The Inbetweeners

As a note, I wrote this as a stream-of-consciousness post. So the structure and the points may be all over the place. To paraphrase The Fresh Prince , "I'm a little confused, but I got the spirit. " So I watched Barbie – bc ofc I did, it's Barbie! Did you think I was going to miss an opportunity to be the most feminine version of myself?! pshaaaaw – And I have mixed feelings. Because I can't tell if Barbie promotes a  brand of feminism is as plastic as the doll that inspired the movie. Or if the film is a direct criticism of that brand of feminism.  Part of me struggles to believe it is the former because it flies in the face of the  very first lesson that Barbie learns; that representations of matriarchial power and female competence and ambition do not automatically translate to the existence of and the embrace of these things by the wider world. And that there are wider forces at play that prevent the vision that Barbie represented from coming to fruition. ...

The Kenyan Government has been cracking down on opposition rhetoric lately. In so doing, bringing the consequences of speech into sharp relief.  Understand, that I am used to being able to say whatever I want, whenever I want, within reason. The idea that I could be targeted for criticising the government, while not unfathomable, is still new to me because that is not the Kenya I grew up in. I grew up in the Kenya that bullied our President off Twitter; the Kenya that satirized the President in political cartoons, op-eds and comedy shows; the Kenya that embraced social media as a way to organise and amplify popular dissent, while allowing some semblance of anonymity. But I suppose this Kenya merely masked another. And I was willing to overlook it because Kenyans on Twitter was an effective funnel for public vitriol and frustration. Bullying a President off Twitter did not stop him from co-opting and, effectively silencing, the opposition. It did not stop him from using the powers o...

In university, when I made it known that I was Kenyan, I always caveated my identity by saying that I was the "one Kenyan who does not run." Outside of my country's reputation, running never aligned with my spirit or idea of fitness. And, as a result, I used to declare that "I would rather be eaten alive than have to run away from danger." Therefore, the fact that I consistently ran for 76 minutes is a fucking marvel. The fact that I ran for a full 10km is a damn delight. And the fact that I chose to do this, and trained for it ... a fucking testament. For the first time, in a long time, I feel proud of myself. It feels as if I have taken a step in the right direction; a step towards the person I can be.  And no, I don't mean a runner (although this, and a half marathon, is on the list). I mean a person with the self-confidence to realise her potential. A woman with the courage to try something new and fully submit herself to the humility of being a beginner...

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...

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...

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 ...

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 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, ...

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 ...

I don’t know when Friday became my favourite day of the week. Even though my weekends are rarely remarkable, I still look forward to Friday. To me, it’s the day equivalent of the moment before you jump off a diving board. Or the second before you say yes to that date. A moment, removed from time, caught in the nexus between what was and what will be. Brimming with the potential of what could be. Pretty cool huh?   I think it’s the same reason I’ve always preferred the act of getting ready to go out, to the act of going out itself. with the latte, it’s kind of set in stone. Once something happens, you can’t change it. You can only accept it and find a way to move on. Which sucks. And is deceptively tricky. But before that thing happens, you experience the wonder of endless possibilities.  One of those possibilities might entice you to be something different.  Others may convince you to stay the path.   I hope this weekend you pick the opportunities that spake joy and ...