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.

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.

IF ONLY

 “If only…”

 Those two words paired together create one of the If only...” Those two words paired together create one of the saddest phrases in the English language. 

They are simple, almost harmless in isolation, but together they carry the full weight of regret, longing, and missed chances.

“If only” lives in hindsight. It is the quiet ache of opportunities not taken, words not spoken, and courage not summoned when it mattered most. It arrives after time has passed—when outcomes are already sealed and possibilities have narrowed. Unlike failure, which teaches and refines us, “if only” offers no lesson. Only unanswered questions and imagined endings.

What makes “if only” especially tragic is that it is rarely born of inability. More often, it is born of fear—fear of rejection, fear of failure, fear of judgment. Many dreams do not die because they were impossible; they die because they were postponed, doubted, or dismissed too early.

A life led by trying may collect a few scars, but a life led by “if only” collects regrets. And regret is heavier. It lingers longer. It reminds us that we never even gave ourselves a chance.

The antidote to “if only” is simple, though not easy: show up. Try. Take the step. Submit the application. Speak the truth. Walk through the door while it is still open. Even when things do not work out, you walk away with clarity instead of regret.

Because at the end of the day, it is far better to say, “At least I tried,” than to carry the quiet, lifelong sadness of “If only…”

DETOX

 He was my routine—

the way morning knew my name.

My dopamine drip,

measured in good-morning texts

and midnight breaths.

He was my safe place,

though the floor sometimes shifted.

My mirror—

I saw myself alive in his wanting,

brighter in his hands.

Now the silence feels like suffocation,

like lungs learning grief.

Oxytocin still lingers in the blood,

whispering return,

even when the mind knows better.

This is not love dying—

this is chemistry unlearning a home.

A body asking for a ghost

that once felt like oxygen.

I am detoxing from a powerful bond,

from touch remembered too well,

from pleasure that taught my nerves

to call him refuge.

Some days I breathe shallow.

Some mornings I ache without reason.

But breath is returning—

slow, unfamiliar, mine.

I am not broken.

I am withdrawing.

And withdrawal is proof

that something real once passed through me—

not that it must stay.

AFTER THE LEAVING

 There is a moment after love leaves

when the world does not collapse—

and that is the cruelest part.

The sun still rises.

People still laugh.

And you are left wondering

how something that broke you

didn’t break the day.

After a breakup,

the pain doesn’t shout at first.

It whispers.

It arrives in quiet hours,

in the pause between breaths,

in the reflex to reach for a phone

and remember there is no one

to reach.

You ask yourself the hardest questions:

Did I matter?

Was I easy to forget?

Why does my heart ache

while his seems untouched?

But grief is not proof of insignificance.

It is proof of depth.

Letting go is not a single decision.

It is waking up every day

and choosing not to reopen the wound

with memories that beg to be touched.

It is crying without an audience.

It is loving someone

even when loving them hurts you.

The pain teaches you something sacred:

that you can survive the absence

of someone who once felt essential.

That your heart can shatter

and still continue beating—

uneven, bruised, but alive.

One day, without ceremony,

you will realize you no longer check

for his name in your thoughts.

The silence will stop feeling personal.

The memories will lose their power

to undo you.

You will not forget him completely.

But you will forget the version of yourself

that believed love had to hurt

to be real.

And that is not loss.

That is release.

THE WORST KIND OF LOSS

He was the love of my life,

the quiet reason my heart remembered how to beat,

the name my soul answered to

before my mind ever caught up.

I loved him—not gently,

but with the kind of love that rearranges you,

that makes a home in your chest

and calls it purpose.

For months, my world narrowed into us—

late nights that blurred into dawn,

words whispered when the world was asleep,

stolen moments that felt like forever

compressed into hours.

I learned his presence like a language,

his touch like a promise,

his closeness like oxygen—

and I didn’t know I was breathing

until he was gone.

I miss the intimacy that lived between us,

the safety, the heat, the silence after laughter,

the way his arms made everything else disappear.

I miss being known.

Losing him didn’t just break my heart—

it emptied rooms inside me

I didn’t know I would have to live without.

And now I carry the ache of loving fully,

of giving everything,

of knowing that something so real

can still be taken away.

This is the worst kind of loss—

not because the love wasn’t enough,

but because it was.🤩