wa Menza's 800km trek from Northern Kenya to the Coast. Or better yet, the story of Empress Taytu of Ethiopia! At this point, my friend pointed out that major production houses would only focus on stories which were well-known. Hence the never-ending Cleopatra movies and the rise of stories about Queen Amina, Queen Nzinga, or the Dora Mijale . I conceded that he has a point. At that level of creation, art is not...

We' re all aware of line etiquette, right? The idea is that, while waiting in line, there are certain unspoken rules that we all follow. Chief among them?  NO CUTSIES!   While there are exceptions to this rule (like pregnant women, the elderly and children), it’s pretty constant. No cutting in line. Turns out there’s another exception to this rule, as I learned at my cousin's ruracio. Men get to skip the line. Multiple times, men were ferried to be front of the line by an usher. It happened to me, at least,  TWICE .  First of all... huh? Why was this happening? Yes, Kikuyu culture is patriarchal. But why should this mean that men get to eat first? Especially at a cultural rite of passage that, in my opinion, focuses more on the bride than on the groom. Although ruracios celebrate both the bride and groom, they are held at the bride’s house to negotiate dowry and terms of payment. This event is the first step a family takes in facilitating their daughter’s marriage ...