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...