The Inbetweeners

I began writing this post as a way to kill time; roughly an hour before my next meeting. And I wish I could say that, by this sentence, I was struck by divine revelation. That, by now, I would have plucked a topic out of my tortured mind, the same way American "enhanced interrogators" provide free dental care. But, alas. The mind is blank, and so is this page.  To be honest, I'm not sure which I'm more frustrated at; that I have nothing to say? Or that, because  I have nothing to say, I have only been able to kill a mere 2 minutes of my 60 min downtime. I would argue the latter, given my thoughts on performative productivity and the feeling that laziness is to be dismissed. But, I believe it's the former. I have nothing to say, not because my mind is blank, but because it is too full. I can't pick a single thing to focus on and those that speak to me are far too personal for this medium.  So here I am. Staring at a blank page. Praying that words will fall upon...

I’ve been journaling, in an attempt to respond to my emotions, not merely react to them, and yesterday something weird happened. As I wrote down my prompt for the week - What do you love most about yourself? - I felt anxiety trickle down my spine. I didn’t understand why seven words could trigger fear and apprehension. But as I began to reflect on the question, my response justified itself. I could not think of a single thing I loved about myself. And in my silence, the question stared back at me in silent condemnation and, perhaps more unnervingly, gentle concern.  How could I, a 26-year-old, not know what I love most about myself?  Why could I only cite traits, memories and ambitions that my friends and loved ones loved about me?  Have I really spent that long shitting on myself, that I survive on external validation?  Good GOD, what would happen if that validation were to vanish? If I were to live life in a way those around me deemed unworthy, risky or, otherwise,...

 So I have a dirty little secret; I read Harlequinn Romance novels.  It started when I was 16 and, literally, stumbled upon them in the supermarket. 10 years later, I can hardly say that I stumble upon them anymore. I actively seek them out, looking for a variety of romance novels with different protagonists, inciting incidents (beyond the usual Pregnancy, forced Marriage Contract, Arranged Marriage as part of a Business Merger or classic Revenge), and premises. My favourite, so far, has been After the Billionaire's Wedding Vows by Lucy Monroe where Monroe explores what happens after love, marriage and the baby carriage. But I always wondered why I was drawn to these kinds of novels. Is it because the storytelling is formulaic; hitting the same narrative beats every time? This consistency is why I like, and obsessively rewatch, sitcoms. The formulaic structure of a sitcom allows me to dip in and out of the story while still knowing what's going on overall. Likewise, the formu...

In an attempt to justify, and perhaps excuse, the next 24 hours of non-productivity, I have decided to write a post. Almost in a stream-of-consciousness way. But instead of examining why I feel the need to earn relaxation, today I'm not entirely sure what I want to talk about. I could talk about pride, and how it holds us back. Pride makes us unwilling to ask for help, or admit mistakes. But, I don't want to.  I could talk about how we are the enemies of our own progress.  At some point in the last couple of days, I realised I am not the child I was. As a child, I was fearless. Not because I didn't understand failure, or hurt or pain. But because I decided life was worth living in spite of them. Yet, at some point, I lost this understanding of life and became a coward. At some point, I let someone tell me that life isn't worth the pain. Or perhaps that pain isn't worth life. And the result is present-day me: a woman who will never have it all because she is too ter...

Gosh. I really didn't think I'd be writing about this right now. Mainly because I thought we had more time. More time to live. More years to experience. Many more decades to make mistakes. Turns out, we only have 7 years . 2556.75 days before we cross the point of no return, and the damage we have done to our planet is irreversible. Just over 61,000 hours to accept the responsibility past generations have negligently left on our laps. 7 years. And given the current state of the world, I really wish I could believe we could forestall the inevitable. But I don't. We could barely get on the same page about a pandemic; a moment in human history when we knew what was expected of us. What hope do we have on getting on the same page about climate change, and what it takes to solve it? Especially when, perhaps, the most effective solution demands a complete disruption of our capitalistic society and its' drive for short-term profits over long-term sustainability. What hope do w...

Hello!  Guess who's back? ME! I've had a bit of a busy October; filled with emotional highs, nights I, literally, can't remember and depressing lows. There was one day when I experienced all three (which was great ). In that time, I wish I could say I gained insight or appreciation into my life; at least not the kind of insight I'm willing to immortalise on the public internet. Nor is it the kind of insight that is particularly new, novel or groundbreaking.  If anything, what I learned was the value of time and a break is just the space to think and figure things out. Not everyone has the privilege of this break; of knowing that they can afford to reflect, without it impacting their ability to pay bills or their ability to cope with the world. I barely afforded myself this privilege in October because it was forced upon me when I snapped. Even in that state of pure exhaustion, I did not have the time to think. I merely focused on recovering to the point of economic prod...

There used to be a path near Village Market in Nairobi. This path was adorned with acacia thorns, unseemly rocks and random spots of green grass. It was ugly, and a bother to look at. But it was full of life. Every time you passed, you'd see boda boda drivers catching a break before their next ride. You'd see small kiosk vendors conducting business with passersby, arming them with weapons for the day's battles; the odd cigarette, the random biscuit or the necessary energy drink. You'd witness groups of people, coming together to eat and discuss the events of the day. It was life, and it was messy. Emphasis on 'was.'  That little slice of life is gone. Literally paved over after the management of Village Market rehabilitated the rocky path with grey cabro, tendered to the garden and erected a barbed wire around it. What used to be a colourful slice of human interaction and community is now bland and lifeless; perfectly manicured and just a little less accessible...