WHEN LETTING GO TEACHES MORE THAN HOLDING ON

My heart is full today.

Last year, when I took my son to boarding school, I walked away feeling brave on the outside and completely shattered on the inside. It was one of those parenting decisions that look very wise on paper but feel absolutely cruel in real life.

In his former school, my son was thriving. He was always among the top five in class. Mathematics was his kingdom, and he ruled it confidently. Teachers praised him for being the smartest and the tidiest boy in class.

Of course, I must confess — that “tidiness” came with a lot of behind-the-scenes support. At home, we had a wonderful nanny who handled nearly everything. She washed his clothes (yes, even the tiny boxers), ironed them neatly, dressed him for school, polished his shoes, and made sure he looked like a young gentleman every morning.

Meanwhile, I handled the academic department. Every evening we revised together. When work or travel took me away, I would assign him topics to read and questions to attempt. Upon my return, we would sit down and go through everything.

It was our little academic ritual.

So naturally, when he joined the new boarding school, I assumed he would continue shining.

Well… reality had other plans.

In his new school, there was no mommy. No nanny. No evening revision sessions. No one hovering over him with questions like: “Have you revised? Have you covered that topic? Show me your working.”

The result?

My top-five mathematician started bringing home results that nearly gave me heart palpitations. In fact, “bringing home results” is a generous way of putting it — because the results mostly brought me down.

He was suddenly performing poorly. At every academic clinic, I would sit there listening to teachers explain how he was struggling academically and, to make matters worse, how he was constantly untidy.

Untidy!

My son? The former champion of neatness?

Parenting will humble you very quickly.

I remember leaving those meetings feeling completely defeated. I questioned myself constantly. Had I made the wrong decision? Had I pushed him too early into independence? Was boarding school too harsh?

Whenever I asked him why his performance had dropped, he would answer very honestly:

"Because you are not there to help me revise."

That sentence alone could crush a mother.

I felt guilty. I felt sad. I felt tempted — very tempted — to pull him out and run back to the comfort of our old routine.

But I made a difficult decision: there would be no going back.

I tightened my chest, swallowed the guilt, and told myself that growth is rarely comfortable. Sometimes children must stumble a little before they learn how to stand firmly on their own.

Fast forward to today.

I went for his academic clinic again — this time preparing my heart for the usual bad news.

But instead, I was pleasantly surprised.

The boy has changed.

He is now neat and organized. In fact, he has even stopped taking his clothes to the matron for washing. Apparently, the young man now washes and irons his own clothes. He polishes his own shoes. His teachers no longer complain about untidiness.

Ladies and gentlemen, independence has entered the building.

And academically? The improvement is remarkable.

But the moment that truly melted my heart came when his teacher asked him what he wants to become in the future.

His answer?

"I want to be a lawyer like my mom."

At that moment, I forgot every sleepless night, every stressful academic clinic, and every moment of doubt.

Because nothing compares to the realization that your child sees you as their role model.

To make matters even sweeter, I was told that he is now the second-best chess player in the school.

This one made me laugh.

I remember teaching him how to play chess about four years ago. At the time, he looked about as interested as someone forced to attend a three-hour lecture on the history of paint drying. I honestly thought the lesson had completely gone to waste.

Apparently, it did not.

Children are mysterious creatures. They quietly absorb far more than we think.

As I drove back home today, one thought kept repeating itself in my mind:

Perhaps my son did not fall behind.

Perhaps he was simply learning how to stand on his own feet.

And judging by the young man he is slowly becoming — washing his own clothes, polishing his own shoes, conquering chess boards, and dreaming of becoming a lawyer — I would say the lesson is working beautifully.

Parenting truly is a strange journey.

Sometimes the hardest decisions produce the most beautiful results.

Today, I am simply a proud mommy. ❤️

ECHOES OF YOU

 Some days I wake, the sun is bright,

The world feels easy, my heart feels light.

Other days, the shadows fall,

And I feel your absence echo through it all.

I miss your laugh, your careless smile,

The way you made the quiet worth the while.

The touch, the look, the way you knew,

How to make the ordinary feel brand new.

I cry sometimes, and that is okay,

For tears are words the heart can’t say.

Yet in the ache, I start to see,

The love I gave was strong, and free.

I let the waves pull, then let them go,

I dance in the sun, I walk in the snow.

Though part of me still longs for you,

Another part grows brave and true.

I remember the warmth, I remember the fire,

I remember the longing, the secret desire.

Yet I am more than the space you leave,

More than the nights my heart may grieve.

I am the storm, I am the shore,

I am the queen, who cries no more

For losing you is sharp, but true,

Even in longing, I rise anew.

The Courage of a Lion: Why Edwin Sifuna Deserves Our Admiration

In the turbulent aftermath of the
2025 political realignments in Kenya, one figure has stood out not for convenience or popularity, but for unwavering principle and boldness — Edwin Sifuna. Amidst the shock of losing Raila Odinga in October 2025, Kenya’s political landscape was thrown into uncertainty. Raila’s sudden passing at age 80 in Kerala, India, left a void not only in leadership but in direction for the opposition movement he had long led. 

Following that loss, the Orange Democratic Movement (ODM) faced intense internal pressure and confusion about its identity and direction. Some leaders argued for remaining aligned with the government; others insisted on a more traditional oppositional stance. Into this fractious environment stepped Sifuna — not with empty rhetoric, but with firm conviction.

From the outset, Sifuna made it clear he would not abandon principle for political expediency. He openly opposed alliances that he felt diluted ODM’s identity and betrayed the legacy of Raila Odinga. He insisted that the party should field its own candidate for the 2027 presidency rather than cede its autonomy in a broad-based government framework. 

Such courage did not come without cost. The

ODM National Executive Committee controversially attempted to remove him as Secretary General, accusing him of indiscipline and violations of party protocol — a move that sparked national debate and division within the party. 

But Sifuna did not retreat. He challenged the ouster, taking his case to the Political Parties Disputes Tribunal, which temporarily halted the removal and granted him legal reprieve, underscoring his determination to stand by his principles. 

Even as political pressure mounted, Sifuna maintained his stance publicly, rejecting calls for his resignation simply because he dared to speak truth to power and remain loyal to the foundational ideals of his party. 

His critics may label his position as defiance — but history will remember it as courage. In an age when many choose comfort over conviction, Sifuna has chosen courage. He has stood for accountability, for clarity of purpose, and for loyalty to the ideals that defined ODM’s struggle.

Whether one agrees with his political positions or not, one cannot deny the bravery of a leader willing to endure personal and political risk for what he believes is right. Kenya’s democratic evolution is strengthened not by silent followers, but by bold voices who insist on principle before popularity — and Edwin Sifuna is undeniably one of them.

STILL, I WISH YOU WELL

 Today, the world celebrates you.

Candles will flicker, glasses will rise,

messages will pour in loud and bright —
but mine will stay here,
quiet ink on a quiet page.

Once, I had plans for this day.
I had imagined laughter spilling into midnight,
my hands wrapped around yours,
a whispered wish against your chest
before the candles burned out.

I had imagined being there.
Instead, I am here —
learning how to love from a distance,
learning how to hold memories
without letting them hold me hostage.

For a few months,
you were my favorite place to rest.
Your chest felt like home.
Your voice at 2 a.m. felt like safety.
The way we folded into each other
made the world quieter, softer, kinder.
What we had was not imaginary.
It was not small.
It was not nothing.
It was real enough to leave an echo.
And echoes are strange —
they linger long after the sound has stopped.

They visit in ordinary moments:
a song, a late night,
a silence that feels too familiar.
But here is what I have learned:
Love does not disappear overnight.
It thins out.
It softens.
It becomes less of a wound
and more of a memory.
Every day it hurts a little less.
One day passes, then another…
until one morning you wake up
and realize you made it through an entire day
without thinking of him at all.
I am not fully there yet —
but I am on my way.

Today is your birthday.
And I will not pretend it is just another day.
You mattered.
You still matter.
But not in the way you once did.
I no longer wait for your name to light up my screen.
I no longer measure my worth by your attention.
I no longer confuse longing with destiny.
What we shared taught me something sacred:
that I can love deeply,
that I can open fully,
that my heart is capable of warmth
without fear.
And that is something I keep.

So wherever you are today —
may your steps be steady.
May your ambitions meet opportunity.
May laughter find you easily.
May the year ahead be kind.
This is not a plea.
Not a door left half-open.
Not a hope disguised as poetry.
It is simply a quiet acknowledgment
of a chapter that existed
and a woman who survived it.

Happy birthday Vasq.
From a heart
that once loved you fiercely.

THE MEMORY OF YOUR TOUCH

 I miss you in the quiet hours Mon Beau,

when the night stretches long

and my body remembers

what my hands cannot hold.

I miss your touch My King —

the way it spoke without words,

the way my breath forgot its rhythm

every time you pulled me closer.

That last night still lingers on my skin,

a warmth I haven’t washed away,

a memory that returns

whenever I close my eyes.

I miss the hunger,

the fire we didn’t try to tame,

the way desire felt honest

and beautifully reckless.

And more than anything Mon Roi,

I can’t wait to see you again —

to feel that spark,

to fall into you

like no time has passed at all.

Until then B,

I carry you in my thoughts…

and in the ache

that only you know how to calm My Handsome. 

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 = alcohol 🍶

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.