MGEMA AKISIFIWA TEMBO HULITIA MAJI

 So we’re just chilling with some friends from bara right here in my village, Ngao, Tana River County. Proper hangout vibes. Sun is shining, stories are flowing — then nature decides to join the conversation.

Someone spots a palm tree in the compound.

“What tree is that?” one asks.

My friend answers like a tour guide on salary:

“It’s a palm tree. Not the coconut one — mnazi. This one is called mkoma. It produces palm wine. Very common around here.”

Simple.

Clear.

Educational.

Or so we thought.

“Mnazi?” one asks again.

“No… not mnazi. Mkoma.”

“So you just go up the tree, pick a fruit, and it already has wine inside?”

At this point, I’m trying to respect the curiosity. I jump in:

“No, no. There are people who actually tap the wine.”

“How?” another asks.

And that’s where I hesitate. Because honestly? I know palm wine exists. I know it has humbled very strong men. But the engineering behind tapping it? Hapo sina copy.

Before I can recover, one of them suddenly says, very proudly:

“Have you never heard the saying mgema akisifiwa tembo hulitia maji?”

“Yes yes,” another agrees quickly, nodding hard — like nodding adds understanding.

Then comes the killer question.

“By the way… what is tembo?”

Silence.

Another one answers confidently:

“Tembo ni elephant.”

Now confusion enters the room fully dressed.

“So elephant anatiwa aje maji?”

Now we are in deep waters.

“Na by the way… anatiwa aje maji?” another one insists.

I collapse.

“PLEASE,” I say between laughter, “tembo hapo ni pombe. Alcohol. Not the animal.”

“Ooooooh.”

The relief.

The embarrassment.

The sudden Swahili awakening.

“Kumbe ulikuwa unatupanga!” one shouts, pointing dramatically at the person who said tembo ni elephant.

And that’s when it hit me: Kiswahili is actually a very dangerous language if you don’t understand context. One word, two meanings — and suddenly you’re imagining elephants being force-fed water because they were praised too much.

For the record:

Tembo = elephant 🐘

Tembo = traditional alcohol 🍶

Context = life or death

So no, mgema akisifiwa tembo hulitia maji is not about wildlife cruelty.

It simply means that when a brewer or seller of alcohol is praised too much, they get comfortable, proud, or greedy — and start diluting the drink with water, reducing its quality.

Honestly, I didn’t know Kiswahili could be this hard for watu wa bara.

So if you need Kiswahili lessons —

If proverbs confuse you —

If elephants keep appearing in your alcohol conversations —

Hire me.

Very affordable.

Only 1000 per hour.

Discounts available for repeat offenders 😌

So welcome to the Coast — the hub of Kiswahili.

And just to be clear for those taking notes: Tana River is part of the former Coast Province.

Yes, I hear it all the time:

“Kwani Tana River pia ni Coast? Na hamna beach?”

LOL.

Yes, it is part of the Coast.

Yes, we have a 71km coastal strip.

And yes — we also have palm wine. Mkoma. 🤪

Class dismissed. 👩🏽‍🏫✨

EVERY DAY IT HURTS A LITTLE LESS

 Every day, the weight softens—

not gone, just lighter.

The ache loosens its grip

without asking permission.

Days pass quietly,

one folding into the next,

until memory stops announcing itself

and becomes a whisper.

Then one ordinary day arrives—

no warning, no ceremony—

and you realize

you lived the whole day

without thinking of him.

And that’s how healing happens:

not loudly,

not all at once,

but in the silence

where pain used to live.

LONGING IN SILENCE

 I miss the shadow of your hand,

The echo of your voice across the land.

Yet I walk alone, steadfast and true,

For I know the path does not lead to you.

I ache for what we cannot reclaim,

A quiet flame with no one to name.

The heart remembers, the mind forbids,

A tender wound that never lids.

I reach for ghosts in the still of night,

Knowing well I must not ignite.

Longing lingers, soft and deep,

A secret I carry, mine to keep.

LOVE FOUND ME GENTLY

 

I walked out of a season

where love spoke in echoes

and promises learned how to bruise.

My tears became fluent—

especially at 3 a.m.,

when the world slept

and my heart refused to.

Those hours knew me well.

They heard my questions,

saw me fold into myself,

counting ceilings,

learning how lonely can sound.

I broke, yes—

but not the way ruins break.

I broke like soil

waiting for rain.

Then came a man

whose name means more than sound.

A name that carries order,

the quiet architecture of peace.

Not loud, not hurried—

but steady,

like wisdom that sits before it speaks.

He did not interrupt the pain.

He arrived after it.

Standing gently where the tears once fell,

turning 3 a.m. memories

into lessons that no longer bleed.

Now, when the clock returns to that hour,

it no longer scares me.

It reminds me

that I survived myself

and still learned how to smile again.

Happiness, I’ve learned,

doesn’t rush in.

It recognizes you

when you are ready to stop crying in the dark

and start breathing in the light.

And so I rise—

not because the night didn’t hurt,

but because morning stayed.

A LIFE FULL OF COLOUR

 

I have laughed in sunlit cities,

danced under skies that whispered adventure.

I have wandered streets both near and far,

collected memories like treasures,

and felt the thrill of landing somewhere new.

My passport knows my footsteps,

my heart remembers the rhythm of every place.

I have tasted the flavors of the world,

danced to music that carried me away,

and celebrated life simply for being alive.

I have friends who light up my days,

people who laugh until we can’t breathe,

who celebrate my victories and cheer on my dreams.

Their love is a gift, constant and bright.

I have a son—my little sunbeam,

whose laughter fills my mornings,

whose joy reminds me of life’s magic.

In his eyes, I see endless wonder

and a future made of love and possibility.

I have family, warm and ever-present,

whose voices are home, whose hugs are comfort.

Together, we share meals, stories, and laughter,

building moments that shine brighter than gold.

I have lived, traveled, celebrated, and loved.

I have embraced adventure, curiosity, and delight.

Every day is a canvas,

and my life is painted in vibrant colors.

I am grateful. I am alive.

And joy follows me everywhere I go.

THE ACHE THAT WAKES WITH ME

 

Every morning feels the same.

I wake up before my body is ready, before the world has decided what kind of day it will be. There is a brief, cruel second where I forget—where my mind is empty and light. And then it rushes back in.

The remembering.

It arrives before my feet touch the floor. A heaviness settles on my chest. My throat tightens. My heart begins to race, as though it has bad news to deliver and no gentle way to say it. My phone lies beside me—silent, unmoving. I still look at it, even though I already know. I always know.

Mornings hurt because night protected me.

Sleep gave me a few hours of mercy.

Morning takes it all back.

Each day begins with loss—again and again—as if the universe insists on reminding me that something ended without saying goodbye. I replay conversations that never happened. Explanations that never came. Apologies I will never hear. My mind searches for him the way the body searches for air after being held underwater.

There is a quiet panic in the morning—not loud, not dramatic—just a low dread that settles deep in the stomach. A feeling that something is wrong, profoundly wrong, and cannot be fixed today. Or tomorrow. Or maybe ever.

Mornings are cruel because hope wakes up before logic does.

For a moment, I expect him.

Then reality walks in.

And I grieve him again—not because he died, but because he chose silence. Because he vanished. Because I loved someone who did not stay long enough to end things properly.

So I get up anyway. I wash my face. I breathe through the ache. I carry the weight into the day, knowing it will ease a little by afternoon, only to return the next morning—faithful, persistent—teaching me the slow, unbearable rhythm of letting go.

Three weeks of mornings like this do not mean I am broken.

They mean I loved deeply.

And my heart is learning, painfully, how to wake up alone.

FACING DEATH

 

A few days ago, I visited an ailing patient who had been sick for a long time. Her body was frail, but it was her face that stayed with me. When the doctor gently explained that her illness had progressed to stage five and that she would now be placed under palliative care, something shifted in her eyes. It was not fear alone. It was understanding. A quiet, devastating awareness.

How does someone feel when they are told they are going to die?

I could not stop thinking about that moment. About what goes through the mind when hope, as we know it, is officially withdrawn—not because there is no care left, but because care has changed its meaning. From cure to comfort. From fighting to preparing.

That moment reminded me of my uncle.

He had also been sick for a long time. On his deathbed, he was surrounded by family—his sisters, his brothers, people who loved him deeply. The room was full, yet death was closer than any of us. He knew it. And in one of his final moments, he said something that has never left me:

"Kumbe when you are dying, even if you are surrounded by a thousand people, they cannot help prevent death."

There was sadness in his eyes when he said it.

Not panic—sadness. A kind of lonely clarity. And we, the living, were shattered. A few minutes later, he breathed his last.

Death has a way of stripping life down to its most honest truth: that it is deeply personal. You can be loved loudly, surrounded completely, yet the final journey is one you take alone.

Sometimes I find myself asking difficult questions. Is it better to die suddenly, without knowing? Or is it better to suffer, to be aware that death is approaching, to have time to make peace with it? To say goodbye properly? To reflect? To accept?

I don’t know the answer. I’m not sure there is one.

What I do know is this: life is incredibly delicate. Fragile in ways we often ignore. We plan as though we are guaranteed tomorrow, yet tomorrow is not promised to anyone. Not to the careful. Not to the reckless. Not to the young. Not to the old.

That reality should not make us fearful—it should make us intentional.

Live as though this life matters, because it does. Take care of your body. Protect your health. Listen when your body whispers so it doesn’t have to scream. Save for the future, yes—but also live in the present. Laugh. Love. Travel. Rest. Create memories. Forgive quickly. Say the things that matter while you still can.

Balance responsibility with joy.

So that when death eventually comes—as it must to all of us—it will not find a life unlived. And when people speak of you, they won’t just say that you existed, but that you lived.

Fully. Meaningfully. Honestly.